The Book of the Seven Delights (19 page)

"No." She scrambled to her feet and crossed her arms.

"No, what?" he demanded, throwing her saddle onto her blanketed horse.

"I'm not going another step until you tell me the truth about Gaston and what you're doing back in Morocco."

"The less you know the better," he said, lifting the stirrup and tightening the cinch. "Now, get on the damned horse and let's ride."

"No." She raised her chin. "I'm not moving until you tell me what's going on. You obviously knew this

'sergeant' in your Legion days. He says you're a deserter, and you deny it. Your friends say you're supposed to be
dead
. What am I supposed to believe?" She sensed he was preparing to stonewall her demand and played her trump card. "I think I deserve to know, seeing as how I may get caught in your cross fire. Then at least I'll know why I'm being killed."

Muttering an oath, he stalked away to climb up one of the rocks at the edge of the ledge to look down at the campfire in the distance.

Her reminder of the danger he had put her in was clearly working on him. He slid back down the rock and sat for a moment staring at her, then he headed for his saddlebags and retrieved the envelope he had secreted into her baggage. She watched him sort through three papers, select one, then return the others to the envelope and the envelope to his shirt.

He strode over to her and shoved the open document in her hand.

"Here." He propped his fists on his waist, waiting.

She squinted to make out the official-looking type in the dying sunlight, and the first three words caused her breath to catch.

Certificate of Death.

"All right, you're dead." She handed the document back to him. "I want details."

He looked exasperated and started to turn away, then turned back.

"Mount up," he said quietly. "I'll talk on the way."

Something in the resignation of his eyes said he would honor that promise.

"Sergeant Gaston came from Casablanca to Marrakech with dispatches for our commandant that included orders transferring me to a mounted company," he said when they had quietly put distance between them and the Legionnaires. "When I asked what was happening, he said they were breaking up our unit—they needed experienced men in the mounted companies. I went with Gaston and the regular dispatch patrol back to Casablanca. Along the way, we ran into some bandits and barely escaped.

Something about Gaston's actions in that fight didn't feel right. After that, I kept an eye on him.

"We arrived in Casablanca just in time to head off with our company for the Algerian frontier… where we were in constant fighting and never had enough ammunition or food or water. It was a long, slow slaughter. And every time I turned around, Gaston was behind me… with his rifle pointed at my back.

"Finally, in one really ugly battle in a border village, he ordered four of us to enter and secure one of the houses. As we went in the front, the rebels went out the back and set the place on fire. When we tried to withdraw—there was a hail of gunfire. We were pinned down; rebels at the rear and somebody else at the front. I made it to a window and saw that it was Gaston firing and directing fire at the house he had just sent us into."

"He tried to kill you." She felt a chill even inside the burnoose.

"He damned near succeeded. I managed to crawl out the back… the rebels had fled. I was wounded and choking—half-dead from smoke. When I woke up, I was in a sheepherder's tent; he found me in the desert and took me in." He rolled his shoulders as if uncomfortable with the memory. "Gaston—and the Legion itself—assumed I died in the fire along with three others. I decided to let them continue to think that. I figured my obligation to the Legion was finished, and I made my way to Tangiers, where I worked on the docks until I had enough money for passage to London."

"And that's why you came back? To find Gaston and punish him?"

"To find who
sent
Gaston," he said grimly. "And punish them both."

The Tizi-n-Tichka Pass was a natural cut in the mountain range that divided Morocco's fertile west from its parched and arid east. To the west lay forests of Atlas cedar, pine, and holm-oak, interspersed with stony pastures and thickets of thorny vegetation, to the east, nothing but wind-scoured red rock, dry, craggy hills, and increasing drifts of sand. Moisture from the spare snowfall on the east side was channeled down the mountains into narrow wadis that became patchy ribbons of green extending into the edge of the desert.

Passage through the pass and access to the resources of the eastern wadis were controlled by Berber warlords with blood ties to the Sultan of Marrakech. Gifts to the chieftain were the preferred route to obtaining passage but, lacking more impressive offerings, simple coin worked just as well.

The tents of the settlement matched the brown and gray of the granite surrounding the pass, and were closed and battened against the capricious winds. The only inhabitants visible were a few men in traditional robes and striped turbans who carried military issue carbines, and directed them to the corrals and sheds for animals.

While Smith and Abigail purchased feed and stabling for their animals, Haffe went ahead to the chieftain's tent to make inquiries. By the time Smith and Abigail caught up, he had the guards outside the main entrance smiling and pocketing tobacco he had doled out for the information he received.

He advised Smith and Abigail on the protocol for their "gift" to the chieftain, Barek, and agreed to speak and translate for them. Inside they were met by hard-eyed youths who took their cloaks and insisted they change from their boots into soft yellow leather slippers before ushering them inside.

The interior room of the enormous tent was as colorful and exotic as the exterior was drab. The floors were covered with intricately patterned wool rugs and the walls were hung with silk and velvet curtains and artistic weavings with rich brocade borders. The open center of the floor was ringed by a low, circular banquette strewn with colorful pillows, and the air was heavy with the scents of lamp oil, tobacco smoke, and sandalwood.

A number of men in simple robes and vividly striped turbans were clustered into groups, conversing and smoking water pipes. They looked up, then went back to their conversation—until they spotted Abigail walking behind the two men. A Western woman. Their interest was piqued. A number migrated toward the chieftain's chair to scrutinize the proceedings.

Barek himself was a large, portly man of indeterminate age, sporting a huge multicolored turban, a nattily trimmed black beard, and a great gold earring in one ear. He assessed them as Haffe and Smith bowed.

When Haffe introduced Smith, whatever he said caused the chieftain's eyes to widen and the men behind him to whisper.

Abigail's previous experience with Berber clansmen caused her to tense as the men stared at her and commented openly on what they saw. She was so distracted by self-consciousness that she didn't realize she hadn't been introduced until after they were seated near the chieftain. But it was clear the chieftain had taken note of her; when they were served a drink of something and fermented honey, Barek watched her sample the strongly alcoholic drink with surprise and smiled behind a heavily ringed hand.

After a time, Barek turned to a gaunt, granite-faced man on his right and began to ask questions, which were repeated verbatim to Haffe. Haffe, who had remained on his feet, bowed as he answered and seemed surprisingly at ease. Several words Abigail recognized came up in Haffe's report, which he paused periodically to paraphrase for them.

They were noble and important emissaries, Haffe told their host. From a great palace called the British Museum that a dead prince had bequeathed to Abigail… but which was missing some precious scrolls…

without which the Queen of England's lands could not prosper for much longer.

Abigail tried not to let her dismay show as she leaned close to Smith to whisper: "He's telling a pack of—"

"Details the chieftain wants to hear," Smith muttered, for her ears alone. "It's not wise in this land to be too modest. Nor is it wise to assume that people don't understand you simply because you hear them speaking a different tongue."

Two pairs of young women entered, one carrying large trays of food to place in the center of the gathering, and the second carrying an elongated brass pitcher of hot water, a basin, and toweling to the three visitors. Abigail, following Smith's lead, washed and dried her hands. But when the women came to Haffe, he sat motionless, staring fixedly at one of them, who smiled and lowered her eyes at his reaction.

When he extended his hands over the basin, she caught his gaze as she poured water over them and her expression changed. Her expressive eyes widened then softened and soon she was oblivious to the water pouring over the pillows beside him.

The chief's advisor barked out a sharp rebuke and an older woman came rushing in to scold the girl and shoo her out a side entrance. Haffe protested that it was his fault and offered to take whatever punishment might be dealt her… making Barek and his men, who had seen the exchange, laugh. Haffe reddened sharply and seemed both chastened and relieved by the advisor's response.

"She ees… daughter of Barek's sister," he reported to Abigail and Smith. "She will not be beaten."

They were invited by a wave of Barek's hand to partake of the food and as they ate of the fruits, nuts, dolmas, and breads, the chieftain directed a question to them, which Haffe quickly translated.

"He says… what is written… in scrolls? Magic? Treasure?"

"No treasure. Just writings." Abigail ignored Smith's attempt to glare her into silence. "Probably a history of Greek and Egyptian times and events… stories of the past."

Haffe turned back and rattled off some things in Berber that caused the chieftain to look delighted indeed. He gave an emphatic order, waved to the others to give attention, and settled back onto his cushions with an expectant gaze.

When Haffe turned to them, the smile on his face couldn't cover his anxiety.

"He wish… hear… theese stories. Now."

"Of course," Smith said clamping off her protest with a timely hand tightening on her arm. "Miss Merchant here has lots of stories, don't you, Miss Merchant." He leaned toward her and whispered: "Tell

'em a damned story."

"I—I don't know any stories," she shot back, struggling to keep her voice down and expression neutral.

"My worst grades in library school were in children's literature and storytime."

"Tell a Bible story—Noah and the Ark or something. Count yourself lucky. He could have demanded to see you
dance
."

She grabbed Smith's honey drink and finished it in one gulp before rising and giving an elaborate curtsy to Barek, who watched her with a wry expression.

"A story is told of a great man of long ago named Jacob," she began. "He had many sons… twelve, to be exact." When Haffe translated her words, sounds of approval swept the tent. "Jacob was also very rich among his people… had great herds and flocks. All in his possession and within his reach prospered." Prosperity. Barek looked very pleased and the men seated on cushions around the tent nodded and muttered amongst themselves.

"Though the man had many sons, he loved one above all the rest. This son's name was Joseph. He was handsome and quick-witted." She tapped her temple with a canny look. "It was said he even knew how to interpret dreams.

"Now, Jacob favored young Joseph in all things. To show his love, he had a beautiful striped coat of many colors made and gave it to Joseph to wear." Here, frowns and scowls appeared on one side of the circular banquette. "The favored son wore it proudly and even flaunted it before his brothers." She pantomimed donning a coat and opening it and showing it off with a smug expression. The scowls grew to murmurs, which grew to rumbles of disapproval. "Joseph told his brothers that in one of his dreams, all of his brothers bowed down before him to pay him homage. His brothers knew that Joseph claimed to see the future in his dreams and grew even more jealous and resentful. They began to plot against their father's favorite son."

The excitement that shot through the men of the chieftain's council let her know she had struck a nerve and, heartened, she began to put her all into the telling. She had never held an audience so rapt with a story before!

"But Joseph was young and ignorant of the wickedness that can creep into a man's deprived and aching heart. He didn't heed the warning in his brothers' anger. One day while they were in the fields together, tending their flocks, the brothers seized Joseph, bound him, and sold him into a caravan headed for Egypt." There were gasps of outrage and mutters as glares flew back and forth across the tent. "Then the brothers killed a lamb and smeared its blood on the beautiful striped coat they hated so much. They carried that coat to their father and told him that Joseph had been attacked by a wild animal and carried off. Jacob was grieved and cried out to the heavens."

Dark looks gave way to shaking fists and Barek leaned forward, as tense and unsettled as the others.

She felt Smith's hand on her arm, but shook it off, absorbed in the dark looks Barek was giving his men… assuming he was annoyed that they were interfering with his enjoyment of the story.

When she got to the part where Joseph was bought by an important official in pharaoh's household and then wrongly accused by the wife of his owner, tensions simmering in the tent erupted.

Blades hummed as they cleared sheaths, and Barek's guards bolted for the chieftain's side with weapons drawn. Barek shot to his feet in a ring of armed guards, roaring orders. In the conflict and confusion, Abigail and Smith were seized and dragged bodily from the tent.

Despite valiant resistance, they were bound hand and foot and left on the ground in a dark tent, against a pole, back to back. She could scarcely get her breath and her hands were beginning to throb from the tightness of the ropes binding her wrists. His battered mouth was stinging and he suffered a sharp pain in his right side whenever he drew a deep breath.