A Distant Magic

by Mary Jo Putney in stores July 17, 2007

Genres:

Fiction, Romance, SciFi & Fantasy

Themes:

abolition , Africa , African-American , guardians , magic , paranormal , part of a series , slavery , time-travel

Book Excerpt

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Chapter One

Valletta, Island of Malta
Autumn 1733

The two foreign gentlemen strolling through Valletta’s market square looked like they had pockets worth picking.  Nikolai quietly shadowed them through the crowds, knowing they would never notice a boy his size in the noisy throng.  A dozen or more languages babbled above his head.  He recognized all of them, and could make himself understood in most.  Valletta was the crossroads of the Mediterranean, a place where Europe, Africa, and Asia met and exchanged their goods. 

The men had the pale coloring of northern Europeans.  When Nikolai got close enough to hear their conversation, he found that they spoke in English.  That was one of his better languages, since his mother had had a taste for English sailors. 

Other foreigners roamed the market, but these two had the air and garments of wealth—and they were fool enough to walk alone, with no guards.  They’d be lucky to get back to their ship with the clothes still on their backs. 

Nikolai followed the men, slipping behind a tethered donkey cart to get closer to his quarry.  His talent for going unnoticed had enabled him to keep from starving in the years since his grandmother’s death, though he seldom managed to be well-fed. 

The taller Englishman, a powerfully built fellow whose dark red hair was heavily streaked with gray, stopped to admire the silver trinkets of a local peddler.  He lifted a pair of lacy filigree earrings.  “Anna will like these, I think.” 

“We saw better in Greece, Macrae,” his companion observed.  He was shorter and younger, with a wiry build and a dandy’s taste in clothing.  “Tell me again why you were so keen to stop in Malta.” 

“Worth it to walk on land again for a day or two.”  Having reached an agreement with the peddler, Macrae paid for two pairs of silver earrings.  “Besides, I felt there was something, or someone, worth meeting here.”

“Unlikely!” the other man snorted.

Nikolai paid little heed to the conversation, beyond gratitude that it engaged his quarry’s attention.  As the taller man turned to his companion, Nikolai’s fingers reached into the fellow’s right pocket, light as a butterfly’s wings.   Yes, there were coins there….

Suddenly Nikolai’s wrist was caught and he found himself skewered by piercing gray eyes.  Eyes that saw him as no one had since his grandmother died.

He fought to escape, biting Macrae’s hand and jerking free as the man released his grip with an oath.  He darted toward a nearby alley.  In the rank, twisting back streets of Valletta, he could lose these great clumsy oafs in no time.

The short man snapped several unintelligible words.  The air tingled oddly, and suddenly Nikolai’s limbs didn’t work.  Though he wanted to run, he could barely manage to hold himself upright.  He fell against the bricks of the alley wall, his breathing rough.  He hadn’t felt so weak since he’d almost died of the fever that killed his mother. 

Macrae entered the alley and placed his hands on Nikolai’s shoulders, then knelt so their eyes were on the same level.  “We mean you no harm,” he said in fair Italian. 

Nikolai spat at him, but somehow missed his mark.  Macrae frowned.  “He doesn’t seem to understand Italian,” he said in English.  “I wish I knew that dog Arabic the locals speak.” 

Nikolai didn’t bother spitting again, since it had done no good, but he growled like a mongrel.  Dog Arabic indeed!  Malti was the ancient tongue of the Phoenicians.  Since it had never been trapped in an alphabet, it was the private speech of Malta, a mystery to stupid foreigners like this one.

The short man, who stood behind Redhead, said dryly, “Are you sure you want to converse with a rabid pup like this?”

Macrae stood, releasing his grip on Nikolai’s shoulders.  “Look at him with the sight, then ask me that again.”

The short man’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then opened wide.  “Good God, the boy blazes with power!  When he comes of age, he’ll be a formidable mage.”

“If he lives long enough and receives the proper training,” Macrae said grimly.  “From the looks of him, he’s halfway to starvation.”

“Don’ talk ‘bout me as if I’m no’ here!” Nikolai blurted out.  “Rude!”

“The creature speaks English,” the short man said with amazement.  “With a provincial accent, but fluent enough.”

“He’s not a ‘creature,’” Macrae said irritably.  “He’s a boy, probably younger than my Duncan.  He’s one of us, Jasper.  His power has a different flavor from any I’ve known, but it’s real and has great potential.” 

“African blood, perhaps,” Jasper murmured.  “There is some of that in his face and coloring as well as in the flavor of his magic.”

Nikolai’s strength was returning, but he was still trapped between the two men.  Why was no one noticing this scene?  People walked by in the square just a few feet away and didn’t even glance in the alley. 

Mages.  One of them had used the word.  His grandmother had said it meant wizard or witchdoctor.  They’d used magic to trap him, then ensure that no one looked their way.  He scrunched his mind up like Nona had showed him and dived under Macrae’s arm in another bid for freedom.

A hard hand caught him again.  “Look at that, Jasper!  The boy has shields strong enough to make him disappear from mage sight!” 

“Either he’s had training, or he learned that to survive,” Jasper said thoughtfully.  “I begin to share your interest.  But what’s to be done with a wild lad like this one?”

“Let’s start by feeding him.”  The tall man caught Nikolai’s gaze.  “I’m Macrae of Dunrath and this is Jasper Polmarric.  You have always known you were different, haven’t you?”

Nikolai debated lying before giving a reluctant nod.

Macrae continued, “We are also different in the same way you are.  Or similar, anyhow.  Among our duties is to help others of our sort when there is need.  At the least, you stand in need of a good meal.  Will you join us?  If you look at me with your mind, you’ll know I mean no harm.”

Nikolai had always been good at reading intentions, and he sensed no desire to hurt, but there was more than one kind of assault.  “Won’ be your whore!”

Instead of anger, Macrae smiled. “I have no interest in dirty little boys.  Except when they have the potential you do.  Is there a tavern where we can get a good meal and talk in privacy?”

Nikolai nodded and led the two men through the alleys, emerging by the best tavern on the waterfront.  It looked over the Grand Harbor and was a favored place of ship’s officers and merchants.  Of course he’d not eaten there himself, but he sometimes scavenged leavings at the back door. 

The landlord scowled when he saw Nikolai enter, but the obvious wealth of the Englishmen saved him from being thrown out.  Jasper paused to order food and drink while Macrae escorted Nikolai to a quiet booth in the far corner of the taproom.  Nikolai didn’t like being herded, but tantalizing scents made him willing to tolerate it.  He would endure a great deal in order to feast on the tavern’s best.

Besides, he was curious what these men wanted of him. 

Macrae sat on Nikolai’s right, Jasper Polmarric on his left.  Though they didn’t crowd him, it was clear they could stop him from running if he tried.  Yet he still felt no danger from them.  Only a deep, intense interest. 

“What is your name?” Macrae asked.  “You can lie if you wish, but I’d like to have something to call you.”

Lying was no fun when put like that. “Nikolai Gregorio.” 

“Russian and Italian?” Polmarric asked.  “Any African blood?”

“Some.”  A quarter at least.  Nikolai’s grandmother had been pure African, but he didn’t know all his relations.  His grandfather had been Malti, and his mother wasn’t sure who his father was.  Perhaps an Italian, maybe a Greek, even an Englishman.  Hard to say.  The fact that his mother had liked the name Nikolai didn’t make him Russian.

Conversation ended when a barmaid sauntered over with a jug of wine and three crude goblets in one hand.  In the other she carried a serving board with a loaf of sourdough bread, a wedge of cheese, and a dish of pickled fish. 

His hunger almost uncontrollable, Nikolai grabbed a piece of fish and gobbled it down while he ripped off a chunk of the cottage loaf.  There was a knife on the board, so he hacked a sizable piece of the cheese and crammed it into his mouth, followed by a bite of bread.  The sharp flavor of the goat cheese exploded gloriously on his tongue.

“Not very civilized,” Polmarric said in French, his expression a study in fascinated horror.

“Give thanks you have never been so hungry.”  Macrae poured the red wine into the tankards and swallowed a mouthful.  Though he’d answered Polmarric in French, he switched back to English to speak to Nikolai.  “Eat as much as you want, but it might be wise to slow down.  If you make yourself sick, you’ll have an empty stomach again.”

There was sense to that.  Nikolai swallowed another mouthful of bread and cheese and reached for his wine to wash it down.  The wine was a light table vintage, pleasant and probably chosen so it wouldn’t go to a boy’s head.  That was another sign of their good intentions, for this wasn’t the wine they’d use if they wanted him drunk.

The barmaid returned with three plates of fenek.  Nikolai dug in greedily.  He hadn’t had good fenek since his grandmother died.  Less hurriedly, the foreigners tasted theirs.  “This rabbit is rather good,” Polmarric said. 

“Stew a boot in this much wine and it would be good,” Macrae replied, but he dug in with enthusiasm. 

Nikolai finished two pieces of stewed rabbit, then sat back on the wooden bench. With the edge off his hunger, curiosity returned. “You say you are different.  How?”

Macrae’s gaze flicked to the taproom, checking that no one was in a position to look into their shadowy booth.  When he was sure of their privacy, he raised one hand and sparkles of light danced around it like sprays of golden fireworks. 

He scooped up the dancing lights and poured them in front of Nikolai.  Enchanted, Nikolai tried to catch the golden sparks.  They faded in his grasp, a cool tingle against his palm.  “Magic,” he whispered.  He thought all the magic had gone from the world when his grandmother died.

“We usually say power,” Macrae said in a low voice.  “It’s a less alarming term than magic.   Polmarric and I are both Guardians—members of families where power runs strong.  Guardians exist in all nations of Europe, and we are sworn to use our abilities to help others rather than for personal gain.”

“What kind of magic—power—do you have?”  Nikolai tried not to show how hungry he was for the information. 

Polmarric gave his companion a warning glance.  “Are you sure you want to say so much about us?”

“He has to know.”  Macrae concentrated on Nikolai.  “There are certain things that all Guardian mages can do to some extent.  Healing, reading the energies of other people, concealment, creating mage light.  Most Guardians are also gifted in some particular area.  I am a weather mage, able to shape the winds and storms.  It is a common talent in my family.  Polmarric here has a great talent for communication.”

“You say you are sworn to help people.  What keeps you from using your power to become kings?  Though you seem to live well enough.”  Nikolai glanced pointedly at the men’s rich garments. 

“It is harder to become a king than one might think,” Macrae said dryly.  “Over the centuries, we have learned that it is best not to interfere often with mundane society because the consequences are unpredictable, and usually worse than one expects.  Among ourselves, we maintain order by national councils of Guardians.  Polmarric will likely become a council member the next time there is an opening because of his communication abilities.  If any of our number turn rogue and injure others—well, we have mages who are gifted in detecting evil and enforcing order.”

Nikolai ripped off a piece of bread and soaked it in the fenek gravy.  The Guardians sounded like a great, secret family that had both power and wisdom.  Thinking of his grandmother, he asked, “Mages are all men?”

“Not at all.  Women can be as strong or stronger than male mages.  My wife is a very gifted healer.  Polmarric’s wife is the best finder in England, I think.”  Macrae paused as if deciding what needed to be said.  “Usually full power comes when one is reaching adulthood, but it’s not uncommon for those who are unusually talented to show magical ability in childhood.  My son Duncan has, and so have you.” 

Nikolai stared as his empty plate, trying to grasp what he was being told.  “Why you tellin’ me this?”

“Because you seem to need help.”  Macrae looked tired, and Nikolai realized the man was older than he’d guessed.  “There are too many homeless children in the world for us to save them all.  But you are of our kind, so I am obligated to try to help you.”

“How?” 

“One possibility would be to find you a place in a Valletta school so you would be fed and clothed and could learn to read and write.”

“I know how to read and write,” Nikolai said pugnaciously.

Macrae’s brows arched.  “Impressive.  How did you learn?”

Nikolai shrugged.  “My grandmother ran a waterfront boarding house.  She cared for a dying English ship’s mate in return for him teaching me.  Old Smithy took a long time to die.”  Long enough that Nikolai had studied numbers and some history as well as reading and writing.

“You learn quickly,” Polmarric observed.  “Your English accent has improved as we speak.  Almost as if you can take the language from our minds.  Do you read minds?”

Nikolai scrunched down warily, wondering how the Englishman had figured that out.  He didn’t exactly read minds, but sometimes he would sense answers that people around him knew.  Being with these men who spoke English did improve his own speech.  “Smithy said I was clever.”

“A clever lad with power might not be safe in a local school, not with the Knights of St. John ruling Malta,” Polmarric remarked.  “The Knights have a history of turning mages over to the Inquisition.”

“I know,” Macrae said.  “What you really need is a family, Nikolai.  People who care about you, and for you to care about.”

A family.  Nikolai looked down so the foreigners wouldn’t see the humiliating sting of tears in his eyes.  His family had been small but real.  With mother and grandmother dead, he had thought himself alone forever.  Think of what he’d lost made it hard for him to swallow his stewed rabbit.

“We could find a Guardian family in Italy or France to foster you, if you prefer staying closer to your home.  But if you are willing to travel to the north, I will take you to my home and raise you with my own children,” Macrae said quietly. 

Nikolai raised his head, staring.  “You would do such a thing?”

Polmarric gasped when he heard his friend’s words.   In French, he said, “You’re really willing to take this little savage into your own home?”

In the same language, Macrae said, “I’m a Scot and not so very civilized myself.”  Switching to English, he caught Nikolai’s gaze.  “You need a home, and it would do my son Duncan good to have another lad with power in the household.  My daughter is so much younger that she’s not much of a companion to him.”

Nikolai turned the idea over in his mind, reluctant to leave his home, but also excited almost beyond bearing.  “You would make me a gentleman?”

Macrae nodded.  “You’ll have the same food and clothing and education my son receives.  Most of all, you’ll have the training you will need as your talent manifests.  You have some use of power now, but your abilities will explode when you reach manhood.  Without training, you risk damaging yourself and others.  You would not be the heir to my estate of Dunrath, of course, but the Guardians have funds to help establish young men and women in your circumstances.  So, yes, you’ll be my foster son and a gentleman.  My wife will receive you gladly.” 

Polmarric said in French, “Anna is always bringing in stray puppies, so she probably won’t mind one more.  Though this lad will be much more work than a puppy.” 

“And more reward as well,” Macrae said imperturbably.  “This is the right thing to do, Jasper.  I know it.” 

Nikolai’s nervous fingers shredded a piece of the sourdough bread.  His grandmother had once foretold that he would become a gentleman.  He’d laughed, of course, unable to imagine a position in life beyond that of common sailor. 

He should have known that his grandmother did not make such mistakes.  He thought of her dark, ageless face wistfully.  Leaving the graves of her and his mother would hurt, but both of them would have urged him to seize this opportunity.  Macrae meant him no harm, of that Nikolai was sure. 

His hand tightened convulsively over the bread, squeezing it into a shapeless mass.  “I will go with you and be your son,” he told Macrae.

The Scot grinned.  “I’m glad of that, Nikolai.  I’m sure you will be, too.”

Nikolai glanced at Polmarric with wicked mischief and said in French, “And you need another language if you want to speak privately in front of me.”

To his credit, Polmarric joined Macrae’s laughter.

Men who could laugh and all the food he could eat.  The ancestors were looking out for him.  Nikolai sliced another chunk of cheese, and wondered happily how he would look in the clothing of a gentleman.

Chapter Two

Nikolai woke before dawn, enjoying the gentle rocking of the schooner Hermes.  The ship had become his home in the month since Macrae had casually, completely, changed his life.  Polmarric owned the ship, so they were all treated very well.

After a week’s stop in Sicily, the Hermes was heading back to London, her homeport.  The weather had been good, with steady winds filling the sails and driving the  ship at a brisk pace.  They were in the western Mediterranean now.  In a day or two they would pass Gibraltar and enter the stormy Atlantic for the final leg of the journey. 

He closed his eyes, lulled back toward sleep by the soft splashing of waves against the schooner’s hull.  Though he’d been raised on an island with the sea ever present, he hadn’t guessed just how much he would enjoy sailing.  There was freedom and purity in the winds and waves.  This could be a good life for a man. 

He’d also learned that life as a gentleman’s son was far sweeter than scratching for survival like an alley rat.  He’d had a month of fine clothes, safety, and most of all, food.  All the food he could eat.  So much that he no longer felt the need to gobble whatever was set on the table before it could be taken away. 

He even had privacy.  This tiny cabin was scarcely more than a sail locker, but it was his.  Macrae and Polmarric shared a larger cabin at the back of the vessel, but Nikolai enjoyed his cubby hole near the bow, which felt very close to the sea.

He reached under the bunk and touched his small, brass-studded trunk, which contained the clothing of a gentleman’s son.  After Nikolai had agreed to go with Macrae, he’d been taken to the Hermes and scrubbed so hard his skin had lightened several shades.  Then Macrae took him to the best tailor in Valletta.  

The tailor had made a coat and breeches of blue silk brocade and shirts of the best muslin.  Wise in the ways of boys, Macrae had also ordered several sets of garments made of rugged linen and wool.  Though Nikolai loved his fashionable costume, he felt more comfortable in the plain, everyday garments.  Even they were far superior to anything he’d ever owned before. 

But he refused to give up his coarse linen trousers and shirt, ragged though they were.  His grandmother had sewn them herself and he could not bear to let them go. 

Macrae hadn’t argued, merely insisted that the garments be washed.  Nikolai’s old clothes proved perfect for scrambling up the masts and lines of the Hermes.  The sailors were a rough but friendly lot, and they taught him the ways of sailing.

Every waking moment was devoted to lessons of one sort or another.  Macrae and Polmarric taught him of the history of Guardians and the ways in which magic could be used.  He was also instructed in basic techniques of control.  Though his power was modest now, that would change when he reached manhood.  The more he knew of control now, the better off he would be later. 

Some techniques Nikolai had puzzled out on his own.  Others made him catch his breath with a sense of recognition, of learning what seemed utterly right.

He’d been given lessons in manners and society, too.  Becoming a gentleman was hard work. 

Sometimes Nikolai wondered about the mysterious Duncan who would be his brother.  Did Duncan know how lucky he was to have a father, especially one like this?  No, a boy who had been raised to take food and clothing and the protection of a father for granted couldn’t appreciate how incredibly fortunate he was.  Sight unseen, Nikolai was inclined to despise Duncan for being soft, but for Macrae’s sake, he’d strive for courtesy. 

Macrae had emphasized that he must observe with all his senses, both inner and outer.  One of these had wakened him this early, he realized.  The predawn darkness was quiet except for the sounds of water, the creaking of the ship’s planking, and the distant cry of a lone gull. Yet something was…wrong. 

More curious than worried, Nikolai rose and pulled on his old clothes.  Soon they’d be too small since he’d put on weight and grown an inch taller this last month. 

Barefooted, he left his tiny cabin and climbed the ladder to the main deck.  Dense fog lay over the Hermes and the surrounding sea.  A mate stood watch aft, his dark figure at the wheel almost invisible except for the faint glow from his pipe when he drew on it.  The ship was moving very slowly, making just enough way to stay stable.

Curious what might have wakened him, Nikolai moved forward to stand in the bow, his hands braced on the railings as the ship rose and fell.  With the fog and darkness, he couldn’t see more than a few feet into the night. 

Did they risk running into rocks or an island?  Not likely when the mate knew these waters, and their slow speed reduced the chances of serious harm even if there was an error of navigation.

He sighed with frustration.  Perhaps in two or three years, his magical abilities would blossom and he would be able to define what bothered him.  Or maybe not.  As Polmarric pointed out regularly, magic was a tool for dealing with the world, it wasn’t a reliable source of miracles. 

Splashing sounded from someone ahead.  A school of fish jumping?  It was hard to judge direction in the fog. 

He was about to turn away and return to his bed when a low, dark shape leaped from the fog with amazing speed.  It was a vessel—a galley, the long sweep of dozens of oars driving it furiously toward the schooner.   Corsairs. 

Nikolai froze in horror.  For centuries, the Barbary pirates had attacked not only ships but seacoasts to capture slaves, and Malta had suffered more than its share of raids.  Recovering, he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Pirates!”

All hell broke loose after he raised the alarm.  Now that they’d been seen, the pirates cut loose with a ragged volley of musket shots.  Nikolai ducked as balls slammed into the wood around him.  Aft, the mate on watch swore furiously as he yanked on the bell rope to boom out a warning.  Half-naked men began boiling up from below decks, weapons in hand. 

As Nikolai straightened, the armored prow of the galley rammed the Hermes, smashing into the hull only a few feet below his position.  The shattering impact knocked him from his feet.  His head banged into the railing and he briefly lost consciousness.

When he regained awareness, a pitched battle was being fought around him.  Sharp wind shredded the fog and the sky had lightened, revealing that the two ships were locked together with grappling hooks.  Twenty or more turbaned soldiers had swarmed aboard the Hermes.  The schooner’s crew and passengers fought back with swords, pistols, and anything else that might be used as a weapon.  Clouds of black powder smoke stung eyes and burned the lungs. 

Wearing only loose shirts and smallclothes, Macrae and Polmarric were in the thick of the fight, the Scot slashing about him with a broadsword and Polmarric armed with a pair of pistols.  Nikolai wanted to run to Macrae, but he was too weak to move.  Crunched into the angle of the bow, he watched the battle with horror and wondered why the Guardians weren’t using magic to end this.  Surely they could do something!  Or was that sharp wind Macrae’s work? 

Nikolai gasped when a corsair slashed Macrae’s arm with his curved sword.  Blood splashed darkly across Scot’s white shirt as he ran his assailant through.  Coolly Polmarric aimed and took down one pirate with the pistol in his right hand, then a second with the left hand pistol.  As the pirates looked for less dangerous game, Polmarric reloaded and Macrae stood guard over his friend. 

Nikolai tried to stand, and almost blacked out again as vicious pain stabbed through his ribs.  He must have cracked one when he fell.  Since he couldn’t fight, he made himself observe, using all his senses. 

The Hermes was winning the battle.  Several crewmen were wounded, but most of the bodies on the blood-stained deck were pirates.  He guessed that the attackers hadn’t expected such a fierce defense and they were wondering if it was worth it.  Corsairs preferred to assault people who hadn’t much ability to protect themselves. 

As the last of the fog and smoke dissolved, a grappling hook banged to the deck near Nikolai’s feet.  The line that had held the schooner to the galley snapped.  One by one, the other lines broke and the galley began drifting away. 

Another gust of wind caught the galley’s sails and it heeled over to starboard, the port oars thrashing in the air like the legs of a spider.  A commanding voice on the galley shouted out in Arabic, “Fall back!”

A cursing pirate retreated along the deck of the Hermes, most of his attention of the schooner’s crew in case one came after him.  He tripped over Nikolai, sending jangles of agony through Nikolai’s ribs.  The pirate glanced down, then scooped Nikolai up with one powerful hand.  “Here’s one at least.”  He spoke a crude form of North African Arabic that Nikolai had heard on the Valleta waterfront.  

Nikolai struggled against the pirate, but he dangled helpless as a puppy in the giant’s grip.  “Macrae!  Macrae!” he screamed.

The Scot started to turn toward him, but another volley of musket shots came from the galley and Polmarric collapsed.  Macrae whipped around and knelt by his friend, no longer in Nikolai’s view. 

The galley had righted itself and floated only a few feet from the Hermes.  Nikolai’s captor called to one of the pirates on the galley, “Catch this brat!”

He threw Nikolai down to the galley.  After a few dizzying seconds of flight, Nikolai was caught roughly and deposited on the slanting deck.  He slid across the galley, fetching up in the starboard gunwales.  Water sloshed around him and he gasped from the agony of his cracked ribs, fearing he would drown. 

He must fight the pain.  Macrae had spoken of that.  The trick was to detach, to think of the pain as distant, belonging to someone else. 

Nikolai concentrated on detachment, and the pain diminished a little.  He staggered to his feet, desperate to return to the Hermes before the ships separated. 

Macrae was standing amidships the schooner and looking toward the galley, his brows drawn into a frown.  As he ran across the galley, Nikolai waved his arms frantically to get the Scotsman’s attention.  Surely Macrae had some magic that would rescue Nikolai!  He was Macrae’s foster son, a great mage in the making!

Macrae looked right at him.  Then he turned away, his face like granite. 

Nikolai watched in disbelief as the man who had promised protection and family abandoned him to his fate.  Panicked, he started to scramble over the railing.  Better to risk the sea than slavery.

Hard hands caught him again.  This time he was in the grip of the galley’s captain, the reis, a burly man with gold chains around his neck and eyes cold as death.  “So all we have to show for this attack is one miserable little piglet!”

“I am a rich man’s son,” Nikolai said desperately.  “My father will ransom me!”

The reis’s contemptuous gaze went over his ragged garments.  “You?  Ha!”

“I am English.  Scottish.  My father, Macrae of Dunrath, will pay to have me back.”  Yet he wondered if that was true.  Macrae had seen him in the hands of the corsairs, then turned away.  Would he pay a ransom?

“You’re no Englishman.”  The heavy hand of the reis smashed into the side of Nikolai’s head, knocking him to his knees.   “You look like a mulatto wharf rat to me.”

The reis gestured to summon the overseer of the galley slaves, a pockmarked man who carried a whip.  “This brat is too small to row, but he can bail.  Take him.”

The overseer lashed the whip across Nikolai’s back, shredding the linen.  Nikolai screamed, the fire of the whip triggering the agony of his cracked rib. 

“This is what disobedient slaves get, boy,” the overseer growled.  “Follow orders well and you may live to grow up.  Bail!”

Numbly Nikolai lurched to his feet, barely able to breathe.  The overseer shoved a bucket in his hands and pointed to the starboard side of the ship, where water sloshed around the ankles of the galley slaves.  Bruised and disoriented, Nikolai obeyed, bitterly ashamed of the tears pouring down his cheeks. 

As he scooped water and poured it over the side, Nikolai saw the Hermes sailing away to the west.  Macrae and Polmarric were safe, and they had abandoned Nikolai to his fate without so much as a second glance.  If this is what it meant to be a Guardian, sworn to protect, then he wanted nothing to do with the swine.

The overseer of the galley slaves slashed the whip across his back again.  “Faster, or I’ll throw you over the side for the fish to eat!”

Nikolai bit his lips and obeyed, but inside, fury began to grow.  He had been promised paradise by Macrae, and then betrayed.  Betrayed!

As he filled and emptied the bucket, his rage grew until it saturated every fiber of his being.  When he felt he could bail no longer, he kept himself going by swearing an oath on his blood and bones and dead grandmother that he would survive slavery, and someday he would escape. 

Then, when he was ready, he would avenge himself on Macrae and his family.  The lying man, the beautiful wife, the handsome son, the pampered little daughter. 

All would be his prey.

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