CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TURGA’S STRONGHOLD WAS AN IMPRESSIVE SIGHT. The deep bay was nearly a lagoon, so tightly did the two craggy outcrops of land enclose it. The children did not see the ship’s journey through those straits, but they heard the braying horns that announced Turga’s arrival.

This time they were taken off the ship soon after it nudged up to the quay. Matthieu fought to keep hold of Madeleine, but they were pried apart by the three burly pirates who came for them. The bright morning stabbed at his eyes and made them water as he was thrust through the hatch and into the light—yet to feel the warm sun beating down and breathe sweet air again was lovely beyond belief. He squinted up at the massive building that brooded over the harbor.

It seemed to grow out of the high cliff it was built upon, a squat, nearly windowless hulk of red stone enclosed by a matching wall. Smaller than Castle DesChênes, it was a good deal more imposing. It did not seem like a place where anyone would live.

“It’s a fortress, Maddy,” Matthieu breathed, impressed despite his fear. “Like in the general’s stories of the old heroes.” Before she could answer they were pulled along, off the ship and along the jetty to a broad, hard-packed dirt road that skirted wide of the cliff-face and then snaked uphill to Turga’s stronghold.

It was a long climb up to the fortress. The children were kept in single file, each escorted by a guard and flanked by the handful of crew members who were not assigned to unloading the ship. The sun was hot on Matthieu’s head and back, though it was not yet midmorning. The land that stretched out beyond the road had a dry, baked look, the vegetation sparse and dusty. Walking felt strange after so long at sea, and Matthieu’s legs tired quickly. Even the guards, he noticed, were breathing hard by the time they were halfway to the gate. Luc stumbled in front of him, loose stones and dust spilling down from the scrape of his shoe. The guard, who had let go of Luc’s arm to avoid falling himself, bent over to help the boy up. But Luc twisted around, kicked out hard to the pit of the guard’s stomach and was on his feet and running into the brush.

He did it! The thought was a shout of triumph in Matthieu’s head, a lightning bolt of excitement. But Luc hadn’t made twenty paces before three pirates sprinted after him. They ran him down like a rabbit, and though he twisted and turned to escape their grasp, at the end he was sent sprawling into the hard-packed earth. Matthieu’s heart sank as Luc’s guard, recovered now, made his way down the slope to where Luc lay pinned. The man stood, expressionless, as Luc hoisted up to his knees and started to his feet. Then his heavy booted foot swung back.

Matthieu heard Madeleine cry out behind him as the boot caught Luc under his ribs and lifted him into the air. A moment later he was slung between two pirates and hauled back to the road. He looks like a fish, thought Matthieu, the image absurd and horrifying at once. Luc’s mouth gaped in a fruitless attempt to suck air as the guards shouldered him back into place. Finally, when it seemed to Matthieu his friend must breathe or suffocate, Luc lifted his head and Matthieu heard the long gasping rush as his wind returned.

Matthieu raised his eyes once more to the tall enclosure now looming and the thick red walls of the fortress beyond. He had been stupid to imagine such a place had anything to do with heroes and adventures and old tales. It was a prison, nothing more.

DOMINIC GRIPPED THE handrail and stared across the wide bay to the dark blurry jumble that was Baskir. Could the wretched ship go no faster? The town crept into focus more slowly than his frayed nerves could stand. His children could be on the auction block even now, sold out from under his very nose, while the ship dawdled into port.

It was a large town with an extensive harbor—he could see that now. It sat nestled into gentle green banks, but Dominic could see to the south the low bare mountains that marked the beginning of the dry upland plateau known as the badlands. This town, Yolenka had told him, marked the unproclaimed border where the rule of law lost its hold completely and the warlords held sway. The slave auction was just one of the illegal activities that thrived in Baskir, and its overlord, Grindor, was smart enough to ensure that wealthy visitors from the northern settlements were left to do their business in safety. “Many rich families in the north, even in the Emperor’s own city, have slaves,” Yolenka had told them with obvious disgust. “They say, ‘Oh, is my young servant, is daughter of my maid,’ and everyone knows what is truth but they say nothing. And the warlords fill their pockets and grow strong with the gold of these people.”

They were closer now—the network of wharves reaching far out into the water, though with fewer ships at berth than Dominic would expect from so much docking space. His stomach clenched in a roil of doubt. This was not his style, sneaking around, adopting false roles and an innocent facade. Who on earth would believe he was married to a Tarzine dancer? He clung to the hope that they would be able to make a straightforward raid on the slave house without need for such playacting.

Black banners flew at the end of each pier and from the higher buildings along the shorefront. That certainly seemed at odds with Yolenka’s taste for color. He tapped her shoulder, pointing them out.

“What do the flags represent, Yolenka? Are they the city’s standard, or do they proclaim a warlord’s territory?”

Yolenka squinted into the wind. Dominic had been around her enough now to recognize the curse that escaped her. She turned to him, her face stricken. But her reply was drowned out by a loud cry from one of the sailors. He was pointing to shore, yelling the same Tarzine word over and over. Soon all the men around them took up the refrain.

“What is it, Yolenka?”

They all clustered around her now, anxious to understand, but the din of the sailors made it impossible to hear until Derkh pointed to the hatch and led them to the relative quiet of the belowdecks.

“Is warning to stay away.” Yolenka shook her head, words for once eluding her.

“Is...sign of sickness, bad sickness that goes all through city. Is danger sign.”

“Plague?” asked Gabrielle sharply. “Some sort of plague?” There had been no plague in the Basin during her lifetime, but she had heard of the terrible illnesses that could spread over a land, leaving behind more dead than could be decently buried.

Yolenka shrugged. “I not know this word, plague. Is sickness that goes fast from one to other person, goes everywhere. They are closing city to keep it inside.”

ONLY WHEN THE ship was turned around and heading back out to sea would the captain sit down to discuss a new plan. Braving the plague flags and entering Baskir was not an option he would entertain.

“The children may not be there, in any case,” suggested Féolan. “Not if the banners were up when Turga arrived.”

“The captain say we had fast crossing,” added Yolenka. “We are not more than two days behind.”

“So if Turga sailed here and saw the banners, what would he do?” asked Dominic.

“Go to his stronghold and wait where is safe,” said Yolenka. “Wait till slave market opens.”

“But we can’t sail to—what is it called? Rath Turga? The captain said so.”

The captain bent over his map, jabbed with a brown weathered finger. Yolenka nodded.

“If it is open, no sickness, we can land here,” she translated. “Niz Hana. Is small harbor, only a few deep...ah...tie-up places. Hire cart, mule, travel to Rath Turga by road, is not so far. Captain waits with ship.”

“How long?” asked Derkh.

The captain considered. “Seven days should be enough,” Yolenka translated. “He waits ten. But if black flags go up in Niz Hana, he leaves and we are left.”