by Jon Berkeley
“I have made a deep study of the subject,” came Doctor Tau-Tau’s voice, “and I am the best qualified to divine—”
“You’re nothing but a cheap conjurer, Tau-Tau. The only divining you’ve done lately is divining where the water skin is kept,” said the Great Cortado, his words echoing from every side.
“I’m big-boned. I need a lot of hydrating.”
“You even wasted water on the freak!” said Cortado.
“She’ll die if she doesn’t drink.”
“Better her than us. She’s of little value anyway. They haven’t even come looking for her.”
The two men stood cloaked in the rock’s shadow, silhouetted against the glaring sand. Cortado reached into his pocket and handed something to the fortune-teller. Miles searched anxiously for Little. He could see the outline of a sitting camel beside the two men, but there was no sign of the Song Angel.
“Here,” came an echoing sneer from the Great Cortado, “prove yourself useful with this. If you can divine a fast route to the next oasis you might live. Right now there’s only enough water left for me.”
Doctor Tau-Tau’s voice took on an unexpectedly hard edge. “Now you see it; now you don’t,” he said, spreading the fingers of his empty hands. “There are some advantages to being a cheap conjurer, Cortado. We share the water, or the Egg is mine.”
“You tasseled baboon!” shouted Cortado, his voice rising to a dangerous pitch.
“Sounds like they might finish the job for us,” whispered Baltinglass of Araby.
“That would be disappointing,” said Captain Tripoli.
“I can’t see Little,” said Miles.
The captain produced a small spyglass and put it to his eye. He swept the wadi and stopped at the base of the rock pillar. “One of their camels is wandering,” he said. “I can’t be sure, but it looks like the girl might be on it.”
“Let me see,” said Miles, almost snatching the spyglass from the captain. The rocks leaped toward him, dancing giddily before he got the hang of steadying the glass. He found the camel and recognized Little’s shape perched on the saddle. She seemed to be slumped forward, but he could not tell if she was unconscious or just trying to keep a low profile. If he had not been so worried he would probably have realized that she was leaning down to whisper in the camel’s ear without being heard. She was fifty yards or more from her captors, and the camel was moving as quietly as a camel possibly can, pace by pace toward the shelter of the rock column and out of the Great Cortado’s reach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A CRACK SHOT
Miles Wednesday, sunbaked, dust-caked and thirsty, returned the spyglass to Captain Tripoli. “It’s her,” he whispered. Down below them the Great Cortado and Doctor Tau-Tau had resorted to a wrestling match, their shouted curses echoing around the wadi. Cortado was trying to search the fortune-teller’s pockets, while Tau-Tau attempted to subdue him by sitting on him. Their movements were slow and clumsy, and their skin was red and blistered from the sun.
Captain Tripoli crawled back from the edge and got to his feet. “The girl is safe enough,” he said, mounting his camel. “It’s time to dispatch them to the world beyond, before they manage to do it for themselves.”
“Wait,” said Miles. “It’s not that simple. You don’t know what they took from me.”
“We can retrieve your property when I’ve exercised my right,” said Captain Tripoli, no longer bothering to whisper. He spurred his camel over the edge of the wadi and set off at a gallop down the crumbling slope, drawing his sword as he went. Little looked up from her camel in surprise, but the ringmaster and his bulky opponent seemed so caught up in their futile wrestling match that it was several seconds before they noticed the captain bearing down on them at the head of an expanding cloud of dust.
They sprang apart quickly. The Great Cortado scrambled for his saddlebag, but Doctor Tau-Tau merely straightened his fez, confident that it would be clear to the stranger that he was the innocent party and his associate was the real villain. It was as well he thought that, as his saddlebag was halfway up the wadi on an escaping camel and contained no weapon in any case.
As the shrouded figure of Captain Tripoli continued to gallop nearer, his sword held high, Tau-Tau became less sure of this strategy. He reached hastily up his sleeve and retrieved an egg-shaped stone no bigger than an olive. “Catch!” he said in a high-pitched squeak, and tossed it to the surprised Cortado. The ringmaster dropped a slim throwing knife he had just taken from his saddlebag and fumbled to catch the Tiger’s Egg, almost dropping it in the sand. “He’s got it!” shouted Doctor Tau-Tau, pointing at Cortado. The captain thundered on.
“Don’t give it to me, you idiot,” shouted the Great Cortado, tossing the Egg back to Doctor Tau-Tau. “Work the thing. Call up the tiger!”
Meanwhile Miles had mounted his own camel and taken the plunge over the edge of the bluff. He could feel Sanaam’s broad feet sliding on the scree as they descended, and all his attention was focused on not falling off and breaking his neck. He did not know whether to go to Little’s assistance or to join the impending battle, only that whatever he should do would not be achieved by sitting safely on the ridge.
“Give me a fix,” bellowed Baltinglass after him. “Just give me a fix when you get there. I’m a crack shot when I know where the target is.”
Miles reached the riverbed in time to see Tau-Tau and the Great Cortado scrambling to mount their remaining camel, having realized too late that the other one had wandered off. Doctor Tau-Tau was babbling a frightened mix of incantations and pure nonsense as he fought for saddle space, and the Great Cortado was using his crop to thrash both the camel and the fortune-teller with equal vigor. Captain Tripoli was almost upon them now, with only a large boulder of striped sandstone in his path. It looked as though it was all over for the ringmaster and his henchfool, but if the captain had been a patient man he might have learned from Miles that they had one desperate trick up their sleeve.
As the captain reached the striped boulder it reared up suddenly, and his camel shied and stumbled, kicking up a cloud of dust and almost pitching the captain to the ground.
Miles could see now that it was not a boulder that stood in the captain’s path, but a Bengal tiger. The tiger lunged at Captain Tripoli’s camel, who kicked out wildly before tumbling to the ground. The captain rolled over and sprang to his feet, raising his sword, but the two animals were locked in a savage struggle and he could not see an opening in the dust cloud they created.
The sight of the tiger had spurred Cortado’s camel more effectively than any amount of whipping could have done, and he was now bolting away along the riverbed with the two fugitives still scrabbling for position on his back. As they galloped off into the shimmering heat the Great Cortado twisted in the saddle, and with a deft flick he sent a blade spinning back the way he had come. The tiger sprang up with a furious roar, leaving Captain Tripoli’s camel lying motionless in the sand, and the captain himself facing his enraged attacker with nothing to protect him but a drawn sword and a coating of beige dust.
Miles dismounted from his camel at a safe distance and warily approached the tiger and the captain, who circled each other in the dry riverbed. The tiger, snarling and bedraggled, had lost the luster and majesty that once had marked him out as a king among beasts. He looked a desperate animal now, savage and hungry, and were it not for his distinctive face markings Miles would hardly have recognized him.
“You don’t need to fight each other,” said Miles.
“This is a dangerous beast,” said Captain Tripoli, without taking his eye off the tiger. “It killed my camel.”
“And you can stay out of this,” snarled the tiger.
The captain started at the sound of the tiger’s voice. He glanced quickly at Miles, as though he suspected the boy might be a skilled ventriloquist.
“Captain Tripoli is not your enemy,” said Miles to the tiger. He could not remember his throat ever being so dry.
“What trickery is this?” said the captain.
“It’s not trickery; it’s conversation,” said Miles. “The tiger was once my friend.”
The tiger pricked up his ears suddenly, as though hearing a distant call, and without further warning he opened his mouth in a snarl and leaped at Captain Tripoli. The captain, distracted by the marvel of the talking animal, reacted too late. In a moment he was down, and the tiger was tearing at the cloth wrapped thickly around his head.
Miles could think of nothing better than to run forward shouting, “Shoo!” as though chasing a goat that was chewing the laundry. The captain’s sword lay in the sand, but Miles could not bring himself to contemplate using it on the tiger. Captain Tripoli called out in fear as the tiger bared his teeth and prepared to bite, and so Miles did the only thing he could think of to do: He ran around behind the tiger, drew back his foot and delivered the hardest kick he could muster to the striped backside of the king of the beasts.
Now, if you have ever stood in a dried riverbed and kicked an irate tiger in the backside, you are either a very fast runner or blessed with a catering-size portion of luck, assuming you are not reading this from beyond the grave. Miles himself was no stranger to good fortune, but his first instinct was to rely on his sprinting abilities, and he ran toward the pillar of rock as fast as his legs would carry him. He could hear the tiger gaining on him, his paws spitting pebbles and a growl rumbling in his chest like the sound of an empty crate dragging on the ground. Miles ran faster.
He caught sight of a shadow out of the corner of his eye. It was too close to be Little, who should have reached the ridge by now. The tiger’s breath was right behind him, and everything seemed to switch into slow motion. He felt as though he were running through molasses, but he was sure the tiger had slowed too. He risked a glance over his shoulder. The tiger had indeed slowed to a walk, and as Miles watched he came to a halt ten paces behind, his hackles rising. The shadowy figure that Miles had glimpsed moments before was seated on a shelf of rock that jutted out from the bluff. Miles could not make out the features, but he knew at once that it was Bluehart.
“Well, well,” said Bluehart’s voice, which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Two birds with one stone.”
Miles felt the expected wave of tiredness creeping up behind his eyes. There he stood, half-baked in sand, a vengeful captain lying motionless behind him, his father lost in the darkness, his wingless sister weak with thirst, a tiger on his tail and a blind man waiting to fire a crooked pistol on his command. He felt like telling Bluehart to come back later, when he had the time to deal with him, but he did not think the angel would take his busy schedule into account.
The tiger let out a low growl and took a step toward the Sleep Angel.
“You can see him too?” said Miles.
“I’m not blind,” the tiger rumbled. His nose twitched. “But I can’t smell him. What kind of person has no smell?” He seemed to have forgotten his pursuit of Miles for the moment.
“Don’t go any closer,” said Miles. “He’s come to take our souls.”
“Surrender the Egg,” said Bluehart to Miles, “and I will make your death a quick one.”
A crazy notion came into Miles’s mind. He was by no means sure he was right, but a hollow, hungry sleep was washing over him, and it was as much as he could do to come up with plan A. There was no plan B, and no time to think of one. He looked the Sleep Angel in the eye. “Come and get it,” he said.
Bluehart came. He did not walk, rather removed himself from the place where he sat and remade himself in front of Miles. It happened in no more than a second, but it was not too fast for the tiger’s nimble eye. The tiger sprang at the same moment that Bluehart made his move. He bowled straight into the Sleep Angel, who dispersed sideways like a plume of smoke hit by a cannonball. They rolled over in a cloud of dust, and when it cleared there was nothing to be seen. No tiger, no angel, nothing but an ancient thirsty riverbed, spotted with pebbles and veined with the zigzag tracks of lizard tails.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TEMZI
Little Song Angel, light-headed, liberated and rehydrated, danced in a circle with her arms stretched out, flapping her hands to get the feeling back into them. She took in a deep breath, savoring the absence of fortune-teller sweat in the subtler aromas of the desert evening. They had set up a makeshift camp by the base of the stone pillar, close in so that they would benefit from its shadow for as long as possible. Baltinglass had rigged up an awning from camel blankets, and now sat beneath it, puffing on his pipe. The injured Captain Tripoli lay stretched beside him, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow.
Little spun over to where Miles sat on a rock, a smile lighting up her face. “What’s the matter?” she said.
Miles shrugged. The deadly tiredness that Bluehart brought had settled like an ache in his bones. “I’m worried about Varippuli,” he said. “Where did he go? How did he just disappear?”
“The same way he just appears,” said Little. “He has always come and gone since you’ve known him, and we never know where he is in between times.”
“Maybe Bluehart has taken him . . . somewhere,” said Miles.
Little shook her head. “The Tiger can’t die while his soul is in the Egg,” she said, “and Tau-Tau still has that.”
“That’s the problem,” said Miles. He scuffed at a pebble with his toe, burying it in soft sand and excavating it again. “We never seem to get any closer to getting the Tiger’s Egg back, and without it I can’t do anything for my father.”
“Of course we’re getting closer,” said Little. “Cortado and Tau-Tau are bringing the Egg to your aunt Nura because they believe she might know the key to using it, and they’re probably right. All we have to do is get there before them.”
“And if we don’t?” said Miles.
“We have Baltinglass with us,” Little reminded him, “and they have bad sunburn and a map of the Gobi Desert.”
“We also have Captain Tripoli,” said Miles in a low voice, “and he doesn’t look well enough to travel.”
Little sat down opposite him and looked at him with her sky-blue eyes, as though she were waiting for something.
“What?” said Miles.
Little sighed. “You could help him, Miles,” she said.
“Me?” said Miles.
“You’ve done it before,” said Little.
“Yes, but that was just . . .”
“Just what?”
“By accident,” said Miles lamely. “I’ve never tried to do it deliberately.”
“You never tried to fly before, but you seem to be getting the hang of that,” said Little with a tuneful laugh. She got to her feet and resumed her spinning dance. The ache began to lift from Miles’s bones, and over her shoulder he could see a star sparkle as though it had just been switched on.
He got to his feet and went over to the captain. He did not relish the prospect of the dizzy feeling that had come over him when he revived Dulac Zipplethorpe and chased the pain from Baltinglass’s leg, but they could not leave with the captain in his current state, and they could certainly not leave without him.
Captain Tripoli lay with his hands crossed on his chest like a knight on a tomb. Miles put his hand on the captain’s arm, trying to make it seem as natural a gesture as he could. The captain’s face had a bluish tinge, and Miles realized all at once that it came from the indigo headcloth he had worn. “So that’s where the blue face comes from!” he said under his breath.
Captain Tripoli’s eyes flickered open. “Of course.” He smiled. “The dye rubs off on the skin. I’m not dead yet, if that’s what was worrying you.”
“How are you feeling?” asked Miles. A lightness was coming over him, as though he might lift off like the Sunfish into the sky. The desert breeze had dropped, and the whispering sounds of a million desert animals fell silent. He felt hollow, filled with crysta
l air from some far-off glacier.
“I’ll be all right,” said the captain. “I’ll be up and about in a day or two.” He thought about this for a moment, and a surprised look came over him. “Maybe sooner.” He sat up gingerly and felt his rib cage. “I was sure I had some broken ribs,” he said, “but they may just be bruised.”
Miles sat back on the cooling sand, trying not to look like he was about to faint. “Good,” he managed to say. “I’d like to set off as soon as possible.”
“As would I,” said the captain. He got carefully to his feet and winced with the pain. “I don’t seem to be as badly hurt as I first thought,” he said. “Nonetheless I will go to Wa’il for a while until I get my strength back. You will have to go on without me.”
“I think Wa’il is on our route,” said Miles. He retrieved Baltinglass’s map and unrolled it.
“If you are headed for Kagu it is on your way,” said Captain Tripoli. “Wa’il is my home village, and as a child I sold goat’s cheese to the camel caravans that passed through on their way to Kagu.”
Miles ran his finger along the map. “It’s not far from here,” he said.
“A couple of hours’ ride,” said Captain Tripoli, “but I no longer have a camel.”
“Little and I will share,” said Miles.
“Very well,” said the captain with a faint nod.
They struck camp and mounted their camels, taking advantage of the cooler evening air and climbing back up to the ridge to resume their journey. They were getting close to their destination now, their onward path on the map much shorter than the road they had already traveled. As he settled into the rolling rhythm of the camel’s stride Miles found his thoughts turning to his lost family, and what it would be like to finally meet them. The prospect made him every bit as anxious as he had felt facing the Great Cortado or the unstable tiger.
They rode on through the darkening night, each in his own separate world, watched over by a slice of moon that emerged faintly at first and strengthened to a crisp silver crescent as the sky darkened behind it. “Who takes care of the moon?” asked Miles.
