Rogue Sword (6 page)

In part, that was due to annoyance. He had already had more of a fancy for cleanliness than the ordinary European, and his stay among well-scrubbed Cathayans had reinforced it. He would have to live like a pig on this voyage. The best he could do was change his day clothes for a robe. All his garments were shabby. In prosperous moments, he thought wistfully, he had worn rainbow-colored silks. Yes, and enjoyed some noble foods and wines. He had conversed with philosophic men; hung his chamber with calligraphic scrolls or a delicate ink-wash drawing; ridden horses so beautiful that the sight of them caught at his throat; enjoyed some darlings of concubines--well, on that score he had no present complaint. But poverty and exile were acrid in the mouth. Was it not worth kowtowing to Venetian grandees and forgetting how they dealt with their Cretan subjects, to have a house of his own?

I could have stayed with the Cathayans, or the Turks, or the wise Arabs in Bokhara, he thought. They all liked me. I might have accomplished great things among them. But they were never quite my people. So I came back, and found that here they are not my people, either. Not any longer.

Djansha lay gently breathing by his side. Gradually the grumbles and snores of the others faded, until at last he could almost listen to the silence. He got up and walked to the rail.

The galley was dark, barred with moonlight. He could see how the moon made a trembling bridge on the water; but that was interrupted by the other ships. The lanthorns hung at their poops burned like strewn stars. A couple of lights moved on the water, somebody going from one vessel to the next in a tender. The shore was blackness shouldering against a deep purple sky. Immensely far off, a watchfire made a single red spark. Lucas wondered who sat beside it. The moon drowned out many stars, but he recognized old friends, Arcturus, Vega, Polaris, the Twins, and white Venus.

Sharp as a sword, he remembered ibn Yakoub in Bokhara, gray beard and kindly eyes, the ruinous tower where a grandfather imam and a Christian boy forgot all else as they tracked the planets across heaven. Dear God, he had been young then! And, for those few months, drunken with discovery! If he could get a house, he would build a turret on it and go up there at night with quadrant and astrolabe, a silly little ant happily peering toward the throne of the Maker.

But Venice’s air was thick.

Wind lulled in the rigging, the timbers creaked and wavelets went lap-lap-lap against the hull. A louder noise recalled him to earth. Squinting across the water, he saw that the rowboat had left one galley and proceeded to another. Voices drifted to him. He couldn’t quite make out words, but he gathered that the man being ferried wanted a Jacob’s ladder let down so he could come aboard and see the captain. The captain was not to be awakened, sir. Oh, yes, he was. ... In the end, the man climbed up and stillness returned. Lucas yawned, incurious about what message went traveling from ship to ship. He was a mere passenger. His own vessel--a pleasure boat, at least--yes, someday he would have that too, if only--Well, he should be able to sleep now.

He fumbled his way among sprawled bodies to the place near the poop that he had claimed for himself and Djansha. Here it was totally lightless. He crawled back under the blanket they shared over a straw pallet.

She stirred. One hand reached forth and touched his face. “Oh!” she whispered. “I was afraid--Where did you go?”

“My errand could have been less ethereal,” he chuckled, “but I really did go to look at the stars.”

He thought from her movement that she must also have glanced up at that glittering sprawl. “They are still like home,” she said.

His lips brushed her cheek. She threw an arm around his neck, drawing him close. He hesitated an instant. But the devil take it! Everyone except the lookouts was asleep. . . . His mouth sought hers.

In the morning the fleet continued. Lucas stilled hunger, like the other travelers, with a bite of hardtack; he looked forward to the midday meal Djansha would prepare, even though the fire hazard caused frying to be forbidden. His fellow passengers had become individuals to him, rather than an ill-smelling horde, and he fell into agreeable talk with a native Euboean. The man had a small harp with him, which Lucas borrowed. His singing and playing drew a crowd and he was offered refreshment from many wineskins. The wind held fair, promising a fast transit beyond Gallipoli; whitecaps danced on the sea. It was remote, of no real consequence, that they passed a fisher village lately burned to the ground.

The tender resumed its errand, patiently weaving between the ships, and finally reached this one. Lucas leaned far over the side, clinging to a shroud, to watch. Overhauling from behind, the boat called for a towline and was drawn alongside. Rather than accept a sailor’s hand to pull him up the low freeboard at the waist, the passenger stood on his dignity and insisted on a rope ladder. It was dropped from the poop deck, beneath which the boat was then tethered, and he climbed up; a young man in good Italian clothes, sword at hip, who addressed the captain in Venetian.

“I have a message and a warrant from the Bailo in Constantinople. It has to be executed before this fleet passes the narrows and goes its various ways, for otherwise action may come too late. I have been going about all day yesterday, far into the night. A private talk--”

The captain led the way down to the main deck and into his cabin. The crowd broke up, buzzing with curiosity. Lucas reseated himself on the barrel he had been using and strummed the harp absent-mindedly, scowling.

Djansha curled herself up at his feet and rested her head on his knee. “Is something wrong, my lord?”

“I wish I could be certain,” he muttered. “A warrant from the Bailo. This has a bad look. I’ve never heard of the like.”

“Must we turn about?” The Euboean wrung his hands. “Oh, horrible! If I don’t get home soon I’ll have no chance whatsoever to buy my olive oil wholesale. The saints forbid!”

“Offer them candles,” suggested Lucas. His mind added: Or else a sheep. Alarmed, for such thoughts were said to be caused by invisible fiends, he smote the harp and broke into a ballad of Roland.

Presently the captain leaned out of the door and summoned four sailors by name. He talked to them inside. They emerged and went below. When they returned carrying pikes, silence fell over the deck.

Lucas wet his lips. “No,” he said through the noise of his own heartbeat, “I do not like this at all.” He slipped a hand under his doublet. The requirement had been reasonable that he, a commoner, leave his sword with the captain; the dagger he concealed in its place was little comfort.

I’m borrowing trouble, he told himself. This has nothing to do with me. I hope.

The captain and the Venetian stranger emerged. The latter held an unrolled paper with an official seal. The captain signaled to his pikemen. Barefoot, the sailors moved across the deck as quietly as tigers. The passengers made way, crowding to either side, unspeaking, frightened. Lucas nudged Djansha toward the poop. He looked for a ladder, if--

The captain saw him and pointed. “That’s the man.” The quarterdeck voice rolled across the muffled drumbeat timing the oars. “Same looks as you told me, and he calls himself Lucas Greco.”

“Then arrest him,” said the newcomer, “in the name of the Republic of Venice!”

Djansha cried out and snatched Lucas’ hand. He shook her off without taking his eyes from the messenger. A mumble swept through the packed watchers, like the first sough before a hailstorm.

“No!” Lucas shouted. “This is some connivance of my enemies!” He had no idea what he would say next, but the vision of fetters raised his tones to a roar. “Captain, arrest that impostor! “

“What?” The skipper blinked. “But, but he’s from the Bailo.”

“He says!” Lucas forced his mouth into a sarcastic grin. “What’s his touchstone?”

“This.” The messenger held up the paper.

“Can you read it, Captain?”

“N-no,” stammered the mariner. “D' you think me a priest? But he told me--”

Dim as one star seen through a winter tempest, his plan came to Lucas. He shot a look around. Between him and the others was a clear space, perhaps two yards wide, with the passengers and idle crewmen forward of it. Behind him rose the poop. He pushed the girl a little aft. He himself moved toward the messenger.

“I have enemies,” he stormed. “I didn’t imagine they’d be so bold as to take the name of the State in vain. Yes, and falsify an official seal! O God of justice, strike down this knave!”

Going red and then white, the Venetian sputtered, “I have never heard such impudence in my life! All men know me, Zorzi da Carrara, assistant to his excellency the Bailo. This wretch dares--” He became incoherent.

Lucas snatched the paper from him. “Do you call this a warrant?” he sneered. Zorzi opened his mouth. “Silence, you lying rogue! Let me show you, Captain, how clumsy a forgery this is. See here--”

All the while, he scanned the writing. A chill fastened upon him. This was indeed a properly secured document, demanding the arrest of Lucco or Lucas, nicknamed Greco, natural son of the late Pietro Torsello, on several sworn accusations. Assault and robbery did not surprise him. It followed almost as a matter of course that he should be charged with breaking the confines, fleeing the jurisdiction in which he stood accused, even though he had not been notified. What brought the blood draining from his heart was the count of desertion. Which was stated to be a capital offense!

Venice had not been at war when he fled. Nor was there then a death penalty for bolting from armed service. It must have been decreed subsequently, during the long conflict with Genoa. But that made no difference to his case: not in Venice. At least, not if so powerful and vindictive an enemy as Gasparo Reni were to ask for the severest judgment.

The fact remained, he had left the arbalestiers without permission. The boy had given that matter no thought; the man would be hung in an iron cage and starved to death.

Gasparo, beyond question, had wrought this. Without his urging, surely no one would have troubled about such ancient peccadillos. A fine might have been set. Or, quite likely, no punishment at all. But Gasparo, thought Lucas, each realization streaking across the clamor in his skull, Gasparo had gone to the Bailo, made out an affidavit (perjuring himself about the alleged assault, but that was safe enough; who could reconstruct a street brawl with certainty?)--he had used his influence, possibly a substantial bribe as well, all to destroy one penniless wanderer.

The insane malevolence of it shook Lucas as much as his own danger. The man must be possessed!

Zorzi da Carrara took the warrant back from lax fingers. “Captain,” he said frostily, “if you are foolish enough to heed this rascal for one moment, then there are worthy men aboard my ship who can identify me and my office. He is to be taken in irons to Venice and held until his accuser--”

What he must do came back to Lucas, driving out that horror of Gasparo which had crawled under his skin.

His performance had only been to divert attention. There was no chance, there had never been any, to escape by cunning. But he stood next to one of the pike-bearing sailors. They were all agape, staring at the Venetian signor.

Now!

Lucas gauged the spot on a bare, hairy stomach. Just under the breastbone. He seized the pikeshaft with both hands. His foot came up, into the solar plexus. The wind went from the seaman. He reeled backward.

Lucas recoiled in the other direction, grasping the pike. The captain yelled. Lucas swept the heavy weapon in an arc. It clopped on the captain’s temple. He tumbled to the deck.

“Djansha!” said Lucas. “Up the ladder! Climb!”

He had no chance to see if she obeyed. Another pike was thrusting toward him. He swayed aside, letting it pass. His own lowered shaft went between the wielder’s legs. The man tangled with it. Lucas shoved on his end of the improvised lever. Man and pike flipped across the planks.

A third steel point threatened Lucas. He evaded that one, too, bouncing directly up to the sailor. The man rasped an oath and drew back one fist. Lucas kneed him in the groin. As he doubled over, Lucas hit him on the neck with the edge of one hand. He fell like a mealsack.

The Mongols knew how to fight!

Stooping, Lucas snatched up the fellow’s pike and cast it. The fourth sailor bellowed and sat down, blood running from a gashed shoulder. The second one was getting up, reaching for his own dropped weapon. Lucas got there first. The mariner fled him.

Messer Zorzi drew sword and lunged. Lucas gave him the butt of the pike in the pit of the stomach.

Mere seconds had passed. The crowd, now in a shouting turmoil, would hinder the crew for another minute or so. But then a score would attack him. Lucas bounded up the ladder.

Djansha stood on the poop, hands clasped together, calling her gods for help. The steersmen cursed at their oars. But when Lucas appeared with pike in hand, they squalled and scuttled off to the main deck. Lucas yanked Djansha over to the taffrail and slapped her. She stopped wailing and stared at him, open-mouthed. He pointed to the Jacob’s ladder. “Go down that and be ready to jump into the boat,” he snapped.

Tucking the pike under one arm, he hauled on the tow-line with more strength than he had known was in him. The rowboat bumped against the galley stern. Lucas went over the side. He slid down the cord. The two sailors there demanded blasphemously to know what was wrong on deck.

Lucas scrambled past them to the stern, wheeled about, and poised his weapon. “I’m bound ashore,” he said. “Sit down! Start rowing! The first one who makes trouble will get this in his guts!”

“What in Satan’s name--!”

Lucas jabbed a thigh, drawing blood. He whipped the shaft back before it could be seized. “Row!” he spat.

Djansha stepped from the ladder to the foresheets and cast off. A gaggle of faces appeared at the galley rail. But God be praised, they were still in utter confusion up there! Lucas braced himself as his captives took their oars. One bold sweep could knock him overboard. His eyes caught those of the nearer sailor; he grinned and jerked his pike. Hastily, the man put oars between tholes.