The Skin Map be-1

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Etzel laughed. He had rarely heard anyone even breathe such a number aloud. “Then we will be the king and queen of Praha in our little Kaffeehaus.”

  “Only one Kaffeehaus?” wondered Wilhelmina. “Why stop there? We are going to have at least six Kaffeehausen-and in Munchen too. Better still-a baker’s dozen! Why not?”

  “Why not?” echoed Englebert, gazing at her with something very like awe.

  The next few days passed in a pleasant, albeit hectic blur of steam and sweat and long hours in the kitchen. Wilhelmina was used to the routine of a busy shop, and Englebert was no stranger to hard work. They knew one another’s strengths and preferences, and adapted accordingly. By the end of the week, they had strengthened an already formidable partnership-as well as a small but increasingly loyal clientele, of which their landlord Arnostovi was an enthusiastic and influential member. As a longtime property owner in the city, he had connections stretching both ways, high and low, throughout Prague society. It was he who began conducting his business affairs from the coffeehouse, bringing clients and potential partners in his various schemes to the shop to talk and negotiate over cups of black coffee and plates of pastry, cakes, and fruit breads, which Etzel excelled at producing.

  Word spread like a contagion through the city.

  Rumours abounded, drawing more and more people to the shop. The new brew was said to be an extremely effective stimulant, a brain tonic, a blood regulator, and an aid to digestion and curative for various stomach ailments. The bitter black liquor was even whispered to possess potent aphrodisiacal properties. All this hearsay was discussed in low tones over the steaming cups.

  Mina, in a light and pleasant manner, encouraged all speculation as she went about serving the tables, chatting to her customers, learning their names and trades and personal tastes. She flitted about the room like an agreeable sprite, encouraging a hesitant first taste here, offering a free sample there, making sure everyone felt at ease and welcome in the cosy shop.

  “We need more help,” Wilhelmina announced as Etzel locked the door one night.

  “Ja,” he agreed, “this is just what I am thinking.”

  “Also, we need more beans. We are almost out.”

  Etzel frowned. “How much is left?”

  “Two weeks-give or take a day or two.” She saw the frown deepen on his wide, good-natured face. “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “This will not be so easy,” he said, reminding her how he had stumbled upon the beans by accident in the first place. “I think we must go to Venice, and that is very far away.”

  “How far?”

  He gave his round shoulders a heave. “A month-maybe two. I have never been there, so I cannot say.”

  Mina’s eyebrows puckered with thought. “Obviously, we should have begun searching the moment we opened the shop. This requires a permanent solution,” she said, thinking aloud. “We need a steady supply. We must have a source.” She laid a finger to her lips and tapped lightly. “What we need is…”

  “Arnostovi,” said Englebert. “He knows everyone. Maybe he knows someone who can get the Kaffee beans for us.”

  “You are right,” affirmed Mina. “We shall ask him first thing tomorrow.”

  The busy landlord was freshly installed at what had become his favourite table and the seat of his chair was not yet warm when Wilhelmina approached him with a gratis cup of coffee and a proposition. “How is trade?” asked the man of business.

  “Better and better, Herr Arnostovi,” replied Mina, drawing up a chair herself, which caused the bushy Arnostovi eyebrows to raise in mild surprise. “In fact, business has been better than we anticipated. As you can imagine, this is not without its problems.”

  “Good problems,” observed the landlord. “I always prefer this kind of problem over the other kind.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Mina lightly. “Yet, problems must be solved nonetheless. For example, the beans we use to make the Kaffee are beginning to run low. Naturally, we must have more if we are to continue bringing our fashionable and highly successful new product to Praha.”

  “Naturally,” confirmed Arnostovi cautiously. A master of many meetings like this, he recognized a preamble to a proposal when he heard one. “Pray, continue.”

  “We would like to know if you know of any traders calling at Venice,” Mina told him. “That is the best place to get our supplies.”

  Herr Arnostovi took a sip of his hot coffee and thought before answering. “Venice is very far away, Fraulein Wilhelmina. The only way is by sea, of course.”

  “If you say so,” replied Mina.

  “Alas, I know of no one who makes such journeys at the moment.”

  “Oh.” Mina felt her hopes plummet. “I see.”

  “However,” added Arnostovi, “I am not a man without some resources. It has been in my mind to acquire a participation in a merchant ship. If I were to do this, a journey to Venice for purposes of trade could be arranged.”

  Mina bit her lip. She could feel the pinch coming. “Yes?”

  “Of course,” proceeded the man of business, “I would require a substantial financial incentive to undertake such a venture.”

  “I would have it no other way,” Wilhelmina assured him. “Providing, of course, that the necessary supplies reached us in a timely manner. We must have supplies soon.”

  “How soon, Fraulein?”

  “Two weeks,” Mina told him, “more or less.”

  “That is not much time for such a journey.”

  “No,” Mina allowed, “but there it is.”

  “Then let us come to terms,” said the landlord, as the plan crystallised in his mind. “I will engage the ship at my own expense and obtain the supplies-not one time only, but in the future also as need requires. In return for this service, you will make me a partner in this Kaffee business of yours.”

  “You want to be a partner?” Mina was already counting the cost of this proposal.

  “Fifty-fifty.” Arnostovi watched her, stroking his pointed beard. “Well? What do you say?”

  “Seventy-five-twenty-five,” countered Mina.

  “Sixty-forty.” Arnostovi took another sip of the hot, oily liquid.

  “Sixty-five-thirty-five,” said Mina, “but if I am to pay for the beans, then I also share in the profits from the ship.”

  “No.” Arnostovi shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “Of course, I can always send Englebert to Venice instead,” Mina reminded him. “It would take longer, but…”

  “Two percent share,” conceded the landlord with a sigh.

  “Five,” countered Wilhelmina.

  “Three,” said Arnostovi, “and that is all.”

  “After deducting all expenses.”

  “As you say.”

  “Also,” continued Mina smoothly, “we will receive a reduction in rent on this shop, and first pick of your other properties as and when they become available.”

  This caused the Arnostovi eyebrows to jump once more. “Another shop?”

  Wilhelmina gave him a solemn nod.

  “Very well,” conceded Arnostovi. “You shall have this shop for half of what you pay now-which is little enough, I might add.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “You are a shrewd woman of business, Miss Wilhelmina,” the landlord said approvingly. “We have an agreement.” He put down his cup and extended his hand. “We shake on this,” he said. “From this day forward, we are in the shipping business together.”

  CHAPTER 18

  In Which Arthur Meets an Avenging Angel

  The two dockland roughnecks on either side of Arthur Flinders-Petrie maintained a powerful grip on his arms, which were bent painfully behind him as he was frog-marched from the House of Peace Inn and propelled down along a noisome alleyway that led to a derelict yard. Earl Burleigh followed a short distance behind to discourage any curious onlookers from becoming involved in the proceedings.

  The unresisting captive was dragged into the centre of t
he yard. Arthur gazed around, searching in vain for a means of escape. There was none. The deserted patch of waste ground was surrounded on three sides by the blind backs of the buildings fronting the dock-storehouses, boat sheds, fishing huts, dilapidated dwellings-and on the fourth by the alley entrance. “What do you want from me?” Arthur demanded, looking from one to the other of his captors.

  The answer came from Burleigh. “I’ve already told you, Arthur. I want to share in your discoveries. I want to learn your secrets.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he protested. “You have no idea.”

  “I think I do,” replied Burleigh. “In any event, it doesn’t matter. Since you refuse to share, I have no alternative but to take it all for myself.”

  “Let me go,” pleaded Arthur. “Hurting me will avail you nothing. I won’t tell you anything. Believe me, I will not be forced.”

  “Oh, I do believe you,” answered Burleigh. “More’s the pity.” He nodded to his men.

  The one on Arthur’s left reached behind him and produced a lumpy iron ball attached to a crude wooden handle, and the whole bound in boiled leather. In the same moment, the thug on the right drew a knife and gave Arthur a violent shove, sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled onto his knees and made to rise, but the cudgel came whistling through the air toward his head.

  He jerked away.

  The blow was haphazardly aimed and struck him a glancing blow on top of his shoulder. He gave a yelp and tried to pull free.

  The cudgel whistled again and thudded into the back of his neck. A scarlet bloom erupted in his brain, and Arthur’s knees gave way and he slumped to the ground, writhing.

  Burleigh moved to stand over him. “I tried reasoning with you, Arthur,” he said quietly. “We might have been friends.” He held out his hand, and the bully with the knife placed the blade in Burleigh’s palm.

  “Please!” moaned Arthur through the roar of blood in his ears. He thrust out his hands to fend off the knife, but one of the brutes seized his wrists and yanked his arms over his head. “What are you going to do?”

  Burleigh grabbed his shirt and slipped the tip of the knife through the fine fabric and gave a sharp upward stroke, narrowly missing his captive’s jaw. Two more rough slices and the shirtfront was cut away, baring Sir Arthur’s torso and revealing the swarm of curious tattoos inscribed there. Burleigh’s eyes narrowed with approval at the sight of his prize: dozens of small, finely etched glyphs of the most fantastic and cunning design, intricately picked out in indigo ink.

  Arthur saw the look and instantly realized what it meant. “No!” he yelled. “No! You can’t.”

  “I assure you, sir, that I can,” countered Burleigh. “I’m the man with the knife.”

  “Release me!” shouted Arthur, squirming in the grasp of his tormentors, who were now holding his limbs, stretching him out, and pinning him to the ground. Burleigh sketched a line along Arthur’s ribs with the tip of the knife. Blood began to trickle down his side. “You’re insane!”

  “Not insane,” objected Burleigh calmly, drawing the knife up across the top of Sir Arthur’s chest along the collarbone. “Determined.”

  “Agh!” screamed Arthur, trying to squirm free. “Help!”

  “You will have to be quiet,” Burleigh told him. “And be still; I won’t have the map damaged.”

  He gave a nod to the man at Arthur’s head, and the cudgel came down once more, with a thick and sickening crack. Arthur felt his slender hold on consciousness begin to slip. “It won’t do you any good,” Arthur murmured, black clouds of oblivion gathering before his eyes. “… You don’t know how to read it…”

  “I know a great deal more than you think,” replied Burleigh, with malice cold as the grave. The blade bit deep. “And I will simply learn the rest.”

  Arthur screamed again and felt the icy sting of the blade slicing into his flesh.

  His vision grew hazy and ethereal.

  As if in a dream he saw the deadly club hover in the air above his head as Burleigh’s man took aim for the killing blow. It seemed to hang there for the longest moment…

  And then… Arthur could not be certain, for his mental acuity was occupied wholly with clinging to the last shreds of consciousness. But it seemed to him as if, inexplicably, the crude weapon jerked in the attacker’s hand and struck its wielder in the face with a force strong enough to shatter bone. The cudgel, which appeared to have taken on a life of its own, then whirled in the air, striking the second thug a wallop across the nose and continuing on its arc, narrowly missing Burleigh, who dodged aside just in time to avoid a blow that, had it connected with his temple, would have cracked his skull.

  The knife blade flashed in the dingy light-a cruel and cutting arc. Then, curiously, it halted in midflight, hovered, and spun, spent to the ground as an agonized cry split the warm evening air.

  Arthur sensed, rather than saw, a rush of movement. Something-a hand perhaps or, more strangely, a foot-swinging lazily through the air to catch a forward-hurtling thug in the throat, crushing his windpipe; Burleigh’s man dropped heavily to the ground, clawing at his neck and gasping for air.

  There was an incoherent shout.

  The sound seemed to Arthur to come from a very great distance above, or possibly from somewhere deep inside him. Someone seemed to be calling on someone to stand and fight. Dutifully, Arthur struggled to rise, his head throbbing, his eyes bulging with the effort. The sound of his own blood surged in his ears with the roar of wild ocean surf.

  Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he fell back… but not before he saw an angel.

  The heavenly figure was swathed in glowing white silk and took the form of a young Chinese woman, tall and lithe, with long hair black as jet, braided to her slender waist. Her face was a smooth oval of absolute beauty and composure, and Arthur knew he had never seen anything so lovely in all his life. The angelic creature’s movements were performed with a calm, unhurried grace as, with an exquisite kick to the forehead of a charging attacker, she snapped the fellow’s neck, sending him crashing to the dust in a quivering heap of twisted limbs. Pirouetting with a dancer’s poise, she lightly turned to address pale-faced Burleigh, who was now backing away, stumbling, cursing, and cradling a loose and strengthless arm that appeared to have adopted a wholly unnatural bend.

  Arthur, overcome at last by pain and shock, allowed himself to lie back and close his eyes. When he opened them again, the white-clad angel was bending over him, cradling his head in her lap. “Peace, my friend,” she breathed, and her voice was the soothing music of paradise.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, and tried to lift his hand to her face. The effort brought pain in shimmering silver cascades that stole the breath from his lungs.

  Laying a fingertip to his lips, she hushed him and smoothed back the hair from his forehead. “Rest now,” she said. “Help is coming.”

  In that moment, the pain of his wounds receded, ebbing away on the dulcet notes of her low, whispered voice. Bliss enfolded him, and he lay gazing up into the most beautiful dark almond-shaped eyes he could conceive-and would happily have spent an eternity in such delightful repose. Then, wrapped in the warmth of the knowledge that he would live and not die, he felt himself lifted up and carried on light wings from the derelict yard that was to have been his pitiful grave.

  He was roused again some while later to the sensation of being laid upon a bed of fragrant linen in a room aglow with candlelight. There were other figures floating around him now-more angels, perhaps?-and one of these was dabbing at his seeping wounds with a warm, damp cloth that smelled of camphor and stung him however gently applied. The pain caused him to cry out, whereupon another angel applied a folded cloth to his nose. He breathed in heavy, sick-sweet vapours, and the room with its heavenly beings grew dim and vanished into a realm of white and silence.

  It was pain that brought him to his senses once more, to find himself in a dim room, covered by a thin sheet and shaking uncontrollably. The smel
l of burning spices and oil in a pan, mingled with the barking of a dog, made him heave violently, but his stomach was empty and nothing came up.

  Arthur lay back, panting and sweating, his head and chest and side burning as if live coals had been placed beneath his skin. When he could open his eyes again, he looked around. The room was small and neat-bare wooden floors, grass matting on unadorned walls, a low three-legged stool, and a bed-the bed a simple straw-stuffed pallet; a roll of woven bamboo strips covered a wide door half open to a tiny garden. Through the slits of bamboo, he could see a plum tree and, beneath it, a large copper basin of water. In the shade of the tree sat his old friend, the master tattooist, Wu Chen Hu, his expressionless gaze fixed in meditation upon the surface of the water in the basin, where a plum leaf floated.

  Arthur raised his hand to wave and made to call to his friend, but even that small exertion proved such a fierce and insistent agony that the effort lapsed as soon as it began. Instead, he drew a deep breath and held it until the pain subsided, then turned his attention to his wounds. He could see little, for they were covered with strips of cloth that had been soaked in some kind of aromatic liquid. Gingerly, and with the minimum of movement, he lifted the edge of one of the cloths and saw an ugly, ragged cut, its red, inflamed edges oozing blood and pus.

  He had just replaced the cloth and was about to close his eyes against the throbbing in his head when there was a movement in the doorway. He turned on the pillow to see a young Chinese woman enter the room, carrying a steaming bowl. She was dressed all in white with long, black, braided hair, and he recognized her at once.

  “You.” Arthur sighed. “You are the angel of my dream.”

  Her perfect lips curved in a smile. “You are alive still. That is good.”

  “It was you who saved me,” he continued, his voice an ineffectual whisper. “My angel.”

  “Please,” she said, placing the bowl on the floor beside the bed. “What is ain-jel?”

  “A creature sent by God,” replied Arthur, “to be a protector and helpmate of man.”