shoulders slumped with relief even as he stepped away, then stepped faster as the knife-point pricked the back of his neck and the hard hand tugged him along.
Another hand caught Shea's arm in a grip like a blood-pressure cuff and hauled him after Chalmers. He went, wondering why the thieves hadn't taken his sword. Could it be the design was so alien to them that they didn't recognize it for what it was? No, surely not! They must have been confident of being able to kill him before he could stab any of them. Talk about arrogance!
He fell in beside Chalmers, reflecting that, although the local dialect of Hindustani might be his native language now, and that he probably wouldn't even be able to remember a word of English, he should still be able to speak a language that had always been foreign to him. "Qu'est-que nous faisons maintenant, Monsieur le Docteur?" What do we do now, Doc?
"Nous irons encontre ce capitaine de voleurs," Chalmers replied. "J'ai devient curieux." We go meet this captain of thieves; I have become curious.
There were times when Shea could cheerfully have done without the inborn curiosity of the inquiring mind.
"Speak not in your bleating tongue!" Chankoor snarled right behind Shea, and a knife pricked the back of his neck. "Oh, all right," he grumbled, and followed the other two thieves out of the alley and into the night—where he virtually froze, staring about him in shock. The street swarmed with thieves, who didn't seem to be at all concerned about somebody's seeing them. A buzz of conversation filled his ears, and the moonlit gyrations of the thieves confused and dazzled him. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. Had all this been going on before, and he just hadn't noticed it? Some of them must have just been starting the evening's work—apparently, he had fallen into the hands of the early birds that were out to get the golden worm—because they were still rubbing oil on their bodies between swigs from bottles that Shea was sure contained something more potent than fruit juice. Some had progressed beyond that point, rubbing lamp-black around their eyes and eyesockets, no doubt to make them less visible—between more swigs from bottles, of course.
Out of the corner of his eye, Shea saw a robed man hurrying along the street, apparently oblivious to the thieves, but apprehensive about them. A couple of footpads fell upon him and bore him down; a knife flashed, and the victim cried out, a cry that ended in a horrid gurgle. The footpads stood up holding a fat purse.
"Why didn't we see them before?" Shea asked Chalmers—and the knife was suddenly at his throat again. "You are not the thieves you claim to be," their captor growled, "or you would know the answer to that!"
"We do not practice the same skills as you do, in our benighted lands," Chalmers said quickly. "Indeed, we have come here to learn them! Pray tell us how we did not . . ."
He broke off, staring. So did Shea, for their captors had let go of their arms, and the street was suddenly empty again, except for the dead body—three dead bodies, now that he saw the view without the swarm of thieves. He could still hear them, but their voices seemed muted, distant.
Then, suddenly, a thief was there, crouching as he rubbed oil over his shoulders. He recited an incantation, and Shea and Chalmers stared, fascinated, recognizing only a few words here and there; obviously, the man was speaking in an old language, probably Sanskrit; Shea was mildly surprised that he didn't hear it as Latin.
Then the man disappeared.
Hard hands fell on their shoulders again, and the noise of the crowd was back in full force—and so was the gang, many of whom were now watching Shea and Chalmers, laughing with glee at their looks of surprise. "Do you understand now?" their captor asked from behind.
"Yes, I think so," Chalmers said slowly. "You have incantations to make yourselves invisible, but the effect does not last long."
"Yes, even as we have
Another hand caught Shea's arm in a grip like a blood-pressure cuff and hauled him after Chalmers. He went, wondering why the thieves hadn't taken his sword. Could it be the design was so alien to them that they didn't recognize it for what it was? No, surely not! They must have been confident of being able to kill him before he could stab any of them. Talk about arrogance!
He fell in beside Chalmers, reflecting that, although the local dialect of Hindustani might be his native language now, and that he probably wouldn't even be able to remember a word of English, he should still be able to speak a language that had always been foreign to him. "Qu'est-que nous faisons maintenant, Monsieur le Docteur?" What do we do now, Doc?
"Nous irons encontre ce capitaine de voleurs," Chalmers replied. "J'ai devient curieux." We go meet this captain of thieves; I have become curious.
There were times when Shea could cheerfully have done without the inborn curiosity of the inquiring mind.
"Speak not in your bleating tongue!" Chankoor snarled right behind Shea, and a knife pricked the back of his neck. "Oh, all right," he grumbled, and followed the other two thieves out of the alley and into the night—where he virtually froze, staring about him in shock. The street swarmed with thieves, who didn't seem to be at all concerned about somebody's seeing them. A buzz of conversation filled his ears, and the moonlit gyrations of the thieves confused and dazzled him. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. Had all this been going on before, and he just hadn't noticed it? Some of them must have just been starting the evening's work—apparently, he had fallen into the hands of the early birds that were out to get the golden worm—because they were still rubbing oil on their bodies between swigs from bottles that Shea was sure contained something more potent than fruit juice. Some had progressed beyond that point, rubbing lamp-black around their eyes and eyesockets, no doubt to make them less visible—between more swigs from bottles, of course.
Out of the corner of his eye, Shea saw a robed man hurrying along the street, apparently oblivious to the thieves, but apprehensive about them. A couple of footpads fell upon him and bore him down; a knife flashed, and the victim cried out, a cry that ended in a horrid gurgle. The footpads stood up holding a fat purse.
"Why didn't we see them before?" Shea asked Chalmers—and the knife was suddenly at his throat again. "You are not the thieves you claim to be," their captor growled, "or you would know the answer to that!"
"We do not practice the same skills as you do, in our benighted lands," Chalmers said quickly. "Indeed, we have come here to learn them! Pray tell us how we did not . . ."
He broke off, staring. So did Shea, for their captors had let go of their arms, and the street was suddenly empty again, except for the dead body—three dead bodies, now that he saw the view without the swarm of thieves. He could still hear them, but their voices seemed muted, distant.
Then, suddenly, a thief was there, crouching as he rubbed oil over his shoulders. He recited an incantation, and Shea and Chalmers stared, fascinated, recognizing only a few words here and there; obviously, the man was speaking in an old language, probably Sanskrit; Shea was mildly surprised that he didn't hear it as Latin.
Then the man disappeared.
Hard hands fell on their shoulders again, and the noise of the crowd was back in full force—and so was the gang, many of whom were now watching Shea and Chalmers, laughing with glee at their looks of surprise. "Do you understand now?" their captor asked from behind.
"Yes, I think so," Chalmers said slowly. "You have incantations to make yourselves invisible, but the effect does not last long."
"Yes, even as we have
Similar Books
