The Monsoon (71 page)

“Offer them a share and a berth in this next voyage. It will make them more eager to serve.”

“I have but six hundred pounds left of my prize money from the Seraph to fit out the Swallow and provision her.”

“No,” said Aboli.

“You have twelve hundred pounds.”

“What nonsense is this, Abolir Tom turned in the seat to stare at him.

“I have the prize money I earned with your father during all the years we sailed together. I will add it to yours ” Aboli shrugged.

“I

have no other use for it.”

“You will be my partner. I will sign a deed.” Tom made no effort to hide his delight.

“If I cannot trust you by now,” Aboli almost smiled, “what good will a piece of paper do me? It is only money, Klebe.”

“With twelve hundred pounds we can refit and provision the Swallow, and fill her holds with trade goods. You will not regret this, my old friend, I swear it to you.”

“I regret few things in my life,” Aboli said impassively.

“And when we find Dorian I will have no regrets at all.

Now, if you have done chattering, I will sleep a little.” He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Tom studied his face surreptitiously, musing on the simple philosophy and inner strength that made Aboli a man content and complete in himself He is without vice, Tom thought, not driven by the need to command or to amass wealth, possessed of a strong sense of loyalty and honour, a stoic and a man of deep natural wisdom, a man at peace with himself, able to enjoy all the gifts he has been given by his strange forest gods, and to endure without complaint all the ills and hardships the world can hurl against him.

He studied the polished black cranium on which grew not a single hair, neither black nor silver, to betray his age.

Then he looked closer at the face. The elaborate patterns of the tattoo that covered it hid any ravages that time might have left upon it. I wonder how old he truly is? He seemed as ageless as a cliff of black obsidian, although he must have been a great deal older than Tom’s father, none of his faculties or strength had been impaired by the passing of the years. He is all I have left now, Tom thought, and found himself in awe at the depth of his respect and affection for the big man. He is my father and my counsellor. More than that, he is my friend.

Without opening his eyes, Aboli spoke suddenly, startling Tom from his reverie.

“This is not the way to the river.

“How do you know that?” Tom glanced out of the window, and saw only dark buildings that seemed derelict in the eerie fading light.

The narrow streets were deserted, except for a few stray heavily cloaked figures hurrying he knew not where, or standing, sinister and still, in dark doorways, their faces hidden so he could not tell if they were man or woman.

“How do you know?” he repeated.

“We have been travelling away from the river,” Aboli said.

“Long ago we should have reached the landing at the Tower, if that is where he is taking us.” Tom did not doubt Aboli’s sense of time and direction: it was infallible. He leaned out of the window and hailed the driver on the box.

“Where are you taking us, fellow?”

“Where his lordship ordered. To Spitalfields Market.”

“No, you idiot,” Tom shouted, “we want to go to the Tower of London.”

“I must have heard wrong. I’m sure his lordship ordered-”

“A pox on what his lordship said! Take us where I tell you. We need a ferryboat to take us upriver.” Grumbling loudly, the driver turned the carriage, backing and filling in the narrow lane, with the footman tugging at the bridle of the lead horse to force him to obey.

“We will not get there till after six of the clock,” the driver warned Tom.

“You will find no ferryboat at that hour.”

“We will take our chance on that,” Tom snarled back at him.

“Do as you are told, man.” Sullenly, the driver whipped up the horses into a trot, and they lurched and swayed through the ruts and puddles back the way they had come. Gradually they were enveloped in a soft, creeping fog that heralded the approach of evening. The buildings they passed now were wreathed in smoking grey tendrils and even the sounds of the carriage wheels and the horses” hoofs were deadened by the thick white blanket.

It was colder suddenly. Tom shivered and drew his cloak closer around his shoulders.

“Is your sword loose in its scabbard, Klebe?” Aboli asked.

Tom looked at him in alarm.

“Why do you ask?” But he laid his hand upon the blue sapphire in the hilt and held the scabbard tight between his knees.

“You may have need of it,” Aboli grunted.

“I smell treachery.

The fat old man sent us out of our way for good reason.”

“It was a mistake by the driver,” Tom said, but Aboli laughed softly.

“It was no mistake, Klebe.” His eyes were open now, and he eased his own sword in its scabbard, drawing the blade an inch then resealing it with a soft, scraping sound.

After another long silence he spoke again.

“We are near the river now.” Tom opened his mouth to ask how he knew, but Aboli forestalled him.

“I can feel the damp and smell the water.” Hardly had he spoken when they came out of the narrow lane, and the coachman reined in his team on the edge of a stone wharf. Tom looked out. The surface of the river was steaming with mist so dense that he could not see the far bank. The light was going fast now, and with the darkness came a sense of icy foreboding.

“This is not the landing,” Tom challenged the driver.

“Follow the path down that way.” The man pointed with his whip.

“Tis no more than two hundred paces from here.”

“Drive us there, if it’s so close.” Tom’s suspicions were fully aroused.

“The coach is too wide for the path, and it is a long way round by the road. It will take you but a minute on foot.” Aboli touched Tom’s arm, and said softly, “Do as he says. If this is a trap, we are better able to defend ourselves in the open.” They clambered down onto the muddy verge, and the coachman smirked at them.

“A proper gentleman would have a sixpence for my trouble.”

“I am no gentleman, and you have taken no trouble,”

Tom replied.

“Next time listen to your orders and bring us on the right road.” The driver cracked his whip angrily, and the carriage rumbled away. They watched the sidelights disappear back UP the lane, and Tom took a deep breath. The river stench was strong, damp and clammy cold, thick with the raw sewage that drained directly into its waters. The mist opened and closed like a curtain, playing tricks on the eye.

But the towpath along the bank lay in front of them. On their left there was a drop of two fathoms or more from the edge to the water below, and a blank brick wall hedged it in on the right.

“Take the right side,” Aboli murmured.

“I will be on the river verge.” Tom saw that he had shifted his scabbard on to his right hip:

he had arranged it so that if he fought lefthanded, which, of course, he could, they would not hamper each other’s sword arms.

“Stay to the centre of the path.” They stepped onto the towpath shoulder to shoulder, their cloaks drawn up to the chin but ready to throw open in an instant and clear their sword arms. The silence and the gathering darkness pressed in upon them. There was a faint glimmer of light through the mist ahead, just sufficient to illuminate the edge of the stone wharf. As they moved towards it, Tom saw that it was a single unmasked lantern.

Closer still, and from the light of the lantern, he recognized through the darkening mists the open stone steps of the river landing.

“This is the right place,” he said softly so that only Aboli would hear.

“Look, there is a ferryboat waiting, and the boatman.” The boatman was a tall dark figure at the head of the landing. A wide-brimmed hat hid his eyes, and the collar of the cloak covered his mouth. His boat was moored from one of the iron rings set into the wharf. He had placed his lantern on the top step, and it cast his long shadow upon the stonework of the bridge behind him. Tom hesitated.

“I

like it not. This has the feel of a set stage, with an actor waiting to speak his lines.” He spoke in Arabic-so that no hidden listener could follow what he said.

“Why is the boatman waiting, unless he knew we were coming?”

“Softly, Klebe,” Aboli warned him.

“Don’t let the boatman hold your eye. He is not the danger. There will be others.”

They walked on steadily towards the solitary figure, but their eyes flitted through the shadows that crowded in upon them. Suddenly another figure detached itself from the darkness and stepped into their path just beyond reach of a sword blade. The figure lifted the cowl from its head and let it drop back over her shoulders, revealing a head of thick golden curls that sparkled in the dim light.

“Good night and good cheer, lovely gentlemen.” The woman’s voice was husky and enticing, but Tom saw the repellent patches of rouge on her cheeks and the thick paint on her broad mouth, which was blue as a corpse’s lips in the poor light.

“For a shilling I will give you both a sight of heaven’s gate.” She had forced them to halt in a narrow part of the towpath, where they were cramped, and now she swung her hips and leered at Tom in a dreadful parody of lust.

“Behind!” Aboli breathed in Arabic, and Tom heard the soft slither of a footfall on the cobbles.

“I will take him, but you watch the whore,”Aboli warned, before Tom could turn, “for by the sound of her she has a fine set of balls under her skirt.”

“Sixpence for the two of us, darling,” Tom said, and stepped towards her, bringing her into sword reach. At that moment he heard Aboli whirl, but did not take his eyes from the whore. Aboli lunged smoothly at the first of the two men who were closing in on them out of the darkness from behind. It was so swift that his victim did not even raise his blade to meet the thrust.

The point went in under his ribs, and came out of his back at the level of his kidneys. He screamed.

Aboli used the buried blade and the strength of his left arm to swing him like a gaffed fish and hurl him into the man behind him. His sword blade slipped out of the man’s belly, and the assailants staggered back, clutching at each other, the wounded man still screaming, a wild, eerie sound in the night, but he was blocking his comrade’s sword arm. Aboli sent his next thrust over his shoulder, full into the face of the man behind him.

Struck full in the mouth, the man dropped his weapon and covered his face with both hands. The blood squirted out between his fingers, black and thick. He staggered away, and fell backwards over the edge of the wharf. There was a single splash as he hit the dark waters below and sank immediately under the surface.

The other man dropped to his knees holding his stomach, and toppled forward on to his face. Aboli whirled to help Tom, but he was too late.

The whore had drawn a sword from under the cloak and as she sprang at Tom the wig dropped off and revealed her cropped head and coarse, masculine features. Tom was ready for him and jumped forward to meet his charge. The assassin was taken by surprise: he had not expected such a swift response and he had not given himself the time to take his guard.

Tom went high in the natural line, the quick kill to the base of the throat where there is no bone to turn the stroke. His blade went through the windpipe and the great arteries of the neck to grate on the spine. He recovered and thrust again, an inch lower. This time the steel found the joint of the vertebrae and went clear through.

“You are learning, Klebe,” Aboli hissed as the whore dropped and lay without a twitch, his skirts pulled up over thin hairy white legs.

“But we are not finished yet. There will be others.” They came out of the dark doorways and, the shadows like pariah dogs smelling offal.

Tom did not bother to count them, but they were many.

“Back to back,” Aboli ordered, and changed his sword to the stronger side. Now the narrow neck of the pathway, which had seemed to be a trap, became their stronghold.

The river guarded their one flank, and the blank windowless wall of a triple-storeyed house the other.

Tom guessed that many more assailants were crowding in upon them from both ends of the path. But they could only attack one at a time.

The next man to come at Tom was armed with an iron-tipped stave, and as he swung at Tom’s head it was instantly apparent that he was an expert with this ugly weapon. Tom was thankful for all the hours that Aboli had forced him to use one in the practice yard at High Weald. He ducked under the long, heavy staff, not risking the delicate blade of the Neptune sword against such a brutal blow, but he was ready for the reverse, which he knew would be a thrust to his head. He could not give ground for Aboli’s broad back was pressed to his. The six foot length of the staff had kept the attacker out of reach of the blue blade until he thrust with the iron tip. The sharp iron tip came at Tom’s head like an arrow from a longbow, but Tom rolled his head at the last moment and let it fly past his cheek. Then, with his left hand he grasped the oaken shaftl and let the man pull him forward within sword range. He reached forward, the blue blade sighed in the air and flickered, like summer sheet lightning.

Clean as a straight razor it opened the man’s throat under his jaw-line, and the air rushed from his open windpipe with a squeal like a piglet denied the teat.

The man behind him stared at the dreadful sight, as the dying man staggered in a circle. He was so entranced that he was slow to meet Tom’s next lunge. Tom went high again, for the base of the throat, but at the last moment his victim jerked aside and the point went in through his shoulder. The weapon he carried fell from his hand and clattered on the cobbles. He clutched his wound and shouted, “In the name of God, I am killed,” turned and blundered into the men coming up behind him. They formed a dark, struggling bunch of humanity, so closely packed that it was difficult for Tom to pick out a clear target. He stabbed three times fast and hard into the pack, and with each stroke there was another agonized screech.

One staggered backwards and toppled over the edge of the path, arms swinging wildly as he fell from sight and hit the water in a flash of spray. The others scrambled back, holding their injuries, their faces dirty grey in the dull light.