Robert Newcomb - The Scrolls of the Ancients

"From what city were you taken?" she asked. "And tell me, is it really true that you murdered your own father, and also oversaw the murders of the entire Directorate of Wizards, as this poster says? My, my, but you have been a bad boy. You might fit in well here."

Tristan was growing angrier by the moment. Despite the fact that she had saved him and the other slaves, that wasn't enough to make him trust her. He was tired of her insults, and he desperately wanted some answers of his own.

"You first," he said. "Who in the name of the Afterlife are you? And what gives you the right to fly my battle flag?"

Calmly drawing in more smoke, she raised her face and blew it toward the ceiling. As she did, Tristan watched it disappear into the salt-laden air. "I am Teresa of the House of Welborne," she answered calmly. "My friends call me Tyranny."

"Tyranny?"

"Yes." She smiled. "Apparently I was quite a handful when I was growing up. My late father jokingly bastardized 'Teresa' into 'Tyranny,' and it stuck. My mother never forgave him. But then again, I always was more tomboy than dainty little girl."

Leaning forward in his chair, Tristan decided to press. "You're looking for someone, aren't you?" he asked. "That's why you and your ships are out here, plowing up and down the Sea of Whispers. It's also why you lined up all the slaves-in hopes of finding whoever it is you're looking for."

He could tell he had struck a nerve. But he also realized that if he ever wanted to get home, now might be a good time for some flattery.

"And by the way," he added quietly, "the blood I saw on the hilt of your sword tells me that you do more than simply give orders. Well done."

Tyranny's eyes narrowed. "You catch on quickly," she answered. "My older brother was taken by the demonslavers one night. Both my parents were killed trying to fight them off and give me time to escape. We lived in Farpoint-where most of the slaving activity seems to be taking place. My father owned the largest fleet of fishing vessels in the city, and I used to work with him. I have been looking for my brother ever since, and I won't stop until I find him."

"That explains your familiarity with these waters," Tristan mused. "And Scars?" he asked. "I have never seen anyone quite like him. Where did he come from?"

"Scars was one of my father's most trusted employees," she answered. "We grew up together. He got his wounds and his huge muscles from wrestling live sharks out of the sea for fun, from my father's boats. He loved my father dearly, and he would die for me. And he can tear a demonslaver apart with his bare hands."

"Tell me," Tristan asked, "do you know how to safely cross the Sea of Whispers? Have you ever done so?"

"I do know," she answered. "And we have. We tortured the information out of one of the captured demonslavers. They're a tough lot, but time spent with Scars can be very effective. It seems that with the death of the Coven of Sorceresses, the Necrophagians are now willing to accept their grisly tribute from anyone who wants to cross-provided the dead bodies are sufficient in number, of course. We used the demonslaver bodies as payment, but we have only done so once. And I certainly don't recommend it." Casually, she lifted her glass and took a sip of wine.

"Would you like some?" she asked, and nodded toward an empty glass. It seemed her demeanor was starting to soften.

Too thirsty to stand on ceremony, Tristan took the glass and poured himself some wine. He drank it down in a single draft, then poured another and sat back in his chair.

"Where did this crew of yours come from?" he asked. "How do you pay them? And how did you come by these ships?"

"My crew is a combination of my father's old employees and other men who asked to join us after my reputation began to grow," she answered. "As you might imagine, many of them are also looking for lost friends or relatives, and what better way to do it than this? They have become a ruthless and determined lot, I can assure you." Pausing, she took another sip of the wine, then another lungful of smoke. She hissed what remained of the smoke toward the ceiling.

"As for their pay and food, both come from the kisa and provisions usually given us by grateful family members, when we return their loved ones to them," she continued. "I don't demand such payment, but I don't refuse it, either. After all, this operation has to run on something besides altruism, wouldn't you agree? How I got my ships is another story. The first belonged to my father. We renamed her The People's Revenge and went from there. The two other frigates that now sail alongside us are both slaver conquests."

Tristan stared at her, even further impressed by this strong-willed woman. He thought for a moment, and then decided to take a risk.

"Do you know a man named Krassus, or a woman named Grizelda?" he asked. "Or have you ever heard of documents called the Scrolls of the Ancients?"

Tyranny shook her head.

"Have you ever encountered a slave named Wulfgar?"

"No," she answered. "Why do you ask?"

"They're people and things I am searching for, much the same way you search for your brother," he said as nonchalantly as he could. He decided to change the subject. "Do you know why these demonslavers are taking our people?" Again she shook her head. Then Tristan thought of something else.

"Have you ever heard of a place called the Citadel?" he asked. He fully expected her to say she had not, but her face darkened.

"Not only have I heard of it, but I have seen it," she answered solemnly. "It's an island to the east, with a huge stone fortress atop it-a massive, forbidding place hewn directly from the living rock that makes up the island. It looks ancient. We learned of its location from a captured demonslaver. I have even charted its location on my maps. We decided to go there, and actually got to within half a league of it before being forced to turn back. The waters surrounding the Citadel are swarming with slaver ships. After they saw us, we came about and barely got away with our lives."

It was clear that despite her bravado, Tyranny's experience with the Citadel had had a strong effect upon her. And Tristan was by now quite sure she was a woman who was not easily frightened. Fascinated, he leaned forward in his chair.

"Could you lead another fleet there if you had to?" he asked eagerly. "Do you really know the way?"

"Of course," she answered. "I know this ocean as well as anyone alive. But hear me well: Going there is blatant suicide."

Tristan looked at her for a long moment, absorbing all that he had just heard. The breeze from the open windows wafted through the room, gently moving her scruffy dark hair, and her blue eyes continued to regard him with confidence. A slight smile came to his lips. "So you're really a pirate?" he asked.

Tyranny smiled. "We prefer to think of ourselves as privateers, doing the work that the vanquished monarchy no longer can. We would, of course, prefer to do so under authenticated letters of marque, but the king and the wizards who might have granted them to us are now all dead."

"Letters of marque?" Tristan repeated quizzically.

"For the crown prince of Eutracia, you don't seem to know much about your own history," she quipped. "Letters of marque were papers granted by the wizards to privateers during the Sorceresses' War. These documents gave official sanction to the raiding of the Coven's vessels and the killing of their servants. They also allowed the privateer to legally keep a portion of any of the booty recovered. It was a very nice arrangement, actually. The wizards didn't have to dirty their hands, and a brave, enterprising privateer could do very well. It was almost impossible to take a ship that had a sorceress aboard, of course. But if one could be found manned only by blood stalkers or unendowed humans who had been pressed into the Coven's service, it could be a great prize indeed, for the sorceresses' ships often carried treasure. But those days are long gone, I'm afraid."