Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 Read Online Free PDF

reached out and touched the man's thin arm. “Drink
    that,” he ordered, nodding at the cup. “You've probably never had anything like it and I promise you will
    enjoy it."
    The weak man lifted the cup, put the rim to his lips and seemed to sigh as though he would do as he was
    told simply because he'd been told to.
    “The old man we found with you is finally up and about. He was anxious to get to work. Not a bad sort,
    is he?"
    Weir's companion shook his head.
    “Helped you, did he?"
    A brief, thoughtful nod.
    “That's good.” Weir yawned, stretched, and then stood up, arching his back to relieve the tension in his
    shoulders. He looked about the cabin, pleased to see his sister had at least started to clean the
    bookshelves. He jerked his head toward the stack of books on his desk. “Do you read Serenian?"
    Another nod: hesitant, unsure.
    “Then, help yourself.” Weir leaned over and picked up three books at random. He read the titles,
    cocked a brow at his companion, and then handed a thick volume of short stories to him. He was more
    pleased than he could admit when a hesitant hand took the thick tome from him. “Enjoy it."
    The patient followed Weir's departure from the cabin, stared a long time at the closed door before finally
    looking down at the book cradled lovingly against his thin chest. He pulled the book away from him, read
    the title, closed his eyes, and hugged the volume of short stories to him once more.
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Chapter Five
    “He still hasn't spoken?” Jarl Stevens asked. He stopped in his task of sluicing the deck and leaned on his
    mop, looked hard at Patrick Kasella.
    “He will,” Paddy said, stepping briskly past the old man. The sight of the ex-prison ship guard never
    failed to anger him.
    “You want me to try talking to the lad?"
    Patrick spun around, his hand came up, and he pointed a rigid finger at the old man. “You keep the hell
    away from him! Do you hear me? He doesn't need anyone reminding him of what was done to him!"
    “And I suppose you know what was done to him?” Stevens shot back, his craggy brows drawing
    together.
    “Aye, I sure as hell do!” Patrick shouted.
    “All of it?” was the sly rejoinder.
    “What do you mean by ‘all'?” Norbert Tarnes, the Second Mate, inquired from his position on the main
    deck.
    “Keep out of this, Norb!” Patrick growled. He walked back to the old man and glared down into a face
    weathered from many years at sea. “I know what they do to escaped prisoners, Stevens. He'll get over
    it; his hands are almost healed now.” He leaned forward, intending to intimidate the smaller, shorter man.
    “If you want to stay on this ship until we make landfall, you'd best stay the hell out of my way. That man
    is no longer your problem. We'll make sure he gets all the help he needs."
    “And will he get over what Janssen did to him, too?” Jarl Stevens snapped, throwing the mop down to
    the deck. He put his gnarled hands on his hips and stood toe to toe with Paddy. “You think he'll just
    forget about being keelhauled under the Tamarind and nearly drowned?"
    Patrick's face blanched. His mouth dropped open and he turned to look into Norbert Tarnes’ shocked
    face.
    “That's what they did.” Stevens eyed the man looming over him with contempt. “They tied him up and
    drug him under the ship. The lad was barely alive when they brought him up. He was terrified of the
    water even before he went under. You could hear him screaming all the way to Necroman and back
    when they pushed him over the side. Of course, that was after he'd been screaming and pleading and
    begging them for over an hour not to do it."
    “Maybe he's strained his throat and all, Paddy,” Norbert Tarnes remarked. “Maybe that's why he ain't
    said nothing to us."
    “He was hoarse by the time that son-of-a-whoring-slut had him heaved over the rail,” Stevens told them.
    “He ain't said a single word since they pulled him out."
    “Why didn't you