The Red King (6 page)

The ship did another sudden dip to the side,
and this time did not right itself immediately. Looking up, Andrew
searched for the line as it was flung about in the storm. He could
see it, but he could not release his hold to take it. The only line
he could reach was the one around his own waist. There was no time
to plan otherwise; he reached for the rope and hefted it over his
shoulder. Slowly, carefully, he made his way around the base of the
mast, wrapping the line around the sail. He used his own weight as
a counterbalance, leaning away to pull it tight and prevent the
danger from returning.

Finally, he was able to reach the lost line
and take it in his hands. He would have to undo his makeshift
wrapping to re-lace the rigging and that would let loose the sail
once more. He knew he did not have the strength to repeat his
actions. Instead, he wrapped the line around his wrist, as tight as
he could bear. The tension in both ropes held, wrenching his arm
but staying bound. Andrew did not remember the winds ebbing, or the
hellish rain changing to a more earthly downpour. He hung from the
ropes, his exhaustion finally overtaking him as the storm left them
behind.

“Andrew! Andrew, I know you hear me, open
your eyes!”

It was still raining, but less the painful
sting of before and softer, more pleasant. Andrew opened one eye,
turning his face away from the fat raindrops. He was on his back on
the deck. A gathering of concerned faces hovered in his vision. “Is
it ever going to stop raining?” he asked, wincing at the tenderness
of his mouth.

There were cheers and laughter. The rain was
suddenly gone, a tarp held above to protect him, supported as a
canopy by the ring of men. He searched for and found Rory, whose
gaze was different as it caught him; softer, warmer than he’d seen
before. “You saved the ship,” he said, “and us with it.”

“I’m sure I did it wrong,” Andrew groaned as
he tried to sit up, his right arm pained and weak. He looked to
Fleming, who grinned at him with such joy that he felt compelled to
smile back. It hurt.

“You can bloody well do it however you want!”
Fleming clapped Andrew on the shoulder, causing a pained cry to
come from his lips. Fleming was immediately contrite, taking his
own kerchief from his neck and fashioning a crude sling. He helped
Andrew put it on and settle his strained arm in the support.

Rory took Andrew’s face and studied it. “I’m
sorry,” he frowned. “You’re not going to like this.” His fingers
closed on Andrew’s nose, tightly, and Andrew heard a ‘pop’ within
his own head. He saw stars and blooming black flowers before his
eyes, and the sounds of the men around him faded.

When he woke once more he was back in Rory’s
cabin on that curious bed, naked but no longer wet.

“Your clothes will dry while you rest.” Rory
came to his side and helped him climb into the warm plush blankets
with nary an improper touch.

“What did you do to my face?” Andrew asked
him, refusing to acknowledge his own disappointment. “I thought I
was to stay...pretty, for your plan.”

“I straightened your nose,” Rory answered,
smiling, reaching for a small bowl. He took the cloth from it and
wrung the excess liquid. “You’ll be glad I did. Your face could not
support something so crooked. Hold still.”

“Not if you’re going to do that again!”

Rory chuckled and told him, “That only needs
doing once. If you’ll allow me to press this to your face, it will
take away the sting. If you will drink the rest, it will help you
rest and ease the ache.”

Andrew eyed him doubtfully. “What is it?”

“Catmint tea.”

Andrew gave him a skeptical look. “I stand no
chance, do I?”

Rory grinned. Andrew took a deep breath and
tilted his head back, allowing the man’s touch. His gentleness was
still a surprise, especially in light of the rough handling he’d
given Andrew just two days prior. What was not a surprise, though,
was the way Andrew’s heart sped up, or that his mouth went quite
dry when Rory’s fingers took his chin.

The quiet between them made Andrew nervous
and he sought to fill it. “How many days have I been here?”

“In the morning, it will be eight,” Rory
answered, carefully wiping at his nose and mouth.

“Eight days,” Andrew repeated, wincing. “So
little time…it feels like another life…”

“You were taken in the raid ten days ago.”
Rory rinsed the cloth and then pressed it against his face. “Keep
it there, let it work.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and
continued. “The opium they put in your water kept you sleeping for
a full day and half of the next. We didn’t wake you, knowing you
had breathed the smoke and needed to heal.” His voice changed, took
on a softer note. “You’re made of stern stuff, for all your pretty
looks. You’ve been through so much. Many men would not have your
fortitude. I think you are to be much admired.”

Andrew lowered the cloth to speak, but
hesitated.

“Speak to me plainly, Andrew, always.”

There was something in his eyes, his face; a
pensiveness that surprised Andrew. “I always strive to do so,
Captain.” He paused, then said, “You’ve been very good to me, more
so than even your vendetta would deem necessary.”

Rory sat back in his chair. His hair was
beginning to dry, curling out and away from his face and it caught
the flickering light from the lone lantern. “Yes?”

“I do not think that you are a pirate, even
though that is what you wish me to think.”

They stared at each other in the sparsely lit
room for a long moment, until Rory said, “You’ve earned your shot.
There’s no more need to pay your way. But my offer still
stands.”

Andrew’s heart was fluttering in his chest.
He no longer felt the threat of necessity and was thankful for
that, but he was also, shockingly, disappointed. Now that the
choice was his and his alone, he felt it needed more careful
reflection. “I am still considering it, Captain.”

Rory stood, slowly, and bent to put their
faces close together. “You are welcome to sleep here, again,
tonight. I’m keeping track, though.” He gave Andrew a soft, gentle
kiss, careful of his wounded lips, then put the bowl of catmint tea
in his hand. “You will have much to make up for.”

He took the lantern off of the hook and
removed himself from the cabin, leaving Andrew smiling in the
dark.

They had lost the other ship. The storm blew
them north, farther than anticipated. Andrew could feel the keen
dissatisfaction coming from the men. They took it to heart that
there would be others that they could not save. The frustration
hung over the ship as they set course for Algiers and even the
thought of home and comfort could not shake it.

Andrew was treated with great deference now.
Every man to the last had thanks to give to him. Andrew was
discomfited by their shows of respect and kindness, from the extra
bowl of cooked oats to the bowed heads and salutes normally
befitting an officer, and he took every opportunity to express his
wish that they treat him no different than each other. His arm did
not pain him much by the next day and he wished to help with the
daily duties. Not one would give him anything, assuring him that
all was well in hand.

Finally, he went to Rory. “I’m not useless
and I do not require further rest,” he complained and his
irritation was plain in his voice.

Rory eyed him critically. “I can see the
reason for their reluctance. You look like a bruised berry.”

“My face has nothing to do with working on
the ship,” Andrew answered, testily.

“That all depends on who you ask, don’t it?”
Fleming quipped as he passed them.

“And it is hardly any of your business!”
Andrew shouted after him.

Grinning at him, an expression quickly
becoming something Andrew sought to provoke, Rory said, “We are
still making repairs from the storm. It may be a while before we
are able to find a task for your skills.” He lowered his voice and
his smile changed, “Although I may be able to offer you some
distraction.”

Andrew felt a stirring below his belly but
before he could respond, Rory pulled a dagger from his belt.

“Let me show you how to throw a knife.”

In the hold, Rory showed him the specifics of
stance, the proper grip, and then threw the small knife at a carved
X on a beam. Andrew’s first attempt bounced harmlessly off of the
bulkhead, two feet to the left.

“Show me again, please.”

Rory gladly did, standing behind him, lined
up shoulders to hips with hands on Andrew’s wrist, his back. “Make
sure you put your weight on the back foot, first, and step into the
throw.”

This time the blade stuck, but into a barrel
some distance to the right. Andrew sighed as he retrieved the
dagger, saying, “This will take some time.”

As Rory stepped up behind him again, he said
against his ear, “I hope so.”

Andrew did not hide his smile. “I can
practice on my own.”

“You will, but I want to be sure you have the
form right. This is important.” Rory stepped back, indicated he
should continue.

“For your vengeance?” Andrew asked, his mood
darkened by the reminder.

“For your protection. The more you handle the
knife the better. It will become an extension of your arm.”

Andrew met his stare. “Will you teach me to
fight, as well?”

“Yes, with hand as well as sword.”

An image of his fist slamming into Acklie’s
face briefly flashed in his head. Andrew nodded, “That would be
useful.”

Returning to form, he continued to practice
in silence. Rory gently called corrections from behind, then beside
him. Andrew accepted the instruction easily, finding in his heart
that he relished the feel of the hilt in his hand and the sound of
the blade striking home. Finally, there was nothing else to teach,
merely diligent practice. He continued long after Rory left, losing
himself in the repetitive motions.

The motions allowed for a certain meditation,
and memories of is prior life began to press upon him. One by one,
he saw the face of Father Armand, the brothers in their white robes
kneeling for prayer, the men who had reared him, loved him; in
truth, spoiled him more than their doctrine permitted. He missed
them, keenly, and grew angry at the return of his tears, wiping at
them with a shaking hand. When he turned and threw the knife again,
as hard as he could, he felt satisfaction when it struck home with
a powerful ‘
THUNK
’. He felt his lips pull back
in what was supposed to be a smile, but became more of a furious
grimace. He let his anger build, using it to drive his arm, his
aim, and by the afternoon bell was squarely hitting the target,
every time.

At length, he became aware of the change of
light and a gnawing in his stomach. When he reappeared on deck he
was greeted by Malik at the rudder. “You were down there all
afternoon! What were you up to?”

Andrew held up the dagger. “Learning to
throw, apparently, though I confess to not fully accepting its
usefulness. What adversary will stand still as a stanchion, and let
me throw a tiny knife at him?”

“The captain knows what will serve, Coinin.
You can trust what he tells you.”

Andrew smiled at this new soubriquet. “Why
little wolf?”

“You’re learning the ways of the pack, are
you not? Soon you will be as deft a hunter as the rest of us.”

“I meant, must I always be little,
Malik?”

“You are all little from where I sit,” the
mountainous man answered, laughing, and Andrew laughed with
him.

“I’ve heard many of the others tales, but not
yours. What brought you here?” Andrew asked, curiosity forestalling
his hunger for the moment.

Malik looked confused. “In truth, I do not
remember. I can recall small things; mostly feelings, sometimes
faces, but all else is lost. When the captain found me, I was
washed ashore outside of Tunis. I was wounded in the head, dying,
and he…” Leaning closer, he said, “This was told to me by Fleming,
who is a spinner of wild tales, but it feels familiar to me. The
captain fetched a mystic, an old Arabic magician, who knew where
Death held me. He opened my head, peered into my very skull, and
took out the parts that were leading my soul the other side. I woke
up a week later, healthy and hungry as a babe, but I have no memory
of my life before that morning.”

Andrew was spellbound. “Nothing?”

“Aye, I can recall the language and ancient
stories of my people…our people, Coinin; how to hunt, trap, and
fish, rig and sail this vessel, yet I do not know even my name.
Malik was chosen for me by the mystic. It is supposed to mean
‘angel’, as if heathens and Muslims know of such things.”

“The man who raised me was educated at fine
schools in many places before he shunned Earthly distractions. His
way was influenced by Augustine and Columba, but he knew too much
of the world to follow their path, blindly and utterly. He taught
me that Muslims pray to the same God of Abraham as Christians and
Jews. Though they be foreign to us, they are far from heathens. I
see your skepticism and will not argue the point except to say that
this mystic saved your life, and the captain knew he would. It must
have meant something or he would not have gone through the trouble.
‘The captain knows what will serve’, a very wise man once said,”
Andrew told him, smiling. “And the mystic was right, Malik. You are
an angel. Who else would return to a burning ship to save a boy
chained to a deck, a boy he didn’t know, but an angel?”

Malik looked embarrassed. “I am glad I was
able to help you.”

Andrew left him there with a small, reverent
bow and a very sincere, “Thank you, Malik.” He went in search of
dinner, following a rich, hearty smell to find its source a stew of
lamb and figs. While he ate he contemplated Malik’s story, the
stories of the crew, and the curious meaning they gave his own
tale.