Scalpdancers (4 page)

His answer was translated and passed among the surrounding throng. But Chiang Lu was not finished. He had been carefully appraising the gamecock Morgan Penmerry held.

“A fine bird. This honorable one hopes he may find a suitable opponent.” Chiang Lu smiled. Morgan's blood ran cold, for despite the Chinese warlord's civility, there was not a trace of warmth in his eyes. “I find,” Chiang Lu continued, “I must avail myself of an esteemed associate's assistance.”

“Oh, shit,” Temp muttered from behind the captain.

Morgan turned and allowed his gaze to sweep across the audience. Chiang Lu's servant had passed among them and stopped alongside another ship's captain, a man Morgan immediately recognized.

“Demetrius Vlad,” Morgan said.

Captain Demetrius Vlad was a known criminal, an exile who, it was rumored, plied the seas not only as an “honest” merchant but kept a pirate's colors as well, ready to fly at will. Of course, such dark tales remained unsubstantiated, for no one had ever lived to offer proof.

Vlad was a man of average height, with finely chiseled, almost feminine features. His brown hair was concealed beneath a purple scarf tied close to his skull and draped down his back. A close-cropped beard followed his jawline and added substance to a slightly receding chin. Vlad carried a bamboo cage under his arm as he descended to the floor of the arena. He wore high-topped boots, as were the fashion, and tight linen trousers and a scarlet waistcoat adorned with brass buttons and gold braid.

His foppish manner did not fool Morgan Penmerry, who knew the exiled Russian to be a skilled swordsman. Vlad bowed to the Cornishman and his host, Chiang Lu.

“I believe you know my esteemed associate,” Chiang Lu said to the fur trader.

Morgan's interest was aroused. The Chinese warlord obviously implied a closer relationship with the Russian than Morgan had been aware of. Considering Vlad's reputation, it made sense.

“Captain Vlad has supplied me with innumerable services. He is a most resourceful… uh … partner,” Chiang Lu explained without revealing anything of substance.

Macao was a chaotic port over which Chiang Lu cast a long shadow. However, there were any number of noblemen eager to take Chiang Lu's place in the sun. An unscrupulous renegade like Vlad no doubt came in handy in controlling any serious competition. Morgan wondered if Chiang Lu's home guard, the ominously impassive Blue Wing Dragons; were strictly for defense of Chiang Lu's hillside estate. Might they not be dispatched through the night-lit city to swoop down like birds of prey on some hapless merchant who had encroached on Chiang Lu's economic domain?

“Captain Morgan Penmerry is it? We're old friends,” the Russian said in perfect English.

“You'd better rethink that term, Demetrius. It hardly' applies to you and me,” Morgan said.

Vlad frowned for a second, then chuckled softly. “‘By Tre, Pol, and Pen, you shall know the Cornish men,'” the Russian quoted. “And I know you, Penmerry. Rogue, scoundrel, trickster.”

“At your service.” Morgan bowed grandly with a sweep of an imaginary hat.

“No, at yours.” Vlad reached into the cage and withdrew an enormous black Asil, the same breed as Morgan's, but half again as large. The bird had been hooded to keep it docile.

A murmur of disbelief and approval filtered through the crowd, and betting was renewed at a furious pace. Odds were changed at the sight of the big black, and Morgan's Asil became the immediate underdog. Still, there were a few shrewd men who saw past the difference in size and noted in Morgan Penmerry's blood-red bird a quickness and quality of breeding worth risking their gold on.

“Do I detect antagonism in your voice? My, my. How uncharitable. After all, we are so much alike in nature.” Vlad added as he stroked the black. “We are both men of the sea. We do not mind bending the rules of a game so long as we win.”

“Maybe you're right, Demetrius. However, there are some games I will not play. And in that, we differ.”

“Such as …”

“Well—Let's just say the
Hotspur
flies only one flag, that of a free trader, and has no use for the skull and crossbones.”

Vlad flushed. The affront left him speechless. Under different circumstances he would have put his glove in Morgan's face. “Out of deference to our host I shall allow that remark to pass,” Vlad said, tight lipped and seething from Morgan's insult.

“Then return to your seat. My wager is with Chiang Lu,” Morgan said, warily eyeing the black Asil.

“He is my esteemed associate,” Chiang Lu interjected, enjoying the confrontation he had instigated. A servant had brought him a plate of
dim sum
—succulently prepared appetizers of shrimp dumplings, morsels of fried taro, and steamed beef balls covered with lotus leaf. Chiang Lu sampled one of the dumplings, then returned the saucer to his servant. He washed down the food with a few sips of chrysanthemum tea. “You will fight the black,” the Chinese lord concluded, wiping his fingers on the servant's shirt sleeves.

Morgan shrugged and said, “As you wish.” He took his place on one side of the arena. Temp Rawlins followed him, a look of complete exasperation on the old seaman's weatherworn visage.

“Captain, I'm thinking the old brig lizard that raised you oughta be keelhauled 'cause he did a piss-poor job,” Temp growled.

“He was a salty dog, but I wouldn't trade a king's ransom for the times we shared.” Morgan winked at Temp. “He taught me the love of ships and how to tell a squall from a hurricane.”

Temp was not easily swayed by the compliment. “Too bad I didn't learn you when a bluffs gone too far. We'll wind up throat-slit and hanging from a meat stall on the Rue de Lorchas.”

“Bah. You're seeing only one side of the coin.” Morgan glanced toward the rim of the cock pit in hopes of spying the reverend's daughter, and sure enough, Julia Emerson was still there—watching him, or so it seemed. Morgan bowed. The girl looked startled, caught off guard, and she pointedly turned her attention elsewhere.

“We got enough troubles. A parson's daughter's about as lucky as a dead albatross. You better keep your mind on the troubles at hand,” Temp warned.

“Troubles? What troubles? Little Red here is prime.” Morgan's Asil sensed the hour was at hand and the bird uttered a guttural trill.

Across the pit Vlad removed the hood from the black and stepped to the center of the arena. The Russian exile looked bold and confident—and why not? Who faced him but a craggy, crooked-nosed Cornishman with more brawn than brains?

Morgan turned his back to the Russian and nodded to Temp, who wearily held the gamecock while Morgan drew a small amber flask from the sash circling his waist. The slender bottle contained a mouthful of whiskey blended with a fiery curry. Morgan drained the bottle, retrieved the gamecock, and spewed the contents of the flask onto the gamecock's anus. The Asil's brassy caw rose an octave and turned positively shrill. The bird struggled violently to free itself from Morgan's grasp. The fur trader hurried to the center of the arena and held the pain-crazed gamecock inches above the ground. Vlad and Morgan nodded to Chiang Lu, who retreated to the dais. The feathered combatants pecked at each other, eager to battle.

At Chiang Lu's signal a servant crashed two tiny cymbals together. Morgan and the Russian, on cue, released their gamecocks and darted out of harm's way. The Asils hit the ground and attacked.

The Russian's black was obviously accustomed to intimidating lesser gamecocks by virtue of its size. Little Red had no quit in it. And size meant nothing. Pain blinded it. Pain drove it into such a furious state, the gamecock would have lunged for a lion if the beast had been dropped into the pit.

The cocks closed with a flurry of flapping wings, jabbing beaks, and raking spurs. Nothing suited them like combat. They were bred for war like gladiators of old.

The Asils fluttered into the air a few feet, then dropped to the hard-packed earth and rose again, thrusting down with the metal spurs.

The black gave a good account of itself. By rights, Morgan's gamecock should have retreated and perhaps even surrendered, brought down by the wounds streaking its muscled frame, but the curry and whiskey that had blistered the inside of Morgan's mouth drove the smaller gamecock mad—and the madness saved its life.

The black was a vicious fighter, but it had never learned cunning. It was used to having its adversaries crumble before its onslaught. Not this time. Morgan's ploy had left the red berserk. The gamecock felt none of its wounds; it knew only rage.

Little Red was unstoppable; the smaller bird's ferocity overpowered the black for all the latter's size and strength. Slowly, for the first time in any contest, the black gave ground, confused by the savagery that confronted it. And in retreating, off balance, the Russian's gamecock began to miss with its flashing spurs. Blood spewed from a dozen wounds and matted the bird's once sleek black feathers. Suddenly, to the utter astonishment of Demetrius Vlad and his cohorts, the black collapsed, its throat slashed. The gamecock flapped its wings in a fitful, piteous gesture of defeat while its conqueror continued to jab and slash with all the mercy of a Hun.

Morgan gingerly stepped up behind his Asil and caught up the bird. He kept a firm grip on the wings and kept his own lower anatomy clear of those crimson spurs until he'd returned the gamecock to its bamboo cage. Captain Morgan Penmerry turned then to accept the enthusiastic applause of the few men shrewd enough to wager on his success. The rest of the crowd grimaced in disgust as they paid their debts.

Morgan swung around and faced Chiang Lu upon his dais and held the valiant red Asil before him in a ritualistic salute to the owner of the pit.

“I believe you owe me a sack of gold!” Morgan shouted above the crowd.

A gunshot reverberated off the walls of the arena and the cage flew from Morgan's grasp as a 50-caliber lead ball shattered the bamboo and destroyed the battle-scarred gamecock within. The room fell silent and those men with bodyguards darted behind their hired henchmen as the shattered cage bearing the gamecock's bloody remains skidded across the earthen floor.

“I saw what you did.” Demetrius Vlad lowered his flintlock. Black smoke curled from the pistol barrel. “That flask was illegal. In this pit you must win your gold fairly.”

“Son of a bitch,” Temp growled and reached beneath his coat. Morgan stayed the old seaman. The Cornishman had counted three of Vlad's crew seated among the spectators. And then there were the Blue Wing Dragons. True, these henchmen were in Chiang Lu's employ. Then again, so was Demetrius Vlad. So Captain Morgan Penmerry swallowed his anger and kept Temp Rawlins from getting them both killed.

“I have no other gamecock to contest with,” Morgan said.

“Neither do I,” Vlad replied.

“Then what do you have in mind?” Morgan Penmerry did not like the way Vlad was grinning.

For an answer the Russian exile tossed the pistol aside and held out his hand. His second in command, a beefy Moroccan known as Abdul, handed Vlad a cossack's saber.

“So that's it,” Morgan said under his breath. He glanced down at the remains at his feet and recited:

“Behold a generous train of cocks repair,

To die for glory in the toils of war.

Each hero burns to conquer or to die;

What mighty hearts in little bosoms lie.”

It was all he remembered of a poem he'd once discovered in a faded little journal. The words seemed a fitting epitaph.

Morgan Penmerry fixed the Russian in a steel-eyed stare. Vlad, uncowed by his opponent's gaze, advanced to the center of the pit. Morgan glanced up at Chiang Lu. The Chinese warlord seemed unmoved by the turn of events. As for the spectators, they immediately began to wager among themselves as if another two gamecocks had been brought into the pit.

Vlad unfastened his waistcoat to free his sword arm. Morgan, in blousy shirt and tight nankeen pants, was unarmed save for a throwing dagger hidden inside one of his high-topped black boots. But Temp Rawlins carried a cutlass.…

“No, sir. This is plumb crazy,” Temp moaned as Morgan slid the old seaman's blade from his belt.

The basket hilt fit easily in Morgan's grip. He took a couple of swipes at the empty air to accustom himself to the weight of the blade. It was a common weapon, unadorned in contrast to the gold-filigreed hilt of the cossack saber Vlad brandished. The cutlass was no work of art, simply a tool—thirty inches of curved, heavy, steel blade jutting from a utilitarian brass hilt and sharpened to a point for thrusting, with a razor-sharp edge for slash and parry. Yes, it was a tool right enough, made for only one purpose: killing.

Gold and notes of credit changed hands at a furious pace as Morgan cautiously stepped within the reach of Vlad's saber. The crowd chattered among themselves as tension grew. “The Russian seems so confident and just look at that saber.” “Such a fine weapon and several inches longer than Penmerry's humble blade.” “Wager on Vlad, look at his bearing, study his poise.” “How can we lose? Vlad is a prancing stallion. And Penmerry, look at him, slouched, thick bodied like an ox.”

The two men faced each other and within seconds the silence between them quieted the crowd circling the pit. Here was the ultimate sport. And like ancient Romans, these revelers of Macao grew still in wicked anticipation of what was to come.

Demetrius Vlad was the first to move. He lunged forward and brought the cossack saber slashing down in a vicious attack designed to cleave his troublesome foe from nose to navel.

It didn't happen. Cossack steel crashed against Morgan's blade and rang out with a resounding clang. And Morgan, with surprising quickness, stepped inside the Russian's reach and delivered a vicious kick to Vlad's right leg, at the side of the knee. The Russian lost his balance as his leg buckled. He toppled backward, unable to avoid Morgan's attack. The cutlass glanced off the saber and swept down and across, catching Vlad along the left side of his cheek and forehead. The Russian shrieked, dropped his saber, and covered his face in his hands. The contest had lasted all of fifteen seconds.