The woman who had called herself Elowanda was as dead as last week’s mackerel.
Balsca rose and quickly pulled on his clothes. He searched the room thoroughly, but found nothing worth stealing except for the few coins he had given the dead woman the previous night. He took those, then glared at the naked corpse lying on the pallet. “Rotten whore!” he said and kicked her once in the side. She rolled limply off the pallet and lay face down on the floor.
Balsca slammed out into the stinking alley, ignoring the wailing baby he had left behind him.
He had a few moments’ concern about the possibility of certain social diseases. Something had killed Elowanda, and he had not really been all that rough with her. As a precaution, he muttered an old sailors’ incantation which was said to be particularly efficacious in warding off the pox; reassured, he went looking for something to drink.
By midaftemoon, he was pleasantly drunk and he lurched out of a congenial little wine shop and stopped, swaying slightly, to consider his options. By now Woodfoot would certainly have discovered that his hidden cabinet was empty and that Balsca had jumped ship. Since Woodfoot was a man of limited imagination, he and his officers would certainly be concentrating their search along the waterfront. It would take them some time to realize that their quarry had moved somewhat beyond the sight, if not the smell, of salt water. Balsca prudently decided that if he were to maintain his lead on his vengeful former captain, it was probably time for him to head inland. It occurred to him, moreover, that someone might have seen him with Elowanda, and that her body probably had been found by now. Balsca felt no particular responsibility for her death, but he was by nature slightly shy about talking with policemen. All in all, he decided, it might just be time to leave Mal Gemila.
He started out confidently, striding toward the east gate of the city; but after several blocks, his feet began to hurt. He loitered outside a warehouse where several workmen were loading a large wagon. He carefully stayed out of sight until the work was nearly done, then heartily offered to lend a hand. He put two boxes on the wagon, then sought out the teamster, a shaggy‑bearded man smelling strongly of mules.
“Where be ye bound, friend?” Balsca asked him as if out of idle curiousity.
“Mal Zeth,” the teamster replied shortly.
“What an amazing coincidence,” Balsca exclaimed.
“I have business there myself.” In point of fact, Balsca had cared very little where the teamster and his wagon had been bound. All he wanted to do was to go inland to avoid Woodfoot or the police. “What say I ride along, with you ‑for company?”
“I don’t get all that lonesome,” the teamster said churlishly.
Balsca sighed. It was going to be one of those days.
“I’d be willing to pay,” he offered sadly.
“How much?”
“I don’t really have very much.”
“Ten coppers,” the teamster said flatly.
“Ten? I haven’t got that much.”
“You’d better start walking then. It’s that way.”
Balsca sighed and gave in. “ All right,” he said. “Ten.”
“In advance.”
“Half now and half when we get to Mal Zeth.”
“In advance.”
“That’s hard.”
“ So’s walking. “
Balsca stepped around a corner, reached into an inside pocket, and carefully counted out the ten copper coins. The horde he had accumulated as a result of his pilferage aboard The Star of Jarot had dwindled alarmingly. A number of possibilities occurred to him. He shifted his sheath knife around until it was at his back. If the teamster slept soundly enough and if they stopped for the night in some secluded place, Balsca was quite certain that he could ride into Mal Zeth the proud owner of a wagon and a team of mules ‑not to mention whatever was in the boxes. Balsca had killed a few men in his time ‑when it had been safe to do so‑ and he was not particularly squeamish about cutting throats, if it was worth his while.
The wagon clattered and creaked as it rumbled along the cobbled street in the slanting afternoon sunlight.
“Let’s get a few things clear before we start,” the teamster said. “I don’t like to talk and I don’t like having people jabber at me.”
“All right.”
The teamster reached back and picked up a wicked-looking hatchet out of the wagon bed. “Now,” he said, “give me your knife.”
“I don’t have a knife.”
The teamster reined in his mules. “Get out,” he said curtly.
“But I paid you?”
“Not enough for me to take any chances with you. Come up with a knife or get out of my wagon.”
Balsca glared at him, then at the hatchet. Slowly he drew out his dagger and handed it over.
“Good. I’ll give it back to you when we get to Mal Zeth. Oh, by the way, I sleep with one eye open and with this in my fist.” He held the hatchet in front of Balsca’s face. “If you even come near me while we’re on the road, I’ll brain you.”
Balsca shrank back.
“I’m glad that we understand each other.” The teamster shook his reins, and they rumbled out of Mal Gemila.
Balsca was not feeling too well when they reached Mal Zeth. He assumed at first that it was a result of the peculiar swaying motion of the wagon. Though he had never been seasick in all his years as a sailor, he was frequently land‑sick. This time, however, was somewhat different. His stomach, to be sure, churned and heaved, but, unlike his previous bouts of malaise, this time he also found that he was sweating profusely, and his throat was so sore that he could barely swallow. He had alternating bouts of chills and fever, and a foul taste in his mouth.
The surly teamster dropped him off at the main gates of Mal Zeth, idly tossed his dagger at his feet and then squinted at his former passenger. “You don’t look so good,” he observed. “You ought to go see a physician or something.”
Balsca made an indelicate sound. “People die in the hands of physicians,” he said, “or if they do manage to get well, they go away with empty purses.”
“Suit yourself.” The teamster shrugged and drove his wagon into the city without looking back.
Balsca directed a number of muttered curses after him, bent, picked up his knife, and walked into Mal Zeth. He wandered about for a time, trying to get his bearings, then finally accosted a man in a sea coat.
“Excuse me, mate,” he said, his voice raspy as a result of his sore throat, “but where’s a place where a man can get a good cup of grog at a reasonable price?”
“Try the Red Dog Tavern,” the sailor replied. “It’s two streets over on the corner.”
“Thanks, mate,” Balsca said.
“You don’t look like you’re feeling too good.”
“ A little touch of a cold, I think.” Balsca flashed him a toothless grin. “Nothing that a few cups of grog won’t fix.”
“That’s the honest truth.” The sailor laughed his agreement. “It’s the finest medicine in the world.” The Red Dog Tavern was a dark grogshop that faintly resembled the forecastle of a ship. It had a low, beamed ceiling of dark wood and portholes instead of windows.
The proprietor was a bluff, red‑faced man with tattoos on both arms and an exaggerated touch of salt water in his speech. His “Ahoys” and “Mateys” began to get on Balsca’s nerves after a while, but after three cups of grog, he didn’t mind so much. His sore throat eased, his stomach settled down, and the trembling in his hands ceased. He still, however, had a splitting headache. He had two more cups of grog and then fell asleep with his head cradled on his crossed arms.
“Ahoy, mate. Closing time,” the Red Dog’s proprietor said some time later, shaking his shoulder.
Balsca sat up, blinking. “Must have dropped off for a few minutes,” he mumbled hoarsely.
“More like a few hours, matey.” The man frowned, then laid his hand on Balsca’s forehead. “You’re burning up, matey,” he said. “You’d better get you to bed.”
“Where’s a good place to get a cheap room?” Balsca asked, rising unsteadily. His throat hurt worse now than it had before, and his stomach was in knots again.
“Try the third door up the street. Tell them that I sent you.”
Balsca nodded, bought a bottle to take with him and surreptitiously filched a rope‑scarred marlinespike from the rack beside the door on his way out. “Good tavern,” he croaked to the proprietor as he left. “I like the way you’ve got it fixed up.”
The tattooed man nodded proudly. “My own idea,” he said. “I thought to myself that a seafaring man might like a homelike sort of place to do his drinking in ‑even when he’s this far from deep water. Come back again.”