The Monsoon (84 page)

He had a fleeting image of his true father, but the picture in his mind of Hal’s face was blurring.

I will always be true to my real father, he promised himself staunchly, but he obeyed alMalik’s invitation.

promptly and gladly.

“In my absence you have become a man.” AlMalik studied him keenly.

“Yes, my lord,” Dorian replied, and had to stop himself adding automatically, “By the grace of Allah.”

“I can see that this is so.” AlMalik picked out the outline of firm young muscle and breadth of shoulders beneath the kanzu that Dorian wore so naturally.

“And it is therefore fitting that you should relinquish the name of the child and take in its stead the name of the man. From henceforth you shall be called alSalil.”

“It is the will of Allah,” al-Allama and Ben Abram said together. They both looked proud and pleased with this honour that the Prince had accorded their protege. It redounded to their credit, for the name the Prince had chosen was a propitious one: it meant the Drawn Sword.

“Your beneficence is like the rising of the sun after the dark night,” Dorian replied, and al-Allama nodded his approval at the choice of words and their inflection.

“It is also fitting that you should have your own lance—bearer.

“AlMalik clapped his hands and a young man stepped out onto the terrace with a long, raking stride, like that of a racing camel. He was probably fifteen years older than Dorian, in his late twenties, and a warrior by his dress and when. He wore a curved scimitar at his waist and carried a round bronze shield on his shoulder.

“This is Batula,” the Prince told him.

“He will make his oath to you.” Batula came to Dorian and knelt in front of him.

“From this day forward you are my liege lord, he said in a strong, clear voice.

“Your enemies are my enemies. Wherever you may ride, I shall carry your lance and your shield at your right hand.” Dorian put his hand upon Batula’s shoulder in acceptance of the pledge, and Batula rose to his feet. The two young men looked each other in the face, and instinctively Dorian liked what he saw there. Batula was not handsome of features, but his face was broad and honest, his nose large and hawkish. When he smiled his teeth were even and white. He wore his thick dark hair oiled with ghee and twisted into a braid over one wide shoulder.

“Batula is an exponent of the lance,” alMalik said, “and a warrior tried in battle. There is much he has to teach you, alSalil.”

The lance was the weapon of the true Arab horseman. Dorian had watched the novices at practice on the field of arms, and had thrilled to the charge of pounding hoofs, the steely flash of the lance-points as they picked a suspended brass finger ring out of the air at full charge.

“I shall be a willing pupil, “Dorian promised.

AlMalik dismissed Batula. When he had left the terrace the Prince resumed, “Very soon I shall undertake another long journey to the north, the pilgrimage to Mecca through the sands and the wilderness of the deserts. You will accompany me, my son.”

“My heart rejoices that you choose me, great lord.” AlMalik made the gesture of dismissal, and when Dorian had gone he turned back to al-Allama and Ben Abram.

“You will send a message to the Sultan in Zanzibar on for him to pass to the English consul there.” He paused to collect the words, then went on, “Tell him that Prince alMalik indeed purchased alAmhara from al-Auf. He did this to take the boy under his protection and to shield him from harm. Tell him that, despite all alMalik could do to protect him, alAmhara fell sick of a pestilence and that he died a ye or ago. He is buried here on the island of Lamu. Tell him that alMalik has spoken thus.” Al-Allama bowed.

“It shall be as you command, Your Excellency.” He was impressed by this ingenious solution.

“Al-Amhara is dead,” alMalik went on.

“You will erect a headstone in the cemetery with that name on it. Al, Amhara is dead.

Al-Salil lives on.”

“By God’s grace. “Al-Allama acknowledged the order.

“I shall take the boy with me into the desert and leave him with the Soar to hide him. There in the sands he will learn the warrior’s way. In time the Franks will forget that he once existed.”

“This is a wise decision.”

“Al-Salil is more than a son to me, he is my living talisman. I shall never yield him to the demands of the Franks,” he said, softly but firmly.

The Swallow came up the channel, then tacked into the roads of Zanzibar. Ahead there were ten sail of square-rigged ships lying in the anchorage, besides a mass of Arab dhows. Tom Courtney looked them over carefully. They flew the flags of some of the great trading nations of the northern hemisphere, with a preponderance of Portuguese and Spaniards.

“Not a Frenchie in sight, Mr. Tyler,” Tom announced, with relief.

He did not relish the complications of sharing a neutral port with ships of the enemy.

“No,” agreed Ned.

“But there is at least one East Indiaman.” He pointed out the tall ship, a princess of the ocean, displaying the majesty of the Company.

“They will offer us an even frostier welcome than the Frenchies would have done.” Tom grinned recklessly.

“I give not a fig for them,” he said.

“They can do nothing to us outside the courts of England, and we will not be back there for a while.” And added, under his breath, “Not until they drag me there in chains.” He glanced up at his own masthead, devoid of any flag.

He had not wanted to announce his nationality.

“As soon as we anchor, I will go ashore to pay a visit to the new consul,” he told Ned.

He had spoken to the captain of another English ship in Table Bay when they broke their long voyage at Good Hope. The captain had told him that Grey had a successor in the consular office in Zanzibar.

“He is some young fellow sent from Bombay, after Grey was murdered, to take over the consular duties for the Fever Coast, and, of course, more importantly, to see to the interest of John Company in those seas.”

“What is his name?” Tom had wanted to know.

“I don’t recall. I’ve never met him, but by all accounts he is surly and difficult, enchanted by his own importance.” Tom watched as Ned took the Swallow into the bay, and they dropped the anchor in water so clear they could see the multicoloured fish swarming over the coral heads four fathoms under the keel.

“I will take Aboli ashore with me,” Tom said, as soon as the longboat was launched.

The two landed on the stone jetty beneath the walls of the old Portuguese fort and made their way into the narrow streets.

The heat and the stinking bustle were all so familiar that Tom could hardly credit that it was almost two years since last he had come ashore here. They asked for directions from the Arab harbour master.

“No, no,” he told them.

“The new consulate -is no longer in effendi Grey’s old house in the town. I will send a boy to show you the way.”

And he picked out one of the ragged urchins from the swarm who were pestering the ferenghi for alms. “This son of Shaitan will guide you.

Do not give him baksheesh of more than one anna.” The boy danced ahead, leading them out of the jumble of narrow alleys and ramshackle buildings into the palm groves. Along a sandy road, a mile or more beyond the last hovel, they came to a large villa behind high walls.

Although the house seemed old, the outer wall had been repaired recently and painted with burnt lime wash The roof of the main house that showed above the top of the wall was freshly thatched with palm fronds. There were two brass plaques on the gate. One was engraved: “His Majesty’s Consulate. “Below that was the Company’s emblem of rampant lions and the legend: “Office of the United Company of Merchants of England Trading to the East Indies.” A servant answered Tom’s ring at the outer gates in the wall, and Tom sent him with a note to his master. After a few minutes the man returned. Tom left Aboli to wait for him in the courtyard and followed him.

The main house was laid out around gardens and fountains in the Oriental style of architecture. The ceilings were high but the rooms sparsely furnished. There were, however, vases of tropical flowers in the rooms through which the servant led Tom, and these floral decorations and the arrangement of cushions on the austere hardwood furniture suggested a feminine hand. At last the servant led Tom into a large room with stone floors and bookcases lining the walls.

“Please to wait here, effendi. The master will come soon.” Left to himself, Tom looked up at the slowly revolving fan and the arrangement of lines and pulleys that led through a hole in the wall to where a slave pulled rhythmically on a line to keep the fan turning.

Tom walked to the writing-desk in the centre of the floor, and glanced at the quill stand and ink-pot, set out precisely, and at the piles of documents bound with red ribbon and stacked with military precision. Then he turned from the desk and wandered along the bookshelves, trying to divine from their contents the character of the man he had come to meet. The shelves were filled with heavy ledgers and bound reports with the Company emblem embossed on al nature on display the spine. There was nothing of a person the room had a soulless feel to it.

and He was alerted by a footstep on the flags on the terrace courtyard, and he turned outside the entrance to the inner c just as a tall, lean figure appeared in the doorway. The bright tropical sun was behind him, so Tom did not recognize him. the consul stopped and let his eyes adjust to the at once gloom of the room after the brilliant sunshine outside. He as dressed in a sober black serge costume with a white lace w collar.

Then he stepped into the room and removed the wide brimmed black hat from his head . Tom saw his face clearly for the first time. For a long moment his astonishment was so intense that he could neither move nor speak. Then he laughed and started forward.

“Guy” Is it really you?” ImPulsively he opened his arms to embrace his twin brother.

it was obvious that Guy Courtney’s surprise was as great as Tom’s. A host of differing emotions showed briefly on his as and stiff, and face, then were gone. His features became cold he stepped back from Tom’s embrace.

“Thomas,” he said.

“I had no idea that it was you. You signed a false name on your note.”

“Neither had I any idea that it was you,” Tom said, and let his welcoming arms fall to his sides. He avoided the accusation of using a false name. He had deemed it wise not to use his real name here, in case by some strange chance a warrant for the murder of William had reached Zanzibar ahead of him. He watched Guy’s expression for some sign that this had happened, and judged that he could not rely on his twin to shelter him from justice.

They stared at each other in silence for a minute, which seemed to Tom like all eternity. Then Guy held out his right hand. With relief Tom took it.

Guy’s grip was limp and his flesh as cool as his expression.

He dropped Tom’s hand after only a brief contact, then turned away to his desk.

“Please be seated, Thomas.” He indicated the -highbacked chair across the room, without looking directly at his brother.

“I

trust that you have not d to these waters to indulge in any form of trade. The returne fact that you use an assumed name makes me think that that t once, he went may be the case. “When Tom did not reply a on,”I must warn you that my first loyalty is to the Company,” he made it sound as though he was invoking the name of land I will immediately send a report to London.” God, feeling his anger boil up swiftly.

Tom stared at him, “Merciful heavens, Guy, is that your first concern? Are we not brothers? Do you not want to know about Father and Dorian?”

“I am already aware of Father s death. The Company ship that lies in the harbour this day brought me a letter from Lord Childs and from our brother William in England,” Guy replied. Tom felt a surge of relief at this confirmation that he had not yet heard of William’s death.

Guy replaced the quill in its holder, and went on, “I have mourned Father’s passing in my own s nothing more to say on way so there i that score.” His mouth hardened.

“Besides, you were always his favourite. I meant little to him.”

“That is not true, Guy. Father loved us all equally,” Tom burst out.

“So you say.” Guy shrugged.

“As for Dorian, I heard that he was lost at sea, drowned and dead.”

“No, he was not.” Tom made no effort to keep his voice down.

“He was captured by the Mussulmen and sold into slavery.” Guy laughed without humour.

“You were always one for a wild tale. I assure you as His Majesty’s consul in these territories I have access to the most reliable sources of information.” Despite his denial, Tom thought he detected a shiftiness in his expression.

“I was there, damn you, Guy. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Guy seated himself behind the desk and fiddled with the quill, stroking his own cheek with the plume.

“Ah, you actually saw him sold into slavery? How surprising that you did nothing to prevent it.”

“No, you puffed-up jackanapesP Tom bellowed. (I know that he was in the power of the Mussulman pirates, captured and not dead or drowned. I also know for certain that he was sold into slavery.”

“What proof do you-” Guy started, but Tom strode to the desk and slammed his hands on the top so that ink spurted up and splattered the piles of documents.

“The testimony of the Arabs we captured at Flor de la and proof of my own eyes and senses. Dorian is alive, I tell you, and it is your duty as a brother and an Englishman to help me find him.”

Guy leaped to his feet. His face was icy pale, his eyes blazing.

“How dare you come here into my house, into my territory, in your old overweening, blustering style and dictate to me what I must do?” he screamed at Tom, drops Of spittle flying from his lips.

“Sweet Christ, Guy, don’t tempt me further. I’ll whip the hide off your craven back if you don’t do your duty by our little brother.”

“Those days are long past, Thomas Courtney. I am the master here, the chosen representative of His Majesty and of the Company. You will find yourself thrown into prison, your fine ship seized and confiscated if you raise a hand to me.” He was shaking with rage.