Read Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 for Free Online Page B

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    land, but once I got in that damned cage, I couldn't get myself back out again. The latch caught!"
    “When we called down to you, you didn't answer,” Paddy accused. “Why?"
    “I didn't know if you was friend or foe!” Stevens defended. “I'd had to keep my hand over the lad's
    mouth while the pirates was on board. He was moaning, you see, the fever having set in on him from the
    beating and the drenching. You'd have probably never heard us if his irons hadn't rattled."
    “It's a damned good thing they did,” Tarnes told him.
    Stevens looked at the Second Mate. “Aye, I suppose it is."
    “And you don't have any idea who he is,” Weir probed.
    “I didn't say that."
    Patrick stared hard at the man. “You said you didn't know his name!"
    Stevens’ eyes narrowed. “I said I didn't know it for sure, but you never asked if I had a notion as to
    who he might be."
    Weir sighed, putting up a hand to forestall Patrick's bellow. “Who do you think he is, Mr. Stevens?"
    The old salt looked at the Captain and grinned; liking the title of respect he hadn't heard in a long, long
    time. “I believe he might be the Duke's son."
    “That Duke's son?” Paddy snapped, despite Weir's cautioning look. “Virago has a piss pot full of
    Dukes!"
    “The old man everybody was afraid of, the one that died in that mishap on board the Lady Tasha."
    There was a sudden silence that seemed to still everything on board the Wind Lass. Three men faced
    Jarl Stevens with faces blank and set.
    “Duke Sorn? Giles Sorn?” Weir asked.
    “That's the one. If I'm right, that there's his oldest boy, Syn-Jern."
    Weir jerked, looked away from the probing stare of his best friend, Patrick Kasella. He walked to the
    rail, braced his hands on the shining teak railing, and stared out to sea. He felt cold all the way to the tips
    of his toes.
    “You knew him? Duke Sorn?” Stevens asked.
    Weir nodded though he didn't turn around. When he spoke, his voice was tight. “Aye, I knew the
    bastard."
    Stevens looked to Patrick. “Is there something I ought to be told?"
    Paddy swung his attention from Weir's rigid back to the concerned face of the old man. “Maybe. If your
    friend in there is who you think he is, then you just might have something to worry about."
    “The sins of the father,” Weir whispered. His concentration was steady on the rolling green of the ocean
    span.
    Not liking the silence, the looks Paddy and Tarnes were giving him, Stevens drew himself up. “That boy
    couldn't have done nothing to you. I know for a fact he's been in the Maze for nigh on ten year!"
    Weir pushed away from the railing and turned to face Stevens. “But he might be Giles Sorn's son."
    “What's that got to do with the price of tea in Chrystallus?” Stevens growled.
    Saur squinted. “It was Giles Sorn who turned my father in to the Tribunal.” He left the rail and came
    forward, his shoulders hunched with fury. “It was Giles Sorn who paid the back taxes on my father's
    lands and then took them for his own.” He reached Stevens.
    “And it was Giles Sorn who put my sister and me off that land after our father was murdered trying to
    keep those same lands!” He snarled down into Steven's face. “My sister Genevieve was sent to the
    Galrath nunnery to be raised. I was luckier; I was sent to the orphanage in Fealst. That was nearly twenty
    years ago! It wasn't until two years ago that we found one another again. We've got Giles Sorn to thank
    for that. The son-of-a-bitch died before I was old enough to avenge my father's death and being taken
    away from the only family I had left!"
    “But that was the father,” Stevens protested. “That boy in your cabin can't be no older than you. He
    couldn't have been a part of that evil. He'd have been a boy himself!"
    Weir Saur shook his head. “It doesn't matter!” he mumbled, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his
    cords.
    “It sure as hell does!” The old man reached out to take hold of Weir's arm,