Free The Barbary Pirates by William Dietrich Page A

passenger overboard.
    “For your own safety!” I called as he splashed into the dirty water, his hat drifting away like a little raft.
    Then I finally got my rapier clear and pointed at the gondolier’s throat. “The Grand Canal! Don’t worry, there’s a tip in it for you!”
    Our helmsman looked goggle-eyed at my blade. “Should I sing, signor?”
    “Save your breath for the stroke. We’re rather in a hurry.” As he began powering us down the canal, I turned to the others. Smith was already swabbing out his blunderbuss and pouring in fresh powder. “Cuvier, get out those pretty pistols of yours and shoot the rascals when they reach the canal. Fulton, please don’t play a song.”
    “They put a hole in my bagpipes, damn it.”
    “Then invent something else.” I tried to remember the city’s confusing spaghetti of canals. “We’ll go to San Marco harbor and see if we can buy our way onto a ship out of here.”
    “My God, who was that woman?” Smith asked, his hand trembling slightly as he tamped down a fresh fusillade of shot. Killing is a jolt, especially the first time.
    “Not one to flirt, I guess. It’s a bet she’s working for our enemies. I think we’re in a race to the secret of Thira, which means that I’m afraid we shouldn’t have tarried after all. I expected better of Venice. Especially after the price of our inn.”
    “I see something following us,” Cuvier said, peering back into the dark. There was a flash as his pistols went off, blinding us to whatever he had aimed at. I couldn’t believe he’d hit a thing with his popguns, but we heard a wang of ricocheting lead, and a yell.
    “By mastodon tusks, they work!” he cried. “We’re quite the dangerous men!”
    We swept past a curve and back into darkness, then squirted out of the small canal into the broad one that makes a sweeping “S” through the city. It’s a canyon of grand mansions four and five stories high, candles and lanterns gleaming behind tall windows to reveal aged munificence within, the leftovers of glittering empire. I saw centuries-old tapestries, crystal chandeliers, brocaded curtains, and white, moonlike faces peering out in curiosity at our noise. We sculled under the Rialto Bridge, lovers strolling its arched promenade, and headed toward the city’s main harbor and the anchored ships off the Piazza San Marco. Domes and towers loomed up against the stars, and the sound of opera floated across dark water.
    “I think we discouraged them,” Smith ventured, looking back.
    “I’m afraid I must disagree, Monsieur Smith,” Cuvier replied, pointing ahead with one of his pistols, the ramrod jutting from its barrel because he was reloading. “Our pursuers seem to have a lot of company.”
    A line of gondolas was sweeping down to intercept us from the canal ahead, blocking our intended escape. We spied enough gleaming metal to fill an armory. There was a ripple of flashes and spouts of water kicked up around us as the reports of the shots echoed off the buildings. Chips of wood flew off our gondola, and our helmsman froze.
    “I’ll skewer you if you try to jump!” I warned him, my rapier aimed again at this throat. “Steer into that side canal there, before they get off another volley!”
    We turned into a small channel that cut across the island by a different path. Maybe we could lose our pursuers in the liquid labyrinth that was Venice. This narrow tributary was dark, the houses seeming to lean in. Only the water gleamed.
    A lantern appeared behind as the gondolas in pursuit followed us. We could hear the furious thrashing of their oars. I fired my rifle again at the lead boat and its light danced, but didn’t go out. Someone fell into the water, and more guns fired back. Bullets pinged off the stonework and we involuntarily flinched. “Wish I could see to aim for their gondolier,” I muttered as I reloaded.
    “Please leave us out of this, signor,” our own said with quavering voice. Realizing he was