Suddenly his headache vanished. He looked at the fog, he listened to the hoots and snarls of vessels in the harbor, he thought of his duties in running Bering Steam and he was suddenly afraid.
Of what was he afraid? He tried to answer that. He could not. He thought of the desks and the vice-presidents and then he knew. He thought with a shudder of their spectacled eyes, of the orders and forms they thrust at him, of the decisions they required him to make. He thought of the toil and monotony and he shivered. Something had slipped from him. He could not tell what it was; he could only sense for a moment that part of him, a vital and terribly important part of him, the part that was all nerve and laughter, had gone. And then he didn’t remember that he had remembered that anything had been taken from him. He stood, shallow-chested, pale and afraid and watched the fog deepen over the water.
Alice got up and slipped into a robe. She smiled at him sleepily and then looked again. She gazed around her as though sensing some change and stared back at Jan.
“Funny,” she said, “I must have had a dream. I could swear I could have told you about it a moment ago.” She frowned a moment and then shook her head. “No. It slipped away from me.” Then she looked at him. “Are you well?”
“I feel all right,” said Jan shakily.
“Well! I’ve got to get you downtown for the board meeting,” she said. And she began to dress.
He did not realize she had changed, that something was gone from her as well, for all memory of it was gone in him. He saw a businesslike wife, concerned with her husband’s affairs, married too long to have any romance left about him. He thought about the board meeting and he saw with a shiver of fear the spectacled faces. And then he began to dress. It was a dull and terrible day.
“I think I’ll go sailing,” he said suddenly.
“You’ll get to that board meeting!” said Alice. “Sailing indeed! With all that fog. Not a breath of air and every ferry boat apt to run you down!”
Miserably he laid aside the sneakers he had picked up and grasped his business shoes.
“Yes, Alice,” he said meekly.
Chapter Three
The Two-World Diamond
There was no tragedy in Balou; it was a holiday. Here in the land of the jinn, where human souls were captive to the ifrits, their masters, there were few enough occasions for gala displays. But today there was one. All that morning there had been the thundering of broadsides beyond the breakwaters and great billows of white smoke had hidden the extent of the action there. And the crowds had gathered and watched from Gallows Point. But now the entire town of Balou was filled with ringing bells and waving banners. It had watched in anxiety, for its food came from across wide seas and the blockade had placed roasted rat as the highest item on a bill o’ fare. And it cheered now because the blockade was broken and Arif-Emir had thrown wide the granaries where had been stored the military rations he had saved. And the crowd cheered as well out of an enthusiasm for any victory, even one tallied to the credit of Arif-Emir.
It was afternoon and the shadows were long when the parade came up from the wharves. First there were marids, dull and stupid servants of the jinn, blowing long and brassy horns. Then there were humans pulling chariots full of Arif’s officers. And then there came Arif, solitary and tremendous in a golden sedan chair, high on human backs. And behind him came the captives.
The crowd cheered dutifully when the officers went by—to have done otherwise would have been to bring marids down upon it swinging their long whips. It waved small flags and tossed caps for Arif, for he had sent ahead the order about the food. And then it began to scream and huzzah in earnest for the captives.
Admiral Tombo, sea-stained and powder-scorched, disdained the chains which gripped him and pulled him on, and bowed from right to left. His yellow fangs were gleaming as he grinned. Eight and a half feet tall—tall even for an ifrit in the World of Sleep—he made a very impressive sight. But after he had gone a few blocks it began to be impressed upon his rather pompous mind that these cheers were being volleyed at a target slightly behind him. Tombo glared around to see who was usurping some of the glory of being a captive, hard won from the sea. But it was not Mr. Malek, the sailing master, for Mr. Malek walked in sad dejection, having calculated that the only end to this would be an execution. So it was not Mr. Malek. Tombo looked further back. Then, with a shock of horror, he looked ahead of him.
Just before the captives went the golden sedan of Arif-Emir. With a wand, Arif was waving blessings at his people. With the enormous pomposity of which only an ifrit is capable, Arif was grandly making magic signs, pieces of gold, crosses and stars and other things, shedding his glorious light upon the multitude. And from his turban, light was also shed, the somewhat more pure glory of the fabulous Two-World Diamond.
Tombo looked anxiously behind him again and gone was his rancor and in its place was solid fear. For six of the captive sailors of the Graceful Jinnia had taken upon their shoulders one Tiger, and Tiger, with a pomposity of which Arif was never guilty, was shedding his clowning light upon the multitude and, with a stick he had picked up in the street, was making somewhat altered signs in the air. And the crowd of human slaves who lined the walks, each time that Tiger moved that stick, screamed in convulsions of laughter.
The admiral tried to yank back on his chains and get to the human gunner’s mate who so dangerously mimicked Arif. But the chains were tightly fixed to the rear of Arif’s sedan chair. Tombo tried to shout but he could not be heard. There was anxiety in his drowned voice for here clearly went all hope of Arif’s mercy. Tombo had hopes of that mercy. Perhaps Arif would not have heard that Ramus was dead; perhaps Arif would make Tombo an emissary for peace terms back to his own land. And there, confound it, was Tiger, brawny and irrepressible, making a fool out of Arif in the Emir’s own town!
Tiger met Tombo’s glare with a pompous condescension. And made another magic sweep of the ragged stick to bless the admiral, too.
The marids who brought up the rear were too stupid to see either impropriety or humor. They planted their hoofs solidly upon the pave and marched with a wonderful drill. They would have speared a captive had he tried to escape but beyond that their orders did not go. And so went Arif-Emir, all the way to his palace, wonderfully conceited at the enthusiasm of his citizens and slaves.
The palace guard, however, was commanded by an ifrit named Au-Abdullah, a young fellow who wanted his way made in the world, and Au-Abdullah had seen it all from afar. He rushed now from his post at the command of the palace guard, drawn up in formal ranks, and leaped to the step of Arif’s sedan chair and pointed urgently backwards. The last of the crowd was cheering and shrieking at Tiger and Tiger benignly waved his symbols back.
Arif turned three shades bluer than indigo. He lurched up in his chair so abruptly that he overset it. He landed in the street in a tumble of cushions and bearers.
Tiger and the sailors were up instantly to dust him off. They had been chained, but all together, and so could move at will. And chains or no chains, Tiger made a thorough job of rescuing Arif. He rescued Arif so well that Arif fell down three more times, got his green cloak over his head so that he could not see, got his sword between his legs so that he fell down again, stepped on his cloak so hard and with so much rage while it covered him that he almost broke his own neck. Anyone in the realm of Ramus could have told him that being rescued by Tiger was equivalent to being fed into a corn grinder and boiled in oil in the bargain.
There was a terrible furor, a surge of citizens and slaves, a rush and tangle of the palace guard and officers, blundering efforts from marids, crossed-up orders, fallen-down soldiers and turmoil enough to make a small-sized battle.
And then, at last, out of the crowd came enough sensible orders from Arif to clear him from his helpers. His sword sang as it swished from its sheath; his voice cracked with rage as he bawled for the offender to come forth. The air split with the volley of his oaths and flared along the paths of his glance.
He was angry. He wanted to kill a human named Tiger.
But Tiger was not there.
Tiger, with three bully boys from the late Graceful Jinnia, was very thoroughly missing. Tombo was there, shivering with fear for once in his life, for he was sure he would be a substitute target for that sword. Malek was there. Seventeen humans were there. But four of the captives were gone. Their chains lay, neatly unlocked, in the pile of upset ifrits and marids which were just now untangling themselves. The pocket of the officer in charge of the prisoners had not only been picked of keys but also of heavy coin.
Arif-Emir, his rage not abating, had no thought of slaying the captives at hand. He wanted the very special blood of Tiger.
“Who was the man?” howled Arif in a voice which made mortar fly out in chips from the palace wall.
“His name is Tiger,” said Tombo, thrusting forward, seeing a course to be steered. “Our worst human. I’ll identify him for you the moment you catch him. He’s a disgrace! The indignity upon the jinn must be avenged!”
“Produce him!” screamed Arif. “All right! Produce and identify him. We have means! There are things that can be done to repay it! We know of things! Produce him!”
Taking swift advantage of this insanity, Tombo grabbed at Malek and the two yanked loose the staples which held their chains. They promptly shouted out that they saw their quarry and went plunging off down a side street which was quickly filled by a rushing torrent of marids, curious humans and a few officers.
Twenty minutes later, Tombo and Malek, who had somehow gotten lost from the main stream of pursuit, lay panting in the bottom of a lugger, covered with the empty sacks which, on the return journey from another land, would contain meal. They had boarded unnoticed by anyone on the wharves, since the crew seemed to have gone to join the welcoming and stayed to behold an execution.
Two hours later a still-raging Arif, beard stiff with flecks of foam, anger whipped now by an account of his “triumphal procession,” was doubling and trebling rewards for the return of his captives. He paced furiously back and forth in his black throne room from which he ruled the independent principality of Balou, long-time rebel against the major state of Tarbutón.
A jinn officer, shaking a trifle at the necessity of facing Arif, drew up and saluted. “Sire—sire, I have bad news—”
Arif faced about, eyes searing the messenger.
“Your kerchief, sire, lest you be provoked,” said Au-Abdullah.
Arif flung the kerchief into the officer’s face, thus giving him the right to speak without being beheaded for what he said.
“Sire,” said the officer, gripping the kerchief firmly and even then backing off a trifle, out of the road of a sudden swish of Arif’s blade, “I have to report that the two ifrits saved from the Graceful Jinnia are also missing.”
Had it not been for the kerchief, Arif would have struck, but it was held before him the instant he drew back the blade. Au-Abdullah retreated a pace or two.
Arif’s clenched hand trembled upon the sword grip.
“And sire,” said Au-Abdullah with a rush, “I have more news.”
“Speak!” roared Arif.
“The Two-World Diamond, sire!”
Arif reached to his turban but reached in vain. The fabulous gem was not there. He grew gray. He shook. He staggered back and looked at the apprehensive faces of his officers.
“You know what this means,” he said in a hoarse voice. “If it comes into the hands of a human slave and he knows its use—”
They had known about it longer than he, but they had not dared say. And they knew what would happen if that diamond went astray. It was for the purpose of safeguarding the Two-World Diamond that Ramus had gone to war with him. In his hands she had considered it unsafe and she had felt it would be too dangerous for Arif-Emir to continue in possession of it.
He rallied. His anger was gone in the face of this necessity. He looked around at the tense faces of the ifrits.
“Ransack the town. Tear it to pieces if you will. That diamond must be found! You, Au-Abdullah, close the harbor to all outgoing ships. You, Hribreh, begin to tally all slaves, examining each and all his possessions with your regiment. At all costs we must find these people! They have the diamond!” He steadied his towering bulk against a pillar, for he was shaking now, but with fear, not rage. “What did you remark the names of these people to be?”
“Admiral Tombo, a certain Malek and the human sailors,” said an ifrit naval officer. “There was some mention of the man named Tiger, the one who mocked you, sire.”
Arif, unstable at best, began to anger again. “Have them in. If they are not in the town they are in the port. If they are not in the port and manage to escape to seaward, we will sail them down. Of Tombo, the fool, I have no qualms. He would never betray the secret of the diamond. But that Tiger—” He was beginning to work himself up again, his hands clenching and unclenching sadistically. “He’ll be taught, when we get him, he’ll be taught!” He flung an arm to them. “After him!”
But far out to sea in a certain trading craft, four human sailors stood and gazed aft where a gun had flashed red as a signal to close the port.
“Think they’re shootin’ at us?” said Muddy McCoy.
Tiger, his big skull aching beneath the stained bandage which covered a cutlass wound received in the fight, grunted a negative. “Closin’ the port,” he said. “Steer small, Walleye, we want what speed this hooker’ll make.”
Tiger sat down, finding himself a little dizzy after all the activity of the day and a loss of some blood. He took out the content of his pocket and looked at it.
“Fifty in silver and a piece of glass,” he said. “I hope it’s the goods.”
The vessel was half-decked for the protection of cargo and to all appearances the cargo space was empty save for sacks. There had been just one lugger ready to get under weigh along the docks. And there were two very large eyes peering now from just under the aftermost sacks. They were very large, very cruel and extremely purposeful eyes. Whatever might have been said about Admiral Tombo, he seldom stopped short of any appointed goal.
“Malek!” he whispered hoarsely. The two eyes were joined by another pair, all yellow from corner to corner. “Malek, look!”
“Hweeoo,” said Malek. He was an extremely pessimistic ifrit, Malek, but now and then he thought he saw hope. In such moments he did rash and stupid things. Now he had almost spoken aloud but that was remedied by Tombo’s seamanlike hand across Malek’s mouth. “Butsh juz Tiger,” squirmed Malek.
“It’s Tiger, all right,” whispered Tombo. “But look!”
Malek peered around the restraining fingers, and the rays of the sunset just that moment struck splinters of light from the Two-World Diamond. Malek jumped and quivered. If Tombo’s hand had not remained there he would have given forth a string of startled oaths. Tombo let him quiet down and then, with a stern glare, released him.
“How’d he get it?” whispered Malek.
“However he got it’s not important, you fishbrain. That he’s got it is obvious. There’s only one diamond on earth that big and that bright. And he didn’t have one on the Graceful Jinnia.”
“He got it when he jumped Arif-Emir!” decided Malek brightly. “He took it right out of his turban. Hah! Now we can take it home—” He would have struggled up if Tombo had not slapped him down again.
“One thing you forget,” said Tombo. “Tiger’s human. If he always seems to land on his feet, he’s still human. He’s a slave. He doesn’t care a rap what happens to any of us important beings.” Tombo thought for a moment.
“What you scowling about?” said Malek.
“I just remembered that I gave him a taste of the cat not two days ago. He’s got no reason to love any ifrit. They scaled him down from a barony when he made trouble once too often and he’s going to stay a slave if I have anything to do with it.”
“Let’s just move up and jump them,” said Malek. “I’d probably get hurt but it�
��s all we can do.”
“Jump them!” said Tombo hoarsely. “Take a look, Mr. Malek. You see that man at the wheel?” Malek did. “Well,” continued Tombo, “that is Walleye, sentenced to sea service for three murders. He’s a fast man with a cutlass and he’s got a cutlass.” Malek observed this. He had been a trifle confused by the fact that all four men on the poop were wearing white djellabas, cloaks used by merchant seamen in these parts to keep off the sun.
Tombo saw that Malek had collected this data. Then he continued. “The man cutting bread is Stagger Ryan, one of our strongest topmen. A man who can hand-over-hand up a hundred-and-sixty-foot lift is apt to be in condition. And you observe the knife, Mr. Malek?” Malek did, on close peering, observe the bread knife.
Tombo then pointed to the seaman who was coiling sheets beyond Tiger. “And that one, if you’ll recall, is Muddy McCoy who, for all his short size, was the slipperiest rough-and-tumble man aboard. There we have three: a murderer who was fleet champion with a cutlass, a professional strongman still agile enough to jig on a royal yard, and a dirty-fighting ex-pickpocket who was feared by every crewman on the Graceful Jinnia. Now observe you, Mr. Malek—you’re strong enough and bigger than they but you’re stupid.” Malek agreed despondently. “And observe me,” said Admiral Tombo. “I have seen more active days. Any two of them could be overcome by either of us, perhaps. But you will note, Mr. Malek, that they have armed themselves and we do not so much as own a toothpick.”
Slaves of Sleep & the Masters of Sleep Page 18