"Captain Mlavic, sir!" he bellowed. "Want a word with you!"
CHAPTER 3
"Now, sir!" he demanded, once Mlavic had gone stock-still in his tracks and turned to face him, a displeased scowl on his face already.
"What you want? Supper?" Mlavic barked back.
"I want to know what happened to the French prisoners. I want to know why your men didn't let Mister Howse enter the stockade. And who all those women and children are up yonder, sir," Lewrie rasped, deciding to play it high-handed still. Cringing and hand-wringing as meek as a shop-clerk or a diplomat wouldn't suit at all, he thought. Dra-gan Mlavic was a hard man, a bloody-handed brute, and the only language his sort understood was the forceful approach.
"What?" Mlavic chuckled, looking about at his men, as if to say 'Are you crazy?' assuring himself he was in charge here, surrounded by his well-armed minions. "Too fast. My English. You have drink on me, hah? Go slow," he almost implored, shamming sheepish and dumb.
"Put it to him, herr Kolodzcy. In his own tongue."
"Go there," Mlavic snapped, pointing to his hut, wheeling about to exhort his men with a long, cheerful speech, which raised a huzzah. "Talk there. Eat first."
It seemed a tiny tad-bit safer, Lewrie allowed, pivoting on his heel to stalk to the log and fling himself down by his abandoned wine-chalice. Kolodzcy followed, not quite so fastidious this time, sitting without dusting. With his small-sword extending over the back of that log, a slim, dainty-fingered hand on the upper scabbard still. Dragan Mlavic had to follow or break into an unseemly lope to arrive ahead of them. He ended up tailing along behind. For that reason, he remained standing, to assert his questioned authority after they'd sat.
"Brandy?" Mlavic offered, still trying to play "Merry Andrew."
"Once we get this resolved, perhaps, sir," Lewrie said coldly. "Now, where are the French prisoners?"
"Frigate captain… dark hair? He come. Take them to Trieste." Mlavic shrugged, speaking in a deep, guarded voice, and his eyes just too disinterested for Lewrie to believe that.
"When?" Lewrie shot back. "Last I spoke to him, he was going back south, to the straits."
"Yesterday!" Mlavic snapped, going to his stone crock for more plum brandy, miming an offer to share; which was refused. "I come yesterday with prize, frigate man come same day. So many prisoner… I say be trouble, so he take. You go Trieste, ask him," he slyly hinted.
Damme, could be true, Lewrie puzzled; one more prize, and Pylades would have had to leave the straits. Or met up with Charlton, taken over their prizes, so… no! Not that many to take, lately. Spoke to him only five days ago… herel A day to gain the straits, a day back, even if he didn't run into the others… Mine arse on a band-box!
"How many shillings did he pay you, Captain Mlavic?" Lewrie asked. "At a silver shilling per prisoner."
"Three guinea!" Mlavic quickly bristled. "Three pieces of gold, he give."
"Sixty-three shillings… sixty-three prisoners?" Lewrie drawled. "A neat, round number, ain't it? No small change to mess with. Sounds rather too little, though… for the fifty-odd who were here five days ago. Plus the twenty or so from the prize he'd already taken, plus the thirty-five or forty off your latest capture? Closer to five pounds, I'd reckon it, hmm?"
"By God, he cheat me!" Mlavic exclaimed, sounding outraged and all but slapping his poor dumb forehead. "Here, good food. Serb food. You eat. We friends, da? Holy warriors, you… me. Kill many Turks together… kill many enemies together."
"Not in my brief, sorry," Lewrie primly pointed out, "killin' Turks. I'm not at war with Turks."
Some younger Serb lads, barely old enough to be cabin-boys, offered heaping wooden trenchers of food, still steaming from the spits and pots.
"Eat! Drink!" Mlavic urged, digging in with one hand, without utensils, and slurping a pawful down with another draught of brandy. "Is good," he tempted, like a governess with a willful toddler who'd turned his nose up at carrots. "Spice… Serbian, best in world."
Damn him! Alan groused, seeing Howse tentatively dig into his platter; not five minutes away from gettin' yer bowels ripped out and you'd go with a bellyful! Well… no need to be a total Tartar.
"Croat, Albanian… Greek," Kolodzcy whispered in Lewrie's ear. "Turkish!" He snickered. "All de same cuisine. Serb food! Hah!" "Didn't happen t steal some forks, did you?" Lewrie enquired. "Forks, da! Spoons, there," Mlavic said boisterously, indicating a small chest near the doorway of his hut.
Lewrie tried some food, poured himself a bumper of wine from that bottle he'd first opened. It was lamb, skewered on sticks with onion and garlic, some vegetables as well. Underneath was a gravied, fine-milled… tiny round rice-pellets? he wondered. A gnat-sized pasta? Rather infu-riatingly, it was good, heavy and piquant with spices.
"Cow come," Mlavic hinted. "Beef? Aha! 'Roast Beef of Old England.' Da, this I knowing," he said through a mouthful of food. "Or… want goat? Have pig, too. All good."
"Another question, sir…" Lewrie persevered. "Your men kept my surgeon from examining the prisoners in the stockade. Even so, he says he heard women and children up there. Saw women and children in the pen. Who are they, sir?"
"Too many question," Mlavic grumbled, shaking his head, masticating a chunk of bread. "Why too many question? No work. Is time for eat… sing. Flay game." He winked, ever the spirited host. "Who are they, sir?" Alan pressed.
"Be on ship… prize," Mlavic answered without looking up from his trencher, shoving a handful between bread and fingers. "We bring here. Pay way on ship… pass-en-ger? Many, oh many."
"So what have you got to hide, if they're passengers and such?" Lewrie wondered aloud. "Why didn't your guards let Mr. Howse in, as they have before? Women, children… old men… not too many sailors, Mr. Howse tells me. What's different about this lot, that your men kept him from tending to them?"
"No diff'rent," Mlavic insisted, still unable to match gazes with him. "Vhy does French ship engaged in smugglink," Kolodzcy stuck in with a whimsical tone to his voice, "carry passengers, Kapitan? Book vomen unt chiltren aboart, knowink dhere are British warships upon de Mare? Dhat sounts vahry foolish, to me. Vahry… quvestionable. Unt ve do nod see vomen unt chiltren on odder prizes, eider. Chust now."
"Aye, sir," Lewrie snapped. "You afraid word'd get back to yer Ratko Petracic, and he'd be displeased with you?"
"Ratko?" Mlavic bawled, suddenly hugely, frighteningly amused. He let go a belly laugh, had to set his trencher aside, he was laughing so hard he might have spilled it. "Petracic mad, Dragan? Oh, ahahah! Rakto, never! Be ver' please, Dragan. Laugh, too, I tell him. Make big joy, I tell him. Ship I take… well, may not be so please," he admitted with a sheepish shrug. "But people on ship, diff'rent. He have big joy I take them," he insisted, proudly thumping his chest. "And just why'd he be displeased over the ship, sir?" "Damned you!" Mlavic snarled, shoving his plate away, pressed beyond all enjoyment of food. "Too many question. I tell you, da.. . I tell you. Take Venetian ship, da? Give you big joy, know this? Pooh! Is Venetian ship… all rich, all big. See no good prize, see no ships days and days! She be ship I see, she is rich… I take!" He lurched into a furious outburst in his own language.