Legends of the Vengeance : The First Adventure (9781310742866) (2 page)

Angelo poured a little water over his hands
and wiped them dry on his shirt. “And who are you? I have not seen
you around here.”

“Sebastian Soranzo. We just docked for
supplies.”

The man’s eyes pierced Sebastian’s until he
nodded. “Your father is Nicolo Soranzo, isn’t he? The pirate
captain of
The Vengeance.
I have heard of him.”

“I should go.” Despite his best efforts,
Sebastian could not keep longing out of his eyes and hidden from
his voice.

“You like art? You wish to paint?”

He shrugged. “I doubt I could. I have
never—”

“If you want to draw, you must draw.” Angelo
searched Sebastian’s features before he added, “It is in your soul;
I see it.”

Something in Sebastian’s face seemed to
capture Angelo’s interest. “Stay there. Do not move. Keep thinking
of whatever it is that you are thinking. I want to paint that.”

“We are not staying. I cannot—”

“I will remember. I just need the basic
lines. Think. You’ve lost that yearning I saw. I want the yearning
back.”

Apparently, his concentration did little to
bring back the expression that Angelo sought, but with questions,
instruction in how to see light and dark, shadows and highlights,
something must have returned because the scratches on the canvas
grew frantic—almost feverish. “Yes, yes, that it is it. Perfect.
This will be a masterpiece. You will return someday, and I will
give it to you. Promise?”

“I can try, but my father—”

“Even if it is twenty years, thirty, I will
wait. Promise me you will return for it. You will see then what I
see now.”

“I—” A promise seemed such a serious thing,
but he had to try. It seemed so important to the artist. “I promise
that I will do everything I can to return. I can promise that.”

A long silence followed as Angelo drew line
after line, some short, others long. Once he was satisfied, he
beckoned Sebastian to come see. “Look. What do you think?”

The face on the canvas was simply drawn but
expressive. The longing in Sebastian’s heart showed around the eyes
and in the lines of the mouth. His long nose seemed prominent,
thanks to a partial profile, but his unruly shoulder-length hair
was so familiar he couldn’t help but smile. Once painted, if Angelo
managed to capture the right hue of red-brown, it would be a
perfect likeness.

“I cannot imagine how you can get such life
into a few lines on paper.”

“Draw, Sebastian. On the ship—there must be
some place you can draw. Burn a stick and use the charred end to
practice. Try large and small. You have the desire. That is the
most important thing.”

As much as he wanted to stay, Sebastian said
he had to leave. With one last glance at the painting that lay
abandoned on the grass and the new sketch on the easel, he turned
back toward the town. A new spark burned within him—the desire to
create.

Nicolo

His men scattered for taverns, eager for
music, wine, and news of what was happening in the world. Nicolo
would not follow. Instead, he strode through the streets as if he
owned them, his head high and his best coat and hat signifying
wealth. An observant person would recognize the source of that
wealth, but in a port like Siracusa, it could mean many
things—something he relied on at times.

At a church, he counted the streets and
turned right. The message said three streets and right and then
another street right and then the first house on the left. There it
was. The man spoke only Spanish. Bile rose in Nicolo’s throat, but
he knocked confidently. A call came asking who had knocked, but he
answered with only one word. A name. “Nicolo.”

It took several minutes, but at last, the
door opened. Never had Nicolo seen such a large man tremble and
cower as Hector of Spain did. “Come in, quickly.” His eyes darted
up and down the street before he pushed the door shut behind them.
“You are here sooner than I expected.”

“My man said this week.”

Hector reached for a bottle but Nicolo shook
his head. “Wine only.”

“I heard that you do not drink.”

“I would risk the trust of my men if I were
to become a slave to it. Wine is best.” Nicolo’s eyes traveled
around the filthy room. “How long have you been here?”

“Some weeks now. Once I escaped, I came here
where Jo—”

“Do not speak names. You did well. How did
you get here?”

Hector fidgeted. “I did not wish to stay so
long in Spain where they might capture me. Instead, I went from
Gibraltar, across land to Tunis, and then over the sea to
here.”

“Have you been on the water before
this?”

The man grimaced, showing bad teeth. “No. It
wasn’t pleasant.”

“You will have to adapt. It can be many,
many times worse when you are farther from shore. Can you do
that?”

With a trembling hand, the man reached for
his drink, obviously seeking comfort from the amber liquid within,
but Nicolo stopped him. The enraged roar the captain expected
didn’t come. Instead, he whimpered, begging for a drink.

“I don’t allow drunkenness on my ship. We
will try to help you, but you must first promise to stop drinking
while on my crew. Kill yourself with it later if you must—”

“They tortured me for years. You cannot know
what it is like to be trapped in their prisons, trying to agree to
anything they claim you did just for the freedom of death.” Hector
broke down weeping. “No matter what crimes I confessed to, they
wouldn’t kill me like the vermin they think I am.”

Fury burned in Nicolo’s eyes, but his voice
was as calm as a windless sea. “You would have been kept there
indefinitely. The point was to torture, not to kill. This was not
about heresy or justice. It was about revenge, but you will have
yours now, will you not, my friend?”

“Do you really think you can—”

“I have news of when the next ship comes
from the Americas.” Nicolo waited until he had the other man’s full
attention and then added, “It might be a long wait. Ships can be
months overdue or not arrive at all. This one coming will be full
of silver from the mines. It will be a heavy blow to all of the
investors—particularly the Crown.”

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll have to work. You are not used to
work.”

The man shook his head. “I am not used to
living like a whipped pauper either, but here I am. I will do
anything to restore my fortunes, and if I can gain revenge in the
process, all the better.”

Nicolo stood and nodded. “We have a deal. Be
ready at any moment to leave. You may only hear four knocks and no
one is there. No matter what time of day or night, be ready and
come immediately. We do not wait if we must leave quickly. You will
have at most an hour.”

“Surely not today—”

“Likely not, but it isn’t impossible. I hope
to be here a week. Come when you are bidden or we leave you and
will not return. You have one chance at your revenge—one.”

Without another word, Nicolo strode from the
little house and back toward the town. He had other business to
attend to—business that didn’t involve fools who thought fortune or
spirits would ease their pain. He knew what they did not. Only the
soothing power of carefully and successfully executed revenge would
bring the kind of numbness that they craved.

~~~~~~~~~~

Nicolo watched as Jaime left the church. As
usual, it had been the first place his friend went upon landing. It
sickened him to see the young man so taken with religion. Religion
was an evil, cruel master. It would rip the lad’s heart out of him
and stomp on it for play. How many times had he thought to forbid
the visits? It wasn’t possible. What his men did on their own time
was their business. As long as Jaime kept those fables out of the
stories he told on ship, Nicolo had no authority to stop him.

As expected, Jaime strolled through the
marketplace, arranging for oranges, lemons, limes, meat, flour,
wine, and other supplies to be delivered to the ship. Satisfied
that Jaime would purchase all that they needed, he chose to find
the quartermaster, Eduardo, and inform the man of the success of
his mission. Hector Castillo would join them for their next voyage
and would find himself wealthy once more and with the knowledge
that he had struck a financial blow to the animals who had stolen
everything from him.

Small groups of children played in the side
streets, occasionally darting out to retrieve a rag ball or to
evade being tagged. The fleeting but familiar regret came and left
faster than it ever had. His son was too old for such games now.
That was something anyway.

A new thought niggled at him. Should he have
brought Sebastian to port with him? The boy spent nearly every
moment of his life on
The Vengeance.
Perhaps he was now old
enough for short trips into a town now and then. He should consider
it anyway. Not this time. They needed to be ready to go within the
week. He simply had too much to do without worrying about what
trouble Sebastian might find.

As he rounded a corner, a sedan chair
passed. The woman seated in it gave a startled cry. His eyes met
hers briefly—as if frozen in time—and then he looked away again.
Before she could cry out his name, Nicolo dashed around the chair,
between two buildings and was out of sight. A commotion behind him
told him the servants carrying the chair now pursued him. Quickly,
he tossed his hat into the back of a wagon as he ran past, worked
himself out of his coat and threw it into a yard, and then rounded
another corner at a full run.

At the wharf, he wove through the men as if
in an obstacle course. Once he reached the rowboat, he hesitated.
If he took the boat, a few men would have to row back for the
others. It was also huge—too large for one man to row swiftly
enough. Hesitation over, he fought to get out of his boots and dove
into the water. A cry went up from the end of the dock as his head
surfaced for his first gulp of air. The servants. He glanced back
to see if they’d follow, but it seemed that neither of them swam.
To his relief, they turned and hurried back to their mistress.

Heart pounding, he sliced through the water,
his strokes long and powerful until he reached the side of the
ship. “Ahoy, Giorgio! Drop me a ladder.”

Several crewmen leaned over the side,
startled to see their captain in the water. “Wha—”

“Just get me aboard and fire the gun.”

The moment he swung his tired, soaked body
over the side of the
ship, Giorgio asked,
“We’re leaving?”

“Now! Someone must swim to call Hector
Castillo to the boat. Who will go?” Nicolo’s eyes swept over the
men before him.

Without hesitation, one younger man pulled
his boots off and jumped overboard. They all watched anxiously
until he surfaced again and began swimming. By the time he reached
the docks, several men from their crew, running to the rowboat,
paused only long enough to hear that they were indeed leaving.

Satisfied that they could leave within the
hour, Nicolo hurried to his cabin to plan their escape. Would it be
worth the risk to stop at Malta? Valletta would have everything
they needed. Or, was it too close? Would
Signorina
Lucia—she
was probably
Signora
now—send someone to chase? Did she have
the resources? The power? Would she send word to his family? Had
she recognized what he must be?

He shook his head to clear it. This was all
unnecessary and irrelevant. He must plan. Jaime would know best.
Eduardo would bluster a bit, make alternate suggestions, and
finally agree to whatever Jaime suggested. They had no time for
power games. Malta or straight to Tunis?

He stuck his head outside the door. “Get me
Mac.”

Feet scuttled in the direction of the
galley, giving him satisfaction in how swiftly his men obeyed
orders. That one thing had kept them alive more than anything else.
Well, he also had a fierce determination to keep Sebastian alive
and yet did not care whether he lived or died. It was a dangerous
combination, or so Jaime always told him.

A knock sounded before Mac opened the door.
“You called for me, Cap’in?” Most of the men found the Scotsman’s
thick brogue difficult to understand, but Nicolo had a secret
liking for it.

“Yes. How long can we survive on what we
have on ship now?”

“On board? Why I dinna ken… mebbe a
fortnight? Three weeks at most, I’m thinkin’.”

“That’ll do. Good. Water. Send another boat
for more water and wine though. Go now. They have thirty minutes to
get back here with whatever they can.”

“Thirty minutes? They canna do much—”

“Do you think I don’t know that, you blind
fool? Get out there and send them. We hoist anchor soon. Go.”

To an outsider, the ship would have appeared
to be lost in chaos. Men raced from side to side, the crew that had
not yet had a chance to make it to port heard the news with a
general rumble of disbelief and anger. Nicolo stood in his cabin,
listening to Giorgio’s report, his fingers rolling his telescope on
the desk as he thought. “I’ll be back. Stay here. I might need
you.”

He raced below deck to where the men were
settling the oars of the Xebec into place, shouting their
displeasure with threats even Nicolo knew they didn’t mean. “I
understand you are dissatisfied with your position on this
ship.”

“We didn’t get a chance at shore!” one man
protested.

“I got very little time there
myself—certainly none of pleasure. However, we must leave
immediately. The lad is in danger here. If you wish to go, I will
pay you off and you can leave immediately, but we sail within the
hour.”

As if magic, the words, “the lad is in
danger,” calmed the men immediately. They settled into their
places, stretched, took great swigs of wine, and assured him that
all would be well.