54
Adif could taste the salt spray, as the wind and tides fought each other. He could feel the Seahorse shudder under his bare feet as her keel scraped rocks. Wince at the shriek from her already battered frame. The Mamluk could hear, taste and fear. But he couldn’t see the Sicilian cliffs or the narrow gap between them.
Tycho could.
“Grip tight,” Tycho said.
Dizzy from water sickness and barely supported by the rope he gripped, Tycho knew his strength was draining like sand in a timer. The power and certainty that feeding on Giulietta had brought him was almost gone. Gone already were his makeshift awning and his earth-filled bag. But he could see a gap between headlands leading to a bay beyond.
And that gave him a strength he didn’t expect.
What showed above the gap scared him. A thin line where darkness was turning pale. It edged the cliffs as if an artist had mixed dark and lapis blue and added a tiny trace of imperial purple.
His death written in the sky.
Grabbing the rudder from Adif, he wrenched the bar towards him, feeling crosscurrents try to kick the Seahorse out of true.
“We should pray,” Captain Malo suggested.
Adif nodded.
“Personally,” Tycho spat, “I’d hang on.”
Both the men gripped a rail. The captain appeared resigned to losing control of his galley to slaves. The way he kept glancing at a sodden but ornate strapped-down bedroll suggested other worries. Although, if the inrushing tide did carry his ship on to the headland rocks, how to explain the disappearance of the owner’s son would be the least of them.
Adif had experience of steering galleys.
Ten years as a sailor had been followed by three as a bosun and two as captain. He had five years as a slave after that, having been captured. Five years was a long time for a galley slave to survive. Most died in their first year. A good number of those left in the year following. He allowed their captain wasn’t bad as filthy infidels went.
“The boy died in the storm,” Tycho said.
“What?” Captain Malo looked surprised.
“Why not? Your ship’s near collapse. It’s a miracle we survived.”
Pointing to its broken mast, Tycho remembered Captain Malo couldn’t see the full horror of what lightning had done. Nor the number of dead slaves still to be tossed overboard. The other slaves huddled, sodden, angry and injured.
“Believe me,” he said. “It’s nasty.”
Close up, the gap between rocks was wider than it looked.
A minute before Tycho had been wondering if the Seahorse would fit, now he knew two ships could pass if they didn’t mind being lashed together and having their sides scraped. “Hold tight,” he shouted.
Seawater heaved as it lifted the galley, carrying her with a rush across the bulging water and down to calm conditions beyond. Behind her, the sea still fought for entry. Ahead lay a low beach on which a fire burnt in front of half a dozen huts. A ramshackle jetty sank into the sea.
The Mamluk clapped Tycho on the shoulder.
“He can see in the dark? That’s how he got us here?”
“Yes,” Adif admitted.
“Get me on to dry land,” Tycho said. “Cover me before daylight arrives.”
“What?” Captain Malo demanded.
“That’s my price for saving you.”
“He’ll give you freedom,” Adif said. “You saved the Seahorse, you saved our lives. We’d be dead if not for you. He’ll give you freedom.”
“No. He won’t.”
And looking at the captain’s face Tycho knew he was right. The owner’s son was dead. Captain Malo’s ship needed repairs. Captain Malo could no more risk offending Venice by freeing Tycho than Tycho could fly. He would be taken to the slave market in Cyprus and sold as Alonzo ordered.