“So you are still alive, white skin—”
The wharf was shadowed by the bulk of the mound and the house. Persis could not see anyone crouching there and the sibilance of the voice could almost make one believe that one of the captive turtles had spoken.
“Still-alive-Caller of the Dead-” Crewe’s voice, hardly above a whisper, answered while Persis was still bemused with shock.
“The dead do not answer, unless there is reason. Ask your woman what reason they would have.”
Persis found her voice, but it was a ragged one. “We don’t need riddles. Askra—get us help!”
She heard a low chuckle. “Help? The only help you’ll find abroad this night, white skin, is that which will spill the life out of you.”
“And you—” Crewe’s words were more steady this time, with some of his old authority behind them. “I have dealt with you fairly, Askra—”
“I do not bargain,” the unseen witch or priestess replied. “I am Askra, and the gods I serve are far away and long ago.”
“Perhaps. But your powers are here and now,” Crewe continued. “And even in this place and time you are not one without weapons or resources—”
Again came that chuckle. “Because you have opened your house to me, Captain, that does not mean that I am to be commanded by you. There are powers even I cannot summon. But ask your woman—she knows! White skin powers are different—”
“I ask nothing of your powers then. But only aid in getting to such footing where I can use my own.”
For a long moment (so long a moment that Persis wondered if Askra had slipped away in the gloom), there came no answer to that.
“I do not bargain!” There was a haughty arrogance in that. “The moon calls across the waters and I should be one with my gods. Standing here is an insult to them— But—this much I will do. And make the most of it. Only do I do this because you have not spoken ill of my gods nor forbidden my seeking. And before this night closes you may well wish that I had not helped at all!”
Something flew through the air, fell across both Persis and Crewe as they rested at the foot of the mound. Persis put out her hand to close about a rope.
“For your aid—” Crewe began, but the woman in the dark interrupted him swiftly.
“I do not aid. See me,” and her speech changed into a guttural rhythm Persis did not understand. But Crewe had already pulled taut the rope.
“Hold tight, pull up out of the water,” he gave orders now, and Persis obeyed, not knowing just how she found that last small thrust of strength. With the rope she could move along the edge of the mound, three quarters of her body now out of the water. Then she came to the small wharf and climbed up on that.
There was no sign of Askra, though she had hoped that the Indian woman would still be there, ready to lend her strength to getting Crewe up also. Persis took a turn around one of the posts with the slack of the rope and began to pull with all the energy she could summon.
When Crewe’s head appeared above the edge of the landing she could hardly believe they had done it. But with him at last on the waterwashed boards she collapsed. His outline against the moonlit canal and pond was misshapen because of his tightly bandaged shoulder. And she saw his bare legs protruding beneath the calf-length of his sodden nightshirt. Which made her aware of her own lack of clothing.
“You are all right?” As it had been when he talked with Askra, the Captain’s voice had taken on a new authority and assurance. “We’re not out of trouble yet, you must understand. Grillon, if he has the sense of a half-wit—and he is a good lot more than that—may have left a guard here. He certainly was not stupid enough to come ashore alone to carry out this raid, even with Lydia’s help—”
Persis tried to listen. But all she could hear now was the swell and ebb of the water about them, punctuated by her own labored breathing.
“Your men—the hotel—” she hazarded a whisper since they were so close together.
“Be sure we’d have trouble reaching either.” He did not try to soften anything for her. “Both the big wharf and the hotel must be well watched. When Grillon broke into my strongbox, he had taken the final step that put him outside the law. With me dead he can make a play to take over Lost Lady.”
“They took Uncle Augustin’s portfolio, too.” Persis rested her forehead on her drawn-up knees.
“Its loss would cause a legal tangle, yes, but with the papers your claim would, or should, have a better than even chance.” Crewe rose to his knees slowly, as if he must save every fraction of strength.
“But if I don’t have them, then what?” Persis asked. She was so tired that she hardly cared one way or another anymore.
She was not even aware at the moment of her partial nudity—her drawers were plastered so tightly to her legs they could well form a second skin, and her chemise was both wet and torn so that only her stays held it in place. But such things did not seem to matter. That the two of them had won alive out of that underground nightmare of waters still had the power to vaguely astound her.
The girl simply huddled where she was, too worn out to try to think even one second ahead. But through that stupor Crewe’s voice came again.
“They will be expecting us on the big wharf—”
Persis turned her head a little. The lantern which had always marked that at night was out. In the moon lines were sharply black and white and nothing moved among the barrels and cases piled there.
“Also the warehouse will be guarded—” He could be thinking aloud. “We’ve got to reach Johnny Mason’s-”
The name meant nothing to her. To be out of the water was all that mattered and she was exhausted by the struggle just past. But his hand fell now on her shoulder, warm on her bare skin where one of the rents in the chemise had given freedom to her flesh.
“Can you walk?” The decisiveness had come back to his voice.
Persis swallowed. Certainly Crewe Leverett must be in far worse case than she, yet, now that he was ashore, all his seemingly impatient decisiveness was back in his voice.
“We cannot stay here,” he continued. “We must make it up to the servants’ quarters.”
“How can we?” Her great weariness kept her voice to a whisper.
“There is a path up the mound side—then we skirt the back of the house. I need only rouse Mason—”
Persis made no move. “Go—if you can—”
“No.” The grip which had been but a light touch on her shoulder tightened. “Ralph was never so foolhardy as to venture in with only Lydia as his aid. I know he spoke of signaling his ship, but that he does not have others here already, that I do not believe. We must both get under cover—in safety.”
“I can’t,” she returned flatly. Sure of that.
“You can!” he answered with equal determination. “Luckily the moon does not reach here and few use Askra’s path. “We’ll get up if we have to crawl by inches.”
And his pull on her was such that she gave a small, weak moan but somehow tottered to her feet. It seemed that the master of Lost Lady needed no guide whether it was night or not. For he drew her down the wharf toward the rise of the mound. She staggered and wavered, but somehow kept moving, thought she wanted to cry out bitterly as her bare feet now and then pressed the edges of broken shells.
“About here—” Crewe had loosed his hold on her and was feeling the mound where the small wharf ended. “Yes!” There was a quickening in his voice, “There it is. Climb on hands and knees if you will—but keep going. If Grillon’s men find you now,” he continued with what might have been calculated brutality, “a knock on the head and a toss in the canal will neatly solve all their problems.”
Persis could believe him, but even fear was dulled as she felt for those half-lost niches in the wall of the mound. And she went very slowly, marveling a little that he was able to not only locate them in the dark, but drag upon some reserve of strength to pull himself up, one handed as he was.
The house stood, a black blot against the sky, shutting out the moon, offering not the least gleam of a candle or lamp. But they did not climb to the veranda. Instead Crewe lurched to the right, setting a course around the mound. They passed a second corner of the building and found themselves in that wider space at the back where Mrs. Pryor had overseen the stretching of the lines to dry Persis’ clothing.