The Monsoon (93 page)

“Hard’;” her up a little,” he called to Sarah, who ran forward to the boom sheet. The felucca liked her touch and surged forward under their feet.

“It will be a near-run thing Tom eyed the leading boat, and calculated the difference in speed and course, They had the advantage of the wind, on a broad reac Guy was close@ hauled making heavy weather of it with the overloaded hull deep in the water. Tom doubted that the other boat could reach the anchored swallow on a single tack. On the other hand, the felucca must cut right across the bows of Guy’s dhow.

Tom narrowed his eyes as he judged the converging course.

“We are going to pass within easy musket shot of the leading boat,” he told Sarah.

“Pile those nets and fish boxes along the starboard rail and lie flat behind them.”

“What about You?” she asked anxiously.

“Didn’t I tell you? I am immune to musket-balls.” He grinned.

“And, besides, all Arabs are poor shots.” If she had not loved him so much, she might have been more impressed by his disregard of danger.

My place is at your side,” she said stubbornly, trying to match his show of courage.

“Your place is where I say it is.” His expression became bleak and cold.

“Get down, woman.” She had never seen him like this before, and it took her off-balance. She found herself obeying meekly, and only when she was lying flat on the smelly deck, protected by the nets and heavy wooden boxes, did she begin to recover her sense of independence.

I must not let him get the upper hand so soon, she warned herself, but her thoughts were interrupted by a faint shout. The Arabs in the leading dhow had spotted the little felucca racing across their quarter. The vessel heeled dangerously as they crowded to the rail to stare across the gap, jabbering and gesticulating, cocking and brandishing their long-barrelled jezails.

“Stop!” Guy’s voice was faint on the wind, but they were close enough now for Tom to see clearly his dark, furious expression.

“Heave to, at once, Tom Courtney, or I will order my men to fire upon you.”

Tom laughed and waved cheerily.

“Piss into the wind, dear brother, and get it all back into your face.” They were less than a hundred yards apart, a pistol shot, and Guy called to the Arab musketeers who crammed the open deck of the dhow and, with his drawn sword, pointed across at the felucca. In response they levelled their muskets and, despite his braggadocio, Tom felt a qualm of fear as he looked into the line of weapons aimed across the gap at him.

“Fire!” Guy yelled, with a sweep of his sword. There was a blast, and a bank of thick white powder smoke briefly obscured the dhow.

The air around Tom’s head was filled with the whir and buzz of passing shot, the heavy lead balls kicked spurts of spray from the surface of the water all around the hull of the felucca and thudded into her side, knocking white splinters from her timbers.

Tom felt something pluck at the sleeve of his shirt, and when he glanced down there was a tear in the cloth, and a thin trickle of blood from the shallow wound across his biceps.

“Are you all right, Tom?” Sarah asked anxiously, from where she lay at his feet. He laughed again and turned half away so she could not see the blood on his sleeve.

I told you they’re poor shots.” He lifted his hat and with it gave Guy a mocking salute. But at the movement a few drops of scarlet splattered the dirty deck at his feet.

Sarah saw the blood, and her face blanched. Then, without hesitation, she sprang to her feet and rushed back to the stern.

“Get back!” Tom snapped.

“Those are real musket-balls.

You could be killed.” Sarah ignored him, and placed herself four square in front of him, shielding him with her own body. She threw back the shawl from her shoulders and shook out her hair so that it flew out like a banner on the wind.

“Shoot!” she screamed across at the barge.

“Shoot me, if you dare, Guy Courtney!” They were close enough to see the frustration and fury on Guy’s face.

“Get down, Sarah,” he yelled at her.

“If you are hit it will be your own doing.” Tom tried to push her down on the deck but she flung both arms around his neck and clung to him. Her face was bright with fury as she glared across at the barge.

“If you want your brother, you will have to kill me first,” she shrieked at Guy.

Guy’s expression changed from triumph to uncertainty.

He looked back at his men. The musketeers were reloading frantically. Tom saw the tips of their ramrods pumping up and down as they drove fresh balls down the long barrels.

It took even a good man fully two minutes to reload, and by the time the next volley was ready the two craft were as close as they would ever be as the felucca crossed the bows of the barge.

The quicker and more expert of the musketeers finished loading and priming. Four of them cocked and raised their jezails in unison, sighting over the long barrels at the pair in the stern of the felucca.

Still Guy hesitated, but then his grim expression crumbled, and with a sweep of his sword blade he knocked up the weapon of the man beside him, and shouted in Arabic, “Stop! Do not fire! You will hit the woman.” One man ignored the order and fired. There was a spurt of blue smoke from the muzzle of his jezail and the ball thudded into the tiller bar in Tom’s hand.

“StopP Guy yelled in fury, and slashed the sword down on the man’s wrist. There was a flash of bright blood and the man clutched his injured arm and staggered away across the deck.

“Stop!” Guy turned on the other men and, reluctantly, one at a time, they lowered their muskets. The felucca head-reached on the barge, then drew away from her.

“You haven’t won yet, Tom Courtney!” Guy shouted after them.

“From now on, every man’s hand is against you.

One of these days you will pay what you owe in full, I will see to that. I swear id” Tom ignored his brother’s fading shouts of anger, and looked forward. The Swallow was now lying only a cable’s length ahead, but the musket fire from the barge had alerted her crew. They were swarming over her deck and climbing into her rigging. Ned Tyler was not waiting for orders to get the ship under weigh.

Sarah hugged Tom around the waist, and looked back at the swann of small boats that ploughed along behind them.

“That was exciting,” she said, and her eyes were sparkling.

“Don’t you dare look so pleased with yourself, you little hussy.”

Tom hugged her.

“You disobeyed my direct orders.”

“You had best accustom yourself to that.” She grinned up at him.

“For it may happen again, some day.” Then she became businesslike and with his dagger she cut the torn sleeve from his shirt. She used the cloth to bind up the flesh wound in his arm and staunch the bleeding. In the meantime they were coming up fast on the Swallow, and Tom told her, “sharply.” Belay that, and get ready to jump The capstan was clanking on the foredeck of the sloop as Ned Tyler hauled his anchor, and as the flukes pulled free of the bottom, the sloop paid off and began making stern way. Sarah pulled up her skirts and tucked them into her belt so that her legs were bare and free, and crouched by the rail.

Tom saw Aboli’s head at the rail above him. As the hulls touched and Tom dropped the sail, Aboli jumped down like a great black panther ambushing a gazelle from the branch of a tree. His bare feet thudded on the deck as he landed beside Sarah. He swept her up in his arms.

She shrieked in protest but in the same movement he sprang back, caught hold of the boarding ladder that dangled down the sloop’s side and carried her up onto the Swallow’s deck.

Tom snatched up Sarah’s leather bag from where it lay on the deck of the felucca and jumped across the narrow gap of water that separated the hulls, allowing the felucca to drift free, and he followed Aboli up. As he swung one leg over the rail, Ned Tyler saluted him solemnly from the helm.

“Welcome aboard, Captain,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Tyler. I can think of no reason why we should linger here any longer. Get the ship on the wind, if you please.” He dropped Sarah’s bag on the deck and strode to the stern. As the Swallow came round, the dhow with Guy her bows was two hundred yards dead astern, but the sloop drew away from it so swiftly that it seemed to be at anchor.

Guy’s bare sword hung at his side, his shoulders were slumped dejectedly, and his face was contorted with frustration and hatred.

When they saw Tom the men around him could no longer restrain themselves, and they opened a furious fusillade, banging away with their muskets, but Guuy seemed oblivious to them-All his attention was concentrated on his twin brother.

They stared at each other as the two vessels drew swiftly apart.

Sarah came to stand beside Tom. Hand in hand they watched the shape of the barge dwindle until they could no longer make out Guy’s tall figure. Then the Swallow rounded the point and the harbour of Zanzibar closed behind them and the dhow was lost to sight. Dorian Courtney stood up. He had been on his knees praying to the God of his fathers. He wandered along the edge of the cliff, then stooped to pick up a pebble that had caught his eye. He wet it with his tongue then held it to the sunlight. It was pink agate striated with soft blue layers) and crowned with crystals of diamond clarity. It was beautiful.

He leaned out and let it drop from his fingers, then watched it fall five hundred sheer feet down the cliffs. It disappeared before it hit the surface dwindled in size and of the sea far below. It left neither splash nor ripple upon the surface, no sign of anything so lovely ever having existed. Suddenly, for the first time in almost seven years he thought of little Yasmini, who had vanished from his life in the same way.

The wind tugged and his robe streamed out behind him, but his feet were planted wide and he felt no fear of the drop that opened at his feet. At his right hand the gaunt red rock cliff that stood so tall above the sea was riven by a narrow valley. In its depths, clinging precariously to the shore, were the palm groves, roofs and white domes of the village of Shihr. Dorian’s men were encamped among the low acacia Thorn trees and palms further up the valley. The blue smoke of their campfires rose in oily tendrils, straight into the air until it caught the eddy of the wind over the summit of the Cliffs and streamed away towards the forbidding hills and dunes of the desert.

Dorian shaded his eyes and looked out to sea. The ships were closer now. Four stately dhows with high poops and matting sails, the flotilla of Prince alMalik. They had been in sight since dawn, but the wind was against them forcing them to tack and tack again.

Dorian narrowed eyes, judging their progress, and he saw that it would many hours still before they could enter the bay and anchor off the beach.

He was impatient and restless. It was so long since last he had seen the Prince, his adoptive father. He turne] away from the edge of the cliff, and started back along the path that led to the ancient tomb. It stood on the crest of this rocky promontory, its dome bleached by the desert suns of a hundred years.

Al-Allama and the sheikhs of the Soar were still at prayer, their rugs spread in the shadow of the tomb, turned in the direction of the holy city that lay hundreds of miles to the north across this burning land. Dorian slowed his pace, not wishing to arrive while they were still at their devotions.

The Soar did not know that he was not of Islam. On the instruction of the Prince, he had concealed that from them during all the time he had lived among them. IF they knew that they would never have taken him so readily into the tribe if they-had guessed the truth, that he was an infidel. They believed that he was under a vow of penance not to Pray in the community of believers, but to make his devotions to Allah in solitude. At the hour of prayer he would always leave them and wander away into the desert.

Alone he prayed to the God of his fathers, kneeling in the wilderness, but the words were becoming more difficult as time passed and his devotions more perfunctory. Gradually this strange sense of having been deserted by his own

God was overcoming him. He was losin his childhood faith, and he felt bewildered and bereft.

He stopped on the crest of the hill and watched the men kneeling and prostrating themselves in the shade of the mosque. Not for the first time he envied them their immutable faith. He waited at a distance until they had finished and begun to disperse. Most mounted up and trotted down the cliff path to the village below. Soon there were only two men left near the tomb.

Batula, his lance-bearer, was with the two camels, squatting with infinite patience in the patch of shade the animals threw. The bronze war shield was tied to the saddle of Dorian’s riding camel, and in the leather boot were his jezail and long lance, its point bright in the sun and the green pennant fluttering. These were all the accoutrements of the desert warrior.

Al-Allama was also waiting for him, seated out of the wind, on an outcrop of red rock. Dorian turned towards him and strode up the path.

The first streaks of grey now showed in the mullah’s beard but his skin was still unlined, and despite the months of hard riding and lean rations, his girth had not shrunk. He inclined his head to one side as he watched al-Salit, the Drawn Sword, come towards him.

Al-Salil was tall now, and under the long, swirling robes he was lean and hard, his flesh pared down and tempered by the desert. He came on with a swinging gait, like the pace of a racing camel, and there was an air of authority and command in the set of his shoulders and the carriage of his veiled head.

“His name was well chosen,” al-Allama murmured to himself. When Dorian reached him, he made a sign of invitation and the young man dropped down beside him on the rock. His legs curled under him, he sat like one of the Soar, gracefully at ease, the curved sword in its silver and leather scabbard across his knees. Only Dorian’s eyes were visible: the rest of his face was covered by the tail of his headdress, which was wound loosely over his nose, mouth and chin. The eyes were piercing, green and bright, and despite the desert sand and glare they were not shot with blood. Slowly Dorian unwound the cloth that covered his face and smiled at the mullah.