The ship was turning slightly to port, moving alongside. The master lifted his megaphone again. “Guns down,” he ordered.
Chaka’s hand was still on the rifle stock.
“Don’t,” said Avila, removing her holster and laying it on the deck. “Flojian, let them get closer.”
Quait frowned at her. She patted her pocket, the one where she kept the wedge. “It’s a chance,” she said.
Chaka nodded. “Try it. It’s all we have.”
Flojian struck the sails. The marauder’s prow slipped past and ran down two of the horses.
Avila eased the wedge into her palm, held out both hands as if she were welcoming the ship, and frowned. “Nothing,” she whispered.
“It has no range,” said Quait. “We’ve got to be up close.”
“How close do we need?” growled Chaka. “I can smell them now.”
A rope ladder came over the side. The master was giving instructions in a peremptory half-screech. His eyes were dark and cruel and he was appraising the two women with relish.
“Why don’t you folks get your hands up?” he said laconically. “And prepare to come aboard.”
The crew roared.
Avila raised her hands.
Quait, who had edged close to his rifle, said, “Do it.”
“No,” she said. “Too many guns up there. Wait for a better chance.”
Avila was right: It would have to take everyone out, bow to stern, at one shot. Because the people on the raft would be easy targets afterward for anyone left standing.
The pirates used gun barrels to wave them toward the ladder. One leaped over the rail and landed beside them, rocking the Reluctant. He was one of the dirtiest creatures Quait had ever seen, grinning, with missing teeth and stringy black hair and whiskers that looked like strands of wire. He poked Chaka in the ribs and sent her sprawling. “Juicy, this one,” he grinned.
A portion of the ship’s rail swung open to accommodate them. Quait started up the ladder. Hands reached down, gripped his shoulders and hauled him roughly on deck. He was knocked down, kicked, and searched for concealed weapons. While this was happening, he heard cheers and obscene roars.
They dragged him back to his feet and threw him into line with his companions. Flojian had also been roughed up; and Chaka’s face was red with fury and humiliation. Avila surprised him: She managed to retain a calm demeanor and stood coolly among her captors.
The ship’s master confronted them. He was a short, ugly thug, five and a half feet of belly, jowls, and beard. He had a limp and a missing ear and a scar across his throat where somebody’d opened him up. A pistol was jammed into his belt. “Welcome to the Peacemaker,” he said. “Ship of the line of the Ki of Hauberg.” He tipped his hat at the name. “I’m Captain Trevor. And who might you be?”
“We’re travelers,” said Quait. “From the Mississippi League.”
“Mississippi?” He frowned, shook his head, and looked around. His crewmen, gathered in a circle, signaled their ignorance. “Never heard of it,” he said. “Not that it matters.” He came forward, put his fist under Avila’s chin, lifted it, and appraised her. He grunted approval, then inserted his hand into Chaka’s hair and forced her head back. “They’ve both got good teeth,” he said.
“Not for long,” came a shout.
Quait stiffened, but a muzzle pressed into his back and a soft voice in the rear warned him not to move. “Won’t do no good,” the voice said. “You’ll just be dead.”
He turned to look at the speaker. He was small, furtive, grinning. “This is a treat for us,” he said.
“What’ll happen to them?” asked Quait.
“Before or after?” He cackled. His eyes slid back to the women. “If they’re good, they’ll go on the block at Port Tiara. They should bring a decent price. So’ll you. If you behave.”
“Let’s see what they’ve got, Captain,” somebody said.
Others took up the cry. Trevor looked momentarily uncertain, but the crewmen must have been familiar with the routine because they were already laughing and forming a space. “What can I do?” the master asked no one in particular. He leered at Chaka. “You. Give us a show.”
Chaka made a move at him, but he was surprisingly quick for a man of such ungainly appearance. He seized her wrist, twisted it violenlly, and forced her to the deck. “We got a good one here, boys,” he said. “I like women who can’t be pushed.” He nodded to someone in back. Quait’s hands were seized, pulled behind him and lied, and he was lifted to the rail. “Have it your way, bitch,” said Trevor.
He dragged her to her feet by her hair and turned her to face Quait.
“No,” she screamed. “What do you want?”
Laughter all around. “I’m sure you can guess. Right, boys?”
Avila stepped forward and looked down at Trevor. “Captain,” she said, “she’s frightened. She’s young. Why not let me warm everybody up?”
When Trevor hesitated, Avila put a finger on his chest and whispered something to him. The crew laughed and the captain nodded.
To Quait’s relief, they lowered him from the rail; but they did not untie his hands.
Several crewmen had been working on the raft, handing up their baggage. One piece fell inio the water. When they were finished, they climbed back on deck and cut the Reluctant loose
The master stood with his back to the prow. Quait counted fourteen others: ten forming the circle, the two guards who watched him and Flojian at the rear of the group, one at the ship’s wheel, and one beside the main mast (which was affixed atop the master’s sea cabin and thereby provided a fine view of the proceedings). All had guns.
Avila laughed and joked her way around the perimeter, teasing with her eyes, her body, her smile.
Flojian had gone pale. Quait, recovering from the jolt of fear that had come when he’d expected to be pitched overboard, was shocked at her performance. Where had she learned that?
Cheers broke out.
She stopped before a three-hundred-pounder in a black vest and pantaloons, and stretched languorously.
More yells of approval.
Flojian struggled to get free, and was clubbed to his knees. The man with the club was small, ill-smelling, and rat-faced. He raised his weapon and was about to bring it down across Flojian’s face when Quait pushed into it and succeeded in taking the blow on his shoulder. They were both dragged back to their feet.
Flojian looked dazed.
Now Avila’s fingers moved down the front of her jacket releasing clasps while her audience urged her on. She removed the garment with an exaggerated motion, held it out toward one of the pirates, and then snatched it back when he grabbed for it. Casually, she threw it to Flojian.
He caught it, dropped it, and bent to pick it up. He got a kick for his trouble and stumbled forward. This time they held Quait tightly and wouldn’t let him help.
Avila strode into the middle of the circle, and pulled her blouse clear of her belt.
The look on Flojian’s face was a mixture of rage and despair. But Quait thought he knew what had just happened. He tried to catch Flojian’s eye, but was unable to do so. He couldn’t make himself heard over the noise and so he look the only action he could. He reached out and kicked him.
The rat-faced man laughed but Flojian looked back at his tormenter, assuming he had delivered the blow. Now Quait got his attention. He formed the word “pocket” with his lips.
“What?”
Avila was releasing more snaps. The wind got under her blouse, sucked at it, pulled it away from her; and finally she drew it off and lobbed it toward one of the pirates. She stood now in boots, black trousers, and a white halter.
She moved back close to Trevor, wet her lips, and spread her arms invitingly. Trevor watched her, hypnotized, saw her hands go behind the halter, saw the halter come free. “Yeah,” roared Trevor, “that’s good.”