03 Monsoon by Wilbur Smith

Author:Wilbur Smith [Smith, Wilbur]
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The auction sale at the Company’s magnificent premises at Leadenhall Street took four days to accomplish. Tom sat beside Master Walsh throughout to note the prices bid on the booty.

The main saleroom was shaped like a cockpit, with tiers of benches rising up from the circular floor where the auctioneer had his dais. The benches were so crowded with merchants, their secretaries and book-keepers that there were not enough seats for all. Many found standing room only against the back walls, but they joined in boisterously, roaring their bids and waving their catalogues to attract the attention of the auctioneer.

As Tom listened to the prices being driven up with mad abandon, he thought of the chests of coin stored in the vaults beneath the auction rooms. They had brought them up from the Company wharf the night that the squadron had docked, driving the coaches through the dark, cobbled streets while a guard of fifty armed seamen marched in an escort around them.

It was clear that the prices Lord Childs had predicted would be far surpassed in the hysteria that surrounded the sale. Each day it continued Tom saw his share increase in value.

“Dear Lord!” he marvelled on the last day, as he scribbled his calculations on his slate. “With good fortune, I will take away more than a thousand pounds.” That was as much as one of the miners or farm labourers at High Weald might earn in his entire working life. He was bewildered by such dreams of wealth, until he thought of what his father’s share would be worth. “Almost a hundred thousand!” he exclaimed. “Together with the jewelled sword-belt of a baron.” Then his mouth hardened with anger. “And all of it will drop neatly into Black Billy’s clutching paws. Black Billy, who pukes his guts out every time he has a ship under him.”

While he was still brooding on the injustice of it the auctioneer announced, in a loud, braying voice, the next item for sale. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased and privileged to offer for your delectation a rare and wonderful trophy that will delight and intrigue even the most sophisticated and world-weary among you.” With a flourish, he lifted the covering cloth from a large jar of thick, transparent glass, which stood on the table in front of him. “None other than the pickled head of the notorious and bloodthirsty brigand and corsair Jangiri, or al-Auf, the Bad One.”

A buzz and stir swept over the tiers of merchants and they craned forward to peer ghoulishly at the disembodied head swimming in its bath of spirits. Tom felt a physical shock as he looked once again into al-Auf’s face. His dark hair floated like seaweed around his head. One of his eyes was open: it seemed to single out Tom and stare up at him with mild astonishment. There was a pained expression on his lips, as if he could still feel the stinging kiss of the blade that had parted head from trunk.

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