The Book of the Seven Delights (16 page)

Struggling to shelve those new insights deep in personal reference, she collected herself and headed after him. They covered several blocks and made two turns before entering a huge open-air market that she guessed must be the central
souk
of Marrakech. Whatever lingering effects he might be feeling from their encounter, he obviously intended to get on with the business at hand.

Rows of stalls and awning-covered carts filled the rocky, ill-paved square. They displayed everything from garments to decorative weaving… copper pots to woven baskets… and large wooden trays of fresh vegetables to burlap bags of dried fruit and nuts. Between the rows, jugglers, snake charmers, and musicians plied their trades, surrounded by customers of every size and description.

Smith headed straight for a section of garment sellers and selected three heavy, white woolen burnouses from one stall, speaking French and indicating with vengeful clarity that the bill was to be presented to
her
. Then he moved on to a turban seller and selected lengths of both light and dark cloth.

"We don't need these," she said firmly as the merchant piled them into her arms and held out his hand for payment. "We have
hats
."

"Which won't be worth a damn when the desert wind picks up," he declared, abandoning the central stalls for the permanent shops around the great square.

He found a tentmaker and bargained for a piece of oiled canvas.

"You made me leave
my
tarpaulin behind!"

"Too small," he said flatly.

He found a shop that sold harnesses and equipment of metal and leather, and purchased three sets of wire goggles.

"My smoked-glass spectacles are just as effective."

"Only if you actually
want
to go sun-blind," he said tautly.

Next, he located an apothecary's stall and bargained for camel butter, camphor oil, and a number of foul-smelling substances to put in them.

"I kept my universal dispensary." She winced at the bizarre animal and insect parts displayed as potential cures. "I have all the medicinals we'll need."

"English remedies for England. Desert remedies for the desert." He bit off the finish of every word and pointed to the merchant's outstretched hand.

He piled the items he had ordered in Haffe's already laden arms and headed for an instrument maker indicating he needed to bargain for a compass. She caught up and grabbed him by the sleeve to pull him to a halt.

"That wasn't on our list, either. I already
have
a compass." It seemed he was spending her money as much to punish her as to acquire what they needed.

He wheeled on her, his gaze hot and temper flaring.

"Our lives will depend on it. I need a real compass, not some tin trinket!"

She stood her ground, refusing to let him either dominate or dismiss her, insisting he deal openly with whatever it was that had surfaced between them.

"It's not my compass we have to worry about," she said furiously, "it's your sense of direction. I'm not sure you know which way is up!"

Tension arced between them making the air heavy and charged. Her skin prickled as he reached for her.

When his hands closed on her upper arms, she felt a hot, jagged surge of excitement. Then he pulled her closer.

"Smeeth—" Haffe's voice intruded, sounding oddly choked. "Smeeth!"

Smith's head snapped up. A moment later, she jerked her gaze around to see what had caused him to all but abandon his grip on her.

Entering the square, not far away, was a wall of khaki.

Legionnaires.

She looked around for a place to retreat and found none. The late-day market crowd had given the disputing "Europeans" a wide berth and they found themselves standing virtually alone on one side of the great square. Smith took a step backward, then another, sweeping Abigail and Haffe behind him.

The Legionnaires were talking loudly and pointing to various parts of the
souk
… apparently off duty.

Then one of them looked up and spotted Smith's stare and hasty retreat.

Abigail's heart stopped as she saw the Legionnaire gather and direct the others' attention toward Smith and her.

"Hey, you! You there—" one of them called.

"Run!" Smith growled, giving her and Haffe both a shove. She wheeled and rushed for the corner, but by the time she reached it she sensed Smith wasn't behind her and stopped. When she looked back, she saw him with his hand on his revolver, backing her way under the scrutiny of a dozen Legionnaires.

All she could think was that she couldn't let them take him; she
needed
him. She looked to Haffe, who was laden with purchases and probably not much of a fighter anyway, then frantically around the souk for someone—anyone who looked like an authority. The only "official" presence in the marketplace was the Legionnaire force itself.

That left only her. She felt beneath her jacket for the gun at her back, squared her shoulders, and charged back into the square.

The sight of two Europeans—one an unveiled female in Western dress—was enough to attract the Legionnaires' attention. But it was the pair's look of surprise and immediate retreat that triggered the Legionnaires' impulse to run a quarry to ground. The faster Smith fell back, the faster they approached…

until they drew close enough to get a better look at him. A man from the rear pushed his way forward, yelling to the others: "Wait—"

"Smiff?" The tall, lanky Legionnaire's eyes fairly bulged from his head. "Good Gawd! Apollo Smiff, is zat
you
?"

Smith froze and returned both the scrutiny and the disbelief.

"Crocker?" he blurted out. "Will Crocker?"

"Good Gawd—I fink it's 'im!" Crocker stalked cautiously forward to give him a poke on the shoulder and report back to the others: "It's 'im all roight. Apollo Bloody Smiff. In livin' flesh."

A moment later, Smith and Abigail were surrounded with Legionnaires swearing with surprise and laughing.

Smith's boisterous hand-clasps and shoulder butting caused Abigail to release her grip on the pistol.

He knew these men. More importantly, they knew him and they didn't seem to want to shoot or arrest him!

"Gawd, let's 'ave a look at ye," Crocker declared, seizing Smith by the shoulders and holding him at arm's length. "Not bad fer a corpse, eh, lads? That's wot they told us, Smiffy old boy—you're
dead
."

"Who told you that?" Smith said, grinning and cuffing Crocker's shoulder. "Bet it was an officer. Damned liars, officers."

"No, no. It was a sergeant," said an Indian-looking fellow with a musical accent to his English and a broad, toothy smile. "I am sure of it."

"An NCO, then. A damned
bad
liar." Smith laughed.

Smith realized the men were all staring at something behind him and turned to find
her
standing with her arms folded and her chin tucked.

"An' who might this lovely slip o' muslin be?" Crocker pushed past Smith, his eyes alight. " 'E rose from th' dead
and
found hisself a woman!"

"This"—Smith cleared his throat and with two giant steps arrived at her side—"is my partner. Miss Abigail Merchant. From Boston. That's in America, for all you brutes and numskulls."

"Will Crocker, miss," Smith's friend offered his hand, and when she accepted it, he bowed gallantly.

"Any partner o' Smiff's is a partner o' mine."

"Pleased to meet you," she said, still struggling to understand what was happening. "But in fact, Mr.

Smith is—"

"One lucky bastard," injected a red-faced fellow with curly auburn hair and the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. "Private Joseph Ryan Flynn, at yer service."

In short order, she was also introduced to Ravi Phant, Giotto Mancini, Fritz Neiburg, Cruz Sanchez, and Elijah Johnson… all of whom claimed to have served with Smith when he was assigned to the Legion outpost in Marrakech. They were off duty, they said, and insisted that Smith and Abigail join them for a drink. Haffe, eager to escape the presence of so much French khaki, volunteered to carry their purchases back to the hotel and departed.

Not far away was a cafe at the corner of the
souk
, with an outdoor loggia and a number of tables. There was already a lively trade in the place, as customers and merchants adjourned from the waning market for food and drink. But the minute a horde of Legionnaires appeared, the native Moroccans evacuated tables and exited the bistro.

"It's like that everwhere we go," Crocker said with a rueful laugh, nodding to the locals' retreat. "They ain't too keen on our comp'ny."

"Nor should they be," Joe Flynn declared loudly. "We're a colonial force, we are." He broke into a wicked Irish grin. "And damned proud of it!"

A howl of agreement and some pounding of the tables ensued… until the proprietor hurried out of the cafe to see what was the matter. They gave them their order and were soon drinking toasts to Smith's return to the living, to the Legion's miserable record keeping, and to the day each and every one of them mustered out
alive
.

No ladylike demurring was allowed; they set a glass of wine before Abigail and insisted she partake as well. And when the first glass of wine was finished, they ordered her another.

"Forgive me," she said, looking at the variation in the faces around the tables they had pushed together,

"but, none of you look or sound very French."

They laughed and began to spout butchered French phrases and sing what were probably scurrilous French songs.

"Not a Frenchie amongst us," Flynn declared, "for which we all thank the Good Lord. 'Tis the French
Foreign
Legion, miss. Made up of foreigners. Frenchies themselves are 'discouraged from applyin.' It's just us poor grunts an' gilhooleys bleedin' an' dyin' out here. Us with the dim wits and strong backs." He gave a wicked grin. "Us that got sucked in by them sweet-talking recruiters."

The others laughed raucously and called out the promised benefits of Legion service: "Great pay,"

"Delicious food," "Lots 'o travel," "Betterin' yerself," "Payin' a debt to society," and "Impressin' the ladies!"

"AH 'o that," Crocker said laughing at his comrades, "and th' chance to be declared a French citizen
…

if
ye survive th' full contract."

"What more could a man want?" Ravi Phant said, eyes glistening.

"Of course, Smith, here, he's half a Frenchie a'ready," Flynn informed her. "Parlays with the best of 'em."

"Yeah, but 'e's no ponce. He come to th' Legion the right an' proper way, jus' like the rest o' us,"

Crocker declared.

"Yeah," Flynn said, beaming mischief. "From prison."

"Prison?" Abigail turned to Smith with wine-muffled shock. "What for?"

Smith swung at Flynn's head, missing by a mile.

"Nothin' I can remember."

"The usual," Flynn said drawing back.

"And what's the usual?" she asked.

"Killin' a man."

Abigail sat in shock, listening to the banter resume and the high spirits flow around her, trying to absorb the fact that Smith had been imprisoned for killing someone. His arrogance, his stubbornness, his secretiveness, his drive to profit from helping her… those had been enough to make her wary of taking him fully into her confidence. Now she learned—and he didn't deny—that he had taken a life and was in prison when he was inducted into the Foreign Legion! Just as she was beginning to trust him…

She was so absorbed in stealing glimpses at him and going over every step of their association—wondering how she could have missed the taint of such violence in him—that she lost track of the conversation around her.

"Who else got transferred when I did?" Smith was demanding of Crocker.

"No one." Crocker wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "We figured ye'd found one o' yer fancy kin to buy ye out… an' forgot so much as a 'sod off for yer old pals."

"Just me, then," Smith concluded, scowling. "They came and got me—put me in a detachment headed for Casablanca. I hardly had time to snag my kit and rifle. They were splitting up the company, they said, and sending experienced men to the mounted companies. But it seems they didn't."

"That's where you were sent? A mounted company?" Flynn whistled. "No wonder they thought you were dead. The mounted companies were sent up north—the Algerian border. Scarce one in three came back alive."

"South and east of Tangiers." Smith nodded, tossing back another whiskey and waving for another round for them all. "A lot of killing and a lot of dying."

To a man, the Legionnaires went silent for a moment.

"To the bastards who bought it up north," Flynn said, raising his glass. It was oddly somber. Such talk brought each man present face-to-face with the fact that as long as he was in the Legion, death was never far away. A moment after the toast was drunk, Flynn cleared his throat and the spell was broken.

"Tell us homesick lads, miss," he turned to Abigail, "what an ugly brute like him did to merit the company of such a beautiful young laidy as yerself."

"Rescued her," Smith cut in, his chest swelling to almost the size of his inflated head. "Twice."

She sent him a dagger of a look that failed to puncture it.

"Aboard ship, on the way from England"—he went on—"and again in Casablanca." Clearly, the whiskey was having an effect. "Then, I damn near had to fight a band of bloodthirsty nomads over her on the road to Marrakech."

Modesty had never exactly been his long suit, but this was too much.

"I have taken to calling him S.O.S.," she said with a strained little smile.

"S.O.S.?" He grinned and leaned close to her. "Yeah. It fits."

"Better than
Apollodorus
," Flynn put in with a taunting laugh.

"What's that?" Abigail turned to the garrulous Irishman.

"His Christian name. Didn't he tell you?" Flynn dodged Smith's lunge across the table.

"He apparently omitted a few things," she said, as Smith caught him and wrapped a steely arm around his head.

"His ma thought the sun rose and set in her baby boy—" Flynn groaned.