Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3) (11 page)

"I inferred from your delirium that your father is missing here in Egypt."

"Yes," he said, reluctant to discuss the matter with her.

"Surely you aren't going to attempt to find him without help. Already you have suffered two mishaps."

His expression hardened. "As I told you, I will not be taken unaware another time."

"Can you not wait until my father returns? Perhaps he can help you. He knows about Egypt."

"No, I cannot wait."

Mallory was silent for a moment, then raised her eyes to his. "What will you do?"

He wiped his mouth and laid his napkin aside. "I don't know, but I must leave now." He stood and stared down at her. "How can I ever thank you, my lady?"

"By keeping safe," she answered, rising.

"Will you let me out through the garden gate?" he asked. "If someone is watching, I don't want them to see me leave."

She nodded. After they walked down the path to the gate, Michael stopped and turned to her. "Promise me you won't go out alone?"

"I won't. One of the servants is always with me when I leave the compound. Do you think your enemies know you are here?"

"I can't be sure. But I hope I haven't put you in danger. My enemies are faceless and nameless—they could be anywhere and anyone."

Mallory felt an aching emptiness surround her heart. "Will I hear from you again?"

Without a word, he swept her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers. Mallory melted against him, feeling as if she couldn't breathe. He quickly released her and stared into her eyes for a long moment. "I believe we shall meet again, my angel."

Before she could answer, he had walked out of the gate and blended into the shadows. She wanted to call after him, but she merely closed the gate.

For a long moment, she stood there with her back braced against the wall, her heart breaking.

Then, for reasons she could not understand, Mallory began to cry.

Chapter 13

Michael had gone once more to see the consul, only to find he had still not returned from England, so Michael had been forced to speak with Abrams. He left, angered by the man's incompetence and wondering where he could turn for help.

When he arrived back at his quarters, Michael again went through his father's letters and papers, but found nothing that would indicate where the duke had gone or with whom. He was discouraged because he didn't know what to do next.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and burying his head in his hands. "You had faith in me, and I have failed you."

When the knock fell on the door, Michael yanked it open. Seeing a man dressed in black flowing robe, and a patch over one eye, he vented all his frustrations on the stranger.

"What in the hell do you want?"

"Effendi, I've come as a friend."

"I have no friends in this cursed country."

"You are mistaken, effendi. My master has invited you to his camp. He begs that I say to you, to come and dine with him and your father."

Michael grabbed the man by the robe and yanked him forward. "Do you take me for a fool? If my father was with your master, he would have written to me or come himself."

"He could not come, effendi. He has been cursed with the desert fever—too much sun. He is just now able to sit up. Will you come?"

Michael looked at the man suspiciously. "Of what tribe are you?"

"Of the Mutullib bedouin, effendi."

"I know little of your desert tribes, but I do know that effendi is a Turkish title of respect, is it not?"

The man rolled his one good eye. "You are too shrewd, effendi. My mother was Turkish, so I adopted many of her manners and words."

"What does my father look like?"

"Like you, effendi, but older. He is of your tall height."

Michael tightened his grip on the man. "What color are his eyes?"

"Not green like yours, effendi. Your father's eyes are dark, effendi—dark like an Arab's."

Michael released him, fearing to hope. This must be the opportunity he had been waiting for.

"When do we leave?"

"At once, effendi. I have all the provisions and a horse for you to ride."

Michael nodded. "How many days' journey to your master's camp?"

"Six days, no more, effendi."

"Then let's get started."

The one-eyed man grinned and motioned with his hand. "All is in readiness, effendi. Follow me—follow me."

For three days Michael and his four guides rode into the desert. Scorching sand, borne on the eternal winds, stung his face, while the sun blistered his skin and cracked his lips.

Endlessly they rode, and Michael had to admit the desert ponies were of hearty stock and carried a man easily across the sand.

He glanced about, noticing that only the hardiest plants clung to life in this wasteland. They passed colossal limestone figures left over from some long-forgotten pharaoh. Now they merely cast broken shadows on the lifeless valley of sand.

That night, as they made camp, Michael ate the unidentifiable meat that the one of the men handed him. He thought it best not to ask what it was—he didn't really want to know.

"When do I see my father?" Michael asked of the one-eyed man, who seemed to be the only one of his companions who spoke English.

"Two more days, effendi. No sandstorm, so we make good time—good time."

Glancing up at the full moon, Michael restlessly left the camp. He stood on a sand dune that gave him a glimpse of the surrounding desert. Over the next dune was another and another. A man could wander forever in this nightmare of sand.

In the distance, he heard a jackal howl. Perhaps the desert wasn't barren after all—there was life for those who knew where to look for it.

As he walked back to camp, his footsteps disappeared in the ever-shifting sand. He had the feeling this land could swallow a man and he'd never be heard from again. Was that what had happened to his father—would it happen to him?

When he went to his tent, Michael fell exhausted upon the sheepskin that had been provided for him, but tonight he kept his pistol close at hand. He still didn't trust these men, for they were acting secretively and were often huddled together, casting furtive glances his way.

He fell asleep, only to dream tortured dreams. He was back in London and the old Gypsy woman was predicting his future. She had warned him that someone near him was in danger. She had also warned him to beware of a one-eyed man. Suddenly he sat up, his eyes searching the darkened tent. Ali Hitin had only one eye. Michael shook his head in disbelief.

No, it was impossible—no one could foretell the future. But why, then, had many of the things the old woman had said, come to pass? He slept lightly, awakening at each noise. He would not think about the old Gypsy. Ali Hitin was going to lead him to his father, just as he said he would.

Michael was still in a sleep-drugged state when he heard the sound of bloodcurdling yells. Grabbing his pistol, he raced out of the tent, only to be confronted by several black-robed bedouin.

He aimed his pistol with the intention of defending himself, but before he could fire, his four guides were shot. Ali Hitin lay face down in the sand, twitched convulsively, then moved no more. There was no doubt they were all dead!

In the confusion, Michael's pistol was wrestled from his grip by two men. He realized there was no reason to put up a fight, he was hopelessly outnumbered.

He stood facing the man who appeared to be the leader, waiting for a bullet to pierce his body. But the bedouin merely motioned toward a horse, indicating that Michael should mount.

Michael thrust his foot in the short Arab stirrup and swung his long leg over the horse. He glanced at his guides—poor devils had never had a chance. He wondered why he'd been spared. Perhaps his captors had something far more terrible than death waiting for him.

He spoke to the man who appeared to be the leader. "Why have you done this?"

The man merely yelled out an order, and Michael's reins were yanked from his hand and his horse led forward. So he was a captive. He could not guess where they were taking him, and apparently they would not tell him.

In two days, he would have been reunited with his father. Frustration turned to anger. Who were these men who had so mercilessly slain his guides?

Michael stared straight ahead as they rode into the night. The moon had dropped low on the horizon as their tireless horses climbed sandy mounds as high as mountains. There was nothing here to guide a man, no landmark, nothing to gauge distance. How could these men find their way in the desert? he wondered.

The sun was just painting the sky with a golden hue when they appeared to leave the desert behind. Now the terrain became craggy, and they rode into a valley that was dominated by huge granite cliffs. After an hour, an oasis opened up to them. Surprisingly, there was a large river-fed lake and many palm groves.

In the distance, against the highest granite cliff, was a large village. Several men stood atop thick walls and waved their rifles in greeting. Wide gates swung open to admit them, and they rode through on cobbled streets.

The village was just stirring to life, and Michael paid scant attention to the sun-dried brick houses they passed.

"Where is this place?" he demanded of the man beside him, and received only a shrug for his trouble.

He was totally unprepared for the huge limestone and granite palace that rose above the other buildings. It was built in the Greek style, so out of keeping with the usual villages and towns he'd seen thus far in Egypt.

Michael didn't need to be told that this town was not on any map.

As they made their way toward the palace, many of the men began to disappear, most probably going to their homes. When they stopped at the palace steps, only one of his captors remained. He dismounted and motioned for Michael to do the same.

Two guards stood before the ornate doors, and when Michael's companion spoke to them, Michael was quickly ushered inside.

"You wait here," his captor said, speaking to Michael for the first time in English.

Michael soon found himself alone in a huge anteroom. He walked to the window of intricately carved latticework. He could see children playing in the streets, women balancing water jars on their heads, and men going off to their farms. These didn't seem like violent people.

Glancing around the room, he saw that the great doors were arched and set with semiprecious stones. Whoever ruled this valley was in possession of great wealth.

At last his guard reappeared. "My prince will see you now."

Michael walked silently across the pink marble floors toward jade green doors that swung open at his approach. The man who had accompanied him did not enter the room, but bowed and departed.

Across the vast room with high dome ceiling, Michael saw the prince standing in the shadow of an arched window. Silently, the man motioned him forward. Michael's footsteps were noiseless as he moved across the red Persian rug.

The prince still hadn't come out of the shadows, and all Michael could see was a white robe and a well-manicured hand with a huge ruby ring.

"Why have you brought me here?" Michael demanded.

"To save your life, my friend."

Michael was shocked when Khaldun stepped out of the shadows. "But you—you can't be the—"

Khaldun bowed his head and smiled before clasping Michael's hand. "My brother, I have had you watched since you left the boat. I was sorry that my men were too late to save you from the attack in the alleyway, but they waited to see that you were safely inside Lady Mallory's home."

"I don't understand."

"When it was reported to me that you were riding into the desert with men from the Mutullib tribe, I knew your life was in danger."

"But how—"

"The Mutullib are ruled by my uncle, Sheik Sidi Ahmed, and they have no liking for Inglizi, er . . . English. Sidi is my mother's brother, though my mother considers him unworthy. You see, he is dead to her because he sides with the enemies of Egypt."

"Is he Turkish?"

Khaldun nodded. "As is my mother. But she honors my father and his beliefs. My uncle bestows his loyalty on the radicals who would divide this country. They would like to see Egypt fall."

"But the men who guided me into the desert assured me that they were taking me to my father."

"This I do not know for sure. It could be that they know where your father is being held. But I do know you would not have left my uncle's city alive."

"Is it possible that your uncle holds my father captive?"

"I do not know the answer to that, but I shall find out for you."

Michael understood many things now—why the men had tried to kill Khaldun on the ship. "It seems I owe you my life."

"There will be no talk of what is owed between us, for you are as a brother to me. Does not a brother help a brother?"

"It's fortunate for me that you had me watched. I suppose in my eagerness to find my father I forgot to be cautious."

"Even now I have my spies looking for your father. The desert sand speaks to my people. We will find him. But we will talk of this over breakfast. You must be famished."

Shortly afterward, Michael sat across the low table from Prince Khaldun. He took a drink of the strong, dark coffee and smiled. "Why didn't you tell me who you really were?"

"It was my father's wish that I hide my identity since there would be those who would try to keep me from reaching my home. As you saw, our enemies found me anyway. I would be dead but for you."

Michael saw sadness in Khaldun's eyes. "How is your father?"

"He was gravely wounded while on a hunting expedition. We cannot prove if the deed was done maliciously, because the man who fired the shot killed himself before my father's men could stop him. The physicians hold out very little hope that my father will recover, for his wound is severe."

"Could it have been your uncle's treachery?" "That is what I believe, but as yet, I have no proof." "Why don't we go to your uncle and demand answers?" "Patience, my friend. I must warn you that my uncle barricades himself inside a great fortress. If your father is his prisoner, it will not be easy to rescue him."

"Nothing has been easy since I arrived in your country." The prince smiled slightly. "That is not all true. You were reunited with the beautiful Lady Mallory." "Under unfortunate circumstances." "Is she not of your heart?" "If you are asking if I love her, the answer is no." "Then I am free to seek her out, am I not?" Michael was thoughtful for a moment. He had a strange reluctance to lie to Khaldun, but it was necessary—Khaldun must not think there could ever be anything between him and Mallory. "I'm hesitant to speak of an emotion that is yet so new to me. My love for Lady Mallory has not yet been put into words."

Khaldun looked disappointed for a moment, but then he smiled. "You Inglizi have no fire in your blood. Perhaps it is because you come from a cold country, devoid of the desert heat." Michael nodded. "Perhaps." Prince Khaldun looked at his friend, taking in his appearance. "If you want the desert to reveal her secrets to you, Michael, you must appear to be as one with her." "I will do anything you think necessary to find my father. Will you help me?"