Rascal’s Edge, Part 2

Posted by Cynthia on August 13, 2009

Part 2

Law and Justice

By Cynthia Rodiana

Copyright: August, 2006

The whip cracked; the first lash.

Brogan’s body went rigid. His hands pulled against the ropes that tied him to a large wooden post. The pain, sharp like a dagger in the center of his back, radiated to his arms and legs making them tremble. Harwood had promised him something special when he turned sixteen winters. He knew better than to expect the truth.

“Hey, boy, the audience came to hear your wretched screams. Give them their due,” the guard taunted.

The whip cracked again. Pain flared into fire. His fingers went white as he grasped the ropes not giving the prison guard the satisfaction of a response. He braced one leg against the rough pole to keep it from trembling. He would not show weakness to anyone.

“Isn’t that Harwood’s slave?” the people in the crowd muttered amongst themselves. “He has been in and out of trouble for a winter now. He nearly broke my arm. It is about time someone made him pay.”

A third stroke made him arch and jerk against the pain. Sweat beaded on his brow. The ropes cut into his wrists making bloody abrasions. Harwood’s face stood out in the crowd; the odd smile while others looked on pensively.

A group of sailors from the privateer ship, Rascal’s Edge, stood apart. Though accustomed to the brutal lives of sailors, they knew this punishment was undeserved and they would sail in three day’s time with the wounded cub.

“We won’t be able to call him a cub after this,” one sailor said as the fourth lash was delivered across Brogan’s shoulders more forcefully, trying to coax a scream from his lips. The tip of the whip caught the left side of his face and opened a bloody streak.

“One more and he’s done, but Ert’s gonna let him have it,” said another. “You know how he likes the screaming.”

Brogan breathed in ragged breathes as the stroke rippled agony across his flesh and tore the side of his face. He felt the salty sting as his sweat ran into the wound that had made his ears ring. His lungs felt as if they were going to seize and he fought to catch his breath as his heart pounded in his chest. His legs trembled more. He fought to keep them strong, unbending. He would not whimper or crumble in front of the crowd, in front of Harwood, who he knew found perverse pleasure in his suffering. But more important was his mother, who had told him repeatedly this day would come.

Brogan heard the whip whistle as Ert drew it back and knew the last was going to be the worst. The leather whistled through the air and cracked against him, like thunder in a storm, and louder than the crowd heard all morning. Agony exploded as the whip flayed flesh from his oozing back. The scream nearly escaped, but he ground it between his teeth and it came out as a muffled cry that only those close enough could hear. His legs collapsed and he hung by his bloody wrists. Sweat streamed down his face as his body began to shake uncontrollably. Blood dripped from his chin and made a sweaty pink rivulet down his chest.

He felt the hands of the guards push him up under the arms, releasing him from the bindings. Once free, they half dragged him to a grassy sward where they dropped him with all of the day’s moaning and wailing punished and went back to secure the next miscreant.

Brogan lay with eyes closed, feeling the cool grass beneath him warring with the searing fire coursing across his back. Each breath, each heartbeat, each uncontrollable flinch made the welts throb. The sound of the lash again meeting flesh made him jump and grasp at handfuls of grass. Maybe if he had given in to the pain instead of fighting it, it would have been better. Then again, what was losing skin compared to appearing less than a man to the men he knew he was to sail with. What he didn’t know was how to tell his mother.

He heard footsteps, one light, one heavy, coming toward him. He knew them and didn’t try to open his eyes.

“Well, well, Brogan, a fine show of your defiance, eh?” Harwood said, walking around him. “Oh, I suppose others might say courage or some such nonsense, but we know the truth, don’t we?”

“Bastard! You set me up!” Brogan said, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“No more lies, Brogan,” his mother said, but not harshly.

“There is no convincing you of the truth,” Brogan said, his voice hard. He flinched as the whip cracked and the man on the pole screamed.

Harwood laughed.

“The truth, the lies, a subtle blend that meets somewhere in the murky middle. Like us, bastards sired in some act of lies and deception. The line between respect and hate. You walk that line, don’t you, boy? But, you have proven your mettle and now I think it is time you stop vexing your mother so.”

Brogan’s mother looked at Harwood, fear clutching at her.

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“In three days, the Rascal’s Edge sets sail to provide escort for several merchant ships headed for the mainland. The boy will go,” Harwood answered.

“You can’t!”

“He is sixteen winters and already bigger and stronger than most men. I need him on that ship.”

“You are sending him to his death. Those sailors know he works for you. They will think he spies for you and will cast him overboard,” his mother protested.

“Fear not, good woman,” one of the sailors said as a group of rough looking men approached.

“Ahh, Durin, make sure you have a place for him,” Harwood said.

“There be several,” Durin said, then addressed Brogan’s mother. “We all work fer milord, and at sea, all hands are required. We have watched the cub grow t’ a lion today. T’would be a waste t’ cast him t’ the deep.”

“Honor says, mistress,” another sailor said, seeing her doubt.

“You are just a bunch of scoundrels and pirates. What do you know of honor?” she said, disbelieving. She knelt beside Brogan.

“What indeed!” Harwood laughed. “I see it is time to meet my wife for lunch and a bit of shopping. There is a horse tied yonder. Try to make it home before dark, eh, Brogan. It will not do to have you laying here like a sot come morning. Appearance is power.”

I’d like the appearance of me knocking you flat, Brogan thought, realizing how easily he fell into Harwood’s trap. He didn’t stop to think; he just acted. Now he would have time to think of it all as he doubted he would move a muscle until dark.

Durin knelt next to Brogan and put a big, scarred hand lightly on the back of his head.

“We can get ye up on the beast afore we go,” he offered and gave him a pat.

“I can’t. Not yet,” Brogan said, fighting the queasiness that rolled through his stomach. His face paled and his skin was suddenly cold and clammy to Durin’s touch.

“He’s got the sick,” Durin said. The others nodded. “If we have time, we’ll come back in a bit. Ye’ve earned a piece o’ that lion today. Ye might want t’ sit on the yonder side o’ him, woman. His gut might relieve itself soon.”

Durin gave him a pat on the left arm, the site of the tattooed crest of the Lion Marines. The other sailors stooped and patted him as they mumbled their various welcome aboards and good sailing before walking away.

Brogan’s mother pulled hair from his face and wiped his bloody cheek with a soft cloth.

“No more bravado. I want the truth, Brogan,” she said, after a while. “How many times have I asked you to stop with the games, the petty thieving? See what it has come to?”

“I did not lie to you.” He nearly gagged as bile burned in his throat, but he forced it back.

“You have believed Harwood too much about this noble blood in your veins that you think grants you some right to this arrogance and lack of respect for others. You cannot see any more what he has done to you.”

“And all you do is nag at me,” Brogan said, angrily. “All I have heard for the last winter is you harping at me about everything. Go home and leave me be!”

“It is because I never wanted this life for you. I wanted you to become a gentleman, who understands the responsibility of honor and integrity. Not this shadowy life of misdeeds that skirts the edge of the law,” she said.

“Do you think I like knowing that Harwood has me trapped like a caged monkey? He pushes me and uses me, because he knows I will not leave you until your debt is met. And he keeps raising that amount higher as it suits him. If that isn’t honor, isn’t trying to earn your respect, then I don’t know what is. Maybe it is better we are apart for a while.”

“That while could be forever,” she said. He could hear her crying. “You were too young to remember the horror of the ships.”

“Stop it, Mother! I won’t listen anymore. It is time you let go the child and see what is before you,” Brogan said, angrily, his fists clenching. “Deauxama’s Breath, if only that ship sailed tomorrow!”

But I remember the closets and the dark places, alone and afraid, he thought.

A sudden rage twisted his stomach and as Durin predicted, Brogan heaved onto the grass barely able to keep his face away from the wretchedness that came forth. He felt his mother’s hands slip beneath his shoulders, trying to help him move away. With a grimace, he pushed himself to his knees. Maybe he could crawl to the horse and go home. He was tired of people walking by starring and gossiping. He didn’t want to hear the whip and the screams any longer.

Trying to keep them both balanced, his mother put her hand on the ground. Brogan noticed one of her fingers was red and not quite as it should be. Taking a deep breath to calm his trembling body, to breathe through the pain, he pushed himself upright and sat back on his heels. His head spun as he groped, eyes closed, for her hand. Taking it in one of his, he looked down at the disjointed knuckle. Feelings of guilt came over him for his angry outburst.

“Mama, how do you keep doing this? You have let this one go too long. I can’t fix it. Maybe Durin knows a way,” Brogan said, gently feeling the broken finger.

“No matter. It doesn’t bother me so much now,” she said, but wouldn’t look at him.

It was then he noticed how old and worn his mother had started to look. Older than she should have given the better living conditions they received for the last five winters. He was so occupied and kept busy by Harwood that he never stopped to notice and felt bad again.

“I am sorry, Mama, I have not been keeping good watch over you,” Brogan said and kissed her hand. A thought came to him as he pressed her hand firmly to his cheek. Even Harwood’s wife had started to look more harried recently and the sparkle he always saw in her eyes was somehow dimmed. Her spontaneous and lilting laughter was nearly forgotten. “He did this to you, didn’t he?”

“Leave it alone, Brogan,” his mother said, trying to pull her hand back.

“But he is hurting you, abusing you. And not just you, but Jehalla, too.”

“You listen to me, you leave it be! You have a chance to get away from him, to make your own destiny.”

“How long? Since we came here?”

“No, not the first winter, but a little now and then. Only recently has it gotten worse.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brogan asked. “We have never kept secrets. I would have sold myself back to Flannery to get you out of this. He is a brute, but he is not crazy and sadistic like Harwood.”

“What’s done is done. Jehalla and I are trapped. We do what we can to help each other and have found some drops that seem to calm this frenzy in his mind. But you, Brogan, you get on that ship and earn that Letter of Marque he has promised you. Get away from him. Prove yourself to this crew by doing right, keeping your word and being just in your decisions. Your grandfather, my father, was such a man. That is what is in you. Not this craziness about the blood of kings. I don’t care what that birthmark means,” his mother said.

“If he was, then how did we come to this? Why didn’t he fight for you, for us?” Brogan asked. This was one of the few times she had ever spoken of him.

“He tried, but others were threatened. Better to lose one and another who might not survive childhood than five or ten. Once we were sold in Fen Way, we were lost forever and I could never find the opportunity to escape. But you grab hold of this opportunity and let it take you as far as it can,” she explained.

“I can’t leave knowing this. Even Durin, who has been with Harwood for winters, has been questioning his behavior. I have to do something.”

“And he will return the favor with twenty or a hundred lashes, or worse. We have the drops, so as long as we are not found out, maybe we can control this insanity, this disease, a while longer.” She reached up and wiped his face again. The wound still seeped.

“Let’s go home, Mama. We will be together while we can,” Brogan said, taking his mother’s face between his hands and kissed her forehead.

*   *   *

Brogan stood on the quarterdeck of the Rascal’s Edge listening to the captain and bosun issuing orders to bring the ship into port. Since early morning he had stood on deck watching the islands and atolls of the southern Lancer Archipelago grow larger. It was two winters since he set sail from Isilassa and he was anxious to go home. During that time, he visited many of the ports throughout the archipelago and various ports of the Freehold mainland, but never near enough home for a visit. He suspected a purpose in that, but let no one hear a word of complaint lest it get back to Harwood and fuel his abuse toward the women he thought of often.

Recent and highly profitable privateering activities filled the hold. Durin had conferred with the captain and it was decided they couldn’t trust the crews of Rafe Harwood’s other ships and would bring the newest treasure trove home themselves.

“Yo, Brogan,” Durin said, coming up from behind and slapped him on the back before leaning over the side. Brogan flinched unconsciously; his body still remembered the lash’s wrath. Another of the old crew, Reese, came up on his left. “What say ye? We head for the pub and the women afore we head up the hill t’ Harwood’s? It’ll take a while fer word t’ get there that we’ve arrived. Time enough fer a quick stop.”

“You can go straightaway,” Brogan laughed, putting a hand on each man’s shoulder and giving them a friendly shove. “It’s too early to tap a new keg and the best wenches will still be sleeping. But as you two have old eyes and questionable taste, have at it. Besides, if I am not to Harwood’s before the messenger, it will be my backside.” He gave them a wink and turned to go below to collect his gear.

“Hold up, Brogan,” Durin said, stopping him. He led him to a place where they could speak privately. “There’s somethin’ ye should know.”

Brogan looked puzzled.

“Six months ago when we docked at Begis Marsh, there were orders waitin’ fer us from Harwood. The capt’n and I scratched our heads fer days wonderin’ what they meant. We finally gave up and burned them; like they never existed. I know yer situation and there be no tellin’ what yer a’ goin’ t’ walk into. He’s gone completely mad as fer as we’re concerned.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have found another ship back,” Brogan said, irritated and frowning.

“Ye’ve become a good sailor and the crew will listen t’ ye, even with the Harwood taint that some o’ us have. If ye had gone, and I know ye would’ve, ye would’ve lost all, especially that letter. Me and the men decided t’ keep it from ye,” Durin said. He saw Brogan’s fists clench. “Ye want t’ take it out on me, fine, yer call.”

Unaware of his stance, Brogan let it go.

“You are right. I would have. Think first. How many times have I heard that?” Brogan faced the wind and ran his fingers through his hair, pulled it back and tied it with a leather thong he pulled from his pouch.

“Most o’ us are gettin’ on, losin’ parts,” Durin said, holding up one hand newly scarred by the loss of a finger to a runaway line. “We may not get there fer a while. If somethin’ should happen in the meantime, no one will blame ye. Just get that letter. With it, ye can sail any vessel. Havin’ become a marine helps, but that letter with the Harwood seal gives credibility.”

Brogan nodded. He went below and put pouches of treasure about himself and a few possessions in a bag. His sword rode in a baldric across his back. No use taking everything until he knew his future. The men of the old crew, mostly Harwood’s men, said nothing to him as he was one of the first off the ship, but their knowing eyes and slight nods bolstered him.

Walking along the quay toward the aft of the ship where empty water barrels were already being offloaded with the parbuckles, Brogan thought he saw a familiar face.

“Markie?” he called to a young man waiting to receive the barrels. The man turned and stepped away from the ramp. His body jerked unevenly and his right foot dragged the planking.

“Hullo? Someone call me?” Markie said. His eyes were dull and bloodshot.

“It is me, Brogan.” He put out a firm hand to steady his old friend.

“Deauxama’s Eyes, I never would have recognized you,” Markie said, wiping a hand across his face. He smelled of alcohol. “Did you come off this ship?”

“Yes. It was my training for the Lion Marines,” Brogan answered. “Now I can sail with the special fleets. Well, once I get my letter from Harwood. Heading there now. What happened to you?”

“Loading barrels about six months ago and they dropped the ropes. Barrels rolled down on my hip and they can’t seem to put it right. This is the only cure,” Markie said, pulling out a flask hanging from a cord around his neck. He opened it and drank. Brogan steadied him again. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. Maybe time away from this would help?”

“Can’t. Father died last winter and I have to take care of what is left of the family. Sister’s husband is scum and won’t get work,” Markie said and drank again. “Think they would take a cripple onboard?”

“Not this ship. She is run fast and the crew is a tough lot. Has to be for the number of pirates we have run down this winter. Try the merchants,” Brogan answered. He reached inside his shirt to a hidden pocket and pulled out a small pouch filled to bursting with coins. “Here, take this. It is not much, but maybe it will help.”

“You have always been the one without. Keep it,” Markie said, but his eyes held longing and his collar bones were too sharp beneath his open shirt.

Brogan smiled with a hint of laughter. He put the bag in his right hand and made Markie shake hands with him, pressing the leather into Markie’s palm and closing his hand.

“Sometimes privateers do not earn everything they take,” Brogan said, squeezing Markie’s shoulder. “After I take care of my business, I will see if I have time for that drink.”

Brogan hurried through the town keeping off of the main streets. He didn’t want to see anyone else and lose more time. Getting the letter from Harwood was one thing, but the well-being of his mother and Jehalla, who had always treated him nicely, had preyed heavily on his mind for the last few months of their voyage. More so now given what Durin had told him. If he arrived and found Harwood dead, it would be a relief. The governor could give him the Letter of Marque. His fleet papers were in order from Captain Perris of the Rascal’s Edge.

Hot and sweating by the time he reached the top of the hill, Brogan paused by the well long enough to drink then hurried through the outer gardens toward the front of the house.

“Brogan! Brogan, wait!” He heard Jehalla’s voice calling him, but he couldn’t see her. After a moment, he saw her come out of the shadows cast by a great willow tree. He was shocked by her appearance and it showed on his face as she came near. Her hair was streaked with gray and her once rosy complexion was now gray and lined. Her elegant gown hung on her in an unbecoming way for her thinness, and one wrist was strangely crooked as she reached for his sleeve. She flushed under his gaze.

“I – I am sorry, I did not mean to stare so, my lady,” Brogan said, bowing to her.

“It is not your fault I have become such a wretch. It is because of the monster we are forced to live with.”

“Then he lives?”

“Yes, but come into the shadows so he won’t see you.” She pulled him quickly to her hiding place.

“How is my mother?’

“You are her life. She breathes only to see your face one more time and then she will depart this life,” Jehalla said, tears rolled down her face.

“I have to go to her,” Brogan said, his deepest fears clutching at him, but Jehalla pulled him back.

“Wait! Go in the back way, so he won’t see you. Up the back stairs. He is crazy, Brogan. We have tried to protect and help each other, but I am so afraid. When Ammalie is gone, he will come for me and kill me when the madness comes,” Jehalla cried. “You have to help me!”

“My mother comes first,” Brogan said, anger seething in him.

“It is too late for her. He broke her on the stairs when she tried to run away. She is strong like you, but only a woman in the end.”

“I should never have gotten on that ship. Stay here.”

Brogan pushed her aside, ran to the back of the house and entered through the servants’ quarters where he startled half a dozen servants and a couple of guards. His sword flew out of its sheath as he saw the guards eye him and reach for their weapons.

“I have come for my mother. Deny me and I will have your sorry lives now,” he said, with menace, settling into his stance. The servants, not recognizing the brawny, sun-browned man before them, fled to the kitchens. The guards stood down with almost a look of relief on their faces.

Taking the stairs two and three at a time, Brogan ran up two flights of stairs to the first room at the top. He sheathed his sword and opened the door slowly. The sharp smell of sickness and urine greeted him and he steeled himself for what he would find.

Though the curtains were open, only indirect light came through the tiny window, which was open to allow whatever air as could get in with the wind now coming mostly from the south.

Brogan looked to the bed and saw his mother, cheeks and eyes sunken as on a corpse, skin pale and her once thick hair now thin and straggly over the pillow. Her hands were twisted as they lay atop a thin blanket. Tears of regret, of guilt, of rage filled his eyes as he knelt next to the narrow bed.

“Mama? Mama, can you hear me?” Brogan said softly, his voice deep with anguish. He took one of her cold hands in his and gently stroked her forehead. She murmured slightly, but did not open her eyes. “I have come home, Mama. I will take you away. Mama, it is me, Brogan.”

“Bro…gan?” his mother murmured through parched lips. Her eyes rolled under their lids as she tried to open them.

“Yes, Mama, Brogan,” he said, kissing her forehead. Her skin was cold and dry. “I am so sorry. Forgive me. I should never have left you with him. Mama! Mama, listen to me.” He rubbed her cheek lightly until her eyes started moving again. “Open your eyes just for a moment. Look at me, Mama. I love you.”

Brogan watched his mother struggle to understand him and finally her eyes fluttered open. After a moment, she recognized him and a vague twinge in her cheeks told him she tried to smile.

“I…waited,” she whispered as he filled the entire range of her sight.

“Forgive me for leaving you,” Brogan said. Tears rolled down his face as his heart broke and his hand gently squeezed hers. One finger barely twitched against his. “I love you, Mama.”

“Love…Bro…,” she murmured as her eyes started to close.

“No, Mama, stay with me. Stay with me,” Brogan pleaded as he kissed her face. “I will take you from here and make you well.”

“Free…,” his mother whispered. The breath of Deauxama left her. Her eyes closed and sank deeper within her pain-ravaged face.

Brogan started to tremble as he wrapped his strong arms around her, lifting her to his chest; her head cradled in the crook of his arm. A sob escaped him as he felt her life slip away. He held her tighter, realizing he was alone in the world, but for a handful of scruffy privateers that had helped him grow to the man, who could finally release her from the nightmare.

He held her a long while, his grief rising and ebbing as he relived all of the sacrifices she had made for him; all of the special times they had shared even in the midst of their excruciating poverty. On a good fishing day, eating laupoms and boiled crab on the beach until they were stuffed. Everything she had suffered that led to this day when he would achieve all that she had hoped for and would be free to chart his own course in the world. But was it worth the horrific price she had paid, he doubted it.

Rage filled him as he laid her back down on the soiled sheets. I have to be calm, I have to think, Brogan thought, smoothing the blanket. I will ruin everything if I am not, but I cannot, Mama! Maybe only Deauxama knows my fate.

He ran down the stairs, drew his sword and strode down the polished wood hallways in search of the madman.

“Harwood!” Brogan shouted. His voice echoed through the empty halls. No one appeared out of any room to stop him. “Harwood, you murdering bastard! Show yourself, you coward!”

The double doors of Harwood’s study, the room he had stood in those winters ago, lured by promises of gaining his mother’s freedom, went crashing inward as he kicked against the brass handles and the lock gave way.

Harwood, startled by the force of the assault, rose to his feet behind his desk. Brogan let the doors swing back and pushed them closed. A chair quickly wedged under the handles would secure them until he was finished.

“I thought I recognized those flags,” Harwood said, suddenly calm and friendly. “I heard the Rascal’s Edge came into quite a treasure. You did not need to come in here so rudely, you will get your cut.”

“Do not talk to me about trinkets when you have taken away the only thing that ever mattered to me,” Brogan said, furiously.

Harwood stared at him blankly; no understanding on his face.

“You took every coin I ever had for her. I did everything you ever asked of me, broke laws, threatened people, but still you would not let me have her. I went on your ship, followed your orders and not only earned my place as a marine, but was treated like dung the first winter. But I did it for her and your promise, your word of honor, that if you could not stop hurting her, you would send her back to the shanty town,” Brogan shouted at Harwood.

“Hurt who? Ammalie? She was just at breakfast yesterday,” Harwood said. His foot dragged as he started to come around the desk. “Yes, Jehalla poured the tea and Ammalie, lovely as ever, brought in the breakfast tray from the kitchen.” His eyes focused somewhere in the distance. “She opened the window to see if you had returned. But no, I should think you have come home too soon. Yes, much too soon. I cannot give you that letter.”

Brogan’s sword to Harwood’s throat halted his steps.

“You will sit and sign the Letter of Marque now,” Brogan said. The sword touched flesh.

“You dare threaten me?” Harwood said; his focus back to the present. “Guards! After all I have done for you, you think you are in a position to demand? Guards!”

“You killed my mother, damn you!” Brogan shouted at him. His fist closed around Harwood’s collar and he thrust him back into his chair. “Sign that letter or I start breaking your bones one by one like you did to Ammalie and to your wife.”

“I’ll have you flogged for – ”

“Sign it!” Brogan roared. His sword slammed into the edge of the desk. A chunk of wood flew out striking Harwood’s chest.

Harwood glared at him, but took one folio from a stack of pre-drafted parchments and with shaking hands, signed and dated the document.

“I will have you hung for this. You are my property until you are eighteen winters.”

“My mother is dead. I owe you nothing.” Brogan picked up the parchment, folded it carefully and put it in a special pouch.

“Ammalie is not dead,” Harwood said; his voice drifting.

“You are a crazy old man. It is time the Governor do what he should have done winters ago. You will rot in prison for what you have done,” Brogan said, sheathing his sword.

With effort, Brogan turned and walked away. Rage seethed in him for what Harwood had done, but he heard his mother’s voice telling him to look to justice, not revenge.

“All these winters…what a disappointment. The weak-willed, ill-gotten bastard is still in your blood, not the strong-willed, self-determined man of his own destiny that I tried to make of you,” Harwood said, rising to his feet.

“Justice is served by the law.”

“The law? The law is this,” Harwood sneered and curled his fist, shaking it at him. “You may have the stature of a man, but you are still a boy. The reports say you kill reluctantly. Seizing power and killing those who stand in your way is the sport of kings, or have you forgotten your heritage?”

“Killing and maiming women has no nobility, but that is all you can kill isn’t it?” Brogan said. His feet took him toward Harwood. “Try to kill a man and see how you fare.” Brogan’s fist smashed into Harwood’s face. Blood sprayed from his broken nose.

Harwood staggered back. The madness returned to his eyes as he grinned through the pain and dripping blood. He drew a dagger.

“Ammalie, pretty Ammalie, she will not cry so much like Jehalla, or the others. Why do you suppose that is?” Harwood mused. He suddenly hurled the dagger at Brogan; the blade grazed his arm making a red line.

Brogan lost to fury. He kicked Harwood’s chest staggering him backwards through the open doors onto the terrace. Harwood clutched at his broken ribs.

“Guards!” he gasped, bent over and reaching for the terrace wall. One hand flailing for balance was suddenly caught in Brogan’s grasp.

“And you, tears or silence?” Brogan asked as his strong fingers pushed against Harwood’s slender ones. One by one they snapped and Harwood screamed, collapsing to the ground. “Why not all of them?”

“No! What are you doing?” Harwood screamed. “Release me!” His eyes rolled with terror and madness as Brogan lifted him and hurled him from the terrace to the rocks below. His scream echoed up the rocky face, silenced as he hit the first ledge and then an unheeded cry as he crashed down again and lay, barely moving, limbs oddly out of place.

“There is your law for you, honor says,” Brogan said, through gritted teeth.

He strode back across the room and kicked the chair out of his way. The few people who had gathered in the hall slunk back into the shadows. Let them hang me, Brogan thought, it is a short hell compared to a life with a daemon.

Entering his mother’s small room, he noticed the pungent smell had lessened and Jehalla knelt next to the bed murmuring her prayers.

“Thank you,” Brogan said, seeing that they had dressed her in a pretty gown, brushed her hair nicely and put in a bow. The sheets beneath her were clean and white.

“I am so sorry, Brogan,” Jehalla said, rising. “She only wanted to see you one last time. She lived only for that.”

Brogan nodded.

“I am sorry for you too, my lady. I did not heed her words and have made you a widow. Another body will need dressing. Call your guards if you must.”

Jehalla looked stunned for a moment then she smiled and started to tremble.

“He is gone? He cannot hurt us any more?”

“My anger bested me and I cast him down to the rocks.”

“No sword, no wounds, no fault. A madman’s insanity sent him over that wall,” Jehalla said. “Who would not believe it? Thank you, Brogan, thank you. There are more people than you will ever know who suffered under that man. I will leave you now.”

Brogan looked at the foot of the bed where strips of linen had been left. Tears came to his eyes again as he knelt and touched his mother’s face.

“Always you were beautiful to me, Mama. Always I wanted a dress like this for you, but never this way.” He reached into one of his many pouches and pulled out a necklace; a delicate gold chain with three exquisite blue pearls separated by flawless crystal beads. He put it around her neck and smoothed it into place searing the sight of her into his memory. “Sleep, Mama, no one will hurt you any more and I promise to be the best I can, honor says.” Tears rolled down his face. He smiled and kissed her face. “Yes, you can trust the honor of this pirate.” He wrapped the shrouds around her and secured them with the linen strips.

* * *

It was dark when Brogan returned to the Harwood mansion. He allowed no one to know where he buried the treasure most precious to him. Jehalla met him at the servants’ door.

“I found these things hidden in Ammalie’s room, in a false bottom of her trunk. I thought maybe you would want to have them,” Jehalla said, pointing to a bench next to the door.

Brogan smiled a bit. Who was the pirate before me, eh, Mama? He picked up an exquisite chain maille tunic. It looked about his size and he wondered who it had belonged to. He draped it over his shoulder.

“There was also this. I could not find its match.” Jehalla handed him a single gold earring. A perfectly formed rose with its thorny stems winding and twisting upward as if to cover and cup the ear. “They brought Rafe’s body up a while ago. It was still warm when they reached him. A right cause met in those hours I should think.”

“Perhaps,” Brogan said, bowing to her. “Thank you for all your kindnesses to us. May this house find peace and a return to health, my lady.”

“Peace for you as well. Your courage, even as a boy, gave her the strength she needed and she loved you every day for it. Don’t ever forget,” Jehalla said and turned to go back inside. The door closed and the light in the garden went out replaced by the bluish light of a rising moon.