A Distant Magic Read online

  Polmarric said in French, "Your lady is always bringing in stray puppies, so she probably won't mind one more. Though this lad will be much more work than a puppy."

  "And more reward as well," Macrae said imperturbably. "This is the right thing to do, Jasper. I know it."

  Nikolai's nervous fingers shredded a piece of the sourdough bread. His grandmother had once foretold that he would become a gentleman. He'd laughed, of course, unable to imagine a position in life beyond that of common sailor.

  He should have known that his grandmother did not make such mistakes. He thought of her dark, ageless face wistfully. Leaving the graves of her and his mother would hurt, but both of them would have urged him to seize this opportunity. Macrae meant him no harm, of that Nikolai was sure.

  His hand tightened convulsively over the bread, squeezing it into a shapeless mass. "I will go with you and be your son," he told Macrae.

  The Scot grinned. "I'm glad of that, Nikolai. I'm sure you will be, too."

  Nikolai glanced at Polmarric with wicked mischief and said in French, "And you need another language if you want to speak privately in front of me."

  To his credit, Polmarric joined Macrae's laughter.

  Men who could laugh and all the food he could eat. The ancestors were looking out for him. Nikolai sliced another chunk of cheese, and wondered happily how he would look in the clothing of a gentleman.

  Chapter

  TWO

  Nikolai woke before dawn, enjoying the gentle rocking of the schooner Hermes. The ship had become his home in the month since Macrae had casually, completely, changed his life. Polmarric owned the ship, so they were all treated very well.

  After a week's stop in Sicily, the Hermes was heading back to London, her homeport. The weather had been good, with steady winds filling the sails and driving the ship at a brisk pace. They were in the western Mediterranean now. In a day or two they would pass Gibraltar and enter the stormy Atlantic for the final leg of the journey.

  He closed his eyes, lulled back toward sleep by the soft splashing of waves against the schooner's hull. Though he'd been raised on an island with the sea ever present, he hadn't guessed just how much he would enjoy sailing. There was freedom and purity in the winds and waves. This could be a good life for a man.

  He'd also learned that life as a gentleman's son was far sweeter than scratching for survival like an alley rat. He'd had a month of fine clothes, safety, and, most of all, food. All the food he could eat. So much that he no longer felt the need to gobble whatever was set on the table before it could be taken away.

  He even had privacy. This tiny cabin was scarcely more than a sail locker, but it was his. Macrae and Polmarric shared a larger cabin at the back of the vessel, but Nikolai enjoyed his cubbyhole near the bow, which felt very close to the sea.

  He reached under the bunk and touched his small, brass-studded trunk, which contained the clothing of a gentleman's son. After Nikolai had agreed to go with Macrae, he'd been taken to the Hermes and scrubbed so hard his skin had lightened several shades. Then Macrae took him to the best tailor in Valletta.

  The tailor had made a coat and breeches of blue silk brocade and shirts of the best muslin. Wise in the ways of boys, Macrae had also ordered several sets of garments made of rugged linen and wool. Though Nikolai loved his fashionable costume, he felt more comfortable in the plain, everyday garments. Even they were far superior to anything he'd ever owned before.

  But he refused to give up his coarse linen trousers and shirt, ragged though they were. His grandmother had sewn them herself, and he could not bear to let them go.

  Macrae hadn't argued, merely insisted that the garments be washed. Nikolai's old clothes proved perfect for scrambling up the masts and lines of the Hermes. The sailors were a rough but friendly lot, and they taught him the ways of sailing.

  Every waking moment was devoted to lessons of one sort or another. Macrae and Polmarric taught him of the history of Guardians and how magic could be used. He was also instructed in basic techniques of control. Though his power was modest now, that would change when he reached manhood. The more he knew of control now, the better off he would be later.

  Some techniques Nikolai had puzzled out on his own. Others made him catch his breath with a sense of recognition, of learning what seemed utterly right.

  He'd been given lessons in manners and society, too. Becoming a gentleman was hard work.

  Sometimes Nikolai wondered about the mysterious Duncan, who would be his brother. Did Duncan know how lucky he was to have a father, especially one like this? No, a boy who had been raised to take food and clothing and the protection of a father for granted couldn't appreciate how incredibly fortunate he was. Sight unseen, Nikolai was inclined to despise Duncan for being soft, but, for Macrae's sake, he'd strive for courtesy.

  Macrae had emphasized that he must observe with all his senses, both inner and outer. One of these had awakened him this early, he realized. The predawn darkness was quiet except for the sounds of water, the creaking of the ship's planking, and the distant cry of a lone gull. Yet something was…wrong.

  More curious than worried, Nikolai rose and pulled on his old clothes. Soon they'd be too small since he'd put on weight and grown an inch taller this last month.

  Barefoot, he left his tiny cabin and climbed the ladder to the main deck. Dense fog lay over the Hermes and the surrounding sea. A mate stood watch aft, his dark figure at the wheel almost invisible except for the faint glow from his pipe when he drew on it. The ship was moving very slowly, making just enough way to stay stable.

  Curious what might have awakened him, Nikolai moved forward to stand in the bow, his hands braced on the railings as the ship rose and fell. With the fog and darkness, he couldn't see more than a few feet into the night.

  Did they risk running into rocks or an island? Not likely when the mate knew these waters, and their slow speed reduced the chances of serious harm even if there was an error of navigation.

  He sighed with frustration. Perhaps in two or three years, his magical abilities would blossom and he would be able to define what bothered him. Or maybe not. As Polmarric pointed out regularly, magic was a tool for dealing with the world, it wasn't a reliable source of miracles.

  Splashing sounded from somewhere ahead. A school of fish jumping? It was hard to judge direction in the fog.

  He was about to turn away and return to his bed when a low, dark shape leaped from the fog with amazing speed. It was a vessel—a galley, the long sweep of dozens of oars driving it furiously toward the schooner. Corsairs.

  Nikolai froze in horror. For centuries, the Barbary pirates had attacked not only ships but sea coasts to capture slaves, and Malta had suffered more than its share of raids. Recovering, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Pirates!"

  All hell broke loose after he raised the alarm. Now that they'd been seen, the pirates cut loose with a ragged volley of musket shots. Nikolai ducked as balls slammed into the wood around him. Aft, the mate on watch swore furiously as he yanked on the bell rope to boom out a warning. Half-naked men began boiling up from below decks, weapons in hand.

  As Nikolai straightened, the armored prow of the galley rammed the Hermes, smashing into the hull only a few feet below his position. The shattering impact knocked him from his feet. His head banged into the railing, and he briefly lost consciousness.

  When he regained awareness, a pitched battle was being fought around him. Sharp wind shredded the fog, and the sky had lightened, revealing that the two ships were locked together with grappling hooks. Twenty or more turbaned soldiers had swarmed aboard the Hermes. The schooner's crew and passengers fought back with swords, pistols, and anything else that might be used as a weapon. Clouds of black smoke stung the eyes and burned the lungs.

  Wearing only loose shirts and smallclothes, Macrae and Polmarric were in the thick of the fight, the Scot slashing about him with a broadsword and Polmarric armed with a pair of pistols. Nikolai wanted to run to Macrae, but
he was too weak to move. Crunched into the angle of the bow, he watched the battle with horror and wondered why the Guardians weren't using magic to end this. Surely they could do something! Or was that sharp wind Macrae's work?

  Nikolai gasped when a corsair slashed Macrae's arm with his curved sword. Blood splashed darkly across the Scot's white shirt as he ran his assailant through. Coolly Polmarric aimed and took down one pirate with the pistol in his right hand, then a second with the left-hand pistol. As the pirates looked for less dangerous game, Polmarric reloaded and Macrae stood guard over his friend.

  Nikolai tried to stand, and almost blacked out again as vicious pain stabbed through his ribs. He must have cracked one when he fell. Since he couldn't fight, he made himself observe, using all his senses.

  The Hermes was winning the battle. Several crewmen were wounded, but most of the bodies on the blood-stained deck were pirates. He guessed that the attackers hadn't expected such a fierce defense, and that they were wondering if it was worth it. Corsairs preferred to assault people who hadn't much ability to protect themselves.

  As the last of the fog and smoke dissolved, a grappling hook banged to the deck near Nikolai's feet. The line that held the schooner to the galley snapped. One by one, the other lines broke and the galley began drifting away.

  Another gust of wind caught the galley's sails, and it heeled over to starboard, the port oars thrashing in the air like the legs of a spider. A commanding voice on the galley shouted out in Arabic, "Fall back!"

  A cursing pirate retreated along the deck of the Hermes, most of his attention on the schooner's crew in case one came after him. He tripped over Nikolai, sending jangles of agony through Nikolai's ribs. The pirate glanced down, then scooped Nikolai up with one powerful hand. "Here's one at least." He spoke a crude form of North African Arabic that Nikolai had heard on the Valletta waterfront.

  Nikolai struggled against the pirate, but he dangled helpless as a puppy in the giant's grip. "Macrae! Macrae!" he screamed.

  The Scot started to turn toward him, but another volley of musket shots came from the galley, and Polmarric collapsed. Macrae whipped around and knelt by his friend, no longer in Nikolai's view.

  The galley had righted itself, and floated only a few feet from the Hermes. Nikolai's captor called to one of the pirates on the galley, "Catch this brat!"

  He threw Nikolai down to the galley. After a few dizzying seconds of flight, Nikolai was caught roughly and deposited on the slanting deck. He slid across the galley, fetching up in the starboard gunwales. Water sloshed around him, and he gasped from the agony of his cracked ribs, fearing he would drown.

  He must fight the pain. Macrae had spoken of that. The trick was to detach, to think of the pain as distant, belonging to someone else.

  Nikolai concentrated on detachment, and the pain diminished a little. He staggered to his feet, desperate to return to the Hermes before the ships separated.

  Macrae was standing amidships the schooner and looking toward the galley, his brows drawn into a frown. As he ran across the galley, Nikolai waved his arms frantically to get the Scotsman's attention. Surely Macrae had some magic that would rescue Nikolai! He was Macrae's foster son, a great mage in the making!

  Macrae looked right at him. Then he turned away, his face like granite.

  Nikolai watched in disbelief as the man who had promised protection and family abandoned him to his fate. Panicked, he started to scramble over the railing. Better to risk the sea than slavery.

  Hard hands caught him again. This time he was in the grip of the galley's captain, the reis, a burly man with gold chains around his neck and eyes cold as death. "So all we have to show for this attack is one miserable little piglet!"

  "I am a rich man's son," Nikolai said desperately. "My father will ransom me!"

  The reis's contemptuous gaze went over his ragged garments. "You? Ha!"

  "I am English. Scottish. My father, Macrae of Dunrath, will pay to have me back." Yet he wondered if that was true. Macrae had seen him in the hands of the corsairs, then turned away. Would he pay a ransom?

  "You're no Englishman." The heavy hand of the reis smashed into the side of Nikolai's head, knocking him to his knees. "You look like a mulatto wharf rat to me."

  The reis gestured to summon the overseer of the galley slaves, a pockmarked man who carried a whip. "This brat is too small to row, but he can bail. Take him."

  The overseer lashed the whip across Nikolai's back, shredding the linen. Nikolai screamed, the fire of the whip triggering the agony of his cracked rib.

  "This is what disobedient slaves get, boy," the overseer growled. "Follow orders, and you may live to grow up. Bail!"

  Numbly Nikolai lurched to his feet, barely able to breathe. The overseer shoved a bucket in his hands and pointed to the starboard side of the ship, where water sloshed around the ankles of the galley slaves. Bruised and disoriented, Nikolai obeyed, bitterly ashamed of the tears pouring down his cheeks.

  As he scooped water and poured it over the side, Nikolai saw the Hermes sailing away to the west. Macrae and Polmarric were safe, and they had abandoned Nikolai to his fate without so much as a second glance. If this is what it meant to be a Guardian, sworn to protect, then he wanted nothing to do with the swine.

  The overseer of the galley slaves slashed the whip across his back again. "Faster, or I'll throw you over the side for the fish to eat!"

  Nikolai bit his lips and obeyed, but inside, fury began to grow. He had been promised paradise by Macrae, and then betrayed. Betrayed!

  As he filled and emptied the bucket, his rage grew until it saturated every fiber of his being. When he felt he could bail no longer, he kept himself going by swearing an oath on his blood and bones and dead grandmother that he would survive slavery, and someday he would escape.

  Then, when he was ready, he would avenge himself on Macrae and his family. The lying man, the beautiful wife, the handsome son, the pampered little daughter.

  All would be his prey.

  Book Two

  LIGHTING THE

  TINDER

  1752

  Chapter

  THREE

  LONDON 1752

  Jean Macrae surveyed the dockside crowd with amazement. "Did everyone in London come to see me off?"

  "Very likely," Lady Bethany Fox said placidly. "The sun is shining, and saying bon voyage is a good excuse for amusement. After you've sailed away on the tide, I expect that most of this lot will end up at someone's house, eating and drinking like there's no tomorrow and having a gay time of it." The silver-haired woman gave Jean a hug. "Give my love to the children. If I weren't so old and frail, I'd come myself."

  "Not children, Lady Beth. They're getting married, after all!" Jean said, laughing, as she returned the hug. "Why not come? The Mercury is one of Sir Jasper's ships, so you'd be treated as a queen the whole way."

  Lady Bethany looked briefly tempted, but shook her head. "No, my dear, this is your adventure, not mine."

  Jean eyed her with misgivings. Lady Beth might look like an innocent grandmother, but she was one of the finest sorceresses in Europe and the leader of the British Guardian Council. "Is this an adventure? I thought I was making a genteel trip to see friends marry."

  The older woman's eyes glinted. "Adventure may strike at any time."

  "I hope it doesn't strike Jean," said her big brother, Duncan. "You look so undersized that it makes me nervous to think of you going such a distance alone."

  "I have Annie, I'm traveling on a Polmarric ship, I'll be met at the dock in Marseilles—and you know perfectly well that I'm not the least bit fragile!" she retorted.

  "Granted that these days you dress as primly as a nun, but you can't fool me," he said dourly. "Knowing your past exploits can't help but make a brother anxious."

  She smiled. Ten years her senior, Duncan often acted more like a father than a brother. "My wild days are behind me. I'm now a proper spinster aunt."

  "Maybe the wedding will be a good
example to you," her brother said hopefully. "Make you more marriage-minded. Three honorable, prosperous, highly eligible men have asked me for your hand, and you didn't want any of them."

  And that wasn't counting the two men who had asked Jean directly. Those she hadn't mentioned to her brother. There was no sense in frustrating him even further.

  Duncan's wife, Gwynne, said firmly, "Leave Jean alone, Duncan. Better to be a happy spinster than a miserable wife."

  Jean grinned at her beautiful sister-in-law. "And as a spinster, I'm useful as a nursery maid with those handsome children of yours."

  Gwynne grinned back. "Precisely." She hugged Jean. "Have a marvelous time, Jean. And think of us in cold, drafty Dunrath while you are wintering in the Mediterranean sunshine."

  Since Duncan was the best weather mage in Britain, Dunrath was quite comfortable, but it wouldn't be the same as Marseilles. Jean dreamed of warmth and Roman ruins.

  "I'm glad we got here in time!" Megan, the petite Countess of Falconer, slid through the crowd and caught Jean's hands. "We have wedding gifts for you to take. I wish I could be there." She patted her midriff. "But it's not a good time for me to travel."

  "I shall write you every detail," Jean promised. After hugging Meg, she turned to Simon, the Earl of Falconer. The chief enforcer of the Guardians, he'd always seemed rather alarming when Jean was younger. Marriage to Meg had relaxed him considerably.

  Simon hugged her with one arm since he was carrying a large basket on the other. "I'll take the gifts aboard ship so they can be stowed properly. Give my best wishes to Moses and Lily and Jemmy and Breeda."

  "I will, and I promise that I'll encourage them to visit England soon." Simon and Meg had rescued the four young people from an appalling captivity, where they had been mentally enslaved, "enthralled," by a rogue mage. Jean had helped the four thralls recover from that captivity, and she'd become something of an honorary aunt in the process. She looked forward to seeing them again after four long years. Letters weren't the same.