At Swords' Point

by Andre Norton

  But the entrance to the water and the first seconds of that trip were not the worst of his memories. No, that came later, when the rope had brought him to the steps — steps so slimed with muck that they seemed deliberately greased — steps so narrow that only one person at a time could claw his way up them out of the water and into breathable air.

  Quinn planted a knee on those steps; his fingernails broke as he tried for a grip on the stone. Then his weak leg failed and he slipped back into the stream, with not even the rope to save him. For an agonized minute he gulped foul-tasting water, struggling wildly.

  Then a strong pull at the neck of his jersey brought him to the steps again. He found for a handhold — even a fingerhold — The pull on his soggy jersey strengthened until his head was out of the water. He lay inert, gasping, too sick and miserable to move.

  “Get up!” The command hissed out of the dark set him to stirring feebly. He felt the rake of nails across his shoulder as someone took a fresh grip on the jersey and heaved. “Come on — you aren't dead yet!” a voice snarled from above. “Get up, you fool, before you float off again. How's it with you, Maartens?”

  “All right.”

  Quinn squirmed. The answer had come from below. He made his greatest effort of the adventure and forced himself to creep up the slippery steps, aided by that cruel hold between his shoulders. He was sick, the taste of the water he had swallowed was sour and foul in his mouth. But he climbed.

  The muck was gone; under his hands was only rough stone. He was above the water level, and that gave him courage to twist free from the hand which pulled him along.

  “Wait!” The order snapped out of the dark. Quinn obediently crouched where he was.

  “Top — passage.” The whisper was an explanation. “Light at the end — take it easy — quiet —”

  Quinn reached the top of the stairs. Kane caught him and pulled him to his feet. There was a light to their right, a dim beam which sprayed along the passage at floor level.

  When Joris joined them they edged crabwise along the wall. The passage was so narrow they could not have walked straight. And they moved at a snail's pace, which probably saved Kane's life, for the dim light did not betray the last trap until almost too late.

  And it was a real trap, undoubtedly intended for just that purpose — a cruel slit in the floor down which a man could tumble to his death.

  “Well, well, well!” Kane said softly. His arm made a barrier across the passage. “Wings may be necessary.”

  “They are here — on the wrong side — !” Joris returned.

  Even in the dim light they could see what he meant. A rope dangled over that hole — its free end was looped in a hook carved of stone in the wall on the other side of the pit. The upper end, they could see by straining their necks at a tortuous angle, was fastened to a hoop above reach.

  “Imitate Tarzan,” muttered Kane. “But how do we get that back here to use?”

  He stared at the rope as if by the force of his will alone he could pull it back to aid them. Joris crept to the edge of the drop.

  “It is tied over there but loosely. I need a weight — Not too heavy —”

  Quinn brought out his small flashlight. “Would this do?”

  The Netherlander juggled it in his hand, then nodded curtly. For the second time he took out the rope, and this time tied the torch to one end with a complicated knot he tested carefully. Then he swung the metal tube and sent it out into the space above the pit. It fell true across the slack curve of the rope and continued to swing as a pendulum.

  With infinite care Joris drew the dangling torch to him. The cord which held it slipped along the chasm rope drawing the loop of the slack toward them.

  “There —”

  Kane examined it as Joris stopped.

  “Anders,” he ordered, “hold this, but just at the end!” He thrust at Quinn the end of the cord from which the torch swung. Kane himself braced his feet and hooked both hands in the Netherlander's belt.

  “Now, Anders, give that a few sharp tugs — careful!”

  The flashlight jerked, and each move brought it closer in an arc to them. Joris had the belt of Quinn's raincoat in his hands.

  “Go!”

  Joris leaned out in a dangerous angle. There was a flurry of movement in the air, then the Netherlander held the torch. Now they had their rope looped tight about the chasm rope.

  Quinn relaxed against the wall, and his breath went out of him in a sigh of relief. He did not even watch them secure the rope. He only roused in time to see Joris tie it about his waist, take a skip-jump, and cross the pit. Then Kane jerked a finger at his countryman.

  “Next, chum. The air act is all yours —”

  It was Kane who reeled back the rope, who pushed aside Quinn's stiff fingers, and made it tight about him. But it was he who had to do the rest, who had to make that quick dash, praying desperately that his leg would not fail again, he who had to swing out into the dark. On the other side Maartens caught him and loosened the rope while he stood there panting, fighting the sickness which had worked in him since he had crawled out of the water.

  Kane joined them, and they went on. It seemed like a dazed dream to Quinn who was driven by a dumb determination to keep up, governing by the force of will his wobbling feet and churning middle. His future narrowed to the section of passage before him. Let him just come safely to the end of that and he would look or ask for no more.

  At the end of the passage was the source of the light which had led them on, a half circle of iron grating set in the wall, the bottom of it flush with the floor of the passage, which made a sharp square turn to the right.

  Kane dropped to his knees, then to his stomach to look through that window, and Joris plumped down to shoulder him for room. Quinn flopped behind their legs, content at first just to sit. But at last a faint curiosity drove him to push forward into a vantage point.

  They were looking down into a square cube walled with stone — more a cell than a room. There was a ledge of rock running along one wall to serve as a rude bench, and on this lolled a tall man who was overseeing, without aiding, the labors of two others prying some of the wall blocks out of their beds. A powerful battery lamp was trained on them. But they could not have been sure of the proper site for several stones had been removed at intervals along one strip.

  One of the workers was Wasburg. In spite of the chill damp he was stripped to the waist as was his fellow workers, and glistening beads of sweat ran down their faces and arms. But the man on the bench was at ease. And his face —

  “Quong, Hong or maybe Wing,” Sam Marusaki's voice rang in his ears.

  This was the “very dangerous man” of van Norreys’ warning!

  “Ready?” Kane's question was the merest thread of whisper to which Maartens’ answer was a nod.

  Quinn padded after the other two down the sharp turn of the passage. They held guns ready. He had only the pencil weapon — and what use that might be, he decided bitterly, he didn't know.

  Within three yards was another sharp turn and steps leading down into the cell. Joris took them first. There was something feline about his swift descent, his shoulders made a slightly hunched outline as if he were preparing to spring. Kane's loose-jointed, almost casual stride was in contrast. As for Quinn, he went a step at a time, afraid of his leg, afraid of himself, but going —

  Even the entrance of a tank might not have attracted the attention of the workers and their overseer at that particular moment. For they had at last found what they had been seeking.

  Wasburg leaned against the wall, his ribs rising and falling, his hands hanging limply at his sides as if he had made his last possible effort. But the man who had worked beside him was still on his knees, pulling out something from the hole they had made, babbling excitedly. And Quong, Hong, or Wing was up, crowding behind him.

  The man brought his find out and slipped back on his heels as it suddenly came free and banged against the floor.

 
“Fool!” Methodically Quong slapped his gun down, ripping a gash along the side of the man's jaw. The blow spun him around, and the man who struck it gestured to Wasburg.

  “Pick it up!”

  Moving as rigidly as a toy soldier or string-controlled puppet the Eurasian stooped for the small chest. But the other worker had looked up to see the three by the steps. His eyes went wide, and his mouth fell loosely open. Quong must have seen him. He began to turn. But Kane spoke first.

  “Drop your gun, comrade!”

  Quong did not even stiffen. It was almost as if he had been expecting to hear such an order. Wasburg, paying no attention to any of them, crossed the corner of the room and set the chest down on the rock ledge.

  “I said — drop it!”

  Painfully, as if his muscles moved against his will, the other's gun hand fell, his fingers loosened, and metal clanged on the floor.

  “You —” Kane indicated the wounded man. “Kick that over here.”

  When the man blinked uncomprehendingly Kane repeated the order in Dutch. The fellow scuttled forward on hands and knees and pushed at the gun. It slid behind Kane, and Quinn stooped to gather it up.

  “May I be permitted to face you now?” the question came from Quong in smooth and faultless English. “I have a strange desire to meet death face to face —”

  Kane laughed then, but there was no humor in the sound at all. “You are flattering yourself, Lee Quong. I am not the public executioner.”

  He had been turning, but the use of his name froze him. Only for an instant. Then he was around, face to face with the man from Norreys. For a long minute they eyed one another.

  Then Quong shook his head. “I do not know you,” he stated flatly.

  “There is no reason why you should,” began Kane in English, then he slipped into another and more guttural tongue.

  Quong's lips drew back in an unpleasant quirk which might have been intended for a smile. “My fame —” he waved a hand almost airily —”it seems to have spread afar. I have not been in those islands since —”

  “1947,” returned Kane.

  “Now I wonder —” Quong's long fingers caressed his chin. “Why do I not remember you?”

  “We never met. But I helped to stamp on a nest of snakes — the chief cobra not being at home at the time. He then sailed under the name of ‘Red Turban’ —”

  The faint smile disappeared. The eyes watching Kane were now dangerous black slits without emotion — hard glassy beads. Cobra — King Cobra — Quinn could almost visualize rippling coils — an expanding hood raised in menace and the threat of death.

  Quong spat — not liquid poison but a stream of biting words. And Kane laughed again, this time with a humor which stung.

  “Sure. I'm probably all of that to your kind. But now the game is up, Lee Quong — or whatever you call yourself this time. There are quite a few people who will be pleased to talk to you — and after that you will come to the end you've been heading toward for years — never fear about that!”

  Kane started to approach his captive. And Joris edged along the wall toward the man who still nursed his bleeding face. But no one had been paying attention to Was-burg And now he moved.

  As if he were the cobra Quong had been compared to, the Eurasian launched himself at Kane, bringing his hand down in a vicious chop across the American's wrist. At the same time Quong hurled himself in a dive at Kane's knees, and the three went down in a struggling heap.

  Quinn leaped toward the muddle, the gun he had picked up from the floor clubbed in his hand. He dared not shoot, but he might just — But, before he could reach the fighters, what he had feared from the first happened. His leg buckled, and he fell sidewise, rolling, in spite of his struggles, to sweep Joris off his feet.

  The Netherlander as he went down aimed a backhanded blow at the man by the wall. But it did not land true. As Quinn and Maartens came up against the ledge the huddle on the floor broke apart.

  Quong was out of it, and in his hand was the automatic Kane had dropped. Wasburg lay flat, face down and un-moving. The American had reached his knees and was about to throw himself at Quong when he looked down the black mouth of his own automatic.

  “At this range,” Quong's voice cut through the heavy panting of the others as evenly as if he had not been trading blows on the floor a moment before, “even a poor shot could not possibly miss. And I am not a poor shot.

  “You, gentlemen,” he spoke to Joris and Quinn without turning his head, “will immediately toss your guns over to Kammer or I shall put a neat hole through this friend of yours —”

  And that was no bluff; it was a promise. Quinn knew that Quong would shoot Kane with the careless assurance with which one might crumple a piece of paper and toss it aside.

  So, biting deep on the sourness of his own failure, Quinn pitched the weapon he held across the room. And Joris’ followed it.

  “Kammer!”

  The little man stopped nursing his jaw and came to life. With an evil grin he scooped up Luger and automatic.

  “And now, gentlemen.” Quong moved back lithely. “I am sorry, but we must part. I have lingered altogether too long over this business as it is. Kammer!”

  He snapped some order in the other language. The small man pocketed the Luger and went to pick up the chest. As he passed Wasburg he kicked the prostrate man hard in the ribs. Then he went up the stairs without a backward glance.

  “Do not move or entertain any pleasant hopes of turning the tables. If you will look up at that grating you will see Kammer's gun ready. He is well armed — thanks to your generosity. And he will stay on guard there, to pick you off, until I join him —”

  Why don't you just fire now?” asked Kane in the tone of one making polite conversation. “It would be simpler.”

  “Why should I waste ammunition?” returned Quong.

  “The fate I leave you to is so much more rigorous and reasonable. When you are found — if you ever are — perhaps some centuries from now your skeletons will serve to provide one of those intriguing historical mysteries which engage the minds of scholars and keep them busy for years. Because, when Kammer and I leave this very unhealthy spot, you are going to remain — probably forever!”

  He turned to go, hesitated at the foot of the steps, and came back. With his toe he prodded Wasburg viciously.

  “I forgot my thanks to you, my so stupid friend. But I am moved to be generous and merciful and so will relieve your mind. After all you should have some pay for your hard labor here —”

  Wasburg rolled over slowly — as if to move caused him maximum effort. But he did not try to rise. His face was as emotionless and controlled as it always had been.

  “I would not have you worry concerning your father's fate. After all a bargain is a bargain. Let me assure you as to his future — he has none. He has been dead since that first night. Old men do not long survive our questioning methods —”

  Wasburg's face came alive. And Quong hurried to the steps as if even he had never seen before such naked hatred blazing raw and open in a victim's eyes. He was gone with a couple of loping bounds.

  Maartens had kept his eyes on the grating. Now he spoke, “They are gone —”

  Together he and Kane made for the stairs. Quinn levered himself up with the aid of ledge and wall.

  The sounds of pounding feet faded away, the last echoes swallowed up by a sharp clang. Both Kane and Joris paused to look up again at the grating.

  “That was the portcullis,” Wasburg said flatly. “He has now sealed the passage —”

  But neither of the others accepted that. They were gone before he uttered the last word. Quinn lowered himself onto the ledge and rubbed his leg. If he hadn't been such a crock — if he could have knocked out Quong as he intended — ! He should have known from the beginning that this kind of thing wasn't for him. He had done nothing — but maybe sign their death warrants. He was sick — unable to raise his head or move.

  Vaguely he was aware of
Wasburg. The Eurasian was on his feet getting into his shirt and coat.

  Without looking up Quinn asked the question, “Why did you do it?”

  Help Quong, he meant — throw away their chances — just as he, himself, had done by not owning up at the start that he could not keep his feet in an emergency.

  “It is of no matter now —” Wasburg replied absently, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Something in the tone of his voice drew Quinn's full attention.

  The Eurasian had gone to the far wall and was walking along, counting stones with a finger tip. At the corner he shook his head and went on to the next section where the ledge was placed. He was counting aloud and as he reached “ten” he stopped — one stone beyond where the American crouched.

  Then the counting began again from the roof of the cell to the floor. At “ten” he halted for the second time. The block he had located was but one above the level of the rough bench.

  Before Quinn could demand an explanation there was a clatter on the stairs, and the other two were back. He looked up eagerly, but in their faces he could see no hope. Kane spoke first.

  “They cut the rope over that drop. Maybe we could have fixed that. But there is an iron portcullis in place on the other side, and we can't force that while dangling from a rope — at least we can't see how to do it yet —”

  “You could not,” returned Wasburg without looking around. He was counting again up and down. “That portcullis can be locked on the other side, and there is no reason why they would not take advatage of doing so.”

  Kane went over to him

  “That reminds me, friend. Just why did you upset the applecart and let Quong get the jump on us —”

  “For now — no matter.” Wasburg dismissed the immediate past. “Here is something of greater importance. The river entrance is not the only way into this place. By fortune's favor perhaps the other one may be found —”