Mactravis called up to Queen Rose, asking for smiths to release the slaves. Sara appeared over the rails with the same request. At the Captain’s signal, the Bosun went to catalogue the dhow’s goods but stopped with her foot on the rail at screams from the shore. The kai Viti, the soldiers and the Spakka raised a cheer at the scene unfolding.
The escaping Umayyad emerged dripping on the shore, fleeing towards the jungle. Racing round from their mission of mercy came the Pahippians, led by Hinatea, all stark naked in battle array. Sara thought they were unarmed and sucked in a breath, but something gleamed in Hinatea’s hand and she recognised her favoured lava knife.
Taufik grunted on the poop deck, and laughed. “Their religion teaches they will be given beautiful whores when they die, if they live a good life and believe in their god. I think they know they are already dead and lived a bad life!”
Hinatea at full speed was like a cheetah, low and graceful as she swept past the first fleeing slaver, her arm swinging as she went and he collapsed in a heap, blood spurting from a leg wound gaping so wide it could be seen from the ship. Silmatea leaped full onto the back of another, pulling back his head and cutting his hamstrings once he landed on the ground, thrashing madly. Trieste and Rerata took one together, each pulling an arm while Monata slashed the back of his legs.
Hinatea lunged swift and menacing into a group who tried to bunch together for protection, scattering them to become easy prey. In moments the girls disabled all the refugees and the screams grew louder as they dragged them into nearby bushes.
“Dammit, those blasted girls have no discipline. Those are unarmed men who have surrendered,” complained Captain Larroche. “Sara, you will need to round them up.”
“I don’t think that is possible, sir. These slavers are their traditional enemy. I think all these girls have seen loved ones die at the hands of Umayyads.”
“Silmatea was raped when she was just thirteen,” said Pat who had come to the poop deck for a better look. “Hinatea killed the man as he did it, with a club. They saw the rest of their families killed, killed badly, by these slavers. Trieste was beaten and at least two of the others raped. Why they are so fierce, they killed their attackers and escaped. That was five years ago. They still have nightmares, why they told me.”
Silence spread across the poop deck as Boersma and Maciu dragged two surviving slavers in front of Captain Larroche.
“Lieutenant Mactravis said you wanted some, Sir,” said Maciu in his careful Harrhein, while Boersma grunted. “Did you want us to kill them for you, or do you want to kill them yourself?”
Boersma helpfully pushed his captive to the ground and offered his ace to the Captain, his foot holding the man still though he squealed in terror and wet himself.
“No, no,” said the Captain with some exasperation. “I need to talk to them. Hold them up against the rail.”
The slavers were no longer capable of standing, with excruciating screams echoing across the water and black and white savages with axes standing over them, and collapsed into a heap.
“Do you speak Belada?” The Captain asked.
Two thin brown faces turned towards him, huge eyes wet with terror looking up at him, desperate for rescue. The Captain squelched the feelings of pity rising up inside.
“Why were you attacking this village?”
One of the slavers gulped, the other tried to throw himself on the Captain’s feet, to be jerked back roughly by Boersma.
“If it pleases the Mighty Captain, they did not supply the trepang as ordered. Our trip wasted, we needed other cargo.”
“What were you going to do with them?”
“It is the season for the Sung to arrive in Trincomalee, we would sell them there, those that survived the cutting.”
“What do you mean, the cutting?”
The slaver was confused, and Taufik stepped forward.
“Sir, the Sung will only buy emasculated slaves to ensure they cannot breed in their country. They only buy men, eunuchs. Trincomalee is the capital of Tamila, on the southern shores of Hind. Every year the Sung come.”
“Who are you people and where are you from?”
“If it pleases the Mighty Captain, we are from Ormuz in the Caliphate of Hussein ibn Al-Raisa, May He Live For Ever.”
“Hmmph. Sara, do you have any questions?”
“A few Sir. Was your ship an independent trader, and who was the captain?”
The slaver shuffled his feet and ducked his head a few times, before answering. “Beautiful Pearl, the ship belongs to the Caliph and the captain is the Emir Muhammad ibn Al-Raisa.”
“One of the Caliph’s sons, I presume, so he won’t be best pleased with us.”
“The Caliph’s anger will be like the mountains that explode with fire. We are dead men if we return to the Caliphate, for losing his ship and his son. Please, take us aboard as your crew, we will show you the secret trading ports and I know where the Emir of Qalhat stores his pearl, the entire seasons crop.”
The second slaver managed to speak now, gabbling fast so his words were hard to understand. “Qalhat has the finest pearls in the world, Highness, even the royal Black Pearls, the store is worth a Kings ransom, we can show you where it is, the guards are weak and will flee before your mighty warriors. We are good sailors, Your Worship, we are useful,” and his pleas faded into broken sobs as Boersma stirred.
“Tell me, have you ever heard of Harrhein?”
“The majesty of it is beyond compare, Great Queen, all know and sing its praises.”
“What is it?”
The slavers looked at each other, groping for a reply.
“Never mind. You deal in slaves. Here you take slaves from the islands, but do you also deal in slaves from the West, ones with paler skins?”
“Never, Lady, on my honour,” said one while the other nodded without thinking.
At her gesture, Maciu hauled the first one away, struggling while he second collapsed in terror.
“Tell me about them,” she hissed and his robe darkened as he urinated spasmodically, his mouth open revealing blackened stumps as he stared at the Princess.
“They, they come from Havant, from the north, barbarians, big men like your axemen.”
“Any others?”
“No, Lady, j-j-just the big barbarians, please Lady.”
“Look what we found,” said Mactravis, his voice as cold and bleak as the northern mountains. Standing beside him, Husk cradled a young woman in his arms, crying onto his shoulder. Behind him the soldiers helped a small coterie of pale skinned people out of the depths of the dhow, blinking in the unaccustomed light. Last were two boys, crying and walking bow-legged.
“You emasculated my people,” Sara whispered, her voice a monotone. “Hang them.”
Maciu didn’t understand, and Husk set down his burden, exchanging her for the nearest slaver. “You just watch, chick, what we do to these bastards,” he said. The girl fixed her eyes, narrow with hatred, on the slavers as Husk and Boersma, who knew what to do, hauled them down to the main deck where sailors set ropes from the yards. Maciu came to Mactravis and in Harrheinian, which he insisted on speaking, asked what hanging meant. Mactravis explained, and Little intervened and took Maciu off, explaining in lurid detail. He tried to interest Maciu in a wager as to which one would last longest, but to his disappointment the kai Viti, with no understanding of personal wealth, couldn’t entertain the concept of gambling to possess something. He loved the experiment though, and watched as Little demonstrated how to tie a hangman’s knot.
The girls and the Captain retired to his cabin, but the rest of the crew were not squeamish, and all watched with relish, raising a great cheer as the Umayyads swung out from the yards, struggling and screaming till the rope cut off their voices. An equal cheer came up from the shore, where the released villagers watched, joined by escaped villagers who appeared from the jungle.
Hinatea and her girls appeared from the bushes in time to dance happily along the sand, gory with the blood splattered all over their bodies.
“You know,” said Stephens to the world in general. “I don’t think I will ever get excited about the sight of a naked girl again.”
What to do with the dhow made an interesting question. It wasn’t capable of making the journey back to Harrhein, and taking it along with them would proclaim their actions, which the Umayyads would regard as piracy.
Not one of the crew of the Queen Rose were prepared to sail on it - the ship stank: of fear; rotting, putrid flesh and everywhere the smell of shit. It was filthy, stained and full of rats.
Sara suggested some of the kai Viti could sail it back to Vitua, where it could be set up as part of the Ratu’s planned fleet. This was agreed, but it was difficult to find kai Viti ready to go. Eventually Maciu picked those injured in leaping on the dhow and detailed them to return. They enlisted the help of the released villagers and were left to clean the ship and sail it to Vitua, with the promise they could come with the army being trained by the Ratu.
A day later, as the Queen Rose picked her way through coral shoals, three dhows appeared and approached the ship. Full of savage looking people grasping the strange scimitars, they crowded the decks and stared at the Queen Rose.
Captain Larroche knew a pirate when he saw one. Or three. The ballistas were loaded, archers went to their stations, swordsmen, pikemen, Spakka and the kai Viti axemen all manned the ship, very obviously.
The pirates sheered off, sailed past and called greetings to them.
The Harrheinians stood stolidly staring at them, as did the Spakka while the kai Viti were disgusted by this display of cowardice and waved their naked bottoms at them.
A day from Trincomalee the wind failed to a gentle push. Pat was sunning himself with Mot and Perryn discussing how to ensure a lack of sharks so they could go swimming, when there came a shout from the masthead.
“Sail ho! Wide to starboard!”
Pat was up and running for the mast in a moment, while the crew stood to automatically, not waiting for the command.
Pat reached the crow’s nest.
“Hi Willy, what do you make of it? Point it out.”
“It’s not a dhow,” said young Willy, one of the few younger than Pat who looked upon him as a hero. “It seems to be very big with lots of sails.”
Pat watched the ship come over the horizon with disbelief. At first he thought he saw several ships close together, or towing one another. The hull crept into his view, and he counted seven masts. Through the glass he could see an officer looking at them through a much larger telescope from high up the front mast. The crew carried on as normal, not concerned about them, but he could see the ship change course for an intercept. At the speed both ships were travelling, it would be late afternoon before they met.
Pat dropped down to the deck and made his way to the poop. He reported with care, describing the ship in as much detail as he could.
Taufik nodded. “It is a junk from the Sung. They build very big ships. Slow, but not bothered by bad weather. They will be friendly, they always are. They are fierce fighters but never start a fight, only defend if attacked.” He grinned at the Captain. “They have whores on board they use to negotiate with people.”
The Captain bit his tongue as he saw Suzanne’s eyes narrow.
“So, worth talking with them?”
“Very much so. They will trade with us, here at sea. Means we don’t need to go to Trincomalee. They will want the trepang, gold and silver while they will have silks, tea, cloves, nutmeg and other spices. It is a trading ship. If we trade here, we pay no taxes.”
“I like these Sung already! What language do they speak?”
“Their own language I do not know, but their writing is chicken scratching. They write a lot. Always when buying. But they will all speak Belada. It is the trade language.”
In the late afternoon the ships came within hailing distance. The Sung crowded the rails, as did the Harrheinians and both stared at each other. The Sungs were a very different looking people, with flat faces, tanned with slanted eyes. They looked tough and capable. Sara noted a few women, dressed in flowing silks and with long hair, wide hats and chalk white faces. The men were dressed in loincloths, while the officers wore colourful jackets with wide shoulders.
“Silk,” said Suzanne beside her. “Those girls are wearing a fortune for everyday wear.”
“I think the uniforms are silk as well,” replied Sara.
A hail came from the huge ship, one of the officers shouting through what looked like a funnel. It made his voice louder. He spoke in Belada.
“What ship? Where are you from?”
Captain Larroche answered. “The Queen Rose out of Rikklaw’s Port, Harrhein, in the Western ocean bound for Trincomalee.”
A stir went through the other ship’s crew and they started talking to each other.
“We are the Imperial Orchid, from Soochow, Minyue, also bound for Trincomalee. I am Captain Lim Hsien Tsu. You are traders?”
“We are indeed. I am Captain Larroche. May I invite you aboard, Captain, for refreshments and perhaps we can discuss trade.”
Lim Hsien Tsu grinned. “Thank you. I accept. I will bring some of my officers and ladies.” He turned and barked some orders in his own language. Suzanne turned to Sara.