The Scrolls of the Ancients

CHAPTER

Twenty-four

R aising his sword high, Tristan narrowly parried the sharp strike from the demonslaver's blade. The guard had rushed from the deck above to confront him, even before he had ascended the last two steps of the stairway.

Struggling against the ceaseless blows, he somehow made it topside and gained some badly needed maneuvering room. As his opponent raised his sword yet again, Tristan finally sensed an opening. Sliding in on the balls of his feet, he swung the blade around in a flat, perfect circle. The tip of the sword sliced the slaver's abdomen open, and the monster fell to the deck.

Trying to ignore the desperate pain in his back, Tristan stole a precious moment to get his bearings. There were five ships involved in the struggle. The Wayfarer and the Stalwart lay next to one another in the water. Two of the still-unidentified frigates flanked them. The third lay before their bows. The three mysterious frigates had employed heavy grappling hooks to pull all the ships together and hold them there. There was nothing for the monsters to do but stand and fight. All five of the vessels' decks swarmed with combatants.

Many of the slave ships' sails were torn and hanging down, while their masts had fallen, shattered, to the decks. Rigging lay everywhere, making fighting all the more difficult. Small fires had broken out here and there, dark smoke rising to blur vision.

Suddenly Tristan realized what was wrong about it all.

There were no Minion warriors about. Not a single one. The fighters who were struggling alongside him and his fellow slaves seemed to be a ragtag, unorganized lot at best. Each of them fought with skill and abandon, as if every moment were his last. They seemed to have precious little fear of the demonslavers, and relished killing them, almost as if they all had personal scores to settle. Amid the blood, the screaming, and the clashing of weapons, Tristan found himself stunned and confused.

A trident came whistling through the air, to bury itself directly beside his head in the thick mast that stood just behind him. Instinctively he reached behind his right shoulder to grasp one of his throwing knives, only to remember that they weren't there.

Cursing, he finally saw the demonslaver that had thrown the trident. He stood a little way across the bloody deck, glaring at him. Sword in hand, the monster smiled and nastily beckoned the prince forward.

On impulse, Tristan raised his sword high and ran toward the slaver across the slippery deck. As he neared, though, he caught a glimpse of yet another slaver running around the corner of the wheelhouse, and realized he was trapped. Tristan knew he couldn't possibly take them both-especially without his usual weapons at his command. So he kept going for all he was worth, intent on cutting down at least the first of them.

Holding his blade in a one-handed grip straight out before him, Tristan ran in and roughly pushed the slaver's sword arm to one side with his free hand. Then he plunged the point of his sword directly into the demonslaver's throat. He turned the edge of the blade sharply, then raised one foot and pushed the body off his sword. Blood rushed from the slaver's neck as he fell to the deck.

Tristan turned around as fast as he could to face the one rushing up behind him. If he died this day, so be it-at least he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken several more of the awful demonslavers to their graves with him. But what he saw surprised him.

A great bear of a man had come up behind the other slaver and taken it around the neck with one of his huge arms. The man's other arm was pushing on the back of the demonslaver's head, forcing it down and forward. Suddenly the man gave the slaver's head another forceful shove downward, and Tristan heard the neck snap like a dry tree branch. Then the giant picked up the dead body and threw it a good five meters across the deck, as if it weighed nothing. Tristan couldn't help but stand speechless for a moment, looking into the eyes of the fighter who had just saved his life.

He was the largest human being the prince had ever seen-even taller and heavier than most of the Minion warriors. Easily topping seven feet, he wore torn, bloody breeches and nothing else-no shoes, shirt, or weapons of any kind. He seemed to be a bit older than Tristan, and his eyes were dark. His head was clean-shaven, and his hugely muscular body was covered with scars of every description, one of which ran diagonally down across his forehead, over his left eye, and onto his cheek.

Tristan watched in awe as yet another demonslaver, his sword held high, rushed toward the giant. With a speed Tristan would have thought impossible for one so large, the man turned and grabbed the slaver's sword arm, giving it a sharp twist. The arm broke, blood and splintered bone erupting through the white skin. As the slaver screamed in agony, the giant picked him up easily and then let him fall straight down onto his raised right knee. Then he lifted the dead body up into his arms as if it, too, were weightless, and it went flying across the deck.

After giving the prince an expressionless look, the giant turned away, searching for another victim.

Tristan looked around but could find no immediate enemy. The battle was clearly subsiding, and it seemed that his mysterious saviors had won the day. Exhausted, chest heaving, Tristan lowered his sword.

His first impulse was to find the Sojourner, but clearly she was not here. Turning to the east, he squinted into the sun and let his gaze pan across the horizon. Finally he found it: The white speck of sail in the far-off distance that meant Krassus and his herbmistress had escaped. Angrily he turned back to the now-quiet battle scene.

Bodies-human and demonslaver alike-lay everywhere in impossible poses. The Wayfarer and the Stalwart lay low in the sea, and the fires upon them were still flaring up here and there. Groups of the still-unidentified crew were busy trying to put them out before the flames licked their way over to their own ships. Weapons, bone, and organs littered the decks, which were awash in blood. Slaves walked vacantly amid the carnage, staring at nothing. Others simply sat on the bloody decks, sobbing in horror and gratitude. Some of the victorious fighters were already looting the two slave ships, loading their bounty of humans, food, and water aboard the three mysterious frigates.

In one corner of the aft deck of the Wayfarer, part of the crew that had saved them were busy lining up the surviving captive slavers, forcing them to their knees, and beheading them one by one. The bodies and heads were thrown overboard. Drawn by the blood, packs of sharks had begun to form, their dorsal fins curving ominously through the waves.

At first Tristan's heart recoiled at the casual beheading of the demonslavers, and he gave momentary thought to trying to stop it. But then he remembered that he wasn't in charge here. He finally decided that after witnessing all of the brutality the slavers were capable of, he simply didn't care what happened to them.

He walked on, deciding that he had to discover who was in command. Surely this group of saviors would have a captain, and Tristan was anxious to meet him.

Then one of the men who had helped free them began rounding up the slaves. In a firm, controlled voice he told them to walk to the bow deck of The People's Revenge, the ship still barring their way. There they were to await further orders. Tristan soon found himself among a trudging crowd of slaves as the pitiful mass of humanity slowly made its way across a gangplank and aboard the mysterious frigate.

The crowd quickly became huge, and at first Tristan couldn't see what was occurring. After a time he could tell that the slaves were being asked to come forward one by one, to be viewed by the captain, who was seated in a red-upholstered, high-backed chair that had been brought up on deck. After the captain had carefully looked at a slave, he would then motion him or her to one side, to receive food, water, and better clothing.

Tristan desperately wanted to tell the captain who he was and request that he take him to Tammerland as soon as possible. However, he was reticent about revealing his identity to a stranger. As he neared, he decided to ask for a private meeting.

At last Tristan's turn arrived. He stepped forward, he looked up, and his jaw dropped.

The captain was a woman.

Stunned, Tristan looked again. He had at first mistaken her for a man, due to her short hair and manner of dress. She sat very casually in the high-backed chair, with one long leg thrown up over one of its arms. She wore battered black knee boots. Tight breeches of brown and tan vertical stripes ran high up her waist, ending just short of her breasts. One of the demonslaver's short swords hung low on her hips, from a wide leather belt that stretched suggestively from the top of the right hip to the lower part of the left. Blood still dripped from its hilt, telling Tristan that she had done more than simply give orders this day. Her stiff, brown leather jacket was buttoned about halfway up. It was topped with an open, equally stiff collar that ran up around the back of her neck in a semicircle that reached almost as high as her earlobes.

Her face was pretty, but also conveyed a strong sense of power. Dark, fine brows, arched over large, expressive blue eyes with exceptionally long lashes. Her nose was short and straight; her lips were red and full. The unusually short, dark brown hair was some sort of outrageous, urchinlike affair that went every which way. It was almost as though she either had no conception of how to wear it, or didn't much care how it looked. For some reason, Tristan thought it was the latter. From each of her earlobes dangled large gold hoops. The scarred giant who had saved Tristan's life stood obediently by her side, his arms folded over his great, barrel chest.

She looked the prince over quietly for a moment, taking in his unusual clothes, scraggly beard, and dark blue eyes. Apparently unimpressed, she then motioned for him to move to one side and join the other slaves she had already examined. But Tristan knew he must speak to her now, or he might never get another chance. For better or worse, he decided to stand his ground.

"I must speak with you, Captain!" he said loudly as one of her crew tried to lead him away. At first he didn't resist. He still had the sword, but he didn't want to cause trouble unless he had to. "I have information that is vital to us both! You simply must hear me out!"

She leveled her blue eyes at him. "I feel sorry for you all, but have no time to hear individual stories," she said calmly. Her voice was smooth, and had a sort of smoky sensuality about it. With a nod from her, two more of her crew began to take him away.

But as they turned Tristan around and began to push him to one side, he heard her voice ring out.

"Wait!"

Her crewmembers immediately stopped, and Tristan turned toward her again.

Stepping down from her chair, she walked around behind him. She closely examined the glowing blood that was dripping from his back, then placed a finger under his vest and touched one of his wounds lightly. Tristan cringed, but held his ground.

Removing her hand, she looked at the bizarre, azure blood on her fingertips. Saying nothing, she turned and motioned for the giant to come to her. He was there in an instant. As he leaned over, she whispered something in his ear. The giant nodded and took Tristan by the arm. Looking up at the colossus, Tristan knew there would be no escape from him. With a single twist of his free hand, the giant took the prince's sword away and tossed it to the deck.

"This man is called Scars," she told Tristan quietly. "The reasons why should be obvious. He is my first mate. He will escort you to other quarters, where you will bathe and shave. Then I will speak to you."

Tristan tried to take a step forward, if for no other reason than to test the strength of the one called Scars. But it was like being locked in an iron vise. "I don't need to be treated any differently than the others," he protested. "But it is imperative that you and I speak." He looked back up at the giant, then at the captain again. "Preferably in private."

He thought he saw a hint of a smile cross her lips. But if so, it vanished just as quickly. Saying nothing more, she indicated to Scars that the prince should be taken away.

Scars lifted Tristan to his toes as if he weighed nothing, and literally danced him across the deck like a marionette. As he took the prince down a stairway leading to the lower decks of The People's Revenge, the captain took her chair and resumed her odd process of reviewing each and every slave.

T he quarters Scars led Tristan to were humble, but after life as a slave, they seemed as luxurious as anything in the royal palace. There was a bed, a tub, and a washstand containing shaving things. There was also a mirror and a porthole. After some crewmen brought water and filled the tub, the first thing the prince did was remove his right boot and make sure he still had the brain hook and the piece of mysterious parchment.

Setting the weapon aside, he unrolled the parchment and turned it to the light of the window.

There was no writing on it. It was very old and yellowed, and he felt certain somehow that it had come from the Scroll of the Vagaries. But who had put it there?

However it had gotten there, he knew it must be taken to the wizards at once-and it was up to him to find a way to make that happen, without letting anyone else know that it existed. Wondering how he would ever manage such a thing, he carefully replaced both the brain hook and the parchment back into the boot.

Then he removed his other boot and the rest of his clothes and set about shaving and bathing, trying to pay special attention to the wounds on his back. Tending them hurt terribly, but it had to be done. Just as he was finishing he felt The People's Revenge lurch, and he knew they were leaving the scene of the battle.

As he dressed, he wondered two things. First, he wanted to know where his own weapons were. Had they been found? He always felt naked without them, and now was no exception. Second, was Scars still outside in the hallway, waiting for him? That question, at least, was easily answered. Opening the cabin door, he saw the giant standing there quietly, arms folded over his huge chest.

Seeing Tristan, Scars solemnly pointed back the way they had come, and shortly they were topside again. The sunlight and breeze felt good on the prince's freshly shaven face.

Things had changed drastically in the short time he had been below. The People's Revenge, flanked by her two sister ships, was headed west at full sail, her ragged crewmen swarming over her like an army of busy ants. Back to the east, clouds of smoke billowed on the horizon. Tristan respected this female captain, whoever she was.

As Scars led him aft, he looked over the men who had saved his life. They were definitely a ragtag group. Their clothes were torn and bloodied, and many of them wore colorful bandanas on their heads. Earrings occasionally dangled alongside their faces, which were more often than not covered by beards and mustaches. Each man seemed to bristle with weapons, and most of them had the hardened, weathered look of those who had spent most of their lives at sea. Tristan had never heard of pirates running the Sea of Whispers. These men certainly looked the part, though.

Scars led Tristan past the ship's wheel and down another flight of stairs. Finally the giant stopped before large double doors. After knocking once he waited for the reply, then opened the doors and ushered Tristan inside.

The prince was surprised at the size and beauty of the room. Curved, stained-glass windows lined the entire stern wall and had been opened, filling the space with dappled sunlight bouncing off the waves. Ornate, gilt-edged scrollwork lined the corners of the ceiling and the window frames; the floor was covered with patterned rugs. A huge desk and several chairs sat just forward of the windows. A luxurious four-poster bed filled one wall, next to the open door to what looked to be a private washroom. The room smelled faintly of wine, smoke, and fresh salt air.

The captain sat at the great desk, poring over several charts. Her sword and baldric were slung over the high, upholstered back of her chair. On the desk were a large wheel of cheese with a knife stuck in it and a broken loaf of bread, accompanied by a half-consumed bottle of red wine. Tristan suddenly realized how long it had been since he had last eaten.

Finally, the captain looked up. Saying nothing, she indicated an empty chair on Tristan's side of the desk.

"I'd rather stand," he said wryly. "I've had quite enough of sitting down for a while."

The captain gave Scars a look, and the giant picked Tristan up in both arms and unceremoniously dumped him into the leather chair as if he were a rag doll.

Wincing at the fresh pain in his back, the prince scowled. "Doesn't he ever talk?" he asked angrily.

The captain actually smiled. She looked up at Scars. "You may leave us," she said simply. "I think I can handle whatever might arise."

"Are you sure, Captain?" the giant replied. His speaking voice was unexpectedly elegant. "His manner seems quite uncivilized to me."

Scars' diction was eloquent and educated, at odds with his rough appearance.

"Yes, I'm certain," she answered. "But if it makes you feel better, you may stand just outside the door."

Scars gave Tristan a distinct look of warning, then went to the double doors. As he walked through them, his body seemed to take up the entire doorway. Then the doors closed quietly behind him, and Tristan and the captain were alone.

She wasted no time. "Now, then, who are you?" she asked. "You clean up nicely. But I have never seen blue, glowing blood before. It's quite unique."

Tristan thought for a moment. Something inside still made him reticent about telling her who he was. But he suspected that if he was ever going to get home, he would probably have to be at least partly honest with her. Taking a deep breath, he looked intently into her eyes.

"I am Tristan, crown prince of Eutracia," he said firmly. "Son of Nicholas and Morganna, now dead. My blood glows because I am of the craft of magic."

This time the captain's smile was followed by outright, derisive laughter. "But of course you are! The crown prince-here on my ship! How amazing! Perhaps I should bow!"

He scowled. "You don't believe me."

Her face suddenly became more serious. "Actually, I do," she answered. Opening a drawer, she produced a parchment. It was rolled up and tied with a ribbon. She casually tossed it across the desk. Reaching out, Tristan took it and opened it.

It was a copy of one of the wanted posters of him that his son Nicholas had ordered distributed across Eutracia before he died at the Gates of Dawn. Tristan looked back up at her.

"It's a good likeness, don't you think?" she asked. "And we've recovered some weapons like those shown in the portrait." She paused for a moment, thinking. "This proves an interesting situation, I must say. I might just turn you in and claim the reward myself. One hundred thousand kisa is a great deal of money, and my men have not been paid in some time."

Tristan tossed the awful warrant back onto her desk. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the reward no longer exists," he answered. "The one who was distributing the posters is now dead."

"Really?" she asked. It was clear she remained unconvinced. "What happened to him?"

Tristan's jaw hardened. "I found him first."

Unperturbed, the captain put one long leg up on the desk, then crossed the other over it. Reaching out, she grasped an ornate, inlaid wooden box and pulled it toward her. From the box she produced a cigarillo rolled of some type of dark plant leaf. Pulling an oil lamp near, she placed the tube in her mouth, lit the end, and blew the smoke down through her nose. Finally she looked back at him.

"From what city were you taken?" she asked. "And tell me, is it really true that you murdered your own father, and also oversaw the murders of the entire Directorate of Wizards, as this poster says? My, my, but you have been a bad boy. You might fit in well here."

Tristan was growing angrier by the moment. Despite the fact that she had saved him and the other slaves, that wasn't enough to make him trust her. He was tired of her insults, and he desperately wanted some answers of his own.

"You first," he said. "Who in the name of the Afterlife are you? And what gives you the right to fly my battle flag?"

Calmly drawing in more smoke, she raised her face and blew it toward the ceiling. As she did, Tristan watched it disappear into the salt-laden air. "I am Teresa of the House of Welborne," she answered calmly. "My friends call me Tyranny."

"Tyranny?"

"Yes." She smiled. "Apparently I was quite a handful when I was growing up. My late father jokingly bastardized 'Teresa' into 'Tyranny,' and it stuck. My mother never forgave him. But then again, I always was more tomboy than dainty little girl."

Leaning forward in his chair, Tristan decided to press. "You're looking for someone, aren't you?" he asked. "That's why you and your ships are out here, plowing up and down the Sea of Whispers. It's also why you lined up all the slaves-in hopes of finding whoever it is you're looking for."

He could tell he had struck a nerve. But he also realized that if he ever wanted to get home, now might be a good time for some flattery.

"And by the way," he added quietly, "the blood I saw on the hilt of your sword tells me that you do more than simply give orders. Well done."

Tyranny's eyes narrowed. "You catch on quickly," she answered. "My older brother was taken by the demonslavers one night. Both my parents were killed trying to fight them off and give me time to escape. We lived in Farpoint-where most of the slaving activity seems to be taking place. My father owned the largest fleet of fishing vessels in the city, and I used to work with him. I have been looking for my brother ever since, and I won't stop until I find him."

"That explains your familiarity with these waters," Tristan mused. "And Scars?" he asked. "I have never seen anyone quite like him. Where did he come from?"

"Scars was one of my father's most trusted employees," she answered. "We grew up together. He got his wounds and his huge muscles from wrestling live sharks out of the sea for fun, from my father's boats. He loved my father dearly, and he would die for me. And he can tear a demonslaver apart with his bare hands."

"Tell me," Tristan asked, "do you know how to safely cross the Sea of Whispers? Have you ever done so?"

"I do know," she answered. "And we have. We tortured the information out of one of the captured demonslavers. They're a tough lot, but time spent with Scars can be very effective. It seems that with the death of the Coven of Sorceresses, the Necrophagians are now willing to accept their grisly tribute from anyone who wants to cross-provided the dead bodies are sufficient in number, of course. We used the demonslaver bodies as payment, but we have only done so once. And I certainly don't recommend it." Casually, she lifted her glass and took a sip of wine.

"Would you like some?" she asked, and nodded toward an empty glass. It seemed her demeanor was starting to soften.

Too thirsty to stand on ceremony, Tristan took the glass and poured himself some wine. He drank it down in a single draft, then poured another and sat back in his chair.

"Where did this crew of yours come from?" he asked. "How do you pay them? And how did you come by these ships?"

"My crew is a combination of my father's old employees and other men who asked to join us after my reputation began to grow," she answered. "As you might imagine, many of them are also looking for lost friends or relatives, and what better way to do it than this? They have become a ruthless and determined lot, I can assure you." Pausing, she took another sip of the wine, then another lungful of smoke. She hissed what remained of the smoke toward the ceiling.

"As for their pay and food, both come from the kisa and provisions usually given us by grateful family members, when we return their loved ones to them," she continued. "I don't demand such payment, but I don't refuse it, either. After all, this operation has to run on something besides altruism, wouldn't you agree? How I got my ships is another story. The first belonged to my father. We renamed her The People's Revenge and went from there. The two other frigates that now sail alongside us are both slaver conquests."

Tristan stared at her, even further impressed by this strong-willed woman. He thought for a moment, and then decided to take a risk.

"Do you know a man named Krassus, or a woman named Grizelda?" he asked. "Or have you ever heard of documents called the Scrolls of the Ancients?"

Tyranny shook her head.

"Have you ever encountered a slave named Wulfgar?"

"No," she answered. "Why do you ask?"

"They're people and things I am searching for, much the same way you search for your brother," he said as nonchalantly as he could. He decided to change the subject. "Do you know why these demonslavers are taking our people?" Again she shook her head. Then Tristan thought of something else.

"Have you ever heard of a place called the Citadel?" he asked. He fully expected her to say she had not, but her face darkened.

"Not only have I heard of it, but I have seen it," she answered solemnly. "It's an island to the east, with a huge stone fortress atop it-a massive, forbidding place hewn directly from the living rock that makes up the island. It looks ancient. We learned of its location from a captured demonslaver. I have even charted its location on my maps. We decided to go there, and actually got to within half a league of it before being forced to turn back. The waters surrounding the Citadel are swarming with slaver ships. After they saw us, we came about and barely got away with our lives."

It was clear that despite her bravado, Tyranny's experience with the Citadel had had a strong effect upon her. And Tristan was by now quite sure she was a woman who was not easily frightened. Fascinated, he leaned forward in his chair.

"Could you lead another fleet there if you had to?" he asked eagerly. "Do you really know the way?"

"Of course," she answered. "I know this ocean as well as anyone alive. But hear me well: Going there is blatant suicide."

Tristan looked at her for a long moment, absorbing all that he had just heard. The breeze from the open windows wafted through the room, gently moving her scruffy dark hair, and her blue eyes continued to regard him with confidence. A slight smile came to his lips. "So you're really a pirate?" he asked.

Tyranny smiled. "We prefer to think of ourselves as privateers, doing the work that the vanquished monarchy no longer can. We would, of course, prefer to do so under authenticated letters of marque, but the king and the wizards who might have granted them to us are now all dead."

"Letters of marque?" Tristan repeated quizzically.

"For the crown prince of Eutracia, you don't seem to know much about your own history," she quipped. "Letters of marque were papers granted by the wizards to privateers during the Sorceresses' War. These documents gave official sanction to the raiding of the Coven's vessels and the killing of their servants. They also allowed the privateer to legally keep a portion of any of the booty recovered. It was a very nice arrangement, actually. The wizards didn't have to dirty their hands, and a brave, enterprising privateer could do very well. It was almost impossible to take a ship that had a sorceress aboard, of course. But if one could be found manned only by blood stalkers or unendowed humans who had been pressed into the Coven's service, it could be a great prize indeed, for the sorceresses' ships often carried treasure. But those days are long gone, I'm afraid."

"How do you know all of this?" Tristan asked.

"Some of the original privateers of the Sorceresses' War were my forebears," she answered, then inhaled more of the smoke. Leaning back, she arched her back like a cat and adjusted her slim frame slightly in the chair. "When the war ended, their continuing love for the ocean turned them into fishermen. Not as exciting, but infinitely safer. You also might enjoy knowing that the Resolve, the vessel the lead wizard supposedly used to banish the Coven to the Sea of Whispers, was owned by the last of my privateering grandfathers and was loaned to the newly formed Directorate for just that purpose. Her ship's wheel was taken from her and handed down through the generations. It means a great deal to me, and is now the same one that guides this ship."

Tristan smiled and shook his head. "And you run my battle flag," he mused. "The lion and the broadsword. Where did you get it?"

"That was simple," she replied. "Unfortunately, since the destruction caused by the Coven, your flag can often be found needful of a place to fly. Besides, what other banner should we run in our fight against the demonslavers? I love my country."

Leaning forward, Tristan placed his glass on the desk. He wasn't sure he could trust her, but he had no other choice. He looked meaningfully into Tyranny's wide, blue eyes.

"How would you like to make more kisa than you've ever seen in your entire life?" he asked quietly.

"Just now you're in no position to pay such a sum," she answered. "And you're in no position to ask for any favors, either." Another puff of bluish smoke poured out her nose.

"But my wizards are," he answered. "And all you would have to do is take me to the Cavalon Delta and release me. From there, you and I could easily make our way to Tammerland, where you would be paid. No harm would befall you, and my wizards would be most appreciative, I assure you. With a word from me, they could conjure enough kisa to sink this ship; certainly more than enough to allow you to continue to look for your brother, and to do so for as long as you need to. We might even be able to help you find him."

Tyranny removed her long legs from the desk and sat upright in her chair. She ran a quick hand through her short hair, tousling it even further. "The wizards are all dead; everybody knows that," she answered skeptically, shaking her head. "This is just a trick to secure your release."

"The reported deaths of the wizards were not entirely true," Tristan countered. "Wigg, the lead wizard, still lives. As does another named Faegan. In fact, I believe they would be happy to hear about what you have been doing. I might even be able to convince them to give you your letters of marque and recognize you officially, if it means that much to you."

Then he sat back, desperately hoping his offer was enough. He simply had to get back to Tammerland and give the wizards the scrap of parchment hidden in his boot.

He could see that Tyranny was sorely tempted.

"If I were to do this thing, my price would be the one hundred thousand kisa that were supposedly offered by the warrant," she said craftily. "And I would also require some form of collateral against the possibility that you're lying. In that regard, I think the medallion hanging around your neck would do nicely. The quality of its gold appears to be particularly high. Melted down, it would go a long way toward convincing me."

Tristan looked down at the medallion. He saw that he had little other choice. He looked back up at Tyranny with determined eyes.

"I agree," he said quietly. "But I have conditions."

"Conditions?" Tyranny asked. "I could just have Scars come in and take the medallion from you, you know, then set sail for any place I choose."

"Yes," he answered. "But I don't think you will. Something about honor among thieves."

Silence reigned for a moment, their eyes locked together in a battle of wills.

"What are your conditions?" she asked finally, leaning her arms on the desk.

"No detours-we sail directly to the Cavalon Delta," he answered. "If other slave ships are sighted on the way, you do not engage them. You are also to return my weapons to me, and keep my real identity a secret on this ship. In addition, when we reach the palace you will draw a chart for my wizards, showing them the exact location of the Citadel. And there is one other thing," he added.

Tyranny's blue eyes narrowed. It was clear she wasn't used to demands. "And that is?"

"You allow me to wear my medallion until our business is concluded, either one way or another."

Tyranny leaned back in her chair. "You demand a great deal," she said.

"One hundred thousand kisa is a great deal of money," he answered. He purposely let his words hang in the air for a moment. "From our current position, how long before we could reach the delta?"

She looked down at one of her charts. "If the winds hold, six days."

Silence engulfed the room. Tristan held his breath, wondering what her answer would be.

Finally she stood. Raising her right hand, she spat into her palm and held it out. "Done," she said. Standing up as well, Tristan looked at her quizzically.

"It's the way a privateer's bargain was sealed in the old days," Tyranny said with a wry smile. "And it remains the best." She held her hand out a bit farther.

Smiling, Tristan spat into his right hand, and took hers into it. "And done," he answered back. For the first time since entering the room, he thought he might be able to trust her. But only time would tell.

Tyranny pulled a small piece of parchment toward her, took up a quill, and began to write out their agreement. She handed it over to Tristan, and he read it. Like its author, it came straight to the point. Picking up the quill, Tristan signed it with a false name, then handed it back to her.

Studying the fresh signature, Tyranny raised an eyebrow. "This is not who you said you were."

"I also told you that I did not want your crew to know who I am," Tristan replied calmly. "You've already shown me the warrant and threatened to turn me in for the reward. What kind of fool would I be if I added my real signature to your documents, as well? Don't worry-there's no place for me to run to. When you come before my wizards, you will have your kisa, I assure you. And if I'm lying, you and that monster first mate of yours can easily kill me. You still have a fortune to win and nothing to lose. Take it or leave it."

After thinking for a moment, Tyranny finally countersigned the agreement, folded the parchment, and slipped it between her breasts. She then called for Scars. The double doors blew open, and the giant was by her side in a flash.

"Return this man's weapons to him," she ordered. "He is one of us now. And change course for the Cavalon Delta at full sail. We have new business there." Then she looked at Tristan.

"Here's the first rule of The People's Revenge," she said. "If you are going to eat our food, you must work for it-regardless of what other circumstances might prevail between us. Scars, take him topside and feed him. Then give him something to do. Perhaps we can make a privateer out of him yet."

"Agreed," Tristan answered.

Without further fanfare, Scars escorted the prince from the room.

Standing, Tyranny went to the windows and looked out on the restless sea. Sensing The People's Revenge heel over to her new course, she smiled.