In fact, the doors both before and behind me opened: the cargo lift was designed to be entered from either side. My hand, hovering on the button, froze when I heard a voice outside:
"About time! Somebody should do something about the elevators on this tub."
"Leave it alone. The longer we take to get this regulator upstairs the longer till we get off."
I could not see either of the speakers; they were hidden behind a massive piece of machinery that was inching its way toward me. It would plainly fill the car. Quickly I tiptoed out and hid behind quietly humming heavy machinery until the doors closed once more.
Trapped in the nether reaches of the Dark Lady, late for my rowing shift, and trespassing in restricted departments, it was the furthest thought from even my impulsive mind to stir out of sight from the lift shaft until I saw those doors open again and an empty car awaiting me. Even then I ran the risk of being seen as I emerged, but there was no help for it. I must think on my feet.
It was, as I say, the furthest thought from my mind. Fate had other ideas: I was not alone.
I heard more voices in the distance, sensed other minds communicating, but they were on the far side of the lift shaft, and I relaxed. As I could barely hear them, I assumed they were working at the other end of the compartment; even if they heard the elevator return they would not see me get inside. I crept back to the lift button and had my finger over it when I heard one man's voice rise a bit above the others, and another quickly shushed him.
My "impulsive" mind took over. Whatever they were talking about, they wanted no one else to hear.
Drifting silently down neat rows of the identical humming machines, I satisfied in passing one curiosity: According to a warranty panel I saw in route, these huge devices were the anti-gravity motors that kept us all from making a big hole in the clouds. The Library had seen fit to give me only the loosest possible definition of their theory, so I had been inclined to dismiss them, much like the airplanes of my own age, as a convenient fantasy as long as they worked. If they ever stopped working, I would have wings to fly by myself ere very long.
The voices had resumed, and now that I had an idea of their location, I was able to hear their words with relative ease. The trouble was, their thoughts, forming the bulk of their conversation, were completely hidden.
I wondered if the anti-gravity motors' strong radio-fields interfered with thought transmission; the fact that the conspirators had chosen this spot to make their plans certainly lent credence to my theory. It was damnable luck, since my brain structure rendered my own thoughts practically invisible unless I wished otherwise, which meant under other circumstances I could have eavesdropped from scant yards away with little or no risk of discovery. But to lurk too closely courted disaster should they suddenly decide to break off their meeting and turn a corner right into me.
On the chance that the interference might be lessened if I could get alongside the radio-fields rather than amongst them, I sought out the bulkhead. I found some improvement, but not enough. I realized with disgust I would have to be outside the ship before I had any chance to "overhear" them.
Suddenly I squinted at a spot a few yards ahead of me on the bulkhead. I thought I saw door in the wall: it turned out to be a maintenance hatch. Attached to a cleat bolted to the bulkhead was a stout rope and harness. The door, designed to be used under emergency conditions, was manually operated. I donned the harness, slipped open the door and let myself out.
Bracing my feet against the ship, I slid the door closed as far as I could. As aircraft go, sky-barges are quite ponderous; the wind was no more than I could easily handle, nor did I think the breeze would alert the men inside, shielded from it as they were by the boxy generators. And even though my ears were now useless, I could understand almost every word they broadcast.
"—night," one of them was saying. I did not know the crew well enough to distinguish their "voices," so their identities remained a mystery. But if I could just divine their plans…
"What about the rowers?"
"What about them?"
"I mean the ones that came on board with her. The Nuum's already sent Skull down to the mat, and what's goin' on with that ape-thing? I ain't never seen nothin' like him before."
Several others joined in agreeing with his last comment. Perhaps bringing Timash with me had been a mistake after all. I needed anonymity, and he prevented that on sight. No—without him I'd be dead already. For better or worse, he was along for the ride.
"Never mind them," the first man, apparently the ringleader, answered. "It's under control. If they get in the way…" I suddenly caught that over-the-side image once more. In my present position, it was quite uncomfortable. "That's it. Let's get topside before somebody gets suspicious."
"Say, wait a second," one of his henchmen objected. "How do we know Farren is going to pay us when the job is done?"
I almost lost my grip on the rope.
His boss chuckled. "You see this ship?"
"Yeah."
"That's how we're gettin' paid. When the job's done, we send Farren a note. We don't see him, he don't see us. He ain't even worried we're gonna finger him, 'cause who'd believe us? Instead we take this sweet little crate way up north somewhere, change a few registrations, and she's ours. To do with what we please."
"Like what?"
"You'd be surprised. You will be, if you don't get your backside moving and I toss you over the side!"
That broke up the meeting in a hurry. I hung there a long time waiting for them all to take the lift and disperse. Farren! What had he to do with Maire? Why did he want her dead? And who were the plotters scurrying about the ship awaiting the order to do his bidding? I was to discover the answer to this last question rather sooner than I expected and far sooner than I would have liked.
As I reached for the hatch to haul myself back inside, it suddenly swung open to reveal the toothy grin of Porky, the pilot who had flown Durrn's shuttle.
"Ah ha!" he laughed. "I thought I felt a breeze in there! And lookee here, they always said you couldn't do no fishing from a sky-barge! I guess they didn't have the right kind o' hook!"
His knife flashed in the sun, blinding me as it fell.
38. Attacked by Night
At the very moment the door had slid open, I had gathered my legs underneath me in preparation for a leap—I knew that whoever was on the other side could not mean me well—so when Porky lunged at me, I pushed myself away from the side of the ship as hard as I could.
The rope on which I was suspended was not long, but I swung out far enough that he missed me on his first try. I quickly blinked away the spot in front of my eyes, and when he stabbed at me again I caught his arm at the wrist.
Porky leaned out of the hatch, straining to reach me with the knife in his right hand while he held on to the hatch with his left. I was stronger, but I was also hanging in a harness by no more than a stout rope, with no leverage. He could not press downward, and I could not climb up. Had he merely wanted to catch me, he could have left me hanging, called for aid, and seen me tossed overboard, but he was in this for the thrill. He would see me dead by his own hand.
But it was not to be. In a moment I saw the brutally simple—and brutally necessary—solution to my problem: I stopped pushing on his arm, and without letting loose my grip, I pushed myself once more into space. It was not far, but it was enough to unbalance Porky. He tumbled out of the hatch, and I let go.
I hear his scream to this day.
Fortunately, I was alone in this macabre honor; no one else marked Porky's death. Clambering back into the ship, I stowed the gear I had used and made all haste to return to decks I knew better. I decided to remain in the Hold through my rowing shift, using the time to fabricate a plausible story. My situation was uncertain. My duties here might outweigh my rowing responsibilities; at least, I could say that was how I understood them, and although it might earn me a lash or two, I doubted Maire would let it go any further. On the other
hand, if I were to appear on deck now, any chance remark might bring my guilt to my face and that would be the end of me.
When at long last my shift-mates did come back, I found myself doubly fortunate: Not only did my status evidently grant me a certain grace in fulfilling more common duties—at least as far as Garm would admit in front of the others—but upon my failure to return at the proper time, Timash had concocted a story to cover my absence, a story which so closely resembled that which I had fabricated myself as to render any dissimilar details insignificant.
I filled him in on the conversation I had overheard as soon as I was confident we were safe. I omitted any mention of Porky. Best if Timash were as surprised as the rest when he came up missing.
"Do you think we'd better warn Marella—I mean, Maire?" Timash had not spoken to her since her transmogrification, and so found it harder to reconcile than I.
"No, it wouldn't do any good. She already knows that there is a plot against her—what she does not know is who, and I can't shed any light there. The only people she can trust are you, me, and Harros, and she doesn't know us very well, either."
Timash took on a guilty look. "Oh, I forgot! I saw Harros a while ago. He was walking around the afterdeck. He's got some plasm bandages on his head, but he looks all right."
I sighed. "Thank God. I was worried about him." I paused to consider. "We can presume that Maire will tell him about the plot, and that he'll help look after her. No one will suspect an invalid of being a bodyguard."
"How much of a bodyguard can he be? He's not armed. He looks like he can barely walk."
"You're right. But this battle won't be won through force of arms—at least not ours, since we don't have any. We have to think our way through. The assassins know that Maire knows about them, but they don't know that we do, too."
Our conference was abruptly cut short by a ruckus against the far wall. One of the rowers was attempting to bully another into giving up his rags. The victim huddled in a corner to shelter himself from the his tormentor's kicks while holding desperately onto what remained of his thin clothing. This was exactly why Maire allowed me to lord it over my fellows. I told Timash to stay put while I took care of the matter.
I had intended only to seize the bully by the scruff of his neck and push him on his way, but even as I reached him he hauled back and delivered his victim a vicious kick. The huddled wretch whimpered in pain but would not give up his tattered prize. His tormentor angrily grabbed for it again. I grabbed him first and spun him about.
He was a Thoran, as were all the rowers save Timash and me; I did not know him. I did not care to know him. At that moment, he represented to me all the strong—the Nuum, the Vulsteen, the Dark Lady's crew—who had wreaked their will upon the weak—Thorans, rowers, and me—since I arrived in this godforsaken century. When he saw me his eyes went wide and his wet lips began to blubber in fear. He wanted desperately to form the words that might save him from his just fate, but I never gave him the chance.
Slowly and methodically, I beat him. For Hana, I beat him. For Porky, I beat him. And for that nameless little mass of rags, I beat him even more. The rest of them watched, not the way they had watched me fight Skull, with bated anticipation, but with the horrified fascination of a man witnessing a landslide burying a distant village.
I was very careful not to kill him. That was outside the bounds. I backhanded him as often as I used my fists, so that the blows that did not land with brute force enough to fell him nonetheless blasted him with my contempt. In the end it was not nearly the beating I had intended to administer when first I clapped hands on him. It had been transformed from my own just vengeance into a horrific form of theater. When I was done, in what was probably only a few minutes, I let him lie in his own blood. No one approached him, either to help or to harm. The look in my eye assured that no one would.
"That," I said evenly, pointing to the corner where his former victim still cowered, "will never happen again."
The unfortunate I had rescued covered his eyes and cowered when I approached. It may have been an act—I had seen him watching me through his rags—but it suited me. If he was an actor, I was the director.
"Who are you, old man?" I asked.
He uncovered himself before he spoke, perhaps as a sign of rude respect.
"Wince, sir." Then he bowed his head again as though expecting new blows. I recognized him, now that I saw his face. Wince had been the man Timash had interrogated the other day when we awoke to find our clothes stolen. He was one of the periphery of men who, although sentenced as rowers, were completely unfit for the job. As far as I could tell, even Garm was content to leave them be, devolving their rowing duties onto someone else.
"Buck up, Wince," I said as I might have to a newly-arrived private a million years ago. "Nobody's going to bother you now. Neither you nor anyone else."
Wince muttered something that might have been thanks, or a blessing, or just indigestion. I left it at that. Both he and his attacker had played their roles. I was finished with them, but later I noticed that Wince and several of the other "borderline" cases had moved their sleeping spots rather closer to my own.
As I walked back to where Timash waited—even he had not dared interfere with my lawgiving—I heard angry, low voices across the room where Skull and a few of his hangers-on still congregated. One of them was remonstrating with him, but I could not tell what they were saying. Skull put an end to the argument with a few violent words and an emphatic gesture. He looked at me, and I met his gaze, but he said nothing and turned back to his fellows.
Astonishingly, it was the next morning before anyone seemed to realize for sure that Porky was not on the Dark Lady. Even then it seemed not to create the storm I had feared, due evidently to Porky's lack of universal regard among the crew. Rumors of card games he had won too easily not only explained this feeling but also contributed heavily to the most popular theories as to why he was no longer with us. In any case, his disappearance had been noticed so far after the fact that no one would think to link to it any unexplained absence of mine.
I grew more bold in my explorations of the ship. As long as I stayed off the deck and out of the control areas, no one objected. I do not know if this was due to my slightly elevated status or just because none of the rowers had ever bothered to leave the Hold before, but I welcomed the opportunity to familiarize myself with my surroundings. If ever again arose the necessity to trespass on forbidden ground, I wanted to know my way about.
Nowhere, however, did I find a trace of the Library or a clue as to its whereabouts. I had to conclude that it was in someone's possession, probably the captain's. Why I had not been summarily seized I did not know, unless it were due to my rapidly-fading Nuum disguise. Time, immersion, dirt, and hazardous travel had all scourged my formerly red hair; it was quickly reverting to its natural yellow, and my beard was growing out as well. I was plainly not a redhead, as I had pretended, but since none marked upon it and there was nothing I could do to prevent it, I shrugged and let Nature take her course.
When I was not seeking the Library, rowing, or sleeping, Timash and I were concocting and discarding plans to aid the captain in the event of another attempt on her life—assuming that we were in any position to help her. Harros I had seen walking the deck with her on occasion. He waved, but we never spoke and if he was destined to take his place on the oar benches, it was not made known to me.
"I would've thought that if they were going to do something, they'd've done it by now," Timash whispered to me one night as the rest of the men were scattered about wrapped in their blankets. Some moaned in their sleep; it was a sound you either became used to or you persuaded the poor devil to be quiet. It reminded me of the trenches, but at least here I was dry. "The way you described that conversation you overheard—" he lowered his voice even further— "I thought they were getting ready to move."
"I think they were," I hissed. "Perhaps Porky's death put them off their plan."
&nbs
p; "You think he was one of them?"
I could feel the heat of his gaze in the dark. I cursed myself for a fool, forgetting that I had not told him what I knew of Porky's last moments. Even now there might be some advantage to his ignorance.
"It makes sense," I said next to his ear. "It's too big a coincidence otherwise."
There was a silence, and then: "You know, if I was planning something, I'd be watching us—I mean you and me. We came on board with Maire. There's no telling what she might have told us. For all they know we could've smuggled guns on board."
I thought that unlikely, since Harros and I had been unconscious, but he had a point. Could the plotters afford to ignore us? And if not, what would they be doing?
Nearby a man coughed in his sleep. Suddenly the dark was filled with menacing phantoms, assassins hunting our blood while their comrades played Macbeth on the night-cloaked upper decks. Placing a finger over Timash's lips, I quietly lead him outside to the corridor.
"The only way to watch us in the Hold would be to have one of the men spy on us," I explained. "Out here, since you and I talk mostly with spoken words instead of telepathy, they won't be able to eavesdrop."
"But who would they use? Skull?"
I shook my head impatiently. "No, not Skull. He wouldn't be malleable; he'd want something in return. Besides, Skull is never near me. They would need someone who could stay nearby but never be noticed. Someone inconspicuous, on the periphery."
The light dawned in my friend's eyes. "Someone on the periphery?"
As I ducked back inside the Hold, my quarry tried to hunker down and feign sleep, but his mental activity gave him away. It stood out among the real sleepers' like the beam from a lighthouse. I clamped one hand over his mouth and dragged him outside, pinning him against a bulkhead.
"Who are they?"
Wince's gaze jumped back and forth between Timash's face and my own. Neither seemed to offer the solace he sought. His thin tongue rubbed his papery lips.
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