"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome." Megan waited for a moment, letting the surrealistic moment pass, before she spoke again. "You know," she said, "the only way we're ever getting out of here is if we put our heads together and work out some kind of plan."
"Get out?" Robin pronounced the words as if they had been uttered in some foreign tongue. "You must be crazy, Meg. They'll never let us go. They're having too much fun."
"I didn't plan on asking their permission," Megan said.
"Oh, right! There's only thirty-five or forty of them, all with guns and knives and... Jesus, Meg, you wanna get us killed?"
Meg answered with a question of her own. "You call this living, Robin?"
"I'll help," said Felicia, speaking in a voice more like her own than Meg had heard her use since they were captured on the Salome, almost a week before. "Just tell me what to do."
"Robin?"
"Shit, you're right. This isn't living. What's the plan?"
"First thing," Meg said, "we have to find ourselves some weapons. After that..."
THE TWO COMBATANTS CAME together with a clash of steel, grim, sweaty faces close enough to smell each other's rancid breath if they hadn't been focused single-mindedly on spilling blood. Each pirate used his free hand, clutching at the sword arm of his adversary, seeking an advantage in the struggle that could easily result in sudden death.
Szandor was taller, heavier, Flick was lean and quick, making the two of them a nearly even match. It would have been a different tale if they were wrestling, even boxing, but the blades they wielded were the perfect equalizers. The briefest lapse by either duelist could leave him stretched out in a pool of blood.
It did not have to end in death, of course. A point of honor could be made by simple bloodletting, provided that both parties to the duel agreed. Considering the adversaries, though-both men with fiery, brutal tempers, prone to quarreling at the best of times-it seemed to Thomas Kidd that one of them had to surely die this morning.
That meant one less crewman for their raiding, one less pair of hands to help around the camp, but Captain Kidd, for all of his authority, couldn't prevent a righteous duel from being played out to the death if the combatants were agreed. It was a sacred point of law among the buccaneers, and he could violate it only at the risk of sacrificing his command.
The present quarrel, predictably, was over women-or, to be precise, one woman in particular. Both Flick and Szandor coveted the tall blonde taken from their latest prize, and while the wench was technically available to any man who paid the captain's price, an argument had broken out as to which buccaneer she favored of the two. It seemed a bit ridiculous to Kidd, grown men imagining a slave girl truly cared a whit for either one of them, but stranger things had happened in the world. Besides, he knew that logic had no place where lust held sway among the sort of men who followed him.
The challenge had been mutual, duly received and answered. Captain Kidd was not empowered to prevent the duel, although he might postpone it temporarily, in the event all hands were needed for a raid, or to defend their island stronghold. In the present circumstances, though, he would invite a mutiny if he denied the duelists their rights or kept his men of a diverting show.
Kidd had a ringside seat for the engagement, lounging in his high-backed wicker throne, the cutlass that was both a weapon and his badge of office resting on his knees. There were no rules in such a fight, per se, except that no one else could interfere to help either combatant. If another member of his scurvy crew so much as raised a hand in aid of either Flick or Szandor, it would be Kidd's task-indeed, his oath-bound duty-to step in and cut down the bastard.
There was small chance of that occurring, though, when most of the assembled buccaneers had placed bets on one swordsman or the other, and the few not wagering were glad enough to simply cheer on the fighters. It wasn't often that they had a full-fledged duel in camp-six months since the last one, if his memory was accurate-and everyone enjoyed the show.
Last time, prompted by an argument about some missing loot, the winner had been satisfied to draw first blood and let it go at that. Kidd had an inkling that this morning's duelists wouldn't be so easily deterred from murder, and while he was loath to lose an able-bodied crewman, the matter was out of his hands. As captain of the brotherhood, the best that he could do was to sit back and enjoy the show, keep one eye peeled for cheaters and assume that either Flick or Szandor would survive.
The captain's final thought had barely taken shape, when Szandor gave a mighty shout and threw himself at Flick, his sword thrust out in front of him to skewer the smaller man. Flick saw it coming, though, and sidestepped just in time to save himself. His own blade flashed toward Szandor's face, then dipped aside before his enemy could parry, swooping down to gash the taller pirate's thigh.
Szandor recoiled, now limping, and his roar of fury had become a howl of pain. Blood spurted from his wound, but it wasn't a mortal blow, the artery undamaged. Still, it slowed him and made his footwork clumsy, as his cunning adversary had to have planned.
There were no time-outs and no substitutions in a duel of honor. If a man was wounded, he could either keep on fighting, or throw down his weapon and beg mercy from his adversary. Sometimes, he who scored first blood was satisfied to see his enemy in pain, and let it go at that. This morning, though, Szandor didn't throw down his sword, and Flick displayed no evidence of magnanimity.
The fight went on, and now Kidd knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would be a battle to the death.
One leg of Szandor's torn and faded denim pants was soaked with blood from thigh to ankle, yet he kept on fighting, lurching after Flick like some demented creature from the pit, too stubborn and too hateful to admit defeat or give his enemy the satisfaction of knowing that he hurt. In fact, while he was slowed by the wounded leg, his slashing thrusts still demonstrated the same power that had made him one of Kidd's most deadly fighters. Flick would be in trouble yet if he allowed himself to fall beneath that flashing blade.
There was a scowl of concentration on the smaller pirate's face as he continued fighting, dancing rings around Szandor in an attempt to wear out his adversary. Sadly for Flick, it seemed that Szandor had attained that place on the plateau of suffering where pain no longer made a difference. His movements might be clumsy, but they showed no evidence of flagging, even as fresh blood continued pulsing from the deep gash on his thigh.
The wound was killing him, Kidd knew, but Szandor seemed determined not to fall before he settled with his sprightly foe. He aimed a roundhouse swing at Flick's bald head, a move so telegraphed that a blind man could have seen it coming, but when Flick attempted to sidestep the slash, Szandor reversed himself with stunning speed and rammed his long blade home between the smaller pirate's ribs.
Flick stiffened, biting off a scream, and brought up his free hand to seize the blade where it protruded from his abdomen. Szandor was trying to withdraw his sword and strike again, to finish it, but Flick would not release the blade, in spite of fresh blood spilling from between his lacerated fingers. Stepping closer to his enemy, he seemed to drive the long blade even deeper, through his vitals, in his grim determination to strike back.
Szandor gave up, released his sword and was about to step back out of range, but he had stalled too long. Flick's sword came whistling down with all the little pirate's weight behind it, biting deep into the flesh of Szandor's shoulder where his neck joined with his trunk. A startled grunt escaped from Szandor's lips, immediately followed by a jet of crimson blood that struck Flick in the face and dribbled down his chest.
As Kidd and company looked on, the two men fell together, slumping to their knees, like lovers locked in an embrace, before they toppled over sideways, linked by the sharp blades that pierced their flesh. Both clung to life for several moments longer, but there was no power on the island that could save them now, no medicine or magic that could heal those massive wounds.