by Lin Carter
When Grond was attired like a Cro-Magnon warrior of the tribes, Yussef ben Ali unlocked his slave-collar with a tiny key and replaced it with a thong necklace of the claws of a saber-toothed tiger.
The slave collar was a slim band of silver locked about the base of a slave's throat. Inscribed upon the band, in the hooked cursives of the Arabic tongue, were the slave's name and number, the number of his quarters, and the emblem of the house of Yussef ben Ali which owned him.
The removal of the hated collar was an enormous relief to Grond. He tried not to let his expression reveal the tumult of emotions which surged within his breast, but Yussef ben Ali was cleverer than he.
"Do not think to escape from your master, Grond!" the corsair captain warned. "In the first place, there is nowhere for you to go, and a single man alone could not cross the breadth of the sea between El-Cazar and the mainland without perishing. In the second place, you will bear with you on this mission no supplies of food or water, and you will not be armed."
Grond nodded to indicate that he comprehended. Yussef ben Ali smiled lazily his small, catlike smile.
"If you accomplish your mission and return, I shall give you the girl Jaira, whom my majordomo has given me to understand you desire as she desires you. Also, you will be given lighter and less unpleasant duties, and your new position will be one in which you will enjoy considerably more freedom of movement and a certain measure of authority. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Master," grunted Grond.
"Then understand this as well," snapped Yussef ben Ali. "If you do not return, for whatever reason-whether you decide to risk destruction by attempting to sail to the mainland and rejoin your tribe, or whether the savages put you to death as a spy-understand that I shall see to it that the girl Jaira will die, and very slowly. Also, very painfully. She will be taken and used by every male slave, servant and seaman in my house . . . over and over again, until she dies of it. Let this remind you to hasten to return to the house of your master . . . ."
Grond flushed, then paled, and gritted his teeth to hold back the roar of bestial challenge which rose unbidden deep in his chest. He would gladly have throttled the mocking villain who sprawled lazily before him, even if to do so meant that he himself would die in the next second.
But there was Jaira to think of ....
"Yes, Master."
No one paid any attention as Grond, wrapped in a red cloak to conceal his native garb, paddled a crude dugout canoe across the harbor of El-Cazar in the general direction of the rocky island. Many were the feuds and intrigues and romances which brewed in the cookpot of the pirates' stronghold, and wise is the man who minds his own business and steers clear of the doings of others.
Grond beached his craft and dragged it high up on the pebble-strewn shore so that the waves would not suck it back to sea, leaving him stranded.
Then he began to climb across the tall hills of naked stone which hid the tribe from the eyes of El-Cazar.
Yussef ben Ali had carefully coached him in exactly what he was supposed to say to the leader of the expedition, and as he climbed the slave mentally rehearsed the message thus drilled into him.
He wondered how long it would take to find the encampment of the strangers. Actually, it did not take long at all, for they found him, instead.
He was clambering through a narrow way between two steep walls when suddenly there stepped into view blond, stalwart, half-naked men attired in abbreviated fur garments very like his own. His hair was as yellow as theirs was, and his eyes as blue.
The main difference was that they were armed with long, bronze-barbed spears, while he went barehanded.
In fact, these spears were leveled directly at his naked chest ... .
Chapter 12 THE CUNNING OF YUSSEF
While these events occurred, time was passing with excruciating slowness for the corsair prince. The raw animal vitality of Kairadine Redbeard, the unquenchable vigor of his lusty physique, was such that his wounds were healing rapidly. But so impatient was the restless pirate, that it grated upon his nerves.
During every "wake" he exercised his wounded right arm, gingerly practising with the cutlass and, later, with a somewhat heavier weapon, his customary scimitar. But the healing process seemed to take forever, and the restoration of his strength occupied an interminable period of time.
Not only was Kairadine impatient to enjoy the charms of the young slave girl he had captured on his last voyage to the mainland, but he was all too aware of the dangerous opportunity which his incapacitation afforded to his rivals and his enemies. His grip on the throne of El-Cazar was too tenuous, too precarious, for so much time to pass without his foes seizing their chances to plot and connive against him.
In particular, he worried about the wily and catlike Yussef ben Ali, who was conspicuous in his absence.
Where was the other corsair chieftain, and what schemes was he up to?
During the enforced leisure of the pirate monarch, it was the loyal and tireless Achmed the Moor who served as the eyes and ears of Kairadine. But the first mate of the Red Witch had disappointingly little of substance to report to his weakened master. The apparent defection of the dancing-girl Zoraida he had not dared mention-uncertain as to whether or not his master yet retained some traces of his former affection for the sleek and supple Mooress. And concerning the schemes of Yussef ben Ali, even Achmed was unable to ascertain any information. The rival corsair chieftain seemed to be lying low ....
Achmed would have assumed it natural for Yussef ben Ali to seize the advantage of Kairadine Redbeard's enforced confinement, to plot with the other members of the Council of Captains. But this did not seem to be happening at all, which the Moor found puzzling in the extreme. The only one of the captains who openly consorted with Yussef was the huge, fat-bellied Algerian, Zodeen, who had become a crony of Yussef's. The other captains were conspicuous in their absence.
Kairadine's staunchest supporter in the council, a towering dark-skinned Barbary Pirate named Moustapha, was momentarily to depart from El-Cazar for a voyage into the northern isles, to raid and plunder the fisher-folk who dwelt in tiny villages along the rock-strewn shores. It did not occur to the simple, faithful Moor that with Moustapha absent, the balance of power in the council would be exactly even: Zodeen siding with Yussef and Kairadine with the one remaining captain on his side, a lean, vulpine corsair chieftain called Ayyub. And if Yussef could win over or bribe or somehow beguile Ayyub into his camp, the balance of power would tilt in the favor of Yussef.
This did not occur to Achmed, as I have noted, but it did indeed occur to the restless and fiery Kairadine, chafing in his leisure and all too aware of simmering plots and counterplots. Kairadine was often closeted with the saturnine Ayyub, who swore that Yussef had not even attempted to speak to him since the return of the Red Witch to anchor in the harbor of El-Cazar. This baffled the uneasy pirate king, who thus found himself in the peculiar position of almost wishing his enemy were actively plotting against him.
Within another wake and sleep, Moustapha was scheduled to depart for the northern isles. And Kairadine had a foreboding that then things would start to happen.
Far beneath the cellars of the house of Yussef ben Ali was a stone-walled chamber like a burial crypt.
The walls of black basalt sweated with glistening moisture. The ceiling was obscured by layers of soot from the greasy smoke of flickering oil lamps. The chamber was furnished only by a rough table of wooden planks and three capacious chairs of Moorish design. That, and a dull and age-stained wall-hanging of green cloth, were all the furnishings the crypt contained.
One of these chairs was occupied by Yussef ben Ali, who lounged moodily, one long booted leg draped over the chair arm, staring with brooding eyes into a wine goblet of chased gold.
The second chair groaned under the ponderous weight of Zodeen the Algerian. He was gobbling fruit and cheese from a silver dish, washing the meal down with gulps of red wine. In co
ntrast to the moodiness of Yussef ben Ali, the fat Algerian seemed unconcerned.
A bell tinkled somewhere far off, its chime muffled by the rock walls of the chamber. At the sound, Yussef started and gave voice to an exclamation.
A moment later, the green drapery was drawn aside by the slender hand of the Moorish dancing-girl, Zoraida. She wore a long robe of dark red cloth beneath which her slim legs gleamed in their pantaloons of diaphanous gauze. Bracelets of solid gold clanked upon her supple wrists. Her bewitching features were veiled.
The drawing aside of the drapery revealed an aspect of the room hitherto undescribed-a door of stout wood bound with strips of green brass.
Behind Zoraida's slim figure loomed a tall gaunt man whose khalifeh or headdress was drawn in loose folds to conceal his long-jawed visage. But had Achmed the Moor been invisibly present, he would at once have recognized the newcomer as none other than Ayyub, the fifth member of the Council of Captains.
Nodding at Zodeen, who broke off from his guzzling just long enough to grunt a surly greeting, the tall pirate chieftain bowed slightly to Yussef and seated himself in the empty chair. Yussef turned intent eyes upon Zoraida, who stood with folded arms before the portal, as if guarding the secret door.
"None perceived your coming hence, I trust, O Zoraida," he demanded, "nor the approach of Ayyub the
Captain?"
"None, my lord," replied the Mooress. "The secret tunnel you had dug beneath your house and the cellars of old Rustum's pleasure-house remains a secret to all . . . ."
"Aye," grinned the saturnine Ayyub. "All of El-Cazar saw me stride into the bordello of Rustum, and whatever eyes may scrutinize my movements have doubtless satisfied themselves that even now Ayyub lies in the warm arms of his favorite Negress, Fatima! None will suspect this meeting, O my friend, any more than they have those which preceded it."
"It is well," smiled Yussef. "O Zoraida, did all go as I planned?"
"It did, Master. The savage girl found and hid the knife which I caused to be thrown at her feet while my friend Ayesha pretended to fall in a fit. Even now I doubt me not, the savage is cutting her way through the window screen to seek her freedom . . . ."
Satisfied, Yussef nodded without speaking.
Ayyub poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped it meditatively. "What of your slave and his mission to the savages in the boats?" he inquired.
"Grond reached the island unobserved," said Yussef. "He has yet to return and report on the success of his embassy. What of the captain, Moustapha?"
Ayyub grinned. "When the world next wakes, he will be gone from El-Cazar! I have this from the lips of his first mate, Abu . . . ."
"And when he returns to El-Cazar," purred Yussef silkenly, "it will be to find that he has a new monarch . . . ."
"Aye," grunted Zodeen, rubbing his paunch. "Yussef ben Ali, cousin to Kairadine, will reign as eighth successor to the throne of the mighty Khair ud-Din Barbarossa!"
Yussef smiled.
The pirates of El-Cazar, having more recently come to the Underground World than the Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon tribes, retained a memory of day and night denied their contemporaries. Thus, even though the eternal afternoon of Zanthodon does not darken into night or brighten into day, they are accustomed to sleep and wake at measured intervals.
That "night," then, while the palace of Kairadine slept, Darya of Thandar remained awake. The slim
blade which Zoraida's confederate had tossed at her feet was the key the cavegirl needed to secure her freedom from the harem of Kairadine. Its keen and razory steel had cut through the carven screen which effectively barred the window of Darya's suite. During the remainder of the last wake, the Cro-Magnon girl had carefully propped the portion of the screen which she had cut through, holding it into place with threads unraveled from her garments.
Once she was certain that the palace slept, the girl arose from her couch and crossed to the window.
From beneath a heap of cushions she extracted the garments she had stolen from a servant's wash-basket; unlike the rich finery in which Kairadine had draped her, the garments she had chosen were plain and worn. She had deliberately selected these with the thought of making herself inconspicuous in the street, if she were indeed fortunate enough to escape from the palace.
Swiftly changing her clothes, the Cro-Magnon girl detached the portion of the screen which she had cut free and slid through the opening, pulling the screen into place behind her in order to baffle pursuit.
A thick tangle of vines grew outside her window, clinging tenaciously to the wall. Clambering down this, Darya vanished into the thick shrubbery of the little walled garden. It was simplicity itself for the lithe cavegirl to scale the wall.
With beating heart, she slid to the ground beyond the wall. And found herself in the street beyond the palace-and free.
Chapter 13 COUNCIL OF THE CAPTAINS
Kairadine Redbeard was in a vile and vicious temper. No sooner had he arisen from his rest than servants informed him that Yussef ben Ali and Zodeen the Algerian had arrived at the palace to demand that their prince convene a Council of the Captains. This was a confrontation which the Redbeard had been avoiding all during his convalescence, hungrily awaiting the return of his full strength and the restoration of his swordarm to its normal fighting vigor. And was it now to be forced upon him-?
"Send the dogs away to whine before another kennel!" the Prince of El-Cazar growled irritably. "Know they not that it requires a clear majority of the captains to convene the council against the wishes of their prince? And two captains together make no majority, for we be five in all, by Allah!"
His servant bowed humbly, touching his brow in the salaam. "Alas, O master, the lords would seem to have anticipated thine argument," he whispered. "They argue that within the hour the lord Moustapha hath departed from EICazar on a voyage to the north, leaving the captains in residence numbering but four-and that, according to the Articles of Brotherhood, in the absence of one member, half of the captains may force their prince to yield to a council summons-"
With a roar of wrath, the Redbeard kicked his servant full in the chest, driving him from the sleeping chamber.
"By the Fiery Beard of Shaitan, Yussef goes too far!" swore Kairadine, kicking back the bedclothes as his frightened servant scuttled from the room. Rapping a brass gong to summon his valet, the Prince of Pirates knuckled the sleep from his eyes and loudly demanded that his best finery be laid out.
Munching ripe fruit and drinking unmixed wine, he moodily permitted his valet to adorn his body in an open-throated blouse of scarlet silk with voluminous sleeves caught at the wrist by silver buttons, tight trousers of bottle-green velvet, and black boots with up-curled toes, worked all over with arabesques of silver thread. A sash of mustard-yellow cloth wound about his lean Waist completed the costume.
Almost as an afterthought, Kairadine Redbeard belted on his swordbelt-selecting, neither scimitar nor cutlass, but a slender French epee.
While attiring himself, Kairadine had issued orders that messengers were to be dispatched to the houses of the only captain remaining in the fortress isle, the lean and crafty Ayyub whom he still counted among his friends. Then Kairadine stomped off to the Chamber of the Council, trying to ignore the forebodings of disaster and doom which gnawed upon his heart.
He had a grim feeling that he would somehow rue this day. And in his heart he vowed that Yussef ben Ali would have great and good cause to rue it, too . . . .
The Chamber of the Council was circular and high-roofed, with a long table of fine old wood, black with age, about which sat five high-backed chairs of the same ancient wood, upholstered in the Frankish fashion with red velvet.
When Kairadine stalked in, the others were already assembled in their places. Fat Zodeen, his bulk swatched in a loose Moorish robe like a kaftan of yellow satin, was gnawing on a greasy haunch of meat, his bushy beard dripping hot gravy. Yussef, slim as a panther in close-fitting black
velvet which clothed him from throat to wrist and heel, lounged lazily, fingering a giant ruby that smoldered in his left earlobe like a pulsing coal. A little apart from these two cronies sat Ayyub, solemn and saturnine, soberly attired in turban, cummerbund, and long-sleeved robes of dark wool.
They greeted him coolly, even warily, as he stalked in and flung himself into his great chair at the head of the long table. He glowered wrathfully on one and all, seeking to intimidate them with his very evident fury. If Yussef ben Ali was at all taken aback to see his chief-hitherto reputedly an invalid, virtually bedridden-in such high temper and lordly vigor, his suave features concealed it well.
Slamming the table with his balled right fist-making the wine cups jump-Kairadine demanded the reason why they had forced this council upon him. Yussef thoughtfully observed that gesture . . . was it not the right shoulder which had been so frightfully maimed by the fanged jaws of the monstrous yith? Surely, it was: had, then, the unpredictable Kairadine Redbeard already recovered his full use of that arm?
Belching loudly, wiping his greasy lips on a scarlet kerchief, Zodeen the Algerian began the attack, having been carefully coached in his speech by the wily Yussef.
"In the name of the Brotherhood of El-Cazar," he rumbled in his bull-chested voice, "I, Zodeen Ahmmad Zelim Khan declare the Prince and Captain Kairadine Barbarossa, Seventh of That Name, incompetent to command the fortunes of El-Cazar!"
Kairadine crushed down the hot flame that arose within him, and his eyes narrowed even as his lips whitened.
"On what grounds doth the Captain Zodeen lodge this complaint?" he inquired with dangerous softness.
