Voyage of Slaves

12

SOFT AS DARK VELVET, THE MEDITERRANEAN cast its warm enchantment over the waves. Each riplet reflected glimmers of golden light from myriad stars, and a segment of crescent moon.

Ben and Ned were on the fo’c’sle head deck, taking their ease on a few blankets, which Mamma Rizzoli had provided for them. Ben lay gazing up at the beautiful night sky, the Sea Djinn swaying gently on the swell as he conversed with his friend.

“We’re safe out here on deck, mate, but I won’t be really happy until we’re well clear of this ship.”

Ned settled his chin across the boy’s feet. “Aye, back on dry land, far from the ghost of old Vanderdecken. Y’know, it’s odd that we haven’t had any messages of warnings from our angel for a long time now. At least I haven’t, have you?”

Ben let his eyes close. “Not that I can recall. I expect sooner or later the angel will let us know when it’s time for us to move on. Though I hope it’s not sooner. I like being with the troupe, they’re a good bunch.”

The black Labrador wrinkled his nose. “What you really mean is that you like being with Serafina. Oh, don’t deny it, mate, she’s a pretty fascinating girl. I like her a lot, too, y’know—not in the way you do, though. Still, I suppose you’re entitled to a little joy in this eternal life of ours. Just as long as you don’t fall too deeply in love and get badly hurt by it.”

Ben reached down and ruffled his dog’s ears. “Poor old Ned, what about you?”

The dog sighed gustily. “Oh, I suppose in some century or other I’ll stumble across a pretty, young, golden Labrador, a soft, doe-eyed thing with a coat like honey. Right, that’s enough of talk like that, m’boy. Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and we don’t know what tomorrow holds in store for us. G’night, mate!”

Below them, underneath the forecastle steps which led up from amidships, Abrit lay hidden, waiting with the patience of an assassin. He ran his palm along the deadly blade, caressing its razor edge and sharp point, thinking of how he would spend his gold in the seaport taverns of Slovenija. The little man had killed many times before; he never gave a second thought to his victims, only the pleasures their blood money could provide.

Time passed slowly, as minutes crept into hours. In the men’s cabin Otto was tending to his moustache with elaborate care. Having trimmed and combed it fastidiously, he produced his scented pomade, massaging it into the hairs and twirling the ends into tight points, which bristled out either side.

Mummo held his nose as he complained, “Whew! Do you have to use that stuff, Otto? It smells like a camel’s breakfast left to rot in some cheap bazaar!”

Using his snuff box lid as a mirror, the big German inspected his moustache proudly. “Ach, you have no appreciation of the finer things, Mummo. This pomade is made from attar of violets and the wax from honeybees. It is very special and most expensive, mein Freund.”²²

The clown wiped a palm across his damp brow. His normally ruddy complexion had taken on a sickly pallor. “I wish you’d put it away. Mamma mia, the odour is making me feel queasy!”

“As you wish.” The strongman put his pomade back in its snuff box, and settled into a hammock. Then he began to rock back and forth. This gave Mummo even more cause for complaint.

“Can’t you keep that thing still, Otto? What with the ship going up and down, and you swinging from side to side, and the smell of that moustache ointment clogging my nostrils, it’s making me giddy!”

Buffo nudged Signore Rizzoli, chuckling. “Another case of the mal de mer, eh?”

Mummo denied the accusation indignantly. “I’ve never been seasick in my entire life!”

Buffo had a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I never said you were seasick, brother. You’ll be alright in the morning, won’t he, Augusto?”

Signore Rizzoli caught on to the joke. “Of course he will, after a good breakfast of tomatoes and peppers, mixed in with scrambled eggs. . . .”

He got no further. Mummo clapped a hand across his mouth, and gave a strangled belch. Leaping up, he made a beeline for the cabin door.

“Mmmmff! Goin’ for a turn around the deck. Mmmfff!”

He dashed out, leaving his brother winking at Otto.

“Never been seasick before, eh?”

Rocking back and forth in his hammock, the strongman nodded solemnly. “Ja, but there is always a first time, I am thinking.”

Abrit judged the time just right; he had waited long enough, both boy and dog were sound asleep. He came from beneath the steps and mounted them carefully, silent as a moonshadow. The small assassin kept to the edges of the wooden stairs. He walked splay-legged, to avoid any creaks. It took him awhile to negotiate the twelve steps, but Abrit was in no hurry. The business of murder, he knew, required stealth and patience.

Standing at the edge of the forecastle deck, he concentrated on his targets. The infidel boy was lying on his side, presenting his back as a perfect target. The dog sprawled on its stomach, close to its master’s feet. Abrit drew his long dagger, the one he used for throwing. He checked that he had the other knife, a small, double-edged blade, stowed at the front of his waist sash. This he would use to despatch the dog speedily.

Drawing back the heavy throwing knife, he raised his elbow to shoulder level. Holding the blade’s blunt back edge firmly with his whole hand, he felt the perfect balance between arm and knife. The assassin judged the distance, centering on the nape of the sleeping boy’s neck and tensing himself for the throw.

Clad only in his nightshirt, Mummo padded out onto the deck barefoot. He leaned back against the midship rail, breathing deeply to rid himself of the nausea he was feeling. The clown avoided looking at the sea—it shifted too much. He glanced about the deck, and could not help seeing the man. Like a huge spider he was creeping up the forecastle steps, obviously up to no good. Reaching the fo’c’sle deck, he drew a long dagger and began hefting it.

As a performer, Mummo had seen knife throwers before. Ben was up there, probably asleep. The clown’s brain was racing. What to do? He could not reach the man in time to halt his throw. Then he saw the belaying pins. There were several of them slotted through holes around the foremost of the midship masts. Mummo sprang forward and grasped one. It was a polished length of teak, about the same size and weight as the Indian clubs which he and his brother used in their act. He tossed it in his hand; it was a good weight, and had the right taper to it.

The man still had his back to Mummo, unaware that he was being watched. Now his arm came back, he was making the throw. All feelings of seasickness had deserted Mummo. Twirling the belaying pin in one hand he uttered a low whistle and hurled the pin forcefully at the assassin. Abrit turned at the sound of Mummo’s whistle.

Thwock!

The teak belaying pin struck him squarely between both eyes. He fell sideways down the steps to the midship deck, where he lay still, his head twisted at a grotesque angle, his hand still clenching the knifeblade.

Roused by the noise, Ben and Ned ran to the top of the steps. Mummo was standing below, looking up at them and holding a finger to his lips for silence. Boy, dog and clown all stood stock-still for several seconds, expecting crewmen to come running. However, the incident had passed unnoticed, nobody aboard had stirred.

Ben and Ned descended the steps slowly and quietly. They found Mummo kneeling by the fallen Abrit. Tears were streaming down the face of the clown as he explained brokenly, “Holy Mother, have mercy on me, I have killed a man! I didn’t mean to, I only wanted to stop him throwing the knife at you, Benno. Lord forgive me, I have ended the life of a man, I’ve killed him!”

Ben touched the big throwing knife with his foot; it fell from the assassin’s hand. He picked it up and threw it overboard. “But you saved my life, friend.”

Mummo stared at the body blankly. “Look, he’s dead, and I ended his life. I’ve never killed anything before, not even a rabbit or a fish!”

Ben latched his arm around the clown’s quaking shoulders and drew him upright, explaining gently to him, “Hush now, this is no time for sorrow or guilt. That man was going to murder me, but you did a brave thing, you saved my life. Would you rather that I was lying dead with that knife in me, or that he is lying here, dead by accident?”

Ned interjected a thought. “Tell him he saved my life, too, that villain has another knife, see. I bet that was meant for me. Good old Mummo, well done, sir, that’s what I say!”

The clown straightened his shoulders, drawing a sleeve quickly across his eyes and nose. “Sì! You are right, my friend, this fellow was a murderer. If I hadn’t stopped him you’d be dead now.”

Ben patted Mummo’s back. “Right! Now let’s get rid of him before anybody comes. You take the feet, and I’ll get his arms. Luckily he wasn’t as big as Bomba.”

Between them they lugged Abrit up to the rail and slid him over. He made only a slight splash.

Ned sent out a quick, urgent message. “Look out, someone’s coming!”

Ben picked up the belaying pin. Winking at Mummo, he spoke aloud. “See, I told you this isn’t the same as your Indian clubs!”

The clown glanced over Ben’s shoulder at the approaching steersman, who was yawning and rubbing his eyes. He had obviously been napping on duty. Mummo returned Ben’s wink.

“Look, these things are the same as my clubs, pass me two more and I’ll show you how to juggle with them!”

The steersman pushed Mummo aside and snatched the belaying pin from Ben. He scowled at them sourly. “That’s a piece of ship’s equipment, not a toy. Get out of my sight, both of you, and take that flea-bitten cur, too. Huh, playing games in the middle of the night like two idiot children. Got no beds to go to, eh?”

Mumbling excuses they climbed the steps, up to the fo’c’sle deck. Mummo sat on the blankets with Ben and Ned. He was still shaking with shock, but manfully trying to bring himself under control. He patted Ned and smiled nervously at Ben.

“Do you think the steersman noticed anything, Benno?”

The boy gripped the clown’s hand firmly, giving him reassurance. “No, no, if he’d seen us tossing the killer overboard he’d have raised the alarm straightaway. Put it all out of your mind, just remember that you were very brave back there.”

Mummo nodded gratefully. “Thank you, my friend, you are both good fellows, you and Neddo. I’ll stay up here with you tonight, we’ll take turns to guard each other.”

Ben agreed willingly. “Good idea. I’ll take the first hour.”

The clown stretched out next to Ned. “I wonder why he wanted to kill you, Benno?”

The boy shrugged. “That man had no reason, he was a complete stranger to me. But I think that somebody paid him to do the deed—pity we didn’t have time to search his pockets.”

Mummo closed his eyes and lay back. “That makes sense. Still, I’d like to know who it was.”

Ben scratched his head. “Aye, so would I!” he lied.

Ned opened one eye as he transmitted a thought. “Huh, I’ll bet my tail that his name began with a B!”