They were almost at the gate when it was wrenched open. Gareth raced out, followed by Jimmy and Watson.
Gareth saw her, paused to grasp her arm.
“We’re all right.” Emily tipped her head at the knot of wrestling bodies. “Three cultists, at least.”
Gareth nodded and went, the other two at his back.
Emily bundled Dorcas into the house, then sat her at the table in the front room.
And saw Gareth’s sword lying on the tabletop.
“Stay there,” she ordered Dorcas. “I’ll be back.”
Swiping up the sword, feeling the weight drag but determined to use it if need be, she hurried back to the gate.
Before she reached it, Arnia opened it and came quickly in, followed by Watson and Jimmy, carrying, amazingly, the supplies the other men had dropped.
Bister followed a moment later with the last bag.
He saw Emily, saw the sword in her hand. “Here-you take this and give me that.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he added, “He won’t want you out there, not now.”
She could see the sense in that. She took the bag and handed him the sword. “What’s happening?”
Bister met her eyes, hesitated, then said, “The three of them are dead. We have to do a cleanup, quick, before any of their friends come looking for them.” He hefted the sword. “I’ll take this just in case.” With a nod, he turned and went, closing the gate after him.
Emily stared at the gate for a moment, then turned and briskly waved the others on. “Let’s get inside, and get things sorted.”
That’s all she could do-keep on keeping on, and get the things done that needed to be done.
Gareth returned half an hour later to find Emily ministering to a very shaken, almost hysterical Dorcas.
The maid, her complexion pasty white, was seated at the table, with Emily crouched beside her, carefully dressing a long gash on the back of Dorcas’s forearm.
Entering quietly, Gareth heard Emily soothingly murmur, “Truly-you’ll see. It’ll be perfectly all right. It was just a piece of sheer bad luck that the man who bumped into you was one of the cultists-if he hadn’t been, your slip of the tongue wouldn’t have meant anything. It’s hardly your fault he wasn’t paying attention and ran into you.”
They heard his footsteps. Both turned. Emily stared up at him. “Is it all right?”
She might have been doing her best to soothe her maid, but her eyes were wide, with a species of shock in the mossy depths.
Gareth let himself down into the chair at the head of the table. “They’re dead-they won’t be reporting to anyone that we’re here.” Looking at her, knowing how close they’d come to disaster, the best he could do by way of reassurance was to explain, “We found a covered channel not far away. We hid the bodies there. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins are scouting around, keeping an eye on things. They’ll be in as soon as it gets dark.”
Emily gazed at him for a moment, then, smile brightening, she turned back to Dorcas and briskly patted her arm. “See? It’s all taken care of.”
4th November, 1822
Before dinner
My room in the guesthouse
Dear Diary,
There is little to report beyond the tension that rides us all. Alexandria may be a city of fabled antiquity, yet I have seen very little of it. Since our expedition to the souk yesterday, we have remained virtually cloistered in the guesthouse, with two guards on the roof at all times.
Only Gareth and Mooktu go out, and always they go together, patrolling the surrounding areas for any signs of cultists assembling for an attack. So far, there has been no alarm, but they have seen far too many cultists slipping through the crowds to allow any of us to relax.
In such a fraught atmosphere, further exploring the evolving connection between Gareth and myself has been impossible. I haven’t asked, but I hope a xebec is a reasonable-sized craft, one that will afford us a modicum of privacy in which to further our as yet undeclared courtship.
Until we are free of Alexandria, there is nothing I can do but wait.
E.
They left the guesthouse at dawn, and quietly made their way through silent streets to the docks. Mullins had had the bright idea to exchange their trunks-solid English trunks-for simple wooden ones, also solid but clearly Arabian, that Jemal had lying in his storeroom. They’d all seen the value in that, and had subsequently worked diligently to eradicate any hint of the English, even of the European, from their collective appearance. The party that arrived that morning at the docks, already bustling with ships preparing to leave on the morning tide, was utterly indistinguishable from the many others waiting to board.
Gareth, head swathed in the typical head scarf, which, happily, largely obscured his features, led them down the docks with a long-legged, unhurried stride. His attitude conveyed the impression that he owned a small Arab kingdom somewhere.
The rest of them followed in their customary order. When Gareth paused at the foot of a gangplank, looked up at the ship, then hailed the captain by name, Emily turned her head quickly, took in the vessel-and only just managed to stifle her groan.
A xebec was smaller than a schooner.
And piled with goods.
Where the devil were they all going to fit?
The question continued to resound in her head as the captain formally welcomed Gareth aboard, then beckoned the rest of them up onto the deck.
There, Emily’s frustrated suppositions were confirmed. The three burka-enveloped women were quickly conducted belowdecks-to a single cabin in the stern, with three hammocks strung in the small space.
Their luggage followed them in short order. Once that was set on the floor, leaving them just room enough to walk from door to hammock to small porthole, and the door had shut, Emily fought her way free of her burka, and, with unrestricted vision, looked around again. But…“There’s not even anywhere to sit!”
Men! The word, loaded with fulminating frustration, echoed in her head. Dorcas frowned, Arnia muttered. Emily didn’t even have room enough to pace.
The ship rocked. Emily caught hold of the door frame, then, realizing the vessel was definitely putting out, used the hammocks for balance to cross to the porthole. Peering out, she saw the docks receding-quickly. “At least this thing seems to go quite fast.”
She, Dorcas and Arnia were under strict orders to remain belowdecks to reduce the chance of their party being recognized by the cultists certain to be watching from the twin headlands of the large harbor.
Once the xebec gained clearer water further out in the bay, the captain must have put on more sail, for it positively leapt forward.
By the time they were passing between the headlands, the hull was all but flying over the waves. But then they met the Mediterranean proper, and the deeper swells slowed the craft.
From the porthole in the stern, Emily had an excellent view of both headlands as the xebec slipped through, finally free of the harbor’s mouth.
She had an excellent view of the cultists on each point.
A perfectly clear view of the spyglass one was holding, trained on the xebec’s deck.
She saw that cultist turn and say something to another. Saw the second cultist grab the spyglass and look through, then nod excitedly. After one more look, both turned and ran…she couldn’t see where.
But she’d swear they’d been smiling.
Once the headlands faded into the early-morning sea mist, she quit the cabin and made her way onto the deck.
She found Gareth leaning on the railing to one side. She leaned beside him. “Did you see them on the headland?”
He nodded, glanced at her, met her eyes. “It wasn’t possible for us all to get below. With the added weight, some of us needed to help the sailors.”