The beggar leered at him. “O Master! With so many baths in Cadiz why bring me to this, which houses this stench in the nostrils of humanity? Why must I, in my old years, be forced to listen to this Shadow of Ignorance?”
“Enough!” I spoke harshly, for we Kerbouchards know the way of command. “Get him inside. Burn that hive of corruption he wears for clothing. I shall return in less than the hour with fresh clothing!”
When at last he stood before me—his beard trimmed, his hair clipped and combed, dressed as befitted a man of dignity and means—he looked a noble if a crafty man, and such a one as I wanted.
His name, and I have no doubt the rascal lied, was Shir Ali, from Damascus, a merchant in his time and later a dervish, who had fallen on evil days.
“You are a merchant again,” I told him, “freshly arrived from Aleppo to dispose of a cargo and galley with all possible speed. The cargo is of spices and silk in bales. Dispose of it well, Shir Ali, dispose of it this afternoon, and you shall be amply rewarded.
“If there is a false move or I am betrayed in any way, I shall”—I put my hand upon the knife—”empty your guts into the dust!”
Selim leaned toward him. “And I will slice you to ribbons and feed you to the dogs!”
At a small shop we drank wine together, and I showed him the cargo manifest and measured the ship with words. He glanced at the manifest and nodded. “Excellent! In a week’s time—”
“You have four hours,” I said. “I am your impatient nephew from Palermo, whose inheritance this is, and I must leave at once for Toledo. You abhor haste, but with such an impatient youth, what can one do? Besides, there is a girl—”
He raved, he protested it could not be done. We would lose money! We would be cheated! It might be done in two days but…
“It is a pirate ship,” I told him coolly. “The crew is in town getting drunk. You will sell it now … today.”
His glance was unbelieving, then he shrugged. “You have courage,” he said, “or you are a fool.”
“My blade cuts both ways, so be quick.” Merchant he undoubtedly had been; thief he had probably been, but he had a way with him, did Shir Ali. At every step I feared to come face to face with Walther or one of the crew, yet the old beggar would not hasten. “You have chosen well,” he said, “for a beggar sees much that others do not. We know who is honest and who the cheat, who has the gold and who talks only into the wind.” Suddenly, he stopped before a small booth, a mere stall in the bazaar, and he began to wail and tear his hair.
“Ruined!” he cried. “I shall be ruined! To sell now? This I cannot do! It is a sin against Allah to sell a ship at such a time!
“Think, Nephew! The ship itself is a treasure, but the bales of silk! Only let me hold it! Let me bargain! There are men who would pay roundly for such a vessel!”
Ben Salom, the old Jewish man who kept the stall, scented a bargain. “What troubles you, friend?”
Shir Ali wailed louder and a small crowd gathered, then he burst into a torrent of expostulation and malediction. His dear brother, the best of brothers, was dead! His ship, which lay in the harbor, must be sold, and this beardless youth, this lad beside him, he must be on his way to Toledo before the sun had set.
Argument and explanation followed, and Shir Ali told of the richness of the silk, the aroma of the spices. My beggar showed himself a man of imagination, even of poetry. He wailed; he berated his bad fortune, the evil of the times, the sin of selling now when so much might be gained by waiting.
Suddenly, he broke off. “Come! Come, my nephew, I know just the man! For such a cargo he will pay—”
“Hold!” Ben Salom put up a hand. “Wait! Perhaps you need go no further. No doubt the ship is old. The silk has probably been long in her hull. The spices may have spoiled, but still …”
Shir Ali drew himself up, looking on Ben Salom with disdain. “What? You speak of buying? Where would you get a hundred thousand dinars? Where, indeed?”
“Who speaks of a hundred thousand dinars? It is the mouthing of fools … yet, let us not be hasty. Of a verity, Allah has sent you to me. Come inside.”
Shir Ali pulled away. “Who speaks of Allah? What have we to do with you? There is no time to waste! The ship must be sold before nightfall, so how can I waste time in idle talk?”
Yet after much argument and many protests, we allowed ourselves to be led inside and seated cross-legged on the floor cushions while Shir Ali protested of wasted time. Several times he made as if to rise only to be pushed down again.
Ben Salom took the list and studied it, muttering the while and counting on his fingers. Shir Ali, Selim, and I accepted the wine he offered, and waited.
The shop was humble, but no man can long be in the streets without knowing what goes on in any city. There is a league of beggars, and what they do not know nobody knows.
The merchant summoned a boy and sent him hurrying from the shop, and in a matter of minutes he returned with two old, bearded men. Putting their heads together, they consulted the list, arguing and protesting.
Shir Ali got suddenly to his feet. “Enough! Enough of this!”
We were at the door when Ben Salom stopped us. “Take us to this ship. If it is as you say, we will buy.”
“The ship also?”
“And the ship.”
Now came the time of greatest anxiety. What if Walther had returned? Or what if he returned while we were aboard? A pitched battle would surely take place in which the port officials might well interfere. Yet the risk must be taken.
All was quiet as we approached the ship. The sun was warm; water lapped lazily against the hull. The merchants studied the vessel, their faces revealing nothing.
Taking a chance that they would understand, I spoke to Selim in the Frankish tongue. “I think we waste time. It would be better to sell in Malaga or Valencia.”
Ben Salom spoke anxiously to the man beside him, and Shir Ali glanced at me slyly, guessing my intent. We were met at the bulwark by Red Mark and a dozen armed slaves. While Shir Ali and Selim showed the merchants the vessel, we waited anxiously, watching the shore.
Now was the dangerous hour. If we did not complete our sale before—along the shore a party of men were strolling, vaguely familiar.
Red Mark followed my gaze. “I think we are in trouble,” he said.
“Walther is one of them,” I added. “What will we do?”
The big Saxon was frightened. Bold man that he was, the prospect of finding himself again in chains was a terrible thing.
“There are but five or six,” I told him quietly. “We will take them.”
“What about them?” His thumb indicated the buyers. “They will be getting a bargain, and we will let them talk us down a little further.”
Selim caught my signal. “Get them below,” I whispered. “Show them the silk, open a cask of cinnamon. Keep them busy.”
The former slaves resumed their places except for a picked lot of twelve who crouched along the bulwarks in readiness. Four others stood ready with their bows in case any tried to escape.
We heard the beat of oars, the bump of the boat alongside. Sweat trickled down my face and neck. I tried to wet my lips, but my tongue was dry. An attempt to swallow required a real effort. I went to the side of the ship that they might see me.
“Where is the Finnveden?” Walther demanded.
“Asleep. They found your store of wine.” That would anger him, and angry men are not cautious. “The fools! I’ll show—”
He grabbed a line and came up the side like a cat, the others following. Yet, as he threw a leg over the rail, something caught his eye and he hesitated.
“What is it?” Alarm shadowed his face. “What—” Too late he saw his danger as I leaped to seize him. An instant he hesitated whether to run or fight, and it was to his credit that he started to draw his sword.
Coward he might be, and bully he undoubtedly was, but cornered he was a powerful and dangerous man. He threw himself at me, and I retreated, trying to keep him off me. There was a clash of arms, a choking cry, then my blade nicked his arm, drawing blood. He drew back suddenly, and before he could come at me, Red Mark’s arm slipped across his throat and jerked him backward, off-balance.