But his blade was against the man's throat.
"Meu Deus. Briggs' Yoruba." The man quickly switched to Portuguese. "Felicitacao, senhor. You're every bit as fast as I'd thought. Shall we call it a draw?"
It was the branco, the one who had freed his slaves. The last man on the island he wished to kill. Shango would be incensed.
"I think one of us must die." He held the broken blade hard against the flesh, and he could almost feel the pulse of blood just beneath the skin.
"It's both of us, or neither, by Jesus. Think about that."
"Your pistol had only one bullet. It is gone."
"Take a look and you'll see there're two barrels." The tall man had not wavered.
"Shall I just blow the thievin' bastard to hell, Cap'n?" It was the voice of the man who had been asleep. From the corner of his eye Atiba could see him standing by the foremast. There was the click of a flintlock being cocked.
"No, John. He's like to slit my throat in the bargain with what's left of his God-cursed machete." The words were in English. Then the man switched back to Portuguese. "A trade, senhor. A life for a life."
"In Ife we say we cannot dwell in a house together without speaking to one another. But if you betray me, you will answer for it to all my clan. Remember that." The broken machete slowly pulled away, then dropped to the deck.