Voyage of Slaves

The black Labrador wrinkled his nose. “What you really mean is that you like being with Serafina. Oh, don’t deny it, mate, she’s a pretty fascinating girl. I like her a lot, too, y’know—not in the way you do, though. Still, I suppose you’re entitled to a little joy in this eternal life of ours. Just as long as you don’t fall too deeply in love and get badly hurt by it.”

Ben reached down and ruffled his dog’s ears. “Poor old Ned, what about you?”

The dog sighed gustily. “Oh, I suppose in some century or other I’ll stumble across a pretty, young, golden Labrador, a soft, doe-eyed thing with a coat like honey. Right, that’s enough of talk like that, m’boy. Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and we don’t know what tomorrow holds in store for us. G’night, mate!”

Below them, underneath the forecastle steps which led up from amidships, Abrit lay hidden, waiting with the patience of an assassin. He ran his palm along the deadly blade, caressing its razor edge and sharp point, thinking of how he would spend his gold in the seaport taverns of Slovenija. The little man had killed many times before; he never gave a second thought to his victims, only the pleasures their blood money could provide.

Time passed slowly, as minutes crept into hours. In the men’s cabin Otto was tending to his moustache with elaborate care. Having trimmed and combed it fastidiously, he produced his scented pomade, massaging it into the hairs and twirling the ends into tight points, which bristled out either side.

Mummo held his nose as he complained, “Whew! Do you have to use that stuff, Otto? It smells like a camel’s breakfast left to rot in some cheap bazaar!”

Using his snuff box lid as a mirror, the big German inspected his moustache proudly. “Ach, you have no appreciation of the finer things, Mummo. This pomade is made from attar of violets and the wax from honeybees. It is very special and most expensive, mein Freund.”²²

The clown wiped a palm across his damp brow. His normally ruddy complexion had taken on a sickly pallor. “I wish you’d put it away. Mamma mia, the odour is making me feel queasy!”

“As you wish.” The strongman put his pomade back in its snuff box, and settled into a hammock. Then he began to rock back and forth. This gave Mummo even more cause for complaint.

“Can’t you keep that thing still, Otto? What with the ship going up and down, and you swinging from side to side, and the smell of that moustache ointment clogging my nostrils, it’s making me giddy!”

Buffo nudged Signore Rizzoli, chuckling. “Another case of the mal de mer, eh?”

Mummo denied the accusation indignantly. “I’ve never been seasick in my entire life!”

Buffo had a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I never said you were seasick, brother. You’ll be alright in the morning, won’t he, Augusto?”

Signore Rizzoli caught on to the joke. “Of course he will, after a good breakfast of tomatoes and peppers, mixed in with scrambled eggs. . . .”

He got no further. Mummo clapped a hand across his mouth, and gave a strangled belch. Leaping up, he made a beeline for the cabin door.

“Mmmmff! Goin’ for a turn around the deck. Mmmfff!”

He dashed out, leaving his brother winking at Otto.

“Never been seasick before, eh?”

Rocking back and forth in his hammock, the strongman nodded solemnly. “Ja, but there is always a first time, I am thinking.”

Abrit judged the time just right; he had waited long enough, both boy and dog were sound asleep. He came from beneath the steps and mounted them carefully, silent as a moonshadow. The small assassin kept to the edges of the wooden stairs. He walked splay-legged, to avoid any creaks. It took him awhile to negotiate the twelve steps, but Abrit was in no hurry. The business of murder, he knew, required stealth and patience.

Standing at the edge of the forecastle deck, he concentrated on his targets. The infidel boy was lying on his side, presenting his back as a perfect target. The dog sprawled on its stomach, close to its master’s feet. Abrit drew his long dagger, the one he used for throwing. He checked that he had the other knife, a small, double-edged blade, stowed at the front of his waist sash. This he would use to despatch the dog speedily.

Drawing back the heavy throwing knife, he raised his elbow to shoulder level. Holding the blade’s blunt back edge firmly with his whole hand, he felt the perfect balance between arm and knife. The assassin judged the distance, centering on the nape of the sleeping boy’s neck and tensing himself for the throw.

Clad only in his nightshirt, Mummo padded out onto the deck barefoot. He leaned back against the midship rail, breathing deeply to rid himself of the nausea he was feeling. The clown avoided looking at the sea—it shifted too much. He glanced about the deck, and could not help seeing the man. Like a huge spider he was creeping up the forecastle steps, obviously up to no good. Reaching the fo’c’sle deck, he drew a long dagger and began hefting it.