Part 18 (1/2)

The triangular sails of another, smaller caique came into view as they rounded one of the islands. This boat was anch.o.r.ed, dancing slow and somnolent upon the water. Fis.h.i.+ng nets dried upon its decks. Two men sat upon upended crates, mending nets with fast, deft hands. They glanced up as Kallas steered closer. In the growing dusk, London could not make out their faces, whether they nodded in welcome or stared back with hard eyes.

Kallas waved his arm overhead, once. One of the fishermen repeated the gesture. He shouted something indistinct over his shoulder. Someone came above deck, wiping his hands on a rough cloth.

”We're coming alongside,” Kallas called. ”You, stay with the sails,” he said to Bennett. He turned to London. ”Prepare to anchor.”

They sailed in slowly as she worked the jib and Bennett the main. Kallas brought them several boat lengths upwind from the other caique, and signaled to adjust the sails until they stopped moving. London began to lower the anchor. She felt the b.u.mp along the line as the anchor hit bottom, then paid out the line as the caique drifted backward. More leaps along the line as the anchor bounced along the sea floor, then the anchor dug in and the line tightened.

The caique now bobbed beside the fis.h.i.+ng boat. Three men stood at its rail, watching.

”Set the anchor,” Kallas said, but London already knew. She had been taught well. As soon as she did this, lines were thrown from one boat to the other. Kallas and Bennett secured them, then the men pulled until the hulls of the boats b.u.mped gently against each other. A flotilla.

Kallas turned to her. ”You make a good sailor.” His face was stone, but the praise was genuine.

Too tired and frayed to blush, London ducked her head in thanks. The captain's unadorned praise gave her more profound gratification than a finely crafted sonnet ever could. ”I had a good teacher.”

”What about me?” asked Bennett. ”I'm a good sailor, too.”

”And a wh.o.r.e for compliments,” Kallas grunted, but he gave an echo of a smile.

”These aren't your usual waters, Kallas,” said the eldest of the men on the fis.h.i.+ng boat, his hair snowy and windblown, his hands gnarled. His accent marked him as a man who seldom left this corner of the sea. He turned jet eyes to London and Bennett, but addressed Kallas. ”They your cargo?”

”My friends.”

The three fishermen stared at Kallas's pa.s.sengers, and London was well aware of Bennett's proprietary hand at her waist, him drawing her close so that her hip touched his. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Even though he smiled, it was a smile of warning. Mine. You look or touch, you lose your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Mine. You look or touch, you lose your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

What primitive creatures were men. But perhaps that was why women kept them around, to remind themselves of their humble, animal beginnings.

And she wasn't Bennett's. She was no one's. Belonged to n.o.body. Only to herself, to give as she saw fit.

The older man answered to the name of Stathis Psaltou. ”And my sons,” he said, waving to the two men next to him. ”Konstantinos,” a thickset but agile fisherman with his father's face, ”and Odysseas,” the younger of the brothers, lankier yet still st.u.r.dy. The brothers both nodded, holding their caps in their hands. Their gazes would linger on London, then paddle away like sea turtles whenever Bennett glared at them.

”We've need of you, Stathis,” Kallas said. ”To undo a spell.”

The old fisherman nodded. ”Permission to come aboard?” he asked. He looked at Bennett. ”Or will your English wolf bite my hand off?”

”I'll keep him chained,” said Kallas.

”For now,” added Bennett, smiling.

Stathis seemed to respect this. He nimbly jumped from one caique to the other. Impossible to know his age, only that he seemed as old as Poseidon and hale as a tempest.

”Below deck.” Kallas waved Stathis toward the quarterdeck house.

As the old fisherman ambled away, London gripped Kallas's arm. ”Can we trust him? And his sons?” The Heirs had much wealth and power at their disposal. It would not be difficult to find and turn men-if not to the Heirs' cause, then at least to provide might or information. London was certain it happened many, many times. Who knew what poison was concealed by a friendly smile, even here in the midst of the Aegean?

”We hold together, the brotherhood of seafarers,” answered Kallas. ”All of us have the same mother.”

”But brothers can turn against one another.”

”Don't fear, Lady Oracle.” Kallas glanced at Stathis, who waited for them by the companionway. ”I've saved that goat's life dozens of times, and he's saved mine. I drank wine with him when his sons first grew beards.”

”Those two look like they started shaving minutes after birth,” muttered Bennett, glancing at the brothers.

”Not minutes. Months. So, yes, Stathis is trustworthy.”

”Here,” said the captain, once they were all below in the pa.s.sageway. He opened a cabin door, revealing with a lantern Athena on her bunk. Again, London's heart squeezed within her chest to see Athena completely still, like a flame shrinking before extinguis.h.i.+ng completely.

Stathis went to Athena, pressing his ear to her chest. His thick, knotty fingers lightly touched the witch's face before he picked up her hand and turned it over so he could examine her palm. He grunted, then gently set Athena's hand back down beside her. Kallas, frowning with worry, searched the old fisherman's face for some expression, some indication of anxiety or relief, but Stathis kept himself removed.

From around his neck, Stathis pulled out a small charm that hung on a cord. A medallion of St. Nicholas oscillated slowly in the lamplight. Stathis stilled the medallion's movement, then held it over Athena's p.r.o.ne body. It twirled, then spun in helixes. Stathis gave another grunt, then replaced the cord around his neck.

”What does it mean?” London whispered.

The fisherman's lined face looked as ancient as centuries. ”It means that you came to me just in time.”

Laid out, Athena reminded London horribly of the funeral effigies she had seen in Westminster Abbey, a queen posed as though eternally slumbering, while her actual, physical remains moldered beneath layers of marble. The effect was only heightened by the scattering of small oil lamps around the deck of the s.h.i.+p, casting flickering, somber light over Athena's face. She almost expected the witch's skin would be cold. London had to touch Athena to a.s.sure herself her friend was warm and alive.

Kallas had carried Athena above deck, where London spread out several coa.r.s.e woolen blankets. Now, with Bennett at her side, she knelt next to Athena, Kallas facing them. Konstantinos and Odysseas kept to the shadows as their father walked to the rail of the boat with a wooden bucket, then lowered the bucket on a rope to the water, softly chanting.

Stathis spoke too lowly for London to hear the words tumbling from his mouth, but she heeded only Athena, the shallow rise and fall of the witch's chest, and feeling Bennett's hand engulfing her own. She drew steady a.s.surance from his touch, but, even so, there were some things he could not command or control-including the enchanted slumber that imprisoned Athena.

With easy, practiced movements, Stathis brought the filled bucket up. He set it onto the deck. Konstantinos hurried forward and handed his father a small, battered tin cup that looked as though it had quenched the thirsts of generations of seafaring men. Stathis whispered into the cup, again too quiet for London to hear specific words, yet she felt in them the swells of tides, the eternal rise and fall of oceans and the silent kingdom beneath the surface of the sea. The water within the cup blazed azure, spreading blue light across the old fisherman's face.

He strode across the deck and stood at Athena's head. He and Kallas shared a look, before Stathis drizzled some of the seawater onto Athena's brow.

For a moment, there was nothing. No movement. No sound. Only the waves surrounding the boats, splas.h.i.+ng against the rocks of the nearby islands. Athena did not stir.

London's throat seized. Had the spell not worked? She tried to rise, but Bennett held her in place.

Then-Athena inhaled deeply. Her eyes opened. A flash of panic, followed by calm. London sagged against Bennett, felt his lean, muscled arm wrap in support around her shoulder. He was solid and true.

The witch turned her head, saw Kallas kneeling beside her.

”Why will you not rid yourself of me?” Athena asked Kallas, her voice a rasp.

London saw relief in the captain's fierce frown, relief he would deny if accused of it. ”Too easy for you,” he said.

She looked away from him. ”Now I've proof how foolish you are.” But she reached for his hand and, when it was given, gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go. The witch turned to London and Bennett. ”Did my spell work?”

”The Heirs' s.h.i.+p was crippled,” Bennett said, and the witch smiled at this. ”They're far behind us.”

Athena sighed, her smile fading. ”You lost time because of me.”

”We're Blades Blades, Athena,” said Bennett. ”This is what we do. It's why we're different from them.”