James McGee - Rapscallion

"You utter filth!" Lasseur hissed.

For one heart-stopping moment, despite Dupin's proximity, Hawkwood thought the privateer was about to hurl himself across the table. The moment he did that, they were both dead. But then, as quickly as he had let it slip, Lasseur seemed to recover his equilibrium. He looked Matisse straight in the eye. "Very well, name your price."

"My price?" The bald head swivelled. The movement was performed so fluidly, it reminded Hawkwood of a cobra winding itself up for the strike.

"You heard. How much?"

"You offer me money?" The mocking tone was still there.

"We want the boy. We're not going back without him."

"Brave words, Captain. Have you considered the possibility that you might not be going back at all?"

"You think you can stop us?" Lasseur said.

"Of course I can stop you. I need only click my fingers. How far do you think you'd get? This time, you really are outgunned."

Looking around, Hawkwood knew the man was right. Despite Lasseur's attempt at bravado, neither of them had a hope of taking on Matisse's crew. They'd be fools to even contemplate it. It had been a mistake to have come so unprepared. They'd underestimated the hold that Matisse had over the lower deck; and indeed, if his boast was to be believed, the rest of the ship.

"We need to settle this," Hawkwood said. "We need to settle this now."

Matisse shook his head, though whether this was an expression of bafflement or merely amusement was hard to decipher. "You really want him that badly?" The earring jiggled again. Matisse looked to his lieutenants, who were gazing back at him in renewed, bright-eyed anticipation. They had scented blood. He turned back slowly, a shrewd look on his face. He pouted. "All right, perhaps there is a way."

"How?" Lasseur said.

Matisse paused. "A contest."

A murmur ran around the compartment.

Lasseur looked nonplussed. "You mean a wager? You'd decide the boy's future by the throw of a dice?"

"Not dice."

"The turn of a card? I'll still have no part of it!"

"There are more ways of proving a man's mettle than by having him win a hand of whist, Captain."

"Like what?" Lasseur enquired cautiously.

"A trial."

"Prisoner's tribunal?" Lasseur looked sceptical. "You want us to plead our case?"

"Not that kind of trial."

"Then what kind do you mean?"

"I mean trial by combat."

The deck erupted in excited chatter. It took several seconds before it grew still again.

"He wants you to fight for him," Hawkwood said, not quite believing it himself.

Matisse gave a short, harsh, humourless laugh. "You make it sound so vulgar, Captain. As if I was suggesting some kind of brawl. I prefer to think of it as a contest of arms. 'To the victor the spoils' — isn't that what they say?"

Lasseur stared at Matisse in horror. "I'm not going to fight you!"

"Fight me? You misunderstand, Captain. I was referring to the old-fashioned way of settling a dispute, when kings did not cross swords themselves. They nominated a champion; a valiant knight to fight on their behalf, someone versed in the art of war — a warrior." Matisse looked directly at Hawkwood. "You, Captain Hooper; you're a warrior. You've the scars to prove it. I nominate you as Captain Lasseur's champion."

"What?" Lasseur said disbelievingly.

"It's your only chance of getting him back. What do you say, Captain Hooper?"

"I think you've been down here too long. It's addled your brain. You want the boy's fate to be decided by the outcome of a bout?"

As he spoke the words, Hawkwood's brain began to spin. What the hell was happening here? What had Lasseur been thinking? This wasn't part of the plan. How in the name of all that was holy had he allowed himself to be dragged into Lasseur's private war?

" Adds piquancy to the broth, doesn't it?" Matisse said, grinning. "And it's been a while since our last diversion. When was that? Does anyone remember?" He regarded the ring of faces expectantly. "No? Ah well, that's the trouble; you lose track of time on the lower levels. Each day just seems to merge into the next. Anyway, there it is, Captain Lasseur. A sporting chance. If my man wins, the boy stays with us. If Captain Hooper emerges victorious, I'll set him free. What do you say to that?"

"Leave Captain Hooper out of this," Lasseur said. He looked at Hawkwood. His face was ashen.

"Too late for that," Matisse said.

Hawkwood saw the excitement in the eyes of the other men around them. Lasseur was still staring back at him in disbelief.

"Who's your man?" Hawkwood asked. "Dupin?"

"Dupin?" Matisse expressed surprise. His chin came up. "Oh no, not Dupin. While Corporal Dupin is a true and faithful lieutenant, I can see he'd be no match for a veteran of your calibre. No, do not protest, Corporal. You know I speak the truth. Captain Hooper is an experienced soldier, whereas you are merely a courtier with a stick. You wouldn't last five minutes, and where's the sport in that? No, Captain, I choose another; a much more worthy opponent. Call it royal prerogative."

Matisse turned. Several of the men at the table exchanged knowing grins.

"Kemel Bey!" Matisse called.

A pale wedge of light appeared in the wall of darkness behind the table. For the first time, Hawkwood saw the opening in the bulkhead over Matisse's shoulder, indicating there were yet more compartments further forward.

Lasseur drew in a breath. Hawkwood saw why.

An apparition stepped into the lantern glow. The man's skin was so dark it looked as if he might have been carved from the hulk's timbers. He was not as tall as Hawkwood, but neither was he small of stature. His face was broad. His nose was wide and flared. Below it there grew an extravagant, raven-black moustache. His hair was long and oily and curled away from the base of his neck in tight ringlets. Each ear was pierced with a golden ring, which gleamed brightly in the lantern light. His eyes, in contrast to those of Matisse, were as black as olive pits.

His striking looks were offset by the incongruity of his dress. He wore a yellow prison jacket stretched tight across a compact, muscular torso. His legs were encased in a pair of voluminous maroon pantaloons. His feet were bare. He looked, Hawkwood thought, as if he'd stepped out of the illustration in a children's book or from the ranks of a theatrical masquerade.

Hawkwood had heard reports of Bonaparte's Mamelukes from guerrilla fighters in Spain, but he'd never seen them in action. They enjoyed a fearsome reputation. It was said that the Emperor, despite having defeated them in battle, had been so taken with their fighting skills during his Egyptian campaign that he'd authorized two squadrons to accompany him on his return to France. A plea from their commanding officer and a vow that they'd defend France to the death had been enough to justify their immediate incorporation into the ranks of the Imperial Guard. Mameluke cavalry had played a decisive role in Murat's brutal suppression of the Madrid uprising.

It was also patently obvious that, compared to the majority of the hulk's population, the Mameluke was in good physical shape. But the same could be said for the rest of Matisse's crew. It was clear they weren't suffering the same privations as the others. On the hulk, Matisse and his court were like a wolf pack, where the dominant animals took the richest morsels. In fact, Matisse appeared the most undernourished of the lot, which meant that he used brain not brawn to stamp his authority, and that, Hawkwood knew, made him more dangerous than any of them.

"Colourful, isn't he?" Matisse said. "Kemel Bey's a prince of the blood. Leastways, that's what we think he told us. He doesn't speak our language very well. He was taken captive on board a transport off Tangier a year back. Did you know the Emperor still has a Mameluke bodyguard? Helps His Majesty shave every morning; a steady hand with a razor, they say." The side of Matisse's mouth lifted. Several of his minions responded in kind; a private joke shared.