Far from dissuading me that he is my “one,” Gareth’s arrogant but nobly motivated stance underscored the fact-as if I didn’t know it-that with him I am utterly and completely safe. Even from him.
Of course, this leaves me in the position of having to open my misguided major’s eyes as to my own true motivations and feelings, but I am confident, dear Diary, that that is well within my powers.
I have my fingers crossed that our time here in Tunis will yield the opportunity I need.
E.
The next morning, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, closely escorted by Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, all in their Arab disguises, left the guesthouse and walked down the street toward the scents and sounds of the medina.
No directions were necessary.
They hadn’t gone fifty yards when three colorfully uniformed guards approached at a trot.
The one in the lead halted before Gareth. In clear and precise French, he delivered what was clearly a formal summons for Gareth to present himself at the bey’s palace.
Ignoring the tension in the group at his back, Gareth smiled and, in fluent colloquial French, inquired what the problem was.
“It is a requirement, sir, that all foreigners report and make their bow to the bey. It is something all newcomers must do.”
Gareth inclined his head. He’d heard of such practices. “I will come immediately to pay my respects to the bey.”
Turning, he looked at Emily. Quietly asked in English, “You heard?”
Worry in the eyes just visible through her burka’s panel, she nodded. “Be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I will be.” He glanced at Mooktu. “You’re with me. The rest of you”-his gaze swept them-“go on as you’d planned, but stay together.”
There were careful nods all around, then Gareth turned to the waiting guards. “Gentlemen-lead on.”
The leader inclined his head, turned and did so, striding back up the street; his two subordinates fell in behind Gareth and Mooktu as they followed.
Emily watched the little party until they turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.
Lips set, she glanced at the others, saw them staring in the same direction. She inwardly shook herself. Actively doing something-organizing, shopping-was better than standing around wringing her hands. “Right, then! We have supplies to gather. We should make an effort to find everything we need today-just in case.”
Just in case something happened, and they had to leave Tunis in a rush.
It was late afternoon before Gareth and Mooktu turned into the street in which their guesthouse stood. Eager to get back and reassure the others, who by now were surely wondering whether something bad had befallen them, Gareth quickened his pace.
Their audience with the bey had been totally unremarkable. A few words in reply to the obvious questions: Were they here for trade? No, they were simply tourists passing through. Were they planning on staying long? A few days, perhaps more. What business was he engaged in? He was a retired soldier seeing the world.
That a few minutes’ conversation had taken so long was merely an outcome of the usual diplomatic lack of urgency. Nothing of any consequence had occurred before or after. One thing Gareth had noted with some relief was the absence of any sign of an English diplomatic presence close to the bey. As far as he could tell, there’d been no other Englishman in the room, no Frenchman, either. An Italian and a Spaniard, but that had been all.
Gareth hoped the others had suffered a similarly unexciting day.
He and Mooktu were a few steps from the guesthouse gate when sudden footsteps rushing up behind had them both turning, instinctively putting their backs to the wall, their hands going to their sword hilts.
Just in time to yank the blades free and meet the onslaught of five men with long knives.
Gareth beat back three of the attackers, clearing an arc before him with a vicious swing of his cavalry sword. A long sword beat long knives every time. But three at once?
He had his work cut out for him. One glance showed Mooktu holding his own against their other two assailants. After reassuring himself of that, Gareth concentrated on disabling or disarming the three who, yes, were trying to kill him. Not wound or capture, but kill.
These were locals, not cultists, yet Gareth doubted they’d simply taken it into their heads to attack him and Mooktu. The two of them weren’t carrying anything valuable, and no one with a grain of sense would miss that he was experienced military, and just the way Mooktu walked declared him even more lethal.
So their attackers had been sent, but by whom? The Black Cobra, or someone else? The bey? Someone in the palace?
Regardless, given they were locals, killing any would be unwise.
A knife flashed and nicked Gareth’s arm. Jaw clenching against the sting, he shook aside all distractions and refocused his energies on defeating the men.
A crowd started to gather in the street. Their assailants, finding no easy way to penetrate his and Mooktu’s deadly defense, called to others in the crowd. Called for help.
Most hung back, shocked and shaking their heads. But three young men came forward, eyes eager as they drew the typical short Arab blades from scabbards at their waists. Then they grinned, and pushed their way in to join the fight.
Just as the gate alongside Mooktu opened, and Bister, Mullins, and Jimmy rushed out, swords in hands.
And then the fight was truly on.
It was messy. It was confused.
Then one pair of opponents bumped into some onlookers, sending a woman sprawling, and that started a fight among some of the onlookers-and then it was impossible to tell what was going on.
Women joined the fray on the edges, thumping men over the head with basins, bundles, and baskets.
To Gareth’s horror, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia emerged from the gate. Armed with ladles, they started laying about them.
For one godforsaken instant chaos reigned, then shouts came from the rear of the crowd. Large, muscled bodies started forging their way in.
The bey’s guards.
Gareth looked at Emily, trying to catch her eye to direct her back into the guesthouse-to no avail. Giving up, he fought his way to her side, arriving there just as the captain of the guard reached her.
It was the same man who had led the detachment to fetch them earlier in the day.
His dark eyes met Gareth’s. After a moment, he said, “You must, if you please, all come with me.”
It took another ten minutes to restore calm, but the captain evenhandedly gathered all those involved-those of Gareth’s party as well as all the locals, including the women. The captain had brought a full troop with him. The miscreants were formed two-by-two into a long line and, flanked by the guards, marched to the palace.
Walking with Mooktu at the head of the procession, Gareth looked back, confirming that the five locals who had initially attacked them, plus the three who had later joined in, had had their hands tied. All the rest had been left unrestrained. The captain had spoken in Arabic to those locals who had hung back and abstained from involvement, and had clearly got the basic story straight. Gareth took that as a good sign.
Glancing at Emily and Arnia, walking directly behind him and Mooktu, he murmured, “When we get to the palace, leave the talking to me.”
Emily looked up at him through the lace panel of her burka. “I seriously doubt the bey will deign to speak with me. With us.” With her eyes, she included Arnia, then looked away, head tilting as if beneath the burka she’d put her nose in the air. “Men always think men know everything.”
Gareth thought he heard a small “humph.” He also had the feeling she wasn’t talking solely about the bey.
Facing forward, he tried to remember if there was a British consulate anywhere in Tunisia, or even in neighboring Algeria, currently Tunisia’s overlord.