Freedom's Banner

by Freedom's Banner (retail) (epub)

  Hannah, with great care, looked anywhere but at Harry.

  They accepted gifts, message and, perforce, invitation, with apparently equal pleasure. Already the ship was besieged; sellers of silks and sellers of antiquities, vendors of cheap beads and scarabs, donkeys and donkey-boys, guides, beggars and half-naked, screaming children had gathered along the bank and in a flock of small feluccas around them. Ali, quiet and deferential, bowed a little. ‘You will excuse me?’ Not awaiting a reply he turned, screeching like a turkey-cock. The small bodyguard who awaited him in military order upon the quay immediately drew short whips from their belts and proceeded to strike about them with indiscriminate savagery, driving the importuning crowd back.

  ‘Oh, please!’ Hannah began, shocked. Ali turned back, bowing a little, smiling unctuously. ‘Don’t worry, lady. All has been arranged. Today you rest. Tomorrow you see the temple and the ruins of ancient Thebes. The next day we take donkeys and go to El Kamak. All is arranged, lady, all is arranged. If you wish to ride to the Tombs of the Kings that, too, can be arranged.’

  ‘I – thank you.’ Bemused, Hannah nodded.

  Laila was pinning the gift from her father, a small, jewelled brooch, upon the breast of her silk robe. ‘Harry, would you help me, please? I can’t fasten this.’

  Harry bent to help her. Ali abd Ela watched, his face suddenly totally expressionless. Then he saluted. ‘I leave you now. Please – anything you need, you simply ask. Ladies. Sir.’ He bowed slightly to Hannah and Harry, deeper and with obsequious respect to Laila. ‘Anything can be arranged. Anything.’

  * * *

  It was late afternoon before Harry could get away. He had mentioned his conversation with Sheldon Rainsford to no-one, not even to Abdo. Too many times before such information had led him on nothing but a wild goose chase; this time he would check it out himself first. Abdo could be brought in later if necessary. Hannah and Laila were aboard the Ra taking afternoon tea with the Rainsfords, most of the crew were ashore with the dragoman, resupplying the galley, or asleep in the shade of the lower deck. Harry settled his wide-brimmed hat upon his head, picked up the stick he still used to walk any distance and strolled unconcernedly, the very picture of the idle tourist, down the gangplank towards the eager crowd that, undeterred by Ali abd Ela’s whips, had regathered on the bank.

  ‘Here, Mister, here! Best donkey in Luxor! God save the Queen!’

  ‘Donkey for Lord, here – donkey for King! Fastest donkey, Mister!’

  ‘Scarabs, Sir – you want scarabs? Bring good luck.’

  Harry waved them away, grabbed an urchin of nine or ten years. ‘You know the Fountain of Lilies?’

  The boy grinned, and the scabbed sore at the corner of his mouth cracked. ‘I know, Effendi.’

  ‘Good.’ Harry felt in his pocket, tossed a coin. ‘Take me there.’ At sight of the money the begging children had surged forward again, shrieking at an earsplitting pitch. Harry tossed a few more coins into the crowd and hurried after his small guide as a murderous scramble ensued.

  Luxor was not a very big town, nor was it any great commercial centre, its main attractions being its situation, surrounded as it was by a rich and fertile plain studded with palm groves, pastures and green, productive fields, and the access it gave to the ruins of one of the most famous cities of the ancient world. The boy led Harry through dusty streets to a narrow archway that gave onto the inevitable souk, though he was quick to see that there was nothing here to compare with the great bazaars of Cairo or Benisuef. Yet still there was plenty of life, even at this time in the afternoon. A string of camels, heavily loaded with some lush greenstuff, picked their disdainful way through the booths and stalls, groups of robed and turbaned men stood talking or squatted about the communal hookah upon the ground, involved in the ever-fascinating rounds of bargaining. Women swathed in the silk robe called the habarah paced past with beguiling dignity, dark eyes gleaming at the sight of a stranger, baskets and boxes balanced gracefully upon dark, draped heads, bare shapely feet firm and brown in the dust. Children and dogs, each as mischievous and undisciplined as the other, scavenged singly or in packs, tripping the unwary, stealing what they could, begging what they could not.

  The boy turned out of the main thoroughfare and down an alley. The hubbub died behind them. Dust filtered through the air, gleaming in sunshine, swirling in shadow. The stench was suffocating. Harry resisted the urge to reach for his handkerchief.

  ‘Here, Effendi. Fountain of Lilies.’

  The fountain was set into a long, blank wall, two or three storeys high, at a spot where one alleyway stood at an angle to another. Harry could see no obvious reason for the name; on the contrary, anything less lily-like he had rarely seen. Unusually in this country where the courteous provision of sweet water to a passing stranger was considered an essential duty, the trough was scummed and stinking, the flow of water a slimy trickle. Harry looked around, remembering the instructions Rainsford had given him. A short way down the second alley was a wrought-iron gate, leading to a courtyard. He reached into his pocket, tossed a coin to the lad. The boy grabbed it, shot him a single, curious look from bright, dark eyes and was gone, flitting like a ragged shadow around the corner, silent on bare feet.

  Harry stood for a moment, rapidly reviewing the story he had invented to cover this visit; an uncle in England interested in importing Egyptian antiquities that were becoming so very fashionable at home – a chance recommendation from a dealer in Cairo – it was thin, but all he could manage. In Egypt, and especially in Luxor, one could be forgiven for imagining anyone in commerce to be either in or ready to join the lucrative business of exporting those artefacts for which Europeans were ready to pay so well. He brushed off his jacket, straightened his cuffs and walked briskly, stick clicking in time with his footsteps, to the gate.

  It stood open, and the dirt courtyard beyond was empty.

  Harry pulled the rusty bell chain. Distantly there came a cracked clatter, then silence.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘Hello?’ He pushed through the gate and into the courtyard. The air was warm, the shadows as dark as the sun was brilliant. ‘Hello, there? Anyone home?’ In the quiet he heard the distant sounds of the market, the sudden trill of a songbird.

  He walked to the only door in the yard, pushed it open and after only a moment’s hesitation stepped through. He was standing in a warehouse, cool and cavernous. Carpets were everywhere, in rolls and in stacks, hanging from beams, draped over racks; the distinctive, pungent smell of them caught at his throat. After a moment his eyes adjusted to the gloom; the place was lit only by several long narrow windows high up in one wall. There was not the slightest sound. On quiet feet he began to explore.

  There were thousands, possibly tens of thousands, of carpets and rugs, clear evidence of innocent and profitable trade. He poked about, squeezed between the stacks, searched through pile after pile only to find carpets and yet more carpets. If this place was used as a staging post for the smuggled guns it was hard to tell where they might be kept. Meticulously, yard by yard Harry searched, and found nothing. The air was chokingly stuffy. Sweat trickled uncomfortably beneath his shirt. He followed aisle after aisle. The sun, moving to the west, struck suddenly through the high windows, lighting the dust motes with gold. He was ready to give up and admit to yet another dead end when something caught his attention. He was standing in a wider aisle that led through the inevitable stacks of carpets; yet something was different. It took a moment for him to see what it was. Most of these carpet alleys ended in bare, whitewashed wall, but at the end of this one a large and beautiful carpet hung, suspended from a wooden bar. He walked to it, drew it aside. It slid quietly; and in the wall that was revealed stood a door.

  A locked door.

  Harry put his shoulder to it. It budged not an inch. He looked around, could see nothing with which to force it. Frustrated, he shouldered it again, to absolutely no avail. With renewed energy he began to search; this time for something, a
nything, that might get him through that door. It took him ten precious minutes to find it: a long, jemmy-like piece of metal that was part of one of the racks upon which were draped a variety of prayer mats. He wrenched it free and returned to the door. Four or five minutes later the jamb splintered at last, and the door swung easily open. He straightened, sweating, the metal bar still in his hand, and found himself looking into a vast, low-ceilinged space, hot as an oven and dim as the shades of night. The only inlets for light or air were two tiny barred grilles set far apart and near the ceiling. There was a lingering stench upon the air that made his stomach roil uncomfortably.

  He tossed his wide-brimmed hat aside, picked up his walking stick and stepped through the door, looking about him, a fierce mixture of anger and disgust welling in him like sickness as he took in his surroundings. There could be no doubt; the place was a slave-pen. At intervals of perhaps three or four feet around the walls hung heavy chains, three to each station, one holding an iron collar, the other two what were obviously metal wrist restraints. Other, longer chains, also with collars and handcuffs attached, were piled in heaps by the wall.

  Sheldon Rainsford’s words were clear in his brain: ‘Find the slavers, and you’ve found your gun runners. They are one and the same.’

  Irresistible, hostile rage was rising. It blurred his vision. He shook with it.

  Harry lifted one of the neck fetters, weighing it in his hand; the dead, terrible weight of subjugation and bondage. With a sudden, convulsive movement he hurled it from him, caring nothing for the noise.

  Had his father’s people allowed themselves to be taken like this – dragged in chains – confined in airless holes like animals – caged, beaten, humiliated, stripped of their dignity, of their very identity?

  Was this his heritage?

  ‘No,’ he said, aloud. And then again, ‘No!’

  About him was silence. Sweat dripped from his jaw, ran, stinging, into his eyes. He ran a tense hand through his damp hair, took a couple of long, slow breaths, forcing himself to be calm. Every moment of every day since Mattie had finally told him the brutal truth of his parentage, he had fought against the knowledge. In the darkest hours of the darkest nights he had felt it in his blood, like an ineradicable stain; humiliation, degradation, shame. Looking at these instruments of enslavement he felt not compassion, but an overwhelming rage, a fierce contempt; an echo, in his own heart, of dishonour.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, brought himself back to the purpose of the moment. ‘Find the slavers and you’ve found your gun runners.’ Was Rainsford right?

  His eye fell upon something in the far corner of the room: a coffin-like box, its lid splintered and discarded beside it. He moved swiftly. The box was empty, the bottom split and broken as if its contents had been too heavy for it. Upon the discarded lid was stamped an emblem: a scarab, common enough, but set within a lozenge, and between its claws a device something like the ancient hieroglyphs he had seen in the tombs he had visited with Hannah. He saw it for only a moment, registering its unexpected familiarity before a sound behind him spun him on his heels. The men were almost upon him, knives raised. All three wore Arab robes, their faces dark in the darker shadows of their hoods. Harry flung himself sideways, saw the dull gleam of the blade that flickered close to his eye, felt the burning as its razor sharpness caught his cheekbone. Ignoring the sudden ominous stab of pain in his wounded leg, he rolled and came upright, spinning to face his attackers, in his hand the long blade that had been encased in his walking stick. The burlier of the three never even saw it; the weight of his own lunge impaled him. Harry stepped back quickly, whipping the stained blade free. The man grunted and dropped. The other two drew back, arms extended, the wicked curved knives weaving. Step by step Harry retreated to the wall, the long, slender sword flickering back and forth. One of his attackers danced forward, slashing, then back before Harry could reach him. He stumbled a little, pain shooting through his leg. Blood dripped from his chin. He saw the gleam of teeth in a dark face as the taller of his assailants smiled. In menacing quiet and with obvious purpose they began to move apart, one to the right, one to the left of him. The arc of the blade became wider and wider. The men moved closer, watching for an opening, waiting for the chance to rush him. There was no sound but the sound of their breathing. Harry shifted his weight from his damaged right leg. The blade flickered, warily, again. The man he threatened gestured with his knife, distracting him, and as he did so the other ducked within his guard and slashed at his sword arm. Harry brought the blade whistling round, missing the man’s knife hand by an inch. As he did so, he saw movement. A tall, robed figure had slipped through the doorway. Harry flicked a glance, saw the raised arm, the quivering knife, flinched as the arm came down and the weapon flashed through the air, unerring as a bullet to its target. The smaller of his two assailants grunted, eyes wide. Blood flooded from his mouth. Harry stepped aside as, blindly, he groped, scratched at the wall with frantic fingers and slid to a bloody heap on the floor. There was a moment when all sound, all movement was suspended. Then the newcomer very calmly lifted his arm again, another slender throwing knife held between long dark fingers. Harry pushed himself away from the wall, sword point steady. With a roar his remaining attacker threw himself towards the door, shouldering the knife-thrower aside. They heard his blundering departure, the slam of the door.

  ‘I think,’ Abdo said, ‘it would be wise to follow his example and leave. You can walk?’

  ‘Yes.’ As if to give the stiff word the lie, Harry took a step, stumbled and all but fell. In one swift movement the other man was beside him, catching his arm to support him. Harry shook it free. ‘I’m all right. Abdo, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Perhaps explanations should wait.’ Coolly Abdo bent above the man he had killed and flicked back his hood. ‘Do you know him?’

  Harry brushed a hand against his cheek. It came away bright with blood. ‘No.’

  ‘This one?’

  Harry was silent for a moment, as at least one explanation fell into place. ‘This one, yes,’ he said quietly, looking down into the dead face of Sheldon Rainsford’s silent servant. ‘So much for the deafening properties of running water.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Hold still.’ Hannah lifted Harry’s chin with firm fingers. ‘This is going to hurt a little, I’m afraid.’

  Harry flinched as, with deft movements, she cleaned the cut on his face.

  ‘I still think you should report this to the authorities – or at the very least to the Consul. To be set upon by robbers in broad daylight!’

  ‘It was my own fault.’ Gingerly Harry moved his head, flexed the muscles of his face. ‘I went off on my own down a side alley – asking for trouble – ouch!’

  ‘Hang on. Nearly done. We can’t risk infection.’ Brisk and competent, she finished her task. ‘Now, let’s have a look at that arm.’

  Harry sat quietly under her ministrations. Abdo had gone into the town to telegraph to Cairo; reluctant as Harry was to risk having the colonel hand the case on to his professional intelligence men, still he had recognized the seriousness of the situation. Two men were dead. And although what little information Harry had managed to glean was mostly negative, there were Hannah and Laila to consider. The colonel had a right to know what had happened, and to decide what should be done. Harry hoped fervently, if a trifle optimistically, that Colonel Standish would agree that he should continue his investigations.

  ‘There. Fortunately neither was too deep.’ Hannah kept her voice cool and dispassionate. There was no need in the world for anyone to suspect the surge of horrified panic that had engulfed her at first sight of Harry’s white, bloodied face, the fluttering of her heart now as she considered the might-have-beens. She studied his face, touched his cheek again, very lightly. ‘There’ll be something of a scar, I’m afraid.’

  Harry shrugged, his eyes on the riverbank, watching for Abdo.

  ‘How did you
find me? How did you come to be there?’ he had asked as he had followed the other man through a maze of windowless mud alleys to the riverbank. At Abdo’s suggestion he had thrown the coarse, hooded robe of the bigger of his two assailants over his stained and dishevelled European clothes, and thus too hidden the bloody slash on his face.

  Abdo had moved protectively closer as two men, talking volubly, came towards them and passed without a glance. ‘I followed you.’

  ‘Why?’

  The glimmer of a smile flickered upon the black, handsome face. ‘Was I not asked by Standish Bey to protect you? How can I do that if you roam alone? Unfortunately I lost you for a while in the bazaar. It was some time later that I found the boy who guided you to the fountain and – persuaded – him to tell me where he had taken you.’

  ‘A bloody good job for me that you did.’ Harry flicked a swift look at him. ‘Where did you learn to throw a knife like that? Handy sort of trick!’

  Again the smile. ‘You’d like me to teach you?’

  ‘That I would.’

  They had walked on in silence for a moment. ‘You saved my life,’ Harry said, quietly, ashamed of his own awkwardness. ‘Thank you.’

  The other man shook his head. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Not to me it isn’t.’