Ramagar’s reply was brief and curt. “Kill him. Slowly …”
Oro’s shoulders shook and tears formed in his beady eyes. He looked to Mariana, who was standing quietly against the counter, and pleaded, “Don’t let them do this! It’s not fair!”
“Fair?” growled the thief. “Was it fair for you to accuse me of murder in Kalimar? To plot to steal the scimitar from my corpse? Why, you little weasel!” He clenched his hands into menacing fists and addressed the captain: “Turn him over to me—just for a few minutes …”
Oro’s fear of the thief was apparent to all. He would rather face anything, it was clear, anything at all, than have to deal man to man with the master rogue.
“No!” he cried, still looking at the impassive girl. “Tell him, Mariana. Tell him that I saved your life!”
Mariana sighed, folded her arms, and gazed up at Ramagar.
“What’s he talking about?” demanded the thief.
“It’s true,” admitted the girl, although she hated to do so. “When the bosun caught me listening he was ready to kill me on the spot, throw me overboard right then and there. But Oro stopped him, bargained with him for my life, even offered to pay any price they demanded.”
Ramagar was clearly taken aback. He rubbed disconsolately at his beard, falling silent. How much he hated the hunchback! How very much it would delight him to strangle the man slowly with his own two hands. Yet in his blind love for the dancing girl Oro had saved the only person the thief had ever loved. If not for him Mariana would be dead.
“What do you say, Ramagar?” said the captain, growing impatient. “Give the word. His life is in your hands.”
As the thief thought, Oro lowered his gaze to the floor and stood shivering.
“I should pluck out your eyes, little man,” grumbled Ramagar. “Tear out your limbs, one by one. Watch you squirm and squeal like a stuck pig. Maybe cut out your tongue and slice off your ears …”
Oro could hardly stand, so terrified was he of Kalimar’s master thief. “If—if you do,” he stammered, “then you’ll never find my gold …”
The point hit home. Mariana stepped forward, glaring at the hunchback. “And if,” she hissed, “I persuade Ramagar to let you get away with your miserable life, will you turn your riches over to us now?”
Oro nodded wretchedly. “I swear it! I’ll take you to it right now. What do you say?” And he looked from Mariana to Ramagar to Captain Osari and the mute Prince.
Mariana locked her gaze with Ramagar’s, her eyes pleading with him to show mercy. Ramagar looked away and scowled. “Very well,” he said. “It’s your bargain. Your life for your gold.” Then he pointed a threatening finger at the quivering hunchback, saying, “But no tricks, mind you! Otherwise I’ll throw you into the sea.”
The hunchback smiled. “No tricks, I promise.”
“Then what do we do with him?” said the Prince, speaking up for the first time. “Surely we can’t leave him in Tarta. If we do he’ll probably wrangle his way to another ship and follow us again.”
Ramagar sighed. “I know. We can’t trust him for a minute. He’s a snake, the meanest viper I’ve ever known. But we gave our word to spare his life …”
Mariana looked at them all and closed the argument in the only way it could posssibly be concluded. “It seems,” she said craftily, “that Oro is only a threat when he’s out of sight. So I guess we have no choice.” She smiled wanly. “We’ll have to take him with us. With us to Speca.”
IV
On to Aran
14
The decks of the Vulture were cluttered with carefully lashed stores of equipment tightly fastened to the new railing and the bulwark. New canvas gleamed in the soft Tartanian morning light; new and sturdily fitted masts glimmered dully over the freshly mopped decks.
It was a warm day, bright and fair, almost cloudless. Spring had come to Tarta and the North. Once bleak hills now glowed with thick grass, abounding with multicolored wildflowers. Mariana tugged gently at the shawl over her shoulders as she eagerly awaited the ship’s long-delayed departure. Six full weeks they had berthed in Tarta, waiting restlessly for the repairs to be completed. Now, at last, the day had arrived. The spanking ship was as seaworthy as any in the world. Captain Osari himself had overseen the work, watched sternly as every plank and pin was fitted. His new crew was one of which he could be more than proud: good, fine sailors all. Some from Cenulam, a few from Tarta, all from seafaring lands. They were the best, the best Oro’s gold could buy, and perhaps as adventurous and eager to conquer the lost black lands as she and her companions.
Mariana glowed with exhilaration, though it was hard to believe all this was really happening. She glanced to the starboard side of the gently bobbing ship and gazed across the open sea; a dark Northern blue, crested with magnificent whitecaps that smashed majestically against the long rocky breakers beyond the tiny harbor. Then she glanced to port, recalling fondly the small city nestled at the base of the endlesss hills. A quiet town, peaceful and serene. Perhaps a good place to settle down one day, she mused. A place where she and Ramagar could live simple and happy lives, raise their family, and remember fondly this grand adventure each time they gazed out to the beautiful sea.
Looking up to the sky, smiling, Mariana caught sight of a seagull, a large bird with enormous wings fluttering and reflecting sunlight. The gull squawked harshly and flew in a figure-eight pattern as it buzzed the topsail. The sailor in the crow’s nest tried to shoo it, but the pesky bird paid him no heed and continued its little dance above the ship.
Mariana laughed with bright eyes. A good sign, she told herself. A good sign for sure! An omen that the Vulture’s journey would begin on a sound note.
Captain Osari saw the bird from his post on the bridge. Looking to Mariana he grinned, sharing her thoughts. Then to their surprise, and that of the sailors scrambling to their posts, the bird dived and glided its way slowly to the deck. Having landed, it moved about brazenly in tiny circles inspecting this and that with its beak. The new first mate gave chase with the back of his hand, but the bird merely flapped its wings, flew a few paces, and resumed its curious walk a bit further away.
“Leave him be, mister,” shouted Osari bemusedly.
“Sir?” said the bewildered sailor.
Osari laughed. “I won’t mind one more passenger. Let him stay as long as he likes.”
And then to Mariana’s delight, the speckled bird flew to her feet and perched itself comfortably between a coil of rope and her boots.
Around the deck the ship’s activity increased. All packing done, all stores accounted for, the Vulture was ready to be on her way. She bobbed and weaved impatiently at anchor while smaller craft plied in and out of harbor all around her.
Captain Osari paced back and forth for a few moments longer, then curving his hands around the sides of his mouth, he called to the first mate, “Hoist the anchor!”
A group of men lost no time in obeying. “Aye, aye!” came the reply, and the crusty, moss-dripping weight was lifted.
Next the mainsail was unfurled, wind filling it with a whoosh and yellow canvas spilling like gold as it obliterated great chunks of clear blue sky. And the ship began to move smoothly through the choppy waters.
The bow dipped; the deck slanted sharply. Winds rushed at Mariana and her heartbeat quickened. To her side came running Ramagar and the haj; they stood at the edge of the afterdeck rails and watched with some sadness while the pleasant harbor of Tarta slipped away.
The captain stared briefly at the compass in his hand and looked to his helmsman. “Sail for Brittany,” he said. “And the unknown waters beyond.”
And so they began the last leg of a journey started so long before. As Tarta faded on the eastern horizon all on board, passengers and crew alike, thought only of their homes. Cenulam, Palava, yes, even Kalimar. From here on out the dangers they had shared would increase a hundredfold; and there could be no turning back.
“We reach the coast of
Brittany sometime before dawn,” said Captain Osari, unfolding his finest map across the table and waiting for his passengers to look.
The Prince drew in a deep breath of air. It had been twenty days since they had left Tarta, twenty restless, uneventful days in which the ship had bypassed Cenulam completely, taken a westerly course, and now came at last into the turbulent waters of the Western Sea. According to his own calculations, the Prince knew they could reach the Darkness in less than ten days of sailing at top speed.
“Is there any reason we have to drop anchor at Brittany?” asked Ramagar.
“Only to bring aboard fresh water,” replied the captain. “Then it should be a clear path to here …” He pointed his finger to an area some three hundred leagues to the west. “At approximately this spot the weather will change. Spring or no, we’ll come upon ice. Great, lumbering bergs as tall as the highest tower. The winds will chill to the bone. They say it’s frigid even at the height of summer. And unless I miss my mark, about then we’ll begin to see the eternal night show itself in the west.”
Mariana shivered involuntarily. “Speca,” she whispered.
Captain Osari nodded. “Speca—or whatever. Remember, no man has lived to say what he’s seen.”
“There is another island in those climes,” said the Prince. “We call it Aran; do you know of it?”
Captain Osari scanned the map, his eyes pinpointing a small marking set perilously close to the void. “There is such an island,” he conceded. “But Northern mariners have a different name for it. Is this the one you mean?”
The Prince peered closer. “Yes. That’s the one. That’s Aran.”
“What of it?” said the captain. “It’s not on our course.”
“It will have to be,” the Prince told him. “Aran was once an ally of my land. Its kings were fair and just men. We must stop there before reaching the Darkness, and try to enlist Aran’s support.”
The mariner drummed his fingers atop the table. The Prince had mentioned these allies while unfolding his tale, Osari recalled. But expecting its people to fight Speca’s battles after so many years seemed foolish, to say the least. All the more so when you considered that Aran lay at the very door of the eternal night.
“It would be a waste of time,” he said at length. “These men of Aran, why should they risk their necks? Besides, setting anchor there could very well mean allowing some Druid spy to spot us and warn the magicians of our arrival. Why give them that advantage? We have enough against us as it is.”
But the Prince was firm. “Aran must be consulted,” he insisted stubbornly. “We have need of them, of their fighting ships. At any rate, the knowledge of the Druids they can give us will more than balance any risk we run by harboring there.” He drew out his scimitar, eyes lowered toward it. “Much would have changed in these many years,” he added sadly. “And only at Aran might we learn what has occurred. I need their guidance as surely as I need your own. Each and every one of you.” He looked at them all. “But if there are still doubts, if some regret the bargains we made, please say so now while there is yet time for the good captain to take you back …”
Mariana clasped Ramagar by the hand and stood poised and erect. In the soft yellow light of the lantern she looked more beautiful than ever: her face cleaned and darkened by the winds of the sea, her eyes as bewitching and fiery as always, yet somehow matured by the ordeals of these last months.
“We trusted you in Kalimar,” she told him directly, “and that faith has never been broken. You know that both Ramagar and I have come to love you as we would a brother…
“And to me as a son,” added the haj poignantly.
As for Homer, the look of adoration in his eyes left no need for mere words.
“I would think that settles matters,” said Captain Osari with an air of finality. “Aran it is. We’ll be there in seven days’ time.”
Mariana tightened her heavy shawl about her shoulders, pushed long strands of dark, wavy hair from her face, and realized suddenly that her teeth were beginning to chatter.
“It gets colder every day,” snorted the haj, standing in his warmest robe, leaning against the rail at her side. He rubbed his hands together, to keep the stiffness out of his fingers, while keeping his gaze fixed on the slashing, chalky seas ahead.
“I know,” said the girl with a small shiver. She tilted her head upward and gazed through shaded eyes at the weak late afternoon sun. “This isn’t like the East at all, is it?”
Burlu scowled. “What manner of men would choose to live in climates like this, I’ll never know. They say Cenulam is very much the same. Not to mention these other strange lands we’ve passed. As for me, though, I’ll take the desert anytime.”
Mariana looked up at him and smiled. “Then you should have stayed in Kalimar,” she teased. “In your tents beside the fire, with your pigs to keep you company.”
The haj seemed offended. “My women are not pigs,” he retorted. Mariana laughed. “Good haj, I was referring to your swine …”
“Oh.”
He turned away with a sour expression, hiding his embarrassment. “Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat, “if it gets much colder than this I think I’ll be as frozen as a board. You’ll probably have to hang me over the cooking fire until the icicles melt.”
Mariana sighed moodily, her soft features losing their gentility. “The captain says it’s going to get worse,” she said seriously. “And that by the time we do reach Aran, likely as not we’ll all have to dress in furs.”
And to her distress, Captain Osari’s prediction proved more than right. Warm winds and sun came late to these climes, months later than they did to the fair lands of the South, where by early spring flowers bloomed and sand burned. Here, summer was still far away, and the ship found itself upon an ocean of desolation, bleak and forlorn, yet strangely beautiful in its own way. A pale sun reflected across an endless panorama of grayish-blue water and stark peaks of ice, standing like mountains along the horizon.
The North. The far North. It was a fascinating world to Mariana: grim, inhospitable, and awesome. And to reach Aran, they were forced to head even closer to the Northern extremities than was needed to reach the Eternal Dark.
Two days’ sailing from Aran the sun became little more than a reddish sliver against a mauve horizon. When they did see the moon it was fog-veiled, peering myopically back at them as it hung low, clinging to the valleys between the bergs.
Great sledges of ice filled the sea, broken off from these arctic monstrosities and slowly floating south with the strong current, where eventually they would melt and cease to be forms. Icy winds bit harshly into flesh; no clothes the crew or the passengers could find, mend, or weave seemed to serve well against the brutality of nature. Building fires on deck was the only way the crew could keep enough heat to perform routine tasks.
Nights were intolerable. It was so frigid on one occasion that the sand in the hourglass ceased to trickle. It stuck frozen against the glass, waiting for the morning sun to dispel the crusts of ice that blocked the passage.
But never once did the ship or the captain flinch. Never once. No matter what the hardship or peril, day in, day out, they pressed ahead, closer and closer to bleak Aran at the northern edge of the Darkness, plowing forward with terrible effort against ice packs. And through all this Captain Osari remained resolute, with but one goal in mind: to find Aran, and then swing south where the waters would warm.
“Ahoy, Captain!” called the lookout perched precariously atop the crow’s nest. He pulled the fur of his jacket more tightly about his ears and signaled with his hand into the western night sky.
Captain Osari clutched at the ropes, half sliding across the frosted deck. Cupping his mittened hands, he shouted back, asking the sailor what he saw.
“Straight ahead, sir! Straight ahead!”
Osari squinted into the dismal midnight sky and shuddered. As some of the mist dissipated, twin peaks of ice assembled before his vision.
The handful of sailors on duty glanced at one another and felt their heartbeats quicken. They saw right away that the ship’s position was treacherous. Strewn on either side of the frozen nightmares was an endless barrage of lesser packs—it would be impossible for the ship to pick its way among them. No, there was only one way the Vulture could proceed: straight ahead, right through the narrow artificial valley the slumbering giants created.
Captain Osari felt his palms moisten, even in this great cold. Rubbing icy fingers over his scarf-covered mouth, he darted back to his post, instructing the helmsman to veer two points more to port where the awesome entrance to the valley began.
A small floe ground loudly against the hull; the ship rocked and pulled away from the raw chunk, spraying tiny fragments over the main deck.
The jolt awoke Mariana from an uneasy sleep. Rushing to her porthole, she gasped with her hand to her mouth as the mountains came into view. Above her head she heard the scramble of more sailors rushing onto the deck, also awakened, ready to do whatever they could to help.
Bundling into her furs, she made her way from the silent cabin and hurried topside, panting with dismay as her skin felt the bite of the cold. She stood in the shadow of the open hatch, out of the crew’s way and careful not to let her presence be known lest the captain order her back down below.
Thus the treacherous passage began. The rough sea calmed a bit, due to the barrier imposed by the fantastic blockages of ice at both sides. For some time Mariana held her breath as if bewitched by the white-blue spectacle rising misshapenly away from the masts.
The ship lurched sharply, sails momentarily losing their swell and flapping. “Steady …” came the assuring voice of the captain. “Keep her steady …”
THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 24
