by Wilbur Smith
“Answer my question before you go,” he insisted. “Tell me you feel nothing and I will trouble you no further.”
“How can I tell you that when I know not what I feel? I owe you my life, but beyond that I cannot yet tell.”
“Verity! Give me one small grain of hope.”
“No, Mansur. I must go! Not another word.”
“Will you come to meet me here again, tomorrow evening?”
“You do not know my father—” She stopped herself. “I can promise you nothing.”
“There is so much more that I must tell you.”
She laughed shortly, then stopped herself. “Have you not told me sufficient to last me a lifetime?”
“Will you come?”
“I will try. But only to hear the rest of your story.” She snatched up the lamp and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, covering her face, and ran from the temple.
In the dawn the Caliph rode out with his guests and all his entourage to fly the falcons. They killed three times before the heat came down and they were forced back into the shelter of the tents.
During the noonday heat Sir Guy spoke to the council, explaining to them how he could save Oman from the tyrant, and from the clutches of the Turk and the Mogul. “You must place yourselves under the suzerainty of the English monarch and his Company.”
The desert sheikhs listened and argued among themselves. They were free men, and proud. At last Mustapha Zindara asked for all of them, “We have driven out the jackal from our sheepfold. Shall we now allow the leopard to take his place? If this English monarch wants us as his subjects, will he come to us so that we can see him ride and wield the lance? Will he lead us into battle as al-Salil has done?”
“The English king will hold his shield over you, and protect you from your enemies.” Sir Guy avoided a direct answer.
“And what is the price in gold of his protection?” Mustapha Zindara asked.
Al-Salil had seen that Mustapha’s temper was rising like the heat outside the tent. He looked across at Verity and said gently, “I ask your father for his indulgence. We must discuss all he has told us, and I must explain to my people what it means, and set their fears at rest.” He turned to his councillors. “The heat has passed and the huntsmen have found much game on the high ground across the river. We shall talk more on the morrow.”
Mansur found that Verity was avoiding him assiduously. She would not even glance in his direction. Whenever he came close to her she turned all her attention on her father or the Caliph. He saw how she looked on Dorian in a changed light now that she knew he was her uncle. She stared into his face and watched his eyes when he spoke to her. She followed his every gesture with attention, yet she would not even glance in Mansur’s direction. During the afternoon’s hunt she would not allow him to separate her from her father, but rode close at Sir Guy’s side. In the end Mansur was forced to contain himself until the evening meal. He was not hungry and it seemed interminable. Only once did he catch Verity’s eyes and, with a tilt of his head, asked a silent question of her. She arched an eyebrow enigmatically, and gave him no reply.
When at last the Caliph dismissed the company, Mansur escaped to his own tent with relief. He waited until all was quiet, for he knew that even if she intended to keep the assignation she would not move before then. That night there was a restless feeling in the camp with men passing back and forth, loud voices and singing. It was well after midnight before Mansur could leave his own tent, and start for the temple. Istaph was waiting for him beside the stone doorway. “Is all well?” Mansur asked.
Istaph came closer and whispered, “There are others abroad this night.”
“Who are they?”
“Two men came out of the desert while the Caliph and his guests were at dinner. They hid themselves in the horselines. When the English effendi and his daughter left the company, the girl did not go to her own tent as she did last night. Instead she went with her father to his. Then the two strangers came secretly to them.”
“They are set on mischief?” Mansur demanded, with horror. Was Verity to die as his own mother had, under the assassin’s blade?
“No!” Kumrah assured him quickly. “I heard the effendi greet them when they entered and they are together still.”
“You are certain you have never seen these men before tonight?”
“They are strangers. I do not know them.”
“How were they dressed?”
“They wore Arab robes, but only one was an Omani.”
“How did the other look?”
Kumrah shrugged. “I saw him only for a moment. It is not possible to tell much from a man’s face alone, but he was a ferengi.”
“A European?” Mansur exclaimed, with surprise. “Are you sure?”
Istaph shrugged again. “I am not sure, but so it seemed to me.”
“They are still in the tent of the consul? Is the woman with them?” Mansur demanded.
“They were all still there when I came to meet you here.”
“Come with me, but we must not be seen,” Mansur said decisively.
“There are watchmen only on the outer perimeter of the camp,” Istaph answered.
“We know where they are. We can avoid them.” Mansur turned back and went quietly down the narrow alley, the way he had come. He made as if he was returning to his own tent, then ducked behind a pile of ancient masonry and waited there until he was certain they had not been seen or followed. Then he and Istaph crept up silently behind Sir Guy’s pavilion. There was light within, and Mansur could hear voices.
He recognized Verity’s. She was speaking to her father, clearly translating, “He says that the rest will arrive within the week.”
“A week!” Sir Guy’s voice was louder. “They should have been ready at the beginning of the month.”
“Father, lower your voice. You will be heard throughout the entire camp.”
For a while their voices sank to a soft mumble and they spoke with suppressed urgency. Then another voice spoke in Arabic. Even though it was so low and muted that he could not make out the words, Mansur knew he had heard it before, but where and when he could not be sure.
In a barely audible whisper Verity translated for Sir Guy, and his voice rose again sharply. “He must not even think of it now. Tell him it could dash all our plans. His private concerns must wait until afterwards. He must restrain his pugnacious instincts until the main business has been taken care of.”
Mansur strained his ears but could catch only snatches of what followed. At one stage Sir Guy said, “We must sweep up the whole shoal in our net. We must not allow a single fish to slip through.”
Then, abruptly, Mansur heard the strangers take leave of him. Once again the familiar Arab voice tugged at his memory. This time it whispered the formal words of farewell.
I know him, Mansur thought. He was certain of this, but still could not place him. The second stranger spoke for the first time. Istaph had been correct. This was a European speaking Arabic with a German or guttural Dutch accent. He could not remember having heard it before. He ignored it, and tried to concentrate instead on exchanges between Sir Guy and the Arab. There was silence, and he realized that the strangers had left Sir Guy’s pavilion as quietly as they had come. He jumped up from where he was crouched and ran to the corner of the tent wall. Then he had to shrink back, for not ten paces away Sir Guy and Verity were standing at the entrance talking quietly and looking in the direction in which their visitors had gone. If Mansur and Istaph tried to follow, Sir Guy would spot them. Father and daughter remained in the doorway for some minutes longer before they went back inside. By this time the strange visitors had vanished among the closely huddled pavilions of the encampment.
Mansur turned to Istaph, who was close behind him. “We must not let them get away. Search the far side of the camp, down towards the river, and see if they went that way. I shall take the northern perimeter.”
He broke into a run. Something about th
e stranger’s voice had filled him with a sense of foreboding. I have to find out who that Arab is, he thought.
When he reached the last ruined buildings he saw two of the night watchmen standing together in the shadows cast by the wall. They were leaning on their jezails and talking quietly. He called to them, “Did two men pass this way?”
They recognized his voice and ran to him. “No, Highness, no man passed us.” It seemed that they had been awake and alert, so Mansur had to believe them.
“Shall we raise the alarm?” one demanded.
“No,” Mansur said. “It was nothing. Return to your post.”
The strangers must have gone down towards the river. He ran back through the dark camp and, in the moonlight, saw Istaph running back towards him along the causeway. He sprinted to meet him and called to him while still far off, “Have you found them?”
“This way, Highness.” Istaph’s voice was harsh with exertion. Together they raced down the hillside, then Istaph turned off the path and led Mansur towards a clump of thorn trees.
“They have camels,” he gasped.
As he said it two riders burst from the clump of trees. Mansur came up short and stood panting, gazing after them as they rode diagonally across the hillside below him. They passed not more than a pistol shot from where he stood. Their mounts were both beautiful racing camels and carried bulky saddlebags and waterbags for a desert crossing. They were ghostly in the silvery moonlight, moving away in uncanny silence towards the open desert.
In desperation Mansur bellowed after them, “Stop! In the Caliph’s name, I order you to halt!”
Both riders turned swiftly in their high saddles at the sound of his voice. They stared back at him. Mansur recognized them both. He had not seen the man with the European features, whom Istaph had called the ferengi, for some years. However, it was the Arab who commanded his attention. He had thrown the hood of his cloak upon his shoulders and, for a fleeting moment, the slanting rays of the moon struck full into his face. He and Mansur stared at each other for a heartbeat, then the Arab leaned forward over the neck of his camel and, with the long riding stick he carried, urged it into the long, elegant gait that covered the ground at an astonishing speed. His dark cloak billowed behind him as he whirled away down the valley with his ferengi companion riding hard behind him.
A shock of recognition and disbelief paralysed Mansur’s legs. He stood and stared after them. Then, black thoughts swirled through his head and seemed to batter his senses like the flapping wings of vultures, until at last he rallied himself. I must get back to my father and warn him of what is afoot, he thought. But he waited while the camels dwindled into the distance, flitting like moths across the moonlit landscape, and then were gone.
Mansur ran all the way. He had to stop in the shadow of the walls to regain his breath. Then he went on swiftly but quietly among the tents so as not to raise the alarm. There were two sentries at the door to the Caliph’s, but at a quiet word from Mansur they sheathed their swords and stood aside to let him pass. He went through into the inner chamber of the pavilion. A single oil lamp was burning on a metal tripod that shed a soft light.
“Father!” he called.
Dorian sat up from his sleeping mat. He wore only a light loincloth and his naked body was slim and muscled, like an athlete’s, in the lamplight. “Who is it?” he called.
“It is Mansur.”
“What ails you at this hour?” Dorian had recognized the urgency in his tone.
“There were two strangers in our camp this night. They were with Sir Guy.”
“Who were they?”
“I recognized them both. One was Captain Koots from the garrison at Good Hope, the man who pursued Jim across the wilderness.”
“Here in Oman?” Dorian came fully awake. “It does not seem possible. Are you certain?”
“I am even more certain of the other man. His face is graven upon my mind until the day I die.”
“Tell me!” Dorian commanded.
“It was the assassin, Kadem ibn Abubaker, the swine who murdered my mother.”
“Where are they now?” Dorian’s voice was harsh.
“They fled into the desert before I could confront them.”
“We must follow at once. We cannot let Kadem escape again.” The glazed pink knife-scar on Dorian’s chest caught the lamplight as he reached for his robes.
“They are mounted on racing camels,” Mansur answered. “We have none, and they were headed into the dunes. We can never hope to catch them in the sands.”
“Nevertheless we must try.” Dorian raised his voice and shouted for the guards.
The dawn was a lemon and orange glow in the eastern sky before bin-Shibam had gathered together a punitive party of his desert warriors and they were all mounted and ready to ride. They swept down the causeway from the camp to where Mansur had seen the fugitives disappear. The ground was sun-baked and stony and held no tracks of the camels passing, but they could not afford further time for the skilled huntsmen to search every inch.
With Mansur leading, they followed the direction in which Kadem had headed into the wilderness. Within two hours’ ride they saw the dunes rising ahead of them, in flowing and fantastic shapes. The slip faces down which the sand cascaded were blue and purple and amethyst in the early light. The crests were sharp and sinuous as the back of a gigantic iguana.
Here they found the tracks of two camels trodden into deep saucers in the liquid sand where they had climbed the first dune and disappeared over the crest. They tried to follow, but the horses sank over their hocks with each pace and, in the end, even Dorian had to admit that they were defeated.
“Enough, bin-Shibam!” he told the grizzled old warrior. “We cannot go on. Wait for me here.”
Dorian would not allow even Mansur to accompany him as he rode up the face of the next dune. His tired horse had to lunge upwards with each pace and only reached the crest with great effort. There he dismounted. From the sand valley below Mansur watched his father. He was a tall, lonely figure staring out into the desert with the early-morning breeze blowing his robes out behind him. He stood like that for a long time, then sank to his knees in prayer. Mansur knew he was praying for Yasmini, and his own sorrow for the loss of his mother welled up almost to suffocate him.
At last Dorian remounted and came down the dune with his stallion sliding in the soft-running sands on braced haunches and stiff front legs. He said not a word as he passed them, and rode on with his chin sunk on his chest. They fell in behind him and he led them back to Isakanderbad.
Dorian dismounted in the horselines and the grooms took his stallion. He strode to Sir Guy’s tent with Mansur close behind him. His intention was to confront his half-brother and disclose his true identity, to throw in his face the ancient memories of his vicious treatment of Tom, Sarah and himself as a child, and to demand from him a full explanation of the nocturnal and clandestine presence of Kadem ibn Abubaker in the camp.
Before he reached the tent he realized that things had changed during their absence. A party of strangers was gathered before the entrance. They all wore seafaring dress and were heavily armed. At their head was Captain William Cornish of the Arcturus. Dorian was so angry that he almost hailed him in English. With an effort he prevented his anger boiling over, but it simmered dangerously close to the surface.
Mansur followed close behind him as he stormed into the tent. Sir Guy and Verity stood in the centre of the room. They were in riding garb, and were deep in conversation. Both of them looked up, startled, at the precipitate entrance of the two grim-faced figures.
“Ask them what they want,” Guy said to his daughter. “Make them understand that this behaviour is insulting.”
“My father welcomes you. He hopes nothing is seriously amiss.” Verity was pale and seemed distraught.
Dorian made a perfunctory gesture of greeting, then glanced around the tent. The handmaidens were packing the last of Sir Guy’s possessions.
“You
are leaving?”
“My father has received tidings of the gravest import. He must return to the Arcturus and sail at once. He asks me to present his most sincere apologies. He tried to inform you of this change in his plans, but he was informed that you and your son had left Isakanderbad.”
“We were in pursuit of bandits,” Dorian explained, “but we are desolate that your honoured father must leave before we have reached an accord.”
“My father is also put out. He asks you to accept his thanks for the generosity and hospitality you have extended to him.”
“Before he leaves I would be most grateful for his assistance. We have learned that there were dangerous bandits in the camp last night. Two men, one an Arab, the other a European, perhaps a Dutchman. Did your father speak to these men? I have had a report that they were seen leaving this tent during the night.”
Sir Guy smiled at the question, but the smile was on his lips only and his eyes were cold. Verity said, “My father wishes to assure you that the two men who came to the camp last night were not bandits. They were the messengers who brought him the news that has necessitated his change of plans. They were with him for a short time only.”
“Does your father know these men well?” Dorian insisted. Sir Guy’s reply was without obvious guile.
“My father has never seen them before.”
“What were their names?”
“They did not give their names, nor did my father ask. Their names were of no interest or importance. They were merely messengers.”
Mansur was watching Verity’s face intently as she answered these questions. Her expression was calm, but there was a latent tension in her voice, and shadows in her eyes as though dark thoughts lurked in her mind. She avoided looking at Mansur. He sensed that she was lying, perhaps for her father’s sake and perhaps for her own.
“May I ask His Excellency the nature of the message they brought him?”
Sir Guy shook his head regretfully. Then he drew from his inner pocket a parchment packet that bore the heavily embossed royal coat-of-arms with the legend “Honi soit qui mal y pense” and two red wax seals. “His Excellency regrets that this is an official, privileged document. Any foreign power who attempted to seize it would be committing an act of war.”