Warlord Of The Pit. James Axler
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in their own activities at the roulette wheel and blackjack tables to give her more than cursory glances. Still, she kept the TP-9 autopistol pressed against her right thigh as she walked.
Cages filled with colorfully plumed tropical birds hung on the walls and they screeched in agitation. They sensed the violence outside on the decks of the huge ship.
The smell of roasting meat drew her toward a small kitchen. Small, sweating men stripped to the waist labored over smoking grills. Cigarettes dangled from their lower lips, and the stench of marijuana mixed in with the odor of flame-seared fat.
Brigid swiftly moved through the kitchenette, barely avoiding being spattered by sizzling grease. She went through the door on the far side and found herself in a cool, dimly lit corridor. Soft red carpeting muffled her steps, and she paused to catch her breath.
Wincing, she flexed the fingers of her right hand, noting that they all moved despite the pain. She had punched Mr. Book in the face, but her knuckles seemed intact. She hoped the same thing could not be said for his jaw.
Reaching up behind her ear, Brigid activated the Commtact and opened the channel to Kane and Grant. She heard only the hiss and pop of static, and she guessed her partners were forced to retreat out of the reception range of the little comm unit. She tamped down the rise of fear, finding it hard to assemble her thoughts.
Kane had told her more than once there was a time to fight and a time to run for cover. She still didn’t know what had happened to Kane and Grant, since the situation developed with startling rapidity, but she had taken advantage of it nevertheless.
Upon arriving in Pandakar early in the afternoon, she, Grant and Kane had spent only a short time learning the lay of the land before entering the island’s only settlement. Definitely taller than most of the people in the noisy, narrow, crowded streets, the Cerberus warriors let themselves be carried along by the press of bodies, the conical straw hats and the shuffling of feet. The people who looked at them directly did so with blank eyes. A hot wind blew between the wooden houses with their thatched roofs and long eaves that looked like the prows of canoes.
Overlooking the harbor was a vast tumble of reed huts and shanties built on docks. A maze of waterways crowded with canoes and sampans confused the eye but not the nose—the smell of fish overhung it like a cloud.
When Brigid asked locals about Captain Saragayn, the ordinarily friendly faces of the villagers became tight and hostile. Still, they were directed to the waterfront and a private pier leading to the immense treasure ship named the Juabal Hadiah.
At first sight, the vessel was impressive. Colored lights flared from the rigging of the huge craft, which was twice as broad in the beam and double the length of any ship docked at harborside. The ship had very high poops and overhanging stems, looking somewhat top-heavy because of the exceptionally tall pole masts and huge sails with batten lines running entirely across the fore- and afterdecks.
The sun cast streaks of copper and gold over the hulls of the motorized sampans, launches and water taxis clustering around the four boarding ramps that extended down from the ship’s port side.
The two Indonesian guards at the security kiosk were suspicious but not overly hostile. They wore grayish-green coveralls with the sleeves hacked off. Web belts cinched their waists and from them hung holstered revolvers.
When Brigid stated their business, speaking the Magindano dialect perfectly, one of the guards grinned at her and then waved meaningfully toward the Juabal Hadiah and the carved figurehead of the well-developed, redheaded woman.
“Ordinarily Captain Saragayn wouldn’t see any stranger on such short notice,” the man said, “but he’d have us lashed if we didn’t let you through.”
Brigid maintained a stony expression, even when the guard’s eyes flicked from her bosom to the gigantic one of the figurehead. The other man took a small trans-comm unit from a pocket and spoke into it softly for a few seconds. Then he folded it up and said roughly to Brigid, “The captain will see you.”
Kane and Grant were directed to wait. Since they weren’t disarmed, they didn’t lodge serious objections, despite hearing the rumble of thunder that heralded a tropical storm front. Both men had learned long ago that when on the home turf of a potential ally, the easiest way to turn him or her into an adversary was to resist local protocol.
One guard escorted Brigid down the long private pier toward the treasure ship looming above them. Exterior galleries ran along each of the decks, with peaked eaves and elaborately carved roof-trees. When they reached a ramp, the guard gestured for Brigid to precede him. Quickly, she climbed it and when she reached the top, she found her way blocked by a door made of bamboo struts.
She noted that the bars were actually steel rods painted to look like bamboo. A young Malaysian woman in a formfitting sheath dress of cobalt blue stared at her expressionlessly. One long bare leg showed through the slit in the skirt. Beyond the door, Brigid saw a wide corridor lit by ceiling bulbs of pale yellow.
A trans-comm unit in the girl’s hand buzzed. She quickly lifted it to her ear, spoke one word that Brigid didn’t catch and stepped back. Brigid didn’t see her touch anything, but the steel-barred door slid aside on a noiseless track.
She stepped over the track and saw a very tall man, dark-skinned and wearing a silk scarf of bright yellow around his head standing in the alcove. The man did not speak, but the black eyes he turned toward Brigid betrayed a contempt of death—either his own or hers. He stepped toward her, moving with a controlled tension as he strained against an invisible leash around his neck.
He held out a very broad hand, and wordlessly Brigid placed her TP-9 autopistol and Copperhead subgun into it. With a jerk of his head, the man escorted her down the corridor. They walked about a dozen yards when they passed a tall blond woman hurrying past. Brigid received only a brief impression of urgency and blue eyes before the man led her into a poorly lit chamber. Her gaze was instantly drawn to the throne-like chair placed atop a dais. Two oval plaques rose from the back, both of them inscribed with Chinese ideograms.
The air smelled of sandalwood incense, and little wind chimes tinkled at the far edge of audibility. Brigid felt a sense of being in a dream or a fairy tale. The man seated in the throne looked as if he had designed his clothes by copying the illustrations found in a children’s book about ancient caliphates.
His gold-embroidered tunic was made of shimmering black satin, and a crest of peach-colored feathers sprayed from the jeweled forepart of his bright red turban. She half expected to see pointy-toed slippers on his feet, but he wore sandals, exposing toenails painted a bright red. Brigid guessed he was Captain Saragayn.
Everything looked exaggerated about the man—the sharp, curved nose, thin slit of a mouth, black almond-shaped eyes and his smooth, amber-hued skin gave him the appearance of a raptorial bird. His face was clean-shaved except for a long, thin mustache. An electric aura seemed to charge the air around the throne.
“On your knees!” the tall man barked in Magindano.
Brigid affected not to have understood.
“On your knees, outlander bitch!” the man shouted. He reached for the back of her neck.
Without otherwise moving, Brigid’s right hand lashed up, caught the man by the thumb and secured a wrist lock. Twisting sharply, she took a swift step back and kicked the man behind his left knee. He dropped her guns to the floor.
His leg buckled and he went down awkwardly, catching himself by his right hand. Gritting her teeth, Brigid locked the man’s wrist under her left arm and heaved up on it, hoping to dislocate it at the shoulder. He cried out in pain.
Captain Saragayn lifted his right hand, the fingers sparkling with jeweled rings. “Our guest apparently does not understand either our language or our etiquette.”
In Magindano, Brigid said, “I understand the one and have no tolerance for the other.”
Saragayn smiled blandly. “You can let Daramurti up now, I think. Forgive his overzealous attitude. He feels he has more to prove to me now than ever