CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sun was setting when he reached the caravanserai just as the heavy, double gates were about to be closed for the night. As he dismounted, the soldier in charge of the guard detail that was standing easy nearby looked admiringly at Declan's horse, glanced with interest at his gladius and long-axe, and smiled before he spoke.
"You are just in timem friend," he said, "to avoid having to spend the night in the desert. But you must give me your name and business here before I can allow you to pass within."
Declan did not know what language the other was speaking, but the words that came through his ear ornament were in clear and unambiguous Gaelic. He hoped the collar Ma'el had given him would work as well in the other direction.
"I am Declan," he replied, remembering what Ma'el had told him about knowing more than these people and trying to project the easy assurance of command, "a warrior lately from Hibernia and the personal guardian of a rich merchant who travels with the caravan that is a day's journey from here, and which is shortly to come under attack from brigands. It is about this matter that I wish to speak urgently to your commanding officer."
Abruptly the man stood up very straight, snapped his fingers at one of the guards in the casual manner that marked him at once as an officer, and pointed at the horse before turning on his heel. "Your mount will be watered and fed," he said over his shoulder. "Please follow me."
Declan had heard much talk about this establishment from the camel drivers and merchants who had been sharing their journey. Set in one of the most dangerous stretches of the camel route to India, and manned and maintained by a local sheik who extracted a tithe from every man and beast for the services provided, it was said to be the most well-appointed and defended caravanserai that they were likely to encounter. Without appearing to be openly curious, Declan's eyes took in every detail of the structure as he followed the man.
It was a large, open rectangle of cleared ground enclosed by a stockade of wooden logs that was more than the height of two tall men. Four higher guard towers stood at each corner with two more on each side of the enhance gate he had just left. Additional defense was provided by a continuous raised walkway mounted on the inner walls that was served at frequent intervals by stairs or ladders. Built against the two shorter walls were a forge, smithy, the open, slatted structure of a food store, and the garrison barracks that seemed small for the number of men lounging about or cleaning weapons and equipment outside it. Running the full length of the wall facing the gates was a structure comprised of stables at ground level and another walkway giving access to the living quarters above, probably for the use of officers and the richer merchants who would pay not to sleep on the ground beside their camels. The enclosure had a well and drinking troughs and was just large enough to accommodate all the beasts of the caravan he had left, although there would be little space to spare and the smell would be horrendous.
As he followed the man up steep, uneven stairs to the officers' quarters, Declan had to throw his long, white cloak back over his shoulders to avoid tripping on it. The action revealed his studded leather tunic, high boots, and the weapons he was carrying. He kept his hands well away from them as he was led into the commanding officer's quarters, a long, low-ceilinged room that was divided by rich, hanging drapery into a spartan work area and the more luxuriously appointed living and sleeping space.
While his escort spoke the words of identification that had already been used at the gates, Declan watched the man who bore the ultimate power in this place and who, if Ma'el's magic collar and his own Hibernian wits would guide his tongue in the right direction, would use that authority as and where it was needed.
He was an enormous man both in height and girth even while he was seated, as now, on a padded stool behind a trestle table on which lay papyrus charts, measuring sticks, a beaker filled with an aromatic liquid, a large, curved sword, and two weighted throwing knives. On the front of his turban there was an ornament that looked costly but which might have been a symbol of rank. But the steady blue eyes that were regarding Declan from the peak of his leather helmet to the toes of his high boots, and the long, hooked nose and full black beard with streaks of gray in it were not the features of a person who would be easily convinced about anything. Declan was thinking that he was being faced with the Arabian equivalent of Black Seamus when the resemblance was increased by the other showing his uneven white teeth in a smile.
"You look to be rich, Hibernian," he said, "and your apparel is pretty for a soldier. You are well-tutored in our tongue." A sour edge entered his voice. "Were I a young woman I would be greatly impressed by the sight of you. Are the weapons you carry additional ornaments or do you know how to use them?"
Declan took a deep breath, then said calmly, "Sir, I am omitting the courtesy of addressing you by your name, rank, and tide because, as a traveler and stranger in this land, I am unsure of what they are. It is my master who is rich, not I. Among other things, he provided me with clothing and the ability to converse in many tongues, but the weapons are my own and I have long favored the axe. It is not the company of women that I seek but immediate military assistance."
Beside him Declan's escort seemed to be having difficulty with his breathing. In an outraged voice he burst out, "Know, stranger, that you are addressing the noble Achmed ben Imaubim, Prince of the Sheikdom of Khasant and the lands of…"
"Enough," said Achmed, raising one large, fat hand." 'Sir' is a strange title, short and seemingly respectful but free of the verbally unnecessary compliments with which I am usually addressed. You may continue to call me 'Sir' as long as you are here. But I find you a strange man, Hibernian. You are not easily stung to anger by personal insults, you do not boast of your prowess with the weapons you carry, and you appear to place duty before pleasure. There is a calmness and certainty about you more befitting to a master than a servant. Intriguing. If you are indeed a servant, Declan, you must have the complete trust of your master, and be very well paid. Am I correct?"
Declan inclined his head without speaking or changing his expression, only then realizing that it was a gesture he had learned from Ma'el.
"You are right," said Achmed, "those matters are unimportant and do not concern me." His tone became friendlier but at the same time more brisk as he went on, "You have had a long and tiring ride, Declan. May I offer food, rest, and refreshment before we discuss your master's needs and, of course, the sum he will have to pay me to provide them… But I see you looking at my wall map and growing restive. What troubles you?"
"My thanks, sir," said Declan, "for I am indeed hungry and thirsty. But if it pleases you, the matter is urgent. May we talk before I eat?"
"Before that," said Achmed, glancing at Declan's escort, "you will divest yourself of your cloak, helmet, and weapons and give them to my lieutenant, Bashir, who will place them in a safe place until you need them again. You will understand and forgive my apparent distrust, but these are unquiet times and I must be constantly on guard against assassination. Bashir will also return to us without delay so that he, too, can hear what you have to say to me."
Declan moved to the large intricately woven tapestry that almost filled the wall on Achmed's right. In spite of the garishly colored areas that marked the ground contours, the bright, contrasting tufts of yarn that marked the peaks and other special ground features, and the lines of beading showing the main camel routes, he was surprised to find that it was every bit as accurate as Ma'el's chart. When he heard Bashir re-enter the room he remained facing the tapestry and began talking quickly, describing all that had appeared on Ma'el's chart but pretending that he had seen it with his own eyes. He was allowed to finish without interruption, but when he turned again to face them, Bashir was looking grim and Achmed's features were suffused with anger.