“Palms,” Matt said, frowning. “We’re pretty far south, all right.”
They had to delay further conversation because the overseer came through with dinner—wooden bowls of gruel, as usual.
There was another merchant among the crew—at least Matt guessed him to be a fellow pirate victim. Stripped to breechcloth and covered with sweat and dirt, he looked like any of the other middle-aged slaves, except his flesh was sagging where he had recently been fat, and his body wasn’t as hard as the others’ yet. The constant sorrow and resignation of all the others was absent from his face, as was all other emotion. Now, though, he came out of his daze, looking up from his oar, and his vacant expression livened with a trace of hope. “Where are we?”
“Bombay, they call it,” a Moor hissed in answer, “this ship’s home port. Be still, if you wish to keep your tongue! They think we’re all mutes, and too stupid to learn to talk.”
The merchant shuddered and let his eyes glaze again.
Bombay! Matt’s blood thrilled at the exotic name. He’d never been to India, and he’d always wanted to, more than a dream, less than a plan. Admittedly, he hadn’t intended to travel in quite this way, but it was Bombay nonetheless, and even better, untouched by the twentieth century! He could hardly wait to jump ship and start exploring.
He had sense enough, though, not to try it by day. They waited for night; then Matt asked Balkis, “Are there lots of people?”
“Everywhere,” Balkis said with disgust. “It is packed and thronged with folk! I am amazed they can find houses for them all.”
“They can’t,” Matt told her, “but the more of them there are, the easier it is for us to lose ourselves among them.”
Balkis eyed him critically. “You will stand out like a jay among robins.”
“Not for long,” Matt assured her. “We’ve come as far east as this ship will take us. Time to find transport north.”
“You seem to forget the small matter of escape from this vessel,” Balkis said tartly.
“Yes, that is a small matter,” Matt agreed, and recited softly,
The shackles cracked open. Matt ducked flying rivet-heads. When he looked up, he saw a huge man in conquistador armor standing in the middle of the galley slaves.
CHAPTER 8
The apparition seemed eight feet tall, but Matt told himself it couldn’t be, the deck was scarcely more than six feet overhead. But for an apparition, the intruder was very solid, as he proved by whirling to fell the overseer with the flat of his blade and crying, “Up, all you who thirst for freedom! Up, slaves, and fight for your liberty!”
The rowers stared in shock. Then, with a shout, they surged up from their benches and followed the huge bearded figure.
Don John swung his broadsword two-handed and chopped through the hatchway. Three more strokes, and he kicked scrapwood out of his way to step onto the deck.
There the smugglers came running, or at least the half-dozen men left to guard the ship, howling in rage, scimitars swinging high.
Don John bellowed with the joy of battle and swung his broadsword. Most of the pirates had sense enough to leap back, but two were slow and fell bleeding. Matt leaped in to snatch up their swords, then stepped back to hand one to the healthiest-looking of the slaves.
The other four smugglers shouted in rage and charged back in as Don John was recovering his stroke, vulnerable for a few seconds. A scimitar clashed off his breastplate, another jabbed at his naked face, but Matt’s sword rang against it, and the stroke glanced harmlessly off the hero’s helmet. His fellow slave leaped at the other two smugglers, slashing and whirling like a dervish and howling like a maniac. The smugglers gave way, then gave again as the bearded armored man followed, demonic in the torchlight. The smugglers ran, calling for help.
Don John turned to the slaves. “Away with you now, and quickly! Find Christian ships and stowaway! Find churches and cry sanctuary! Find native robes and disguise yourselves—but flee!”
Matt fled. He pounded across the paving-stones to an alleyway. There he paused to look back, and saw Don John in the light of the torches, both hands around his blade, holding the hilt up like a cross, his gaze on it in rapt devotion, crying, “Vivat Hispania! Domino Gloria!” And, praising God and country, he faded, became transparent, and disappeared.
“Surely such a man never came from this world!”
Matt looked up and saw Balkis crouched on top of a stack of baskets, staring at the now empty ship. “No, not from this world—not yet, anyway.”
“Then from where?” His new apprentice turned searching eyes upon him.
“From G. K. Chesterton’s pen,” Matt told her. “Come on! Soldiers will be searching these docks any minute now! We’ve got to hide.”
He turned away, but there was no answer, and he turned right back, frowning up at Balkis, who was staring at him wide-eyed. Matt repressed a smile and shrugged. “Hey, you knew what I was.”
“Yes,” the little cat hissed, “but I had not seen it.”
“Better get used to it,” Matt said. “Hop onto my shoulders.”
“Very well.” Balkis sprang onto his shoulder.
Matt gasped. “Velvet paws! I’m not made of oak, you know!”
“I thought your bark was worse than your bite,” Balkis retorted.
“You haven’t seen me bite yet.” Matt started off down the dark alley. “Time to hide.”
“Where?” Balkis looked blank. “I can dodge to any shadow, but you …?”
“I think I’ll take Don John’s advice and go native,” Matt said. “Let’s see if we can find somebody’s laundry line.”
Murk moved out of murk, and a dagger-point pressed against Matt’s throat. “Your purse, foreigner!”
“On the other hand,” Matt told Balkis, “there might be a closer source.” Then, to the thief, “All I’m wearing is a loincloth. Where would I hide a purse?”
The knife pricked at his throat, and the voice said, “Your sword, then.”
“Sure.” Matt swung the tip up against the man’s belly. “How deep do you want it?”
The thief froze in surprise, and Balkis sprang.
She hit the thief’s face with all four sets of claws, yowling like a snow tiger. The thief recoiled, dropping his dagger in shock.
“That’s enough,” Matt said.
Balkis’ weight landed on his shoulder again, and the thief stared in dread at the blade of the sword vanishing under his chin. He could feel the point against his throat.
“Not a good idea to attack armed men,” Matt explained, “even if they are only lousy galley slaves. Off with the clothes, fella.”
“Me give to a victim?” the thief squalled in protest.
“Almost enough to get you kicked out of the footpad’s guild, isn’t it?” Matt asked sympathetically. “Don’t worry, you can tell your shop steward the slave you picked on turned out to be a wizard in disguise.”
“Who would believe so foolish a tale?” the thief sneered.
“You would,” Matt told him, and chanted in English,
“He
can fill you crowds of shrouds