Trade Wind

by M. M. Kaye

  Batty had improvised a crowbar and they carried the first load down through the tree shadows and the winding, overgrown paths of the garden, and carefully lifted the tangled mass of bougainvillæa that curtained the entrance to a ruined stone cell. The stone had settled back into place and blown dust had lodged in the crack down which the coin had slipped, providing a foothold for a crop of toadstools. It had not been as easy to lift as Rory remembered, but it had moved at last, and disclosed a black space that ran back under the wall and appeared to be partly cut out of the rock on which the fortress had been built.

  They had made a good many trips, for the ingots were heavy; and when the last of them had been thrown into the darkness they replaced the stone and filled the crack with earth, and scattered dirt and rotting vegetation over it. Rory looked thoughtfully at the recess and said: “We could fill that in, you know. That would make it safer. Or better still, fit a stone slab in the bottom of it with mortar, to make it look as though there had always been a step there. Something must have stood there once, and there are plenty of those stone blocks lying around the place still. But that’ll do for the moment.”

  They let the bougainvillæa drop back and screen the doorless entrance again, and Batty said “You don’t ‘ave to worry. The next time it rains the ‘ole place’ll be a mess of green again, and things grows so fast in this “eat that in ‘arf an hour no one’ll ever know you been near it.’ He stumped away up the crushed-shell paths, and gaining the house again, washed his hands with elaborate thoroughness as though he feared that some particle of the gold might have adhered to them to bring him ill luck. “You take my advice and leave it there and forget it,” growled Batty, but without hope.

  “You ought to know I never take advice,” retorted Rory with a grin. “Stop wailing like a banshee, Batty. There’s nothing for you to get worried about. Since you won’t take any of the stuff, you’re quite safe from ghosts and curses, and as I don’t believe in either they aren’t likely to harm me. Try and look a little cheerful and realize that I’ve made my fortune.”

  “Hmm. If ‘e lets you get away with it. And I don’t mean that witchdoctor, neither. ‘Oo’s to say the Sultan won’t go changing ‘is mind and want it all back again? Seems to me ‘e ‘ands it to you werry careless-like last night.”

  “He could well afford to. You ought to see what he kept! He regards that stuff down there as mere chicken-feed.”

  “Maybe ‘e does. But what ‘appens when ‘e’s spent ‘is lot, or lost it? I wouldn’t trust ‘im a yard; not once ‘e’s wasted ‘is share on riotous livin.’”

  Rory laughed, but the laugh ended in a frown, and he said: “It’s a thought. Batty. There’s more solid sense in that head of yours than one would suspect. I’ll make a point of visiting His Highness before he starts to think over things too deeply, and get him to put it in writing—just in case of trouble. We’ll start as soon as Daud gets back.”

  The caretaker had returned shortly before sunset and had helped saddle the horses and fetch the pack ponies, and it was as they were riding along the road toward Beit-el-Ras that Rory pulled a handkerchief out of his breeches pocket, and something that he had wrapped in it, and forgotten, flashed in the last ray of the setting sun and fell into the caking mud of the roadway.

  He reined in, and Batty, following suit, dismounted and retrieved it. “Where did you get this?” enquired Batty, swinging the fragile trifle in one homy hand.

  Rory leaned down and took it from him without replying. He had forgotten all about the necklace, and now he sat silent, swinging it from one finger and admiring the delicacy of the goldsmith’s work and the artistry that had frosted it with seed-pearls and fringed it with leaves and blossoms of topaz and tourmaline. It was a lovely thing and would become Zorah’s fragile beauty far better than the magnificent and infinitely more valuable ones in diamonds, emeralds and rubies would have done.

  Batty spoke again, and in a sharper voice: “I said, where did yer get it?”

  “This? Oh—same place.”

  “Ho! Prigged it when ‘e weren’t looking, did you?”

  “No, I did not, blast you! What the hell do you take me for?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first thing you’d lifted,” retorted Batty, unimpressed. “Nor yet the last, if I knows you!” He scrambled back into the saddle and kicked his horse into a gentle trot. “I thought you told me that ‘Is ‘Ighness took all the jools and such-like stuff.”

  “So he did: but I took a fancy to this, and as it isn’t particularly valuable he let me have it.”

  “What you want a thing like that for?”

  “To give to Zorah.”

  “You never!” Batty’s leathery face paled and he leant from the saddle and made a grab at the necklace.

  Rory snatched it away and returning it to his pocket said irritably: “Don’t be a fool Batty, you’ll break it.”

  “Give it me, Captain,” pleaded Batty, his eyes bright and frightened and his voice hoarse with anxiety: “Let me ‘ave it. I’ll—I’ll buy it off you, honest I will.”

  For God’s sake. Batty, what is all this? This isn’t part of the gold,” said Rory, impatient and suddenly exasperated. “And anyway, she didn’t have anything to do with taking it; this’ll be a gift.”

  “It’s bad luck,” insisted Batty stubbornly. “‘Ow can you give it to ‘er when you knows there’s bad luck on it? You give it me and I’ll buy you something just as pretty. Give you my word I will.”

  Rory scowled at him, but abandoning his intention of cursing Batty in a manner that would have put the late warlock’s efforts in the shade, laughed instead, and urged his horse to a gallop. The matter was not mentioned again, but Batty’s face remained surly and troubled and he relapsed into a silence that was anything but companionable. And as the sunset faded and the swift green twilight closed down upon the Island he glanced over his shoulder more than once, as though he feared that the witch-doctor’s demons might be padding after them in the dusk.

  Beit-el-Ras was already falling into ruins, for like so much Arab work it had been left unfinished, and Majid seldom went there; preferring his city palace or the home of his childhood, Beit-el-Motoni. Wind, rain and heat, damp and neglect, had been hard at work on its walls and windows and rabbit-warren of rooms, until now even the kindly light of candles and oil lamps could not disguise the fact that its day would soon be over. But in the wing at present occupied by the Sultan something of its old magnificence remained, for here silken hangings disguised damp-stains and flaking plaster, the floors were strewn with carpets from Tabriz and Samarkand, while lamps burning perfumed oil stood on tables of ebony and sandalwood inlaid with ivory, silver, or mother-of-pearl.

  Half-a-dozen huge wooden chests, carved, polished, and ornamented with brasswork and heavy bronze locks, stood ranged against one wall, and Majid himself was seated cross-legged upon a pile of Persian rugs, supporting himself on a gold-embroidered bolster and several cushions, and engaged in admiring a selection of richly jewelled daggers. He nodded affably to Rory, and waving him to a similar pile of cushions a few feet away, said: “You will eat with me, and we will talk later.”

  The meal had been long and elaborate, and when it had been cleared away Majid belched comfortably and relaxing against the cushions, began once more to toy with the daggers; turning them this way and that so that the lamplight struck brilliant sparks of red, green and violet light from the diamonds, and woke the pigeon’s-blood rubies to baleful life.

  “I see that you at least are not afraid,” remarked Rory, watching him.

  “Of the Mchawi’s’s curse?” Majid examined the setting of a carved emerald with careful attention, and then said slowly: “Yes—and no. For you see, he had put a magic on that hiding-place for its safe keeping, yet we two were able to enter and to remove these things without harm, and his spells did not prevent us. So I have thought that because I am my father’s heir, and he must surely have meant me to know where his treasure lay hid so that if need
arose I might make what use of it I pleased, the magic was powerless against me. And if that is so the curse will be also, since why should my father have wished to withhold his riches from me, who by his wish succeeded him?”

  “So you think that absolves you from any evil consequences?”

  “I believe that it may. That is why I say ‘No, I am not afraid.’ But I also say ‘Yes, I am,’ because I have a fear that such a man can wish evil for its own sake, and so perhaps ill fortune may fall upon me.”

  “But you consider these jewelled things are worth it?”

  Majid made a gesture of negation. “It is because I know full well that evil awaits me on either path. If I let the treasure lie, I reap evil from my people and the pirates and my brother Thuwani—because I have no money. But with a small part of these things I can buy relief from all three, and much pleasure for myself. Therefore I accept the lesser evil.”

  Rory grinned and said: “That seems simple enough. But what about me? No reason why the Mchawi’s familiars shouldn’t get to work on me.”

  “None,” agreed Majid placidly.

  Rory laughed in genuine amusement and said: “And you don’t give a damn either—not as long as you’re all right. And why should you? I don’t myself. I haven’t seriously believed in wizards and warlocks in the past, and I don’t intend to start now. Not if it means giving up my share of the loot. I’m sticking to that. But there’s something else I want from Your Highness.”

  “Another necklace?” enquired Majid doubtfully.

  “No, I want a paper from you, signed and sealed, to say that the gold is a payment, or a free gift, to Captain Emory Frost of the Virago, in return for services rendered to the State. Will you grant me that?”

  “Assuredly. But why? You have the gold.”

  “At the moment. But there may come a time when others may contest my right to it.”

  “It may be that you are right. I will give you such a paper: my scribes shall prepare it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve prepared one myself,” said Rory blandly. “I thought it would save time. It’s in Arabic, with an English translation just to be on the safe side. All it needs is your signature and seal, and your thumb-print to make it really water-tight.”

  He drew a folded sheet of parchment out of his breast pocket and handed it over to the Sultan, who read it with interest and complimented him on his Arabic script Rory bowed his acknowledgement and the Sultan clapped his hands to summon a slave and, when the materials were brought, signed his name with a reed pen, pressed his thumb-print below it, and watched while the royal seal was applied to the foot of the paper. “Are you now satisfied, my friend?” he enquired, handing it back.

  “Entirely, thank you. I like to make sure of things: whenever it’s possible.”

  “And now that you are sure, perhaps you will grant me a favour in return; yes?”

  Rory looked up quickly, the shadow of a frown between his blond brows: “What is it? you know I will if I can.”

  “Oh, it is nothing difficult,” said Majid airily, “but I should be pleased if you could take your ship to Dar-es-Salaam where as you know they are building me a new palace, which I can now afford to complete, and see how the work progresses.”

  He stopped, as though that was all that he meant to say, and picking up a short, curved dagger with a hilt that was a parrot’s head fashioned from emeralds, affected to be interested in the design.

  Rory said: “And?”

  Majid smiled and tossed the dagger away: “You know me too well, it seems.”

  “Well enough to know that you would not bother to send me on such a trivial errand if that was all there was to it,” said Rory dryly. “What is it you want?”

  “Information. I have heard that a certain Hajji, one Issa-bin-Yusuf, who is a much respected man and has a house within a mile of where my palace is being built, is in league with these Gulf pirates, and that it is he who gives them their information as to the number of slaves they may find here, and whether it is worth their while to buy or steal. Also which households possess young slaves and well-looking children, and which are well guarded and dangerous to plunder, and which are not If this is true, and not a lying rumour spread by his enemies, then he will know of you as one who has also dealt in slaves, and you may approach him in that manner.”

  “And if it is true?”

  “Find out if the raiders will come this year, and how soon, and what they will take to leave this island in peace and buy or steal their slaves elsewhere. See, I will give you this—”

  He thrust a hand under the cushions and produced a small brass-bound box, and opening it, spilt its contents on to the carpet: a dazzle of cut and uncut gems that lay in a pool of light, twinkling and glowing with colour. Diamonds, emeralds, balas and pigeon’s-blood rubies, amethysts, sapphires, alexandrites and opals. And among them a dozen pearls of a size, lustre and purity of colour that Rory had never seen equalled.

  “It should prove enough, I think, to persuade them to go elsewhere,” said Majid, thoughtfully appraising the value of the lovely fragments of colour. “But there is no need to show them all, since half may be enough. That I will leave to you.”

  Rory sat looking at them in silence, and Majid watched him anxiously and gave a small sigh of relief—or was it regret?—when at last he reached out a hand, and sweeping them together, restored them to their box and closing the lid said: “I’ll see what I can do. But isn’t there something that you haven’t taken into account?”

  “That you might keep them?”

  “Well, there is that,” grinned Rory, “though it wasn’t what I was thinking of just then. Doesn’t it occur to you that the sight of these stones may serve to whet their appetites, and that they may take them and then come over here to see if they can’t get a few more? If they think you have any more.”

  Majid pondered, pulling his lip and frowning, and at last he said; “If you sat in my place, what would you do?”

  Rory grinned at him. “That’s a darned silly question, when I’ve told you often enough what I’d do.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Majid impatiently. “’Fight them! Do not permit them to land. Send out ships to meet them and to fire upon them if they will not turn back!‘ I have heard the like for too long, and again I tell you that it is foolishness. If I could not persuade my soldiers to advance against my brother’s supporters at Marseilles, though I placed myself at their head and the guns of the English had broken down the gates for them, how do you think I can spur them to fight these pirates of whom they are even more afraid? Besides, too many of my people here sell them slaves for good money.”

  Rory shrugged and said: “In that case, if I may say so, your people here deserve everything they get, and until they are prepared to do something about defending themselves and their property, I’d leave them to take the consequences. After all, you’re all right: they don’t touch the Palace.”

  “No. But when they have gone the people are angry, and it is I whom they blame for permitting such raids. As though I could stop three thousand men and more with my two hands! Allah, what foolishness! And what if these pirates become too vain-glorious and fire the town, as they have threatened to do before now? My Palace might bum too, and trade would be destroyed and the revenues dry up. We should be ruined! So do not let us have any more talk of fighting them.”

  “Or of bribing them to stay away, either. Unless you can trust them to abide by their bond once they have those gems in their hands. Can you do that?”

  “No,” admitted Majid gloomily. “They are the sons of jackals and she-devils, and good faith is not in them.”

  He reached for the box, and thrusting it back again under the cushions, said: “You advise me then to submit?”

  Rory gave a short laugh: “That’s something I wouldn’t advise my worst enemy to do! No, I’ve got a better idea.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and then at the curtained doorways, and Majid, interpreting the look, clapped his han
ds and gave a brief order to the servant who answered the summons, and when the doors had been closed said: “Now they will not hear, so you may speak freely. What is this better idea that you have?”

  Rory lowered his voice to an undertone and spoke softly and to the point, and when he had finished the Sultan’s smile became a chuckle, and finally a full-throated laugh:

  “My friend,” said the Sultan. “My very dear friend, you are a son of Eblis and the father of cunning, and I will do as you say. You shall arrange it for me. And if they come, you will send me warning? I would not wish to be unprepared.”

  “I will do that.’ Rory came to his feet and stood looking down at the plump, olive-skimmed man who sat cross-legged and chuckling on a throne of silken rugs and gold-fringed cushions, and was caught once again by that sudden and unpredictable sense of surprise. What was he, Emory Tyson Frost, son of Emory Frost of Lyndon Gables in the County of Kent, doing here in this outlandish setting? He laughed aloud, but at himself rather than with Majid, and saluting ceremoniously, turned and went away, walking with the slow unhurried stride that is the hallmark of Arabs and sea-faring men.

  The curtain lifted and fell again behind him, and presently the Sultan slid a hand under the cushions, and drawing out the box of jewels, opened it and fell to studying them once more with a deep sense of satisfaction and an admiration of their beauty and purity of colour that went far beyond his keen appreciation of their value in terms of money. Yes, his friend was entirely in the right. Why should it be only the Sultan of Zanzibar who was compelled to pay out large sums from his private purse to purchase immunity from the Gulf pirates? It was surely only fair that the townspeople (particularly the Banyan merchants and the rich Arab landlords, who owned many slaves and were the chief sufferers from such raids) should shoulder a share of the burden, since they appeared unwilling to defend their property at the risk of their lives.