fierce and bloody, with Abubaker's cavalry squadrons charging through the shallows. But the ship had been armed with cannon and Dorian had touched off the blast of grape-shot that blew off Pasha Abubaker's head and drove off his troops in disarray.
Although Kadem had been an infant at the time of his father's death, Zayn al-Din had taken him under his protection and shown him the favour and preference he offered his own sons rather than treating him as a nephew. In doing so he made Kadem his liege man, his blood bondsman. He fettered him with chains of steel that could never be
broken. Despite what Kadem had told Dorian at the campfire, the strength of his oath to Zayn al-Din was matched only by his awareness of his duty to take vengeance on the man who had slain his father. This was a holy duty, a blood feud imposed on him by God and his own conscience.
Zayn al-Din, who loved few men, loved Kadem, his nephew. He kept him close, and when he became a true warrior he made him the commander of the royal bodyguard. Only Kadem, of the possible heirs to the caliphate, was spared from the Ramadan massacre. During the uprising that followed, Kadem had fought like a lion to protect his caliph, and in the end it was Kadem who had led Zayn al-Din through the maze of underground passages, under the palace walls to the ship waiting in the harbour of Muscat. He had carried his master safely to the palace on Lamu island off the Fever Coast.
Kadem was the general who had overwhelmed the forts along the coast that attempted to rise in support of the revolutionary junta in Muscat. Kadem had negotiated the alliance with the English consul in Zanzibar, and Kadem had urged his master to send envoys to Constantinople and Delhi to garner support. During these campaigns along the Fever Coast, Kadem had captured most of the leaders of the factions who opposed Zayn. As a matter of course, the prisoners were handed over to his inquisitors so that they could extract from them all the information and intelligence they could.
In this way, by the intelligent and judicious application of the bastinado, the screw and the garotte, the inquisitors dredged up a precious gem: the whereabouts of al-Salil, the murderer of Pasha Abubaker and the sworn blood enemy of the Caliph.
Armed with this knowledge, Kadem pleaded with Zayn al-Din to allow him to be the instrument of retribution. Zayn consented, and Kadem would entrust his sacred duty to none of his underlings. He alone devised the stratagem of luring al-Salil into the Caliph's realm and power by impersonating an envoy of the rebel junta who still held the capital city of Muscat.
When Kadem revealed his plan to Zayn al-Din, the Caliph was delighted and gave the enterprise his blessing. He promised Kadem the title of pasha, like his father before him, and any other reward Kadem could ask for, if he succeeded in bringing al-Salil and his incestuous wife las mini back to Lamu island to face his wrath and retribution. Kadem asked only one reward; that when the time came for al-Salil to die, Kadem should be given the honour of strangling him with his own hands. He promised Zayn that the ga rotting would be slow and agonizing. Zayn smiled and granted this boon also.
Kadem had learned from the inquisitors that the trading ship, Gift of Allah, which called often at the ports of the Fever Coast, belonged to al-Salil. When next it arrived in the port of Zanzibar Kadem inveigled himself into the confidences of Batula, al-Salil's old lance-bearer. Kadem's plot had unfurled smoothly, until now, with the prize almost within his grasp, when he had been thwarted by al-Salil's unfathomable refusal to accept the lure. Now Kadem had to answer the accusation of God's angel.
'Highest of the high, I have indeed committed the sin of pride.' Kadem made the sign of penitence by wiping his face with open hands, as though washing away the sin.
'You believed that without divine intervention, you alone could bring the sinner to justice. This was vanity and foolishness.'
The accusations thundered in his head until it felt that his eardrums must burst. Kadem bore the pain stoically. 'Merciful one, it did not seem possible that any mortal man could spurn the offer of a throne.' Kadem prostrated himself before the fire and the angel. 'Tell me what I should do to make amends for my arrogance and stupidity. Command me, O highest of the high.'
There was no reply. The only sounds were the crashing of the high surf on the rocks below and the mewing of the gulls as they circled overhead.
'Speak to me, holy Gabriel,' Kadem pleaded. 'Do not desert me now, not after all these years when I have done as you commanded.' He drew the curved dagger from his belt. It was a magnificent weapon. The blade was of Damascus steel and the hilt was rhinoceros horn covered with pure gold filigree. Kadem pressed the point of the blade into the ball of his own thumb, and blood flowed out.
'Allah! Allah!' he cried. 'With this blood I entreat you, give me guidance.'
Only then, through his pain, the other voice spoke, not the thunder of Gabriel but calm and measured, melodious. Kadem knew that this was the very voice of the Prophet, terrible in its quiet simplicity. He trembled and listened.
'You are fortunate, Kadem ibn Abubaker,' said the Prophet, 'for I have listened to your confession and been moved by your cries. I will allow you one last chance of redemption.'
Kadem threw himself down on his face, not daring to answer that voice. It spoke again. 'Kadem ibn Abubaker! You must wash your hands in the heart blood of the murderer of your father, the traitor and heretic, the sinner who wallows in incest, al-Salil.'
Kadem beat his head against the earth, weeping for joy at the mercy
the Prophet had shown him. Then he sat back on his heels and held up his hand with fingers and thumb spread. The blood still dribbled from the self-inflicted wound. 'God is great,' he whispered. 'Show me a mark of your favour, I beseech you.' He stretched out his hand and held it in the leaping flames, which engulfed it. 'Allah!' he chanted. The One!
The Only!'
In the flames the flow of bright blood shrivelled and dried. Then miraculously the wound closed like the tentacled mouth of a sea anemone. His flesh healed before his eyes.
He lifted his hand out of the flames, still chanting God's praises, and held it aloft. There was no mark where the wound had been. There was no redness or blistering from the flames. His skin was smooth and flawless. It was the sign he had asked for.
'God is great!' he exulted. 'There is no God but God, and Muhammad is his last true Prophet!'
An they had eaten the evening meal with the rest of the family, Dorian and Yasmini took their leave. Yasmini embraced Sarah first, then her own son, Mansur. She kissed his eyes and stroked his hair, which gleamed in the firelight like molten copper poured from the melting pot.
Tom hugged Dorian so hard that his ribs creaked. 'Damn my eyes, Dorian Courtney, I thought we had got rid of you at last, and could pack you off to Oman.'
Dorian hugged him back. 'Are you not the unlucky one? I will be here to plague you for a while yet.'
Though Mansur embraced his father briefly, he did not speak or look into his eyes, and the line of his lips was hard with bitter disappointment. Dorian shook his head sadly. He knew that Mansur had set his heart on glory, and his own father had snatched it from him. The pain was still too intense to be assuaged by words. Dorian would console him later.
Dorian and Yasmini left the campfire, and started down the beach together. As soon as they were out of the ruddy light of the flames Dorian placed his arm round her. They did not speak, for they had said it all. The physical contact expressed their love more than words ever could. At the turning of the sandbar, where the deeper channel ran close in to the beach, Dorian stripped off his robes and unwound his turban. He handed his clothing to Yasmini and waded naked into the water. The tide was flowing strongly between the rocky heads and the water was chilled with
the memory of the open ocean. Dorian dived into the deep channel and surfaced again, gasping and snorting with the cold.
Yasmini sat on the sandbar and watched him. She did not share his love of cold water. She held his clothes in a bundle, then almost stealthily buried her face in them. She inhaled the masculine odour of her husband and delighted in it. Even after all these years she had never tired of it. The smell of him made her feel safe and secure. Dorian always smiled when she picked up the discarded robe he had worn all day and donned it in preference to her nightdress.
'I would wear your skin if it were possible,' she replied seriously to his gentle teasing. 'This way I can be close to you, part of your raiment, part of your body.'
At last Dorian waded ashore. The phosphorescence of the tiny plankton in the lagoon sparkled upon his body, and Yasmini exclaimed with delight. 'Even nature decks you in diamonds. God loves you, al Salil, but not as much as I do.'
He stooped over her, kissed her with salty lips, took his turban from her and used it to dry himself. Then he wound it round his waist as a loincloth, and let his long wet hair hang down his back.
'This night breeze will finish the job before we reach our hut,' he told her, and they walked back along the sand to the encampment. The sentry greeted them and called a blessing as they passed the watch fire Their own hut was well separated from that of Tom and Sarah. Mansur preferred to sleep with the ship's officers and the men.
Dorian lit the lanterns, and Yasmini carried one when she went behind the screen at the far end of the room. She had furnished the hut with
