Spice and the Devil's Cave (27 page)

“What?” cried the astonished Scander. “You aren't going to have him first bring the cargo to Lisbon?”

“No. We'll leave the cargo at Cascaes – if there is a cargo!”

“Why, man, you'll lose your profits that way! To unload at Cascaes, and then to re-ship to Lisbon'll cost –”

“I told you I was going
all the way,”
Nicolo impatiently broke in.

For a moment Scander was silent, and his keen eyes softened. “I'd ask for the job of pilot to you and Rodriguez,” he said gruffly, “if 'twasn't for having to keep an eye on Marco. But we can't risk either of those fellows giving us the slip. As to that,” he confidently added, “they won't leave Lisbon without me knowing it, for they can't get anyone else to take 'em over the bar.”

“How would it be to go down to Cascaes right away, so you could be back here, all ready for them?”

“Right!” agreed Scander, briskly pushing back from the table. “We'll hire a skiff, and be off at once. I suppose,” he grinned, as they left The Green Window and turned down the little alley, “you can make out with a sail, if I take the helm and tell you what to do?”

“Yes – or even the other way around!” Nicolo grinned back. Suddenly he sobered. “I shan't wait more than two days for Rodriguez.”

“I was wondering what you had in mind in case he didn't come,” Scander admitted, “but I didn't like to ask.”

“Get another ship. Some of those Cascaes seamen might like nothing better than to show their heels to a pack of pirates.

“I only wish you were going,” Nicolo added, guessing Scander's thoughts. “But what with the maps, and Marco and the other fellow to be looked after . . .”

“I've settled one thing,” chuckled Scander, “which is that Lisbon quay is the limit of those chaps' travels, till every bit of this pirate business has blown over. They're mixed up, somehow, with that, and they don't mean any good to Gama – so here they stay, where they can't hurt him!”

“Then you'll have to have some help ready, when they find out you aren't going to take them down river.”

“Let them try and start something! All I'd have to do would be to tell about Marco's seeing Gama. The crowd would take care of him!”

“I wish I could be with you and at Cascaes at the same time,” Nicolo said anxiously. “If those fellows should make some move for the maps –”

“I'd already thought of that,” Scander assured him, “and I'd about decided to go up to Master Abel's every little while so's to be on hand in case of trouble. Besides,” he added, “even if they did get his maps, they'd find themselves in a blind alley – with me at the open end! By the way, what shall I say if Master Abel asks where you are? You can't tell, of course, how long you'll be gone.”

For a moment Nicolo was too startled and confused to reply. His plan to try and warn Gama had shaped itself so quickly – taken him, as it were, by surprise – that he had hardly thought beyond Cascaes. But, as Scander had hinted, who knew how long he might be gone? For the first time, the hazard, the actual danger of what he meant to do, confronted him. What if he never came back? Yes, he must see Nejmi! He must tell her, as he held her close, where he was going, and why. But wouldn't that delay the start for Cascaes, and hinder Scander's return to Lisbon?

Irresolute and perplexed, he wavered. Then remembered that he hadn't told Pedro he was going away. He'd run back to The Green Window.

“Scander,” he said, “I forgot to speak to Pedro. I'll meet you presently at the dock.”

At the door of The Green Window he hesitated. He was so near now to Nejmi. Just up the hillside, and the flight of stairs! Who could tell what might happen after Cascaes?

“Look here, Master Conti!” Pedro was hurrying toward him, carefully holding something between his palms. “That tall fellow was just in – him that wanted to see you about maps or something.”

“How long ago?” cried Nicolo.

“Just after you'd gone out. But this time he didn't mention you. Said he wanted a word with Master Zakuto, and asked me to point him out when the proclamation's read to the Jews this afternoon. And see –” he held up a gold coin –“what he gave me to do that!”

Nicolo glanced at the coin in the brown fingers. Marco's mate was at work! Instantly his mind was made up. “Pedro,” he said abruptly, “I'll be gone for a while. Don't expect me back just yet.”

He stepped into the alley and hurried toward the docks. As fast as they could, Scander and he must be on their way to Cascaes. There might soon be need of Scander back in Lisbon.

It came to him strangely that his decision had been made – but not by himself! Was it by a self that he had never known until now? “I'd do anything for the Way!” Nejmi had said. Was that why, longing to go to her, he had not gone, because he, too, would do “anything for the Way”?

¹
Cascaes. Fifteen miles west of Lisbon, where ships bound for Lisbon take on pilots.

CHAPTER 20

The Workshop Lamp

F
ROM
the top of the stairway Nejmi watched Ruth and Abel descend, and waved to them when they turned back to look at her. How closely they clung to each other, the broad-shouldered figure in its conical hat and black cloak, and the stout, short figure in the long cloak and hood! Though they both stood very straight, neither leaning on the other, that close clinging made Nejmi think, somehow, of two lonely children comforting each other. But they should never be lonely, she said to herself with a rush of tenderness, as she watched them disappear around a corner. Nicolo and she would so surround them with warmth and love, so try to atone for all the suffering Manoel had brought on them, that there would never be room for loneliness. This edict that they had gone now to hear proclaimed was another humiliation, but, she reflected, not actual cruelty.

Everything should welcome them when they got back. Supper would be ready and the house lighted. It would be dark by then, for the reading of the edict would hardly be over at sundown, and Master Abel had said that afterward they might stop a moment to see Rabbi Joseph, who was too old and infirm to leave his house. She would even leave the gate ajar, Nejmi thought to herself, as she stepped back into the court, so that they could see the light from the workshop lamp as soon as they reached the head of the stairs.

But before it was too dark, she must do what she had decided to do when she had heard Nicolo say, “What if the Venetian ambassador's friend should come here!” Master Abel had seemed not to heed, but it had come to her like a command that the maps must be hidden. It was better that she should hide them, so that if they were demanded of him he wouldn't know where they were.

She crossed the court to the workshop. At the threshold she paused and surveyed the room. Shelves . . . cupboards . . . table drawer. No chance for concealment. Under the carpenter's work-bench? She stooped down to look. Plenty of room of course, but anyone would be sure to search there. Again she scrutinized the room, from floor to ceiling, absently noting that the draught between door and windows was gently stirring the great lamp above the table. Her eyes came back to the swaying lamp, fixed on it. The very thing! No one would ever dream of looking there.

She ran to the row of brass containers, slipped the maps from them, and made several tight rolls. Then, standing on the table, she opened Abel's “lighthouse.” Carefully she fitted the rolls inside. Now, just to latch its door – But what was that sound? The gate swinging on its hinges? Perhaps Nicolo! Surely not Master Abel and Mother Ruth so soon. She jumped down, and ran to look.

A tall figure in seaman's coat was pausing, motionless, in the act of stepping into the court. The man might have been a statue, but for eyes that seemed live fires and for quivering nostrils and twitching lips. The air grew dark, whirled with a million shining specks. Her body seemed not to be there on the threshold of the workshop, seemed not to be a body at all but only a sensation of deathly faintness, of hideous, endless sinking. A mad thing leaped and tore at her breast. Was it the heart in the body that had been hers? If she could only move-speak. A curious fancy possessed her that she was a bird unable to stir before the evil glitter of narrowed eyes in a weaving head; that she was a creature of the wild, beyond motion in the shadow of a hovering hawk.

Something in her suddenly snapped, and she was conscious of struggling, like one in a nightmare, against deathlike numbness. She felt something cold at her throat, and looking down, she saw that her hands were gripped there. Her gaze went back to the figure at the gate. Slowly, almost as if he were feeling his way, the man was coming toward her.

Ah Nicolo! Scander! Dear Master Abel! Where are you? She didn't deserve this – not after the anguish of Aden . . . of the slave market . . . of the
Sultana
.

Now he was standing before her, breathing hard through dilated nostrils, as she remembered he breathed when he was stirred or angry. She hadn't forgotten the black, bushy hair that showed under his peaked cap. The old terror flooded over her. Her knees were shaking. With a supreme effort she locked her fingers together. So, O Allah, hold her sinking spirit from this fear that was worse than death.

“You haven't forgotten me I see!”

The Arabic that she hadn't heard for so long, the awful familiarity of the guttural tones!

“Say my name!” he ordered.

Her tongue rasped her parched mouth, but no sound came. The only effort she could seem to make was to grip her hands still more tightly.

He took a step nearer her. “Say it! Say my name!”

“Abdul!” at last she choked out.

His eyes narrowed in the way she remembered so well. Would she ever forget their expression when he and Slaiman had debated whether or not to make a present of her to this or to that Bey?

“Ah,” he swore softly, “you haven't forgotten!” Then, “How'd you get here?” he demanded, peering into her face.

So, just so, had he peered at her through the bars of the cage he had ordered built for her! But she must summon now, as she had summoned then, the will not to flinch, lest he should guess her sick revulsion and wreak worse vengeance on her.

“How'd you get here?” he repeated. “No matter –” as she cast about for an answer –“I'm in a hurry.” Then, “Where does Zakuto keep his maps?” he snapped out.

In puzzled dismay she stared at him. How should he know or care about Master Abel's maps? Then . . . great Allah above! Could it be-could it possibly be that Abdul and the Venetian ambassador's “friend” were one? Had he found out that Abel and Ruth were to be away? Involuntarily her eyes sought the lamp. She hadn't fastened its door! The next moment, in a panic lest his eyes had followed hers, she again fixed her gaze on him.

“You know where those maps are – I can tell by your looks!”

Ah, he had seen her expression change!

“Come! Hand them over. Zakuto'll be coming back.”

She saw him scan the sky and noticed that the sun had left the court. The proclamation must be at an end. If she could play for time, perhaps some kind chance, or the tiny, inner voice that sometimes warns humans, might make them come directly home instead of stopping at Rabbi Joseph's.

“I know what you're thinking!” he flashed at her. “But if you figure you can keep me dangling till they get back –” He took a step nearer and seized her wrist. “Get those maps-and get them now!”

His touch on her flesh roused her. The blood that had seemed to freeze within her was suddenly thundering in her ears. She threw back her head and faced him.

“Oh yes, you'll get them. Look here!” His free hand slid something from his belt. His knife was gleaming at her throat.

How easily, she recalled, it had sunk into Slaiman's back! She braced herself against memory. This time her face shouldn't betray her.

“Will killing me,” she coolly asked him, “give you the maps?”

“Then I'll kill you anyhow!” he raged. “Kill you for the sport of it.” His grip on her wrist tightened into agony. “I swear I'll wait here for Zakuto, and if he refuses me, I'll kill him, too.”

“It will be the same with him,” she calmly assured him, “as with me. Kill us – but you won't get the maps.” But within herself she was wildly praying, ‘O Allah, keep them from coming home – delay them!'

She saw him stare past her into the workshop, followed his glance as it roved along the shelves-the bench-the table.

The next moment he flung her aside. “That's where he makes them,” he muttered, as he burst past her.

She stole a terrified glance at the great lamp still gently stirring in the breeze. Its door was ajar! If it should open wider, and he should happen to look up at it – Oh, how could she get him away?

Panic stricken, she watched him dart from shelf to shelf, tear open cupboards, snatch at the table drawer, peer under the bench, tip up the empty brass tubes. Her heart stood still – his eyes were fixed on the lamp! No, he was staring at the windows! In her relief she felt suddenly weak.