But of course he hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned.
He’d dutifully come to Tunis, and every day had walked out to the docks on the lakeshore, and watched.
Today, this afternoon, he had barely been able to believe his eyes.
Indeed, at first, his senses had deceived him. The group had passed under his nose and it hadn’t even twitched. But then he’d caught a comment passed between the two men walking at the rear of the little procession.
The word
He’d slipped from his perch on a stack of fishing pots and followed.
A short time later, crouched in the shadow of the donkey cart behind the one the sahib had approached, wrapped in a long robe and without his black silk head scarf, he’d listened rather than looked. What he’d heard-the accents, the commanding manner-had convinced him.
One of the sahibs had come to Tunis.
Why he was traveling with women-three of them-was beyond the watcher’s ability to guess, but that didn’t matter.
He’d trailed the small party at a distance, had bided his time and waited at the corner of the street down which they’d turned, and had been rewarded. He now knew where the sahib was staying.
Not that he could attack-not on his own. But he had plenty of coin, and knew his orders by heart.
He hurried off to the tavern in which he was staying, begged paper and pencil, and settled to write a message, a report. He knew to whom in the French embassy he should give it. And once he had, he would devote himself to carrying out his august master’s orders with the utmost diligence.
Ten
No directions were necessary.
They hadn’t gone fifty yards when three colorfully uniformed guards approached at a trot.
The one in the lead halted before Gareth. In clear and precise French, he delivered what was clearly a formal summons for Gareth to present himself at the bey’s palace.
Ignoring the tension in the group at his back, Gareth smiled and, in fluent colloquial French, inquired what the problem was.
“It is a requirement, sir, that all foreigners report and make their bow to the bey. It is something all newcomers must do.”
Gareth inclined his head. He’d heard of such practices. “I will come immediately to pay my respects to the bey.”
Turning, he looked at Emily. Quietly asked in English, “You heard?”
Worry in the eyes just visible through her burka’s panel, she nodded. “Be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I will be.” He glanced at Mooktu. “You’re with me. The rest of you”-his gaze swept them-“go on as you’d planned, but stay together.”
There were careful nods all around, then Gareth turned to the waiting guards. “Gentlemen-lead on.”
The leader inclined his head, turned and did so, striding back up the street; his two subordinates fell in behind Gareth and Mooktu as they followed.
Emily watched the little party until they turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.
Lips set, she glanced at the others, saw them staring in the same direction. She inwardly shook herself. Actively doing something-organizing, shopping-was better than standing around wringing her hands. “Right, then! We have supplies to gather. We should make an effort to find everything we need today-just in case.”
Just in case something happened, and they had to leave Tunis in a rush.
It was late afternoon before Gareth and Mooktu turned into the street in which their guesthouse stood. Eager to get back and reassure the others, who by now were surely wondering whether something bad had befallen them, Gareth quickened his pace.
Their audience with the bey had been totally unremarkable. A few words in reply to the obvious questions: Were they here for trade? No, they were simply tourists passing through. Were they planning on staying long? A few days, perhaps more. What business was he engaged in? He was a retired soldier seeing the world.
That a few minutes’ conversation had taken so long was merely an outcome of the usual diplomatic lack of urgency. Nothing of any consequence had occurred before or after. One thing Gareth had noted with some relief was the absence of any sign of an English diplomatic presence close to the bey. As far as he could tell, there’d been no other Englishman in the room, no Frenchman, either. An Italian and a Spaniard, but that had been all.
Gareth hoped the others had suffered a similarly unexciting day.
He and Mooktu were a few steps from the guesthouse gate when sudden footsteps rushing up behind had them both turning, instinctively putting their backs to the wall, their hands going to their sword hilts.
Just in time to yank the blades free and meet the onslaught of five men with long knives.
Gareth beat back three of the attackers, clearing an arc before him with a vicious swing of his cavalry sword. A long sword beat long knives every time. But three at once?
He had his work cut out for him. One glance showed Mooktu holding his own against their other two assailants. After reassuring himself of that, Gareth concentrated on disabling or disarming the three who, yes, were trying to kill him. Not wound or capture, but kill.
These were locals, not cultists, yet Gareth doubted they’d simply taken it into their heads to attack him and Mooktu. The two of them weren’t carrying anything valuable, and no one with a grain of sense would miss that he was experienced military, and just the way Mooktu walked declared him even more lethal.
