The Tiger’s Prey

The Tiger’s Prey
Wilbur Smith

Tom Harper

The Malabar coast is full of dangers: greedy tradesmen, fearless pirates, and men full of vengeance. But for a Courtney, the greatest danger might just be his own family…Francis Courtney flees the comfort of his Devonshire estate when his stepfather’s gambling debts leave him penniless and at risk. He sails to South Africa with revenge and fortune on his mind: his uncle Tom Courtney killed his father, and Francis intends to avenge his death and make his fortune in the process. However, upon his arrival in Cape Town, he uncovers a truth that leaves him overwhelmed and disoriented.Christopher Courtney sets out to make his own way in the world, giving up his privileged position as the son of the Governor of Bombay. The perils and betrayals (deleted) on his journey carve a fierce warrior out of him, but they also harden his soul and lead him to greater violence and treachery. As the lives of these two Courtney men intertwine, the sins of the fathers will forever alter the lives of a younger generation.The Tiger’s Prey takes readers on an epic journey from the southernmost point of Africa, through the perilous waters of the Arabian Sea, to the lush Indian coastline. It is an incredible and breathless tale of intrigue and family betrayal from one of the world’s greatest storytellers.

Copyright (#ulink_6aef2ce2-d7be-5f30-85b0-9bac48a4187b)

HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Orion Mintaka (UK) Ltd 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover images © Stephen Mulcahey and Shutterstock.com (http://www.shutterstock.com)

Map © John Gilkes 2017

Wilbur Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780007535910

Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780007535934

Version: 2018-04-16

Dedication (#ulink_1173c47d-f859-5811-8e47-d8f5a3e91092)

I dedicate this book to my wife Niso,

who illuminates my life day and night.

I love you more than words can wield the matter.

Contents

Cover (#u6b10a3a2-5262-5442-900f-517da9525f1a)

Title Page (#ud7423915-9591-518c-82f6-ca979e00927d)

Copyright (#uf2e60c23-9736-53b5-9244-e24b13255594)

Dedication (#ub62308dc-18d6-5eba-9e19-5e42db7abc44)

The Tiger’s Prey (#u6681c6c2-5536-5e8e-9802-7fe780ba309a)

About Wilbur Smith (#litres_trial_promo)

About Tom Harper (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Wilbur Smith (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

The Dowager was carrying too much canvas. A warm monsoon breeze whipped the ocean into white peaks that glittered in the sun that shone from a sapphire sky. Her sails bulged, topsails and topgallants straining fit to snap their sheets. Her hull, heavy-laden, wallowed in the high waves rolling across the Indian Ocean. She was running for her life.

Her master, Josiah Inchbird, stood on the quarterdeck and looked astern at the ship following them. She’d appeared at dawn, long and low and sleek as a ravenous wolf. Red-painted gun ports chequered her black hull. She was gaining on them.

He checked the clouds of canvas flying overhead. The wind had stiffened; and the sails were straining at their seams. He dared not fly much more without risking disaster. On the other hand, disaster was certain if he did not take that risk.

‘Mr Evans,’ he hailed his mate. ‘All hands to set staysails.’

Evans, a hollow-eyed Welshman in his late thirties, glanced up at the sails and frowned. ‘In this breeze, sir? She can’t take much more.’

‘Damn you, Mr Evans, but you’ll get those sails bent on now. I’ll hang our laundry from the yards if it’ll get us another half a knot.’

Inchbird had spent twenty years sailing these oceans, working his way gradually up to command while lesser men with better connections had overhauled him at every turn. He’d survived voyages when half the crew had been buried over the side in their hammocks, in the pestilential ports of India and the Spice Islands. He wasn’t going to jeopardize his ship now.

‘What are you doing?’

A woman’s voice, calm and authoritative, cut across the quarterdeck. Some of the crew paused, halfway up the ratlines. After three weeks at sea, the sight of a woman on the quarterdeck was still a spectacle they enjoyed.

Inchbird bit back the curse that rose naturally to his lips. ‘Senhora Duarte. This doesn’t concern you. It is better if you remain below decks.’

She glanced up at the sails. Her long dark hair blew out in the wind, framing a smooth olive-skinned face. Her body was so slim that it seemed a strong gust might have whipped her overboard. Yet Inchbird knew from bitter experience that she was not so frail.

‘Of course it concerns me,’ she said. ‘If you lose this ship, we all will die.’

The men were still watching from the rigging. Evans, the mate, lashed out with his starter. ‘Get on with it, lads, or you’ll feel the bite of my rope end.’

Reluctantly, they began to move again. Inchbird felt his authority ebbing away as the woman stared him down.

‘Get below,’ he ordered. ‘Do I have to tell you what pirates will do to ladies they capture?’

‘Deck there,’ called the lookout in the crosstrees. ‘She’s running up her colours.’ Then, so loud they all heard it on deck, ‘Sweet Jesus.’

He didn’t have to say any more. They could all see it: the black flag snapping from their enemy’s mainmast and, a second later, the red flag at her fore.

‘No quarter!’ was the warning it gave them.