said.
His lips brushed her cheek. She threw an arm around his neck, drawing him close. He hesitated an instant. But the devil take it! Everyone except the lookouts was asleep. . . . His mouth sought hers.
In the morning the fleet continued. Lucas stilled hunger, like the other travelers, with a bite of hardtack; he looked forward to the midday meal Djansha would prepare, even though the fire hazard caused frying to be forbidden. His fellow passengers had become individuals to him, rather than an ill-smelling horde, and he fell into agreeable talk with a native Euboean. The man had a small harp with him, which Lucas borrowed. His singing and playing drew a crowd and he was offered refreshment from many wineskins. The wind held fair, promising a fast transit beyond Gallipoli; whitecaps danced on the sea. It was remote, of no real consequence, that they passed a fisher village lately burned to the ground.
The tender resumed its errand, patiently weaving between the ships, and finally reached this one. Lucas leaned far over the side, clinging to a shroud, to watch. Overhauling from behind, the boat called for a towline and was drawn alongside. Rather than accept a sailor’s hand to pull him up the low freeboard at the waist, the passenger stood on his dignity and insisted on a rope ladder. It was dropped from the poop deck, beneath which the boat was then tethered, and he climbed up; a young man in good Italian clothes, sword at hip, who addressed the captain in Venetian.
“I have a message and a warrant from the Bailo in Constantinople. It has to be executed before this fleet passes the narrows and goes its various ways, for otherwise action may come too late. I have been going about all day yesterday, far into the night. A private talk--”
The captain led the way down to the main deck and into his cabin. The crowd broke up, buzzing with curiosity. Lucas reseated himself on the barrel he had been using and strummed the harp absent-mindedly, scowling.
Djansha curled herself up at his feet and rested her head on his knee. “Is something wrong, my lord?”
“I wish I could be certain,” he muttered. “A warrant from the Bailo. This has a bad look. I’ve never heard of the like.”
“Must we turn about?” The Euboean wrung his hands. “Oh, horrible! If I don’t get home soon I’ll have no chance whatsoever to buy my olive oil wholesale. The saints forbid!”
“Offer them candles,” suggested Lucas. His mind added: Or else a sheep. Alarmed, for such thoughts were said to be caused by invisible fiends, he smote the harp and broke into a ballad of Roland.
Presently the captain leaned out of the door and summoned four sailors by name. He talked to them inside. They emerged and went below. When they returned carrying pikes, silence fell over the deck.
Lucas wet his lips. “No,” he said through the noise of his own heartbeat, “I do not like this at all.” He slipped a hand under his doublet. The requirement had been reasonable that he, a commoner, leave his sword with the captain; the dagger he concealed in its place was little comfort.
I’m borrowing trouble, he told himself. This has nothing to do with me. I hope.
The captain and the Venetian stranger emerged. The latter held an unrolled paper with an official seal. The captain signaled to his pikemen. Barefoot, the sailors moved across the deck as quietly as tigers. The passengers made way, crowding to either side, unspeaking, frightened. Lucas nudged Djansha toward the poop. He looked for a ladder, if--
The captain saw him and pointed. “That’s the man.” The quarterdeck voice rolled across the muffled drumbeat timing the oars. “Same looks as you told me, and he calls himself Lucas Greco.”
“Then arrest him,” said the newcomer, “in the name of the Republic of Venice!”
Chapter IV
Djansha cried out and snatched Lucas’ hand. He shook her off without taking his eyes from the messenger. A mumble swept through the packed
His lips brushed her cheek. She threw an arm around his neck, drawing him close. He hesitated an instant. But the devil take it! Everyone except the lookouts was asleep. . . . His mouth sought hers.
In the morning the fleet continued. Lucas stilled hunger, like the other travelers, with a bite of hardtack; he looked forward to the midday meal Djansha would prepare, even though the fire hazard caused frying to be forbidden. His fellow passengers had become individuals to him, rather than an ill-smelling horde, and he fell into agreeable talk with a native Euboean. The man had a small harp with him, which Lucas borrowed. His singing and playing drew a crowd and he was offered refreshment from many wineskins. The wind held fair, promising a fast transit beyond Gallipoli; whitecaps danced on the sea. It was remote, of no real consequence, that they passed a fisher village lately burned to the ground.
The tender resumed its errand, patiently weaving between the ships, and finally reached this one. Lucas leaned far over the side, clinging to a shroud, to watch. Overhauling from behind, the boat called for a towline and was drawn alongside. Rather than accept a sailor’s hand to pull him up the low freeboard at the waist, the passenger stood on his dignity and insisted on a rope ladder. It was dropped from the poop deck, beneath which the boat was then tethered, and he climbed up; a young man in good Italian clothes, sword at hip, who addressed the captain in Venetian.
“I have a message and a warrant from the Bailo in Constantinople. It has to be executed before this fleet passes the narrows and goes its various ways, for otherwise action may come too late. I have been going about all day yesterday, far into the night. A private talk--”
The captain led the way down to the main deck and into his cabin. The crowd broke up, buzzing with curiosity. Lucas reseated himself on the barrel he had been using and strummed the harp absent-mindedly, scowling.
Djansha curled herself up at his feet and rested her head on his knee. “Is something wrong, my lord?”
“I wish I could be certain,” he muttered. “A warrant from the Bailo. This has a bad look. I’ve never heard of the like.”
“Must we turn about?” The Euboean wrung his hands. “Oh, horrible! If I don’t get home soon I’ll have no chance whatsoever to buy my olive oil wholesale. The saints forbid!”
“Offer them candles,” suggested Lucas. His mind added: Or else a sheep. Alarmed, for such thoughts were said to be caused by invisible fiends, he smote the harp and broke into a ballad of Roland.
Presently the captain leaned out of the door and summoned four sailors by name. He talked to them inside. They emerged and went below. When they returned carrying pikes, silence fell over the deck.
Lucas wet his lips. “No,” he said through the noise of his own heartbeat, “I do not like this at all.” He slipped a hand under his doublet. The requirement had been reasonable that he, a commoner, leave his sword with the captain; the dagger he concealed in its place was little comfort.
I’m borrowing trouble, he told himself. This has nothing to do with me. I hope.
The captain and the Venetian stranger emerged. The latter held an unrolled paper with an official seal. The captain signaled to his pikemen. Barefoot, the sailors moved across the deck as quietly as tigers. The passengers made way, crowding to either side, unspeaking, frightened. Lucas nudged Djansha toward the poop. He looked for a ladder, if--
The captain saw him and pointed. “That’s the man.” The quarterdeck voice rolled across the muffled drumbeat timing the oars. “Same looks as you told me, and he calls himself Lucas Greco.”
“Then arrest him,” said the newcomer, “in the name of the Republic of Venice!”
Chapter IV
Djansha cried out and snatched Lucas’ hand. He shook her off without taking his eyes from the messenger. A mumble swept through the packed
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