Heart of Light (9 page)

“No problem at all,” Nigel said, and felt more than saw Emily relax. What had she thought, that he'd berate her for talking to a man to whom she'd not been introduced? “But what are you doing in Africa, Peter? What brings you to Cairo?”

Peter sighed and opened his hands, a show of charming artlessness. “I am here at my leisure, as you see.” He smiled, but his expression looked bitter. “I am a man of leisure.”

“Leisure?” Nigel said. He raised his eyebrows. “I always thought you'd go into law or the army, or . . .” The Farewells had an old and prestigious title, but hardly any money at all. The family house, to which Nigel had been invited often enough for holidays, was a large, ramshackle building. It had been the seat of Peter's family since the Norman invasion, and of the Farewells' once vast domains all it retained was a small park and a couple of ill-treated farms attached to it. All the rest had been sold or lost at the gaming tables or in exotic pleasures at specialized brothels, by Peter's grandfather, whose debauch had since become legendary.

Peter's father in turn had married a woman from a family of dubious ancestry, with little magic but much money. However, her dowry had been too little, too late, and failed to stop the drainage of Farewell's funds. They held on to those farms, but no one knew quite how they managed.

Peter colored a bright red and looked past Nigel's shoulder, at the middistance. “Ah . . . I tried law and army both, but neither would suit.”

Nigel was not sure what that meant. How could Peter survive in the absence of gainful employment? But he realized he'd trespassed upon Peter's feelings and private shame.

Emily said, in a small voice, “You know, the pyramids look fascinating—”

Peter cast Emily a grateful look, but said to Nigel, as though Emily hadn't spoken, “It doesn't signify. I am, as you see, on my own and unencumbered by any of those cares of the world that make beggars of us all. I've traveled to Greece and Rome, studied the world and history. And until I saw Mrs. Oldhall's face, I had never come across any reason to regret not having married or burdened myself with family.”

The look that Peter gave Emily was so full of earnest admiration that, for the first time Nigel felt as though he were the victor in the unspoken competition. He grinned, feeling absurdly happy—forgetting that his marriage remained unconsummated and that the mission that had brought him to Cairo had just suffered unexpected tribulations.

“But I should let you be,” Peter said. “I am not, after all, such a bad sport that I would interrupt another fellow's honeymoon.” He smiled disarmingly at both Nigel and Emily, and rose. “If you'll excuse me.”

“No, stay,” Nigel said, at the same time that Emily began, “But, Mr. Farewell—”

Nigel added, “Stay. We had time together alone on our carpetship cruise here. And we'll have time alone again soon. We plan to see the pyramids. So, sit down, man, sit down.”

Peter sat down, with rather more willingness than he'd shown toward leaving. “You came in aboard
Victoria's Invicta
?”

“How did you know?”

“I heard it had just left from London. And you appear newly arrived.” He looked at Emily and bowed slightly. “I do not think it is possible for me to have been in a hotel with the lovely Mrs. Oldhall for more than a day without being aware of her presence.”

The comment disturbed Nigel, because Peter had never been a rake, never been obsessed with women. Yet his compliments to Emily seemed heavy indeed.

Nigel raised an eyebrow to his old friend, in silent inquiry that Peter pretended not to understand. “I hear that each of the rooms in that ship cost upward of a hundred thousand pounds to outfit.”

“Yes, it's very fine stuff,” Nigel said. “The best furniture and silk carpets and draperies.” He chuckled. “Better than at home.”

And for the next few minutes, they discussed the carpetships and the general flourishing of the flight trade between Britain and its colonies.

“A good thing for everyone,” Nigel said, “this far-flung trade. It makes the lot of the common man much easier.”

“Yes,” Peter said, but his eyes narrowed, as though he'd meant to say no. “Although it costs so much to that same common man.”

“Costs?” Nigel asked, quite at a loss for Peter's meaning.

“And, Mr. Farewell?” Emily asked at last. “You came to Africa aboard what ship?”

The question seemed to confuse Peter. He stopped, with his dark face and those eyes that had always seemed to Nigel as inscrutable as the mysterious center of any savage continent, turned toward Emily. His expression became suddenly opaque, as though a shutter had been closed across Peter's features. It did not cover his face, but it made his emotions and behavior inscrutable to any mere mortal. Nigel knew that expression all too well.

Throughout most of their career in school, Peter had been the teachers' blue-eyed wonder child who knew everything, could answer every question and whose mind, coupled with his dauntless courage, reflected the hope of the brightest of futures. Yet, now and then, there were teachers who, for some reason or other, took a dislike to Peter. Perhaps they were intimidated by his brilliant mind. Or perhaps they feared his status as a member of one of the oldest, most respected and magically powerful of the titled families in Britain. But when a teacher disliked him, Peter would affect as blank and empty a stare when answering their questions as he now turned toward Emily Oldhall.

“Pardon?” he asked Emily. “Ship?”

“Oh, you said you were here before us,” Emily said, and colored like a child who has unwittingly committed social solecism. “I wondered by what means you traveled here.”

Peter smiled. “I flew,” he said.

Then he turned to Nigel and his face showed the same false smile no more open than a painted front. “Have you heard from Borne-Watkins? I heard he went into politics and had hopes of climbing very high indeed. There were rumors . . .”

Borne-Watkins had been a weasel-faced boy and the class snitch, ever ready to run to a teacher or monitor with a story about someone else's misdeeds.

As Peter slid smoothly into rumors and insinuations on the nature of Borne-Watkins's political career and what he might or might not have done to deserve it, Nigel listened in amazement that such a creature, so flawed in character, could climb so high. Their school—Four Towers Academy for the Education of Boys—had prided itself on instilling character, and yet here one of their gladuates was still without a character, prospering. It was almost interesting enough to make Nigel forget Peter's momentary blank look, his obvious confusion at Emily's question and his smooth refusal to answer it. Almost, but not quite.

Because Nigel had lived long enough in the world, and had known Peter at that innocent age when disguise is ineffective and all emotions are painted upon the face like colors on a blank canvas. He knew very well what Peter's reaction to the question about his means of travel meant.

Peter's conveyance between Britain and Africa was far less distinguished than the hundred-thousand-pounds-apiece price for the rooms aboard
Victoria's Invicta
. In fact, from the way Peter spoke, Nigel would not be surprised to learn that Peter had worked his way to Africa, manning the magical engines of some cargo ship. Which would explain Peter's financial survival. But it also tainted him with the dreaded hand of commerce—something none of his class would admit.

How could Peter have fallen so low?

No matter how poor his family might be, Peter's old, hallowed name, his being descended in a direct line from Charlemagne himself, made him capable of being as good as the best. What governmental department would not want to add Peter's name to its rolls? What regiment would not take pride in having him for an officer? Particularly when someone like Borne-Watkins, of lower birth and with far less intelligence, prospered so greatly.

It was none of Nigel's business. And yet, as a portent of the world's being turned upside down, it interested Nigel very much indeed.

A FOOL'S ERRAND

“Who are you?” the young man who opened the door
asked Nassira.

She could easily have asked the same, but she remembered him from their mind message. Perhaps he hadn't seen her image, she thought. Perhaps he'd only heard her.

She straightened her back and glared at him. “I am Nassira, daughter of Nedera. Of the Masai.”

He smiled as if he found this funny, and his hand closed the door some more—his foot doubtlessly behind it, to prevent her pushing past him. His voice mocked her as he replied, “And what do you wish of me, Nassira, daughter of Nedera of the Masai?”

Nassira almost turned and went away. In her heart, she longed to ignore the Hyena Men and their machinations, but she couldn't allow this man to scare her away that easily. He was arrogant and in dire need of a lesson. If they'd been still in Masai land, her father would thrash him for speaking to her so disrespectfully. A wealthy man, with only one daughter and no sons, Nassira's father wanted everyone to treat his daughter as the marvel she was to him.

The door the rude young man had opened was a nondescript one for this part of Cairo: red inset in a tile-covered facade. Though this part of town—at least judging from the people that Nassira had seen during her walk here, and from the faces that peered from windows and looked out of half-closed doors—was inhabited mostly by people from deeper in the African continent, yet it was—like the rest of Cairo—a Muslim town. That meant that the facades were composed of tiles inscribed with indecipherable arabesques in blue and gold, or red and gold.

The man who'd opened the door to Nassira looked like his mind image, and yet different. He was as black as everyone else she'd seen around here. Blacker than Nassira, in fact, a black as dark as a starless night over the savanna. He stood very tall, too—taller than all the Englishmen that Nassira had met in England. Tall enough, she judged, to be a Masai. But
that
he wasn't. His features lacked the clear-cut Masai traits, their prominent cheekbones, the straight, high-bridged nose. In their place was a face more long than broad, and features that belonged to no tribe, no people that Nassira had ever known. He didn't even look that much like a Zulu in person. His eyes were too large, his chin too square.

She straightened her shoulders and faced him, standing as straight and proud as she knew how. “I owe no explanation to anyone,” she said. “Certainly not to you.” She glared at him. “In your mind message, you called yourself Kitwana. Is that your real name?”

The man smiled spontaneously, without seeming to think of how it projected. She might have thought he was laughing at her and be offended, but it was clear this was not so. He was smiling at himself.

“I am Kitwana,” he said. “It means Pledged to Live.”

Just that. No people, no village, no parents' name attached to that singular name. He seemed to think that
Kitwana
alone meant everything. Good thing he was pledged to live, since, doubtlessly, many people had probably often felt like killing him.

She frowned at him. With an air of confidence he wore an Englishman's suit, well cut, well fitted.

“You answered my summons,” she said. “My mind summons.”

He nodded. His hair was cut so short you could almost see his scalp beneath. A fine-looking man, if one could see him in his natural element, without the trappings of the white man about him. She wondered what he looked like in the native dress of his people, and what that would be.

Even among the Masai, dress standards differed. The clothing of the Il-Purco left most of their bodies uncovered and used cloth and beads strictly as ornamentation. The Il-Sungo, the Masai subgroup to which Nassira belonged, found this scandalous. They covered up in shoulder-to-knee wraps and accused the Il-Purco of going around naked, like cows.

What attire would Kitwana favor, and how much of his broad-shouldered, long-legged body would it leave uncovered? Nassira banished the thought forcefully. She was not here to allow herself to be seduced by a non-Masai, an arrogant son of people to whom Engai had refused cattle.

“I am a member of those who work in the night and stalk the mighty,” she said, using the Hyena Men's description of themselves.