Garment of Shadows (12 page)

He blew off the tiny carving, and set it onto the small table: a pony, two inches high, with an arch to its neck that promised mischief.

“There remain two problems,” he added.

Holmes gave a cough of laughter. “Only two?”

“Primarily two. First, the French mission is permeated with spies. If Abd el-Krim has an ear into the Maréchal’s business, it should be assumed that everyone from the Sultan to the Spanish do as well.”

“So the other member of Lyautey’s party must be chosen with care. And the second problem?”

“A common tongue. The Emir speaks Spanish and Arabic but little French. I would suspect the reverse is true of Lyautey?”

“There’d be no reason for him to know more than a smattering of Spanish, although he might surprise me. He has taught himself some Arabic, but it is more formal and theoretical than practical.”

“Classical Arabic and that spoken in the Rif are indeed separated by more than miles. What about you? How is your Spanish?”

“Basic. Very basic.”

“For his other man, Lyautey may wish to choose someone fluent in Spanish, to permit mutual translations in any direction. If there is someone he trusts who— You smile. Why do you smile?”

“I may know just the man. Or rather, woman.”

“Wom— No. Miri?” In Palestine, he’d called her
“Amir”—Prince
—but evidently she had outgrown the joke.

“Russell, yes. She’s fluent in all three languages.”

“But, a woman.”

“Not just any woman.”

“And young.”

“Russell? She’s never been young.”

“And Jewish.”

“It didn’t get in her way in Palestine. In any event, a feminine presence has been known to disarm male aggression. Unless your man Abd el-Krim is too … traditional to do business with a female?”

“I might ask the same of your Lyautey.”

“I think my cousin would be fascinated at the prospect.”

Ali frowned. “If Miri were a Moroccan woman, the Emir would not permit it, even though he is a Berber—Berber women do not cover their faces,” he explained. “But, a foreigner?”

“If Gertrude Bell can sit down with Arabs in Mesopotamia, why not Russell in the Rif?”

Holmes took out his cigarette case, watching with amusement while Ali embarked on his own bout of silent wrestling: the deep and automatic refusal to bring a woman into danger, balanced against the woman herself. When he saw the man’s thumb travel across the long, thin scar that Russell’s knife had sliced in his arm in 1919, he knew that agreement had been reached.

“Miri may be just the man for the job. But where is she?”

“We have two days to figure that out. As I told you, she was last seen walking into the desert, hand in hand with a young boy who did not speak. By a rather striking coincidence, I was met at the train station coffee house this morning by a young mute boy, who led me through the town to the door of the Dar Mnehbi and ran off.”

At mention of the boy, Ali’s face lightened. “I am glad to hear he is safe. The lad is called ‘Idir.’ He was found wandering half-naked through one of the early battlefields in 1921, a child of six or seven, it was decided. No one knew what happened to the rest of his family, but he attached himself to some of the camp-followers and made himself useful, and he’s been with the Revolt ever since. He has a tongue, but he’s never used it, not that anyone has heard. Mahmoud thinks he’s older than he looks—and he’s certainly bright enough. He learned to read with very little instruction, and he can even write, after a fashion.”

Holmes suspected there was more to the story than Ali was giving, but the man had never been one to reveal any softer side, and taking a mute orphan under his wing would definitely be considered soft.

“He appears to know Fez well. Has he spent time here?”

“Not that I have heard. But the boy does have a remarkable gift for finding his way around even a strange patch of countryside.”

“He’s trustworthy?”

Ali shrugged. “Who else does he have, but us? Mahmoud uses him to run messages from time to time, and couldn’t see any reason not to bring him along when he came south.”

“So what have the two of them done with Russell?”

Ali just shook his head.

“What about Mahmoud? Why are you here, and not him?”

“We planned to meet here. My brother left the mountains for Rabat on the thirteenth, as the last Spanish troops retreated from Chaouen. His French is better than mine, so he came here while I stayed with Abd el-Krim, trying to keep him from getting killed, and, during any lulls in fighting, reminding him that a talk with Lyautey was in his best interest. Mahmoud’s plan was to find you, and ask that you present the same argument to Lyautey, or if he couldn’t find you, to come to Fez himself and speak with the Maréchal.”

“Any idea why he didn’t wait for me—or, us?”

“No.”

“Since I doubt that Mahmoud would have sent a child, even one gifted at finding his way, all the way to Erfoud to fetch Russell, we may assume that Mahmoud and Russell left the desert together.”

“And came here to Fez, leaving Idir to watch for you in the café, while my brother went … where?”

“The boy will know. Certainly, he appeared to be looking for someone as we came through the medina. What if we go back to the railway café and see if he is there?”

“That’s as good an idea as any,” Ali agreed. “We might also ask the Maréchal if our partners, as you call them, are in custody somewhere in the city.”

Holmes gave a wry smile. “The gaol hasn’t been built that could hold those two for long. What if we—”

But Ali was not to know what Holmes was about to propose, because the older man went still at the sound of another group of arrivals, outside the room. Voices rose from the
dar
courtyard, loud and troubled voices, familiar voices. One in particular—

Holmes dropped his cigarette into the coals and made rapidly for the door. Ali was at his heels.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

O
n the dar’s balcony over the courtyard, the two men moved towards the argument that was echoing out of the enclosed corner stairway. In a moment, figures began to appear: a small boy in a dirt-coloured
djellaba
; behind him—being physically pulled up the uneven stone steps by the lad—a slim young person with blue eyes, wearing a similarly rough and grubby
djellaba
; behind the boy and his unwilling charge came Youssef, looking displeased at the invasion.

“—might be better if we were to remain below and wait to be claimed,” the slim young person was saying—in English, oddly enough, and with an attitude of musing aloud rather than conversation. “Seems to me this poor chap has been very forgiving of our intrusion, and in a moment that soldier will come after us and— Oh,
pardon
,” the voice broke off, switching to French. “I’m sorry to disturb you gentlemen, truth to tell I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Perhaps one of you could—”

“Russell, don’t tell me you’ve lost your spectacles again!” Before she could notice Ali and give him away with an exclamation, Holmes stepped smartly forward to seize his wife’s elbow. “Come along, you’ll find it brighter—” he began to say.

But there followed a series of fast and confusing motions that left the slim young person standing alone and bristling at the top of the steps, the child who’d been at the fore of the procession glued up against one wall, Ali Hazr taking a step back in astonishment, and Holmes sprawled against the iron railings amidst the remains of a vase of flowers.

Youssef looked at the child, saw that he was safe, and fled down the steps for reinforcements.

Holmes gasped for breath. “Russell, what is wrong with you? You’ve seen me in a beard before!”

The newcomer’s hood had fallen back, revealing what looked less like a turban than a head bandage. From beneath it peeped wisps of yellow hair.

The blue eyes beneath the bandage narrowed, then shot a quick glance at the swarthier man, standing farther down the balcony. Assured that he was not about to attack, the slim figure took a step forward. “Do you know me, sir?”

The prostrate figure’s grey eyes stretched wide; after a moment, he turned his head, to meet the other man’s equally alarmed, dark eyes.

Ali Hazr pursed his bearded lips. “We may have a problem.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

I
t was my mute young guide who convinced me that the two strangers were friends—or at least, that they were not my immediate enemies. Once past the first shock that my defensive reaction had caused, the lad trotted past me and took hold of the younger man’s hand, holding it and patting it, smiling at me by way of illustration.

My head gave a mighty pound; the resulting sway of my body brought a look of alarm to the face of the man on the floor. I let my fists unclench, and said to him, “I’m sorry, Monsieur, you startled me. I hope I haven’t hurt you.”

He scrambled to his feet, agile for a man with that much grey in his beard. “Russell, I—”

He broke off at the same instant I leapt around to put the unoccupied stretch of balcony at my back: Soldiers came pounding up the twisting steps, the servant close behind. The man I had thrown across the balcony moved to intercept, holding up a pair of pacifying hands, assuring them that it had been a mistake, that everything was fine, that we—
we!
—were sorry to have alarmed poor Youssef.

The guards took some convincing, but once the older fellow had plucked the flowers from his damp shoulder and run his hands over his head, they lowered their rifles and turned to me.

“This man should never have been permitted entrance,” one of them declared, but before they could question me, or take me into custody, my victim moved between us like a dog separating a sheep from a flock. (Where, I vaguely wondered, had that rural image come from?) He put out his arm, taking care not to make physical contact, gathering me past the soldiers and along the balcony, talking all the while in an almost accent-free French.

“This is a friend, a person Maréchal Lyautey will want to speak with later. We won’t disturb the Maréchal just yet, we shall permit my friend here to have a rest and perhaps something to eat. Youssef, might we have another tray of the couscous? And perhaps a large pot of mint tea? Oh yes, and some of your excellent coffee as well would be a good idea.”

Then we were inside a room—the two men, the boy, and me—and he shut the door in the soldiers’ faces.

The four of us held our collective breath, waiting for the soldiers to assault the door. Instead, they retreated, growling commands at the servant. I cleared my throat.

“So,” I said. “That’s my name? Russell?”

The older man’s face betrayed no reaction, yet I seemed to feel a shudder run through his body. “Your surname,” he replied. “Your first name is Mary. You’ve had a head injury?”

“My skull certainly aches. I haven’t dared look.”

“Perhaps that is where we should begin. Would you like to sit before the fire, while I investigate?”

It was odd—odder than any of the long string of peculiarities that had happened since I woke in that small upper room, nearly twenty-four hours before—but despite being an absolute stranger to my eyes, my bones seemed to respond to him. He could be trusted, with my scalp and with my life. I was still utterly lost, and yet I was home.

Tears came to my eyes, and again I swayed. This time, I did not hit out when he gently grasped my arm, but allowed him to lead me to a chair before a most welcome brazier. I sat with my eyes closed, that I could not see the room spinning around me. Deft fingers explored my bandage-turban, locating the end and starting gently to undo it. After several turns, the cloth stuck.

I heard him move around in front of me. I opened my eyes. He slid one hand inside his garments, drawing out a folding knife. He displayed it on his palm. “I don’t have scissors, and I need to cut the cloth.”

“I trust you,” I said. Again, I felt his internal reaction to the statement, but he simply unfolded the knife and returned to my side, pulling at the clotted fabric, sawing gently.

The younger man, who had been standing in place all this time, moved now, gathering up a glass bowl of flowers and carrying it out of the room. When he came back, the flowers had been replaced by a face-cloth and the bowl’s water was steaming.

He set it onto a large, centuries-old inlaid trunk pushed against the wall near my knee, and took the other chair. I felt his eyes on me, dark and disapproving but not without a degree of concern. The mute boy had found a small wooden toy on the trunk, and had taken it over to the table, where he was now picking over a tray of cold food.

“I’ll have to cut some of your hair,” said the man at my side.

“That may be the least of my worries,” I told him, and winced at the tug on whatever injury lay beneath.

The water in the bowl was red-brown when he lifted the final pieces of fabric away. His fingers parted the remaining hair, then stopped moving.

“What do you see?” I asked, imagining some gaping bits of bone that had been revealed.

“This has been treated. Someone put in stitches. The wound itself is healing.”

Well, that was something, anyway.

“You don’t remember who nursed you?”

“I woke in a room, somewhere in the suq. Or, medina. Soldiers came, so I left.”

He started to ask something, then stopped. “When you are clean, fed, and rested, we can talk about what you remember and what you do not.”

But the other man had waited long enough. “What of Mahmoud?” he demanded—and I realised that we were speaking English, although he appeared Moroccan.

“An injury like this only becomes more intractable under pressure,” the older man warned. “Let her rest, the memories will slip back.”

The swarthy fellow did not like it, but I found the words immensely reassuring. This damnable fog I was moving through was an injury, and it would heal.
Hold that to yourself, Russell
. Yes, that was my name: progress! “I should very much like to bath,” I agreed.