was a sorry jest," muttered Gigi, angrily. "And a sorry jest would it be for that Ninevite priest if I knew the way back to him!
"But here I have been ever since," he added, briskly. "Barred by my acolytage to Nergal from crossing to that other deck where there is a little vessel of joy named Satalu whom I would fain take within my hands. Barred by other vows from leaving the ship wherever it may touch for food and gear —since it was sanctuary I asked from which I could not go nor my princess come to me."
"By Tiamat of the Abyss—I got the sanctuary I asked!" he exclaimed, ruefully enough. "And by Bel who conquered Tiamat—I am as weary of the ship as Zubran himself. Yet were I not here," he added, as by afterthought, "who would loose you of your chains? A shrub and lack of hair, an amorous princess and my vanity—these brought me on the ship to set you free when you came. Of such threads do the gods weave our destinies."
He leaned forward, all malice gone from twinkling eyes, a grotesque tenderness on the frog-like mouth.
"I like you. Wolf," he said, simply.
"I like you, Gigi," all Kenton's defenses were down. "Greatly, indeed, do I like you. And trust fully. But—Zubran——"
"Have no doubts about Zubran," snapped Gigi. "He, too, was tricked upon this ship and is even more eager than I to be free. Some day he shall tell you his story, as I have mine. Ho! Ho!" laughed the drummer. "Ever seeking the new, ever tiring of the known is Zubran. And this is his fate—to be shot into a whole new world and find it worse than his old. Nay, Wolf, fear not Zubran. With shield and sword will he stand beside you—until he tires even of you. But even then will he be loyal."
He grew solemn, kept unwinking gaze on Kenton, searching, it seemed, his soul.
"Consider well, Wolf," he whispered. "The odds are all against you. We two may not help you as long as Klaneth is lord of his deck. It may be that you cannot free the long-haired one beside you, You have Klaneth to face and twenty of his men—and, it may be, Nergal! And if you lose— death for you—and after long, long torture. Here, chained to your oar, you are at least alive. Consider well!"
Kenton held out to him his prisoned wrists.
"When will you loose my chains, Gigi?" was all he said.
Gigi's face lighted, his black eyes blazed, he sprang upright, the golden loops in his pointed ears dancing.
"Now!" he said. "By Sin, the Father of Gods! By Shamash his Son and by Bel the Smiter—now!"
He thrust his hands between Kenton's waist and the great circlet of bronze that bound it; pulled it apart as though it had been made of putty; he broke the locks of the manacles on Kenton's wrists.
"Run free. Wolf!" he whispered. "Run free!"
With never a look behind him, he waddled to the pit's steps and up them. Slowly Kenton stood upon his feet. His chains dropped from him. He looked down at the sleeping Viking. How could he unfasten his links? How, if he could unfasten, awaken him before Zachel came hurrying down among the slaves?
Again be looked about him. At the foot of the overseer's high stool lay a shining knife, long-bladed, thin-bladed, dropped there by Gigi—for him? He did not know. But he did know that with it he might pick the Viking's locks. He took a step toward it—
How long he was in taking the second step.
And there was a mist before his eyes.
Through that mist the sleeping forms of the oarsmen wavered—were like phantoms. And now he could no longer see the knife.
He rubbed his eyes, looked down on Sigurd. He was a wraith!
He looked at the sides of the ship. They melted away even as he sought them. He had a glimpse of sparkling turquoise sea. And then—it became vaporous. Was not!
Cease to be!
And now Kenton floated for an instant in thick mist shot through with silvery light. The light snapped out. He hurtled through a black void filled with tumult of vast winds.
The blackness snapped out! Through his closed lids he saw light. And he was no longer falling. He stood, rocking, upon his feet. He opened his eyes —Once more he was within his own room! Outside hummed the traffic of the Avenue, punctuated by blasts of auto horns.
Kenton rushed over to the jeweled ship. Except for the slaves, on it was but one little figure—one toy. A manikin who stood half way down the pit steps, mouth open, whip at feet, stark astonishment in every rigid line.
Zachel, the overseer!
He looked down into the galley pit. The slaves lay asleep, oars at rest—
And suddenly he caught sight of himself in the long mirror! Stood, wondering, before it!
For what he saw was never the Kenton who had been borne out of that room upon the breast of the inrushing mystic sea. His mouth had hardened, eyes grown fearless, falcon bright. Over all his broadened chest the muscles ran not bulging, bound—but graceful, flexible, and steel hard. He flexed his arms, and the muscles ran rippling along them. He turned, scanned his back in the mirror.
Scars covered it, healed teeth marks of the lash. The lash of Zachel —Zachel—the toy?
No toy had made those scars!
No oars of toy had brought into being those muscles!
And suddenly all Kenton's mind awoke. Awoke and was filled with shame, with burning longing, despair.
What would Sigurd think of him when he awakened and found him gone— Sigurd with whom he had sworn blood brothership? What would Gigi think —Gigi, who had made vow for vow with him; and trusting him, had broken his chains?
A frenzy shook him. He must get back! Get back before Sigurd or Gigi knew that he was no longer on the ship.
How long had he been away? As though in answer a clock began chiming. He counted. Eight strokes!
Two hours of his own time had passed while he had been on the ship. Two hours only? And in those two hours all these things had happened? His body changed to—this?
But in those two minutes he had been back in his room what had happened on the ship?
He must get back! He must...
He thought of the fight before him. Could he take his automatics with him when he went back—if he could go back? With them he could match any sorceries of the black priest. But they were in another room, in another part of his house. Again he looked at himself in the glass. If his servants saw him—thus! They would not know him. How could he explain? Who would believe him?
And they might tear him away—away from this room where the ship lay. This room that held his only doorway back into Sharane's world!
He dared not risk going from that room.
Kenton threw himself upon the floor; grasped the golden chains that hung from the ship's bow—so thin they were, so small on the bowsprit of the ship of jeweled toys!
He threw his will upon the ship! Summoning it! Commanding it!
The golden chains stirred within his grasp. They swelled. He felt a tearing wrench. Thicker grew the chains. They were lifting him. Again the dreadful wrenching, tearing at every muscle, nerve and bone.
His feet swung free.
The vast winds howled around him—for a heartbeat only. They were gone. In their place was the rushing of wind driven waves. He felt the kisses of their spray.
Beneath him was a racing azure sea. High above him curved the prow of the Ship of Ishtar. But not the ship of jeweled toys. No! The ensorcelled ship of which the toy ship was the symbol; the real ship on which blows were actual and death lurked—death that even now might be watching him, poised to strike!
The chain he clutched passed up the side of the bow and into the hawser port painted like a great