The World Shuffler (6 page)

“Geeze, thanks, bub—” The knuckly hand reached, but Lafayette snatched the coin back.

“ Ah-ah,” he reproved. “First you have to row us out to the city.”

“Yeah.” The hand went up to scratch at a rumpled head of coarse black hair with a sound like a carpenter filing a knot. “There’s just one small problem area there, yer lordship. But maybe I got a solution,” he added more briskly. “But the price will be the silver piece plus a sample o’ the little lady’s favors. I’ll take a little o’ that last on account.” The hand poked at O’Leary as if to brush him aside. He gave it a sharp rap on the knuckles, at which the owner jerked it back and popped the wounded members into his mouth.

“Ouch!” he said, looking up at O’Leary reproachfully. “That hurt, guy!”

“It was meant to,” Lafayette said coldly. “If I weren’t in such a hurry, I’d haul you out of there and give you a sound thrashing!”

“Yeah? Well, you might run into a little trouble there, chief. I’m kind of a heavy guy to haul around.” There was a stir, and the head thrust through the door, followed by a pair of shoulders no wider than a hay rick, a massive torso; on all fours, the owner of the hut emerged, climbed to a pair of feet the size of skate boards, and stood, towering a good seven-foot-six into the damp night air.

“So O.K., I’ll wait and collect at the other end,” the monster said. “Prob’ly a good idea if I workup a good sweat first anyway. Wait here. I’ll be back in short order.”

“I got to hand it to you, Lafe,” Swinehild murmured as the giant strode away into the mist. “You don’t let a little beef scare you.” She looked lingeringly after the big man. “Not that he don’t have a certain animal charm,” she added.

“If he lays a hand on you, I’ll tear his head off and stuff it down his throat!” Lafayette snapped.

“Hey, Lafe—you’re jealous!” Swinehild said delightedly. “But don’t let it get out of hand,” she added. “I had enough of getting backhanded ears over teakettle every time some bum looks over my architecture.”

“Jealous? Me? You’re out of your mind.” O’Leary jammed his hands in his pockets and began pacing up and down, while Swinehild hummed softly to herself and twiddled with her hair.

It was the better part of a quarter of an hour before the big man returned, moving with surprising softness for his bulk.

“All set,” he called in a hoarse whisper. “Let’s go.”

“What’s all the creeping around and whispering for?” O’Leary demanded loudly. “What—” With a swift move, the giant clapped a hand as lard as saddle leather across his mouth.

“Keep it down, Bo,” he hissed. “We don’t want to wake the neighbors. The boys need their sleep, the hours they work.”

O’Leary squirmed free of the grip, snorting a sharp odor of tar and herring from his nostrils.

“Well, naturally, I don’t want to commit a nuisance,” he whispered. He took Swinehild’s hand, led her in the wake of their guide down across the mucky beach to a crumbling stone jetty at the end of which a clumsy, flat-bottomed dory was tied up. It settled six inches lower in the water as the big man climbed in and settled himself on the rowing bench. Lafayette handed Swinehild down, gritting his teeth as the boatman picked her up by the waist and lifted her past him to the stern seat.

“You sit in the front, bub, and watch for floating logs,” the big man said. Lafayette was barely in his place when the oars dipped in and sent the boat off with a surge that almost tipped him over the side. He hung on grimly, listening to the creak of the oarlocks, the splash of small waves under the bow, watching the dock recede swiftly, to disappear into the gathering mist. Twisting to look over his shoulder, he saw the distant city lights, haloed by fog, floating far away across the choppy black water. The damp wind seemed to penetrate his bones.

“How long will the trip take?” he called hoarsely, hugging himself.

“Shhh,” the oarsman hissed over his shoulder.

“What’s the matter now? Are you afraid you’ll wake up the fish?” Lafayette snapped.

“Have a heart, pal,” the big man whispered urgently. “Sound carries over water like nobody’s business ...” He cocked his head as if listening. Faintly, from the direction of the shore, Lafayette heard a shout.

“Well, it seems everybody isn’t as scrupulous as we are,” he said tartly. “Is it all right if we talk now? Or—”

“Can it, Buster!” the giant hissed. “They’ll hear us!”

“Who?” Lafayette inquired loudly. “What’s going on here? Why are we acting like fugitives?”

“On account of the guy I borrowed the boat from might not like the idea too good,” the giant rumbled. “But I guess the fat’s on the hotplate now. Some o’ them guys got ears like bats.”

“What idea might the fellow you borrowed the boat from not like?” Lafayette inquired in a puzzled tone.

“The idea I borrowed the boat.”

“You mean you didn’t have his permission?”

“I hate to wake a guy outa a sound sleep wit’ a like frivolous request.”

“Why, you ... you ...”

“Just call me Clutch, bub. Save the fancy names for the bums which are now undoubtedly pushing off in pursuit.” Clutch bent his back to the oars, sending the boat leaping ahead.

“Great,” Lafayette groaned. “Perfect. This is our reward for being honest: a race through the night with the police baying on our trail!”

“I’ll level wit’ youse,” Clutch said. “These boys ain’t no cops. And they ain’t got what you’d call a whole lot o’ inhibitions. If they catch us, what they’ll hand us won’t be no subpoena.”

“Look,” Lafayette said quickly, “we’ll turn back, and explain that the whole thing was a misunderstanding—”

“Maybe you like the idea o’ being fed to the fish, yer worship, but not me,” Clutch stated. “And we got the little lady to think of, too. Them boys is a long time between gals.”

“Don’t waste breath,” Lafayette said. “Save it for rowing.”

“If I row any harder, the oars’ll bust,” Clutch said. “Sounds like they’re gaining on us, Cull. Looks like I’ll have to lighten ship.”

“Good idea,” Lafayette agreed. “What can we throw overboard?”

“Well, there ain’t no loose gear to jettison; and I got to stick wit’ the craft in order to I should row. And naturally we can’t toss the little lady over the side, except as a last resort, like. So I guess that leaves you, chum.”

“Me?” Lafayette echoed. “Look here, Clutch— I’m the one who hired you, remember? You can’t be serious—”

“Afraid so, Mac.” The big man shipped oars, dusted his hands, and turned on his bench.

“But—who’s going to pay you, if I’m in the lake?” O’Leary temporized, retreating to the farthermost angle of the bows.

“Yeah—there is that,” Clutch agreed, stroking his Gibraltarlike chin. “Maybe you better hand over the poke first.”

“Not a chance. If I go, it goes!”

“Well—I guess we ain’t got room to like scuffle. So—since youse want to be petty about it, I’ll just have to collect double from the little lady.” Clutch rose in a smooth lunge, one massive arm reaching for Lafayette. The latter ducked under the closing hand and launched himself in a headfirst dive at the other’s midriff, instead crashed into a brick wall that had suddenly replaced it. As he clawed at the floorboards, he was dimly aware of a swishing sound, a solid thud.’ as of a mallet striking a tent stake, followed a moment later by a marine earthquake which tossed the boat like a juggler’s egg. A faceful of icy water brought him upright, striking out gamely.

“Easy, Lafe,” Swinehild called. “I clipped him with the oar and he landed on his chin. Damn near swamped us. We better get him over the side fast.”

Lafayette focused his eyes with difficulty, made out the inert form of the giant draped face down across the gunwale, one oak-root arm trailing in the water.

“We ... we can’t do that,” Lafayette gasped. “He’s unconscious; he’d drown.” He took the oar from her, groped his way to the rover’s bench, thrust Clutch’s elephantine leg aside, dipped in, and pulled—

The oar snapped with a sharp report, sending Lafayette in a forward dive into the scuppers.

“I guess I swung it too hard,” Swinehild said regretfully. “It’s all that skillet-work done it.”

Lafayette scrabbled back to the bench, ignoring the shooting pains in his head, neck, eyeballs, and elsewhere. “I’ll have to scull with one oar,” he panted. “Which direction?”

“Dunno,” Swinehild said. “But I guess it don’t matter much. Look.”

O’Leary followed her pointing finger. A ghostly white patch, roughly triangular in shape, loomed off the port bow, rushing toward them out of the dense fog.

“It’s a sailboat,” Lafayette gasped as the pursuer hove into full view, cleaving the mist. He could see half a dozen men crouched on the deck of the vessel. They raised a shout as they saw the drifting rowboat, changed course to sweep up alongside. Lafayette shattered the remaining oar over the head of the first of the boarders to leap the rail, before an iceberg he had failed to notice until that moment fell on him, burying him under a hundred tons of boulders and frozen mammoth bones ...

O’Leary regained consciousness standing on his face in half an inch of iced cabbage broth with a temple gong echoing in his skull. The floor under him was rising up and up and over in a never-ending loop-the-loop, but when he attempted to clutch for support he discovered that both arms had been lopped off at the shoulder. He worked his legs, succeeded in driving his face farther into the bilge, which sloshed and gurgled merrily down between his collar and his neck before draining away with the next tilt of the deck. He threshed harder, flopped over on his back, and blinked his eyes clear. He was lying, it appeared, in the cockpit of the small sailing craft. His arms had not been amputated after all, he discovered as fiery pains lanced out from his tightly bound wrists.

“Hey, Fancy-pants is awake,” a cheery voice called. “O.K. if I step on his mush a couple times?”

“Wait until we get through drawing straws fer the wench.”

O’Leary shook his head, sending a whole new lexicon of aches swirling through it, but clearing his vision slightly. Half a dozen pairs of burly rubber-booted legs were grouped around the binnacle light, matching the burly bodies looming above them. Swinehild, standing by with her arms held behind her by a pock-marked man with a notched ear, drove a sudden kick into a handy shin. The recipient of the attention leaped and swore, while his fellows guffawed in hearty good fellowship.

“She’s a lively ‘un,” a toothless fellow with greasy, shoulder-length hair stated. “Who’s got the straws?”

“Ain’t no straws aboard,” another stated. “We’ll have to use fish.”

“I dunno,” demurred a short, wide fellow with a blue-black beard which all but enveloped his eyes. “Never heard of drawing fish for a wench. We want to do this right, according to the rules and all.”

“Skip the seafood, boys,” Swinehild suggested. “I kind of got a habit of picking my own boyfriends. Now you, good-looking ...” She gave a saucy glance to the biggest of the crew, a lantern-jawed chap with a sheaf of stiff wheat-colored hair and a porridgy complexion. “You’re more my style. You going to let these rag-pickers come between us?”

The one thus singled out gaped, grinned, flexed massive, crooked shoulders, and threw out his chest.

“Well, boys, I guess that settles that—”

A marlinspike wielded by an unidentified hand described a short arc ending alongside the lantern jaw, the owner of which did a half-spin and sank out of sight.

“None o’ that, wench,” a gruff voice commanded. “Don’t go trying to stir up no dissension. With us, it’s share and share alike. Right, boys?”

As a chorus of assent rang out, Lafayette struggled to a sitting position, cracking his head on the tiller just above him. It was unattended, lashed in position, holding the craft on a sharply heeled into-the-wind course, the boom-mounted sail bellying tautly above the frothing waves. O’Leary tugged at his bonds; the ropes cutting into his wrists were as unyielding as cast-iron manacles. The crewmen were laughing merrily at a coarse jape, ogling Swinehild, while one of their number adjusted a row of kippered herring in his hand, his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth with the intensity of his concentration. The object of the lottery stood, her wet garments plastered against her trim figure, her chin high, her lips blue with cold.

O’Leary groaned silently. A fine protector for a girl he’d turned out to be. If he hadn’t pig-headedly insisted on doing things his own way, they’d never have gotten into this spot. And this was one mess from which he was unlikely to emerge alive. Swinehild had warned him the locals would cheerfully feed him to the fish. Probably they were keeping him alive until they could get around to robbing him of everything, including the clothes on his back, and then over he’d go, with or without a knife between the ribs. And Swinehild, poor creature—her dream of making it big in the big town would end right here with this crew of cutthroats. Lafayette twisted savagely at his bonds. If he could get one hand free; if he could just take one of these grinning apes to the bottom with him; if he only had one small remaining flicker of his old power over the psychic energies ...

Lafayette drew a calming breath and forced himself to relax. No point in banging his head on any more stone walls. He couldn’t break half-inch hemp ropes with his bare hands. But if he could, somehow, manage just one little miracle— nothing to compare with shifting himself to Artesia, of course, or summoning up a dragon on order, or even supplying himself with a box of Aunt Hooty’s taffies on demand. He’d settle for just one tiny rearrangement of the situation, something—anything at all to give him a chance.

“That’s all I ask,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just a chance.” But I’ve got to be
specific,
he reminded himself. Focusing the
psychic
energies
isn’t magic, after all. It’s just a matter of
drawing on the
entropic
energy
of the
universe to manipulate things into a
configuration
nearer
to my heart’s
desire. Like,
for example, if the
ropes were
to
be loose ...

“But they aren’t loose,” he told himself sternly. “You can’t change any known element of the situation. At best, you can influence what happens next, that’s all. And probably not even that.”