Assignment- Tyrant's Bride

by Will B Aarons

Another corpse swept silently past, riding face up, its belly swelling under the merciless sun.

  Teresa grimaced and said, "The crocodiles take some and let others go. Why is that?”

  "They are full,” Durell said bluntly. "Sooner or later they take them all.”

  "We are floating down a river of the dead,” she said, and hugged herself. "A carrion river.”

  The helicopter came again and crossed downriver, not very far from them. "Hug the bank,” Durell called.

  The two dugouts slid along quietly, beside dense undergrowth, under the trees. Durell’s hands were stiff and sore from paddling the night before, but the soreness was working away.

  Teresa’s voice was melancholy. "Maybe we are dead ourselves and just don’t have sense enough to lie down.”

  "Maybe you; not me,” he said.

  She shut up.

  When darkness came, it swept abruptly across the heavens. There was some relief from the heat then, but the muggy air over the river didn’t allow for much. With night they swung into midchannel and a deeper, faster current, where they could make better time without fear of discovery.

  They kept paddling, as one hour merged into the next.

  Durell slapped mosquitoes. Tree frogs rang shrilly along the bank. A bloody African moon rose above the trees and soared into the high sky and turned to bone and hung there.

  Gradually, imperceptibly at first, a different sound bored its way into his consciousness, and he listened intently as it grew closer.

  After a while, Teresa asked, "What is that noise?”

  "Artillery,” Durell replied.

  "Cannons? Out here?”

  "We’re almost to Kipora.”

  There came the sharp bang of howitzer fire, then the dull boom of the exploding shell. They were rounding a sweeping bend, and, as they came out of it, Wells called in alarm: "Look!”

  "My God. . .Teresa muttered.

  "See that!” General Ogwang called from the other canoe. He spat a Swahili oath.

  From here Kipora was easily visible in its setting on a low hill, behind ancient fortifications. It seethed with countless fires, and smoke billowed into the moonlit night.

  Durell swore softly, feeling his mouth go dry.

  "It’s under siege,” he said.

  "We’ll never get through,” Dager moaned.

  24

  "We’ve got to get through,” Durell said.

  "We’ve no choice,” Ogwang said.

  The two dugouts drifted side by side. The river turned brightly yellow, reflecting the fires, as they approached the burning city on the current.

  Wells said: "Why not beach the canoes on the Ruwidi

  bank—the river is the border again, here. We can approach Kipora from that side.”

  There were muttered sounds of approval.

  "I don’t like it,” Durell said. "We don’t know how much of the riverfront is in government hands and how much is controlled by the Ndolo. We could walk right into Ausi’s arms, when we crossed the river. Besides, the Ruwidis would be likely to pick us up before we got anywhere near our objective.”

  "We could blast our way out, if they did,” Wells argued.

  "Our aim isn’t to kill Ruwidis and create international incidents.”

  Dager spoke up. "We could simply stay on the river.”

  "We’d be like ducks on the water.” Wells snorted. "The army must have the river covered into and out of the city.”

  They floated on down, the men holding the two canoes together, their paddles dripping on their knees. The explosions of the bombardment made a counterpoint to the undisturbed calls of frogs and insects. Ogwang ended the pause. "Well, what then?” Teresa said: "I have a solution. Send Mkondo. We are a large party—too large to blunder through the lines. But one person, acquainted with Kipora and its environs, might make it and find someone who can guide us or tell us the way in—there are bound to be ways. Only Mkondo has a chance of getting through for help.”

  "I like it,” Dager said.

  "Me, too,” Wells seconded.

  "I don’t trust him,” General Ogwang said.

  "He won’t throw Teresa to the wolves,” Durell told the general. "Think about it.”

  "I suppose you are right.”

  Durell’s gaze found Mkondo toward the stem, where he watched with cunning eyes and uncomprehending ears. His bare black chest caught the radiance of the burning city. Durell turned to Teresa. "Tell him,” he said.

  She spoke to Mkondo in an unknown language. Mkondo answered and nodded toward Ogwang, and she turned momentarily to Durell. "He wonders if he should leave me alone.”

  "Alone? Tell him I will take responsibility.”

  She spoke to Mkondo impatiently, and announced: "He will go.”

  "Let’s beach the canoes. Keep an eye out for patrols,” Durell said.

  The night flared with light from the burning city as they hauled the dugouts out of the water and hid them. Artillery banged and boomed. At least, Durell thought, they needn’t fear Ausi’s fighter-bombers. Kipora lay in a loop of the river, so that modern jets had either to approach or leave it by way of Ruwidi territory at the speed they flew. Ausi would not be prepared to accept the consequences of violation of Ruwidi air space—the government of Ruwidi would grab any pretext to give him a black eye, since he had helped Ruwidi rebels once, years ago.

  The riverbank stank of putrid flesh, dead fish, garbage. It had been cleared here of the gallery forest and diked for flood control. The canoes could not be covered up very well, but the party would probably have no further need of them. Durell’s grimy white shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he had finished and got to the top of the dike. A collection of three banda huts made silhouettes against the glowing city, and he pointed them out to Mkondo and told him they would wait there. Mkondo showed no emotion as he spoke a few last words to Teresa, then trotted away on silent, bare feet and vanished in the orange-and-black landscape.

  "How long do you think it will take him to bring someone?” Durell asked.

  "A couple of hours,” Teresa said. "The problem is in getting through the wall. The army must have the gates blockaded—but there are other ways they may not know of, tunnels, old sally ports. The Arabs fortified the city in the seventeenth century. It was a slave-trading center. Mkondo is familiar with it.”

  Durell said, "I hope they did a good job of it. This is where the Mobundan people have to draw the line with Field Marshal Ausi. If the Ndolo can’t offer effective resistance here, no one will, anywhere.” He turned his eyes up and down the grassy dike. "We’d better get down from here,” he said.

  He started down the backside of the embankment, his Breda shotgun in the crook of his arm. The others followed in a tired, straggling line, as he splashed through a knee-deep drainage channel and came out on a gently rolling, stony prairie, or veld, scattered with acacias and thorn trees. The usual bananas and plantains were cultivated close to the huts. They were empty. Their inhabitants probably had fled the army. Cold ashes lay in the central firehole, with its three blackened bricks. There was an odor of guinea-fowl droppings. They sat on the hard earthen floor, and Durell felt the imprint of a banana flower stalk that had been pressed into it for decoration, when it was wet.

  They waited, as an hour passed.

  And another.

  Durell did not go to sleep like the others. He sensed movement in the hut, opened his eyes, picked out the lanky form of Kenneth Dager as the man stole through the gloom and went out the door.

  Durell followed in trained silence. The night was tiger-colored, orange and black. Dager returned to the canoes and groped in their dark insides. Durell thought he might be looking for Ogwang’s pack, or even Mkondo’s shotgun, although he could not think why. He did not remember anything else in the dugouts. Then Dager straightened, and Durell saw the liquid gleam of one of the long, heavy panga knives. The man came back as Durell watched from the fronds of a banana tree, and entered the hut.

  Durell ran for t
he door, almost colliding with Dager, who came back outside. The blade made a venomous swish. Durell ducked, caught Dager’s wrist, hurled him in a cartwheel, and heard the man hit the earth with a grunt and a tooth-chipping thud. The fight went out of him when he saw the panga poised against his throat.

  "Keep your hand from your gun,” Durell growled. He reached down and took it from its holster.

  "I didn’t know it was you,” Dager said.

  Durell studied his close-set eyes and saw only orange reflections. He pressed the hacking knife harder, holding Dager by the damp blond hair of his head. "Why the knife?”

  "There was a rat. It—it was gone when I got back.” "I don’t believe you.” He shook the man’s head. Dager’s hands were free, but he did not attempt to defend himself. He was on his knees. Durell said: "No more evasions. No alibis. I want the truth.”

  "All right! If you—if you have to know, it was—Indrani.”

  "You were going to kill her?” His tone was disbelieving.

  "It was necessary; couldn’t be helped.” Dager saw the look on Durell’s face, and added quickly, "Don’t worry, she hasn’t been harmed.”

  "Tell me more.”

  Dager shrugged his bony shoulders. The medallion around his neck glimmered in the fiery light. "It is obvious we have a—situation—with General Ogwang. You know as well as I that he and Teresa must be reconciled enough to work together. Hell, man, he can’t get through the gate without her.”

  "So you decided what method of removing Indrani was best and took it on yourself.”

  "Sure. It was a shame. She’s a pretty little piece.”

  "Why didn’t you finish it?”

  "I saw you were gone. I didn’t want you stumbling in in the middle of it, thinking I was someone I wasn’t. That might not have been too healthy for me.”

  "So you just came back outside—”

  "To return the knife to the boat.” Dager’s thin mouth curled into a smile.

  Durell put his face close to Dager’s. "You are a rotten sonofabitch, Dager. Try taking things into your own hands again, I’ll see you dead. Clear?”

  "You bet. Clear.”

  Durell let him up and tossed his pistol back at him. Dager fumbled it and picked it up out of the grass, brushing it and holding its barrel down. He kept looking at Durell.

  Durell interpreted the sense of uncertainty.

  "Try it,” he said.

  Dager hesitated, but then hadn’t the guts. He slid the .45 into his holster. "I know how you feel about that little half-breed,” he said. His voice was bitter.

  "You don’t know anything.”

  "I saw you together, while General Ogwang was on watch, back up the river.”

  "Jealous, Dager?”

  "You’re just protecting her so you can bed her, endangering everything.”

  "Get out of here. Out of my sight,” Durell said.

  Dager slunk away; Durell saw him return to the hut. Then he thrust the panga under his coat and slogged across the drainage canal and up the steeply sloping wall of the dike. He waited and watched for Mkondo. The howitzers barked and growled at the walled city, atop its low hill.

  What Dager might do back at the hut did not concern him: the man was too smart to try anything after once being caught in the act—he’d wait for a different opportunity, now.

  He took a long breath and put it out of his mind.

  Lack of sleep burned his eyes; hunger ached in his stomach.

  And—he glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch once more-—Mkondo was far overdue.

  * * *

  Durell squatted in the middle of the hut, over a small fire of twigs, boiling tea from General Ogwang’s pack.

  "Is Mkondo back?” Wells came and squatted beside him. He still looked tired, the weary planes of his face strained with tension.

  "I don’t think he is coming back,” Durell said.

  "He wouldn’t run out on us.”

  "No. Not on Teresa, anyhow. He’s been gone five hours, more than twice as long as expected.”

  Indrani’s sleepy voice came out of the gloom. "What is it? What’s the matter?”

  "Mkondo,” Wells said. "He didn’t make it back.” Durell poured a cup of tea, sipped, felt its scalding heat through the metal cup. He handed the cup to Wells, who sipped noisily, blowing on the liquid. Indrani came near the fire, her hair rumpled like a sleepy child’s. "May I have some?” she asked.

  Durell handed her the cup. She took a dainty drink, watching him over the rim, and handed it back. "You seem troubled,” she said.

  "Of course.” He poured more tea into the cup. Crickets chirruped lethargically.

  "More than usual, I mean,” she said.

  He said nothing, drank, handed the cup around again. Something rattled in the roof thatch, a lizard or bat, perhaps. The glow of the fires in the city came through the only window, a small opening high on the south wall. The boiling water lent a steamy odor to the air.

  Wells said, "You think Mkondo was killed or captured?”

  "Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he made it into the city and couldn’t get back out. The point is, we must get through the wall before dawn. We can’t afford to waste another day sitting it out.” Durell rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully.

  "That gives us less than two hours,” Wells said, glancing at his watch.

  Indrani sat on her knees, her green eyes fastened on the fire in glazed fascination. She had neglected to pass the cup on and held it against her breasts with both hands. She looked like a sleepy child.

  Wells must have noticed Durell watching her, because he said, "Will you leave her here? It isn’t like to hell and gone, out in the bush.”

  "No ” Durell said.

  "I shouldn’t have to remind you of your responsibilities—”

  "Then don’t,” Durell snapped. He grimaced. "Look, Willie, Teresa must settle her personal dispute with General Ogwang. How am I going to do that? How are, you?”

  Wells seemed to understand that. "It’s really up to General Ogwang, isn’t it?” he stated.

  Indrani’s lovely face turned angry. "Don’t speak of me as if I were a basket of spoiled plantains to be disposed of,” she snarled. "Albert loves me—only me! Do you understand?” She jumped to her feet and ran into the night.

  Wells exhaled loudly, his face troubled. Durell just watched his eyes for a long moment; then General Qgwang’s groggy voice came out of the shadows. "What’s happening? Who is there?”

  For answer, Durell stood up and called, "Wake up! Wake up; everybody on your feet!”

  They groaned and tossed on the hard, patterned floor.

  "Listen,” he told them, "Mkondo didn’t return. We can’t wait for him any longer. We will have to find our way in unassisted. Quickly, now.” He turned to Wells. "Douse the fire. I’ll wait outside.”

  The air was damp and foul, stinking of the putrid river, as Durell strode outdoors. Hyenas barked somewhere in the near distance, beneath a sinking yellow moon. Probably they were picking over soldiers’ bones. On a low hill a mile away, behind crenelated mud walls, the town of Kipora smoked and blazed. An artillery round must have struck a steeple or a building cornice as he watched, because it flashed above rooftops, making a solid yellow-green orb against his retinas. The seconds ticked away before Durell heard the dull report of the detonation. The firing had slacked off to a shell every ten minutes or so. Targets seemed chosen at random, without tactical purpose, and he concluded the reason was to spread terror and chaos, like Hitler’s buzz bombs over London. The method suited the man, he thought.

  He found Indrani in the deeper shadows of the banana trees. She knelt on the grass; the sound of her weeping led him to her. She saw him and lifted her face, a loose weave of black hair clinging to her cheek. "I feel so alone,” she said.

  "I’m sorry.” He gazed down at her.

  "No one cares what becomes of me. Even Albert.” "Here. Get on your feet.” He offered his hand.

  Her fingers were cool and so
ft. She came up lightly, her body springy with youth. "Thank you for—” She hesitated.

  "Thanks are not necessary.”

  "I mean—about Dager.”

  "I know what you mean.”

  "Would he really have killed me? I overheard.”

  "You spent the rest of the night in there with him, after you heard that?”

  "Oh, it was not any sort of courage.” She gave a rare smile that made her look even younger than she was. "I knew you would watch over me. But that is only because you are good. Yes, you are a good man, and I? I am nothing.” Tears came back into her eyes, tears of wounded pride and anger, little golden pearls in the fiery light. "Am I really no more than a stray dog, to be left by the roadside or murdered in my sleep? Tell me why? What have I done?”

  "Let’s go,” he said.

  "How?” Wells asked.

  "We have no more choices than we did before,” Durell replied. "We tried Teresa’s suggestion; now we’ll have to try the river.”

  The others looked at each other, apprehension in

  their eyes, but they did not argue. When he started for the dike, they followed.

  The river was an oily orange flow, striped with black shadows, like a tiger’s back, as they floated warily toward the burning city. Durell’s vision stopped at the dikes, and he felt blinded, facing the possibility of ambush each second. But the dikes must have been raised to protect a narrow depression in the land, because they vanished after a short while, and the river widened, and the vista of black countryside opened up. The flash of a howitzer betrayed the position of an artillery battery, off to the east. The sound rolled across the river, followed by that of the shell’s impact beyond the walls.

  Danger was in the air, and when Durell took a breath, it lay cold against his heart.

  Charred pilings canted out of the water here, like ribs of a dead monster, casting black shadows of almost solid intensity. There were dilapidated wharves, a burning warehouse, the chemical stench of big textile mills that had made Kipora rich.

  Across the river shone a Ruwidi satellite town, much smaller than Kipora. Lights sparkled there in contrast to the burning wreckage of the Ndolo city. A connecting bridge showed some damage—twisted girders, dangling steel beams. A geyser rose beside it as Durell watched. Ausi’s artillery was taking potshots at it. A few dark figures moved slowly across it anyway, refugees stealing out of Kipora under cover of darkness.