The slingshot thrummed, the man above him heaved and screamed, and Rivas unclamped his legs from the iron bars and plummeted toward the sea, spinning and flailing and hoping to land feet first, and he heard the mosquito-buzz of another missile passing very close to his head.
The water felt like concrete shattering under him when he hit it, and it punched the air out of his lungs and left him thrashing, weakly, God knew how far under the surface, in a churning cloud of bubbles. He didn't know which way was up until the bubbles stopped shaking and began wobbling in one direction, and then he flapped and kicked himself up after them.
The first thing he did after he broke the surface and shook the hair out of his eyes was crane his neck to look upward, and his eyes widened in horror, for here came Lollypop bicycling down through the air and getting bigger every instant, in a jump that seemed likely to land him right on top of Rivas.
With nearly the last of his strength Rivas lunged spasmodically toward the shore, throwing a bow-wave that was engulfed by the tremendous booming splash as the old man hit the water directly behind him, and the big surging wave from that swept Rivas even further in, as well as knocking out what little air he'd managed to draw into his stunned lungs.
Ahead of him the sea water splashed in shadow around the stout concrete pillars that evidently supported this entire waterfront block. Old nets and hammocks had been strung from column to column and served as perches for at least a dozen children, who were all staring at him in awe. Even in the sudden dimness Rivas could see their baldness, and as he paddled further in under the overhang he noticed too the suggestive wrinkles on their necks and the webbing between the fingers and long toes. He made it to one of the unoccupied nets, the splashing of his progress echoing among the pillars, and he floundered up into it and turned back to face the wide circle of flat white water. He fumbled his knife out and gripped it in his left hand and then sagged limp to let his lungs get themselves straightened out.
Can I kill him? he asked himself. I have to . . . but that doesn't mean I'll be able to.
He realized that some of the wetness on his face was blood, and with his knife hand he clumsily felt the top of his head. There was a long ragged scratch there, as if he'd tried to part his hair in the middle with a saw. He shivered and wondered whether he'd even have felt anything if the missile had struck an inch or two lower. When he brought his hand down he saw that some red had got on the knife blade, and he wondered if soon there might be more on it.
He managed to take a deep, shuddering breath. Back in the breathing game, he thought. But for how much longer? With a clarity of imagination he hadn't known he was capable of, he saw his own arm drive the knife toward the old man's throat, felt the blade cut through gristly resistance until his hilt-gripping fingers hit against the Adam's apple, and saw the twitching body slosh back in the water, saw the spreading stain, the round eyes of all these children. . . . Very slowly, almost without volition, he tucked his knife back into its sheath and pulled his sleeve down over it.
His eyes were on the patch of sea where a thousand little bubbles were still making the water hiss, though the chop-piness had rebounded back in and spoiled the momentary flatness. He felt a calm that wasn't entirely of exhaustion, for he was remembering his rush from behind at Nigel five days ago, and the alarmed expression that had been on Nigel's face in the instant before Rivas's club broke his forehead.
The bubbles had mostly disappeared, and the long leisurely waves resumed their pace . . . and Rivas realized, certainly more with relief than with anything else, that old Lollypop would not be resurfacing. Well, he thought, that was quite a jump, and he was an old man . . . and who knows, maybe he couldn't swim, maybe he just wanted to explode my skull with his boot heels before he drowned.
Because of Nigel. Huh.
Suddenly he remembered the barge he'd seen. My God, he thought, springing up in the net, I've got to see where it docks! See if Jaybush's «temple in the sister city» really is Deviant's Palace. He glanced around and saw stairs way back in the shadows, and he let himself fall back into the water and began swimming toward them.
Several men were sitting on ledges against the inner wall, and there was a narrow boat rocking in the water near them; clearly their business was salvage, and if much more fell down from above they'd be rowing out. But though they turned their expressionless eyes on Rivas, they had obviously decided he wasn't worth bothering with, and he attained the slimy stone stairs with no obstacle but his own weakness. He didn't allow himself time to rest, but hurried up the stairs.
The stairs extended quite a way up, and after three or four ascending circuits of the stairwell he began to see rays of sunlight lancing through the dimness from gaps in the masonry; he stopped to peer through each one that he came to that faced the sea side, but each time there was some close stone or wooden surface blocking his view of the ocean.
At the first landing he ran out onto a wide concrete terrace where a dozen men were laboring at the cranks and capstan bars of a crane, the chain-supported arm of which stretched thirty feet out over the water, and Rivas looked around wildly, trying to orient himself. After a few seconds he spied the dangling roof-railing, way above him and off to his left. There was no one hanging on it now. He looked northwest, but at this lower level a warehouse wall blocked his view of half the ocean—the half that included the barge and Deviant's Palace. For one impetuous moment he thought of running out along the crane arm like a tightrope walker, but the cable being hauled in lay along the top of the boom, and was wet, and kept hitching and jerking.
The workmen were staring at him apprehensively, and he realized that his scalp must still be bleeding. «What's the,» Rivas gasped, «quickest way up to where that railing is hanging?»
One of the men frowned. «Some guys fell off there a few minutes ago.»
«I know .» He waved inexpressively. «One of them was me. So how do I get back up there?»
After a pause to think about it the man gave him a string of instructions, including one «really long jump,» and concluded with, «but they'll just throw you off again.»
«I wouldn't be surprised,» Rivas agreed, hurrying away.
Five minutes later he was climbing up the ladder down which Lollypop had fled at Rivas's previous arrival, and he paused when he was a foot below the edge of the roof. What, he thought, peek? Or scramble right up?
Scramble up, he decided. He got his feet a couple of rungs higher, then grabbed the roof edge and jackknifed up, rolling to his feet as quickly as he could on the slanting roof.
The old man with the long beard stared at him in fuddled surprise. «Didn't happen to bring another bottle?»
Rivas shook his head and, looking around cautiously, shuffled out to the now unrailed western edge.
«Then,» said the old man sadly, «your credentials have expired. Hey, kid! Here's the guy your old buddy dove in after!» ,
Rivas looked back, and his heart sank to see the blond young man stand up resolutely from beside the arch, cuffing tears from his face.
«Aw, hell, kid,» Rivas said in a tone of weary, scared exasperation. «I didn't do it. He shot at me and then jumped in, remember?»
«He was,» the boy said brokenly as he drew a long knife from his belt, «just beginning to . . . forget about . . . Nigel. And then you had to remind him . . . and now he's dead .»
Rivas flipped back his cuff and got his own knife into his left hand and waved it around, just to make the boy back off. The boy kept advancing. Rivas swore, then turned to look northeast.