He glanced at Bister, then at all the others who had come into the room to hear the news. “One of the cult members who was in Aden when we arrived there has just arrived here. From now on, we need to assume the cultists are specifically searching for us, that they know the composition of our party-how many men, how many women, approximate ages, and so on.” He paused, then walked to the table and halted at its end. He looked around at the faces, all familiar now. “Alexandria”-with a wave he indicated the area around them-“this quarter in particular-is not a good place to get caught in. Trapped in. Although this house is defendable, if the cult learns we’re here, they’ll be able to hem us in and keep us here.”

Until they wear us down.

Until they pick off enough of us to overrun the house.

And then…

Emily had come to stand beside him. She shifted, head rising met his gaze. “We’ll just have to ensure they don’t locate us, then.”

He saw the determination, the never-say-die expression in her eyes. Glanced at the others, saw the same resolution in theirs. He nodded. “So-we do everything humanly possible not to get noticed for the next two days.” He glanced back at Emily, caught her eyes. “We sail for Tunis at dawn three days from today.”


3rd November, 1822

Early morning

Tucked away in my room in the guesthouse

in Alexandria

Dear Diary,

I am starting to suspect Gareth has a natural tendency to gravitate to persons who appreciate a good fight. He mentioned last night that the captain of the xebec on which we will sail to Tunis expressed disappointment that the cultists-Gareth having felt it necessary to mention their possible interference-were unlikely to engage with us on this leg of our journey.

Huh! For myself, I will be inexpressibly grateful for a respite from the cult’s persistent hounding. Gareth and Watson feel certain that they-the cult-will be expecting us to take the customary diplomatic route through Athens and then overland, and that by the time they realize we’ve gone west along the coast of Africa, and then reorganize to follow, we’ll be too far ahead for them to catch. A xebec, Gareth tells me, is a fast ship, and once on it and clear of Alexandria, we are unlikely to be caught.

All of this, of course, is contingent on the cult not locating us in our bolt-hole here. They will, presumably, now know that we are going about disguised, but there are rather a lot of people in Arab clothing in Alexandria.

We shall see, but the number of times I have written the word “unlikely” above does not, to my mind, bode well.

E.

The next day, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, guarded by Mullins, Bister, and Mooktu, went to the souk for the supplies they would need on their journey to Tunis. Given they’d seen the cultists in the souk the day before, they felt it was better-potentially safer-to go that day rather than the next.

They accomplished their mission without sighting any cultists, and returned through the crowds thronging the midday streets.

They were just yards from the guesthouse when Dorcas, stepping around a hole in the road, collided with an Arab man going in the opposite direction.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” Luckily both kept their feet. Regaining her balance, bobbing her burka-covered head apologetically at the man, Dorcas hurried to catch up with Emily.

Who, alerted by the words, halted and turned.

In time to see the man whirl, stare, then snarl and lunge for Dorcas.

Emily grabbed Dorcas and yanked her away from the man-a cultist! She could see the black head scarf beneath the hood of the Arab-style cloak he wore.

She also saw the knife in his hand, saw the blood-Dorcas’s blood-staining it. Saw him change his grip and draw back his arm. “Mooktu!”

The big Pashtun was already there. He closed with the man-just as two more robe-draped cultists materialized out of the crowd.

Arnia appeared by Emily’s shoulder. “Go! Take her inside. She has been cut.”

When Emily glanced back at the melee forming, with Bister and Mullins engaging the other two cultists, Arnia grabbed her and pushed her toward the guesthouse gate. “Leave this to us.” A wicked-looking knife appeared in Arnia’s fist. “Go!”

Emily turned and went, pulling Dorcas with her. Her maid was shaking, but after gulping in air, got her feet moving.

They were almost at the gate when it was wrenched open. Gareth raced out, followed by Jimmy and Watson.

Gareth saw her, paused to grasp her arm.

“We’re all right.” Emily tipped her head at the knot of wrestling bodies. “Three cultists, at least.”

Gareth nodded and went, the other two at his back.

Emily bundled Dorcas into the house, then sat her at the table in the front room.

And saw Gareth’s sword lying on the tabletop.

“Stay there,” she ordered Dorcas. “I’ll be back.”

Swiping up the sword, feeling the weight drag but determined to use it if need be, she hurried back to the gate.

Before she reached it, Arnia opened it and came quickly in, followed by Watson and Jimmy, carrying, amazingly, the supplies the other men had dropped.

Bister followed a moment later with the last bag.

He saw Emily, saw the sword in her hand. “Here-you take this and give me that.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he added, “He won’t want you out there, not now.”

She could see the sense in that. She took the bag and handed him the sword. “What’s happening?”

Bister met her eyes, hesitated, then said, “The three of them are dead. We have to do a cleanup, quick, before any of their friends come looking for them.” He hefted the sword. “I’ll take this just in case.” With a nod, he turned and went, closing the gate after him.

Emily stared at the gate for a moment, then turned and briskly waved the others on. “Let’s get inside, and get things sorted.”

That’s all she could do-keep on keeping on, and get the things done that needed to be done.


Gareth returned half an hour later to find Emily ministering to a very shaken, almost hysterical Dorcas.

The maid, her complexion pasty white, was seated at the table, with Emily crouched beside her, carefully dressing a long gash on the back of Dorcas’s forearm.

Entering quietly, Gareth heard Emily soothingly murmur, “Truly-you’ll see. It’ll be perfectly all right. It was just a piece of sheer bad luck that the man who bumped into you was one of the cultists-if he hadn’t been, your slip of the tongue wouldn’t have meant anything. It’s hardly your fault he wasn’t paying attention and ran into you.”

They heard his footsteps. Both turned. Emily stared up at him. “Is it all right?”

She might have been doing her best to soothe her maid, but her eyes were wide, with a species of shock in the mossy depths.

Gareth let himself down into the chair at the head of the table. “They’re dead-they won’t be reporting to anyone that we’re here.” Looking at her, knowing how close they’d come to disaster, the best he could do by way of reassurance was to explain, “We found a covered channel not far away. We hid the bodies there. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins are scouting around, keeping an eye on things. They’ll be in as soon as it gets dark.”

Emily gazed at him for a moment, then, smile brightening, she turned back to Dorcas and briskly patted her arm. “See? It’s all taken care of.”


4th November, 1822

Before dinner

My room in the guesthouse

Dear Diary,

There is little to report beyond the tension that rides us all. Alexandria may be a city of fabled antiquity, yet I have seen very little of it. Since our expedition to the souk yesterday, we have remained virtually cloistered in the guesthouse, with two guards on the roof at all times.

Only Gareth and Mooktu go out, and always they go together, patrolling the surrounding areas for any signs of cultists assembling for an attack. So far, there has been no alarm, but they have seen far too many cultists slipping through the crowds to allow any of us to relax.

In such a fraught atmosphere, further exploring the evolving connection between Gareth and myself has been impossible. I haven’t asked, but I hope a xebec is a reasonable-sized craft, one that will afford us a modicum of privacy in which to further our as yet undeclared courtship.

Until we are free of Alexandria, there is nothing I can do but wait.

E.

They left the guesthouse at dawn, and quietly made their way through silent streets to the docks. Mullins had had the bright idea to exchange their trunks-solid English trunks-for simple wooden ones, also solid but clearly Arabian, that Jemal had lying in his storeroom. They’d all seen the value in that, and had subsequently worked diligently to eradicate any hint of the English, even of the European, from their collective appearance. The party that arrived that morning at the docks, already bustling with ships preparing to leave on the morning tide, was utterly indistinguishable from the many others waiting to board.

Gareth, head swathed in the typical head scarf, which, happily, largely obscured his features, led them down the docks with a long-legged, unhurried stride. His attitude conveyed the impression that he owned a small Arab kingdom somewhere.

The rest of them followed in their customary order. When Gareth paused at the foot of a gangplank, looked up at the ship, then hailed the captain by name, Emily turned her head quickly, took in the vessel-and only just managed to stifle her groan.