The Frost Child (21 page)

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The buildings might once have been banks and great department stores, but now they swarmed with people, and washing hung out of their mullioned windows. To either side a warren of streets led off. Owen dared not leave the main street, even though it had its dangers. There was no pavement, and a motley traffic of trucks and rickshaws and broken-down cars weaved in and out of the rubbish and potholes, so he had to be alert.

Eventually he saw a street leading off to the side, which had rows of shops with
Money Changed
and
All Currencies, All Time Zones
signs, along with flashing images of coins and banknotes.

He went into the first shop on the street, which wasn't as easy as it sounded. When he knocked at the door, the man at the desk inside peered at him through what looked like a telescope, then spent what seemed like half an hour unlocking various bolts and chains and deadlocks on the door. Finally he frisked Owen with a homemade-looking metal detector before allowing him in.

He was a tall man with a sharp nose who wore a gray suit that was too short in the sleeves and legs. He sat down at the desk, which was too small for him, so his elbows and knees stuck out. He took a form from the desk drawer, put on a pair of black-framed spectacles, and looked up at Owen.

"Well?" he said.

"I was told I could change some money here."

"Of course, of course--there is a sign outside which says money changed. But where is this alleged cash, this mythical coinage?"

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Owen put one of the gold coins on the desk.

The man stopped dead, his pen hand poised above the form. He stared at the coin for a long time. Then he stared at Owen. He coughed and stroked his chin. He picked up the coin as if it was something very fragile, and studied it. He sprang from the desk.

"Need to get exchange rate! Back in a second!" And he dashed through a door in the back and slammed it behind him. Owen was puzzled, and wondered if he had seen the last of his coin. He waited. There was an old black phone on his desk, and Owen saw a red light come on. Was the man on an extension phone in the back--is that how you got an exchange rate?

There was a large ledger on the desk. Unable to resist a look, Owen turned it around and scanned the most recent entries. He almost gasped when he saw the last entry. Someone called Yarsk had exchanged three thousand Milesian dollars. The
Faltaine
had reached port at last!

The door burst open and the man bustled back in again.

"Have you heard of a ship called the
Faltaine?"
Owen asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

"The
Faltaine."
The man fixed Owen with a curious look. "Of course."

"Do you know where she is?"

"You want to see the
Faltaine?"
the man said.

"Yes."

"Excellent--yes, of course, couldn't be better. She's at the rear dock. Allow me," he cried, shoving a wad of banknotes into Owen's hand and sweeping him out of

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the chair in one movement. Before Owen knew what was happening he was propelled through the doorway at the back, getting a fleeting view of piles of boxes and a very large safe. Another iron door in front of him was opened with a great clattering of locks and bolts.

"Just follow the alley down the hill. It's straight. You can't miss it. Thank you! Goodbye!"

Owen was pushed through and the door was slammed, locked, and bolted behind him. Owen looked around. He was in a dim alley and, when he looked in either direction, he could see no sign of the main street. But from the end of the alley came a faint smell of the sea.

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Chapter 22

Owen started walking and soon found himself in a very different part of town. It was quiet, for a start. Sometimes he would see a figure in the distance, but it would always disappear before he caught up. There were streets that seemed to be uninhabited, but there were also houses with high walls around them, and iron gates through which he could glimpse beautiful gardens and sometimes hear the sound of a fountain. Here and there a lizard basked in the heat of the afternoon sun. The streets rose, then fell again, so he was walking downhill. He was hot and thirsty and worried. Silkie would have missed him by now. Why had he not told her that he had gone to change money?

Then, in the distance, the song! His thirst and worry forgotten, he hurried forward. Two or three times more he heard the song, each time tantalizingly too far away to make out any words. He was almost running now.

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Indeed, he was going so fast that he missed the end of a street and almost ran across the wooden jetty that lay beyond it and straight into what appeared to be a broad river.

He stared down into the limpid brown waters for a minute, then straightened--and found himself looking at the rakish hull of the
Faltaine
, moored alongside a row of warehouses.

She's here!

He rushed toward the elegant ship. Her gangway was down, but there didn't seem to be anyone around, so he boarded her. There was a smell of warm tar. She was badly in need of repairs and a coat of paint, but the crew were probably in the wharfside bars that Yarsk had talked about.

Owen went toward the rear of the vessel and the main cabin. He had heard the song, so there had to be someone aboard.

"Captain Yarsk?" he called out. "Captain?" The door to the cabin was ajar. He pushed it open. The interior was dark. He couldn't see if there was anyone inside.

"Hello?" he said. His eyes adjusting to the darkness, he saw that there was in fact someone there, sitting at the end of a dining table that ran the length of the cabin.

"Captain Yarsk?" Owen said.

"Good afternoon, shipmate." It was Yarsk's voice, but it was low and slurred. Owen went to one of the windows that looked over the stern and flung it open. Yarsk sat alone at the table. The cabin was oak-paneled, and

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gorgeous rugs and throws of oriental design lay everywhere. But it was not the rugs that caught his eye, nor the fact that the captain's eyes were glazed and his expression sleepy. It was the flask sitting on the table in front of him. Owen had seen one of those flasks before. But not here. Far away, in Hadima.

"Is that ... ?" he said, indicating the flask.

"Horandum?" Yarsk said lazily. "Yes, indeed. Help yourself. Or perhaps not. Don't know how much is left."

"I don't want any," Owen said shortly. Horandum--a drink that enabled you to see time itself, to see its flow around you, its majesty. But it was a drink that ate at your soul, until you were hollowed out, until you belonged to it.

"Good, good," Yarsk said, his hands falling to his side.

"How did you get it?" Owen said. "You must have taken a ship as a prize."

There was a crash as the door that he had come through was slammed shut.

"From me, of course." The man who had been standing behind the door smiled coldly. "Make sure he doesn't spill it, Yarsk, like he did with mine."

"Black!" Owen gasped. Conrad Black, owner of the Museum of Time in Hadima, and Owen's enemy. The man who had betrayed them, who had imprisoned and tormented the Yeati.

"I do believe you're sailing around the place in my boat," Black said, stepping forward. He held a revolver in his right hand.

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"My grandfather's boat," Owen said. "I bet you stole it!"

"As a matter of fact, I did, but we'll not go into that," Black said. "What matters now is that you're here."

"What happened, Captain Yarsk?" Owen turned to the forlorn figure of the captain.

"Took a prize at last," Yarsk said.

"Yes," Black cut in, "I fled the Harsh winter in Hadima in a passing ship. Captain Yarsk and his bunch of cutthroats captured the ship. But on the voyage home, the good captain developed a fondness for horandum. And of course, I am the only one who can provide it."

"Captain," Owen said desperately, "I thought you were a buccaneer, your own man, sailing through time!"

"He's still his own man," Black said with a cruel grin. "But I've persuaded him there's an easier way to make a living. The Harsh are hunting through time for one boy, and here he is! You're worth a fortune to us, Navigator."

"Captain, you sailed with my grandfather!" Owen cried.

"A fortune, that's what you're worth," Yarsk murmured happily to himself.

Black led Owen at gunpoint down into the bilges of the boat. Rats scuttled in the darkness. At the very bottom of the boat, rancid water swilling about their feet, was a cell of plain iron bars. Black motioned for Owen to enter.

"How did you know I was here?" Owen said.

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"The money changer telephoned me." Black grinned. "After all, it isn't every day that someone tries to change a coin with his own face on it, is it?" He slammed the cell door shut and walked off, whistling.

His own face? Owen fished one of the coins from his pocket. He could just see it in a chink of light coming through the boards above his head. In the dim light he could see a face--not his, he knew now, although it was similar. The face belonged to his grandfather. He hadn't looked at the coin when he had taken it from the drawer on board the
Wayfarer
. He slumped against the bars of the cage. He was trapped on a pirate ship. No one knew where he was. And he was to be delivered into the arms of the Harsh.

Owen sat in the darkness, visions of the Workhouse in flames tormenting him. He thought about Silkie and her alarm when he did not return, about her alone in a pirate town. It was pitch black when at last he heard the sound of heavy boots and laughter from the deck.
The crew
, he thought,
coming home from the bars of Port Merforian
. There were good-natured shouts and, from the sound of it, someone trying out a hornpipe on the deck. Then suddenly, Black's voice rang above the commotion.

"Enjoy yourselves while you can. You're sailing in the morning. You'll be hauling your lazy hides out of your kips an hour before sunrise!"

The sailors fell silent. There was a lot of shuffling on deck, and then Owen could hear them coming below.

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There was a low murmur from just above his head, which went on for a long time, and Owen fell into a fitful sleep.

When he woke again, it was to the sound of feet on deck, ropes being cast off, and sails being set. The gentle burble of water against the hull changed. The ship started to move under his feet. The
Faltaine
was under way! Owen sat up. He couldn't see, which meant it was still dark outside.
Silkie must be worried out of her mind
, he thought, wishing he was back on the
Wayfarer
.

He scarcely heard the sound of bare feet on the stair outside. There was a scratching noise and then a match was struck. Through the bars he recognized one of the crew: a small, wiry woman with teeth filed sharp, and an anchor tattooed just below her eye. She had a villainous look and was carrying a knife with a long thin blade. Owen flattened himself against the back of the cell.

But the knife wasn't for him. The woman put the tip of it in the lock and twisted it.

"We're bleedin' buccaneers," she muttered to herself, "not bleedin' child kidnappers. I don't know what's happened to old Yarsk."

"It's the horandum," Owen said. "It takes over your mind. Black is feeding it to him."

"There's a rotten villain for you, and no mistake," she said. The lock snapped open. "That's all I can do for you," she said. "You're on your own after this."

"Thanks," Owen whispered, but she had slipped away again. Cautiously Owen followed her past the crew quarters and out onto the deck. He crept to the

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rail and looked over. The
Faltaine
was in the middle of the river. The water was deep and fast-flowing. There was no escape after all. He looked up at the wheel. Black stood behind the pilot, silhouetted against the faint pink glow in the east. He couldn't see Yarsk. Owen was out of his cell but was still a prisoner. He crept around the side of the wheelhouse and toward the captain's cabin. He edged the door open. He could hear snoring. He tiptoed into the cabin. Yarsk was lying fast asleep in an armchair, legs splayed, the flask of horandum in front of him. Owen crept up and slipped the horandum off the table. Yarsk's eyes opened and fixed Owen with a black, fathomless gaze. Owen froze. But the time dreams consumed Yarsk again. Owen went to the window and dropped the flask of horandum into the river.

He went out on deck. There might be a lifeboat or a raft of some kind, and if he could slip it over the side ... Suddenly he felt something hard and cold pressed against the back of his head.

"You really are an unpleasant boy," Black hissed. "If you weren't worth so much to me, I'd put a bullet in your head and toss you over the side."

"As you say," Owen said carefully, "you can't do it, so what's preventing me from just hopping over the side and swimming to shore?"

"Two things," Black said. "First, the river is too deep and fast. You'd drown. And the second thing is ... this!" Black raised the revolver and brought it down hard on