Читать книгу Releasing Henry - Sarah Hegger - Страница 11

Henry sat beside Newt as they shared a meal before the caravan got underway. With the sunset came the cool of the desert evening and he wrapped his kaffiyeh tightly around his head to keep the wind off him.

Bahir prowled the outskirts of the small oasis. He stopped, cocked his head, tense and alert.

“What’s up with him?” Newt jerked his chin at Bahir, who slid like a wraith between the date palms, his attention intent on the dark expanse of nothing all around them.

Henry’s nape prickled. He sensed it too. It ran like ants across his skin, tightened his belly, and made him uneasy. He rose, his hand reaching for the sword that no longer rested at his hip. “I am not sure.”

Wind whispered and hissed through the palms, the deep silence pressing in on them from all sides.

A wild dog yipped.

Bahir whirled and shouted. “Arm yourselves!”

“Bedamned!” Newt whirled. “What is happening?”

“There are no blasted wild dogs this close to Cairo.” With no sword, Henry ran for Alya. “Give no quarter.”

Swords flashing, the escort clambered to their feet,

Rising out of the sand like smoke, the attackers swarmed out of the desert. Desert nomads. Fast, deadly and merciless.

Alya stood beside her camel. Alone.

Bahir engaged three men, and cut down two almost immediately.

Henry reached her before Bahir. “Have you a dagger?”

“Aye.” Eyes huge, she looked fearful but calm.

“Use it.”

Shrouded in dark clothing and difficult to see, men surged around them. The nomads knew the desert well. Knew how to use it to their advantage.

A figure lunged out of the shadows.

Alya screamed.

Henry ducked the sword. He rammed his shoulder into the man’s gut, driving them both to the ground.

Hard-packed sand jarred his knees and elbows.

The nomad twisted beneath him and got his hands about Henry’s throat.

Henry tossed sand in his eyes, grabbed his turban and pounded his head into the sand until the man’s grip about his neck relaxed.

Another two headed for Alya, making no sound on the soft sand.

“Henry!” Newt yelled. A sword winged through the air toward him.

Henry snatched it and swung. Steel bit into flesh and the first man dropped. The other bastard skidded to a stop. His blade swaying like a cobra.

In his hand, the pommel fit like a gauntlet. Henry curled his fingers about it. Another man converged on them from the right.

The first attacked. Henry swung double-handed, striking blade against blade. Sparks flew. He found the bind, twisted and wrenched the sword from the nomad’s hand.

Dancing back, he dodged the blow from his right. Cutting up, his metal bit into cloth and then stuck in the man’s chest.

Henry shoved with his boot, and the man dropped to the ground.

Years and years of training took over. Dodge, cut, thrust, parry, strike. Weight balanced on the balls of his feet, searching constantly for the next attack.

Behind him, Alya. Before him they came in a steady flow, one man after another. Metal clanged against metal, grunts and hoarse cries, the stench of sweat, the sharp coppery tang of blood. Battle. His blood surged in response.

His breath tired first. Rasping through his chest as he danced with his sword. The fatigue spread to his arms. Still their attackers came out of the darkness. His footwork grew sloppy. His responses slower. Henry shook sweat out his eyes.

Then, Bahir was beside him. Carving that deadly curved sword of his through nomads. Shoulder to shoulder they fought, until Newt joined them. Henry drew on his last reserves, his arms shaking with the effort to raise the sword.

The attackers dwindled to a trickle.

And then they were gone.

In the aftermath, the silence rang like a bell.

Henry dropped his hands to his knees and tried to catch his breath. Breath seared through his chest, his heart pounding so hard it drummed in his ears.

“They are gone,” Alya whispered.

Bodies littered the oasis, crumpled over like cloth poppets. Camels brayed their alarm. Their handlers clucked and soothed, speaking to them in harsh guttural grunts.

“Bastard dogs.” Bahir spat. He strode to the nearest body, grabbed its head and lifted, only to drop it back to the floor. “Find one of them alive.”

Metal whispered against leather as Newt sheathed his weapon.

Henry straightened, his body aching like an oldster.

“That was close.” Newt hauled his headscarf off and wiped his brow. “You fight like an old woman.”

Henry wanted to brain the little turd, but Newt spoke true. He had fought like a sodding farmer. Three years of herding goats had cost him his speed and his endurance. Thick spit and sand coated his mouth and he snatched the waterskin Newt held out to him. He rinsed his mouth and spat.

But Alya was safe. Behind him she moved in a silky swish of cloth and the scent of jasmine oil.

“An old woman who taught you how to fight.” He punched Newt on the shoulder, nearly crying with the effort it took. But a man had his pride after all.

A strangled cry arose from where Bahir dragged some hapless fighter up and threw him against a boulder.

Only then did Henry allow himself to look at Alya.

Her gaze moved across the oasis constantly. Beneath her covering, he could not tell what expression she wore but she held her shoulders tense. She raised her head when she caught him looking. Something fierce flashed in the green-brown depths of her eyes. “My thanks, Hen-er-ree.”

She knew his name. It surged through him hot and sweet. Not trusting his voice, he nodded, tightened his grip on his pommel, and followed Newt.

Bahir had the injured man pinned to a boulder. His kaffiyeh lay in the sand at their feet. Through the grit, sweat and blood a young, clearly terrified, boy stared up at them.

So fast that Henry barely caught a word of it, they spoke in the language of the desert tribes.

At the end of which, Bahir shoved the boy away. The nomad stumbled and fell, righted himself and ran out into the night.

“Should we be letting him go?” Newt examined the blade of his metal.

“He’s a child. We do not kill children.” With a harsh grunt, Bahir spun on his heel and stalked across the oasis to where a small band of the escort crouched. “We have bigger problems than a dirty tribal boy.”

“What sort of problems?” Newt followed on behind him.

He needn’t bother. Bahir would deem it beneath him to share the information with them. Henry wanted to punch the bastard in the small of his back, right at the tender spot that would bring him to his knees.

He followed Bahir anyway.

Bahir and the leader of the escort spoke urgently to each other. From the look on the leader’s face, he would not be joining Bahir’s band of admirers. Thus far, the only person who seemed to tolerate Bahir was Alya.

For the escort, Bahir had switched to Arabic. “How many?”

“Three dead.” The leader rose wearily to his feet. “Five injured.”

“Pack up, we need to move.” Spinning again, he marched away.

Henry stepped into his path. “Would you care to explain?”

“Nay.” Bahir squared off.

One of these days, Henry promised himself, there would be a reckoning between them. “I gather there’s a problem. Her father gave her into my care as well as yours. I suggest we try to work together on this.”

Bahir curled his lip back. “She is nothing to you, English. You purchased your freedom with this journey.”

“Tell me anyway.” Henry stepped back into his path.

With a grunt, Bahir scratched the back of his neck. “I see you found a sword.”

“Aye, and I know how to use it.”

Newt snorted and muttered something Henry did not want to hear.

“I do not have time for this.” Bahir stepped around him.

“Feisty bastard, isn’t he?” Newt watched him go. “He probably bleeds sour piss if you cut him.”

Henry turned to the escort leader. He jerked his head at Bahir disappearing form. “What did he say to the boy?”

“That one.” The man spat. “The Devil! He said we need to leave. Now.”

“Why?”

“These men.” The man gestured to the desert around them. “They did not find us by chance. They were sent here. They want the girl.”

He might have guessed. Desert nomads tried not to involve themselves in the business of the cities. Unless a strong incentive was provided for them to do so.

No need to bury the dead because the desert scavengers would make short work of them. The injured were being loaded on slower camels to return to Cairo. May luck be on their side, because they had a nightmare journey ahead of them, and always the chance the nomads would decide to avenge their dead.

Henry strapped his sword to his pack aboard the camel. He had a sword now and Bahir could pry it out of his dead hand.

“Why her?” Newt joined him in packing up their belongings.

“It’s political.” How to describe the shifting quicksand of Cairo politics? “The Genovese have been here for a while, even before our bedamned foray after glory. When Frederick came with his army it upset the balance. There are those who are angry with the Sultan for being so conciliatory with Frederick’s army. Still others who feel he should have chased us down and finished what the Nile started.”

Newt nodded. “Why didn’t they?”

“It’s against the rules of war.” It still baffled Henry, this society. So many contradictions within contradictions and all governed by Allah. “The Sultan is a devout man, he follows the rules of war.”

“Which are?” Newt grimaced at his camel.

“Far more honorable than ours.” Henry threw his leg over the saddle. “Mount up. We’ll be riding hard for Alexandria.”

* * * *

Pushing their animals, they rode fast through the night. As much as it galled Henry to admit it, Bahir knew his desert and he moved them across it with eerie skill, finding landmarks in the seemingly unbroken expanse.

They ate as they rode.

The men formed a tight unit around Alya’s litter. Tense and alert, Bahir on his faster camel rode patrols into the desert.

As dawn broke over the silent city, they reached the outskirts of Alexandria.

“This city gives me the willies.” Newt shuddered and glanced about him. “All these old buildings, now ruined.”

Henry nodded. He had not traveled through Alexandria with Frederick’s army but instead come from Acre overland in a brutal journey that had killed many fine men and beasts.

Great, ancient edifices loomed on either side of the wide roadway they traversed. Strange and unknown statuary adorned the buildings belonging to a people they could only guess about. Unworldly creatures wrought of finest white stone, paying homage to pagan gods.

The city grew livelier as they approached the docks. The stench of fish, oil, and bilge reached them first. Newt muttered profanities as they wended their way through the early morning travelers to the dock.

“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.” The muezzin’s haunting call wailed over the city.

The caravan moved to the side, along with a pair of silk traders pushing their wares along in a cart. Prayer mats appeared, laid out facing east. The traders and the devout in their caravan paused to pray. Standing first, hands crossed before their chests, eyes closed, they chanted. Like a ripple, they bowed from the waist, rose again. The soft-sung chant rose and fell as the men at the roadside bent their knees, pressing foreheads to the ground.

Silent out of respect, he stood beside Newt. He remembered a time when prayer had been the most important part of his day. The hours he’d spent in silent communion with his God some of his most cherished memories. In his moments of deepest anguish, when he had first been sold into slavery, Henry had believed God had turned his back on him, forsaken him in this place.

Now he understood an opposite truth. Henry had turned his back on God. In the face of all the evil he had witnessed he could not give his faith and his obedience. Sometimes he felt as if the evil had seeped through his skin into his very bones and lay waiting there for the day he would turn to it. He could not face any god with the blood that stained his hands, the deaths that stained his soul.

With prayer over, the men stood, packed away their mats, and life resumed again.

Bobbing like apples in a barrel, the ships rode the harbor tides, their barren masts skeletal against the lightening sky.

Bahir led them straight to a large ship close to the harbor entrance. A man came out on deck and he and Bahir exchanged greetings.

In a squalling mass the camels were brought to their knees, and the party dismounted.

The man Henry guessed as captain by his rich raiment and air of command crossed to the dock and spoke quietly to Bahir. The conversation seemed to go on for a while, the captain gesticulating and Bahir shaking his head. Eventually, Bahir turned wearing a face like a smacked ass.

“Unload the camels,” he yelled. “Put everything on the ship.”

He went to Alya’s litter and handed her out.

Above her niqab, her gaze darted about, alive with curiosity.

Keeping his hand beneath her elbow, Bahir trotted her on the boat and took her down below.

Newt sighed. “I do miss seeing a saucy smile on a pretty wench’s face. How is a man to know what a girl looks like?”

“Alya is beautiful.” The words escaped him.

Newt looked at him sharply and raised a questioning brow.

Henry turned and went to help unload the camels. He chose not to share his girl on the wall with anyone.

The captain oversaw the stowing of the cargo. As the sun rose and brought with it the heat of the day, he and Newt worked side by side.

“You.” For a big man, Bahir moved lightly on his feet.

Henry straightened from stowing a tightly wrapped bale.

Looking pained Bahir gestured to him and Newt. “I would speak with you.”

Just because it galled the big man, Henry took his time joining him near the empty litter.

“We have a problem.” Bahir folded his arms. “The captain tells me we are at low tide and must wait for high until we sail.”

“How long?” Henry didn’t need him to spell it out for them. Whoever had attacked in the desert might be looking for such an opportunity. It must infuriate Bahir to approach them with this. It made Henry a lot more amenable to helping.

“An hour after noon.” Bahir frowned up at the sky. “He insists that is the earliest we can leave.”

No doubt, were it within Bahir’s power to command the sea, he would have bent it to his will already.

“The escort will stay with us until then, but…” He glanced about him.

Alexandria’s harbor had woken in a teeming cacophony of sound, people and smells. Spotting a foe in this melee could prove impossible. A young beggar slid closer to them, wheedling for food.

Bahir sent him about his way.

“A fast camel will have reached Alexandria hours ahead of us.” Henry spoke his thoughts aloud.

“And the captain is well known here.” Bahir nodded. “It would not be hard to find us.”

“We’re sitting here like blind men.” Henry wanted to punch something. Bahir’s face tempted him.

“Well.” Newt rubbed his hands together. “Allow Harry and I to shed some light.”

“Harry?” Bahir frowned down on Newt.

Newt jerked his head toward Henry. “Henry, Harry to those who know him well.”

“Or those I like.” Infantile and strangely satisfying especially when Bahir’s shoulders tightened.

“Nobody is looking for us.” Newt glanced between him and Bahir. “And harbors are great places if you have your ears wide open.”

Bahir shifted, and his eyes narrowed. “You will gather information?”

“Aye.” Like a dog with a bone Newt perked up. “It would help if there was someplace around here where a man could wet his throat.”

“You speak of intoxicating drink.” Bahir curled his lip back.

“A man with a tankard in his hand is more inclined to share.” Newt nudged Henry. “And I wager it’s been a while since you got a little something down your gullet.”

Bahir pursed his lips, glanced from Newt to Henry, and then nodded. “I will ask the captain. This port is filled with all sorts from all parts of the world.”

* * * *

Henry pushed away his tankard of ale. Three years since his last drink, and this horse piss didn’t come close to tempting him to lose his wits.

Of the three taverns Bahir had directed them to, Newt had chosen this one only after carefully considering the other two. What he looked for, Henry knew not, but Newt had slithered his way through the roughest parts of London and knew his way around the shadowed fringes of any city.

The tunic Newt had forced him into itched in a way that made him not want to enquire after the source. Although he had grown accustomed to the stink of it, the way people walked a wide path around him assured him it remained.

“Eyes down, ears open.” Newt had instructed him as they had made ready to enter Hektor’s Harem. Hektor, a thick-armed brute, leant his elbows on the bar and yelled at his weary-looking wenches. As far as Henry could see, Hektor scowled and the wenches worked.

Tallow smoke oozed along with the stench of greasy goat meat and the fumes from myriad pipes in an eye-searing layer above his head. The noise near deafened him. A babble of languages from every corner of the world and all of them near shouted at their companions.

Looking perfectly relaxed, Newt had his paw around his tankard as he yelled good-natured insults with some fur-shrouded trader from the east. Henry had never known there existed so many things that could be done to a man’s mother. They’d now progressed to each other’s dubious bloodlines.

“Wench.” Newt pounded the rickety table, and Henry grabbed his rocking tankard. “Bring my camel-tupping friend here a drink.”

Off they went again, Newt and his new bosom companion.

So far, Henry’s open ears hadn’t caught much. Mostly whining around the new tariffs the harbormaster had put in place.

“…Genovese blood…”

Henry searched through the noise, trying to locate the source.

“…good money.”

Newt clinked tankards, spilling beer all over him and his friend, but beneath the table his boot nudged Henry.

Aye, they’d both heard it. Beside the oilskin-covered casement two men huddled over a table.

He strained to hear over the other conversations.

“…called himself Alif Al-Rasheed but I recognized the sod right off…got me a nice fat purse…”

Newt pressed his toes.

“…bitch went missing.”

A sudden lull in the conversation around him, and the next words reached him clear as a bell. “She has to be in Alexandria.”

Newt lurched to his feet, and grabbed his crotch. “Need to piss.”

“Jesu.” Henry grabbed him by the tunic front. “You’ll piss all over yourself. Come on.”

“Harry.” Giving him a toothy grin, Newt patted his chest. “Wanna hold my rod for me? Maybe give it a stroke?”

Huge guffaws greeted him, along with a thump on the back from his drinking partner that sent Newt stumbling into him.

With a rough jerk, Henry yanked Newt toward the casement.

They drew closer to the men. With a masterful stumble, Newt crashed through a bench and landed nearly at their feet.

The tavern noise dimmed and then resumed.

“Hey!” Hektor’s bald head gleamed as he straightened. “You’ll pay for that.”

Henry motioned that he’d heard and handed some coins to the nearest wench. He doubted all the benches in this place together amounted to the money he gave her.

Using the table, Newt swayed to his feet.

He spoke so quietly to the men at the table Henry almost missed it. “Word is you’re looking for some information.”

The men tensed. The bigger one went for a knife at his belt.

With that puckered scar dissecting his face, the bigger man looked to be a nasty sort. Henry slapped his hand on the long dagger at his waist and shook his head.

Sneering, the man kept his hand where it was. “Word is wrong.”

“A pity.” Newt pushed away from the table. “Because I have some to sell.”

“Get away with you, you drunken sot.” Not quite as broad, the man with his back to Henry shoved Newt away. “You have nothing I want to hear.”

“Huh.” Newt blinked at him. “Guess I must not have seen a caravan come in from Cairo this morning.”

Henry dragged him into the street. “What, in God’s name, are you doing?”

Newt winked at him. “A little bait and trap, my friend, a little bait and trap.”

He straightened his tunic.

The street the tavern occupied was narrow and dark, twisting this way and that between the larger trading squares. It stank of stale beer and piss. Henry wanted out of here and back to the boat.

Newt set a brisk pace away from the tavern and turned into a darker, noisome alley.

“Hey!” a man shouted after them.

“Keep walking,” Newt whispered.

“It’s the men from the tavern.”

“Of course, it is.” Newt grinned. “Now keep walking and we’ll pick the place of meeting.”

They quickened their steps.

Behind them footsteps came faster.

Newt ducked into a darkened archway, and pulled Henry in after him.

They drew their knives.

Running footsteps grew louder, and then their pursuers passed their hiding place.

Newt slipped out first, grabbed the man closest to him and shoved his knife against the man’s pulse. “Looking for someone?”

The scarred man from the tavern lunged, but Henry pressed the tip of his sword to his chest. “Do nothing stupid and your friend will be fine.”

“What do you want?” Newt’s man’s gaze flicked between the dagger and Henry.

“Heard you were looking for someone.” Newt pressed the tip into his skin.

Blood snaked down the man’s neck.

“Heard that someone was a girl.”

“I do not know what you are speaking of.” Sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Really?” Newt said. His smile raised Henry’s hackles. “That’s not what I heard at all. Is it?”

Drawing the tip of his sword over Scar Man’s tunic, Henry shook his head. The fabric melted beneath the blade, leaving a thin red line on his chest.

Scar Man paled. “Jesu, Aldo, tell them.”

“Fine.” Aldo licked his lips. “But only if you vow to let us go.”

“Nah.” Newt pressed the dagger deeper into Aldo’s flesh. “I cannot do that until I hear what you have to say. If I find it useful, I might let you go.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, my big friend has a nasty temper. It’s going to take something special to appeal to his better nature.”

Henry slashed another line, dissecting his first cut and making a cross.

“Aldo!” Scar Man screamed. “He will cut me to ribbons. I am bleeding.”

“Harry.” Newt clicked his tongue. “Must you always be so impetuous?”

“There’s a rumor,” Scar Man yelled. “Good money to be made from getting the Genovese out of Cairo.”

“By out your friend means dead, does he not, Aldo?” Newt went a trifle deeper with his blade tip.

Sweat running in his eyes, Aldo blinked. “Aye.”

“Did you make one of these Genovese dead?”

“Nay.” Scar Man sobbed. “We did not touch them. By the time we got there, it was too late.”

“Tell me about Alif Al-Rasheed.”

“We didn’t do it.” The man’s chest labored, blood pouring down it. “We swear to God we did not do it. Rumor says some berserker bastard got to him first.”

“He is dead?”

“We do not know. This is only what we heard.”

Henry cut the sod again, just because he was the sort of whoreson seeking to make coin from killing an innocent girl. His girl on the wall.

The man screamed and dropped to his knees. “I will tell you what you want. Anything. Just don’t cut me again.”

Anger surged through him. The master had been a good man, and Alya had loved her father dearly. “And now you are after the daughter?”

“Everyone is.” Snot streamed from his nose as he bawled like a baby. “The price on her head is double.”