The Tail of the Arabian, Knight, page 18
Lincoln sipped once and grimaced. It was a Canadian wine better suited to luring whales and wolves to destruction than to human consumption. He placed the glass back on the table and folded his hands over his stomach.
“Well, here we are.”
Storm waited until Rain had left the room through the left-hand door, then took a chair himself, his bow exchanged for a loaded rifle. “You won’t have long to wait, tailor,” he said without expression.
“I assume all this nonsense has something to do with Knight’s tail?”
Manto shifted uncomfortably before he nodded. “Sooner or later.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t like to explain?”
Manto caressed the rifle’s barrel thoughtfully. “I’m not supposed to.”
“I thought you were in charge?” he asked innocently.
“I am!”
“Then if you’re in charge, who can tell you what to do and what not to do?”
“Me,” said Peter Wolf as he came down the stairs. “Storm is a lot of things, a lot of good things, but being in charge isn’t one of them.”
Storm half rose, and sank again when Wolf gave him a simple look. He held the look until he had circled his company, then transferred it to Annabelle, who was gripping the arms of her chair as if bracing herself for a launch.
“No,” he cautioned.
She relaxed, but only slightly.
“So,” Lincoln said, “your real name is Manto?”
“In a way,” Wolf said, getting himself a drink and eyeing the doors. “Semirelated to Tremain, you could say.”
“Semi?”
“My half-brother,” Wolf said.
Uh-oh, he thought.
“But that’s not important,” the Indian said airily, and resumed his circling of the room. “What is important is the fact that you are here, Mr. Blackthorne, at the request of the Manto family. I am sorry to have been so devious, but I had a feeling you wouldn’t accept an ordinary invitation.”
“You’re right. And since it’s me you’re after—”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Wolf said, annoyed. “Don’t tell me you’re going to say, ‘Then let the women go and we can do our business man-to-man.’ Because if you are,” he continued before Lincoln could respond, “the answer is no.”
“Damn,” said Old Alice.
The center door opened, and Requin staggered out with a long box in his arms. He edged his way into the middle of the furniture island and placed it on the table. Storm raised the rifle. Wolf stood behind Lincoln’s chair while Requin struggled with the lid.
“You see, Mr. Blackthorne, my brother and you were not the best of friends, as you recall. Subsequently, because of your last meeting, Tremain’s mind went on a trip. All he thought about was getting revenge for what you had done to his face. He wanted to do terrible things to you, Mr. Blackthorne. Terrible things.”
Lincoln watched as the traitorous pilot finally wrenched the lid off the box and dropped it on the floor. He could not see inside, but he knew what was there. Wolf came around him, then, and reached in and pulled out the tail.
“Well, well,” said Old Alice. “So that’s what all the fuss is about.”
“Indeed, old woman,” Wolf said without taking his eyes off Lincoln. “All the fuss. For all these years.”
The gold shone brilliantly in the soft lamplight, and the rubies held tiny images of trapped and writhing fire. Wolf’s face hardened. The tail began to spin. Alice and Annabelle looked away instinctively, but Lincoln refused; he knew—and realized he had known for some time—what the Mantos wanted it for.
And it wasn’t for the fortune entwined in the hair.
“Ah, you understand,” Wolf said, his lips pulled away from his teeth in a typical Manto grin.
“That’s not what it’s for,” Lincoln said, his throat dry and feeling coated with sand.
“I know that. But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“Know what?” Annabelle said.
Lincoln groaned silently.
“Well, my darling Annabelle,” the Indian said, turning slowly, so slowly they hardly knew he had moved, “Tremain is dead. Several times over, as a matter of fact. This legendary amulet from far Arabia cures wounds and illness. And what, my dear, is a greater illness than death?”
“That’s … that’s …” She looked wildly around the room, searching for the word.
“Yes,” Wolf said, “it is.”
“But you don’t even know it’ll work!” she blurted.
Big mouth, Lincoln thought, and considered saying it aloud when hands reached over the back of his chair and yanked him to his feet. It was Rain. He hadn’t seen the man enter the room, and though he managed to begin a valiant struggle, he was in no position to win when Requin joined Manto and they wrestled him to a throne-like chair against the opposite wall. On either side hung polar bear skins, and he examined them balefully while his wrists were tied to the armrests.
When the two were finished, he faced the room again and watched as Storm left his chair to stand beside Wolf. The rifle was at his shoulder.
Annabelle left her seat in a rush, but Requin was there before she could clear the island. He thrust her down again, and clamped a hand around her throat from behind, exerting just enough pressure to give her air to breathe, and precious little else. Alice reached up for a grape, and lowered her hand slowly when Rain tsked and showed her the knife he carried in his belt.
Then Wolf moved to one side.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Blackthorne,” he said, honestly smiling this time. “We don’t intend to kill you.”
“Thank you.”
Storm pulled the trigger—three times.
The retort was deafening in the room, but Lincoln could only hear his own gasp as the bullets ripped through his jacket, his shirt, and buried themselves in his chest.
Skunked again, he thought, as Storm fired again.
The last thing he heard was Annabelle, screaming.
TWENTY-THREE
Being dead, he thought tranquilly, was actually not all that bad, all things considered, though he had rather enjoyed the alternative, even with Carmel and her damned marriage plans. A little on the chilly side, maybe, but not so terribly uncomfortable that he couldn’t learn to get used to it in a century or two; and darker than he would have liked, though he was sure his eyes would soon adjust.
All in all, a rather comfortable feeling.
Until he tried to move in the unrelieved blackness and the fire rushed from the center of his chest to his ribs, his waist, down the length of his arms to his hands, which clenched so tightly cramps began spreading outward from the gaps between his knuckles. He wanted to scream, but he could produce no sound that he could hear; he wanted to cry, but his eyes felt too dry; he wanted to run from whatever came at him in the dark, but his legs were useless and he had to sit there, waiting, until another wave of cold washed over him, from his neck to his groin, up and down, until his teeth were chattering and his jaw and ears ached, and his lungs suddenly filled with a rush of melting ice.
On second thought, he decided, being dead wasn’t fun.
“I don’t believe it!”
“I don’t believe it either, girl, but there you have it.”
Angels should believe in everything, he thought; otherwise, it was blasphemy or something.
“It’s a miracle!”
Of course it’s a miracle. All life is a miracle. The miracle is that we know it’s a miracle before we drop dead too soon to enjoy it.
That didn’t make sense.
He opened his eyes and, after blinking at the lamplight that was for a moment too bright, found himself still sitting in the chair. His wrists were now unbound and, when he looked down, his jacket was off and his shirt filled with holes. In his lap lay the tail of the Arabian, Knight.
The gold glittered, the rubies winked, and it felt unnaturally cold.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.
The others, the Mantos among them, watched openmouthed as he pulled aside the tattered remnants of his shirt to examine his skin. He knew at least three bullets had struck him—recalled with startling, horrid clarity the force and the pain, and gasped in the memory—yet there was no sign of entry anywhere. Not a scratch, not a bruise, not a single drop of blood. He pulled the skin, poked at it, looked up and grinned like a jerk.
“Blanks, right?”
Storm shook his head dumbly.
Lincoln blinked once, slowly, and passed out.
When consciousness returned, he was still in the chair, but now his wrists were rebound. His eyes opened before he could think, but the effort would have been wasted—he was alone, save for Old Alice, who was trussed and thrown on the sofa and glaring at him angrily.
“Where?” he demanded as quietly as he could and still be heard.
She squirmed to sit up, then nodded toward the three doors, nodded again toward the staircase and looked up at the ceiling.
He winked, though he didn’t feel at all jaunty. What he felt was indescribable, and he hoped he’d have the time to think over what had happened. He didn’t know if he had died, but it didn’t matter; he was close enough to it, and after being brought back he didn’t want ever to be that close again.
The Mantos, however, would have other ideas.
A prayer then to Palmer, and he worked his fingers until he was sure their reflexes were back. Then he sprang the knife from its sheath, caught it, and grinned as he deftly worked it around to cut through the rope. When the arm was free, he untied the other knot, hurried to Alice and parted the cord with a single slice.
The center door opened, and Requin stepped out.
“Hey, damnit!” he said.
“Damnit yourself, you old fart,” Alice said.
Requin didn’t know whether to charge the two escapees or rush back where he’d come from; and the hesitation was fatal.
Lincoln threw the knife, which buried itself high in the pilot’s chest. Requin gasped and grabbed the hilt. Lincoln started for him to finish the job, but the old man’s knees buckled and he fell flat on his face. The knife was driven deeper. He jumped once and was still.
With a motion to Alice to stay behind and watch the stairs, he darted inside and found himself in a deep clothes closet.
Out again, and in the right-hand door.
Another room, this one slightly bigger and lined with shelves crammed with tins and sacks and jars topped with wax.
“Third time the charmer,” he said to Old Alice, who was growing impatient.
The left-hand door gave easily onto a corridor that led gently downward. The only light came from the room behind, and his shadow started ahead of him, fading as he reached an abrupt turn to the left. There was no door in the gap he faced, and he could see without straining an all too familiar room.
The fire pit in the center, the caldron still hanging above it; oil lamps fixed to the stone walls, dust on the stone floor, and the three Mantos standing with their backs to him.
The lamps, however, had been extinguished; there was no need for them now. The only light came from the depths of the pit itself, crimson and wavering and casting shadows on the wall that made vision difficult. The heat, too, was intense, an almost tangible hellish creature that rose from the fire to fill the room with night.
Dropping to his hands and knees, Lincoln took a deep calming breath and entered, squinting into the flaring light for any clue he could find to Annabelle’s whereabouts. He deliberately did not consider that they’d dropped her in the pit
He hadn’t gone more than a yard when he saw her lying in a heap against the wall. She was untied, but she was unconscious, and there was an ugly welt spreading on her temple, a slip of blood on her cheek.
He was about to crawl to her while the Mantoses’ attention was elsewhere, when as he moved he finally saw what they were looking at.
It was a crudely made wooden bier, its tall endposts nothing more than severed tree trunks still covered with bark, its platform four logs lashed together and covered by several layers of thick white hide.
And stretched out on the hide, the twisted, decomposing body of Tremain Manto.
The fire rose from the pit and licked red and gold at the scorched bottom of the caldron; heat rose in waves and ripples to cascade from the ceiling; the only sound was from the flames that crackled ten feet below the surface.
Peter Wolf was in the middle, and in his hands he held the amulet. He was muttering something and bobbing his head, and the brothers on either side were watching Tremain’s sunken face with both fear and anticipation. Then the tail rose and fell and struck the corpse on the chest.
Annabelle stirred.
The tail rose and fell, its gold now more like bronze, its rubies more like blood.
The wall of flame suddenly flared upward in a deafening rush to engulf the caldron and send a billowing cloud of steam from whatever boiled inside.
Linc moved crabwise to the fallen woman and put a hand over her mouth just as her eyes fluttered. She looked up and started to struggle, saw who it was and relaxed. He could feel her lips smiling, and after a jerk of his head toward the men by the bier, he smiled in return and took his hand away.
“Goddamnit, Lincoln,” she said loudly, “you didn’t tell me about this!”
It wouldn’t, he told himself, be the first time he’d killed a woman, but some innate goodness and a healthy fear of wasting time stopped him from throttling her. Instead, he jerked her to her feet and shoved her hard at the exit. At the same time, Storm and Rain turned around, saw him, and grinned.
The flames rose, and hissed.
The caldron rocked on its chain.
Peter Wolf dropped the tail onto the corpse’s chest, its legs, its scarred and skull-like face.
Rain moved first, nodding as though he knew this would happen. Storm circled around to the side. Lincoln feinted toward the former, and lunged toward the latter, catching his chin with a blow that rocked him back against the bier.
Wolf didn’t move.
The chest of the corpse began to rise and fall.
Rain threw an arm around his neck, and Linc dropped to one knee, straightened, and tossed the White Rider at his brother. The two men collided and fell in a tangle. They sorted themselves out quickly, Storm backpedaling to gain his balance while Rain pulled himself up by grabbing the bier.
Then he gaped at the breathing corpse.
Lincoln was too astonished to react; the White Rider suddenly bellowed in tenor and bolted for the exit Linc tried to stop him, but a shoulder caught him full in the chest, and he fell against the wall, too late to do anything but listen to the terrified man racing up the tunnel.
Storm, on the other hand, only tossed his black hat aside and came in for the kill.
Linc saw him more shadow than substance, and hurriedly shook off the effects of the stone colliding with his spine. He sidled away in a crouch, and they sparred warily for position, neither one connecting until Linc decided it was no fun being fair—he dropped to a knee, grabbed a handful of dust and tossed it in the man’s face.
Storm glowered at the second time he’d been done by that trick, and Linc threw a punch that landed square on his cheek, staggering him back into the bier. He followed up swiftly and grabbed the man’s throat, leaning him back over his dead father, feeling the searing heat from the pit begin to turn his face red. Storm aimed a knee at his groin, and he danced away, still holding the man’s black shirt and pulling him back with him. Then he pushed and let go, and Storm’s arms flailed, whacking Wolf on the shoulder and half turning him around.
Lincoln kicked the man’s kneecap, and Storm fell back with a cry, grabbing desperately at the side of the bier to keep from tumbling into the fire. The bier turned on its blunted feet, Storm’s hand slipped off, and all he could do was grin as he fell into the pit.
The flames exploded, the caldron rocked, and Peter Wolf drew the amulet over the dead man’s lips.
The heat grew to a full-bore furnace, and Lincoln felt himself weakening, but he leapt on the Indian’s back and pulled him away. Wolf spun with a snarl, his teeth bared as his hands reached for Linc’s throat; Linc dodged and threw an uppercut that tripped the Indian backward. He yelled, and the tail dropped onto Tremain, smoking as the flames lowered below the pit’s lip.
“You’re too late,” Wolf said. “You’re too late, tailor.”
The chest rose and fell, and the left hand began to tremble.
Wolf charged, and Lincoln was too slow—his head snapped back at a punch, again, and a third time when he was slammed against the wall. Trying to shake off the numbing effects of the stifling heat, his arms snared Wolf’s to his side, and they stood there in the firelight, their shadows high on the wall, each trying to break the other’s hold, kicking, grunting, finally dropping to their knees.
Tremain Manto sat up.
And screamed.
Lincoln and Wolf stopped their stalemated struggle long enough to stare incredulously at the thing on the bier. Then Wolf pushed him away and staggered to his feet, his mouth working, his head shaking side to side in terrified denial. Lincoln knew what he was thinking—the amulet worked, but it had only cured the death.
It had not cured the decomposition—it was too late for that.
Tremain Manto sat rigidly on the makeshift bier, large yellowed sections of his ribs and skull and femur exposed; his high, sloping forehead was pocked darkly with the bullet holes that had split it, and his lower jaw dangled open, the teeth black and stunted; most of his hair was gone, and what was left was smoldering from the heat of the pit; and when he turned to face them, they could see there was nothing in the eyesockets but fire-dancing shadows.
“Blackthorne,” Tremain said, his voice filling the room. “Blackthorne, come here.”
Wolf uttered a terrified cry and stumbled toward his brother, but Lincoln jumped to his feet and pressed himself hard against the wall.
“Blackthorne, I want you!”
He swallowed against the bile spilling into his throat, then launched himself at Wolf’s back, shoving and pushing as hard as he could until the Indian plunged forward, screaming, landing in his brother’s embrace, the force of the collision toppling the bier.
