The Universe Twister (31 page)

"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 pigheadedly 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 his 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."

Well, then—if there was a knife lying here on deck—an old rusty scaling knife, say, just carelessly tossed aside. I could get my hands on it, and—

"Lay down and sleep it off, landlubber," a voice boomed, accompanying the suggestion with a kick on the ear that produced a shower of small ringed planets whirling in a mad dance. Lafayette blinked them away, snorted a sharp aroma of aged cheese and garlic from his nostrils. Something with the texture of barbed wire was rasping the side of his neck. He twisted away from it, felt something round rolling under him. An apple, he realized as it crunched, releasing a fresh fruity odor. And the cheese and the sausage . . .

He held his breath. It was the lunch basket. The pirates had tossed it aboard along with the prisoners. And in the basket there had been a knife.

Lafayette opened one eye and checked the positions of his captors. Four of them stood heads together, intently studying the array of fishheads offered by the fifth. The sixth man lay snoring at their feet. Swinehild was huddled on the deck—knocked there by one of her would-be swains, no doubt.

Cautiously, O'Leary fingered the deck under him with his bound hands; inching sideways, he encountered the loaf of bread, reduced by soaking to a sodden paste, then a second apple, flattened by a boot. He reached the basket, felt over it, found it empty. The sausage lay half under it. Lafayette hitched himself forward another six inches, grinding the cheese under his shoulderblades. As the waves thumped the hull under him, his numb fingers closed over the haft of the knife.

It was small, the blade no more than four inches long—but it was big enough for his purpose. The crewmen were still busy with their lottery. Lafayette rolled over, struggled to his knees, maneuvered into position with his back against the tiller. Gripping the knife, he felt for the lashings, began sawing through the twisted rope.

It was an agonizing two minutes before a sharp musical
thong!
sounded; the suddenly freed tiller gouged Lafayette painfully in the ribs as it slammed around to a full starboard position. Instantly the boat heeled sharply, falling away downwind. The crewmen, caught by surprise, reeled against the rail, grabbing for support. The boat gave a wild plunge, the sail slatting as the breeze struck it dead astern. Cordage creaked; the sail bulged, then, with a report like a pistol shot, filled. The boom swept across the deck—precisely at head height, Lafayette noted, as it gathered in the four sailors and sent them flying over the side, where they struck with a tremendous quadruple splash as the pilotless craft went leaping ahead across the dark water.

"Your poor head," Swinehild said, applying a cool compress made from a section of her skirt to one of the knots on O'Leary's skull. "Them boys throwed you around like a sack o' turnips."

"My ear feels the size of a baked potato, and about the same temperature," Lafayette said. "Not that I suppose it actually gleams in the dark." He peered across toward the misty glow in the middle distance toward which he was steering.

"In a way those hijackers did us a favor," he commented. "We'd never have made such good time rowing."

"You got kind of a irritating way o' looking on the bright side, Lafe," Swinehild sighed. "I wish you'd work on that."

"Now, Swinehild, this is no time to be discouraged," Lafayette jollied her. "True, we're cold and wet and so tired we ache all over; but the worst is over. We got out of an extremely tight spot with no more than a few bruises to my head and your dignity. In a few minutes we'll be tucking our feet under a table for a bowl of hot soup and a little drop of something to cut the chill, and then off to the best hotel in town."

"Sure, it's OK for
you
to talk. With that slick line o' chatter o' yours, you'll probably land a swell job with the duke, soothsaying or something."

"I don't want a job," Lafayette pointed out. "I just want to get out of Melange and back to the comfortable monotony I was fool enough to complain about a few hours ago."

O'Leary brought the boat smartly about on the starboard tack, closing in on the ever-widening spread of city lights ahead. They passed a bell-buoy dinging lonesomely in the mist, sailed past a shore lined with high-fronted buildings recalling the waterfront at Amsterdam, backed by rising tiers of houses clustered about the base of a massive keep of lead-colored granite, approached a lighted loading dock where a number of nondescript small craft were tied up, bobbing gently on the waves. As they came alongside, Swinehild threw a line to an urchin, who hauled it in and made it fast. Flickering gas lights on the quay above shed a queasy light on wet cobbles well strewn with refuse. A couple of dockside loafers watched incuriously as Lafayette assisted Swinehild from the boat, tossing a nickel to the lad. A stray dog with a down-curled tail slunk away past the darkened fronts of the marine-supply houses across the way as they started across the cobbles.

"Geeze—the big town," Swinehild said reverently, brushing a curl from her eyes. "Port Miasma—and it's even bigger and glamorouser than I expected."

"Um," Lafayette said noncommittally, leading the way toward the lighted entry of a down-at-heels grog shop just visible at an angle halfway up a steep side street, before which a weathered board announced YE GUT BUCKET.

Inside the smoky but warm room, they took a corner table. The sleepy-eyed tavern-keeper silently accepted their order and shuffled away.

"Well, this is more like it," Lafayette said with a sigh. "It's been a strenuous night, but with a hot meal and a good bed to look forward to, we can't complain."

"The big town scares me, Lafe," Swinehild said. "It's so kind of impersonal, all hustle-bustle, no time for them little personal touches that mean so much to a body."

"Hustle-bustle? It's as dead as a foreclosed mortuary," Lafayette muttered.

"Like this place," Swinehild continued. "Open in the middle o' the night. Never seen anything like it."

"It's hardly ten P.M.," Lafayette pointed out. "And—"

"And besides that, I got to go," Swinehild added. "And not a clump o' bushes in sight."

"There's a room for it," O'Leary said hastily. "Over there—where it says LADIES."

"You mean—
inside?
"

"Of course. You're in town now, Swinehild. You have to start getting used to a few amenities—"

"Never mind; I'll just duck out in the alley—"

"Swinehild! The ladies' room, please!"

"You come with me."

"I can't—it's for ladies only. There's another one for men."

"Well, think o' that!" Swinehild shook her head wonderingly.

"Now hurry along, our soup will be here in a minute."

"Wish me luck." Swinehild rose and moved off hesitantly. Lafayette sighed, turned back the soggy lace from his wrists, used the worn napkin beside his plate to mop the condensed moisture from his face, sniffing the bouquet of chicken and onions drifting in from the kitchen. His mouth watered at the prospect. Except for a chunk of salami, and that plate of dubious pork back at the Beggar's Bole, he hadn't eaten a bite since lunch . . .

Lunch, ten hours and a million years ago: the dainty table set up on the terrace, the snowy linen, the polished silver, the deft
sommelier
pouring the feather-light wine from the frosted and napkin-wrapped bottle, the delicate slices of savory ham, the angelfood cake with whipped cream, the paper-thin cup of steaming coffee—

"Hey—you!" a deep voice boomed across the room, shattering O'Leary's reverie. He looked around to see who was thus rudely addressed, saw a pair of tall fellows in gold-braided blue tailcoats, white knee breeches, buckled shoes, and tricorner hats bearing down on him from the door.

"Yeah—it's him," the smaller of the two said, grabbing for his sword hilt. "Boy oh boy, the pinch of the week, and it's ours, all ours, Snardley—so don't louse it up." The rapier cleared its sheath with a whistling rasp. Its owner waved it at O'Leary.

"Hold it right here, pal," he said in a flinty voice. "You're under arrest in the name of the duke!"

The second uniformed man had drawn a long-muzzled flintlock pistol of the type associated with Long John Silver; he flourished it in a careless manner at O'Leary's head.

"You going in quiet, rube, or have I gotta plug you, resisting arrest?"

"You've got the wrong rube," Lafayette replied impatiently. "I just arrived: I haven't had time to break any laws—unless you've got one against breathing."

"Not yet—but it's a thought, wise guy." The rapier-wielder jabbed sharply at him. "Better come along nice, Bo: Yockwell and me collect the same reward, dead or alive."

"I seen what you taken and done to a couple pals of mine, which they was snuck up on from behind," Yockwell warned. "I'm just itching for a excuse to get even." He thumbed back the hammer of the big pistol with an ominous click.

"You're out of your minds!" O'Leary protested. "I've never been to this water-logged slum before in my life!"

"Tell it to Duke Rodolpho." The sword poked Lafayette painfully. "Pick 'em up, Dude. We got a short walk ahead."

O'Leary glanced toward the ladies' room as he got to his feet: the door was closed and silent. The landlord stood furtive-eyed behind the bar, polishing a pewter tankard. Lafayette caught his eye, mouthed an urgent message. The man blinked and made a sign as if warding off the evil eye.

"You fellows are making a big mistake," Lafayette said as a push helped him toward the door. "Probably right now the man you're really after is making a fast getaway. Your bosses aren't going to like it—"

"You either, chum. Now button the chin."

A few furtive passersby gaped as the two cops herded O'Leary up the narrow, crooked street which wound sharply toward the grim pile towering over the town. They passed through a high iron gate guarded by a pair of sentries in uniforms like those of the arresting patrolmen, crossed a cobbled courtyard to a wooden door flanked by smoking flambeaux. It opened on a bright-lit room with hand-drawn WANTED posters on the walls, a wooden bench, a table stacked with curled papers in dusty bundles.