“What the hell does he think he’s going to accomplish?” Shifrah watched the major swim away toward the warship.
“Who knows?” Kenan was looking the other way, out to sea. “Captain, are Espani channel markers the same as Mazigh ones?”
“They are.” The fisherman exhaled slowly and a thin haze of smoke rippled away from his pipe. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, you may have noticed that ship back there. It’s a warship.”
“Looks like.” The fisherman nodded.
“It means that Prince Valero is getting ready to start the holiday season just a bit early this year. A ship that size is meant to terrify, to control, and to kill.” Kenan ran his thumb along his lip. “It means he’s going back to the good old days when the Middle Sea ran red every summer with the blood of Espani, Italians, Numidians, Mazighs, and Hellans.”
“Could be.”
“And do you remember what would happen every autumn?”
The fisherman nodded. “The Persians came.”
“Yes, they did. And they would take whatever they wanted, and they would stay as long as they liked,” Kenan said. “My mother said it was always bad for business when the Persians came through, back in Port Chellah.”
“It was bad in Italia, very bad indeed,” Nicola said quietly.
“Bad in Malaga, too.” The fisherman shifted his foot on the winch to let out a bit of line and the sail swung out a bit farther.
Shifrah smiled. This boy is smart, and not just clever in the way that some angry young men could be, but really smart. He understands people. He doesn’t have to lie to get what he wants. That’s a child’s game. No, this boy tells the truth. No lies to remember, no lies to get caught in. And that’s why he’s going to live a very long time.
“I think we should do something about this ship, captain,” Kenan said. “You and I both know that the major is just going to get himself killed.”
“Most like.” The fisherman nodded. “That’s why I let him go. I’m no traitor.”
“I know you’re not. I’m not asking you to kill anyone or even to damage that ship back there, but I do need your help.”
The old man reached down and tightened his winch line again. “How?”
“The channel markers.” Kenan pointed at the buoy rocking on the rough waves at the mouth of harbor. A small bell clanged on top of it, and just below the below the bell was a ring of mirrors to reflect search lights and starlight. “They’re damaged by rough weather all the time. Waves. Lightning. Driftwood.”
“True.” The fisherman turned the tiller slightly.
“I think some of these markers here are due for a little damage.”
The fisherman shook his head. “We all need the markers. If we muck about with them, then the fishermen start running aground, losing traps, crossing lines, tearing nets. That’s a lot of good men losing their livelihoods for you. No, sir. I’ll take you to Tingis and you can have your blockade. That’s more than fair.”
Kenan frowned, then leaned down to paw through the major’s discarded coat. He sat up a moment later with a tiny Italian two-shot revolver in his hand, pointed at the captain. “I’m sorry about this. You’re a good man and you don’t deserve this, and I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if I have to. So now you’re going to help me break those markers, or I’ll kill you and then break them by myself.”
The fisherman’s eyes narrowed. He chewed his pipe for a moment. “All right then.”
His tone was as flat as ever. It might have meant he was willing to help, or that he was willing to die. But he nudged the tiller and the little sailboat swung toward the first marker buoy.
“Thank you.” Kenan slipped the gun into his pocket and leaned back.
Shifrah slipped her arm down around the young man’s waist and rested her head on his shoulder. It was an uncomfortable position, especially on a cold rocking boat, but she knew it would work. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and held her against his slender body, and he rested his chin on the top of her head.
She smiled. Dangerous, smart, and powerful, yes, but still just a man.