give us a second glance.”
“Good.” Gareth surveyed his small band, now very local-looking. He caught the glint of Emily’s eyes through the lace panel of her black burka, and had to fight to suppress a smile. He inclined his head to her. “Your idea—and an excellent one.”
“Thank you.” She jigged with impatience. “So what now? Is it time to go down to the docks yet?”
“No—it’s too early. The schooner captain didn’t want us there until just before dark.” Gareth glanced at the tavern owner. “Dinner, I think.”
The tavern owner was delighted to serve them a meal. He gaily explained the dishes, and even intervened to show them how the locals used pieces of flat bread in place ofspoons. While they ate, other patrons drifted in. By the time they’d finished the food and tried small quantities of the local drink, a species of thick coffee, the tavern was full and it was dusk.
Gareth paid the tavern owner and he salaamed them out of the door.
They formed up in the street, in the order they’d spent some time over the meal discussing, then started for the docks. Gareth and Watson strode in the lead, confident and assured—two well-dressed, wealthy Arabs heading for their ship. A pace or two behind, Emily, Dorcas and Arnia followed, hands clutching the front of their burkas to keep them in place so they could see through the lace panels, heads down so they could watch where they were placing their feet. The true reason Arab women always appeared so meek as they followed their husbands was now amply clear.
Behind the women, Bister and Jimmy pushed the wooden cart they’d piled with their luggage; they would leave the cart on the dock, as most people did. Behind them came Mooktu and Mullins, in their true roles of guards.
Their procession wended its way down to the docks unhurriedly, as if they belonged. As if their only care was to reach their ship in time to sail.
They passed two cultists on the main street.
Passed another two close by the docks.
All of the cultists saw them. Not one suspected who they were.
They reached the schooner, tied up at one of the further berths.
The captain grinned and hailed Gareth. “Major Hamilton!”
Gareth swore beneath his breath and took the gangplank in three long strides. Reaching the captain, he engaged him with questions about their accommodation, distracting his attention from those who followed in his wake.
When he glanced around and saw everyone—he did a quick head count—gathered in a knot further down thedeck, the sudden tension that had gripped him eased. But not by much.
Striding down the deck, he swung open the slatted door of the companionway, and brusquely gestured the women down.
Emily glanced at him but went. Even through the mask of the burka, he felt her disapproving gaze.
But eventually, of their party there was only him, Mooktu, and Bister left on deck, with the captain calling orders to cast off.
The lift and roll of the Red Sea under the deck was comforting. Reassuring. From the stern, Gareth watched Mocha recede.
Saw the cultists gather on the dock, saw them point—at the schooner.
They’d got away without the battle he’d feared. No one placed that many watchers in such a small town without some definite intent, some plan of engagement.
They’d slipped away, but someone had been clever enough to put two and two together—to add up the respective members of their parties. Six men, three women. Given the cultists standing on the dock and pointing, he felt reasonably sure their schooner had been the only one to put out that day with such a complement of passengers.
They’d escaped before they’d been challenged, but they’d been noted.
The Black Cobra’s minions knew where they were.
7th October, 1822
Very late
In a cabin on a schooner on the Red Sea
Dear Diary,
We escaped the fiend’s minions in Mocha. However, the tension—which was positively palpable duringthose moments on the dock and while we waited
“Good.” Gareth surveyed his small band, now very local-looking. He caught the glint of Emily’s eyes through the lace panel of her black burka, and had to fight to suppress a smile. He inclined his head to her. “Your idea—and an excellent one.”
“Thank you.” She jigged with impatience. “So what now? Is it time to go down to the docks yet?”
“No—it’s too early. The schooner captain didn’t want us there until just before dark.” Gareth glanced at the tavern owner. “Dinner, I think.”
The tavern owner was delighted to serve them a meal. He gaily explained the dishes, and even intervened to show them how the locals used pieces of flat bread in place ofspoons. While they ate, other patrons drifted in. By the time they’d finished the food and tried small quantities of the local drink, a species of thick coffee, the tavern was full and it was dusk.
Gareth paid the tavern owner and he salaamed them out of the door.
They formed up in the street, in the order they’d spent some time over the meal discussing, then started for the docks. Gareth and Watson strode in the lead, confident and assured—two well-dressed, wealthy Arabs heading for their ship. A pace or two behind, Emily, Dorcas and Arnia followed, hands clutching the front of their burkas to keep them in place so they could see through the lace panels, heads down so they could watch where they were placing their feet. The true reason Arab women always appeared so meek as they followed their husbands was now amply clear.
Behind the women, Bister and Jimmy pushed the wooden cart they’d piled with their luggage; they would leave the cart on the dock, as most people did. Behind them came Mooktu and Mullins, in their true roles of guards.
Their procession wended its way down to the docks unhurriedly, as if they belonged. As if their only care was to reach their ship in time to sail.
They passed two cultists on the main street.
Passed another two close by the docks.
All of the cultists saw them. Not one suspected who they were.
They reached the schooner, tied up at one of the further berths.
The captain grinned and hailed Gareth. “Major Hamilton!”
Gareth swore beneath his breath and took the gangplank in three long strides. Reaching the captain, he engaged him with questions about their accommodation, distracting his attention from those who followed in his wake.
When he glanced around and saw everyone—he did a quick head count—gathered in a knot further down thedeck, the sudden tension that had gripped him eased. But not by much.
Striding down the deck, he swung open the slatted door of the companionway, and brusquely gestured the women down.
Emily glanced at him but went. Even through the mask of the burka, he felt her disapproving gaze.
But eventually, of their party there was only him, Mooktu, and Bister left on deck, with the captain calling orders to cast off.
The lift and roll of the Red Sea under the deck was comforting. Reassuring. From the stern, Gareth watched Mocha recede.
Saw the cultists gather on the dock, saw them point—at the schooner.
They’d got away without the battle he’d feared. No one placed that many watchers in such a small town without some definite intent, some plan of engagement.
They’d slipped away, but someone had been clever enough to put two and two together—to add up the respective members of their parties. Six men, three women. Given the cultists standing on the dock and pointing, he felt reasonably sure their schooner had been the only one to put out that day with such a complement of passengers.
They’d escaped before they’d been challenged, but they’d been noted.
The Black Cobra’s minions knew where they were.
7th October, 1822
Very late
In a cabin on a schooner on the Red Sea
Dear Diary,
We escaped the fiend’s minions in Mocha. However, the tension—which was positively palpable duringthose moments on the dock and while we waited
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