The Invisible City
Page 24
So I knew the gunpowder that lurked in a mob chained into a small space, and I knew that the fastest way to ignite them, to unify them against the newcomers in their midst, was to charge in. However righteous our anger, however strong our arms, we would be torn limb from limb.
This news was not welcomed by Timash, but I made him listen. I used my experience leading men to ease his brow and calm the twitching of his shoulders, but deep down, his still eyes burned. I told him to keep that fire banked, because sooner rather than later, we would need it. He asked me why.
"Because whoever stole my clothes also has the Library."
Now indeed my plight had surpassed the merely calamitous and traversed the realm of the catastrophic. Possession of the Library was a capital crime; even if it remained hidden from the Nuum, its possessor held the key to both the secret of my origin and to my ever returning home. Its retrieval was not only imperative, but must be accomplished in such a way that its true nature—its very existence, if possible—remained undiscovered.
"We should find some clothes," Timash suggested gently. "All we're going to do is draw attention to ourselves otherwise."
Forcing my other problems into the back of my mind, I nodded. Naked, we were marked. Clothed, we could begin to fit in.
"The men who stole ours must have had some before," I said. "Let's find them."
Timash smiled, showing fence rows of teeth. "Yes, let's. We'll want to give them back when the time comes."
Although lying in an exhausted stupor we must have appeared helpless—as we had been, and I reminded myself that we had been lucky to awaken at all—once we had gained our feet our true sizes became apparent to all. Never a large man, I was nonetheless the tallest of the galley slaves by several inches, and Timash outweighed any three of them. Any thought of further hazing evaporated, and even the crowd at the end of the compartment shifted, however reluctantly, to let us by. We kept a close eye out, but no one was wearing familiar clothing. Either it had been stolen by the crew—which I doubted, as the Library would then have been found and I would not be here—or the thieves were taking their turn up on deck.
New clothes we found without undue trouble, so worn and torn that they actually fit me after a fashion. Timash was forced to tie together a sort of loincloth. We turned next to learning the lay of the land. Timash volunteered to find us a tutor, and I let him. His method was simple and effective. He picked one of the loners lying pathetically against a wall and dangled him from one hairy paw.
"How do we get fed around here?"
The poor devil's eyes rolled and his jaw clacked like he was afraid Timash was about to feed upon him, and for a moment I had doubts myself. I looked around to see how the others were reacting, holding their distance with carefully averted eyes. But they were watching all right, and Timash was giving them a show they wouldn't forget. On impulse, I turned my back on him and stared at the others. After a moment, they turned their attention elsewhere. I kept on staring.
Within a few minutes, my friend had all of the information he was going to get, and I had marked in my mind several of our fellows who had flinched under my gaze, as well as two or three who hadn't. Timash and I retired to our "spot" to compare findings.
"The crew pretty much doesn't care what goes on down here, as long as nobody gets killed too often—it's too much trouble finding replacements."
"That's probably what happened to us. What about the captain? Is he the type who might listen to reason? Can we explain we don't belong here?"
"My friend Wince over there didn't think so, but then he strikes me as the type who keeps his head down. It's a lot safer that way. All he knows is that the captain holds the crew in an iron hand, and the crew likes to take it out on the rowers. There's a gang of about a dozen that runs this whole Hold—that's what they call it, the Hold. Wince says they used to call it the Hole, but I guess the boss down here wanted to make it sound a little better."
"Does this boss have a name?" I asked. "And more to the point, does he have our clothes?"
"Yes to both. He calls himself Skull." I stared, frankly incredulous. "No kidding. Nobody knows his real name; he's been here about a year, and he beat the old boss to death the first night. According to Wince, he's a brute—bigger than me, even." He stretched his massive chest self-consciously, as if I needed any reminder. "Anything that comes down here that Skull wants, he takes, and that's what happened to our clothes. If we hadn't been so wasted, he would've have beaten us up first, but we saved him the trouble."
I could have read the thoughts dancing across Timash's brain without any telepathic powers at all. I bit back a grin and focused on our problem, lest he mistake my amusement for enthusiasm for an immediate pitched battle.
"We'll have our chance, my friend. If Skull realizes what the Library is, he won't rest until he knows how to use it—and if he thinks I'm going to tell him, he's in for a sorry surprise." I stopped for a moment, staring at the opposite wall. Even when you haven't a clue what to do next, it's best not to let your subordinates know. Leadership demands an air of mystery. "But we have to choose our battlefield. Right now he holds all the cards: numbers, experience—and he may get privileges for keeping the rowers in line."
"But we don't have a lot of time. He's sure to have discovered the Library by now—and when he gets back down here, he's gonna come right to you to find out what it is."
Slowly, I shook my head. "No, he won't. He'll be tired, and we'll be rested. His kind never strikes unless they have the advantage. He'll want to rest a while, perhaps wait for us to turn a shift upstairs, then pounce on us while we're weak…" I thought about those who had turned away rather than meet my eyes, and those who had not, and suddenly I had an inspiration. "Go back to Wince," I suggested, "and ask him how many of Skull's men are here right now."
The door at the far end of the Hold opened precisely when Wince had predicted it would, and, again exactly as foreseen, Skull was the first man through. He was easy to spot: He was wearing my clothes.
"Do they look as ugly on me as they do on him?" I whispered to Timash.
"Worse," he assured me. Oh, but he was in a rare mood.
We sat atop a pyramid of five of Skull's gang. Three had been among those I spotted earlier; the remaining pair, part of the short-lived mob that saw crushing our insurrection as a chance to enter Skull's good graces. "Short-lived," I call it, because when the majority saw how quickly we dispatched their brave fellows, they melted away like an August snow. Our attack had been sudden, brutal, and totally unprovoked. And it had worked. Timash with his temper up was…remarkable.
Skull stopped short as the conversations around us halted and the stragglers drifted to the sides of the room. His dark eyes darted all about, his brain whizzing furiously as he assessed us, his unconscious men, and the mood of the room. Facing them, I could see what he could not; that he still held the obedience, if not the loyalty, of the fifty men who had served on his shift and had not seen our earlier victory. If he called upon them to charge, our triumph was short-lived, as well.
In an all-or-nothing toss, I made the most unexpected move I could think of.
35. I Fight
"Skull! So pleasant to make your acquaintance at last!" With my hand outstretched and an entirely lunatic grin on my face, there wasn't a warrior in recorded history with the wit to utter the words that would bring me down. By the time I stopped, hand almost in his face, he had recovered enough to scowl. "Sorry about your men," I babbled on, "but we had a little fracas and we didn't know there were yours until it was all over. Some of the other fellows told us. Bad manners, I admit, but how were we to know?"
Up close, Skull was not the overwhelming specimen I had feared—to me. To his contemporaries, at a scant two inches short of six feet he was a giant of a man. He looked up at me, and it was easy to see he didn't like it. He bore a shock of dark, wild hair; I had expected him to be shaven bald. But I had also expected an older man—he was barely out of his teens, his eyes glaring
with the hate not only of me, but at the loss of an entire world to which he believed himself entitled. He shook himself out of his stupor, his labor-hardened muscles shining with sweat. Here was a young man who did not intend to die a slave.
In an instant my trepidation was replaced by sorrow. But if I were to live, Skull's dream must end.
He picked out one of the bystanders and snapped his fingers. "What happened?"
"I told you," I interrupted. My plan depended on keeping Skull off-balance. "We got into an argument with some of your lads, and one thing lead to another, and… You know how it goes. If they'd only said they were with you, we'd have backed off straight away."
He turned his attention back to me. "Why? What's so special about me? You've never seen me before."
I shrugged foolishly. "Of course not. But it didn't take long to find out who was boss around here: Skull. So the last thing we wanted to do was get on your bad side. We were kind of hoping to get in with you, if you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I think I do." He gestured contemptuously to Timash. "Is that monkey man with you?"
Perhaps Skull wasn't the thinking man I had given him credit for being.
"Shh!" I waved him to keep his voice down, even though Timash had certainly heard. "I'm trying to keep him under control. If he had his way, he'd take you all on."
This was a challenge Skull could relate to. His chest swelled just like the ape's whom he was insulting.
"No, no!" I said quickly. "I'll take care of him." I turned around halfway, as far as I dared. "Timash, apologize to Skull."
"Ha!" He stood up, flexing his shoulders. "He's not worth it." And he sat down again. Thank you. "He's so weak you could fight him yourself."
I glanced back at Skull, panic all over my face, to see how he was taking it, then at Timash.
"Will you be quiet?" I pleaded. "This guy could tear my head off!"
"Yeah! No problem!" Skull chimed in, right on cue. He had taken the bait.
"Prove it," Timash demanded. The trap snapped shut—with Skull and me inside.
Up until now, our strategy had unfolded flawlessly. By luring Skull into a one-on-one challenge, we had neutralized his entire following. Timash could easily have crushed him, but for that very reason, had Timash challenged Skull, he would have been within his bully's rights to call down his whole mob—and Skull would never have challenged Timash.
At the same time, we had kept his thoughts away from the Library. Now, if I could only defeat him in single combat, the others would be forced to accept me as their leader—particularly with Timash acting as my enforcer. The only unknown factor was whether I could defeat him, and both our lives hung on the question.
I had never been a wrestler, but I had boxed once. I bent my knees slightly, fists raised to protect my face. Given my lack of experience, I intended to stay outside Skull's reach as much as possible, away from those hawser-like arms.
Skull had no such intentions. He partly turned, speaking to one of his lieutenants, then spun on me with no warning, charging and taking me in the midsection. We went down hard on the floor, with me underneath. I barely kept my head from hitting the deck with enough force to end the fight at once.
Pinning me down with his legs astraddle my body, Skull tried to seize me by the neck while I clumsily fought him off with my hands. Time after time I knocked his grasp away from me; time and time again he thrust at my throat and face. He rose on one knee, attempting to drive the other into my body, but he couldn't find the leverage.
Half-pinned, I couldn't wriggle my way entirely out of his grip, but I could outlast him, and when he let up the pressure I twisted onto my stomach, gathered my legs underneath me and heaved upward just as he interlaced his fingers under my jaw and pulled—but instead of fighting against him I went along with it, using his own leverage against him. We crashed to the deck again, but this time I was on top. I heard his head smack against the deck.
I rolled over again and crawled away, feeling the strain on my neck, back, and knees.
Deep in my hindbrain, a thought was tugging at my mental sleeve, but I could not spare the time. Skull rose, bloodlust in his eyes, and charged into me, knocking me back, but this time I tumbled, keeping my legs in so he could find no purchase, then pushed him away hard. He backpedaled off-balance toward his own crowd, who split down the middle and made no effort to aid him.
His next approach was slow, wary. I had been fortunate thus far; he was a brawler and I was not, but he had underestimated me. All of his earlier opponents had been specimens of modern man; I doubt he had ever faced a foe with my "primitive" physique. Formerly bright and eager, now his eyes were hooded and flat. At the start, an easy victory would have served his purposes: humiliation would have sufficed to keep me subordinate. But this had taken too long; even if he won, there would be doubters as to Skull's supremacy, those who would eye him speculatively, wondering if it was time for new leadership. Skull had decided I was to die.
That same old thought was back, tugging like a child who's seen a balloon-vendor at the zoo. Awaiting Skull's next move, I retreated a step, breathing deeply, trying to control my racing heart and mind. Into that microscopic oasis of calm the little thought raced—and then vanished, winking out like a shooting star, nothing left but a streak of enlightenment.
Like a wind-up doll in reverse, I let my arms relax, holding them ready but flexible, as though they were hoses filled with water. Somewhere deep inside me a new facet of the Library's teachings was sinking into place: It was as if I had just read a book on self-defense. Suddenly I knew every move required to bring Skull to his knees—hell, I knew a dozen ways to kill him.
But I also knew that there was a vast difference between memorizing an art and mastering it. As the Librarian had warned me, "Muscle memory can only be learned over time." It could take years of practice for my body to catch up to my mind—if I survived the next five minutes.
And Skull was tired of waiting for me to make another move. There was no more time. I made my decision and met him head-on.
We grappled again, he going right for the throat—and I let him. Left hand on my neck, he fought to close in with the right, but I seized it in both of mine, twisting backward and counter-clockwise simultaneously.
Skull screamed and let go, rolling to his right. He couldn't help it, unless he wanted his wrist broken. I kept up the pressure, forcing him backward, then down, and all the time he was howling in agony that only became worse if he hindered me in the slightest. I could have lead him anywhere with that grip, and I made sure they all saw it.
Then I let him go. He had not surrendered; I had not demanded it. But the fight was over. Skull could not go on. His damaged wrist would throb for days, and ache for weeks. He could not even protest when I told him I wanted my clothes back.
I handed Skull my rags, making a point of looking him in the eye.
"You can wear these. And when your hand is healed, come talk to me."
He took them hesitantly. It wasn't the retribution he had expected, and, I don't doubt, better treatment than his predecessor had received. But it wasn't in me to kill the man in cold blood, aside from the fact that I wanted to keep as low a profile as possible. It occurred to me that if he did come to see me in a few days' time, I should have something to say. I put it aside. Our lives were not our own. It probably wouldn't matter.
Skull grasped my arm and muttered something puzzling under his breath. "It's all yours now. Hope you can live with it." Before I could seek clarification, he had retired to a far corner.
I slipped back into my familiar, if hated, Nuum garb, and casually slipped my hand into my deep pocket.
The Library wasn't there. It wasn't in any of my pockets. It was gone.
36. The Dark Lady
Even before the cold, clammy hand of fatal dread had removed itself from my shoulder, I was examining the problem from all angles. Skull I suspected and quickly discarded; I had only moments before stripped him naked. Had the Library been
in his pocket then, it would be in mine now. Nor could it have fallen out; it would have made a noise and I would have seen it.
Timash must have noticed my expression, because he came over and in a low voice asked me what was wrong. I told him.
"Skull?"
"No. If he had it he would have threatened me with exposure before he gave up his position. It must have been lost earlier. God," I said fervently, "I hope it's not on the deck somewhere."
"Unless Garm was to slip on it and break his neck."
This offhand remark might have proven sufficient to break the tension had not the door opened, revealing, with uncanny timing, the scarred visage of the hated Garm himself. I confess I jumped. What if that hideous soul harbored an exceptional telepath?
If it did, he hid it well. "Skull! The captain wants to see you!"
When no response followed, he took the time to look over the room. Skull huddled in a corner while I stood in center stage, my own clothes upon my back. "Oh," he said stupidly to me. "So that's how it is. Get your scrawny backside topside." He grinned at his own imagined witticism. "Move!"
I was escorted with no gentle grace up the ladders through the deck and into the aft housing where Garm and the real crewmen lived. Even here the motif of ancient times was continued, and the real machinery, as must exist somewhere for the comfort of these men, was so cunningly disguised that had these sailors been Thorans, the Nuum would have found nothing to alarm them. For my taste, the devotion to realism was taken to an extreme: I jammed a splinter into my hand on one of the ladders. Garm looked at me, but I merely pulled out the wood and kept climbing.