The World Shuffler (7 page)

Well, then—if there was a knife lying here on deck-an old rusty scaling knife, say, just carelessly tossed aside. I could get my hands on it, and—

“Lay down and sleep it off, landlubber,” a voice boomed, accompanying the suggestion with a kick on the ear that produced a shower of small ringed planets whirling in a mad dance. Lafayette blinked them away, snorted a sharp aroma of aged cheese and garlic from his nostrils. Something with the texture of barbed wire was rasping the side of his neck. He twisted away from it, felt something round rolling under him. An apple, he realized as it crunched, releasing a fresh fruity odor. And the cheese and the sausage ...

He held his breath. It was the lunch basket. The pirates had tossed it aboard along with the prisoners. And in the basket there had been a knife.

Lafayette opened one eye and checked the positions of his captors. Four of them stood heads together, intently studying the array of fishheads offered by the fifth. The sixth man lay snoring at their feet. Swinehild was huddled on the deck— knocked there by one of her would-be swains, no doubt.

Cautiously, O’Leary fingered the deck under him with his bound hands; inching sideways, he encountered the loaf of bread, reduced by soaking to a sodden paste, then a second apple, flattened by a boot. He reached the basket, felt over it, found it empty. The sausage lay half under it. Lafayette hitched himself forward another six inches, grinding the cheese under his shoulderblades. As the waves thumped the hull under him, his numb fingers closed over the haft of the knife.

It was small, the blade no more than four inches long—but it was big enough for his purpose. The crewmen were still busy with their lottery. Lafayette rolled over, struggled to his knees, maneuvered into position with his back against the tiller. Gripping the knife, he felt for the lashings, began sawing through the twisted rope.

It was an agonizing two minutes before a sharp, musical thong! sounded; the suddenly freed tiller gouged Lafayette painfully in the ribs as it slammed around to a full starboard position. Instantly the boat heeled sharply, falling away downwind. The crewmen, caught by surprise, reeled against the rail, grabbing for support. The boat gave a wild plunge, the sail slatting as the breeze struck it dead astern. Cordage creaked; the sail bulged, then, with a report like a pistol shot, filled. The boom swept across the deck— precisely at head height, Lafayette noted, as it gathered in the four sailors and sent them flying over the side, where they struck with a tremendous quadruple splash as the pilotless craft went leaping ahead across the dark water.

Four

“Your poor head,” Swinehild said, applying a cool compress made from a section of her skirt to one of the knots on O’Leary’s skull. “Them boys throwed you around like a sack o’turnips.”

“My ear feels the size of a baked potato, and about the same temperature,” Lafayette said. “Not that I suppose it actually gleams in the dark.” He peered across toward the misty glow in the middle distance toward which he was steering.

“In a way those hijackers did us a favor,” he commented. “We’d never have made such good time rowing.”

“You got kind of a irritating way o’ looking on the bright side, Lafe,” Swinehild sighed. “I wish you’d work on that.”

“Now, Swinehild, this is no time to be discouraged.” Lafayette jollied her. “True, we’re cold and wet and so tired we ache all over; but the worst is over. We got out of an extremely tight spot with no more than a few bruises to my head and your dignity. In a few minutes we’ll be tucking our feet under a table for a bowl of hot soup and a little drop of something to cut the chill, and then off to the best hotel in town.”

“Sure, it’s OK for you to talk. With that slick line o’ chatter o’ yours, you’ll probably land a swell job with the duke, soothsaying or something.”

“I don’t want a job,” Lafayette pointed out. “I just want to get out of Melange and back to the comfortable monotony I was fool enough to complain about a few hours ago.”

O’Leary brought the boat smartly about on the starboard tack, closing in on the ever-widening spread of city lights ahead. They passed a bell-buoy dinging lonesomely in the mist, sailed past a shore lined with high-fronted buildings recalling the waterfront at Amsterdam, backed by rising tiers of houses clustered about the base of a massive keep of lead-colored granite, approached a lighted loading dock where a number of nondescript small craft were tied up, bobbing gently on the waves. As they came alongside, Swinehild threw a line to an urchin, who hauled it in and made it fast. Flickering gas lights on the quay above shed a queasy light on wet cobbles well strewn with refuse. A couple of dockside loafers watched incuriously as Lafayette assisted Swinehild from the boat, tossing a nickel to the lad. A stray dog with a down-curled tail slunk away past the darkened fronts of the marine-supply houses across the way as they started across the cobbles.

“Geeze—the big town,” Swinehild said reverently, brushing a curl from her eyes. “Port Miasma—and it’s even bigger and glamorouser than I expected.”

“Um,” Lafayette said noncommittally, leading the way toward the lighted entry of a down-at-heels grog shop just visible at an angle halfway up a steep side street, before which a weathered board announced YE GUT BUCKET.

Inside the smoky but warm room, they took a corner table. The sleepy-eyed tavern-keeper silently accepted their order and shuffled away.

“Well, this is more like it,” Lafayette said with a sigh. “It’s been a strenuous night, but with a hot meal and a good bed to look forward to, we can’t complain.”

“The big town scares me, Lafe,” Swinehild said. “It’s so kind of impersonal, all hustle-bustle, no time for them little personal touches that mean so much to a body.”

“Hustle-bustle? It’s as dead as a foreclosed mortuary,” Lafayette muttered.

“Like this place,” Swinehild continued. “Open in the middle o’ the night. Never seen anything like it.”

“It’s hardly ten P.M.,” Lafayette pointed out. “And—”

“And besides that, I got to go,” Swinehild added. “And not a clump o’ bushes in sight.”

“There’s a room for it,” O’Leary said hastily. “Over there—where it says LADIES.”

“You mean—
inside?”

“Of course. You’re in town now, Swinehild. You have to start getting used to a few amenities—”

“Never mind; I’ll just duck out in the alley—”

“Swinehild! The ladies’ room, please!”

“You come with me.”

“I can’t—it’s for ladies only. There’s another one for men.”

“Well, think o’ that!” Swinehild shook her head wonderingly.

“Now hurry along, our soup will be here in a minute.”

“Wish me luck.” Swinehild rose and moved off hesitantly. Lafayette sighed, turned back the soggy lace from his wrists, used the worn napkin beside his plate to mop the condensed moisture from his face, sniffing the bouquet of chicken and onions drifting in from the kitchen. His mouth watered at the prospect. Except for a chunk of salami, and that plate of dubious pork back at the Beggar’s Bole, he hadn’t eaten a bite since lunch ...

Lunch, ten hours and a million years ago: the dainty table set up on the terrace, the snowy linen, the polished silver, the deft
sommelier
pouring the feather-light wine from the frosted and napkin-wrapped bottle, the delicate slices of savory ham, the angelfood cake with whipped cream, the paper-thin cup of steaming coffee—

“Hey—you!” a deep voice boomed across the room, shattering O’Leary’s reverie. He looked around to see who was thus rudely addressed, saw a pair of tall fellows in gold-braided blue tailcoats, white knee breeches, buckled shoes, and tricorner hats bearing down on him from the door.

“Yeah—it’s him,” the smaller of the two said, grabbing for his sword hilt. “Boy oh boy, the pinch of the week, and it’s ours, all ours, Snardley—so don’t louse it up.” The rapier cleared its sheath with a whistling rasp. Its owner waved it at O’Leary.

“Hold it right there, pal,” he said in a flinty voice. “You’re under arrest in the name of the duke!”

The second uniformed man had drawn a long-muzzled flintlock pistol of the type associated with Long John Silver; he flourished it in a careless manner at O’Leary’s head.

“You going in quiet, rube, or have I gotta plug you, resisting arrest?”

“You’ve got the wrong rube,” Lafayette replied impatiently. “I just arrived: I haven’t had time to break any laws—unless you’ve got one against breathing.”

“Not yet—but it’s a thought, wise guy.” The rapier-wielder jabbed sharply at him. “Better come along nice, Bo: Yockwell and me collect the same reward, dead or alive.”

“I seen what you taken and done to a couple pals of mine, which they was snuck up on from behind,” Yockwell warned. “I’m just itching for a excuse to get even.” He thumbed back the hammer of the big pistol with an ominous click.

“You’re out of your minds!” O’Leary protested. “I’ve never been to this water-logged slum before in my life!”

“Tell it to Duke Rodolpho.” The sword poked Lafayette painfully. “Pick ‘em up, Dude. We got a short walk ahead.”

O’Leary glanced toward the ladies’ room as he got to his feet: the door was closed and silent. The landlord stood furtive-eyed behind the bar, polishing a pewter tankard. Lafayette caught his eye, mouthed an urgent message. The man blinked and made a sign as if warding off the evil eye.

“You fellows are making a big mistake,” Lafayette said as a push helped him toward the door. “Probably right now the man you’re really after is making a fast getaway. Your bosses aren’t going to like it—”

“You either, chum. Now button the chin.”

A few furtive passersby gaped as the two cops herded O’Leary up the narrow, crooked street which wound sharply toward the grim pile towering over the town. They passed through a high iron gate guarded by a pair of sentries in uniforms like those of the arresting patrolmen, crossed a cobbled courtyard to a wooden door flanked by smoking flambeaux. It opened on a bright-lit room with hand-drawn WANTED posters on the walls, a wooden bench, a table stacked with curled papers in dusty bundles.

“Well, look who’s here,” a lean fellow with a yellowish complexion said, picking up a bedraggled quill and pulling a blank form toward him. “You made a mistake coming back, smart guy.”

“Coming back wh—” A sharp jab in the back cut off O’Leary’s objections. His captors grabbed his arms, hustled him through an iron-barred door and along a dark passage ending in a flight of steps that led downward into an odor like the gorilla house at the St. Louis zoo.

“Oh, no,” Lafayette protested, digging in his heels. “You’re not taking me down there!”

“Right,” Yockwell confirmed. “See you later, joker!” A foot in the seat propelled Lafayette forward; he half-leaped, half-fell down the steps, landed in a heap in a low-ceilinged chamber lit by a single tallow candle and lined with barred cages from which shaggy, animal-like faces leered. At one side of the room a man wider than his height sat on a three-legged stool paring his nails with a sixteen-inch Bowie knife.

“Welcome to the group,” the attendant called in a tone like a meat grinder gnawing through gristle. “Lucky fer you, we got a vacancy.”

Lafayette leaped to his feet and made three steps before an iron grille crashed down across the steps, barely missing his toes.

“Close,” the receptionist said. “Another six inches and I’d of been mopping brains off the floor.”

“What’s this all about?” Lafayette inquired in a broken voice.

“Easy,” the jailer said, jangling keys. “You’re back in stir, and this time you don’t sneak out when I ain’t looking.”

“I demand a lawyer. I don’t know what I’m accused of, but whatever it is, I’m innocent!”

“You never hit no guys over the head?” The jailer wrinkled his forehead in mock surprise.

“Well, as to that—”

“You never croaked nobody?”

“Not intentionally. You see—”

“Never conspired at a little larceny? Never wandered into the wrong bedroom by mistake?”

“I can explain—” Lafayette cried.

“Skip it,” the turnkey yawned, selecting a key from the ring. “We already had the trial. You’re guilty on all counts. Better relax and grab a few hours’ sleep, so’s you’ll be in shape for the big day tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What happens tomorrow?”

“Nothing much.” The jailer grabbed Lafayette by the collar of his bedraggled plum coat and hustled him into a cell. “Just a small beheading at dawn, with you as the main attraction.”

Lafayette huddled in the corner of the cramped cell, doing his best to ignore his various aches and pains, the itching occasioned by the insect life that shared his accommodations, the mice that ran across his feet, the thick, fudgy odor, and the deep, glottal snores of the other inmates. He also tried, with less success, to keep his mind off the grisly event scheduled for the next morning.

“Poor Swinehild,” he muttered to his knees. “She’ll think I ran off and deserted her. She’ll never trust another ladies’ room as long as she lives. Poor kid, alone in this miserable imitation of a medieval hell-town, with no money, no friends, no place to lay her head ...”

“Hey, Lafe,” a familiar voice hissed from the murk behind him. “This way. We got about six minutes to make it back up to the postern gate before the night watchman makes his next round!”

“Swinehild,” Lafayette mumbled, gaping at the tousled blond head poking through the rectangular aperture in the back wall of the cell. “Where did you—how—what—?”

“Shh! You’ll wake up the screw!” Lafayette glanced across toward the guard. He sat slumped on his stool like a dreaming Buddha, his fingers interlaced across his paunch, his head resting comfortably against the wall.

“I’ll hafta back out,” Swinehild said. “Come on; it’s a long crawl.” Her face disappeared. Lafayette tottered to his feet, started into the hole head first.

It was a roughly mortared tunnel barely big enough to admit him. A cold draft blew through it.

“Put the stone back,” Swinehild hissed.

“How? With my feet?”

“Well—let it go. Maybe nobody’ll notice it for a while in that light.”

His face bumped hers in the darkness; her lips nibbled his cheek. She giggled.