Herr Arnostovi took a sip of his hot coffee and thought before answering. “Venice is very far away, Fraulein Wilhelmina. The only way is by sea, of course.”
“If you say so,” replied Mina.
“Alas, I know of no one who makes such journeys at the moment.”
“Oh.” Mina felt her hopes plummet. “I see.”
“However,” added Arnostovi, “I am not a man without some resources. It has been in my mind to acquire a participation in a merchant ship. If I were to do this, a journey to Venice for purposes of trade could be arranged.”
Mina bit her lip. She could feel the pinch coming. “Yes?”
“Of course,” proceeded the man of business, “I would require a substantial financial incentive to undertake such a venture.”
“I would have it no other way,” Wilhelmina assured him. “Providing, of course, that the necessary supplies reached us in a timely manner. We must have supplies soon.”
“How soon, Fraulein?”
“Two weeks,” Mina told him, “more or less.”
“That is not much time for such a journey.”
“No,” Mina allowed, “but there it is.”
“Then let us come to terms,” said the landlord, as the plan crystallised in his mind. “I will engage the ship at my own expense and obtain the supplies-not one time only, but in the future also as need requires. In return for this service, you will make me a partner in this Kaffee business of yours.”
“You want to be a partner?” Mina was already counting the cost of this proposal.
“Fifty-fifty.” Arnostovi watched her, stroking his pointed beard. “Well? What do you say?”
“Seventy-five-twenty-five,” countered Mina.
“Sixty-forty.” Arnostovi took another sip of the hot, oily liquid.
“Sixty-five-thirty-five,” said Mina, “but if I am to pay for the beans, then I also share in the profits from the ship.”
“No.” Arnostovi shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Of course, I can always send Englebert to Venice instead,” Mina reminded him. “It would take longer, but…”
“Two percent share,” conceded the landlord with a sigh.
“Five,” countered Wilhelmina.
“Three,” said Arnostovi, “and that is all.”
“After deducting all expenses.”
“As you say.”
“Also,” continued Mina smoothly, “we will receive a reduction in rent on this shop, and first pick of your other properties as and when they become available.”
This caused the Arnostovi eyebrows to jump once more. “Another shop?”
Wilhelmina gave him a solemn nod.
“Very well,” conceded Arnostovi. “You shall have this shop for half of what you pay now-which is little enough, I might add.”
“Nevertheless.”
“You are a shrewd woman of business, Miss Wilhelmina,” the landlord said approvingly. “We have an agreement.” He put down his cup and extended his hand. “We shake on this,” he said. “From this day forward, we are in the shipping business together.”
CHAPTER 18
In Which Arthur Meets an Avenging Angel
The two dockland roughnecks on either side of Arthur Flinders-Petrie maintained a powerful grip on his arms, which were bent painfully behind him as he was frog-marched from the House of Peace Inn and propelled down along a noisome alleyway that led to a derelict yard. Earl Burleigh followed a short distance behind to discourage any curious onlookers from becoming involved in the proceedings.
The unresisting captive was dragged into the centre of the yard. Arthur gazed around, searching in vain for a means of escape. There was none. The deserted patch of waste ground was surrounded on three sides by the blind backs of the buildings fronting the dock-storehouses, boat sheds, fishing huts, dilapidated dwellings-and on the fourth by the alley entrance. “What do you want from me?” Arthur demanded, looking from one to the other of his captors.
The answer came from Burleigh. “I’ve already told you, Arthur. I want to share in your discoveries. I want to learn your secrets.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he protested. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do,” replied Burleigh. “In any event, it doesn’t matter. Since you refuse to share, I have no alternative but to take it all for myself.”
“Let me go,” pleaded Arthur. “Hurting me will avail you nothing. I won’t tell you anything. Believe me, I will not be forced.”
“Oh, I do believe you,” answered Burleigh. “More’s the pity.” He nodded to his men.
The one on Arthur’s left reached behind him and produced a lumpy iron ball attached to a crude wooden handle, and the whole bound in boiled leather. In the same moment, the thug on the right drew a knife and gave Arthur a violent shove, sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled onto his knees and made to rise, but the cudgel came whistling through the air toward his head.
He jerked away.
The blow was haphazardly aimed and struck him a glancing blow on top of his shoulder. He gave a yelp and tried to pull free.
The cudgel whistled again and thudded into the back of his neck. A scarlet bloom erupted in his brain, and Arthur’s knees gave way and he slumped to the ground, writhing.
Burleigh moved to stand over him. “I tried reasoning with you, Arthur,” he said quietly. “We might have been friends.” He held out his hand, and the bully with the knife placed the blade in Burleigh’s palm.
“Please!” moaned Arthur through the roar of blood in his ears. He thrust out his hands to fend off the knife, but one of the brutes seized his wrists and yanked his arms over his head. “What are you going to do?”
Burleigh grabbed his shirt and slipped the tip of the knife through the fine fabric and gave a sharp upward stroke, narrowly missing his captive’s jaw. Two more rough slices and the shirtfront was cut away, baring Sir Arthur’s torso and revealing the swarm of curious tattoos inscribed there. Burleigh’s eyes narrowed with approval at the sight of his prize: dozens of small, finely etched glyphs of the most fantastic and cunning design, intricately picked out in indigo ink.
Arthur saw the look and instantly realized what it meant. “No!” he yelled. “No! You can’t.”
“I assure you, sir, that I can,” countered Burleigh. “I’m the man with the knife.”
“Release me!” shouted Arthur, squirming in the grasp of his tormentors, who were now holding his limbs, stretching him out, and pinning him to the ground. Burleigh sketched a line along Arthur’s ribs with the tip of the knife. Blood began to trickle down his side. “You’re insane!”
“Not insane,” objected Burleigh calmly, drawing the knife up across the top of Sir Arthur’s chest along the collarbone. “Determined.”
“Agh!” screamed Arthur, trying to squirm free. “Help!”
“You will have to be quiet,” Burleigh told him. “And be still; I won’t have the map damaged.”
He gave a nod to the man at Arthur’s head, and the cudgel came down once more, with a thick and sickening crack. Arthur felt his slender hold on consciousness begin to slip. “It won’t do you any good,” Arthur murmured, black clouds of oblivion gathering before his eyes. “… You don’t know how to read it…”
“I know a great deal more than you think,” replied Burleigh, with malice cold as the grave. The blade bit
