The Monsoon (117 page)

After a long while, Dorian stirred and opened his eyes. He looked first at her and then at Ben Abram.

“Are we alone?” he asked, and they both nodded.

“Come closer, old father. There is aught I must tell you.” When Yasmini made as if to rise and leave the tent, he laid a hand on her arm to restrain her. As they both hovered over him, Dorian said quietly, “The man who struck me down was my brother. That was why I could not send Bashir after him.”

“Is this possible, Dowle?” Yasmini stared into his eyes.

“Yes.” Ben Abram spoke for him.

“I know this brother and it is possible.”

“Tell her, please, old father. I find it tiring to speak.

Explain it to her.” Ben Abram took a minute to gather his words, then began to speak softly so that no one outside the tent could hear him. He told Yasmini how Dorian had been captured as a child and sold into slavery; how alMalik had bought him from the pirates and adopted him.

“I met him face to face, this brother of al-Sahl. I came to know him well on the island after he had destroyed the lair of the pirates.

His name is Tom. I was-his captive, but he set me free and sent me with a message to alSalil. He promised that he would never give up searching for him, and that one day he would find him and rescue him.”

Yasmini looked to Dorian for confirmation, and he nodded.

“Then why did he not hold to his oath to free you, this loyal brother of yours?”

she asked.

Dorian looked abashed.

“I cannot answer that,” he admitted.

“Brother Tom was never one to take his oath lightly. I suppose, in the end, after all the years, he simply forgot me.”

“No,” said Ben Abram.

“There was something you never knew and that I could not tell you.

Your brother came back to Zanzibar, searching for you. The Prince alMalik would not surrender you. He sent the mullah al-Allama with a message to your brother. He told him that alAmhara was dead of the fever, and they had placed a marker in the cemetery with your name upon it.”

“That was when my father changed my name to alSalil.” Dorian’s voice became stronger and sharper as he understood.

“It was to hide the truth from Tom. No wonder my brother gave up the search for me.”

He closed his eyes and was silent. Yasmini thought he had fallen into coma, but then she saw a single tear squeeze out between his closed lids. Her heart contracted with pity for him.

“What will you do, my love?” She stroked his fiery red head.

(I know not,” he said.

“It is all too cruel. I feel a sword dividing my soul.”

“You are of Islam now,” Ben Abram said.

“Can you ever go back to your origins?”

“Would your brother believe that you are alive, after you have been dead to him all these years?” Yasmini asked.

“And can you embrace him now, when he is the sworn enemy of your father, the Caliph alMalik, and of your God and your people?” Ben Abram twisted the knife in his heart.

Dorian had no answer for either of them. He turned his face to the leather wall of the tent and took refuge in his weakness from the wound. Yasmini never left his side while he drifted in and out Of consciousness, tormented by physical pain and by the emotional forces that tore at his heart and threatened to rend it apart.

The army stagnated for days in the camp below the escarpment while their sheikh lay sequestered in his tent.

Under Bashir’s direction, they gathered in the wounded and built thatched shelters for them beneath the shade trees. Ben Abram tended them. They buried their dead, but left undisturbed those-who were already interred beneath the red rock of the avalanche. They repaired the smashed equipment and resharpened their weapons. Then they waited for further orders. None came. Bashir alSind strode angrily through the camp, lashing out at any man who crossed his path, and the men shared his frustration.

They burned for a chance to avenge their comrades who had died in the narrows of the pass, but they could not move without the orders of alSalil.

Ugly rumours spread through the camp, that Bashir would rebel and take over command from the ailing sheikh. That the sheikh had died, that he had recovered, that he had sneaked away in the night and left them to their fate.

Then another, stranger rumour flared through the ranks, that a second grand expeditionary force under the command of a prince of the royal house of Oman was marching up from the coast to join them. With this combined force, they would be allowed at last to pursue the infidel into his lair. This rumour was only hours old when they heard the low thump of distant war drums, at first so soft that it seemed to be the beating of their own hearts. The Arab soldiers crowded the high ground to look out across the plain, and thrilled to the blast of a ramshorn trumpet. They saw a splendid host approaching, with a staff of high-ranking officers riding at the head.

They gathered in awe as these strangers rode into the camp. The officer who led the cohorts wore half armour in the ;@urkish style with a pot-shaped helmet, spiked on top and with a padded neck flap. From the back of his horse this splendid figure addressed them in ringing tones.

“I am Prince ibn alMalik Abubaker. Men of Oman, loyal soldiers and true, I bring you sad tidings. Abd Muhammad alMalik, my father and your Caliph, is dead in the Muscat palace, struck down in his prime by the sword of the black angel.” A groan went up from the ranks, for most of them had fought at Muscat to place alMalik on the Elephant Throne and they had loved their Caliph. They threw themselves down on their knees, and cried out, “May God have mercy on his soul.” Abubaker let them give expression to their sorrow, then he held up a gloved hand for their silence.

“Soldiers of the Caliph, I bring you salutations from your new ruler.

Zayn al-Din, beloved elder son of alMalik, who is now the Caliph.

He bids me call you to swear allegiance and loyalty to him.” They knelt in rows with Bashir al-Sind at the head of the army and swore the oath of fealty, calling on God to witness it. By the time the ceremony was over, the sun was setting. Then Abubaker dismissed the men and called Bashir to him.

“Where is that coward and traitor) alSalil?” he demanded.

“On behalf of the Caliph, I have urgent business with him.” Dorian heard the pronouncement of his adoptive father’s death while he lay on the sleeping mat in his tent, for Abubaker’s voice carried clearly through the leather side wall. It seemed that all the foundations of his life were being torn out one at a time.

He felt too weak and sick to surmount these shocks and hardships.

Then he heard Zayn al-Din’s name, and the news of his accession to the Elephant Throne, and realized that his predicament was even worse than he had fancied. With a vast effort he put aside his sorrow for his father and his own debilitating physical suffering, took Yasmini’s hand and drew her closer to his bed. She was shaken by the news of alMalik’s death, but not as deeply as Dorian, for she had hardly known her father as a man. She recovered from her sorrow swiftly when he shook her.

“We are in great danger, Yassie. Now we are both completely in Zayn’s power. I do not have to tell you what that means, for Kush was a saint in comparison to our brother.”

“How can we escape him, for you cannot move, Dowle?

What can we do?” He told her what she must do for them, speaking softly and urgently, making her repeat every detail.

“I would give you a written letter, but I cannot write with this arm. You must carry my message by word of mouth alone, but learn it well for otherwise it will not be believed.” She was quick-witted and, even in her confused state, she memorized it all perfectly at the first attempt, although she had difficulty in enunciating some of the words he taught her.

There was no time for her to perfect them.

“That will do. He will understand. Now, go!” he ordered her.

“I cannot leave you, lord,” she pleaded.

“Abubaker will recognize you if you stay by me. In his clutches, you will be no help to either of us.” She kissed him once, tenderly and lovingly, then rose to leave him, but there came a heavy tramp outside the tent and she shrank back into a corner, covered her head and shoulders with her shawl. At that moment the tent flap was thrown open and Bashir al-Sind stepped in. Ben Abram tried to intervene, and prevent him approaching the bed on which Dorian lay.

“Al-Salil is sorely wounded and must not be disturbed.” Bashir pushed him aside contemptuously.

“General Abubaker, the emissary of the Caliph, approaches!” he warned Dorian, and his expression was cold and malicious.

Dorian knew that he had changed allegiance and was no longer his loyal friend and ally.

Behind him, Abubaker stepped into the tent, and stood with his hands on his hips.

“So, the traitor yet lives.

That is good. Al-Salil, who was once alAmhara in the zenana at Lamu where we were playmates.” He sniggered sarcastically.

“I have come to take you to the Caliph to answer capital charges of treason.

We will march for the coast tomorrow at dawn.” Ben Abram intervened again.

“Noble Prince, he cannot be moved. His wound is grievous. It will endanger his very life.” Abubaker stepped close to the bed, and looked down at Dorian.

“A wound, you say. How can I be certain he is not shirking?” Suddenly he reached down and grasped the padded dressing that covered Dorian’s chest. With one brutal gesture he ripped it away. The fresh-formed scab was stuck to the bandage, and as it came away Dorian stiffened and hissed with agony. Fresh blood started from the wound and trickled down his chest. In the corner of the tent Yasmini whimpered with sympathy, but none of them took notice of her.

“It is but a mere scratch.” Abubaker gave his opinion as he pretended to examine the open wound.

“Not enough to keep a traitor from justice.” He grabbed a handful of Dorian’s thick red hair and dragged him from the bed.

“Get on your feet, traitor pig.” He pulled Dorian upright.

“See, Doctor, how strong is your patient. He has been duping you. There is little wrong with him.”

“Noble Prince, he will not survive such treatment, or the long march to the coast.”

“Ben Abram, you doddering old goat, if he dies before we reach the coast I will have your head. Let it be a contest between you and me.” He smiled, and showed all his uneven teeth.

“You must do your best to keep alSalil alive. For my part, I will do my best to kill him by degrees.

We shall see who wins.” He threw Dorian back onto his sleeping mat, and turned to stride out of the tent. Bashir followed him.

Yasmini sprang up and rushed to Dorian. Although his face was contorted with agony, he whispered to her fiercely, “Go, woman. Waste not another moment. Find Batula and ride.” Tom and his band reached Fort Providence in three days of hard riding, and immediately started to make preparations to abandon the settlement.

Aboli sent Fundi and three of his men upriver to fetch his family.

“I cannot sail without them,” he told Tom simply.

“I would not expect that,” Tom replied.

“But they must make haste. We can be sure the Mussulmen are hard on our tracks.” Tom sent out pickets to cover all the approaches to the fort, so that they would have warning when the Arab forces appeared. Then, in haste, they began to load the Centaurus for her departure down the Lunga river. They fetched the light nine-pounder cannon from the emplacements on the stockade wall and placed them in their carriages on the upper deck.

There was no ivory to take with them but they reloaded all the trade goods they had brought up from. Good Hope at the beginning of the season. Sarah gathered all her treasures and brought them aboard, the linen and cutlery, pots and pans, medical stores and books almost filling their tiny cabin. Tom argued about the harpsichord.

“I will buy you another,” he promised, but when he saw that peculiar expression of hers he knew he was wasting his breath. With poor grace he allowed two seamen to carry it up the gangplank and sway it down into the hold.

It was strange, but still there was no sign of pursuit from the north, and Tom sent out Aboli to make certain that the pickets covering the northern trails were alert and at their posts. This calm was unnatural. Surely retribution must come soon.

The days passed. Then, at last, Fundi returned down river from Lozi Land with two dugout canoes carrying Zete and Fallo the two boys Zama and Tula, and the new babies. Sarah took them all under her wing.

Tom sent an urgent messenger after Aboli, bidding him bring in the pickets for all was at last in readiness for the departure.

Two days later there was a shout from the sentry on the watchtower above the fort.

“Riders coming from the north!” Tom climbed up the ladder, telescope in hand.

“Where away?” he demanded, and when the sentry pointed, he focused the telescope.

Sarah climbed up to the top of the tower beside him.

“Who is it?” she asked anxiously.

“It’s Aboli, bringing in the pickets.” He whistled softly with relief and satisfaction.

“And no sign of pursuit. It looks as though we might get clear away without a fight. I had not thought that possible. I cannot understand why the Mussulmen have let us off so lightly. Get all your little brats on board. We will shove off downriver as soon as Aboli steps on deck.” She started down the ladder, but he stopped her with another whistle.

“Aboli is bringing in two strangers. Arabs, by God. Prisoners, by the look of it, for Aboli has them well trussed up.

He has bagged himself a couple of enemy scouts. Like as not they will be able to tell us where their main force is.” Tom and Sarah were waiting for them when Aboli marched his captives aboard the Centaunts.

“What fine fish are these you have netted, Aboli?” Tom asked, as he eyed them. By their apparel they were Arabs, one a warrior, and a dangerous one by the look of him.

The other was a slip of a boy, a pretty lad with big dark eyes who was timid and fearful.

“An unlikely pair,” Tom said.

The boy seemed encouraged by his easy tone.

“Effendi, you speak my language?” he asked softly, and his voice was sweet and unbroken.