Quickly, the fight was over, and the prisoners were bound with a sailor’s speed and skill, all taken alive but one man. His would not be the first body to be found afloat in the harbor of Cadiz.
Attracted by the scuffle, Ben Salom came on deck. His eyes searched but found nothing amiss. “There is trouble?”
“Some rebellious slaves,” I said.
Walther tried to shout, but Red Mark struck him in the stomach.
“You said nothing of slaves,” Ben Salom protested.
“They go with the ship.” I pointed at Walther. “But beware of that one, a wily rogue and a very great liar, but a taste of the lash and he will work well.”
Ben Salom glanced at me. “You are young,” he said, “but you speak with the voice of command.”
“The ship is my inheritance,” I replied.
All were silent. Undoubtedly, something here did not seem right. “I spoke quickly in the matter of the slaves, but I am sure it was my uncle’s intention.”
Ben Salom plucked at his beard. “We fear trouble! All is not well here.”
“That is for you to decide. The galley is yours for a price, and these strong slaves with it.”
“We must think. It is sudden.”
Turning away, I said to Red Mark, “Bring their boat alongside. These men are leaving. We can catch the wind for Malaga.”
“Wait!” Shir Ali cried. “I am sure Allah has brought wisdom to my friends. They will wish to buy.”
Ben Salom began to wag his head, and I said, “To the boat. We sail for Malaga. After all, it was my uncle who wished to sell in Cadiz.”
“Now, now,” Ben Salom protested. “It is true your offer is good, but we just—”
“Cash,” I said, “and within the hour. There will be no further talk.”
“All right,” Ben Salom spoke reluctantly. “We will buy.”
“You,” I said, “will remain aboard until the others return with the money.”
An hour and ten minutes later, with darkness falling, I stood upon the streets of Cadiz with more money than I had ever seen in my life.
At the last I could have pitied Walther until I recalled the girl who swam ashore.
Red Mark was gone. To Selim I extended my hand. “Go with Allah,” I said.
He hesitated. “But if we went together? You have freed me. I would serve you and only you.”
“Go, then, to Malaga, ask discreetly of the maid Aziza and of Count Redwan. Learn if she is safe. Serve her if you can, and spend your money wisely.”
We parted, and I walked up the narrow street, noticing the ragged beggar who drew hastily into an alleyway as I drew near.
First, I must inquire for my father, and if there was no knowledge of him, I would proceed to Córdoba where there would be records of all that happened in the Mediterranean. The caliph was a watchful man.
Too much time has passed, yet together my father and I must return to our own Armorica and our vengeance against the Baron de Tournemine. Meanwhile, the baron carried the scar I had left on his cheek, a memento of what was to follow.
It came to me then that I would send a message.
7
The old town of Cadiz stood atop a cliff, its harbor opening toward the western sea, and there were buildings that remained from ancient times. Some, it was said, built by the Phoenicians, others by the Romans or Visigoths.
Pausing on the dark street, I drew my cloak about me, for there was dampness in the wind from the sea. Selim had told me of an inn on a cliff above the sea, the Inn of the White Horse.
It was a place known to men who follow the sea, and I might come upon some news of my father there. There was in me an urge to be off, to be away from Cadiz. What if one of the slaves, celebrating his freedom, talked too much?
The tavern’s common room was low-raftered and shadowed but crowded by men from all the ports: from Alexandria, Venice, Aleppo, and Constantinople. The tables were long and lined with benches. I found an empty place and ordered a tuna fried in olive oil, a loaf, and a bottle.
Across from me was a lean and one-eyed sailor with a savage face. He lingered unhappily over an empty glass. “It is dry weather ashore,” I said, “fill your glass.” I pushed the bottle toward him.
He filled, then lifted, his glass. “Yol bolsun!” he said.
“Your language is strange,” I said.
“My people were born on the steppes, far to the east and north. The words are a greeting, but sometimes a toast. They mean ‘May there be a road!’ ”
“I shall drink to that,” I said, and we drank together.
“Long ago,” I said, “a Greek told me of the steppes, of far grass plains where fierce warriors rode, and of a land still farther called Cathay.”
“He was a knowing man. You travel far?”
“As far as necessary.”
“I am Abaka Khan, a king among my people.” He smiled with sudden humor. “A small king, but still a king.”
“I am Mathurin,” I said, “with another name better left unspoken for the time.”
“A man’s name is his own.”
“You are far from home.”
“Ah.” He shrugged, looked into his empty glass, and I refilled it.
“You look upon a man,” he said, “who has been a king and a slave, a warrior and a sailor, a fugitive and a rescuer.”
“I have been nothing,” I said, “but there is tomorrow.”
A voice was raised in drunken argument. “Dead! I tell you Kerbouchard is dead!”
“I do not believe it,” another said.
“There will never be another Kerbouchard.”
“I will not believe he is dead,” the second man insisted stubbornly.
“He lay upon his back, eyes wide open to the sun. I say it who saw him, a gaping hole in his chest and blood staining red the water about him.”
“When I was young,” I prompted, “I heard tales of this Kerbouchard.”
“Whatever was said was less than the truth,” the second man said. “I say it, who sailed with him! Oh, a good man! A fair man! An extra share for all when Kerbouchard commanded.”
Eating my tuna and bread, I listened to the fine talk, the home from the sea talk of ships and men and fights and blood and loot and women and the sound of oars and flapping sails. Among it all, again and again, the name of Kerbouchard. The Turk watched me, and suddenly he said, “I knew him, too, and that other name of yours? I believe I know it.”
“Do not speak it here.”
“A name is a name”—he shrugged—”only some names have a ring to them, like Kerbouchard!”
“He was trapped in a cove when the sun rose,” a man was saying, “and there were five vessels. They closed in from both sides, shearing his oars and boarding him. They swept his deck with arrows, then with the sword.”
“He lives,” the second man insisted. “A lion is not to be slain by jackals.”
“Do you call Abd-al-Ala a jackal?”
Ordering another bottle, I glanced across the room and saw a beggar in a corner by the door, a beggar with the money to buy a bottle. Where had I seen him before?
He did not look my way, yet I was sure he had been. Suddenly the room seemed close. Tasting my wine, I saw a door open at the side, and a slave came in, followed by a breath of cool night air.
Abaka Khan’s eyes followed mine when I again glanced at the beggar. “It is a thing I could do for you,” he suggested, “small payment for the wine.”
“When I give wine there is no payment.” Some men had arisen cutting off the beggar’s view of me. “Take the bottle,” I said, “and yol bolsun!”
Swiftly, I was gone, taking the door through which the slave entered.
A moment for the door to open and close, another to let my eyes adjust. A narrow alley that debouched upon a steep hill above the harbor. From whom was I escaping? I knew not, but I knew the smell of trouble.
It was time to leave Cadiz. What I needed now was a horse. Down the hill I went to where the harbor waters were, and a wall. Following the wall, I found a narrow gate and a guard whose attention was distracted by a coin. Scattered outside were merchants and travelers awaiting daybreak and the opening gates. Several fires were still burning, and I crossed to one of them, then paused to study the faces for those which seemed honest. Loosening my sword and dagger, I went up to the fire. Two men were there, a graybeard and a smooth-faced young man. They looked up at me.