Rapscallion

way of telling them they were there at his whim, prisoners within a prison.

Entering the hold after the constraints of the orlop, Hawkwood felt as if he was walking into a cathedral. For the first time since leaving the top deck, he found he could stand upright. The relief was exquisite. They were deep inside the belly of the ship. Broad wooden ribs curved high around them. Shingle ballast cracked as loudly as eggshells beneath their heels. Matisse picked his way between the deck joists like a spider crossing the strands of a web.

Provision casks, including the water barrels, were embedded in the shingle and stacked in tiers about them, with the larger casks at the bottom to take the load. Wedges had been driven under the stacks for additional stability.

A mixture of strong odours dominated the hold's interior: leakage from the casks, stagnant water and rotten food, along with tar and cordage. There were other pungent smells, too. The whiff of vinegar and sulphur, a legacy from the last time the hold had been fumigated, did little to mask the smell of the rats. With a ready-made food source at their whisker-tips, the rodents had grown numerous and bold. Dust from their droppings drifted in the air like dandelion spores, accumulating at the back of the throat, while at every turn a swift flash of sleek, silken fur would catch the eye as the animals scampered away from the approaching glimmer of the lanterns.

'Top hatches are closed,' Matisse said. 'Next delivery boats aren't due till morning. We've got the place to ourselves.'

At a signal from Matisse his men strung the lanterns from the beams. As the darkness withdrew and the candleglow grew stronger, Matisse reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a pair of spectacles. He placed them carefully on his nose and made great play of securing them behind the backs of his ears. At once, his face was transformed, for the spectacle lenses were round and dark and matched almost exactly the circumference of his eye sockets. When the pale face was viewed full on, the resemblance to a naked skull was uncanny and disturbing.

'When you're ready, Dupin!' Matisse said. He looked at Hawkwood. 'My apologies, Captain; we're a little short of pistols and foils. We've had to turn to our own devices; as you'll see.'

Lasseur frowned.

Hawkwood looked around at the flattened barrel hoops. An uneasy feeling began to spread through him.

Dupin walked into the circle.

'Catch,' he said.

Hawkwood had barely time to react. As he snatched the object out of the air, he saw what it was. It looked the same as the sticks the fencing class had been using the day the well deck was invaded, with one noticeable augmentation. Bound tightly by twine to the end of the stick was an open razor.

'What's this?' Lasseur demanded.

Matisse tipped his head to one side. The spectacle lenses were like black holes in his face. 'What did you think 'trial by combat' meant, Captain? A boxing match?'

'British law forbids duelling,' Hawkwood said. 'Even on the hulks.'

'British law doesn't apply here, Captain. We make our own law - Matisse's law.'

Hawkwood gazed down at the weapon. It was remarkably light and almost as flexible as a real foil. There was a momentary gleam as lantern light glanced off the six-inch blade.

Matisse grinned. 'A shade crude, perhaps, but in the right hands it's very effective. It was Corporal Sarazin over there who came up with the idea. He saw them used to settle disputes when he was a prisoner on Cabrera.'

Hawkwood recognized the name. Cabrera was a tiny island, ten miles to the south of Majorca. From what he'd heard, the prison there made Rapacious look like paradise. It had achieved its notoriety following the French defeat at Baylen, when the Comte de l'Etang surrendered his entire corps of eighteen thousand men to the Spanish. The senior staff officers were repatriated. The rank and file were sentenced first to the Cadiz hulks and then to the island. Some had later been transferred to England. It occurred to Hawkwood it had probably been some of those men who'd been cast into Portsmouth Harbour by the crew of the Vengeance.

'Sarazin was at Millbay for a time, too. They used compass points there instead of blades, but we found they're not quite as effective. Not so readily available, either. I put it down to your friend Fouchet's geometry and navigation classes.' The Corsican gave a dry chuckle.

Hawkwood stared at the blade then at Matisse. 'And if I choose not to fight?' he asked.

'Then you forfeit. The boy remains with us. His future's in your hands, Captain.'

'And if I win, you'll give the boy up?'

'I told you: in the event of that happening, the boy will be set free. You have my word.'

'What are the rules?'

'There are no rules,' Matisse said.

Several of the men laughed.

Lasseur frowned. 'Then what determines the outcome of the contest? Is it the first to draw blood?'

'No, it's when one of them stops breathing.'

The interior of the hold went still. Only the creaking of the hulk's timbers broke the silence.

The blood drained from Lasseur's face. 'This is madness!'

'No, it's how we maintain order. There has to be order. You see that, don't you? You're military men. You understand the need for discipline. Without it, there'd be anarchy. Can't have that. It would upset the balance.'

'No!' Lasseur said. 'You cannot do this!' He threw Hawkwood a despairing look.

'Oh, but I can. Down here I can do anything I like.'

He stared at Hawkwood. It was a blatant challenge.

A voice spoke softly inside Hawkwood's head. Walk away now!

'At least take the boy outside,' Hawkwood said. 'He doesn't need to see this.'

Matisse shook his head. 'On the contrary, I think it will do him the world of good. His first blooding. It could be the making of him. If Kemel Bey does his work, it might even be his first time for experiencing other pleasures, too.' Matisse chuckled softly and squeezed the boy's shoulders. 'How's your Latin,

Captain? You strike me as an educated man. Do you know the phrase: Jus primae noctis? It means the law of the first night. We call it the lord's right in French. My right. I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to it. Our evening entertainments have been lamentably dull of late. It's why we look forward to fresh arrivals. It gives us a chance to meet new . . . friends.'

There was movement behind Dupin. The putrid air prickled with tension as the Mameluke emerged from the ring of men and stepped into the light. He'd removed his jacket. His torso was bare. Dressed only in the pantaloons, he stood as still and as silent as a statue, arms loose by his sides, looking neither right nor left.

Lasseur leant close and whispered nervously. 'Please tell me you can best him.'

Hawkwood studied the Mameluke. He wondered what was going through the man's mind. There was no change of expression, no show of concern in the eyes or anything in the face to imply that the man had heard or understood any of the conversation. Hawkwood had been shown an automaton once, a wondrous mechanical device that had consisted of a small, perfectly made manikin in the figure of a Turk. By a remarkable system of levers, rods and pulleys, the automaton had sprung to life, folding its arms and bowing its head, even smoking a tiny hookah pipe. Kemel Bey looked like a life-sized version of the toy; a mechanical man awaiting instructions.

'I was hoping for a quicker response,' Lasseur murmured.

Hawkwood wasn't listening. He was looking at the Mameluke's scars. Back on the orlop, they had been concealed by the darkness and the prison coat. Now, with coat discarded, they were plainly visible within the ring of lantern light. There was no symmetry to them. They formed a tapestry up his right arm from wrist to shoulder like a pattern of twigs cast haphazardly on to the ground. There were more scars across the firm flesh of his abdomen and along the ridges of his upper chest. The latter, however, looked quite old and showed as pale, raised streaks against his dark skin. The ones along his arm appeared more recent.

Matisse's voice broke into his thoughts. 'Don't let the scars fool you, Captain Hooper. Kemel Bey's quite an expert with the razor, but then he's had the practice. How many have there been, Dupin? Is it four or five?'

'Six,' Dupin muttered. 'You're forgetting the Swiss.'

'Ah, yes, the Swiss. I always forget the Swiss. Mind you, it's easily done. They're a forgettable race, like their