When I was serving with His Own, shortly after one minor incident at Balmoral where I acquitted myself apparently adequately, I was sent to sit in on what I was told was a fascinating theological argument between a couple of scholars at the Old College. He said that it was intended to be a reward, but perhaps HM was just having a joke at my expense. I'm told that he has a subtle sense of humor, but not having any such myself, I'd hardly be the person to judge.
The subject, as I recall, was something long and involved about the nature of Unintended Evil Consequences of Morally Proper Acts vs. Unintended Good Consequences of Morally Wrong Ones. They started with Judas Iscariot and Pontius Pilate, and how the betrayal of the first and at least the moral indifference of the second led to Our Lord dying for all of our sins, and went on from there.
By the time they got to the required pieties about the Tyrant murdering all those babies—although missing the baby Mordred—and forcing Mordred the Great, both for moral and practical reasons, down the path that led him to have to take the throne, all I'd learned is that good things sometimes flow from evil intent, and vice versa.
I think I already knew that.—Gray
It did look strange.
It still, apparently, looked strange. DuPuy hadn't thought that Randolph was lying, but . . . it was different to see it for himself. There were just too many ships. And too many kinds of ships, dammit.
As soon as he lowered his glass, Admiral Sir Simon Tremaine DuPuy found himself, once again, pacing back and forth across the quarterdeck, so he stopped. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the steersman grinning at the first, and the first grinning back, so he just stared at the two of them, and they quickly found themselves utterly engaged in their work, as did the rest of the crew.
Unsurprisingly, every time that DuPuy was on deck, there wasn't an officer or man aboard standing at ease—save for Randolph himself, whose own quarterdeck style seemed to involve as little activity and motion on his own part as was humanly possible. Still, it probably wasn't a coincidence that Randolph's preferred posture—leaning against the quarterdeck rail, smoking his pipe—kept all of topside under his immediate observation.
Which was better than what DuPuy had witnessed their first day out—Randolph had stripped off his jacket and boots and climbed up the foremast's rigging, like some sort of ropemonkey—a damnably common sort of thing to do. Perhaps when you were gently born, you felt you could get away with that sort of thing, although who would want to was something DuPuy couldn't fathom, and there were more important matters at hand, at least at the moment.
Randolph had reported a little more than a dozen ships crowding the Porto Pantelleria harbor—fifteen, DuPuy remembered—but there were easily twice that many here, just off Khamma and more headed in.
It was the combination of the number and the variety that was so strange.
He shook his head, and put the glass back to his good eye. Granted, Pantelleria was but a day's sail from Tunis, just as it was from Agrigento, and not an uncommon place for some trade between Tunisian and Sicilian merchants to take place, despite the lack of anything resembling decent-sized warehouses, or docking capable of taking a ship. As to what got traded there, well, that was among the things that DuPuy didn't know, and didn't much want to know.
Not his business.
The orders for Navy ships to avoid the island were, well, naval orders, not local ones, and the Earl of Sicilia had not, as far as DuPuy knew—and he would have known—prohibited it, nor had his sovereign Duke, so there was no surprise in seeing two ships with the Trinakria on the mast, fluttering beneath both the rampant stallion of the Duke of Napoli and, of course, the Crown and Dragon.
Nor was DuPuy surprised to find the Star and Scimitar on several of the fellucas' masts, with various Caliphate and satrapal pennants below them.
And then there were Guild ships, their masts bare of any flag save for the preposterously plain red-over-white that the League and Guild had flown since time immemorial, and, of course, all of them flew several of the dozens of pennants that announced what they had to trade as well as what they claimed to be seeking in trade.
And not just Guild—that low-slung four-master had Izmiri lines, and the fat bark was clearly Sebiani.
Something was going on. It was probably nothing terribly important, granted, but . . .
Randolph emerged from his cabin at his usual leisurely pace, asked a quick is-everything-as-it-should-be of the first, and barely waited for Caldwell's quick nod before walking over to where DuPuy was standing.
"Afternoon, Admiral," he said.
"Captain."
Randolph turned to the quarterdeck runner, but DuPuy preempted him by passing his glass over. Randolph put it to his eye, lowering it quickly enough to irritate DuPuy. Damn his eyes.
"A bit thicker than it was before," Randolph said. He put the glass back to his eye. "But about the same, all in all, and—hmm." He shook his head. "We're not the only ones to have seen something of interest—that's al-Bakilani's personal pennant on the nor'most fellucca."
DuPuyalmost asked if he was sure, but stopped himself. Randolph had flown the pennant—well below any of the other pennants—while conveying al-Bakilani to Sfax.
"A clever man, al-Bakilani," Randolph went on. "I wonder what he's doing here."
And, of course, it didn't do Randolph's credibility any harm to point out to DuPuy that the same thing he had observed had also been noticed by al-Bakilani and his people, and presumably drawn him here.
If, of course, al-Bakilani himself wasn't the cause of all of this activity.
Well, DuPuy had seen it for himself, and the sensible thing to do was probably just to turn the Lord Fauncher around after dropping off a longboat with the three of Shea's people that he had. Granted, that might as well announce that they were from Naval Intelligence—but the late, unlamented Scratch had certainly already passed along that word to al-Bakilani.
"Dangerous man, al-Bakilani," Randolph went on, giving DuPuy a sideways glance.
The feeling-Randolph-out part of this all, at least, was an apparent success—Randolph had gone to some trouble to make it clear to DuPuy that he had been impressed with the number and quality of the ships in the harbor at Sfax, and had, last night after a remarkably and atypically sober dinner, put his officers and middies through an interesting sandtable on a hypothetical landing and sack of Sfax.
Not a bad plan, at that—Randolph's scheme involved mustering ships and southern troops at Siracusa, bringing the Napolitans over the Messina Straits, with the Gibby Fleet making a diversionary attack at Tunis, splitting off to join the Med Fleet for the landings. A tricky thing, yes, and it would have to be set up carefully enough, but it could be done, at least in theory, if enough troops could be shifted south to reinforce it all.
Although it would have to be well timed; necessary to land in Morocco at the same time, to seal up the sea routes out of the Med, something that Randolph hadn't fully thought through.
Maybe. If it worked, it would cut off the Western Dar from the East, effectively isolating the heart of it from its rich Darmosh Kowayes colonies, particularly if the new trebuchets at Tarifa were as accurate as they were claimed to be and as numerous as they ought to be.
Gibraltar was the neck—grab them by the neck and then cut their throat at Sfax and eventually Tunis, and then turn privateers loose in the Atlantic, and it would be only a matter of time before the Darmosh Kowayes colonies would fall to the Duke of New England.
Of course, the Dar wouldn't be standing idly by while that happened, and Randolph was making the typical junior officer assumption that everything would go as planned. And—
"Admiral?"
DuPuy shook his head. "Just an old man woolgathering, Mr. Randolph."
Well, if they were going to go ashore, the obvious thing to do was to send Shea's men into Khamma—with a company of marines at least pretending to look like they were on shore leave. The Lord Fauncher wasn't going to be fighting its way away from Pantelleria, after all, at least not successfully.
As to what DuPuy himself was going to do, well, that was obvious, too.
"You think your first can handle an anchor watch, Mr. Randolph?"
Randolph hesitated for a moment, then: "I think a button-boned middie can handle an anchor watch, Admiral—if nothing exciting happens." He pointed his chin toward the ships anchored offshore. "But if, say, two of those Dar feluccas were to move toward us and try to board, I don't have any confidence that I could raise anchor, fly the sails, and get the ship moving away quickly enough to prevent them from locking on and boarding." He looked DuPuy in the eye. "And I've a fairly high opinion of my own abilities—at least so I've been told."
It would have been difficult to brace the man for that sort of uppitiness on his own quarterdeck, sore as the temptation was, and it was typical of Randolph to take responsibility for the problem himself—he hadn't even suggested that such a thing would be a problem because of his shipload of idiots and rejects. There was some truth to that, too. Still, a crack crew—topmen taking their ease aloft, with most sails flying but reefed to the point where they wouldn't strain the anchor chain—could get a ship moving awfully quickly, if need be, even absent the possibility of cutting the anchor chain.
The other choice, of course, was to have the Lord Fauncher simply circle the island. But that had its own problems—it would, of a certainty draw attention to the ship, and it would mean that the shore party would have to wait for its return before being able to reboard.
And never mind that that sort of thing would challenge the first well beyond DuPuy's confidence in his abilities—Hempstead would probably manage to run the Lord Fauncher aground, as he had, repeatedly, when he had been the master of the Silkie, which was what had gotten him beached—unless, of course, he gave the shoaled waters around the island a wide enough berth that DuPuy might as well have sent him back to Malta.
Randolph could, DuPuy decided, handle either, despite his apparent desultory command style. DuPuy could take the shore party himself, and not bring Randolph along, which had been his intention until Randolph had seen al-Bakilani's pennant.
Perhaps he should just stick with that—but he very much wanted to see how Randolph reacted in the Arab's presence.
Well, decisions didn't get any better by standing on deck. "Let's go ashore, and see what our old friend al-Bakilani is up to, shall we?"
"Of course, sir." He turned toward the first. "Mr. Caldwell—prepare the longboat for the Admiral and myself. You have the deck."
"Aye, aye, sir."
DuPuy frowned. Randolph's face hadn't so much as twitched at DuPuy's characterization of al-Bakilani, and Randolph had been less than responsive to DuPuy's attempts to feel him out. For some reason, most officers found it difficult to bare their souls to Simon DuPuy.
"Some concern, Admiral?"
"Well, we can hardly call on him in our utilities, can we?"
"No, sir, I think it would be impolite," Randolph said. "Shall we?"
They headed below to change. DuPuy couldn't get the frown off his face. The danger didn't bother him—but he'd have to put on the damnably expensive first-class uniform, unless that idiot Owlsley hadn't packed it.
That possibility brought a smile to his face.
Unfortunately, by the time that DuPuy made it down to his—to Randolph's cabin, Owlsley already had all of it laid out on the bunk, and was busily engaged in polishing the ivory-hilted dress sword and matching dagger, and it was all DuPuy could do to say "Well done"—which he did—rather than "Why did you have to pick this bloody occasion to be suddenly competent and efficient?"
It wasn't a difficult matter to find out where al-Bakilani was staying. Even if their inquiries in Agma hadn't immediately born fruit—and they had—with his ship anchored offshore that village, the most likely place for him was the Bagno della Acqua, and, sure enough, his personal pennant flew from a stanchion off the largest and grandest of the small homes just off the edge of the Bagno della Acqua, what the locals called the "shore."
To the extent that it had shores. The famous "bath of water" looked to DuPuy more like an oversized pool of steaming mud than anything else, although a preposterous profundity of people, apparently from the various dammusi circling the mud puddle, had descended down the black, rocky slope to sit in it, and the wind across the mud puddle brought a distinct smell of sulfur to DuPuy's nose. Judging from what he could see, every passing merchantman's officers and perhaps paying passengers took the opportunity of pulling into Pantelleria to sit in mud no different, save for the stench, than could have been found on any road in Suffolk after a good rain.
They had left the marines and the so-called Intelligence men behind in the village. While DuPuy didn't much care about manners when it came to the enemy, showing up at al-Bakilani's rented doorstep at all was enough of a challenge without making it worse by committing the further solecism of arriving in force, albeit even in small force.
The home—they were still called "dammusi," DuPuy recollected—was rather small by what DuPuy thought would be the Arab's standards. Wisps of smoke rising from behind it, only to be immediately shattered on the wind, suggested that whatever kitchens it had were outside, hidden behind the bulk of the dammusa.
An arch led to the patio at the front of it, protecting the massive front door from the wind. The windows at the front were dark, but unshuttered, making it clear that the dwelling was built of remarkably thick stones of the black local rock, although from what DuPuy could see across the mud puddle about the backsides of other dammusi, didn't make them look like they'd be terribly resistant to an attack from that direction, and the low, waist-height wall was just a decoration, although it probably helped protect the gardens well enough from wind-driven sand, which was probably its only intent.
The roof, like all of the rest, was domed, rather than flat—that was probably about the wind, as well.
There was no gate—the low wall simply opened on the flat stone walkway up to the door.
"Begging your pardon, Admiral," Randolph said, "but do you propose to simply knock on his door?"
DuPuy nodded. "Yes, and leave my card with his servant, of course," he said, producing a card from the breast pocket of his first-class uniform. He had no pen to write with, of course—he could hardly carry around pen and inkwell in his first-class uniform, and he had deliberately left Owlsley, with all of his kit, aboard the Lord Fauncher—but DuPuy's name on the paper should be message enough.
Let al-Bakilani come looking for him.
He ran a finger under his collar. Damned uncomfortable thing—the heavily starched white collar always scratched his neck, and one of the few fears that Simon DuPuy had was of falling down and damaging the bloody expensive uniform beyond the ability of easy repair, guaranteeing hours of time wasted in fitting and more money that he cared to think about in the replacement.
He would be willing to bet heavily that he would quickly hear from al-Bakilani—whatever al-Bakilani was up to, he would want to know to what extent that the Crown in general and DuPuy in particular were on to him, and not wish to wait for a report from Scratch, even if he hadn't heard about DuPuy's secretary's unfortunate accident.
There were no servants or anybody else outside the low stone fence around the dammusa—DuPuy had expected that there would be at least some sort of guard on duty, to whom he could present his card. Their absence probably meant that, pennant aside, al-Bakilani was not there at the moment.
Well, there was no point in standing out here and waiting. He marched up the walkway, his card in hand. There was no proper knocker on the door.
"No knocker—and I'm not about to pound on it with my fist."
Randolph, wisely, didn't say anything.
"Probably just slide it under the door, I think," DuPuy said.
Since there was nobody there to properly receive it, or him, and while leaving it pinned to the door with his dress-belt dagger had a certain appeal, it probably wasn't the right thing to do—and, besides, he'd need to replace the dagger.
He handed the card to Randolph—let him do the stooping—and just as Randolph bent to do so, the door wheezed open, and al-Bakilani himself was standing there, an easy smile on his face.
"Your Excellency," he said. "As it happens, I was just speaking of you."
"A coincidence, I suppose?"
"Oh, not at all, for any number of reasons." Al-Bakilani's smile, if anything, broadened.
He looked no different than the last time DuPuy had seen him—what DuPuy had hoped was the last time he would ever see al-Bakilani, although instead of the the long flowing robes, he wore only a single linen garment that, irritatingly, reminded DuPuy of a mockery of priest's cassock, down to the Musselman rosary that depended from the left side of his waist. At least he was armed, in a way—there was a dagger of sorts on his other hip. DuPuy found that vaguely reassuring, for reasons he couldn't quite have explained.
Al-Bakilani bowed deeply. "Would you be so kind as to grace my home?"
Randolph at his side, DuPuy followed al-Bakilani into the hall, and into the large central room, only idly wondering if al-Bakilani could turn about before DuPuy plunged his dagger into al-Bakilani's broad back.
A door led off down a hallway that was brightly lit by the afternoon sun, the only exit other than the ones that they had walked in, and sounds coming through the door told some activity beyond them, although DuPuy couldn't have said what it might be.
Two Arabs had been reclining on their strange-looking couches, and both of them sat up at DuPuy's entrance, one of them in an ordinary, desultory sort of fashion, although the other leaped to his feet and took a step forward, as though to move between DuPuy and Randolph and the other.
Al-Bakilani made a patting motion with both of his hands, and murmured something in Arabic, and the man assumed a position that looked to DuPuy more like parade rest than anything else.
His eyes seemed to fasten on DuPuy's as he accepted al-Bakilani's command with a nod, then crossed his hands over his chest.
There was something strange about him, particularly around the eyes. Perhaps it was just that his sun-bronzed skin was a few shades lighter than the others', or that his beard seemed a little, well, bushier.
The strangest thing about him was the sword tucked through the sash at his waist. It wasn't the curved Musselman scimitar, but a straight blade, plainly wood-gripped with no sign of decoration, in a simple wooden sheath.
Al-Bakilani ignored him, but addressed the other man, who nodded, and rose, slowly.
He was an immense, fat man, but from the way he moved to his feet it was clear that there were muscles, as well as fat, beneath his simple shift. He was taller than al-Bakilani—himself not a short man—although he stood half a head shorter than the swordsman. His thick fingers were heavily laden with jeweled rings, and a small silver chain, looped several times around his forehead, held his oiled hair in place.
His eyes were neither warm nor hostile, although he seemed not to blink at all.
"Admiral Sir Simon Tremaine DuPuy, Lieutenant Lord Sir Alphonse Randolph, may I have the honor to present Abu Abdullah Mohammed ibn al-Sharif al-Idrisi?"
It was all DuPuy could do not to sputter. If al-Bakilani wasn't lying through his too-white teeth, this was . . . preposterous. Al-Idrisi was the Sharif of Tunisia, the equivalent—to the extent that the filthy Musselmen could have an equivalent—to a Crown Duke, and of a certainty the most important and powerful man in the Dar al-Islam this side of the Nile, and, at least arguably, this side of Mecca.
What was he doing here? And why had DuPuy been admitted to his presence? And where were his guards? His army? He would be no more likely to venture out of Tunis into contested waters without soldiers aplenty in attendance than the Duke of Napoli would—less so, perhaps, if there was something less likely than the inconceivable.
Randolph was quicker on his feet. "Honored, Your Excellency," he said, bowing deeply.
Well, there was nothing for it but to go along, at least for the moment.
"Honored," DuPuy said.
Al-Idrisi smiled, and turned toward al-Bakilani. "I think, perhaps, my friend," he said, "that I see a trace of doubt in the noble Admiral's face."
If anything, his English was more puzzling—first, that he spoke it at all, and more-so, that he seemed to have no accent, save perhaps a touch of Brigstow? And why would the two Arabs be talking in English to each other? Surely it couldn't be to reassure DuPuy.
There was not a damn thing about this that was in any way reassuring.
Al-Bakilani nodded. "I can hardly blame him, Excellency," he said. "I think some explanations are not only in order, but in all of our interests."
"And inevitable, at that," al-Idrisi said. "And they can be given here just as easily as I'd intended you to convey them to his Excellency on Malta—and perhaps even more persuasively?"
Al-Bakilani bowed. "Your wisdom does not surprise me." He glanced at the window. "We have enough time—sundown is hours away, as of yet." He clapped his hands together, the sound of running feet in the small courtyard behind the house were immediately followed by a short, dark man, manifestly a servant—he wore only blousy white pantaloons, and was naked from the waist up—appearing in the open doorway.
"We have guests, Efik—and the hospitality of the al-Bakilani family suffers every moment they are kept thirsty and hungry."
"I'm not—" DuPuy started.
"We are, of course, honored," Randolph put in, interrupting. His timing had best not have been deliberate, even if the effect had been to prevent DuPuy from being impolite.
"It's my hope that you will be more than honored, but delighted—Efik has been my personal cook and attendant for . . . would you remind me, Efik? In English, please; I know you speak it."
"Yes, Excellency. I've had the honor of serving you in one capacity or another for the past twelve years, and as your cook since old Salim died, three years ago." He was a compact little man, his hairless chest splattered with the scars of old burn marks, although his back was unmarked. "I hadn't expected you to have guests quite so soon, but I can assure you I'll manage—and, if not," he said, gesturing toward the open door, "I can send for assistance."
Al-Bakilani gave DuPuy a smile. Of course al-Idrisi would bring along his personal entourage, which probably was somewhere nearby—perhaps in some of the other dammusi along the shoreline. It was entirely possible that the men sitting in the mud of the Bagno della Acqua were lookouts for soldiers stationed inside, and certain that the Sharif of Tunisia would not be depending on merely one man for protection—nor would he believe that DuPuy would be so gullible as to believe that.
"Very well, Efik. Please impress our guests—but quickly, quickly."
"Of course, Excellency." Efik gave only an economical bow before hurrying off.
The supposed Sharif gestured both of them to nearby couches, and there being no graceful way around it, DuPuy sat. Randolph actually reclined on his, only straightening after a quick glare from DuPuy. No matter what the local custom was, one of His Majesty's officers didn't sprawl on a couch like a whore about to be mounted, by God.
The other Arab remained standing, eying both DuPuy and Randolph with a look of something that had as much of evaluation as hatred in it, as though he was deciding how to kill them, not when.
DuPuy looked him right back in the eye. There were things in this world that frightened Simon DuPuy, yes, but death wasn't one of them.
Al-Bakilani started to talk, but stopped when Efik, at the head of a team of four more servants bustled in, carrying well-laden trays, and it took a few minutes to make sure that everybody—save for the big man on his feet—was served.
DuPuy ate—it was obviously required—but didn't taste anything. He was more interested in making sure that he didn't drip anything on his uniform—and vastly more so in watching al-Bakilani, al-Idrisi, and particularly the man who had not been introduced—than he was in whatever the various porridges were that he was supposed to sop up with the flat Arab bread.
The man was obviously a soldier of some sort, although his robes were fine enough for a Dar noble. He ignored the servants, and even al-Bakilani and al-Idrisi, but just stood, not quite motionless, and continued to watch DuPuy and Randolph, as though he expected them to leap up and attack the supposed al-Idrisi at any moment. DuPuy looked around while trying not to look as though he was—where were the rest of this al-Idrisi's guards?
Al-Bakilani muttered something in Arabic to al-Idrisi, who nodded.
"Of course," he said, "but please, if you would, let us try to keep the conversation in a language our guests can follow."
"My apologies, of course." He turned to DuPuy. "I beg your pardon; I find it . . . uncomfortable to quote the Prophet to a fellow True Believer other than in Arabic. It was one of the hadiths, and it seems to apply. 'If you stay with some people and they entertain you as they should for a guest, accept their hospitality, but if they don't do as they should, take the right of the guest from them.'
"Englishmen are, so I understand, fond of their pipes. I'm of the opinion that such things are . . . discouraged for True Believers, but both His Excellency the Sharif and I are more of the opinion that the Prophet, peace be upon him, considered the obligations of hosts rather more important than such preferences, and, truth to tell, I've never found the smell of tobacco unpleasant—if you'd honor me by lighting your pipes, I'd take that as a sign that we were fulfilling our obligations."
Getting their pipes out and packed was but a matter of a few moments, and the ever-efficient Efik quickly provided them with lit tapers, and—truth to tell—DuPuy found the smoke comforting, and the supposed al-Idrisi's attempts to hide his clear discomfort with the smell even more so. DuPuy didn't have the slightest idea whether al-Bakilani relished or detested the smoke, but at least he could read al-Idrisi's face.
Or was he intended to think that he could?
Al-Bakilani sipped at his coffee. "Where to start? Ah. Do let's start with what must be most puzzling to you—His Excellency the Sharif's presence here?"
"That would be the second thing, I suspect." The supposed al-Idrisi shook his head. "My identity, perhaps?" He gave DuPuy an infuriating smile. "Were I the Admiral, I'd likely be skeptical on that point. One would expect somebody who Allah has honored with my status to travel with an army to protect him, even so short a distance from Tunis."
Some response seemed called for, so DuPuy nodded. "I had been thinking of that. They're concealed in the nearby dammusi, I suppose."
If anything, that caused al-Idrisi's already broad smile to broaden even further. "Actually, no. I traveled aboard my friend's ship, with but a few men, and they're stationed along the roads where they can give alarm, rather than protect my person. As for that, another introduction is in order, I believe." His flipperlike hand gestured toward the other Arab. "Admiral Sir Simon Tremaine DuPuy, Lieutenant Lord Sir Alphonse Randolph, may I present Abdul ibn Mahmoud?"
DuPuy didn't quite shrug. Al-Idrisi cocked his head to one side. "Abdul is a . . ." He looked to al-Bakilani.
"Convert, Excellency."
"Convert, that's the word. He was born Alexander Smith, I believe, and known at one time as Sir Alexander Smith, Knight of the Order of the Crown, Shield, and Dragon."
Randolph was on his feet immediately, his pipe clattering on the tiles.
"Sit down, Mr. Randolph," DuPuy said. The Arab's—no, this Alexander's hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, and if this was who al-Idrisi said it was, then Randolph would have no chance at all. And probably none anyway, even if al-Idrisi was lying, or not al-Idrisi at all—al-Bakilani had obviously considered the possibilities, and al-Bakilani was not a fool.
"Sir, I—"
"Sit down, by God." There was nothing more that Simon DuPuy would have liked to do than have seen that traitor's, that murderer's blood spill across the floor, and his own and Randolph's life would be a pitifully small price to pay for that.
But that wasn't going to happen here and now.
Randolph wasn't moving, and his hand was clapped to the hilt of that curved Seeproosh saber, but at least he hadn't drawn it yet.
"Please, Lieutenant, do as you wish," the murderer said. "The Sandoval is always ready, and hungry—and I'm none too fond of highborn English dogs—"
"Cease." Al-Idrisi had gotten to his feet faster than a man with that bulk should have been able to, and squared off against Smith. Al-Idrisi started to say something in Arabic, then stopped himself, and went on in English: "You've lived long enough among us not to know of the obligations of a host to guests."
From al-Idrisi's tone, DuPuy had expected more reaction than "Yes, Excellency."
DuPuy wasn't watching his expression; his eyes were on Randolph, who hadn't moved. "Lieutenant . . ."
"Aye, aye, sir," Randolph said, his boot-face once again firmly in place, if you didn't quite notice the way that his jaw clenched. "Sir, I—"
"Sit, boy," he said, gently.
"Aye, aye, sir." Randolph sat. "Permission to speak, sir."
"Save it for later." It was more important to find out what this was all about. Were they prisoners?
DuPuy didn't like the way al-Bakilani shook his head. "No, Admiral, you're not prisoners. You're guests, free to leave when and as you please. But I do think you'll want to hear His Excellency out," he said. "It's in your interest as much as ours, I believe."
Those were fine words, but they would be all the better for the testing.
"On your feet, Mr. Randolph," he said. "Return to your ship. Raise anchor, and be prepared to take flight at any approach—do so in any case before dark. No orders to the contrary from me are to be entertained unless delivered in person—and if there's as much as one man in the boat along with me, or a place where one could possibly be hidden, you are to assume I'm a prisoner, acting under duress, and act accordingly."
"Aye, aye, sir." Randolph tugged at the edge of his jacket, and looked down, momentarily, at his pipe on the floor, then visibly decided not to bend down in the presence of an enemy to pick it up.
He turned and marched toward the door, then stopped. "Admiral, I will send a man—a volunteer—back here to report that I've safely arrived on the Lord Fauncher. I'd recommend that you assume I've been assassinated by a cowardly murderer should that man not arrive within the hour, and take any protestations about your being a guest as worth what I believe they are worth."
DuPuy nodded. Randolph was thinking—better than DuPuy was, in fact. "Very well."
Randolph turned to this . . . Smith. "And I'll disobey my orders to the extent of saying this, and take what discipline the Admiral deems appropriate without complaint. You—"
"Lieutenant—"
"No, sir; not 'Lieutenant'." Randolph's lips were white. "I'm speaking as Lord Sir Alphonse Randolph, Admiral. If you want my commission for doing so, Admiral, you may have it, with my thanks." He didn't wait for an answer, but turned back to Smith. "I've had the honor of laying flowers at the grave of Lady Mary, Mr. Smith—in the company of both the Earl of Moray, and of His Majesty. I thought then, Mr. Smith, long and hard about the sort of . . . person who would cut her throat while she slept, and I swore to myself that were I ever to find myself in the . . . company of that piece of filth, one of us would not survive.
"I never thought that likely, mind you, but here I am, and here you are. I've no doubt that stolen Red Sword of yours could easily take my life, and perhaps you could even best me fairly, in a duel—not that your kind would face a man with steel in his hand.
"But Admiral DuPuy says no. Admiral DuPuy says I must violate my oath, here and now.
"Very well. I'll violate that oath, obedient to my orders, and not because I've also sworn to obey my lawful superiors. I am, at the moment, a lieutenant in His Majesty's service, and while I'd gladly, eagerly lay down my life and my oath for a chance at yours, I happen to believe that Admiral DuPuy is as wise a man as ever has worn a uniform, and he apparently believes that you ought to be allowed live for the moment.
"So I'll do that—this one time. But not again. And if I live through this day, I will make it my purpose to see that there will be another occasion.
"I'll think long and hard about you every day until I lay your head at the foot of her grave, Mr. Smith, and then I'll not think about you ever again."
He spun on the ball of his foot and marched from the room.
"Very prettily spoken," Smith said, loudly enough for the words to carry. "I'll not lose any sleep, though."
Realistically, there was no reason why he should. It wasn't as though Alexander Smith wasn't already a wanted man, and while DuPuy thought and certainly hoped that His Majesty had agents all throughout the Dar al-Islam, if it had been easy or even practical for Smith to be assassinated, it would already have been done by now. There had to be some sensible men in Londinium, after all.
And this?
What was Randolph going to do, even assuming that Smith would stay in Tunis—an unlikely possibility; he had clearly been seconded from the Caliph for just this occasion. Did Randolph think he could take passage on an unflagged merchantman to Tunis, and then march up to the gates of al-Idrisi's palace and throw down a glove? Randolph had been speaking from the heart, not the head.
But DuPuy shook his head anyway. "If I were you, Mr. Smith, I would think—"
"My name is Abdul ibn Mahmoud. And I'm not interested in what you think, DuPuy."
"But I am," al-Bakilani put in. "There are other matters that are perhaps more important at the moment, but . . ." He frowned. "And while the Admiral's presence has . . . complicated things, and perhaps hurried along matters that could better have waited until His Excellency sent me to Malta, as we had been planning, there's more than enough time, I believe, to hear him out."
DuPuy resumed his seat, and deliberately took a moment to puff on his pipe. Surprisingly, it hadn't gone out. He bent over and picked up Randolph's pipe from where it had fallen on the floor, wondering if he was going to be able to return it to the lieutenant.
"What I was going to say, Mr. Smith," DuPuy said raising his head to look Smith in the eye, "is that if I thought that Alphonse Randolph was after my head, that head would not rest easily on my pillow. You've not taken the measure of the man—I have."
Smith started to say something, but desisted at a microscopic headshake from al-Idrisi. If this . . . charade was a matter of trying to persuade DuPuy of the identities of two imposters, it was working, although to what end DuPuy couldn't imagine.
And yes, of course, DuPuy's warning had been all bluff and bluster, but if that bluff and bluster caused al-Bakilani and al-Idrisi to take DuPuy less seriously, there might be benefit in that. Then again, al-Bakilani might decide that DuPuy was just trying to get him to think that—was there ever a wheel that didn't have another wheel rolling around inside it?
But, that aside, there had been a benefit from Randolph's speech—for Randolph. A man with that sort of appropriately directed hatred in him would make a fine Earl of Moray, from DuPuy's point of view—and the sooner the better. Have to figure out a way to pin a medal or two on his chest.
Hmmm . . . and while he wouldn't give Randolph a hint of it, there was now nothing Randolph could say or do that would cause DuPuy to want to ruin his reputation—quite the contrary. That threat had passed Randolph by without him ever having known of it.
The next Earl of Moray would, if Simon DuPuy had anything to say about it, leave the Navy with as respectable a record as he could manage. Command of a squadron was an obvious step. The only question was how to manage it—and that would be arranged, even if it required DuPuy to go over Bullworth's account books himself, pen and ink in hand. DuPuy's honor was as expendable as Bullworth's career, after all.
But he could save that thinking for the trip back to Malta—if, indeed, he would be allowed to leave.
And, if not . . . many eyes had seen the flags fluttering from the mast of the Lord Fauncher, and were it to disappear, with all hands, in waters this close to the Dar, some of the right conclusions would likely be drawn. Wars had started over less. It was likely that al-Idrisi and al-Bakilani would permit Randolph to make it back to the Lord Fauncher, and the Lord Fauncher to Malta, with or without DuPuy on board. They obviously wanted to persuade him of something, after all, and DuPuy would not be persuaded of anything were Randolph's messenger not to arrive, and if the Lord Fauncher were not to make it back to Malta upon his return, DuPuy would know who to blame.
And if al-Bakilani and al-Idrisi intended to kidnap DuPuy? That would be a silly thing to do, granted—of what use was an old, beached sailor?
But, if so, he could handle that. You struck at your enemy with the tools at your disposal, as effectively as you could. The dress dagger on DuPuy's belt was near enough to his hand, and sharp enough to shave with. DuPuy had never been able to stomach a weapon that wasn't a weapon.
Of course, with Smith standing there, DuPuy, even twenty years younger and three stone lighter, would not be able to reach al-Bakilani or al-Idrisi, and it would be futile to try.
If there was a chance that the outrage over the murder of a British Admiral focused attention and intention properly—and there was, at least a chance—DuPuy would laugh as he cut his own throat. But there would be time for that, later, if need be. For now, he could hear al-Bakilani out.
"Now," he said to al-Bakilani, "what was it you were going to be sent to Malta to tell me?"
"You'll permit me, my friend?" al-Idrisi asked. "Admiral?"
"Of course, Excellency."
DuPuy nodded, and took another puff on his pipe. "Please."
There had been rumors about these swords for some time, al-Idrisi explained.
Then again, there were always rumors. Rumors were a fact of life, on matters of faith. Thus had it always been: the Hidden Mahdi was about to surface in Tikritiza, shattering the legitimacy of the Umayyad dynasty; the Jews were momentarily to break out of Judea, carrying the Ark of the Covenant before them; or the Maasa'pi were revolting—not unusual, particularly, although their rebellions were quickly put down, as neither their warriors nor their promised shaman never seemed to be as immune to swords or arrows as the legends promised—or Avalon had reappeared, the Holy Grail found, the shards of the Sword of Constantine restored and reforged, and the remnants of the Holy Roman Empire would once again become invincible as they swept east and west and south.
Could such things happen? Well, of course they could—but a practical man would no more worry about them than about anything else that he could do nothing about. When it came to all matters, it would be as Allah willed, as it was from the beginning.
And, of course, rumors didn't merely circulate about the sacred and the profane.
Admiral DuPuy would, of course, forgive al-Idrisi if he didn't go into any detail about family squabbles in the Dar Al Islam, although he was sure that the noble Admiral was aware of tension between the various Sharifs in Darmosh Kowayes and the Caliph—blessed be his name—just as al-Idrisi was more than passingly familiar with similar tensions between the Duke of New England and His Majesty the King, and it was a safe prediction that, sooner than later, the New England colonies would choose to break away from the Crown, and that might be a rather different thing for the British Crown than it would mean to Mecca, should some Sharif in the Darmosh decide to stop paying his appropriate tribute.
In the long run, though, it didn't much matter. The triumph of Islam had been ordained by Allah himself, and it being eventual rather than immediate was of no particular importance to Abu Abdullah Mohammed ibn al-Sharif al-Idrisi than it was to the Caliph himself. Patience—proper patience—was a virtue, and the uneasy truce between the Dar and the Crown and Empire could easily go for years to the benefit of the Dar al-Islam, and probably to both Crown and Empire, as well.
Yes, there were tensions, and the tensions might result in an occasional battle that would send True Believers to paradise and infidels to hell, and that was as it should be. Swords—both real and metaphorical—got rusty with disuse.
And speaking of swords, al-Idrisi wished to convey his compliments to His Majesty on the . . . utility of these wonderful live swords. It would probably not be best to go into details—he didn't wish to bore the Admiral with such matters—but the former Sir Alexander Smith had been a terribly effective servant of the Caliph, in many matters.
And that was where the rumors that the Sharif wished to bring to the Admiral's attention had started.
New live swords? That whole notion had disturbing echoes of the Sword of Constantine. In truth, Constantine's armies had been almost as effective in spreading the previous revelation as those of the Dar al-Islam had been of the final one—well, at least as long as the sword had been unbroken.
There was something . . . impious about relying on such artifacts, though, handy as they were. Al-Idrisi could speak from personal experience that Abdul ibn Mahmoud had been of great service to the Caliphate, in various matters that would, no doubt, be too boring to dwell on. Not essential, of course, any more than they had been for the Crown. But it was decidedly convenient to be able to solve a problem by sending one man.
Rumors of more live swords? Those would, of course, be very useful, and entirely valuable—the honors and, to be blunt, the gold paid to Abdul ibn Mahmoud had been a wise investment.
There had been . . . contacts. The Admiral would understand, of course, that al-Idrisi would not wish to go into the details of exactly how and where, but messages had been conveyed, and exchanged.
With whom? That was an interesting question. Al-Idrisi could hazard a general sort of guess—as the Admiral would be able to, perhaps, shortly—but the messages in both directions had been sent and received in ways that concealed the identity of the original sender, or senders.
There were, so it was said, a dozen such swords—produced over many years, at some serious difficulty—that would be available. And, were certain guarantees given about the future of certain areas in and around the Mediterranean, after the inevitable victory of the forces of the Dar al-Islam, those might be provided.
The guarantees would, of course, have to be unambiguous. And the sender would be interested in discussing the nature of those guarantees.
It was, of course, preposterous. Yes, the swords were of great value—but enough to give over countries for? That was the part that bothered al-Idrisi the most, actually—as any merchant in the souk could tell you, the only thing more suspicious than an absurdly high asking price was an absurdly low one. Attacking the Crown? Yes, of course, eventually—the Dar al-Islam was destined to expand. But now, when Crown armies stood firmly astride almost all of Europe, and it would be years, perhaps centuries, before the forces of the Dar al-Islam were sufficient in number that moving north again would not be a manifest attempt to flout the Prophet's instructions about patience.
After all, was it not written that "Therefore bear up patiently as did the apostles endowed with constancy bear up with patience and do not seek to hasten for them their doom. On the day that they shall see what they are promised they shall be as if they had not tarried save an hour of the day." And "Whoever takes Allah and His prophet and those who believe for a guardian, then surely the party of Allah are they that shall be triumphant." And so it would be, of course, and perhaps al-Idrisi might be honored to live to see it.
But not now.
Twelve live swords wouldn't make that possible, even if each of them was a mirror of the Sandoval. Oh, certainly, a squad of Red Knights of Allah could do terrible damage if inserted anywhere into Crown territory, particularly if they were as powerful as the Sandoval or the Khan—much less so for lesser ones. But the swords rendered their bearers powerful, not invulnerable, and while it might, at least in theory, take a large army to kill such a squad, the Crown had large armies, just as the Caliphate did.
And if he was wrong? If these swords, born by True Believers, could lay waste to the Crown? Surely, the amount of damage that His Majesty's Red and White Knights could do in the Dar al-Islam would be a horrible thing to witness as well, and the English were known for their tastes for revenge, as the honorable lieutenant had been kind enough to demonstrate.
The Empire, even if they could be trusted, was hardly a terribly useful ally, and of a surety, they would turn against the Faithful to aid their . . . coreligionists, after all.
Ridiculous.
So what was it all about? Well, it wasn't going to be about launching a . . . precipitous war between the Dar al-Islam and the Crown, that was a certainty, and while the Caliph would, of course, be more than happy to pay a preposterously generous fee for the delivery of these twelve—or was it now eleven?—live swords—and such would, al-Idrisi hoped, be in Tunis within a day or two, and the gold on its way to their former owners, al-Idrisi intended to deliver into the Crown's hands the person of whoever it was who was due to arrive at this very dammusa at sunset.
"An interesting story, Excellency," DuPuy said. His pipe had gone out, and it was more irritating than reassuring that it was only a few moments after he puffed uselessly on it that Efik was in front of him, with another lit taper.
"But it is the sort, I supposed, that would go all the better with proof?"
"There is that." Red Swords in the Dar? There was something indecent about the idea, more so even than that traitor, Smith.
Yes, if the numbers were right, it wasn't as frightening as it sounded. The live swords had been created to use against the Dark, during the Age, and were one of the main reasons that northern Europe hadn't been overrun, and the Zone contained. Yes, for the past centuries the King had used the Knights as his personal bodyguards, emissaries, and problem-solvers, and it was only a slight exaggeration to say "one rebellion, one Order Knight"—and when it came to dealing with magical . . . problems, they had no equal.
Then why did it bother him so much? And what could he do about it?
"Well, the proof will be available shortly," al-Bakilani said. "If this . . . emissary is able to answer the questions that his master knows will be asked, he'll know other things of interest, no doubt."
He would, of course, if he could be taken alive, and if he could be made to talk, and—
Al-Bakilani smiled. "Yes. One often has many reasons for doing the same thing, and Abdul ibn Mahmoud has other uses. I'm sorry to say that had you tried to use your dagger to take your own life, he would have interfered with you." He raised his palms. "You may cut your throat should you wish, my friend, and I think that your King and the Crown would be poorer for the loss, but you'll not do so when it could be blamed on His Excellency, or me."
DuPuy tried to ignore that, although al-Bakilani's cleverness was as grating as usual, if not more so. "And you think that he can make this . . . emissary talk?"
Al-Idrisi snorted. "Him? Abdul ibn Mahmoud specializes in other matters." He waved his hand toward the back door. "The next-over-but-one dammusa contains several . . . δ≥≠ΓΚ?" He looked over at al-Bakilani.
"Experts, I think, Excellency. Experts."
Al-Idrisi nodded. "Yes, experts. We have several experts in such matters from the hay'at al-amr bilma'ruf wa al-nahi 'an al-munkar waiting, and they're quite good at what they do."
Al-Bakilani smiled. "But do let's not go into the details. I understand that they are, by and large, somewhat unpleasant." He spread his hands. "Now, it's just a matter of waiting until dark." He gestured toward the arched doorway that led to the back of the dammusa. "Would you care to try the famous Bagno della Acqua in the interim? I had the pleasure myself of it this morning; it's very relaxing."
"Well, assuming I'm not a prisoner, despite your protestations, I think I'll take a stroll," he said, rising. "although I'll be sure to be back before sundown, if you don't think that my appearance will frighten this emissary away." Not that one other man would make a difference—whoever this was had probably already figured out how to handle the problem of his capture by the duplicitous Arabs, even if he hadn't counted on the speed and skills of Smith, as was possible.
Not that DuPuy blamed them for the duplicity, not here and now. They were, for the moment, rivals rather than enemies, strange as that felt.
"As you wish." Al-Idrisi gestured permission.
Al-Bakilani rose, nodding. "Of course, I hope you wouldn't think it wise to land the marines off the Lord Fauncher and attempt to interfere with matters here. That would be . . . unfortunate, and unproductive." His smile dropped for just a moment. "It's one thing to not wish to start a war over such things, but it would be quite another to permit one ship of the third class to bear them away, and do I have to point out that we would be able to easily thwart such an attempt?"
"Very well, I—"
There was a distant boom.
The ground shook beneath his feet, rattling the dishes on the low tables. DuPuy tried to maintain his balance, but he was a fat old man, after all, and he crashed down, hard, on the tile floor, smashing all of his body weight down on the dress sword on his left hip.
But it was just pain, and Simon DuPuy was no stranger to pain; he struggled to his feet, not sure if the ground was still trembling, or if it was DuPuy himself.
Al-Idrisi had still been stretched out on his couch, but had tumbled to the floor, and al-Bakilani, like DuPuy, had been unable to keep to his feet.
Of the four men in the room, only Smith had kept his balance, and by the time DuPuy looked up, he was already at al-Idrisi's side, making no effort to help the Sharif up from the floor, but having positioned himself to block any approach through the door. Say what you would about the traitor, he was fast on his feet, and fast with his mind.
Al-Idrisi muttered something in Arabic, and al-Bakilani shook his head and answered in the same language. He gave a quick glance at DuPuy, then turned back to al-Idrisi. "Perhaps I had best go look," al-Bakilani said. The bastard had, somehow or other, both acquired and drawn a sword and dagger. "Likely just an earthquake—"
One of the servants ran in, chattering in Arabic, his eyes widening at the naked weapons in al-Bakilani's hands.
"No, not an earthquake, apparently," al-Bakilani said. He sounded too calm, and if DuPuy hadn't seen the sweat on al-Bakilani's brow, he might have almost believed it. "Faryad thinks that the top of the mountain is exploding. Admiral?"
Well, if the volcano was going off, the thing to do was to get the hell out of there—but it was miles off, and it was likely that they had either ample time or no time at all to make it to the shore and the ships.
And, besides, DuPuy was more than a little curious.
He followed al-Bakilani out the back door.
Off in the distance—it looked like only a couple of miles, but distances were bloody hard to calculate on land—the top of the Montagne Grande was lit up, certainly enough, as though it was on fire, a curious red fire without a trace of yellow in it, and without the smoke and ash that one would expect from a volcano. DuPuy had never seen a volcano himself, but he had always made a habit to read anything by explorers that he could, and had read more than a few descriptions—most of those from native stories that a sober man would not take as gospel, of course—and seen some illustrations.
A volcano wasn't just curiously red flame flickering across a mountaintop, but the earth itself belching out rock and steam and . . .
And this wasn't it.
Damn his eyes, and damn him for not having brought his glass—there seemed to be other colors mixing with the red.
From behind him, al-Idrisi spoke. "I'm . . . not pleased." He turned to al-Bakilani. "Do you have the slightest idea what is going on?"
Al-Bakilani shook his head. "I'm sorry, but no, I—"
"Excuse me." Smith was still standing so as to protect al-Idrisi, but his boot-face had dropped; he actually looked scared. "Those are Red Swords—I can feel it." The Sandoval wasn't naked in his hand, but he had his hand clapped to the hilt. "I'd suggest that we get Your Excellency out of here, as quickly as possible—whatever my former brothers are up to is not intended for his benefit. Now, if you please."
"Excuse me," Efik said, again surprising DuPuy, who hadn't seen him come up from behind, either. "I think it would be best if you all stayed—it would be to your benefit. And it does not involve those cursed Knights of the Crown, Shield, and Dragon, either." He gestured toward DuPuy. "But you might as well kill him now. You'll be killing the English aplenty shortly, I'm quite sure."
There was something strange about his speech, beyond the lack of any hint of tone of servility in it.
DuPuy had never seen shock or surprise in al-Bakilani's face until moments before, but al-Bakilani had quickly regained his composure then, and he did now.
"Efik, you must not address—"
"Please." Despite his mumbling, Efik was smiling as broadly as DuPuy had ever seen a man smile. "I've waited and worked, in my own way, for this day for half my life. And while I'd not say a word if it would do you any good—any of you—it might, perhaps, make things easier for you if you let me speak for a moment." He gestured up toward the mountain.
"Some years ago a man, a wizard, developed or rediscovered a way to put souls into swords, just like the Great Wizards did in the Age of Crisis. No, he wasn't a Great Wizard himself, just a very dedicated one, and no, he wasn't able to do so with great souls, be they great for purity or evil; that art is lost.
"Just with babies, and then only some of the time. A baby's soul, he discovered—and yes, he discovered it by as awful a means as you can imagine—is not attached to this world as strongly as an adult's.
"And, of course, as he wasn't a Great Wizard, and the sacrifice of innocents is as black an art as there is, he knew full well that he'd die in the making of the first sword.
"So he took his time, and he raised and trained sons, and gathered others about him, and told none of them any more than they needed to know, and not too many years ago he began to make the swords. The doing of it killed him, of course—the black arts are not easy on those who practice them, and while there's no wrong in binding somebody like Sandoval to steel to expatiate his sin, or in permitting a dying pure one to remain bound in steel rather than receiving his or her reward, he was, after all, killing babies, as did his sons.
"Rather a lot of them." He looked over at DuPuy. "If I recall correctly, and I do, your own Mordred the Great revolted against his father because his father sought to slay children for his own purposes.
"Ah—we were back to the swords. Yes, they're of value, but they in themselves wouldn't be of enough value for what he wanted for his people, and as to who his people are, well, his grandsons will tell you that soon enough."
"But you said—"
"Oh, yes," Efik went on, "he and his sons and his grandsons will have only those eleven live swords—it should be twelve, but . . ." He shrugged. "Well, just let it be said that what was done was explained at the wrong time to the wrong person, and leave it at that." He laughed, he actually laughed. "I've no complaint—I'd expected it to take more years for this all to come to fruition. Things seem to have been hurried along.
"There's one other thing he discovered, something that you, Admiral DuPuy, a good believing Christian man, should have no trouble in accepting: what passes for the soul of the Wise, or the Great, or the Godly is even more powerful than a sinner like Sandoval or a saint like Gautama." He stretched out his hand toward the mountain. "And even if you could run like the wind up there, Abdul ibn Mahmoud, by the time that you would get there it will be all over. The Wise won't be able to stand against eleven live swords, even of the dimmest red, and the grandson of that beloved old man will come down from the Montagne Grande bearing it in his hands." He shrugged. "A little past nightfall, perhaps, but close enough."
"You won't live to see it," Smith said.
"Ah. Entirely correct." Efik bit down hard, and there was a crunching sound. He buckled at the knees, and sprawled out on the stones.
Al-Idrisi barked out a quick order to Smith, who began to run, tossing the scabbard of his sword aside as he did.
DuPuy would have watched as the light flared and Smith blurred away, but he was more interested in the way that Efik, manifestly dead on the ground, was still smiling.
"Well, Excellency, that was bloody brilliant of you," he said, letting the sarcasm drip from his voice. One man with a Red Sword against eleven? And never mind what the sword with the soul of the Wise imprisoned it would be like to face—if there were any doubt in Efik's mind that it would not be all over before Alexander ever reached the Montagne Grande, he would not have spoken.
Still, a man who had waited and plotted and schemed and worked toward an end for half his lifetime would want to see the faces of his enemies when it all came to fruition. DuPuy, of all people, could understand that.
Al-Bakilani nodded. "Well, yes. He just removed His Excellency's main protection, didn't he?"
Al-Idrisi bowed his head. "It will all be as Allah wills," he said. "In the meantime, is there anything we can do but wait?"
Wait for what? Wait for whoever was to come down from the Montagne Grande bearing a sword that would make the Sandoval look like a paring knife by comparison?
With that in hand, it was obvious what al-Idrisi would do, would have to do: make whatever promises he could, and with this, this thing in his possession, the man bearing it would be more than able to force adherence to any promises that would be made.
The only thing for DuPuy to do was to put off the promises being made, and that required—
—but al-Bakilani was, damn his eyes, thinking faster than he was, and had his sword out, and just inches away from DuPuy's throat.
"I'm sorry, Admiral, but I think that you'll serve your King better as my prisoner for the moment than you would dead on the ground." He actually managed to sound sincere, the bastard. "If you'd slowly unbuckle your sword belt, and let it fall to the ground, I'll see that it's returned to you when this is all over."
He sighed. "Which, I'm afraid, won't be very long now at all."