Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Six: Chios by Christian Cameron Page B

aft towards the main-deck tent, telling him to stop making trouble in careful Turkish.
    The oar decks were empty. Swan had hoped to hide in them, but that had all failed now – he hadn’t expected the guards to be so alert, and now he was in the most desperate position possible.
    Drappierro knelt by his side. ‘How did you get here? You are long ahead of time!’ He sneered. ‘So eager for my service?’
    Swan wanted to retch. ‘The … order … broke out of Mytilini.’ He coughed. ‘I stole a boat.’
    Drappierro scratched his beard. But he wasn’t really looking at Swan. He was trying to see his ring in the poor light. ‘This feels more like crystal than diamond,’ he said. ‘Oh, but I can feel the age of it.’ He smiled. ‘It really is a pity you have so many enemies, young man.’ He stood, and as he stood, a pair of Africans took Swan’s arms.
    Swan had expected this betrayal. In fact, he’d planned on it – but that didn’t really fight the fear. ‘Messire!’ he wailed, and he sounded very desperate.
    ‘Omar Reis will never even know you were here,’ Drappierro said. ‘Your friend – his sister – has made a fine offer for you. She gave me her word that you will not die.’ Drappierro laughed. ‘We are all men of the world, eh, Swan? If you ever manage to escape, come and see me.’
    The Africans had dragged Swan to his feet, but they were not unkind, and Swan settled and they gave him a little space. He used it to bow low.
    ‘We are, indeed, all men of the world,’ he answered. ‘Think of me,’ he managed.
    Drappierro’s head shot round, because Swan’s tone had been too bland by half.
    But the Africans were taking him down the main deck. He left Messire Drappierro trying to look more closely at his ring, even as a dozen janissaries came down the deck from the command tent.
    Just over his shoulder, he could hear the voice he dreaded most of all – that of Omar Reis himself.
    ‘Messire Drappierro,’ the Turkish general said in his near-perfect Italian.
    And then Swan found himself face to face with Maral Khatun. Auntie.
    She was thirty-five – five feet of muscle and silk and black hair. In the dark, she was merely a shape and a set of shawls, but he still knew her – by scent, and by the deference of all the men around him suddenly.
    He made himself bow.
    She chuckled. In Arabic, she said, ‘Well, he doesn’t lack for manners. Bring him along.’ She turned to her Africans. ‘Mustafa – what is all the shouting in the Frankish tongue?’
    ‘I do not know, mistress.’ The African bowed. ‘Hamza Beg is … debating, with your brother.’
    ‘Find out, there’s a dear.’ She looked at Swan. ‘You speak a little Arabic, I think.’
    There were men aboard who knew he spoke Turkish, so he bowed again. ‘And Turkish, my lady.’
    She laughed. ‘Oh, you are revenged on a poor woman, are you not? So you understood every word, you scamp?’ She seemed neither spiteful nor annoyed.
    ‘I know we were interrupted,’ Swan said. It was a line he’d practised for this moment. All his dice were thrown.
    She stepped back, and her laugh pealed across the deck. ‘You are bold. ’ She leaned forward. ‘You know I have purchased thee?’
    He nodded.
    More shouting from aft.
    ‘There is talk of taking the Englishman from thee, mistress,’ Mustafa said.
    ‘Let us be away to our own ship,’ Auntie said. ‘Immediately. I command it. Englishman, what have you done?’
    Swan bowed his head. ‘As I serve God, lady, I have done nothing but carry a message from this man Drappierro to the Lord of the Knights of Wrath and then I have brought the lord’s answer to Drappierro.’
    She smiled as they settled in a small boat. Her Africans began to pull them away from the side. There was more shouting aboard the flagship, but no heads appeared at the side. Swan could hear Omar Reis and another, deeper voice.
    ‘Truly, you are the very son of iniquity and father of lies, young man. Despite which,