The Elusive Bride (13 page)

And he was running low on men. He had few of the elite he’d left India with left.

Swallowing his fury, his grief, his rage, wasn’t easy, but if he didn’t satisfy his master, all would be in vain.

He forced himself to swing away from the groveling man, to glare at his acting lieutenant, the one who would now take Muhlal’s place at his side. “Make sure—
sure
—that the major and his people are captured the instant the caravan comes in. Put men—”

“No. Uncle…”

Uncle swung back to see the man on the flagstones raise his hand in placation. “
What?
”

“The caravan is not headed here. I heard the Arabs talking before we were attacked—the major’s caravan heads to Alexandria.”

Uncle narrowed his eyes. “You are sure?”

“On my life, I swear it. The El-Jiri knew the Arabs with the major—they said they go to Alexandria.”

Uncle wasted no more time. Swinging to face his lieutenant, he rapped out, “Get the fastest boat you can find on the river—we must reach Alexandria before them.”

They arrived on the outskirts of Alexandria just before noon the next day. The El-Jiri had taken their captives to some
desert meeting place to the south. Gareth hadn’t asked too much about their plans.

He had suggested his party separate from the caravan some little distance from the town walls, but Ali-Jehan would have none of it. The caravan halted at their usual grounds, then Ali-Jehan, his mother, and a detachment of the guards, walked with them to the town gate.

There they parted, with much slapping of backs and shaking of hands—and, Gareth noted, embraces among the women. If asked two months before whether the Governor of Bombay’s niece could find her feet in a Berber tribe, he would have said no, but he hadn’t then met Emily. He was beginning to think very little could seriously discompose her for long; she seemed to possess the happy knack of coping, regardless.

Emily blinked rapidly and as they strode off down the street, looked back one last time to wave to Anya. She was even sorry to see the last of Ali-Jehan. He’d been an excellent companion for Gareth. Then again…she glanced at the man striding forcefully a pace ahead of her, his Arab robes swishing about his calves. After their days in the desert, he looked every inch an Arab sheik, and they his retinue, trailing after him.

Consorting with Ali-Jehan had uncovered a more primitive streak, or at least made it more readily detectable. She wondered how long it would take for the patina of civilization to gloss over it again.

Ali-Jehan had told them of a guesthouse run by a relative in which they would be safe. It lay in the Arab quarter behind the docks, but to reach it they had to traverse the town.

They did so at a steady, unhurried pace, once again all careful to do nothing, say nothing, that might get them noticed by any watchers the cult had posted. This time, as Gareth had lectured them, it wasn’t simply a matter of avoiding being caught. If the cultists knew for certain that they’d arrived, they would be systematically hunted—and given
that they had no transport onward yet organized, being sighted at all raised the prospect of being cornered before they could get away.

By the time they left the central part of the town behind, Emily’s nerves had tightened, stretching taut in a manner she’d forgotten over recent days.

Eyes flicking watchfully from side to side beneath the veil of her
chador
, she discovered something else to miss about traveling with the Berbers. Security. Safety. She’d forgotten what not having them was like.

Accustomed to command, to managing men, Gareth was aware of the rising tension in the group at his heels.

He shared it.

Alexandria was an ancient town. The narrow, twisting streets, with house walls built right to their edges, formed warrens tailor-made for assassins. If assassins were trailing them, by the time any of them saw the danger, it would be too late.

The last days had seen them cross out of the desert into the wide, flat fields of the Nile delta. Low lying, with numerous minor rivers cutting through the landscape carrying the waters of the mighty Nile to the Mediterranean Sea, the delta region was not only easier to traverse but also provided much better cover in which to conceal a caravan. Ali-Jehan had planned to take his people across the main channel of the Nile today, so that they would be well away from the usual places where caravans to Alexandria camped.

Gareth had enjoyed his time with the Berbers, and hoped they would be safe, that no harm would befall them through helping him and his small company.

He glanced briefly to the side, from the corner of his eye confirming that Emily was walking no more than a step behind him. While they’d been with the Berbers, he’d known she was safe. Safe with their women—as safe as she could be. Now…

He was once again gripped by a familiar tension, felt re
sponsibility for her safety once again weigh heavily on his shoulders. He didn’t resent the burden; not for one minute would he have handed it to another.

What he did resent was that, courtesy of his mission—no, courtesy of the Black Cobra—she, her life and her future, were once again in real danger.

Under real threat.

He wasn’t at all happy to be back in civilization.

They found the guesthouse, and were made welcome by Ali-Jehan’s cousin and his wife. To Gareth’s relief, the guesthouse had no other patrons staying that night. He immediately negotiated to close the house to all others, something Jemal—Ali-Jehan’s cousin—was happy to do when Gareth dropped triple his expected takings into his palm.

They were accustomed by now to settling into new accommodation. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins walked the perimeter and assessed the defenses, while the others efficiently stowed their belongings in the guestrooms they chose, then gathered in the main salon, where, it then being early afternoon, their hosts served them a meal of flat bread, fish, and mussels.

When Jemal placed a large platter of prepared fruit on the table, then bowed himself out, Gareth looked around the table, and decided everyone seated about it deserved to hear all he had to say. All of them, having selected various fruits, seemed to sense his intention, and looked expectantly up the table at him.

Emily sat at the other end. She arched her brows, waited.

Gareth grimaced. “First, we need to be extra careful. This is a major Mediterranean port—there will definitely be cultists here, watching, although not necessarily specifically for us. We cannot afford to give them any definite sight of us, any confirmation that we are indeed inside the walls. If we were leaving tomorrow, it wouldn’t be such a danger, but until we’re ready to quit this town, it’s vitally important they don’t know we’re here.”

He looked at Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. “What are our defenses like?”

The other two looked to Mullins.

“Better than we’d hoped. The other houses are built right up to this one at the back and both sides, and the wall at the front is nice and high.” Mullins pointed upward. “Best of all, this house is the tallest in the immediate area. From the roof, we can keep watch over all approaches while staying largely out of sight ourselves.”

Gareth put a few more questions, but Ali-Jehan had steered them well. The house was a highly defendable abode. “Good. We’ll keep a guard on the roof at all times. Aside from all else, it’s the most obvious way for them to try to gain access to the house. To us.”

Jimmy volunteered to take first watch.

Gareth nodded. “You can go up when we finish here.” He glanced around the table. “Our most urgent need is to find transport onward. We need to reach Marseilles, preferably as quickly and as easily as we can.”

“Is there anyone here you can approach for help?” Emily asked.

Gareth shook his head. “Not safely. Theoretically the consulate would assist us, but with Ferrar’s political clout, it’s too risky, and I have no old friends here, no one I can absolutely trust.”

No one he would trust with his life, let alone hers.

“As I said,” he went on, “we need to be cautious. If that means all the rest of you stay here, indoors and out of sight while Watson, Mooktu, and I spend a few days finding the right ship, then that’s the way it will have to be.”

He expected arguments, protests at the very least. Instead, after a moment of regarding him, Emily surprised him by nodding. “Very well.”

There was little else to say, not until they’d assessed their chances of finding a ship to carry them to Marseilles. He, Watson, and Mooktu resettled their robes, then left the house for the docks.

Emily watched them go, then followed Jimmy up onto the flat roof, but couldn’t spot them amid the teeming hordes in the streets.

Anxiety—a feeling that was sufficiently unfamilar it impinged on her awareness—blossomed, spread through her. And gripped.

After a moment of staring across the roofs of Alexandria, she turned away and went downstairs. Finding Dorcas and Arnia, calling Bister and Mullins to join them, she sat at the table and briskly said, “We need to make lists. One, of the items we need for the next few days, and another, of the supplies we should have to see us through to Marseilles.” Determined to keep busy, she looked at the others. “Do we have two pieces of paper?”

Gareth, Watson, and Mooktu returned to the guesthouse as evening was closing in.

Emily was waiting in the large front room. She searched their faces. “No luck?”

Gareth shook his head. “Although there are a large number of ships putting out each day for Marseilles, most are booked for months ahead.” He sat at the table as she sank into the chair at the other end.

Watson and Mooktu sat as Mullins came to join them. “So what are our options?” Mullins asked.

Dorcas wandered in as Watson replied, “Today we were inquiring about the most direct route, but there are other routes we could take.”

“It also occurs to me,” Gareth said, finger tapping the table, “that the direct route will be the one the Black Cobra will expect us to take. I would expect to run into heavier concentrations of cultists if we go that way.”

Watson spread his hands. “We’re in Alexandria—essentially all of Europe lies north of us. We could go by numerous less-traveled ways.” He looked at Gareth. “Do we have to go via Marseilles?”

Gareth nodded. “My route specifically directs us through Marseilles.”

Watson grimaced. “That reduces our options, but still—we could go via numerous routes around or over the Mediterranean.”

“But, for example, a route north along the coast and then east via Turkey, Greece, and Italy to France would surely take much longer.” Emily glanced at Gareth. “Do we have the time to amble?”

He met her gaze, shook his head. “It’s taken us longer to get here than Wolverstone anticipated. He wants me—us—in England by mid-December.”

Emily blinked. “Today’s the first of November.”

“Exactly. So allowing for the necessary days to cross France…we need to reach Marseilles as soon as possible.”

“In that case,” Watson said, “we’ll have to travel by ship all the way.” He glanced at the others. “Travel by sea is significantly faster than travel by land. On one of the more direct routes, a fast ship could make the run to Marseilles in anything from nine to fifteen days.”

“But we can’t find passage on one of those,” Mooktu rumbled. He looked at Gareth. “And we don’t have time to wait here until berths become available.”

Gareth humphed. “Sitting here just waiting for the cultists to stumble over us is not an option in any case.”

“So we take our next best option.” Emily turned to Watson. “Whatever that is.”

Watson frowned. “I would say…either via Italy, then Corsica, to Marseilles, or, possibly, west to Tunis, and then north to Marseilles.” He looked at Gareth. “I know the distances, but sailing times are harder to guess. We’ll need to ask around, then see what ships might be heading that way with space enough to take us.”

Gareth nodded. “Tomorrow. We’ll go down to the docks at first light. It’s less crowded then.”

“I have been thinking,” Mooktu said, “that if the cultists sent to watch us here have not yet been warned that we are going in disguise, then they are less likely to spot us.”

“True. So we’ll need to remember to always go disguised.”
Gareth glanced around the table. “It would be preferable to stay in our Arab clothes even in here.”

Emily was perfectly happy to do so; her Arab clothes were less confining and in this climate certainly more comfortable than gown and petticoats. She’d tried to hand back the garments the Berber women had loaned her, but they’d waved their hands and told her to keep them and use them while she was in Arab lands.

She caught Gareth’s gaze. “We’ll need to go to the souk tomorrow. We’ll do that while you’re at the docks. We’ll take Mullins and Bister, and be extra careful, but it won’t hurt to take a look around.”