The Book of the Seven Delights (8 page)

Before long, she was dressed and her belongings were packed. She intended to leave the hotel, first thing in the morning, and head straight for the consulate. Surely someone there would be able to carry a complaint to the commander of the local regiment of the Foreign Legion. Then she intended to hire horses, find a proper guide… or at least a reliable map… and set off for Marrakech before the day was out.

When she was ready, she blew out the light and stationed herself in the chair with the revolver on her lap… watching both the door and the window and listening to the sounds of the Moroccan night. Every dog bark, every distant voice, every squeak of a wheel that floated up from the streets below caused her pulse to jump. Some time later, in the distance, she heard a single, plaintive voice, crying out in what sounded like a lamentation. A call to prayer, she realized with relief.

Hour after hour dragged by. Her eyes grew so accustomed to the darkness that she could see clearly in the room. She began to be able to tell which were ordinary night sounds and which were unusual. Soon the ordinary were all she heard and the darkness and the slow unwinding of tension overwhelmed her. In spite of her determination to stay awake, her eyelids drooped and her head came to rest against a wing of the chair.

Thus, she didn't hear the scuffing sound just outside the shutters as dawn arrived. She didn't see the glint of the blade inserted beneath the latch of the shutters, hear the creak of the hinge, or notice the soft thud of leather-clad feet onto the tile floor. Her breathing continued slow and shallow… until a hand clamped over her mouth and she jolted awake with a cry and a flail of limbs.

"Quiet!" came a harsh whisper. "It's me."

A face and eye patch materialized out of a fog of sleep and anxiety. She stilled and after a moment he removed his hand.

"Legionnaires," he continued to whisper. "They're everywhere."

"Including here," she said in a vehement whisper, drawing his gaze with hers to the shattered door. "They were looking for
you
."

"Dammit." He straightened and made a gesture of exasperation. "I figured LaCroix would…" He paused for a moment, shaking off that train of thought. "They left men in the courtyard—we'll have to go out the window."

"Not me," she said furiously, shoving to her feet. The gun on her lap tumbled to her feet with a
thunk
that sounded like a thunderclap in the darkened room. She scooped it up and held it awkwardly by the grip, unsure of where to point it. "I'm not going anywhere with a wanted
deserteur
."

"I'm not a—" He stared at her for a moment, then exhaled steam in a hiss. "Fine. Once we're out of here, you're on your own."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. Every minute you stay here makes it more likely they'll find you here and accuse me of helping you."

"I'm not a criminal. And you've got more to worry about than just—" He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the opened shutter. "See that roof?" He pointed to the top of a nearby building.

"Of course I see it. What's it got to do with—"

Something—
someone
—on that rooftop moved.

"And over there." He pointed another direction, to a stepped line of roofs that were silhouetted against the gray of the predawn sky. The horizontal line developed a series of bumps that moved like an undulating snake, paused and blended into the roofscape, then moved again. Something about that sinuousness and stealth caused her toes to curl inside her boots. "And there…" He pointed to still another roof.

"Legionnaires are only a part of your problems, Boston."

Human figures were clearly visible in the third direction. She could make out heads… turbans… moving silently, steadily… toward the Marrat. And then she saw the glint of metal… a grizzled face… a blade clamped between teeth…

"W-who are they?" Her voice sounded as dry as her mouth felt.

"Locals, most likely… who've decided to have a look at your blessed "treasure map" for themselves."

"How do they know—I said I don't
have
a treasure map!" It came out much louder than she intended.

She clamped a hand over her mouth and looked to the door.

A heartbeat later, an alert was being shouted from the loggia to the central courtyard below.

"Dammit!" He took the gun from her, turned her around, and shoved it down into the back of her belt.

Then he pushed her toward the bed. "Grab one of those sheets!" He seized the dusty cover and by the time he had finished tying one corner to the sheet, the sound of running outside the door was growing louder. "
Damn, Damn, Damn
!"

There was just time for one more knot, before the Legionnaires arrived at her door and started pounding and shoving, yelling to each other, "Take them alive!"

Them
? Abigail froze for a moment with disbelief.

Smith pulled her to the window and shoved her out onto the tiny balcony, where he tied one end of the sheets around the rickety railing. "Over the side," he ordered through gritted teeth as he finished fastening the end to the ironwork. "There are horses waiting in the alley. You better be able to ride."

When she hesitated, trying to think whether escaping with him was the best thing or the worst thing she could do, he roared, "
Now
!" and her flight instinct took over, propelling her to the edge and making her swing her leg over the rail. Below, she could indeed see horses and someone waiting.

"My journals—my maps!" She tried to swing her leg back over the railing, but he prevented it. "I have to have my bags!"

"Go!"

"I can't go without them!" She tried again to climb back onto the balcony.

"I'll get them!" He ducked back and grabbed the first of her carpetbags and flung it across the room and onto the balcony. She lifted the bulky bag, slung it over her shoulder with both hands, and then looked down. Three storeys below, she could see the waiting figure waving, beckoning, and she freed one hand to grab the railing and slip her other leg over the edge.

Nothing in her orderly college-to-library-to-museum life had prepared her for letting go of a solid iron railing and trusting her body weight to a rope of hastily knotted bedsheets as she was being chased out of a hotel room by force of vengeful soldiers.

The fabric groaned as she grasped it and slid her weight down over the edge of the balcony. She could see the knots tighten, slip, and finally grab again, and abandoned her grip on the carpetbag to use both hands. The bag fell into the darkness below with a sickening thud, and seconds later, her second bag went hurtling past her to join the first on the ground.

"Whaaat—" She looked up to see Smith on the balcony with her third bag. Before she could call to him not to throw it, he already had.

Thudding, splintering sounds now came from the room behind him. He climbed over the railing and lowered himself so that he hung from the edge of the narrow parapet by his hands.

"Slide, dammit!" he roared. She realized he was swinging his legs over to grab the sheets above her and that the knots would never hold them both.

"Oh, God!" Slamming her eyes shut, she relaxed her hold and flew down the bulky rope that ended a good six feet above the ground. Somebody grabbed her as she fell and the next thing she knew she was in a heap on the ground with her hands on fire.

"Ow, ow, ow… ow, ow…"

Staggering to her feet, trying to right her vision, she spotted four horses and a rotund little figure in a turban dragging her bags toward the horses. A familiar figure.

"Haffe?" It was disorienting seeing him here.

"Merchant M'am." The
Star's
steward gave her a breathless grin as he deftly threaded a rope through the handles of two of her bags, then heaved them across what appeared to be a packhorse.

Something hit the ground behind her with a thud, but before she could turn to see what, she was pushed wholesale toward the nearest horse.

"Mount up—move!"

She apparently didn't react quickly enough; she was picked up by the waist and practically thrown onto a hard wooden saddle on the nearest horse. When she righted herself, Haffe handed her a set of reins and Smith smacked the rear of her mount to set it in motion. As the horse lurched, she was thrown back and barely grabbed the pommel to hold on for dear life.

"My bags!" she called over her shoulder.

Smith's only response was to shoot past her on his mount and lean down to grab her horses' bridle and pull it into a run.

Behind them, Legionnaires burst out onto the balcony just in time to see their horses disappear into the gloom, and faceless predators on three different housetops sounded the alarm that their quarry was on the run.

Shouts and gunshots spurred Smith and Abigail through the narrow, still, darkened streets. When she managed to lift her gaze, she saw the upper floors of the buildings beginning to glow with the first rays of morning sun; dawn had arrived. From mosques and minarets all over the city, a siren of voices began a haunting and already familiar call to the faithful. Her perception became a gritty kaleidoscope of shape and color as dust boiled up from the horses' hooves. Here and there, they passed through widened intersections setting shopkeepers and peddlers scattering for cover and food sellers with carts and unlit braziers careening out of the way.

The thought kept drumming through her head that the die was cast; she would be his accomplice now in the eyes of the French Foreign Legion, even though all she had done was allow herself to be pushed out a window and dropped down a rope of bedsheets onto a horse.

What choice had she had? They were watching her .all of them… Legionnaires… thieves…

adventurers… cutthroats…

That was when she saw it: the British flag, hanging from the iron grille of a street-side gate just ahead.

Reaching for the security it represented as a man in the desert reaches for the shimmer of water on the horizon, she straightened in her saddle and pulled back on the reins. She looked back. That had to be the Consulate! It took some tugging on the reins and flapping her heels against the horse's sides to make it turn, but she was soon back at the flag-draped gate, grabbing and rattling the ironwork.

"Hello in there! Open up—it's an emergency!"

A turbaned fellow in a long, hooded cotton tunic headed for the gate.

"This is the Consulate, yes?" she called as he headed for the gate. "Is this the British Consulate?" When he nodded and repeated "British Consulate," she nearly melted. "I'm from the British Museum! Let me in—quickly—please!"

As the heavy wood and wrought iron gate swung open, she kicked her mount and it shot into the small courtyard of the consul's residence. The man swung the gate closed behind her, then hurried over to help her down.

"I must see the Consul straightaway—it's vital," she said, handing off her horse's reins. He answered her in a mixture of English and a Berber dialect, bowing and gesturing to the front doors.

"Inside, ma'am. Inside."

There was no doorman at the front entrance; no one to admit or greet her. The great wooden doors opened easily, despite their massive weight. She found herself in a tiled loggia that surrounded an inner courtyard. She called, "I've come on urgent business," and, "I must see the Consul straightaway," but received no reply.

Stepping into the dawn-shaded court at the center of the house was literally stepping into an oasis for the senses. Lush trees and flowering shrubs were grouped around stone benches and beds of blooming flowers and trellises of vining jasmine surrounded a marble fountain that sat at the juncture of paved paths. The trickling water sounded almost musical. The noise and danger of the streets seemed a million miles away.

An unreal and somewhat disorienting sense of calm continued as she wandered down what seemed to be the main corridor of the loggia, peering through stone archways and past carved latticework, calling for someone, anyone.

The stillness, at first comforting, now began to worry her. She had decided to turn back to the outer courtyard to look for the man who had taken her horse, when a slender Moroccan-looking man in traditional dress of turban and a long-sleeved tunic stepped out onto the loggia and into her path.

"May I help you?" he said, nodding formally over folded hands.

"Thank Heaven." She clasped a hand to her heart. "I was beginning to think—I need to see the British Consul immediately."

"I fear that will be impossible, ma'am," he said in lilting tones. "Consul Battingale is in Rabat and will not return for several weeks." He gave her a wan smile and somewhat apologetic shrug. "I am Ravad Qatar… house steward. Perhaps I can be of service."

Her spirits rose as quickly as they had plunged. "Bless you, Mr. Qatar. I am in dire need of horses and a proper guide to…" She thought of Haffe and her bags and her detoured cache of money. "To Marrakech. I've come to search for some books that belonged to an old library… I work for the British Museum." His eyes widened at the mention of her employer.

"Truly? I have heard of this place… this great house in London… where many wonders and treasures are assembled. If I can help—"

Just then shouts and the sound of men and horses and confusion roiled through the half-open door to the outer courtyard. Dread seized her as the steward looked alarmed and nodded to excuse himself to see about the disturbance. Before he reached the main doors, Abigail had already recognized the voice shouting demands.

"Ouvrez! Sur le nom de la Republique de France! Ouvrez les portes!"

That voice—they had found her! The memory of the sergeant's hand digging into her shoulder and the blunted rage in his eyes came flooding back. They couldn't touch her here, could they? This was essentially British—

Qatar's voice rose into the confusion, declaring "No, no!" and "No right to come here!"

Rights or no, they seemed bent on invading and searching the consulate.

She backed down the loggia toward the rear of the courtyard, looking for a rear exit. Spotting a promising doorway, she ducked inside and rushed to a far doorway and down a passage that led through what appeared to be a kitchen pantry. She paused for a moment, listening and collecting her breath, inhaling the scents of spices and flour and strings of dried garlic.