“I have been thinking,” Mooktu said, “that if the cultists sent to watch us here have not yet been warned that we are going in disguise, then they are less likely to spot us.”

“True. So we’ll need to remember to always go disguised.” Gareth glanced around the table. “It would be preferable to stay in our Arab clothes even in here.”

Emily was perfectly happy to do so; her Arab clothes were less confining and in this climate certainly more comfortable than gown and petticoats. She’d tried to hand back the garments the Berber women had loaned her, but they’d waved their hands and told her to keep them and use them while she was in Arab lands.

She caught Gareth’s gaze. “We’ll need to go to the souk tomorrow. We’ll do that while you’re at the docks. We’ll take Mullins and Bister, and be extra careful, but it won’t hurt to take a look around.”

He didn’t like it-she could see that in his eyes-but eventually he inclined his head. “No, it won’t.”

Eight

2nd November, 1822

Early morning

My room in the guesthouse at Alexandria

Dear Diary,

Something has altered between me and Gareth, although I cannot put my finger on exactly what. There is a greater sense of shared endeavor, as if he now accepts that I can contribute in real ways to our survival. The timing suggests that our sojourn with the Berbers is responsible for his altered attitude, but why spending time, largely separated, in a less-civilized society that only exacerbated his protective and possessive streaks should result in a more inclusive attitude is a mystery. However, we are once again under such threat of being discovered by cultists sent to await our arrival and cut off our heads that it is difficult to find time, or space in my mind, to dwell on such personal questions.

Today I must lead an expedition to the souk to replenish necessary supplies, while Gareth searches for passage onward. The tension is palpable. He hasn’t yet stated it, but I can see he is concerned for us all-and perhaps most especially for me…

Despite the exigencies of our situation, there are moments such as this when I realize in which direction the changes between us are steering us.

More anon.

E.

The souk in Alexandria was set well back from the harbor, tucked inside the old city wall. There was a central covered marketplace, with alley after alley of stalls, most selling fresh produce or clothing. Narrow, cramped, and winding streets gave off the marketplace, tentacles leading deeper into a labyrinth of tiny shops and clustered workshops. There was a goldsmiths’ alley, and a basketweavers’ alley, and lanes for clothing, metalware, glassware and every conceivable commodity.

Feeling entirely comfortable in her Berber clothes beneath her enveloping burka, Emily led their party through the marketplace, finding the items they required, then haggling in French-something at which she’d grown increasingly proficient through the journey.

It didn’t take long to gather all they required for the next few days. Buying supplies for their journey onward would have to wait until they knew when they would be leaving, and how. Remembering the basketweavers’ alley, she detoured and went down it. She found two very large, pliable baskets woven of palm fronds that would be perfect for carrying extra supplies on board a vessel; after a spirited round of bargaining with the shopkeeper, she acquired both.

They were strolling back down the basketweavers’ alley and had nearly reached the marketplace when two cultists appeared at the alley’s mouth and paused, studying the shoppers thronging the narrow space.

Emily’s heart leapt, then thumped. Hard. Instinctively she halted. Luckily an Arab man crossed in front of her, temporarily blocking her and the rest of their party behind her from the cultists’ view-giving her time to realize that stopping and staring would be very unwise.

When the Arab shifted, then turned and moved away, Emily dragged breath into her suddenly tight lungs and, head high beneath her burka, continued on, idly strolling onward as if she had not a care in the world-praying the others followed her cue and did the same.

The cultists saw them-they couldn’t very well miss them-but their gazes passed over them without a flicker of interest, much less recognition.

Greatly daring, Emily continued on and passed by both cultists. Stepping into the marketplace proper, she walked on until the crowds between her and the alley grew thick enough to risk halting and, while pretending to look at some fabric, cast a sideways glance back.

Dorcas and Arnia had followed at her heels. Bister and Mullins were nowhere to be seen.

Dorcas leaned close to whisper, “Bister and Mullins slipped into a shop. Their faces…”

Emily nodded. Although all their men’s faces were now deeply tanned, their features were still too European to flaunt.

Arnia pressed close on Emily’s other side. “If we stay here, they’ll catch us up.”

Watching the cultists still hovering in the mouth of the alley but now surveying the marketplace, Emily nodded again.

A moment later, the cultists moved on. Unhurriedly. Still looking and searching.

Emily breathed easier. She, Dorcas, and Arnia wandered back up the aisle toward the basketweavers’ alley. As they neared, Bister and Mullins emerged from the crowded alley and fell in with them again.

“Let’s get back to the guesthouse,” Mullins growled.

Emily nodded. “Yes. We’ll go now.”


They made it back to the guesthouse without further incident. Once there, once she could throw off the burka and think and pace, Emily’s imagination came unhelpfully alive.

The cultists hadn’t recognized her, but why would they? Covered by the burka, there was nothing of her to see. But Gareth…he was taller than most Arabs. Tall, and broad-shouldered. Even in England, in a crowd he would stand out. And while he’d adopted the Berber style of headdress, covering his neatly cut hair, if the cultists got a look at his eyes, at his cheekbones above his lean, sculpted cheeks, let alone his chin, they couldn’t fail to recognize him as an Englishman.

Arms crossed, she was pacing back and forth in the front room, telling herself she shouldn’t panic until dark fell and they were still not back, when the rattle of the gate latch stopped her in her tracks.

The gate swung inward-and Gareth stepped through, followed by Watson and Mooktu.

She had never been so relieved to see anyone in her life.

She was halfway across the courtyard to meet him before she realized.

The almost relaxed expression-the smile that had been in his eyes-slid away as he searched her face. “What happened?”

The words were rapped out, and then he was there. Fingers closing about her elbow, he turned her and urged her back into the front room, glancing up at the roof as he did.

“Cultists,” she managed to say, pausing on the threshold. “In the souk-not here. But they didn’t see us. Or rather, they saw us but thought we were locals. They didn’t react at all.”

Gareth stared at her. His blood ran cold as horrific visions of what might have happened cascaded through his mind-what the cultists would have done had they caught her-

He blinked, shook his head to clear the visions. She was here, with him, and patently unharmed.

Watson and Mooktu slipped past them, heading deeper into the room. Mooktu continued on, no doubt to find Arnia.

Emily looked into Gareth’s face. “I was so worried they’d see you-you’re much more recognizable than we are.” Turning, she walked into the room.

Releasing her, he followed more slowly.

“We were in our burkas, and Mullins and Bister were behind us, so had time to hide before the cultists could get a good look at them.” She turned to face him. The worry and utter relief he’d seen blazoned in her face earlier had faded. She seemed happy, quite cheery, now.

She studied his face, then tilted her head. “But you’re back early. Does that mean-”

She broke off. They both turned to the gate as it opened again. This time it was Bister, even more heavily disguised than usual with scarves swathing his head and face, who strolled in.

He closed the gate, then, all nonchalance falling away, came striding quickly to them.

He nodded to Emily, then reported to Gareth. “After we got the ladies back here, I thought I’d take a quick gander to see if I could follow those damned cultists back to their nest. I didn’t find those two again, but two others, also wandering the streets, keeping an eye out, true enough, but not searching like they knew who they were searching for.”

“Did you find their base?” Gareth asked.

“Yes, and you’re not going to like it. They’re in a house opposite the consulate, strolling in and out as calm as you please. Bad enough, but while I was watching, a party rode in. A group of assassins, but in the lead was an older, bearded man. Point is, I think I saw him on the docks at Aden.”

Gareth’s face felt like stone. “Tall, slightly stooped, black beard, definitely older?”

Grimly, Bister nodded. “That’s him.”

Damn! They had one of the cult’s upper echelon on their heels.

Emily was looking from his face to Bister’s. From her increasingly sober expression, she understood the implications. “I was going to ask,” she said, “whether your returning early meant you’d found a ship to take us to Marseilles?”

“Not quite.” He met her eyes. “Watson asked around. Seems our best chance of avoiding the cultists and reaching Marseilles in reasonable time is to go west along the coast. We found a merchant with a xebec and space for us all heading that way, but he isn’t ready to leave yet.”