The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

“Oh yes, you’ll get them. Look here!” His free hand slid something from his belt. His knife was gleaming at her throat.

  How easily, she recalled, it had sunk into Slaiman’s back! She braced herself against memory. This time her face shouldn’t betray her.

  “Will killing me,” she coolly asked him, “give you the maps?”

  “Then I’ll kill you anyhow!” he raged. “Kill you for the sport of it.” His grip on her wrist tightened into agony. “I swear I’ll wait here for Zakuto, and if he refuses me, I’ll kill him, too.”

  “It will be the same with him,” she calmly assured him, “as with me. Kill us—but you won’t get the maps.” But within herself she was wildly praying, ‘O Allah, keep them from coming home—delay them!’

  She saw him stare past her into the workshop, followed his glance as it roved along the shelves—the bench—the table.

  The next moment he flung her aside. “That’s where he makes them,” he muttered, as he burst past her.

  She stole a terrified glance at the great lamp still gently stirring in the breeze. Its door was ajar! If it should open wider, and he should happen to look up at it—Oh, how could she get him away?

  Panic stricken, she watched him dart from shelf to shelf, tear open cupboards, snatch at the table drawer, peer under the bench, tip up the empty brass tubes. Her heart stood still—his eyes were fixed on the lamp! No, he was staring at the windows! In her relief she felt suddenly weak.

  But immediately she heard a frightful oath. The sun was setting, and Abdul was still unsuccessful. O Allah, send him away before he should see that unfastened lamp door. Before Master Abel and Mother Ruth should come home! For Abdul, she knew too well, would do to them exactly as he had told her he would do. She tried to close her memory on a vision of Slaiman sinking on the deck of the Sultana, with Abdul’s knife deep in his back. Oh, not that! Not that in this beloved court. And Nicolo! Good, kind Allah, what if he should happen in? Neither he nor Abel carried what Abdul carried in his belt—and Abdul would do what he had said he would do.

  “I’ll give you one more chance!” He stood stock still in the midst of the disorder he had made, and even at that distance she could see his quivering nostrils. He sprang toward her, thrust his face into hers. “You’ll make it all the worse for yourself, girl, if you don’t give them up, for I’m going to take you, maps or no maps! You hear me?”

  Instantly she caught at the change from his first confident order: “Get those maps. Hand them over.” Now it was “Maps or no maps.” From certainty he had come to compromise, to admission of possible failure. Another step, and he might give up his search. She had only to offer herself and he would take that step—and Master Abel and the maps would be safe! But she must be quick, for it was fast darkening, and they would be back. And Abdul would keep his word.

  O Nicolo! O love and life, to put you forever away! It was too much, too much to ask of human flesh, of human spirit. She would delay, risk some incredible chance to step between her and this black abyss. Something would happen, something must happen, to save her and Nicolo for each other.

  But yet, what if after all, Abdul should find the maps, and the Way should be lost to Portugal? A sudden memory flamed within her of last night, when she had said to Nicolo that she would do anything for the Way. Her hands clutched at each other for support. Oh, Allah, of the boundless wisdom of thy will, strength to do what of her own will she could not!

  She knew that her tongue moved, and her lips. But that voice—could it be hers?

  “If I come with you, will you go away, now—at once?” said that unreal voice. Where was it that she was going with him? No matter! The maps would be safe.

  He ripped out a savage oath. “You’d play with me, would you?” He jerked the blade of his knife up against her bare neck.

  If it would only bury itself there, as it had in Slaiman’s back! “I’m ready. I’ll go with you,” she calmly told him.

  He stepped back, and the hand with the knife dropped to his side. “Aren’t you afraid of dying?” he asked, with grim curiosity. “I remember we had to build that cage to keep you out of the sea.” He came closer, so close that she could see the puzzled scowl of his black brows. “What are those maps to you that you won’t give them up?”

  A wild hope sprang in her heart. Was there in his curiosity just a bare hint of mercy? But instantly, as if he had forgotten what he had asked, she saw him glance at the dimming light, and saw his face set.

  “Killing her isn’t going to give me the maps!” she heard him soliloquize as if he defied an unseen accuser. He slipped the knife into his belt, turned impatiently on her. “We must make the bar in a hurry. Put on something—quick.”

  It was like a blow that struck the breath from her; a black void that closed irrevocably over her. She knew now that, though she thought she had given up hope, she had not given it up till this moment! But he had said “the bar.” Thank Allah for that! For just beyond the bar was the ocean—but this time her face mustn’t let him guess her thoughts.

  “Quick!” he repeated. “Something that’ll cover you up.”

  Of course. The pale gold of her dress would at once mark her on the streets. She remembered an old cloak of Ruth’s, and with a strange, bodiless feeling she went into the house, took the cloak from a chest, and went back with it to Abdul. He watched her while she fastened the hood.

  “Lower over your face!” he ordered.

  He seized her arm and hurried her through the gate. She heard it close behind them. The last link, as it had been the first, between her and blessed refuge. She fought down the anguish that welled up at the image of bewilderment, when Abel and Ruth should open it and see no light streaming out to welcome them. Would the empty tubes and the wild disorder of the workshop tell them what had happened? Inside the dear “lighthouse” would they find and understand her hidden message? And Nicolo—when they should tell him… Ah, let her not think of Nicolo now. Let her remember only that the maps were safe!

  At the foot of the stairs, Abdul told her to pull the hood down still further. “Keep close to me,” he whispered, “and if you make any sign for help…”

  Silently she assented. The escape that she would make needed no help but the ocean. She would be so docile that he would forget to watch her, and as soon as he put to sea… Would there be a crew, she wondered in sudden terror—a crew like the Sultana’s? No matter! She would feign obedience. This time she would need no cage. And somehow she would find a way to slip past them all. Allah wouldn’t deny her that.

  She could see that Abdul was making toward the harbour, by a round-about route to avoid, of course, the streets which would be full of people going home from hearing the proclamation. They would never know, Master Abel and Mother Ruth, how near she had passed! But who had told Abdul that they would be gone? The Venetian ambassador? Wouldn’t he have heard this new edict talked of at the palace, and known that all Jews must be present to hear it read?

  A cold fear seized her: it wasn’t impossible that she should pass Nicolo or Scander. They were often at the waterfront. It wouldn’t be in human flesh not to cry out to them. Yet if she did so forget her agreement, Abdul’s knife would remind her!

  In her anguish she hardly noticed that they had come to the docks. The docks that she had never seen since that night she had stolen away from the Venezia! Now, as then, they were silent and deserted. The gleam of tossing water caught her eye, and for the first time she was conscious of a strong breeze and that wind clouds swept across a bright moon.

  As Abdul and she walked rapidly on, she saw a man move out of shadow, and slowly approach them. At that first glance, her heart leaped. The short breeches and bare legs were like Scander’s! But the next moment showed her an unfamiliar face below the peaked cap.

  Abdul halted. “Marco!”

  Marco? Marco, whom Nicolo had mentioned? Wasn’t it he who had let drop the stupendous news of Gama?

  At Abdul’s voice the man came closer. Nejmi could see
his amazement as he glanced inquiringly from her to Abdul, but all he gave vent to was a breathless inquiry: “Have you got them?”

  “That’s my business!” she heard Abdul retort. “Boat and pilot all ready?”

  “Curse him, I can’t find him!” Marco stammered, and Nejmi saw him step back as if to avoid an expected blow. “I’ve been scouring the town for him, too, but—”

  “What! He isn’t here?”

  At the contortion of Abdul’s features Nejmi felt herself trembling even more than at the stream of oaths he was choking out.

  “Hell take you!” he raged. “I—I’ve depended on you for that part of the job, while I—”

  “Well, I did it, didn’t I?” The surly tone, Nejmi detected, was only a blind for the fear that looked out of the heavy face. “Found the only pilot in town who’d take us, didn’t I?” he continued. “If you’d told me sooner that you’d changed your mind about leaving tomorrow morning, I likely’d have found him.”

  “Stop your drivel, you fool,” cried Abdul under his breath. “Get someone else!” He glanced up and down at the anchored craft as if he somehow expected help from them.

  “It can’t be done, I tell you,” declared the other. “There’s not a soul’ll do it. Don’t I know?”

  “Then by—we’ll make it alone!” Abdul seized Nejmi’s arm. “Where’s the boat?”

  She steadied herself against the shuddering terror that came over her at his touch. But she must do nothing to make him watch her. After all, it was not so far to the silent deeps that would grant her safe haven.

  “Boat’s over there.” Marco jerked a thumb toward the end of the dock. He surveyed the harbour. “We’ve got the wind against us,” he said sullenly. “That craft of ours won’t stand everything!”

  He stole a glance at Nejmi, and at once she guessed that he was speculating whether, in case of danger, her presence would lessen his own chances.

  “Curse you,” Abdul cut him short, “untie that boat!” He tightened his grasp on Nejmi, and they went forward, breasting the wind, while Marco ran ahead.

  They were up with him almost as he drew the painter from its ring, warped the boat alongside. Without a word, Abdul lifted Nejmi and swung her into the rocking tender. Instantly he was behind her, pressing her down into the stern, while Marco leaped in and seized the oars.

  “Everything ready out yonder?” asked Abdul, as the boat shot forward, and Nejmi saw him jerk his head sidewise.

  “Except hoisting anchor,” replied Marco.

  Oh, where were they taking her? To another Sultana! She caught her breath as a wave broke over the side and dashed her with its spray.

  “If it’s this bad here,” Marco said, half aloud, “what’ll it be down river? We’d best wait for the wind to go down.”

  Abdul turned on him with a volley of oaths. “You’d wait and risk Gama’s slipping through our fingers? Why, they might be sighting him now—devil take him!”

  Gama! Her heart seemed to stop and then to batter furiously at her breast. Were her ears playing tricks? Could she have mistaken that name? Suddenly she remembered. Was this the treachery that Nicolo had suspected behind Marco’s having seen Gama in Indian waters? And she, with her mind on the maps, had paid no attention! “You’d wait and risk Gama’s slipping through our fingers.” She knew now where Abdul was taking her. He was on his pirate way to waylay Gama! Something flamed through her: perhaps she would see Gama! Then—she could warn him! Somehow she would find a way. With a strange feeling she looked down at the surging water whose refuge, only a moment before, she had meant to seek. Not that—yet!

  She hardly knew that the boat had stopped. Mechanically she let Abdul lift her over the side of another vessel. She saw Marco set the row-boat adrift, and then hoist anchor. Together the men set the sails.

  “Take the helm!” said Abdul. “I’ll tend the sheets.”

  Marco hesitated, then walked reluctantly aft. “I don’t claim to be an expert in these waters,” he grumbled, “I won’t promise to go beyond Belem without a pilot, either.”

  “Take my orders and stop your talk, you lubber!” roared Abdul, and Nejmi saw his face flame and one hand clutch at his belt. She dropped her eyes, sick at the thought that, only for the need of him at the helm, Abdul’s knife would even now be sunk in Marco’s neck.

  Slowly the bow swung around, and the ship began to move. Nejmi watched Abdul work the sheets as they tacked down the rough, moonlit river.

  Stealthily she turned her head, that no one should see her backward look at the dark blur that was Lisbon. She locked her hands against her breast as if to crush down the agony that was bursting it. Ah, Nicolo—Nicolo!

  Yet, O Allah, let her remember only that the maps were safe. That somewhere, beyond, in need of help was Gama!

  CHAPTER 21

  Arthur Rodriguez

  At dusk Nicolo and Scander were pacing Cascaes beach. High prowed little fishing boats, dragged up on the sand after discharging their catch, scattered the shore. Beyond, where the beach swept oceanward, the old Moorish lighthouse pointed sombrely upward, and right and left glittered a choppy sea under a bright moon.

  They had made slow work of beating down river against a slight breeze and a tide now near high, and, as he expected the wind to freshen, Scander was lingering to keep Nicolo company.

  “At latest, I’ll make Lisbon before midnight. Those fellows won’t be leaving before then,” he said confidently.

  Voices made them look back. Behind them two men strolled toward an outspread fish net and sat down near it, hands clasped around their knees. Presently, a third joined them. Sitting there, peering out over their hunched knees, they looked to Nicolo like three wary old hawks, sweeping the landscape for prey.

  “Pilots waiting for a call, I’ll wager you,” said Scander. “I’d like to know,” he mused aloud, “what that tall fellow said to Master Zakuto when Pedro pointed him out.”

  “What makes me uneasy,” said Nicolo, “is that he bribed Pedro to do that. Why didn’t he ask me to take him to Zakuto, as he told Pedro he meant to?”

  “I’ve wondered about that, too,” Scander admitted. “He never did call at The Green Window for you, did he? There’s one thing, though: whatever passed between him and Master Abel happened after the proclamation was read, about sundown, and nothing much can happen between sundown and sunrise, when I’ll be back. Those fellows can’t get very far without me.”

  He raised his head and snuffed the wind. “Breeze is freshening,” he observed, “but it’ll be with me going up river.”

  Nicolo looked anxiously at the water. “It won’t be so easy for you, alone.”

  “There’s not a tiller made ever got the best of me, nor a sail either! It’s you, Master Conti,” Scander said, gravely, “who’s taking the real risk.”

  “It’s nothing to the risk Gama’s taken every day since he left us,” rejoined Nicolo. “Nor to the one he’s taking at this very moment—all unaware, too, poor chap! You know, Scander,” he declared, “I’ve about concluded, if Rodriguez comes, not to discharge cargo, but to put to sea at once. Why, what if this minute Gama were steering straight into that nest of robbers!”

  They had faced back and were retracing their steps. The three men sitting on the sand looked up, as they approached, and again Nicolo thought of hawks. Those gaunt, tight-skinned faces, that peculiar listening expression that comes from long intimacy with the sea—Yes, these men, or their like, would do for his errand, if Rodriguez couldn’t go with him.

  “When is the tide high?” Scander asked, as he and Nicolo halted.

  “Just turned.” One of the three pointed to a barely visible lag in the incoming water. “Are you going out?”

  “Yes,” said Scander, “to Lisbon. Pilots, are you,” he inquired, “all of you?”

  They nodded. “Want a lift over the bar?” one of them asked.

  “I reckon I can manage. I made it down.”

  “If you’re looking for work,” Nicolo struck
in, “I’ve pressing business down Cape Verde way.”

  “Going after the pirates, eh?” chuckled one.

  There was a quick sound—“Look there!” One of the three was pointing seaward.

  Scander and Nicolo wheeled around. Out on the rough, moonlit water a vessel was heading toward Cascaes beach.

  “Do you suppose it could be Rodriguez?” cried Nicolo to Scander.

  “Rodriguez?” one of the pilots took him up. “Know him? I’ve often taken him in. Whoever it is, see the sail he’s carrying—in this wind, too. Must be in a hurry.”

  “That’s putting it mild!” exclaimed Scander. “See that!… And they not yet hove to!”

  Smashing along, with no sign of slackening, and as yet too far out to anchor, the pilot signal light had nevertheless been run up between the masts.

  “That’s surely The Golden Star!” Nicolo declared, as the vessel suddenly came up into the wind.

  One of the pilots jumped up. “I’ll take her on,” and he started down the beach.

  “Let’s go,” cried Nicolo. He seized the surprised Scander by the sleeve, and they both ran after the pilot. “Mind if we go along?” Nicolo called. “If it’s Rodriguez I’ve business with him—he’s my partner,” and as the man hesitated, “Take our skiff,” he offered. “She’s already afloat.”

  “Fair enough,” the pilot returned. “It’ll save launching mine.”

  In a moment they had shoved the skiff into deeper water, and leaped aboard.

  “Yes, that’s The Golden Star,” exclaimed Scander as they drew nearer the caravel. “I can tell by the way she rides.”

  He had hardly got the words out when they heard the rattle of an anchor.

  “What?” cried the pilot. “Signal for pilot service and then anchor out here? What’s the meaning of that?”

  As the skiff came alongside there was a loud hail from the caravel.

  “That’s Rodriguez!” Nicolo and Scander exclaimed together, and Nicolo made ready to clamber aboard first, for he must lose not a moment in telling his plan.

  Several forms appeared at the rail, and among them, by the light of a lantern, Nicolo caught a glimpse of Rodriguez’ face.