Robert Adams - Castaways 2 - The Seven Magical Jewels of Ireland

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PROLOGUE

Whyffler Hall, it had once been called, the stark, rectangular tower built of

big blocks of gray native stone, in centuries long past—motte, stronghold,

residence of the generations who had held this stretch of the blood-soaked

Scottish Marches for king after king of England and Wales. But when first Bass

Foster saw that tower, it had become only a rear wing of the enlarged Whyffler

Hall, a rambling, gracious Renaissance residence, its wide windows glazed with

diamond-shaped panes set in lead, its inner bailey transformed into a formal

garden.

From the first moment he set eyes upon it, Bass Foster had felt a strange

compulsion to approach, to enter that ancient tower, that brooding stone

edifice, but it was not until some years later that he was made privy to the

knowledge that the very instrument which had drawn him and all the other

people and objects* from twentieth-century North America to England of the

seventeenth century (though an England of a much-altered history from his own

world of that period) was immured within the dank cellar of the tower.

*See Castaways in Time by Robert Adams (Signet Books, 1982).

It was a savage, primitive world of war and death and seemingly senseless

brutalities into which Bass and the nine other moderns were plunged, but he

and most of the others were able to adapt. A woman died, one man was killed,

another went mad, and a third was maimed in battle, but the other six men and

women managed to carve new lives and careers for themselves out of this very

strange world into which they had been inextricably cast.

The arcane device spawned of far-future technology still squatted in the

cellar of that ancient tower, its greenish glow providing the only light that

had penetrated the chamber for the two and more generations since its single

entry had been finally walled up and sealed by the authority of the

then-reigning king.

Only a bare handful of living men and a single woman knew the truth of what

lay beyond those mortared stones impressed with the royal seal of the House of

Tudor . . . they, and uncountable generations of scuttling vermin to which the

cellar had been home.

Although they welcomed the dim light cast by the chunky, rectangular,

silver-gray device in what otherwise would have been utter, stygian darkness,

the vermin otherwise tended to avoid it, for it often emitted sounds which

hurt their sensitive ears.

But of a day, a wild stoat came from out the park and over the wall

surrounding the outer bailey of Whyffler Hall. The slender, supple, gray-brown

beast had no slightest trouble in moving unseen by man up through the formal

gardens to the environs of the Hall itself, for he was a hunter, an ambusher,

a born killer, and had ingested the arts of stealth with his mother's milk.

Near to the Hall, his keen nose detected the scent of rat, and he doggedly

followed that scent a roundabout course to a burrow entry dug hard against a

mossy, cyclopean stone. In a fraction of an eyeblink, the furry, snaky body

had plunged into the earth in pursuit of his chosen prey.

After exploring numerous chambers—sail, alas, empty of rodents—and equally

numerous intersecting tunnels, the stoat found that the larger, older, most

heavily traveled main burrow, which had descended to some depth, began to

incline upward once more, and was soon filled with the strong scent of many

rodents ahead and a wan, strange light.

The questing head the big hob stoat thrust out of the burrow hole in the

packed-earth floor of the tower cellar chanced to come nose to quivering nose

with a rat that had been on the very point of entering that hole. The rat

leaped a full body length backward and shrilled a terrified scream. That

scream and the sudden stench of the stoat's musk initiated a few chaotic

moments of rodent pandemonium, with rats of all sizes and ages and of both

sexes streaking in all directions and shrieking a chorus of terror.

But fast as were the rats, the stoat hob was faster, and he had emerged into

the midst of the panic and slain several smaller ones before most of the rest

had found and fled down other holes. Now the only full-grown rats left in all

the huge, open cellar were three which had taken sanctuary atop the glowing

device, crouching and panting amongst the dust-coated knobs and levers and

calibrated dial faces.

No stoat ever had really good eyesight, but their other keen senses more than

compensated for this lack, so this particular mustelid knew just where those

rats were, how many they numbered, their sizes, ages, sex, and degree of

terror. He also knew, after a hurried circuit of the base of their glowing

aerie, that there was no way he could get to and at them whilst they remained

up there. Four feet straight up was simply beyond his somewhat limited jumping

abilities, and the unrelievedly smooth, hard surfaces would prevent him from

climbing up to his prey.

Frustrated and furious, the stoat chattered briefly to himself, then futilely

jumped the less than a foot he could manage, vainly trying to get his stubby

claws into the steel sides as he slid back down to thump onto the silvery disk

on which the device reposed.

Feeble as had been the attempt, nonetheless, it and the sounds of it had

further terrified the three rats, driving them into a frenzy which suddenly

erupted into a three-way battle to the death amongst them. The squealing,

biting, clawing, furry ball rolled hither and yon amongst the control switches

and buttons and levers and knobs thickly scattered over the top of the device.

Scaly tails lashed as the three big rats fought on, heedless of what they

struck or moved, heedless

now, too, of the facts that the ear-hurting noises were become suddenly

constant and louder, that the greenish glow was become much brighter.

Below, the hob stoat waited, hoping that in their fury the rats would roll off

to fall down within reach of his teeth.

Far and far to the south of Whyffler Hall, within the long-besieged City of

London, one of those three sleek rats would have brought a full onza of gold

in almost any quarter in which it chanced to be hawked, for the siegelines had

been drawn tightly about that city and its starvling, frantic, and embattled

inhabitants. Nor did there appear to be any hope of succor now, for the last

remnants of last year's Crusading hosts were being relentlessly hunted down,

while every attempt by the Papal forces to resupply the beleaguered city had

been foiled, all ending in resupplying King Arthur's army instead.

In the most recent incursion of a Papal supply fleet up the Thames, young

Admiral Bigod's English fleet had lurked out of sight until the leased

merchanters and their heavily armed escorts were well up the river. Then,

while his line-of-battle ships and armed merchant vessels trailed the foreign

ships just out of the range of the long guns, a dozen small, speedy galleys

issued from out certain creekmouths and immediately engaged two of the

four-masted galleons that composed the van of the fleet.

Each of these galleys was equipped with but a single cannon, but these cannon

were all of the superior sort manufactured at York by the redoubtable Master

Fairley. The guns were breech-loaded and fired pointed, cylindrical

projectiles—both solid and explosive-shell.

The well-drilled crews handled the galleys with aplomb, scooting around the

huge, high-sided, cumbersome galleons like so many waterbugs, discharging

their breechloaders again and again to fearsome effect into their unmissable

targets, while the return fire howled and hummed uselessly high over their

heads.

After watching his companion galleon shot almost to splinters, before either a

lucky shell or one of the several blazing fires reached her magazine and she

first exploded, then sank like a stone, Wai id Dahub Pasha saw his own

galleon's rudder blown away by one of the devilish shells. At that point, he

ordered most of his men up from the gundecks, to be put to better use in

fighting fires, manning the pumps, and tending the many wounded; there was no

way of which he knew to fight with a ship you could not steer. He also had a

sounding made, and, pale with the thought of less than a full fathom of water

beneath his keel, with the flowing tide pushing him farther and farther up the

unfamiliar river, he had the fore anchor dropped.

As the anchor chain rattled out into the river, Walid Dahub Pasha saw the

dozen galleys back off from his now helpless ship, hold a brief, shouted,

council of war, then set off toward the knot of merchanters and the remaining

galleons. After that, he and those of his men still hale were all too busy

saving their ship and stores and comrades to pay any attention to aught that

befell the rest of the Papal fleet.

While he hacked at a tangle of rigging and splintered yards—for Walid prided

himself on never forgetting his antecedents nor asking his seamen to do aught

that he would not himself do—he reflected that only the worst possible string

of ill luck had gotten him and his fine ship involved in this Roman mess to

begin. The Bishop of the East at Constantinople had nothing to do with the

Roman Crusade, though he had given leave for any of his as had the desire to

join in it. Walid certainly had never for a minute entertained any such

desire, yet now he would in all likelihood lose his ship if not his life

through being caught up in the Roman stupidity. The sultan in Anghara would be

in no way pleased, either, when and if Walid returned to report the loss of

ship, guns and all. A chill coursed through Walid's powerful body despite the

heat engendered by his exertions, for he had seen strong men live for long

hours after being impaled—screaming, pleading, babbling, dying by bare inches,

while the remorseless wooden stake tore up through their bodies. He shuddered.

That was no way for a decent Tripolitan seaman to die!

Much later, he was on the main gundeck, supervising the drawing of the charges

from several of his battery of bronze culverins, when Fahrooq al-Ahmar, a

captain and the sole remaining officer of Walid's contingent of fighting men,

found him with a message.

Arrived on his quarterdeck, one look through his long-glass was enough to tell

the tale. The remainder of the Papal fleet was once more sailing upriver, but

no longer under Papal ensigns; each and every one of the ships and galleons

now bore the personal banner of Arthur III Tudor, King of England and Wales.

The fleet was being shepherded by some English galleons and frigates, while

the squadron of galleys seemed to be beating in the general direction of

Walid's crippled galleon. The thought flitted through his mind that perhaps

they meant to give him and his no quarter, in which case he had unloaded those

culverins too soon.

He turned to a quartermaster. Haul down that Roman rag and hoist Sultan Omar's

banner in its proper place." Then, "Fahrooq, send a man down to tell them to

get those culverins reloaded immediately, load the swivels, get yourself and

your men armed for close combat, open the main arms chests for the seamen, and

send a man to my cabin to help me get into my armor. They may kill us all in

the end, but this particular batch of Franks will know they've come up against

real men, by the beard of the Prophet and the tail of Christ's holy ass!"

As the seamen and soldiers set to their tasks aboard the immobilized galleon,

the row galleys crept across the intervening water. Closer they came, ever

closer. When they were just beyond the effective range of a long

eighteen-pounder culverin shot, they divided, half of them passing across the

galleon's stern quarter to form a line on her port side, the others similarly

positioned to menace her starboard side.

Watching the deadly vessels through his fine long-glass, Walid could discern

the raised platforms for the single gun that each galley mounted. Absently, he

noted that they looked to be nine- or maybe twelve-pounders.

With both his sides menaced properly, eleven of the galleys held their places,

using their oars only enough to keep them in those places, while a single

galley began to stroke slowly toward the galleon. No gunners stood on the

platform; there was but a single man—helmetless, but wearing half-armor,

sword, dagger, and pistols and holding the haft of a bladeless boarding pike

to which a grayish-white square of cloth had been affixed.

"Looks to be a herald of some kind," remarked Walid, then he ordered, "No

one's to fire on them until and unless I say to do so. But keep your eyes on

the other galleys, most especially on those off the port bow. We can lose

nothing by hearing what this Frank bastard has to say to us."

As the small galley neared, Walid thought to himself that some of the oarmen

were easily the most villainous-looking humans he had ever set eyes to in a

lifetime spent at sea and in some of the roughest ports in all the wide world.

The herald, on the other hand, though his face was well scarred and his nose

was canted and a bit crooked and though he might have looked fearsome if

viewed alone, seemed to represent an uncommon degree of gentility when

compared to the satanic-looking crew whose efforts propelled the galley.

Then the rowcraft turned to starboard and came directly toward the galleon,

and all that Walid could see were the backs of the rowers, the supposed

herald, the steersman, and another he assumed to be the master on the

minuscule steering deck at the stern.

And on that small steering deck, Squire John Stakeley felt far more exposed to

imminent death or maiming than ever he had even when spurring on at the very

forefront of a cavalry charge. Though he was no true seaman and made no such

pretensions, he well knew just how frail was this galley and her crew when one

contemplated a hit by even a single ball from an eighteen-pounder culverin,

and they were now within perfect range if that Roman bastard elected to pull

his broadside or any part thereof.

Of course, if he did that—fired on a herald—the rest of the squadron would

proceed to pound the galleon to pieces, before boarding the hulk and

butchering every man aboard

her. But that would be of no help to Squire John and the noble herald and the

gallowglasses who were rowing closer to the anchored warship with every stroke

of the long, heavy sweeps.

Hailing from an inland county and being thus conversant with damn-all of ships

in general, Squire John failed to recognize the new, gaudy standard that had

been run up to replace the even gaudier Pap;.l one. But the herald saw it for

what it was, and, as the galley came alongside the galleon, with a brace of

brawny Irishmen contriving to keep her there against the tug of the current

with boathooks and main strength, the herald shouted up at a swarthy, bearded

man who stood by the rail with a glowing length of matchcord in one

tar-stained hand and the other grasping the aiming rod of a swivel gun—a

three-inch drake, mounted in the rail specifically to repel boarders.

In purest Arabic, he demanded and threatened and insulted so meticulously that

Walid and every man of his within the hearing immediately recognized a kindred

ethnic spirit.

"Throw me down a ladder at once, you sorry by-blow outcome of a diseased sow

and a spavined camel's perversions, else I'll see you given that swivel gun

and all within it as the hottest clyster that your foul fundament ever has

known!"

At Walid's curt nod of approval, the gunner laid aside his slow-match and,

grinning his own appreciation of the herald's admirably couched words, heaved

down a rope ladder from the galleon's waist rail to the bobbing galley below.

Leaving the white flag leaning against the gun carriage, the herald stepped

onto the gunwale of the galley and ascended the swaying, jerking ladder as

nimbly as any barefoot seaman, despite his heavy boots, armor, long-skirted

buffcoat, and dangling weapons.

As Fahrooq ushered the newcomer up onto the quarterdeck, Walid noted that the

herald moved with a pantherish grace and so was most likely an exceeding

deadly swordsman. Otherwise, he looked to be much akin to Walid himself.

Both were of average height—some five and one-half feet from soles to

pate—with black hair and eyes, swart skin, and fine, prominent noses, heads,

hands, and feet a bit on the small side, fingers long and slender. Both men

were possessed of slim waists and thick shoulders, but the herald also showed

the fiat thighs of a horseman and considerable facial scarring, more than

Walid had managed to collect in his own lifetime.

"Sahlahmoo aleikoom, Ohbtdhn. I am Sir Ali ibn Hussain." "Aleikoomah sahlahm."

Walid intoned the ritual greeting, but then demanded, "By the flames of

Gehenna, now, how is it that an Arabian knight is serving an excommunicated

Prankish king who is making war—rather successful war, but still war—upon the

Holy Apostolic Church? Man, you risk your soul in the hereafter, not to

contemplate what will be done to your body if you find yourself taken and

brought before an ecclesiastical court."

"Oh, I serve not King Arthur," was the reply. "At least, not directly. No, I

have the great honor to be the herald of his grace, Sir Sebastian, Duke of

Norfolk, Earl of Rutland, Markgraf von Velegrad, Baron of Strathtyne, Knight

of the Garter of the Kingdom of England and Wales, Noble Fellow of the Order

of the Red Eagle of the Holy Roman Empire, and Lord Commander of Horse in the

Armies of Arthur III Tudor, King of England and Wales."

Walid shook his head. "How do you manage to remember all of that Prankish

gibberish in its proper order. Sir Ali? Never mind, here's the kahvay—let's

have a cup so we can at least trust each other here, on board my ship."

When one seaman had set up the elaborately chased silver tray-table on its

carven ebony legs, when another had set it with a a trio of tiny gold-washed

and bejeweled silver cups, then a brass brazier full of glowing coals was

passed up from the firebox in the waist and a hideously scarred and pockmarked

man of late middle years set about the preparation of the ceremonial food and

drink.

In the center of the table was set a smaller silver tray on which rested a few

soaked and softened ship's biscuits and a bowl of coarse, brownish salt. First

Walid, then Fahrooq took up a bit of biscuit between the fore and middle

fingers of their right hands, dipped them in the salt, and proffered them to

Sir Ali. The herald, for his part, accepted and slowly ate the offerings, then

did the same to Walid and Fahrooq, in turn.

Meantime, the man at the brazier had dropped a generous handful of dried

coffee beans into a small, preheated iron skillet, wherein he had thoroughly

roasted them, then dumped the almost scorched beans into a marble mortar and

rapidly reduced them to coarse powder. The powder he had poured into a brass

pot with a long wooden handle, adding some pint or so of water and a piece of

a sugarloaf. When he had nestled the pot into an iron trivet above the bed of

coals, he began to alternately blow upon the coals and carefully watch the

contents of the pot.

As the coffee came to its initial boil, the man adroitly took it from the

heat, added three cardamom pods, then replaced it over the coals. As the

mixture boiled up the second time, he again took it up and this time spooned a

generous measure of the rich brown froth into each of the three waiting silver

cups.

On the third boiling, the man removed the pot from the heat, dashed into it a

large spoonful of unheated water, then filled the three cups with the

fragrantly steaming, thick, syrupy, stygian-black brew.

"It is many years since I have savored dhwah in the Turkic style," the herald

commented politely, still speaking Arabic.

Walid shrugged. "Thank you for the compliment, Sir Ali, but I understand,

believe me, \ more than understand. You will have noticed that 1 did not

dignify it by calling it dhwah. I shipped this sorry Turk aboard in Izmir,

after my own cook was killed in a dockside brawl. And dhwah or even a simple

kuskus simply baffles him.

"But now, I am a blunt seaman, Sir Ali, so let us get down to business, eh?

For what purpose did this Bey Sebastian send you to me? This galleon is his

for the taking, already; even a landsman could see that she cannot be steered.

The bread of slavery is bitter at best, but forced to it, I imagine that the

most of my crew would prefer becoming slaves to becoming corpses, today. As

for me, after the loss of this vessel and the guns, I'd as lief remain as far

as possible from Sultan Omar's domains ... for reasons of bodily health, you

understand." Sir All grinned briefly. "Yes, I've heard that he's possessed of

a foul temper, though exceeding generous to those who can please him. But tell

me this—how is it that one of Sultan Omar's fine war galleons is escorting

ships sent by the Pope of the West? Is all the Church allied against England,

then?"

Walid snorted scornfully. **Not hardly, Sir Ali! Our Pope's last word on the

matter was that anyone simpleminded enough to go west and risk his fortune

and/or neck to try to help put a bastard-spawn usurper onto the throne of

England at the behest of old Pope Abdul would probably have been killed by his

own stupidity sooner or later anyhow, wherever he chanced to be.

"No, bad luck and illegal coercion brought me and mine here to this sorry

pass. Nor have that Moorish dog who styles himself Pope of the West and his

criminal Roman cohorts heard the end of the coercion business, either, not if

1 ever get the ship back to Turkey, they haven't.

"The Turkish ambassador to the court of King Giovanni, in Napoli, having

died—he and all his family, of a summer pestilence—I had conveyed the new

ambassador and his household to Napoli and was asea enroute to the Port of

Marsala to take aboard certain cargo consigned to Sultan Omar's chamberlain

when, of a late, dark night, a freak, unseasonal tempest all but swamped the

galleon, killed or injured several of my crewmen, and seriously damaged my

rigging. When all was done, I found my position to be far nor'-nor'west of

where I'd been at the start, and somehow I managed to get the vessel into the

Port of Gaeta, a small port on the mainland . . . and squarely into the claws

of Pope Abdul, the blackhearted bastard sibling of those noisome canine

creatures that subsist on thrice-vomited camels' dung.

"Now understand, Sir Ali, all that I required was a few score fathoms of

decent rope, some small items of hardware, some good, seasoned hardwood

lumber, and a few pinewood spars, for all of which I was prepared to pay fair

value in new, undipped golden omars. And for all of my first day in that port

it seemed that I would soon be accommodated at a better than good price;

indeed, I was received and feted in the manner of some visiting bey. But one

Unavoidable' delay followed on the heels of another for more than a week.

Finally, I was informed that materials of the quality and in the quantity I

required simply were not available anywhere in the environs of Gaeta-port.

"At that juncture, I offered to hire a few of the larger coasters and crews to

tow my galleon south to Napoli, which port I knew was well enough stocked to

effect my repairs and which lay less than sixty sea miles distant. But, Sir

Ali, not one coaster captain or fishing-boat master would look at my gold,

though I offered enough to all but buy their wallowing little tubs outright.

"Then, when I was making ready to sail out under a juryrig and follow the

coastline down to Napoli as best I could, the damned two-faced Dago

harbormaster, claiming most piously to be in fear for the safety of me, my

crew, and the sultan's ship, sealed my moorings with armed guards on the dock,

and most sadly informed me that if I should try to leave the port without his

say-so, the fort gunners hacj orders to hull me with their demicannon! Can you

credit it?"

"It sounds not like a friendly act," Sir Ali commented dryly. "So, what

happened then?"

With a strong tinge of sarcasm, Walid said, "Lo and behold, two days later, a

Roman Papal galleon—that same one that your galleys blew up and sank earlier

today, for which may God always love you all!—came bowling into Gaeta-port and

I was shortly given to understand that the only way I would get out of that

overgrown fishing hamlet with my ship and crew intact and before we all grew*

long, white beards was to allow the Roman to take us under tow and convey us

thus to the Port of Livorno, some days' sailing to the north."

The Arabian knight nodded, brusquely. "And you agreed."

"What else could I do?" Walid shrugged and shook his head. "On the way north,

I must admit, I toyed with the thought of possibly contriving a broken tow

cable, then maneuvering my 'benefactor' into position to hull him with my

main-deck battery. Then I could cripple his rigging and sweep his decks with

my nines and swivels, and possibly serve him up a few red-hot shot for good

measure, before I tried to make it down to Napoli alone. But then, the second

day out of Gaeta, a brace of big galleases beat down from the north and I

realized that at these new odds, resistance would be suicidal."

The seaman padded over on his bare, dirty feet and refilled the tiny cups with

more of the strong Turkish kahvay, while another man removed the ceremonial

tray of bread and salt to replace it with another small tray of black,

wrinkled, sun-dried olives, dried Izmir figs, raisins, and similar oddments.

Walid sipped delicately at the boiling-hot liquid, then went on with his tale.

"The harbor basin at Livorno was packed with Vessels like stockfish in a cask,

Sir Ali. There was at least one vessel moored at every slip, with others

moored to the starboard of those, where there was room. Every type and size of

vessel in all the Middle Sea was there to be seen— cogs, caravels, carracks,

galleys and galleases, coasters of every conceivable shape and rig, all

engaged in lading, preparing, arming, victualing, and manning yonder fleet

your arms have just captured. They—"

"Pardon," interjected the herald, his eyebrows raised quizzically, "how many

principalities would you say were there represented in the preparation of that

fleet? Which ones were they, do you recall?"

Ticking off his fingers, Walid answered slowly, jogging his memory. "Well,

let's see, Sir Ali. The Papal State, of course, and Genoa—Livorno's owned by

Genoa, though it's been on long-term lease to the Roman See for as long as I

can recall—both the North and the South Franks had ships there, as did the

Spanish, the Aragonese, the Emirate of Granada, the Sultan of Morocco, the

Hafsid caliph, the Grand Duchy of Sardinia, the King of Sicily, the Prince of

Serbia, the Archcount of Corfu, and the King of Hungary. I was told, but did

not myself see, that supplies had arrived from iskanderia; if true, they must

have been private merchants, though, for I cannot imagine Sultan Mehemet

getting any of his fleet involved in a clearly Roman dispute, not with the

bulk of his army away down south fighting the Aethiops and their allies."

"No Portugees?" probed the herald. "No Germans, Venetians, or Neapolitans? No

Greeks or Levantines?"

"No!" Walid attested emphatically. "Not one Portugee there, nor when this

fleet called at Lisboa on the voyage northward would the Portugee king

contribute anything save a few score pipes of wine, rather a poor vintage,

too, I was later told. While there were a few German ships in Livorno, they

took pains to keep a distance from the Papal fleet and its suppliers. As for

Greeks, Levantines, and Venetians, though there had been more than a few of

them all in the harbor at Napoli, not a one was to be seen in the basin of

Livorno.

"There was, however, a coaster flying the Neapolitan ensign. Fahrooq here was

able to get to her captain and entrust to him a message to be delivered to

Sultan Omar's ambassador at the court of King Giovanni, at Napoli, telling of

the virtual armed impressment of my ship and crew by the minions of Pope

Abdul."

"So, it was either sail in company with the fleet or die, eh?" asked Sir Ali,

with a note of sympathy.

But Walid shook his head slowly. "Not exactly, my friend, not exactly. You

think like the warrior you are, with all things in pure black or pure white,

but statesmen and, especially, churchmen never deal in such purities,

trafficking rather in innumerable shadings of gray. So did they deal with me.

"Upon arrival in Livorno, my vessel was anchored in the basin until a slip

could be cleared in the navy yard, then we were warped in and moored fast.

Immediately we were fast, an arrogant Roman officer and his well-armed escort

boarded my ship and I was ordered to collect my ship's papers and accompany

him to his superiors. I did. I could just then do no other, like it or not.

With my damages, the oldest and most ill-kept cog could have sailed rings

around me, not to even think of what the full cannon mounted by that fortress

at Livorno could have done to me.

"But we had not proceeded far through the navy yard when an older man, most

distinguished of appearance, with the walk of a seaman and the honorable scars

of a veteran warrior—neither of which had been evidenced by the supercilious,

peacock-pretty, Roman puppy!—confronted us and announced that as senior

captain of the navy yard, he had first claim on my person and time. The Roman

first spluttered, then argued, then made to bluster, laying hand to hilt and

calling up his pikemen. But when the older man whistled once and a double

squad of matchlock-armed marines, the matches smoking-ready in the cocks, came

trotting into view, the Roman backed off with the whinings of a kicked cur,

whilst his own pikemen laughed behind their hands at his cowardice and

discomfiture.

"And so it was that on that auspicious day, I made the acquaintance first of

the renowned Conde Evaldo di Monteorso."

CHAPTER

THE FIRST

With his crippled galleon under tow toward a destination known to none aboard

save the herald, Sir Ali ibn Hussein, Walid Dahub Pasha stood his quarterdeck

at the side of the enemy's emissary. Walid still wore his best armor and bore

cursive sword, big battle dagger, and slimmer boot dagger as well as several

well-hidden edge weapons of varying sizes, shapes, and purposes.

Below, in the waist, Walid's one-eyed boatswain, Turgut al-Ayn, and his mates

closely supervised the repair and/or replacement of both classes of rigging,

now and again lowering to the deck a shot-shredded remnant of canvas or a

splintered spar.

Still lower, out of Walid's sight on the gundecks, Captain Fahrooq had seen

the last of the broadside guns unloaded, powder and shot and wads stowed in

their respective places. The gunpowder was stowed back into copper-hooped

casks. The casks then were carefully laid back in the security of the

thick-walled, felt-lined magazine; the wads were, one by one, washed, squeezed

dry, then stacked back in the wad chests; shot went into ready racks affixed

to the hull above each gunport.

While a carpenter and his single surviving mate went about the patching of

battle damage on the main gundeck, Fahrooq ordered the gun captains to set

their crews to cleaning and polishing the secured guns and the mounts and

ancillary equipment before once more shrouding them from damp and dust.

His immediate orders fully discharged, the officer made his way abaft to the

spot whereon the surgeon and his mates had established themselves and their

apparatus at the commencement* of this most costly conflict. Despite the long

hours which had passed since cessation of hostilities, the sweating,

blood-soaked practitioners still were hard at work with knives, saws, pincers,

probes, and needles upon the latest occupant of their makeshift table, which

dripped clotting gore at ail four corners and all along each edge.

As he waited for the senior surgeon, Master Jibral, to finish his current

undertaking, Fahrooq took down one of the lanterns and began to carefully pick

his way among the recumbent forms lying close-packed on the blotched and

shadowy deck. His bootsoles grated on the sand which had been liberally

scattered over blood pools to provide secure footing to Master Jibral and the

rest.

He found two of his soldiers almost at once. One lay dead, cold, beginning to

stiffen already. The other lay equally still, but he still lived . . . most of

him, at least. His left leg now ended just a bit below the knee, but the stump

was neatly done up in almost-clean bandages. Although the man's eyes were

open, they did not focus; Fahrooq correctly surmised that the cripple had been

well dosed with poppy, probably before they took off his foot and leg.

Further search revealed yet another wounded soldier, also poppy-drugged and

bandaged, but no trace of the young officer he sought, his nephew, Suliman ibn

Zemal.

While his assistants manhandled the last patient off the gory table to a place

on the deck, Master Jibral wiped his red-dripping hands on his blood-soggy

kaftan. Taking a waterskin down from a peg, he played the thin stream into his

open mouth for a moment, swished the lukewarm liquid about tongue and teeth,

then leaned and spat it into a half-barrel filled with severed limbs before

again throwing back his head and swallowing a pint or so of the tepid water.

When he had rehung the waterskin, he sighed once, then turned toward Fahrooq,

smiling tiredly. The waiting captain shuddered involuntarily, for in the dim

and flaring lantern light, in the close, noisome atmosphere of this place of

stinks and blood and death, the surgeon's face— with precious little skin

visible under the layers of old and new blood, spade beard and mustaches stiff

with cloned gore, the just-rinsed teeth shining startlingly white—bore an

uncanny resemblance to how Fahrooq assumed a man-eating Mareed from out the

very depths of Gehenna must look.

But Captain Fahrooq was basically a rational man, nor did he lack of courage,

Firmly setting aside his fleeting, superstitious fancy, he spoke formally.

"Good Master Jibral, I seek young Lieutenant Suliman. His sergeant informed me

that he was brought to you, wounded, early on in the battle. Where will he be

found?"

The surgeon raised one bushy, clot-matted eyebrow. "Lieutenant Suliman . . . ?

Oh, that must've been the one in the fancy lamellar djawshan, heh? In that

pile of corpses in the outer space, there, probably on the bottom of the pile,

or near to it."

Fahrooq sighed. "You . . . you did your best for him, Master?"

The surgeon shook his head. "I had another feed him poppy paste, Captain.

Aside from that, there was naught any man could have done save to have given

him a faster death, perhaps. When that ball hit this ship, it drove a sharp

oaken splinter more than a cubit long and near a handsbreadth wide into the

space between the lower edge of his djawshan and his private parts. Men with

punctured bowels don't live, Captain, no matter what is done to or for them.

His bowels assuredly were punctured several times over, and I would have been

remiss in my responsibility to other men whose wounds were less grave had I

wasted time on a man who could not be saved in any case.

"I tell you, his uncle, this, just as I would say it to Walid Pasha ... or to

the dead man's father himself, should I be called upon to so do."

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