Ray pressed his hand against his side. Not in his heart, but only because of luck. He could feel the warm blood ooze through the stuff of the tunic. Just now he dared not explore the amount of damage. No pain, though-not yet.
He stooped and caught up the knife the other had dropped, keeping it ready in his hand as, with his boot,
he pushed at the flaccid body. His attacker must have struck his head against the wall
As the body rolled, the head moved queerly, too loose upon the shoulders. Ray caught his breath. Dead, he thought-neck broken. The Atlantean was young, hardly more than a boy,. and he was very thin, his bones showing clearly under a yellow skin that was also marked with purplish eruptions. His tunic was better than those Ray had seen on the dockside workers, and he had a belt with silver studs, a purse hanging from it.
There were two rings on his forefingers and a hoop earring in one ear. Thief-and probably a successful one. Perhaps this trick had worked well for him in the past . To groan as if he were the victim of an attack, to draw the attention of someone who did not mind his own business-then walk off with the profit from the would-be investigator’s curiosity or folly.
Ray pressed his hand harder to his side. The wound was beginning to sting now. And he dared not let even a small hurt go untended. Leaning back against the wall, he explored the cut. It was, he believed, very shallow, more nuisance than real trouble. But he must not lose any blood to weaken him or attract attention by stains such as were already dark on his tunic.
Which left him no choice. He set to work.
A short time later he strode from the far end of the alley with more confidence then when he had entered. The boots and the leather tunic that might have betrayed him were gone. He wore the brown garment of the dead thief and, beneath it,- a strip of undertunic tied tightly over the cut. The other’s moccasin-like footgear was a little large on his -feet, but that was better than too small. And he had a purse with silver pieces in it. There was nothing left to connect him with Sydyk the Uighurian.
The tramp of feet from behind-Ray noted that those in the street glanced up, and a few dodged into doorways. He thought it prudent to follow their example, though he did not make the mistake of looking over his shoulder to see what sent them into hiding. Fortune and his nose had brought him to a tavern of sorts. There was the stench of sour wine and cooking. Once.. Ray might have found that mixture of strong odors stomach-turning; now he only wanted some food. The front of the room was open to the street. Along it marched a cohort of the Poseidon’s guard. They came to a halt at the entrance to the tavern, and Ray knew that this time fortune had deserted him, and he would have. to face inspection by the enemy. He glanced about the room.
There were three tables with benches on either side. And there was a door that led to another room or rooms from which came the cooking smell. Two other customers were present.
One looked as if he might well have spent the night here. He sprawled over the end of one of the tables, his head pillows on his arms. From him came a steady series of gurgles and snorts that suggested he was still deep in a slumber that could have begun by the emptying of too many of the same kind of tankard as one lying beside him. The fingers of one of his hands were still clasped laxly about it.
The other man sat at another table facing Ray. He wore much the same sea-stained jerkin as Ray had been given to play the part of Sydyk, and he was eating with industry, first a spoonful of gravy dipped from a bowl, then a mouthful of bread from a piece he kept in his left hand. But Ray saw the single quick glance he shot at the soldiers without, and the American thought that the diner was less interested in the food than he wished to appear.
A woman shuffled out of the inner room. Her hair had been braided with leather thongs and then pulled into an erect pile on her head in a grotesque copy of the elaborate style Ray had seen on the ladies of the Poseidon’s court. She had a sleeveless robe laced down the font to the waist, bagging about a bony frame, hacked off short at mid-calf. It had once been a bright orange but was now faded in streaks and stained with long drip marks here and there.
Her face was puffy fat in contrast to her lean frame, so that she presented the distinctly odd appearance of a mismated body and head. Around both arms just below the shoulders she had broad bands of copper, and a stud of gilt was set in the over-abundant curve of one nostril.
She set both fists on the table before Ray and leaned toward him a little to demand, “What’ll it be?” Her voice was a whine, and he had almost to guess at her words, they were so slurred.
“Food-wine-2’ He was handicapped by not knowing what specific dishes one would order in such a place. Then he took a chance and pointed to the other diner. “Some of that-if it is ready.”
Her grunt might be either agreement or denial However, she turned away toward the inner room. But before she reached the door, there was a sharp sound, and they all swung around to view the entrance.
The dator of the guard stood there, two of his squad to back him. He had some of the bullying arrogance of a man who knew he need expect no opposition. Now he slammed his sheathed sword down again on the nearest table in an attention-demanding rap.
Here it comes, thought Ray. He measured the distance between him and the door to the inner room, but , the woman was in the way. Also, how could he be sure there was another exit beyond? He might dash there only to find himself bottled in a trap.
The woman wiped the back of her hand across her lips. Then she smiled, or leered.
“Wine for the lords?”
“Not your rot gut,” returned the dator. “You, there
He pointed to the seaman. “Who are you and from where?”
The man swallowed what was in his mouth. “Rissak, mate on the Sea Horse. What of it? I’ve been in and out of this port more years than you’ve been growing hair on that chin of yours—”
“For too quick tongues there is an answer-a knife blade across them,” the dator retorted, but he did not
tern push the matter further. “You then-” He had already turned to Ray.
“Ran-Sin,” Ray improvised, “from the north.”
“Stand up!” the dator commanded.
Ray got to his feet. Suppose he rounded the table or overturned it-could he get out to the street? Hardly, not with the rest of the cohort waiting there, doubtless ready and waiting to stop any suspicious characters their commander might flush.
But to his surprise the dator did not order his men to move in upon a prisoner. Rather did he survey the American with a long head-to-foot stare, which was repeated back from foot to head again. Perhaps-perhaps the search parties had been provided with a description, and his change of clothing with the dead thief was now to his advantage.
“Him?” One of the squad pointed to the snoring sleeper.
The dator shook his head impatiently. “Nothing like-”
So-Ray thought-he was right. They had a description of sorts. And it would also seem that the dator was one who depended only on the details as issued from official sources. But how could they know, Ray wondered as they left, that there was anyone now to be hunted? If Captain Taut had carried out his part of the bargain, should they not believe all had escaped, or at least were on the raider trying to reach the North Sea?
On the other hand, the captain could have played him false, which had a very good chance of being the truth. Or else Taut had failed, his ship had been taken, and questioning of the prisoners had uncovered the fact that Ray Was still loose in the quay district. He had better believe that the worst had happened.
But what was left here to do? As yet no further order had come from the will. Why had that unseen, unheard monitor, apparently so deep set in him that he could not fight it, brought him back? For something more than to play hide and seek with Poseidon’s men along the docks-of that he could be certain.