Voyage of Slaves (13 page)

However, Ben was unaware of her voice. Suddenly his entire being was filled with visions of Vanderdecken, the captain of the
Flying Dutchman,
and his ghastly crew.

They were lurking in the gloom of the passage, waiting for both him and Ned. Hands with clawlike nails, bitten black and puce by frostbite, scrabbled to grab them. Grimacing faces of the long dead hissed curses of hatred at the pair, who had, by the grace of the Lord’s angel, escaped the eternal voyage of the damned aboard the hellship.

Ben and Ned stood petrified within the alleyway opening as Captain Vanderdecken, master of the
Flying Dutchman,
loomed large in front of them. His insane eyes glittered balefully, and he snarled at them through bloodless lips.

“I have been waiting for you, my children, always waiting, knowing you would return to the sea, where I can claim you as my own forever. Come to me!”

Serafina left off teasing her friends, suddenly frightened and concerned for them. They were both trembling as if in the grip of a severe fever. Ben’s face was ashen, coated in icy sweat, while Ned was whining, cowering like some beaten cur. The girl shook them, calling out in alarm.

“Ben! Ned! What is it, are you ill?” She tugged them bodily out onto the sunlit deck.

The black Labrador gave a long, piteous moan, and the boy collapsed in a heap. Alerted by the dog’s howl and the girl’s shouts, the troupe came hurrying from their cabins.

Bomba watched the scene, listening to what went on as he leaned against the midship rails. One of the crew was with him, a small, furtive-looking villain called Abrit. They saw Otto pick Ben up and carry him to the fo’c’sle deck, where he seated him with his back to a locker. Mamma Rizzoli chafed the boy’s cold hands and patted his cheeks, trying to restore their colour.

“By all the saints, what happened to him,
cara mia
?”

Serafina looked up from hugging Ned, obviously baffled. “I don’t know, Mamma, he was afraid to go into the passage between the cabins—Ned, too. They went all pale and shaky, so I pulled them back out onto the deck.”

Signore Rizzoli ventured a diagnosis. “Maybe it is the
mal de mer,
the seasickness. There are some who suffer badly from it.”

La Lindi indicated the dog. “And Ned, too? It is very odd, both of them overcome by seasickness at the same moment.”

Mummo suggested helpfully, “Perhaps Ned was not seasick. I think he was distressed just because his master fell ill. Look, Ben is beginning to come round!”

Opening his eyes slowly, Ben stared at the anxious faces gathered around him. He caught the thoughts Ned was directing at him.

“They think you’ve been seasick, mate, so stick to that explanation. We don’t want them knowing about the Dutchman!”

Serafina passed a clean, damp cloth over Ben’s forehead. “You had me worried. How are you feeling now?”

The boy’s strange, clouded eyes blinked gratefully at her. He sat up straight, wiping damp hair from his brow. “I think seasickness suddenly took hold of me, Serafina. It was either that or the heat and darkness of that alleyway, I’m not sure. I’ll be alright now, don’t worry. Ned and I will stay out on deck for the rest of the trip. Thanks for the help you gave us.”

Bomba saw Otto glance his way; he averted his eyes, making it appear that he had no interest in what was going on upon the foredeck. The slave driver whispered to the small crewman alongside him, “How would you like to earn two gold pieces, my friend?”

Greed shone in Abrit’s eyes. “Two gold pieces, eh, who d’you want me to kill?”

The big man continued staring out to sea. “Are you still good at throwing the knife?”

Abrit patted the handle of the long, hefty dagger which he carried in the back of his waistband. “I can throw this blade like no other, you have seen me do it many times before, Bomba. Who do you want dead?”

Bomba drew close to the assassin’s ear, whispering, “The infidel boy, he will be sleeping out on deck from now on. A swift throw in the dark night watches, one slain brat slipping gently into the sea. Who would know? The boy was ill anyhow. What could be simpler to one of your skills, little man?”

Abrit glanced up at Ben, then looked away. “The dog, it never leaves his side. For three gold pieces I would rid you of them both.”

Bomba frowned. “You are the son of a miserly she-wolf. Two gold coins is a fair price, even for both of them. What do you say, eh?”

Abrit shook his head, sticking to his price. “Three gold coins, or you do the job yourself. The dog cannot be left alive once the boy is slain. Three!”

Bomba spat over the side, knowing the small man had won. “Three it is, then, but I want the thing done properly!”

Abrit nodded. “When I kill them, they stay dead, believe me. Payment in advance, give me the gold now, friend.”

Grumbling, Bomba slipped him three thin coins. “There, it is all I possess. You are a mean little man!”

Testing each coin with his teeth, the assassin chuckled. “Aye, and you will be a big, happy man tomorrow morning. The poor boy leaned overboard to be sick during the night. Alas, he fell into the sea, and his faithful hound went after him. So, the ship sails on, and they are both gone forever. Then you will be avenged for the loss of face and favour with our master, Al Misurata!”

Bomba hated his fall from grace being discussed. “Shut your mouth and go about your business, you spawn of sun-dried camel spit!”

Abrit smiled sweetly, though his eyes were hard as stone. “Sometimes I do not throw the knife. Often I just creep up and slip it twixt the ribs of big men who have insulted Abrit. Guard your tongue, friend Bomba!” He strode jauntily off, whistling between his teeth.

SOFT AS DARK VELVET, THE MEDITERRANEAN cast its warm enchantment over the waves. Each riplet reflected glimmers of golden light from myriad stars, and a segment of crescent moon.

Ben and Ned were on the fo’c’sle head deck, taking their ease on a few blankets, which Mamma Rizzoli had provided for them. Ben lay gazing up at the beautiful night sky, the
Sea Djinn
swaying gently on the swell as he conversed with his friend.

“We’re safe out here on deck, mate, but I won’t be really happy until we’re well clear of this ship.”

Ned settled his chin across the boy’s feet. “Aye, back on dry land, far from the ghost of old Vanderdecken. Y’know, it’s odd that we haven’t had any messages of warnings from our angel for a long time now. At least I haven’t, have you?”

Ben let his eyes close. “Not that I can recall. I expect sooner or later the angel will let us know when it’s time for us to move on. Though I hope it’s not sooner. I like being with the troupe, they’re a good bunch.”

The black Labrador wrinkled his nose. “What you really mean is that you like being with Serafina. Oh, don’t deny it, mate, she’s a pretty fascinating girl. I like her a lot, too, y’know—not in the way you do, though. Still, I suppose you’re entitled to a little joy in this eternal life of ours. Just as long as you don’t fall too deeply in love and get badly hurt by it.”

Ben reached down and ruffled his dog’s ears. “Poor old Ned, what about you?”

The dog sighed gustily. “Oh, I suppose in some century or other I’ll stumble across a pretty, young, golden Labrador, a soft, doe-eyed thing with a coat like honey. Right, that’s enough of talk like that, m’boy. Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and we don’t know what tomorrow holds in store for us. G’night, mate!”

Below them, underneath the forecastle steps which led up from amidships, Abrit lay hidden, waiting with the patience of an assassin. He ran his palm along the deadly blade, caressing its razor edge and sharp point, thinking of how he would spend his gold in the seaport taverns of Slovenija. The little man had killed many times before; he never gave a second thought to his victims, only the pleasures their blood money could provide.

Time passed slowly, as minutes crept into hours. In the men’s cabin Otto was tending to his moustache with elaborate care. Having trimmed and combed it fastidiously, he produced his scented pomade, massaging it into the hairs and twirling the ends into tight points, which bristled out either side.

Mummo held his nose as he complained, “Whew! Do you have to use that stuff, Otto? It smells like a camel’s breakfast left to rot in some cheap bazaar!”

Using his snuff box lid as a mirror, the big German inspected his moustache proudly. “Ach, you have no appreciation of the finer things, Mummo. This pomade is made from attar of violets and the wax from honeybees. It is very special and most expensive,
mein Freund.
”
²²

The clown wiped a palm across his damp brow. His normally ruddy complexion had taken on a sickly pallor. “I wish you’d put it away.
Mamma mia,
the odour is making me feel queasy!”

“As you wish.” The strongman put his pomade back in its snuff box, and settled into a hammock. Then he began to rock back and forth. This gave Mummo even more cause for complaint.

“Can’t you keep that thing still, Otto? What with the ship going up and down, and you swinging from side to side, and the smell of that moustache ointment clogging my nostrils, it’s making me giddy!”

Buffo nudged Signore Rizzoli, chuckling. “Another case of the
mal de mer
, eh?”

Mummo denied the accusation indignantly. “I’ve never been seasick in my entire life!”

Buffo had a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I never said you were seasick, brother. You’ll be alright in the morning, won’t he, Augusto?”

Signore Rizzoli caught on to the joke. “Of course he will, after a good breakfast of tomatoes and peppers, mixed in with scrambled eggs. . . .”

He got no further. Mummo clapped a hand across his mouth, and gave a strangled belch. Leaping up, he made a beeline for the cabin door.

“Mmmmff! Goin’ for a turn around the deck. Mmmfff!”

He dashed out, leaving his brother winking at Otto.

“Never been seasick before, eh?”

Rocking back and forth in his hammock, the strongman nodded solemnly. “
Ja,
but there is always a first time, I am thinking.”

Abrit judged the time just right; he had waited long enough, both boy and dog were sound asleep. He came from beneath the steps and mounted them carefully, silent as a moonshadow. The small assassin kept to the edges of the wooden stairs. He walked splay-legged, to avoid any creaks. It took him awhile to negotiate the twelve steps, but Abrit was in no hurry. The business of murder, he knew, required stealth and patience.

Standing at the edge of the forecastle deck, he concentrated on his targets. The infidel boy was lying on his side, presenting his back as a perfect target. The dog sprawled on its stomach, close to its master’s feet. Abrit drew his long dagger, the one he used for throwing. He checked that he had the other knife, a small, double-edged blade, stowed at the front of his waist sash. This he would use to despatch the dog speedily.

Drawing back the heavy throwing knife, he raised his elbow to shoulder level. Holding the blade’s blunt back edge firmly with his whole hand, he felt the perfect balance between arm and knife. The assassin judged the distance, centering on the nape of the sleeping boy’s neck and tensing himself for the throw.

Clad only in his nightshirt, Mummo padded out onto the deck barefoot. He leaned back against the midship rail, breathing deeply to rid himself of the nausea he was feeling. The clown avoided looking at the sea—it shifted too much. He glanced about the deck, and could not help seeing the man. Like a huge spider he was creeping up the forecastle steps, obviously up to no good. Reaching the fo’c’sle deck, he drew a long dagger and began hefting it.

As a performer, Mummo had seen knife throwers before. Ben was up there, probably asleep. The clown’s brain was racing. What to do? He could not reach the man in time to halt his throw. Then he saw the belaying pins. There were several of them slotted through holes around the foremost of the midship masts. Mummo sprang forward and grasped one. It was a polished length of teak, about the same size and weight as the Indian clubs which he and his brother used in their act. He tossed it in his hand; it was a good weight, and had the right taper to it.

The man still had his back to Mummo, unaware that he was being watched. Now his arm came back, he was making the throw. All feelings of seasickness had deserted Mummo. Twirling the belaying pin in one hand he uttered a low whistle and hurled the pin forcefully at the assassin. Abrit turned at the sound of Mummo’s whistle.

The teak belaying pin struck him squarely between both eyes. He fell sideways down the steps to the midship deck, where he lay still, his head twisted at a grotesque angle, his hand still clenching the knifeblade.

Roused by the noise, Ben and Ned ran to the top of the steps. Mummo was standing below, looking up at them and holding a finger to his lips for silence. Boy, dog and clown all stood stock-still for several seconds, expecting crewmen to come running. However, the incident had passed unnoticed, nobody aboard had stirred.