I cannot help wonder how heavily the weight of MacFarlane’s death rests on Gareth and the other three I met that long-ago day at the officers’ mess. Bad enough the death of a subordinate, but the death of a friend…
I believe it must be honor that helps them bear the load.
Once again, I am feeling the restrictions of this xebec keenly. All yesterday, and even now, I feel the need to go to Gareth, to see him, touch him, reassure myself that he is all right. I know he is, and I recognize the impulse as stemming from our recent brush with death, yet still it persists.
I did manage to commandeer a corner of the deck and tend his wounds-three slashes, none too deep, thank heaven, and a host of scratches that were already half healed. Yet what I wouldn’t give for a private room, preferably with a bed-even a narrow one would do. As it is, there is nowhere I might even kiss him-and I am perfectly certain, honor-bound as he is, he will never kiss me in public.
It seems the rest of this leg of our journey will, of necessity, be devoted to preparing ourselves for the next. Despite having fled from one battle, there is a sense that our present peace is the lull before the storm.
Like any true Englishwoman, I will gird my loins and march on.
E.
Five mornings later, Emily stood in the prow of the xebec, Gareth beside her, and watched the port of Marseilles materialize out of the low-lying sea mist.
It was going to be a clear day. By the time the xebec had negotiated the harbor entrance and angled into a mooring on the incredibly busy wharves of what was, after all, the busiest port on the Mediterranean, the sun had risen and burned off the mist, and they could see everything with crystal-clear clarity-which meant anyone watching would be able to see them.
Luckily, the level of the sea was significantly lower than the wooden wharves, so once amid the congestion of ships, unless a watcher was looking down from the wharf directly above, those on the xebec weren’t visible.
That, to Gareth’s mind, was the only point in their favor. Wolverstone’s orders had directed him to pass through Marseilles. While he understood why, and if he’d had only his own people with him, would have accepted the need without hesitation, now Emily and her people had joined his, the stakes had risen.
Specifically, what he now had at risk, now stood to lose, was significantly greater than he’d assumed would be the case.
Still, needs must when the devil drives.
The xebec bumped against the wharf. He glanced around the deck as the sailors swarmed up to lash the ship to the capstans above. Their party was already assembled, ready to climb the wooden ladder and depart the docks as quickly as they could. The others were standing by their bags. After some discussion, they’d all reverted to their customary clothes, European or Indian; there was no longer any advantage in their Arab disguises. For himself, he’d once again packed away his uniform and donned civilian attire.
Beside him, in her dark cloak worn over a blue carriage gown, Emily looked fetching and feminine. She murmured, “So as far as possible, you and I should do the talking.”
She’d spoken in fluent French. After his years of fighting on the Continent, he, too spoke idiomatic French. Reluctantly, he nodded. “But wherever possible, play the great lady and let Watson speak for you.” Watson was the only other of their party who spoke French well enough to pass. “Mullins has enough to get by with carriage drivers, stable boys, and the like, but unless there’s a real need, we-you, Watson, and I-should shield the others from having to speak. If we can pass for French provincials on our way home, we’re more likely to slip through the cult’s net.”
There would be a net, one spread over the entire city. Marseilles was the port he and any of the other three heading home by routes other than the Cape were most likely to come through. The one point in their favor was that Marseilles was large.
And bustling.
After exchanging last farewells with Dacosta and his crew, their party climbed up to the crowded wharf. They merged with the throng of other passengers disembarking or embarking on the dozens of vessels of all types and nations lining the many wharves.
Without overt hurry, with Emily on Gareth’s arm, they headed along their wharf, making for the nearest way out of the dock area. They all kept their eyes peeled.
It was Jimmy who, head still bandaged, first spotted the enemy. He came up to report to Gareth, “There’s one of them over by that blue warehouse up ahead, but he doesn’t look like he’s seen us.”
Gareth looked, saw the cultist, and nodded. “Good.” He glanced back at the others. “Turn right at the end of this section.”
They walked on a few paces before Emily remarked, “Does it seem to you that he’s not specifically searching for us?”
Gareth nodded. At least one of his prayers had been answered. “I’d hoped that news of our impending arrival and a description of our party wouldn’t reach here before we arrived. From our watcher’s attitude, he’s just scanning the passengers generally, hoping to spot me or one of my comrades.”
“So he doesn’t know that we’re expected, let alone that we’re here, or what our party looks like?”
“No. But that will change, probably by later today.”
Gareth held them to the same brisk but unhurried pace-that of a household departing the docks, intent on getting on with their business-as they turned right, wheeling away from the cultist lurking in the shadows of the blue warehouse’s open door. “We have to assume that by later this afternoon, they’ll be hunting us specifically. We have to find cover-a very good bolt-hole-before then.”
“So we shouldn’t go anywhere near the consulate.”
“No.” The opening of a narrow street lay ahead. He led them to it as if that had been their goal from the first. Turning up the cobbled street, feeling the shadows close around them, the danger of the open docks falling behind, he said, “A small hostelry in some poorer area away from the docks, not too close to, but with good access to, the main coaching inns and the markets-at least for now, that’s what we need.”
Watson located just such a place. A small family-run enterprise tucked away down a street off a tiny local square, the inn was built of old stone and brick, its front door giving off the cobbled street. The street housed a haphazard collection of shops-a bakery, an apothecary, two small taverns, a patisserie, among others-all set between residential buildings of various sorts.
The spot was far enough away from the docks and the central part of the town to be almost wholly French, but this was Marseilles, so Mooktu’s turban and Arnia’s colorful shawls attracted no special attention.
It was mid-morning when Emily followed Watson into the inn’s front room. While Watson went forward to meet the host and arrange for refreshments, Emily glanced around assessingly. Everything-literally every item her glance lit upon-was neat and clean, spic-and-span.
Indeed, much cleaner than any place she’d stayed in since leaving England. The innkeeper, or more likely his wife, was clearly houseproud. As she slid onto one of the bench seats along the wall, Emily realized how accustomed she’d grown to making do with much less in the way of accommodation.
Gareth came to join her. The others hung back, sidling toward other tables further back-instinctively reinstating the division between master and servants-but Gareth saw and beckoned them to join him and her about the large front table.
He settled beside her, between her and the door, eyes checking their position. He glanced up as Mullins approached. “You can take point.” With his head Gareth indicated the seat closest to the window to the street. “I doubt we need to set a watch just yet, but if anyone should look in, you’re least likely to be recognized.”