Voyage of Slaves

The pirate turned to Ghigno. “You will come with me. I will be meeting Count Dreskar in the town, at the Crown of Slovenija hotel.”

Ghigno tapped the jagged scar on his face. “I’ll have the crew with me, we’ll stay in the background in case of trouble. Right?”

Al Misurata stroked his beard. “Right, my friend, and when our business is done . . .”

The Corsair chuckled. “We’ll kidnap a few of the good townsfolk of Piran, take them on board and sail for home!”

This time Bomba joined in the laughter. Al Misurata poured drinks, and they toasted the coming enterprise.

“To trade, and to the gold to be made on both sides of the sea. A successful voyage!”

As Bomba took a pace back, Ned saw his chance to get out. He yelped aloud, as though the Corsair had trod on his paw.

Bomba drew his dagger. “Whining cur, get from under my feet!”

Al Misurata chided the big slave driver. “Bomba, don’t be cruel to poor, dumb animals, put that knife away and open the door for our friend Bundi, or is it Ned?”

Bomba opened the door and Ned trotted down the stairs, thinking to himself, “I wish Otto had given his childhood pet a better name. Bundi? Ugh, it makes me sound like an old, fat donkey!”

When Ned arrived back at the wagon outside the guest accommodation, he found himself in the middle of a very welcoming troupe. They all patted and stroked him as he wagged his tail furiously, enquiring of Ben, “This is all very nice, but what’s all the fuss about?”

The boy sent him a mental reply. “They’re welcoming us as part of the troupe, mate. We’re going to become performers, the great Neddo and Benno. But you haven’t reported back yet, did you hear anything of value over at the house?”

The dog avoided Otto’s ham-like hand playfully. “I certainly did, and none of it’s good news. These nice people wouldn’t be celebrating if they’d heard what I’ve just listened in to.”

Ben took Ned’s chin in one hand. He dipped a scrap of rag in some warm water and began cleaning the corners of the Labrador’s eyes, communicating impatiently, “Well, are you going to sit there hinting all day, or are you going to tell me what they said?”

Ned launched into his mental account of what was planned for the Rizzoli Troupe, finishing with his assessmentof Al Misurata. “You wouldn’t believe the way old Miserable changed the minute Signore Rizzoli left the room. He’s a very evil man, sly and greedy, he’ll do anything for gold.”

The news came as no surprise to Ben. He stared into his friend’s eyes. “I knew it. Though for awhile I thought there might have been some good in that man. Now I’m certain that Al Misurata is a cold, treacherous snake. His only god is gold, he is ruled by his greed.”

Ned placed a paw on Ben’s arm. “But what are we going to do—how can you tell our friends what we know? You can’t very well announce that I told you I’d overheard a conversation. Who’d believe us, mate?”

Ben sighed. “You’re right, but it’s still up to us to do something about the problem. I think it’s best that Signore Rizzoli and the others know nothing about it for the moment. It would only create a lot of trouble and worry for them. We must really put our minds to reaching a solution. Let’s discuss this tonight, when everybody’s asleep.”

They joined the rest of the troupe, who were sitting about on the wagon steps. Mamma looked curiously at the pair. “Well, have you finished your talk?”

This took Ben by surprise. “Talk, Mamma, what talk?”

She smiled shrewdly. “I was watching you both, you can’t fool me. Oh, your lips weren’t moving, there was no sound. It was the way you were staring at each other. You were making a contact somehow, I’m sure of it.”

Serafina saved Ben further embarrassment. “I know what you mean, Mamma. I stare into Poppea’s eyes a lot, and she looks back at me. We don’t have to say anything, it’s just a feeling of friendship. Some animals have the most gentle eyes—Poppea does, and Ned, too.”

Buffo interrupted. “Oh, I know that. I stared into the eyes of La Lindi’s serpent once, they were fascinating.”

Mummo shuddered. “Ugh, that awful python, what happened?”

Buffo grinned. “It hypnotised me and tried to swallow me whole!”

Mamma cuffed him playfully. “A pity it never did, you great fool!”

Signore Rizzoli began tuning his mandolin busily. “Come on, you lot, let’s work out this evening’s show.”

Passing a huge hand over his shaven head, Otto flicked perspiration from it. “Ach, it is too hot to think in this heat of Libya, can we not just sit and rest awhile?”

La Lindi stretched out lazily. “A good idea, Herr Kassel. Serafina, sing us a pretty song, you know, the one which goes, lala, lala, laaa . . .”

Augusto picked up the melody on his mandolin. “You mean this one? It’s a sad song, but nice. Sing it for us, bella ragazza.”

The beautiful black girl waited for him to finish the introduction, then sang slowly in her hauntingly husky voice. It was a song of forlorn love.