The Black Tower

by Phlip Jose Farmer

  Folliot stared at the sergeant. "I believe you are actually blushing, Sergeant Smythe."

  "Am I, sah?"

  The sergeant passed his hand before his eyes.

  For an instant, it seemed to Clive Folliot that Sergeant Smythe's features wavered and grew indistinct, only to be replaced by those of the mandarin.

  The Chinese rose to his feet. As Sergeant Smythe he had been a diminutive individual, easily four or five inches shorter than Clive's own five feet ten inches. As the mandarin he towered, or seemed to tower, so that he had to stoop slightly to avoid smashing his Oriental headdress against the cabin's timbers.

  "This humble one is honored to have assisted the admirable major in a few slight moments of difficulty. This humble one begs that the admirable major exercise discretion until the splendid ship Empress Philippa reaches lovely island of Zanzibar."

  "But—Sergeant Smythe?"

  The mandarin opened the door of Clive's cabin. Beyond the cabin a sultry night of warm air and brilliant stars blazed spectacularly. "In Zanzibar, Major Folliot may encounter Sergeant Smythe once again. For now, humble Chinese individual must seek rest in own cabin."

  He bowed, backed through the doorway, drew the door shut behind him.

  Clive levered himself upright and pulled the door open again, but the mandarin had disappeared into the tropical night.

  He was summoned to Captain Wingate's quarters for a discussion of the event. The captain assured him that the trio of gamblers would indeed be put off the Empress at the first opportunity. This, it turned out, was the Portuguese port city of Luanda, an ugly, steaming city where the Empress Philippa dropped off some crates of machinery and picked up a fresh supply of stores, as well as a few passengers.

  Clive confirmed his wish not to press charges against the trio. He could not help asking Captain Wingate what he knew of the mysterious Oriental who had first detected the gamblers' scheme.

  Captain Wingate drew up. "I can tell you nothing, sir, about that gentleman. You are an officer in Her Majesty's service. You will understand. I can say nothing more on the subject."

  There were a few more performances in the salon. Clive spent most of his evenings there, sometimes in his uniform, at others in mufti. The mandarin would appear, render a selection by Berlioz or Chopin, Donizetti or Liszt, Mozart or Haydn—but most often Mendelssohn.

  But he did not speak. He traveled alone.

  One evening, when the mandarin left the salon, Clive managed to follow him to his cabin. Clive remained in the shadowed companionway, feeling conspicuous in his scarlet jacket and brass buttons, for most of an hour. Then he knocked at the door.

  After a moment, it swung open.

  Clive had expected the man to revert to his true identity as Sergeant Horace Hamilton Smythe, butinstead he was greeted by the mandarin in his full regalia and headdress. Behind the Chinese, Folliot could see that one wall of the cabin had been converted into a Buddhist shrine. Before a statue of the Enlightened One, on a cloth-covered altar, joss sticks smoldered in a bowl.

  The mandarin bowed to Clive. "Her Majesty's officer honors this humble one. May the humble one be of service to the major?"

  Confused, Clive stammered, "Smythe? Aren't you Sergeant Smythe?"

  The Oriental bowed. "The officer is mistaken, I regret to say."

  Clive stumbled to his own cabin and began work on a dispatch to Carstairs at The London Illustrated Recorder and Dispatch. He was not only supposed to chronicle his adventures in pursuit of his lost brother, but to provide sketches for the rag's staff artists to turn into publishable cuts.

  "We are an illustrated newspaper." He could hear Maurice Carstairs's snide intonations. "We have to give the public their money's worth. And those who cannot decipher words may still enjoy the illustrations."

  CHAPTER 5

  Her Majesty's Resident Consul

  Empress Philippa's, crew had furled her sails and Captain Wingate ordered the engineer to raise a head of steam as the island of Zanzibar hove into view. It was late in the day, and the sun hung like a huge orange ember low above the Indian Ocean. Even this late in the day, the heat was oppressive and the air lay like a heavy weight on the world.

  Clive Folliot had been invited to stand on the bridge as the ship made port, and he now watched with keen interest as the colors of the city blossomed before his eyes.

  "They are strange people, Major," Wingate told him. "They are great sailors; they do things with their dhows that I should hardly dare attempt with a full-rigged frigate. But they don't have the European's machines, and they crave them with all their heart."

  Clive raised his eyes to the cloud of black smoke that poured from the Empress's stacks. "That's why we are steaming into port rather than moving under sail, I take it."

  "That is exactly the reason, Major. I shouldn't say that they're so superstitious as to think there's anything supernatural about our steam engines. Although I imagine that the first time they saw a ship moving without sails, with black smoke belching from her stacks, they must have jumped from the ground."

  He turned to give the helmsman a command, then returned to what he was saying. "No, they're not altogether ignorant and superstitious. Some of 'em have been to the great centers of learning, to Berlin and Vienna and Paris and Rome. Some have even been to England. Many of them know a good deal more than we give them credit for. It's their attitudes that are so different from ours, that you have to watch out for."

  "I'm not sure I take your meaning, Captain. Although I can tell you that I served in Madagascar at one time. Thus, I believe I can claim a small degree of understanding of the peoples of the region."

  "You've mentioned that, Major Folliot. And I think it will serve you in good stead. But don't judge Zanzibar by the Malagasy peoples, and don't judge the black Africans by either. They're all different civilizations, as different in some cases as the Chinese and French, if you understand what I'm telling you." Clive gave a noncommittal answer.

  Captain Wingate shook his head. "Major Folliot, did you ever hear the expression, 'What you don't know can't hurt you'?"

  "I have, sir. In fact it is a misquotation from the works of Mr. Sidney Smith."

  "Well, it may be a quotation or it may be a miss. I want to tell you, Major Folliot, that in either case, it isn't true. What you don't know can hurt you very badly indeed. It can kill you. Yes, sir!"

  The captain issued another command to the helmsman.

  A dhow had moved from the harbor under sail, and it now beat its way past Empress Philippa. Clive could see the swarthy faces of Arab sailors as the dhow moved gracefully across the greenish water.

  "There's only one thing more dangerous than what you don't know," Captain Wingate resumed. "And that is, what you do know that's wrong. That, Major Folliot, is the only thing I've ever heard of that has killed more men than what they didn't know at all. What they knew that just wasn't so."

  Clive reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew his gold watch. He was dressed in mufti this day, as he had been for most of the voyage out from England.

  "Impatient, Major Folliot?"

  "Zanzibar is but a way station for me, sir. I must send my dispatch to my publisher, make what arrangements are needful, and then travel on to the mainland."

  "I understand, Major. The call of a family obligation. You're a fortunate man to have a family at that."

  Clive didn't answer.

  "You see that marker?" Captain Wingate pointed.

  Clive nodded.

  "We've no tide tables for this part of the world. There's much work to be done before the seas are all as safe as the River Thames and the English Channel. That marker tells us the depth of the water just now. The tide is out. We'll drop anchor here and wait for morning. I expect we'll be seeing the sultan's harbormaster shortly, though."

  The captain laughed. "Look at that, Major Folliot! Speak of the devil and here he comes."

  Wingate pointed once more. A small felucca was beating across the harbo
r. In the stillness of late afternoon the craft had hard going. Clive could see that the little boat carried two persons, a single sailor and a passenger garbed in grand fashion.

  The felucca finally hove to beside the Empress. A rope ladder was lowered from the Empress's deck and the little boat was made fast while its two occupants climbed to the deck.

  "I hope you won't mind spending one more night in your cabin, Major Folliot." Captain Wingate escorted Clive from the bridge. "We can't dock until morning anyway, because of the tides. I could have sent you ashore in a pinnace, but I expect the harbormaster will want to speak with us first. These Arabs are a suspicious lot. He might take it very ill if you tried to sneak ashore too quickly."

  "Sneak ashore? I would do no such thing!"

  "Of course not, Major. But you see, the sultan's man doesn't know you, does he?"

  Clive peered over the railing to the deck where the two newcomers were greeted by the Empress's deck officer.

  Captain Wingate led the way down wooden stairs to the deck.

  The harbormaster, garbed in elaborate robes and a red fez, stood engaged in conversation with the officer. The sailor had been separated from his master. Clive saw that a second Arab had come from somewhere and had drawn the sailor aside. They were garbed in similar striped robes and filthy, loose turbans. They were conversing in Arabic, gesticulating toward the harbormaster, the deck officer, Captain Wingate, and Clive.

  Clive looked at his pocket watch, then returned to his writing. If he hurried he could complete his dispatch to the Recorder and still arrive at the dinner table in time to have his evening meal.

  He completed his task, folded the dispatch, and sealed it. He would drop it off with Her Majesty's resident consul in Zanzibar, and it would be forwarded to Carstairs in London with the next outgoing diplomatic pouch. For a moment, Clive contemplated leaving it with Empress Philippa's purser instead, but Captain Wingate had said that the ship was continuing eastward, and the dispatch would be too long delayed if it was carried on the Empress.

  How much later it was that Clive made his way to his bunk, and how many hours he managed of uneasy slumber, he did not know. All he knew was that he was being roused, much against his will.

  "We're gettin' offer this snip, Major," Sergeant Smythe said in a low voice.

  "Of course we are. In the morning." Clive was quickly regaining his composure.

  "Not in the morning, no, sah," Sergeant Smythe whispered. "Right now, now, sah. Believe me, you want to get off this ship right now. The old harbormaster—and he ain't the harbormaster, believe me, sah, he's someone else—he's still in conference with Captain Wingate and Purser Fennely. The local politics, sah. Her Majesty's consul—Sir John Kirk—he's got his hands in some things you don't want to know about. The sultan of Turkey, the khedive of Egypt, the Frenchies—it's an awful mess, sah. You don't want to stay on this ship!"

  He peered into Clive's eyes, nodded in satisfaction. "Now is our chance to get off this ship, and to get off quick and in one piece. Come on!"

  He led the stumbling Clive Folliot to his cabin and helped Clive inside. The Arab sailor lay on Sergeant Smythe's bunk, stripped of his garments, bound and gagged.

  "Out of your mufti and into this robe, sah," Smythe urged. "And please, Major, be quick about it and be quiet!"

  Puzzled by Sergeant Smythe's astonishing message, Clive obeyed.

  The Arab's eyes blazed, and he struggled to free his hands and feet. He did not succeed.

  As Clive pulled the Arab's robe over his own head he was nearly overwhelmed by the odors trapped in the crudely woven cotton. There was a taint of grease, perhaps the residue of some lamb that the Arab had eaten. There was a musky perfume. There was the acrid scent of stale perspiration. There were other odors whose origin Clive could only guess—and he preferred not to.

  "Here, this goes beneath the robe." Sergeant Smythe handed Clive a leather harness with an empty scabbard attached. "Around your leg, like a lady's garter, sah." Smythe nodded to indicate the appropriate place for the contrivance.

  Once Clive had strapped it to his leg, Smythe handed him a dagger and indicated that it belonged in the scabbard. In the meantime, Sergeant Smythe had transformed himself into a filthy Arab.

  Smythe pulled the hood of Clive's robe up over the officer's head. He shoved him out the doorway of the cabin and followed him into the companion- way. "Come on, sah, we've got ter go!"

  "But my chest," Clive demurred. "My uniforms and my clothing. My writing supplies. My money. All are in my cabin. Surely we can nave them transferred to the shore."

  "No, we can't, sah! I'm sorry, but you don't realize yer life's at stake! Bofe of our lives! We've got ter go now!"

  He hurried Clive through Empress Philippa's companionways. When they reached the deck, Smythe gestured Clive to remain hidden. He peered out, waited for a clear moment, then scurried across the deck. His Arab robe floating about him so that he looked like nothing more than a pale shadow scuttering across the wooden surface.

  At Philippa's rail he halted and crouched in a shadow. The storm clouds that had gathered earlier were being torn and strewn around the sky by a cold wind. Raindrops spattered down, alternating with gusts of windborne moisture. Through a hole in the clouds, a tropic moon sent down its rays.

  Clive saw Sergeant Smythe gesture to him, and he scuttled across the deck, joining the sergeant at Philippa's rail. "We're lucky they didn't leave a man to guard the felucca," Smythe whispered. "But we might run out of luck at any moment."

  As if to punctuate Smythe's words, angry voices rose from above the two Englishmen. Clive glanced up and saw a light on Philippa's bridge. Two figures were silhouetted by oil lanterns. One was the ship's purser, Mr. Fennely. The other was the Arab harbormaster. They were shouting and pointing down at the deck—pointing at the very spot where Clive Folliot and Horace Hamilton Smythe crouched in the shadows. Captain Wingate was nowhere to be seen.

  "Now, sah, move!" Smythe urged.

  The two men scrambled up and over the rail. Clive reached the rope ladder attached to Philippa's hull first, and began climbing down toward the harbormaster's unmanned felucca. Sergeant Smythe followed without delay. As soon as the two men tumbled into the little boat, Sergeant Smythe cast off her lines and grabbed a pair of oars.

  "Get that sail raised, Major," he shouted at Clive.

  A few minutes and they were well away from Empress Philippa. Lanterns shone from the ship's deck, and voices shouted angrily in English and Arabic and pidgin.

  There was a flash from the Empress's deck, then another. Bullets whined overhead or splashed harmlessly near the felucca. One went through the little boat's sail, making a distinctive popping sound as it pierced the linen cloth.

  But the sail had caught the swirling wind that swept across the harbor, and Clive, calling on skills learned long ago on the lakes of Scotland, guided the boat skillfully toward the shore and safety.

  They made their way among a crazy pattern of dhows, feluccas, and cargo barges anchored in the harbor. Each gust of wind changed the pattern of cloud and sky, darkness and light. Clive was soaked with rainwater and salt spray, chilled to the bone by the cold wind.

  "We're lucky it ain't no full-fledged monsoon," Sergeant Smythe said, as if he had read Folliot's mind. "Well, here's a place we can tie up."

  They made fast the felucca, dropped the sail, and scrambled onto a crude dock. Almost all the residents of the city had been driven indoors, as much by the foul weather as by the hour. The two made their way through the streets, Sergeant Smythe leading Major Folliot almost as a blind man would lead a sighted one through pitch darkness.

  Clive's nostrils were assaulted by all the odors of the city, but he saw nothing of its sights. In the darkness of the storm there was nothing to be seen.

  Smythe drew up at last at an iron gate. It was secured by a heavy lock, but Smythe worked some trickery upon it, and shortly the gate creaked open. Clive and his companion entered.

  They found
their way to a tall wooden doorway. Smythe lifted a huge iron knocker and dropped it. It landed on the thick wood with a deep boom. After a lengthy wait, the door creaked open.

  A sleepy Arab youth in a long cotton gown answered the door. He held a lantern high in one hand.

  Sergeant Smythe chattered something at him in the boy's own language and the youth stepped aside, admitting the two newcomers.

  In the vestibule, Smythe jabbered again at the Arab youth. The youth disappeared.

  "I say—" Clive began.

  He was interrupted by the arrival of a thin-faced, blond-haired, mustachioed individual in dressing gown and slippers. He, too, was carrying a light with him, but his was a candle mounted on a heavy silver stick, its flame shielded by a glass chimney like that of an oil lamp.

  "Who the devil are you?" the thin-faced man demanded. "Some dirty fellah comin' round here to bother me in the middle of the night? I'll have you whipped and thrown out if you've no explanation!"

  "I am Major Clive Folliot, son of Baron Tewkesbury, sir! And my companion—" He looked around for Sergeant Smythe, but Smythe and the youth who had admitted them had both disappeared.

  "Major Folliot? Tewkesbury?" the other echoed. He peered into Clive's face. "Well, you're the second Major Folliot I've encountered. T'other one claimed to be the son of Baron Tewkesbury, as well."

  "That must have been my brother, sir! He passed through here more than a year ago."

  "So he did, so he did." He lowered the candle. "So you're another Englishman, are you? Then what are you doing in that silly get-up? You coming from a party?"

  "No, sir!"

  "Well, you've come to the right place, anyway, young fellow! This is Her Majesty's consulate, and I am Sir John Kirk, Her Majesty's resident consul. Let's get you a bath and a set of decent clothes, and then I want to know what the devil is going on with you! You're a far way from Tewkesbury, young laddie! A far, far way from Tewkesbury!"