Silence is Golden: Volume 3 (Storm and Silence Saga)

by Robert Thier

  ‘You may rely on me, Sir!’

  ‘Excellent.’ Hilt first, Alvarez handed the knife back to his underling. Cracking his knuckles menacingly, he turned on his heels and marched towards the door. ‘Until later, my friend. Say goodbye to any dreams you’ve ever had of fathering children.’

  The door closed.

  ‘Oddly enough,’ I remarked to the room at large, ‘fathering children has never really been part of my expectations in life.’

  My gaze drifted to the torturer, who was twirling the knife between his fingers, an evil, yellowish grin on his face. I sighed.

  ‘I suppose we had better get on with it, right?’ I spread my legs as far as my bonds would allow. ‘Stab away!’

  *~*~**~*~*

  About five minutes later, I stepped out of the cell, whistling and twirling a knife in one hand. This torturer had had an even more interesting reaction than the last one. When he had thoroughly perforated my self-made manhood, getting no more reaction from me than some mild comments about the weather, he had more or less lost it and started digging around with his hands, trying to find out what the hell was the matter with me.

  The sight - and smell! - of Uncle Bufford’s old socks must have been too much for him. He had very obligingly stumbled back, slipped, and hit his head on the stone floor. From there, it was a more or less simple matter to overturn the chair, grab the fallen knife and cut myself loose. True, I was a few bruises richer once more, but what was that compared to the knowledge of having done a good job? Nothing!

  Plus, I had carried one additional piece of booty off with me.

  ‘Hello, there, Sir!’ Grinning, I bent to look through the opening in the cell door. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Mr Linton? Is that you?’

  ‘In the flesh.’

  ‘And in a lot more besides! Where did you lay hands on that getup?’

  Glancing down at the uniform I was wearing, I flattened a few creases. ‘Oh, this old thing? That’s nothing. I got it from my jailor - along with a knife, and these keys.’ I held up a ring of keys, proudly.

  ‘Your jailors seem to be uncommonly accommodating, Mr Linton.’

  ‘What can I say? Charm. It’s all down to charm.’

  ‘Then why don’t you charm us out of here?’ came Karim’s growl from a few doors down.

  ‘I suppose if I ask what’s the magic word, I won’t get a “please” out of you, will I?’

  ‘Get a move on!’

  ‘Well, since you ask so nicely…’

  Two minutes later we were sneaking down the corridor of whatever hellhole we’d been thrown into this time. Mr Ambrose’s face was unreadable as ever, but Karim’s expression was expressive enough for both of them. Having his neck saved by a woman twice in one day was clearly going down like vinegar with pus and snail slime.

  ‘I heard Lieutenant Alvarez talking,’ I whispered, as we sneaked up the corridor, one ear open for any sudden noises.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The charming gentleman who knocked me over the head and locked us all in here.’

  ‘Ah. And what did he have to say for himself?’

  ‘That he wanted to search our belongings, and that they were in the refectory, whatever that means. I have no idea what kind of place this is.’

  ‘I do.’ Mr Ambrose pointed to a stain on the wall opposite. I squinted trying to make anything out, but…

  And suddenly it was clear! That was no stain! The image of the man was faded, and hardly recognisable, but the halo over his head was still pretty clear, and was ample clue to the identity of the individual.

  ‘A church, maybe,’ Mr Ambrose murmured. ‘Or more likely, an abandoned monastery. You said he used the term “refectory”?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know what that mean-’

  ‘I do. Come along.’

  On our way to our destination, we had some more friendly encounters with rebels. By the time we reached the refectory, both Mr Ambrose and Karim had acquired uniforms of the Piratini Republic, although Karim somewhat spoiled the effect by refusing to take off his turban.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ I tried to forestall an argument. ‘Maybe they’ll think he’s part of the Republic’s East Indian detachment.’

  Mr Ambrose threw me a dark look, and Karim mumbled something about needing help from a female.

  ‘Hey, I was only trying to be helpful. I-’

  ‘Quiet!’

  Raising one finger to his lips, Mr Ambrose slowly approached a large door at the end of the corridor. Reaching out, he pushed against the door, gently, almost tenderly. It moved, slowly, opening just a crack.

  ‘I don’t see him in there,’ Mr Ambrose whispered. ‘But there are three soldiers - and one of them has the manuscript.’ He glanced over at us. ‘We have to get it back. Without it, we might as well turn around and go home.’

  His face said clearly that this wasn’t an option.

  ‘Leave it to me.’ Karim stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. ‘I’ve been ambushed two times too many this day. I have scores to settle!’

  Before either of us could move a muscle, he had drawn his sabre and slipped into the room, silent as a gagged shadow that had taken a vow of silence. A moment later, we heard two thuds out of the refectory, followed by an ‘Ouff!’ - and then nothing.

  The door swung open, and Karim stepped out, carrying the manuscript in one big hand, and all our three backpacks in the other.

  ‘Do you have everything?’ Mr Ambrose demanded.

  ‘Yes, Sahib.’

  ‘Then let’s get out of here,’ I hissed. ‘Before they-’ I jutted my finger towards the refectory door, ‘-wake up!’

  The Mohammedan gave me a level look. ‘They won’t.’

  ‘Oh. You mean you, um…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, I think we should get out of here even faster. I haven’t gotten to know the dear Lieutenant Alvarez very well, but he doesn’t seem to me like a man who appreciates having his soldiers’ throats cut.’

  ‘For once Mr Linton,’ Mr Ambrose said, grabbing his knapsack, ‘I am in agreement. Let’s go!’

  Apparently, the glorious Army of the Piratini Republic wasn’t quite as well-staffed as the forces of imperialist oppression. They had only one guard outside the prison, and he was snoring, with a pipe hanging out the side of his mouth. Mr Ambrose didn’t even bother to knock him over the head.

  ‘Why waste time knocking him out and tying him up?’ Kicking open the stable door, he grabbed his packhorse by the bridle and pulled. ‘Now, if anyone comes along, he’ll report that he was watchful as an eagle the entire time, and didn’t see a single soul leave. Much more convenient for our purposes.’

  He dragged his horse to the stable door, then returned and gazed through a crack in the wall out over the open land.

  ‘Hm. There is a guard right between us and the jungle. Maybe, we could just get past him. We have their uniforms. Karim, if you were to take off your turban…?’

  ‘No, Sahib.’

  There was a moment of silence - this one so pregnant it would probably end in a disastrous miscarriage. ‘No’ was not a word in Mr Ambrose’s vocabulary. The moment stretched…and stretched…and maybe we would need a C-section after all.

  ‘I see.’ Mr Ambrose straightened. ‘Then keep behind us as much as possible. And…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Try to appear small.’

  I looked at the enormous, muscle-bound Mohammedan. If Mr Ambrose had asked he appear as a purple goblin with adorable little horns, that would have been more likely to succeed.

  ‘Yes, Sahib.’

  Leaving the stables, we began to move around the outbuildings, towards the jungle. Karim kept low, behind one of the horses, and for a giant mountain of muscle did a pretty good job of appearing not to exist. Only the occasional glimpse of the top of his turban over the packs on the horse’s back gave away his presence.

  We approached the guard with measured steps. He didn’t seem particul
arly suspicious. But then, I probably didn’t seem particularly nervous. But I was! Like hell I was! The sweat trickling down my forehead didn’t just come from the heat.

  ‘When we reach him, let me do the talking,’ Mr Ambrose whispered.

  ‘Why? Because you’re the man in charge?’

  ‘No! Because I know more Portuguese than the words for “stinking bastard” and “son of a goat”!’

  Undeniably true. But it still chafed, being told to keep my mouth shut.

  As we came closer, the guard’s brow furrowed, and he shouted something, pointing to the horses. Damn! Had he recognised them? If we had stumbled across one of the party who had taken us, we were finished.

  ‘Sim, são os cavalos dos presos. Você pensou que eles iam ficar por aí parados? Disseram-nos para levá-los para o batalhão do leste.’[14]

  The soldier’s frown deepened.

  ‘Mas não há batalhão para o les-’

  Mr Ambrose struck. He leapt forward so suddenly I didn’t even manage to blink before he had his knife at the guard’s throat.

  ‘Silêncio!’ he hissed.

  All right, even I understood that.

  The guard’s eyes were as wide as saucers. ‘Imperialistas!’

  Hey - another word I’d understood! I was getting really good at Portuguese.

  Roughly, Mr Ambrose pulled the guard towards him, the dagger digging into the man’s skin. ‘Não é bem assim. Mas se você mover um músculo ou dizer uma única palavra, você é um homem morto!’

  All right…maybe I still had a little bit to learn before I mastered the language.

  ‘What did you just say to him?’ I hissed.

  ‘I told him to shut his face! And I’d advise you to do the same, if you want us to stay alive. Hand me that rope!’

  We made quick work of binding and gagging the man, leaving him among the tall grass, out of sight. Mr Ambrose made a point of mentioning to Karim, in distinctly audible Portuguese, that we were going east. Hopefully, this time, the ploy would work. We could only hope that there wasn’t a third or a fourth warring faction in this crazy jungle into whose hands we could fall.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Taking hold of his horse’s reins again, Mr Ambrose dashed forward. ‘We’ve wasted enough time!’

  As fast as we could without actually running, we made our way towards the trees. I was convinced I could feel the eyes of patrols digging into my neck. If they spotted Karim between the horses, our disguise wouldn’t be worth a farthing! At every moment, I expected shouts to echo over the open space behind us, expected shots to ring out - but nothing came.

  When the shadow of the forest swallowed us, I could hardly believe it. Could it really be true? Could we actually have made it?

  Slipping into a gap between two giants of trees, I felt the imaginary eyes of the patrols behind us leave my neck. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

  Yes! Huzzah! We’re safe!

  Or at least that’s what I thought at the time.

  I hadn’t really factored in that the ‘safe place’ we were running into was the deepest darkest heart of the Amazonian Jungle.

  Really Hot Jungle Heat

  Tell me, what do you think the jungle is like? Do you imagine monkeys swinging cheerfully from branch to branch, bananas and pineapples hanging plentifully from every branch that happens not to be occupied by swinging monkeys, and the majestic ruins of ancient heathen civilisations rising out of the misty tangle of trees?

  Well, if you think that, you’re completely barmy.

  The jungle is dirty. The jungle is moist. But there’s one thing the jungle is most of all. This aspect of the jungle is so absolutely jungle-ish that all experienced junglers will confirm its essential jungleness. Above all else, the jungle is utterly, completely and totally hot.

  I mean really hot.

  Put-the-pot-on-Lucifer,-I-want-to-boil-some-souls-in-hell hot.

  Don’t get me wrong. It had been hot out on the river, and during our first day of travel through the jungle. Besides, I had travelled through the deserts of Egypt, so I was by no means unused to hot temperatures.

  However, I was unused to being boiled alive.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ panting heavily, I raised my hand to wipe the sweat off my forehead - only to have more pour down out of the wild tangle that had once been my hair. ‘And I mean that literally! How can it be this hot in here? I thought the desert was supposed to be hot!’

  ‘High humidity,’ Mr Ambrose’s curt voice explained. He was marching in front, and Karim behind. I would have objected to being squashed in the middle like a little girl between her guardians, if I had any energy left to argue with. ‘The higher the humidity, the hotter human senses perceive it to be.’

  ‘Perceive it to be? You mean it’s not really this hot?’

  ‘Exactly. Your body is a fallible animal. Simply ignore its false information.’

  ‘Oh, thanks so much! That’s a great help!’

  ‘You are welcome, Mr Linton.’

  I managed to go on for about a dozen yards more before I collapsed. Through the haze that lay over my vision, I saw Mr Ambrose stop and turn.

  ‘In case there was a miscommunication, Mr Linton,’ a voice informed me which, even in this climate, somehow, miraculously managed to be cold as ice, ‘we are not stopping for the night yet. Because, as you might have noticed, it isn’t night yet. Get up!’

  ‘Pfft…!’ I said.

  ‘Mr Linton!’

  ‘Ffff…fff…Pfft…!’

  ‘Am I to infer from your excessive panting that you do not have the wherewithal to continue?’

  ‘Pff…pff…’

  Cold eyes swept over me, sending a much-needed chill down my back. Oooh….. wonderful! Bloody wonderful! Mr Ambrose was better than an ice pack! Somehow, I found the strength to raise my head and look at him, standing above me in all his perfect, untouchable glory. There was hardly a hint of sweat on his face, damn him! There was probably enough ice in his heart to keep him nice and cool.

  ‘I’m not weak, darn you! This is inhuman! Nobody can manage this!’

  ‘Indeed?’ He cocked his head, the hard planes of his chiselled face casting shadows in the twilight. ‘I seem to be managing. And so, believe me, do the numerous native tribes living in this jungle.’

  ‘There are people living in this hell? Of their own free will?’

  ‘Indeed there are.’

  ‘How do they stand it?’

  He shrugged, and turned away. ‘Unlike you, they are resilient. And I believe they wear somewhat less clothing than you or I. Now, are you going to get up, or will I have to drag you up?’

  I opened my mouth to throw an expletive at him - but before I could, it came.

  The idea.

  The inspiration.

  I had no clue where it had come from. This certainly wasn’t the best climate for creative thought. But it had come, and it was a whopper. Without doubt the best, most brilliant idea I had ever had in my entire life. Better than painting a smiley on the butt of my uncle’s trousers. Better than fighting for women’s rights. Better even than trying solid chocolate.

  I smiled.

  ‘All right. I’ll get up.’

  And I’ll get you for this! Drag me up indeed! Ha! You just wait! Revenge is on its way…!

  Grabbing a nearby sapling, I managed to haul myself to my own two feet. They didn’t really feel like my own anymore, rather like random appendages some not-particularly-talented craftsman had stuck to my legs. Every muscle in my body was aching now, even those I should, technically, not be using for walking. But somehow, I got myself vertical again and, calling on all my feminist fortitude, started setting one foot before the other.

  You can do this! You can show him - in the literal sense of the word!

  And so I trudged along, biding my time. I waited until Karim had stopped grumbling. I waited until Mr Ambrose was fully concentrated on the path ahead again. For almost half an hour I walked and waited - then I put my pla
n into action!

  The first sign the two of them got that something was out of the ordinary, was the subtle noise of cloth sliding over cloth. Mr Ambrose didn’t bother to look around. But Karim, ever the attentive watchdog, looked up sharply and-

  He made a strangled noise in his throat.

  I smiled.

  Mr Ambrose must have either heard the noise or sensed my smile, because he turned around and, when his gaze fell on me, stiffened like a rod of iron.

  ‘What do you think you are doing, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Why, removing some unnecessary clothing, of course, Sir.’ Smiling, I slid the rest of the way out of my tailcoat and let it hang loosely from one hand, swinging back and forth. ‘Thanks so much for giving me the idea, by the way.’

  ‘I? I did nothing of the sort!’

  ‘Of course you did. Don’t you remember?.’ Stowing the tailcoat away in my backpack, I drew in a deep breath of air. Ah! Much better! Now, the only thing I was wearing over my clingy, sweat-soaked linen shirt was my peacock vest - a fact that Mr Ambrose seemed to be noticing, too. ‘You said the natives do it, didn’t you?’

  ‘True.’ Cold and hard as opals, Mr Ambrose’s eyes slowly rose where they had been lingering on the shirt clinging to my body. ‘But there are two important differences between you and a native of South America, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir?’

  He took a step towards me. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Linton! Firstly: you are English!’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  Another step. His dark eyes bored into mine - and then flicked, so fast I almost didn’t catch it, to the rest of me, taking everything in. ‘And secondly: they don’t work for me.’

  ‘How disappointing for you. Haven’t you opened a branch down here yet?’

  A noise erupted from his throat, somewhere between a growl and the grinding of stone on stone. He looked at me for a moment, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally - then whirled around, and gave a curt shrug. ‘Fine! If you wish to run around the jungle without your tailcoat, Mr Linton, be my guest. But be warned that such improper attire will not be tolerated in my office.’

  ‘Of course not, Sir.’ I purred.