The Lightning Key (Wednesday Tales (Quality))

by Jon Berkeley

  He folded the map and checked on the circus freak, who was still tied to the saddle of Tau-Tau’s camel and appeared oddly cheerful. “Do you think my wrists could be tied in front instead of behind me?” she asked with an irritatingly uncowed smile. “That way I might be able to sleep.”

  “You can lie on your face,” said the Great Cortado nastily. He did not get the satisfaction he expected from his meanness, which only made him more annoyed as he pulled his sleeping bag from behind the camel’s saddle and tried to make himself comfortable on the rocky ground. They were in a bone-dry valley that twisted through the rock following the course of a dead river. The wind whistled and veered along the valley and stole whatever feeble heat the fire produced before he could gain the benefit. It would not be like this for much longer, he told himself. Soon he would be furred, feared and striped, free of all the petty humiliations that he endured on a daily basis.

  “It’s very generous of you to allow Doctor Tau-Tau to become master of the Tiger’s Egg,” said the girl, interrupting his thoughts.

  The Great Cortado propped himself up on one elbow and glared at Little. “What do you know about that?” he said sharply.

  “Oh, not much,” said Little. “Only what Doctor Tau-Tau himself told me.”

  “Which was?” said Cortado, trying not to sound too interested.

  Little shrugged. “All that stuff about a Tiger’s Egg taking around a week to adopt a new master. I’m sure you know much more about it than me.”

  “Of course,” said the Great Cortado. He did not like the sound of this at all. He needed to winkle more information out of the freak somehow. He got out of his sleeping bag and walked over to where she sat. “Stand up,” he said. He untied the rope that bound her wrists, then retied them in front of her. “That should help,” he muttered. It was a long time since he had attempted any act of kindness, and it felt strange, like wearing his shoes on the wrong feet. He turned his back abruptly and returned to his sleeping bag.

  “Thank you,” said Little.

  “Tau-Tau is just carrying the Egg for me,” said Cortado. “He might as well serve some purpose.”

  “But the Egg will bind itself to whoever is carrying it,” said Little, pretending surprise.

  The ringmaster frowned. “It’s nothing to do with you,” he said. “Get some sleep and forget about it.”

  “If you say so,” said Little. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply, but she was still awake when Doctor Tau-Tau returned breathless to the fire and dropped an armload of dust and twigs onto it, promptly smothering the flame.

  “You’re an idiot, Tau-Tau,” she heard the Great Cortado say coldly. His voice lowered, and he said, “Now, give me that thing you have in your pocket.”

  “What thing?” said Doctor Tau-Tau suspiciously.

  “The Tiger’s Egg, you fool. Give it to me and get your sleeping bag. We’ll be up before the sun, and I don’t want you taking an afternoon nap and falling off your camel.”

  “The Tiger’s Egg should remain in my care,” protested Tau-Tau. “I am, after all, the expert in—”

  The Great Cortado’s voice cut in like a scalpel before the fortune-teller could describe his expertise. It was not a voice that invited argument. “Give it to me, Tau-Tau, or I will personally stake you out at midday and send gilt-edged invitations to the league of vultures.”

  Miles Wednesday, dry-eyed and sand-jointed, lay awake and listened to the breeze whispering tales of the sea as it riffled through the palm fronds. He and Baltinglass had been given a tent for the night, while the servants who usually occupied it slept with the camels by the water’s edge. Although he knew that Kadin al Arfam’s men were discreetly searching the oasis for Little, he had slept only fitfully, and as the night drew on without a sign of her he was impatient to resume their pursuit. Baltinglass, on the other hand, had stayed up exchanging stories with Kadin for some time, and now slept like a baby on the other cot, a new ivory-handled swordstick clasped to his chest.

  Miles turned restlessly and watched the strip of torchlight that lay across the sandy floor, waiting for a scorpion to cross it. Only when it sidled into view did he wonder how he had known that the scorpion was about to appear. A feeling came over him that was like déjà vu but inside out. It was not that he felt he had seen that same scorpion before; rather that he had known he was about to see it. He knew this was the “far eyes” that the Shriveled Fella of the Fir Bolg had seen in him. He had no idea how it worked, but it happened only when danger loomed, and he held his breath and listened.

  As the feeling grew stronger he slid quietly from under his mosquito net and crept to the other side of the tent. The scorpion was not the danger. It scuttled away at the sight of him and vanished under the tent flap. There was something else, but he could not put his finger on it. He crouched by the foot of Baltinglass’s cot, trying to remember what was about to happen. There it was! A shadow on the tent wall, and moments later a long sword plunged through the fabric and straight into the bed where he had lain only seconds before.

  “Baltinglass!” he hissed, giving the sleeping explorer a sharp poke in the ribs. He knew, of course, that this would have the worst possible effect on the old man, which was exactly what he wanted. Baltinglass leaped from his cot with a hoarse shout, and Miles ducked quickly as the ivory-handled sword shot from its cane and sang through the air. At the same moment a figure with a cloth-wrapped face stepped in through the long slit in the tent wall, and the two swords sparked together as though their owners were electrically charged. Baltinglass, having risen so quickly, had his mosquito net wrapped around his head like some nightmare bride. This was no great hindrance to him, since his fighting technique involved slashing with bewildering speed at any place his opponent could possibly be, but it must have looked quite alarming to the assassin.

  Miles had dropped to all fours at once and quickly crawled around behind the stranger. The nightmare bride’s veil had given him an idea. As the two fighters circled each other, Baltinglass slicing the air into tiny sections and the other man warily looking for an opening, Miles stealthily unhooked his own mosquito net and crept carefully closer to the fray. He planned to throw it over the stranger and shout a warning to Baltinglass at the same moment. The net was not strong, but with luck the two of them would be able to subdue the assassin long enough for help to come.

  The stranger lunged, but Baltinglass’s sword met his with the force of a propeller intercepting a bird. The assassin grunted with shock, but before he or Miles could act, Baltinglass did something quite unexpected. He stopped whirling his sword and muttered, “I’m too old for this!” Then he withdrew an ornate pistol from the waistband of his long johns and fired a single shot in the general direction of his opponent.

  Miles dropped to the ground again. The assassin stepped backward, clutching the side of his neck, tripped over Miles and fell with a crash onto the vacated cot, which closed around him like an oyster guarding a pearl.

  “That did the trick,” panted Baltinglass, sitting down heavily on his own bed. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Miles. The stranger was struggling to free himself, but Baltinglass’s shot had brought the sound of running and shouting, and several men came tumbling in through the door of the tent.

  “Are you dead, Master Miles?” shouted Baltinglass over the uproar.

  “No,” said Miles, “just lying down.” In truth he had no choice. He had been pinned down by two of Kadin al Arfam’s men, and others had swarmed over the veiled intruder and over Baltinglass himself, who had fortunately had enough of fighting for one night.

  Miles, Baltinglass and the assassin were manhandled to their feet and marched into their host’s adjoining tent. The blue man of the desert sat in his habitual seat, but his hair stuck up like a parrot’s crest and his robe was misbuttoned. He glowered at his guests and their attacker with his purpose-built eyebrows. “Unwrap those men,” he commanded.

  The mosquito net and the lo
ng black cloth were unwound from their respective heads, and Miles gave a gasp of surprise as the assassin’s face was revealed. “Captain Tripoli!” he said.

  “I owe you a heartfelt apology, Mr. Wednesday,” said the captain. There was a dark welt on the side of his neck where the bullet had grazed him. “And you, Mr. Baltinglass,” he added, “though I would have been sorry to miss such an . . . unusual swordfight.”

  “But . . . why?” said Miles. He was beginning to shake with delayed shock.

  “A regrettable error,” said the captain. “I was convinced that you were the two men who destroyed my ship.”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the mad one here,” yelled Baltinglass. “How did you manage to mistake us for that pair of hooligans?”

  “Do I understand,” interrupted Kadin al Arfam, “that you intended to kill both of my guests, but that no one suffered more than a scratch?”

  “That was a stroke of good fortune, wasn’t it, Mr. Arfam?” said Miles.

  “Indeed it was, for both of you,” said Kadin, “but it will be less lucky for your attacker, who must now lose his head.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Miles. “He was really after the same men that we are.”

  “If that is so,” said the blue man, addressing himself to Captain Tripoli, “why did you attempt to murder two of my guests?”

  The captain stood ramrod straight, as though addressing a military court. “When I arrived at the oasis I heard that two foreigners were sleeping in your servants’ tent,” he said, “and that they were in pursuit of three other foreigners—two men and a small girl, who had left after stopping to water their camels. I reasoned that the travelers who had continued on their journey must be my friends here, and therefore the ones who remained at the oasis must be Cortado and Tau-Tau, the arsonists who destroyed my ship.”

  “That makes sense, in a mildly deranged way,” said Baltinglass. “And I must admit I also found our little scrap invigorating. Not a bit sorry I shot you, though. That’ll teach you to knock first.”

  The blue man of the desert steepled his fingers and thought for a while. “For the crime of attacking travelers who are under my protection, you will pay a fine of twelve goats, or six camels, or four white camels, before the next full moon. You will have your sword returned to you only when you leave. If you fail to pay in livestock when the debt is due I will collect your head instead.”

  “Or you could get struck by lightning,” muttered Baltinglass. “It worked for me.”

  They were interrupted by one of the horsemen who had met them on their arrival at the oasis. “Excuse me, effendi,” he said, ducking in through the tent flap. “I have found a boy who gave the two foreigners directions when they stopped for water.”

  A serious-looking boy stepped into the tent after him. He had ears that stuck out like two coins. “I helped the strangers with their camels,” he said. “They had a small girl with them, but she was tied to a camel and could not dismount. They showed me a map, but I did not understand it, and they asked me the way to Kagu.”

  “Did you tell them to follow the ridge?” asked Kadin al Arfam.

  The boy shook his head. “I told them to take the wadi,” he said.

  “The wadi winds like a snake,” said Kadin. “Why did you send them the long way?”

  “They did not understand the desert,” said the boy, “and they did not have protection from the sun. I told them that way so they would not get lost and they might at least find shade.”

  “That was wise of you,” said Kadin.

  “And fortunate for us,” remarked Captain Tripoli.

  “I was sorry I helped them,” said the boy. “They left me with nothing but an insult, and rode away complaining.”

  “What is your name, boy?” asked Kadin.

  “I am Nasir, effendi.”

  “Go to the end of my tent, Nasir, and choose for yourself the reward you should have received for your kindness. Be sure also that the men who you helped will soon be rewarded for their insult.”

  The boy nodded his thanks and turned to Miles. “Are you Miles?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Miles.

  “The girl gave me a message for you while the men were soaking their heads,” said Nasir. “She said her eyes were clear and her claws were sharp. I did not see any claws.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Miles, smiling. “They only come out when they’re needed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A CHEAP CONJURER

  Captain Tripoli, pencil-black and desert-raised, urged his camel onward through the withering heat with his sword by his side and his captain’s epaulettes in his saddlebag. His mind seemed to point like an arrow at his objective, and his brusque entry into the tent during the night showed he was a man who liked to act decisively. Miles worried that things could get swiftly out of hand if Captain Tripoli reached their quarry before him.

  Baltinglass rode beside him, nodding slightly now and then, but never looking as if he were in any danger of slipping off his mount. They had been outfitted properly for the desert by Kadin al Arfam, with new indigo head cloths and comfortable robes, and as Miles grew more skilled at riding it was becoming harder to spot that they were foreigners.

  “I think we should catch up to Captain Tripoli,” said Miles.

  “The captain knows where he’s going,” said Baltinglass.

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” said Miles.

  “I see your point,” said Baltinglass. “Tell me, Master Miles, who’s the leader of this expedition?”

  “I thought I was,” said Miles, “but now I’m not so sure.”

  “If you don’t hold on to the lead, the dog will run away,” said Baltinglass.

  Miles thought about this. He remembered something the captain had said aboard the Sunfish, and he urged Sanaam on until he caught up with him. “Captain Tripoli,” he said.

  “Mr. Wednesday?” said the captain, without turning to look at him.

  “You said before that only what happened aboard the Sunfish was under your jurisdiction.”

  “That’s true,” said the captain, “but the Sunfish is destroyed, and for that crime I carry my justice with me.”

  “I have reasons to want the Great Cortado and Doctor Tau-Tau punished too,” said Miles, “but they have Little with them as a hostage, and there are other things complicating the situation.”

  “Each of us must follow his own path,” said the captain. “I will be careful not to harm the girl.”

  “You’ve joined my expedition,” said Miles, keeping a wary eye on the captain’s sword, “and I think we need to be careful about charging in waving our swords about.”

  “I have joined nothing,” said Captain Tripoli. “We are just traveling the same route for the present. Remember that if it weren’t for you I would still be sailing the skies in the Sunfish.”

  “If it weren’t for me you would be riding the desert with your head under your arm,” said Miles. “And as for the Sunfish, maybe she should have had a brig after all, instead of cabins with complimentary books of matches in them.”

  The captain reined in his camel and drew his sword, and you might be interested to know that a swiftly drawn sword really does make the sound zzingg. There was an answering snick from behind as Baltinglass cocked his pistol. The captain spoke coldly. “You would do well to remember how close you came to finding yourself on the end of this sword.”

  “I do remember,” said Miles, “but I got out of the way, and all you murdered was a mattress.”

  Captain Tripoli was silent for a moment; then his eyes creased with amusement and he laughed. He sheathed his sword. “You are right, of course,” he said. “Restraint was never my strong point, I’m afraid. How do you plan to deal with these men when we catch them?”

  “I never play until I’ve seen the cards,” said Miles. He glanced at Baltinglass, who had lowered his pistol with a look of disappointment.

  “I suppose I don’t
get a second shot, then?” said Baltinglass. “Draws a bit to the right, this gun, but I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “And I wouldn’t stand still for you twice either,” said Captain Tripoli. He turned his camel’s head to the path. “Perhaps you’d like to lead the way, Mr. Wednesday.”

  They rode into the gathering heat along a sandy ridge that curved gently through the desert for as far as they could see. Miles had examined the map and knew that the dried riverbed wound more tortuously to the west of them. This was the route that Cortado and Tau-Tau had taken, and Miles and Baltinglass had worked out that they should be able to intercept them at a place where the wadi cut a wide arc around a tall pillar of rock. He could see the pillar even now, dancing on the horizon ahead of them. The harsh sunlight sucked the distance from the landscape, and as the camels padded steadily on he watched their long-legged shadows stretching out to the right, like a stand of violet palm trees stalking along the rippling sands.

  In the midafternoon they reached the bend in the wadi, and drew cautiously to the edge. Down below them was a broad river of sand and pebbles that would run with water no more than once a century. In the center of the loop a tall finger of rock stretched to the sky, draping its shadow down into the riverbed and back up the far bank. Two figures could be seen in the shadow, and their angry voices echoed from the sandstone bluffs.