The fallon pride, p.3
The Fallon Pride, page 3
“Murad Reis?”
“Of a certainty. He came again to our house with his offer. When I confronted him with Tomas’s disappearance, he affected surprise. Servants often run away. I was lucky he had not taken my valuables. It was dangerous for a woman alone. Marie was so terrified it became all I could do to get her to do the marketing.” She sighed heavily. “Poor Marie. Perhaps she knew best. Ten days ago she did not come back from the market. r became frantic. I ran into the streets and spent the entire day searching for her.”
“Surely one of the consulates would have helped you.”
“No, Captain Fallon,” she said softly. “Either they are at war with France, or they do not want to offend those who are at war with France, or they do not want to offend the Bashaw’s high admiral. When I returned to the house that evening,” she went on, “Murad was there. There had been a most regrettable incident, he said. Marie had been seized—quite by accident, he insisted—and was already on her way to Turkey as part of the tribute to the Sultan. I offered money, my jewels, but there was no way to get her back. He would only say that the same could happen to any beautiful woman without protection. To me. Marie was only a year older than I. Now all I could do for her was cry. The woman who cleans for me watches me for Murad. He appears when I least expect him, in my bedchamber, even in my bath. He does no more than look, and talk, but I feel dirty afterwards. When the other ship came, I had myself rowed to it. Murad was there before me, with the captain. They laughed and said vulgar things before I was allowed to leave. And now your ship arrives. I fear you are my last hope, Captain Fallon. You must help me.”
Robert took a deep breath. The woman had a way of making him forget the risks. Her soft brown eyes seemed to shimmer hypnotically. But it was still a bizarre story. “Forgive me for being blunt, Mademoiselle de Chardonnay, but if Murad wants you so badly, why is he playing these games?”
She smiled, womanly wise tinged with bitterness. “At twenty I know more of men than you do at, at whatever. You all enjoy playing games. Murad knows I cannot escape. He can reach out for me when he wishes. So he plays, like the cat with the mouse. It will inflate his pride to make me go to him and submit myself.”
He cleared his throat in embarrassment, uncertain of what to say next. A knock at the door saved him. “Come.”
Mr. Crane stuck his head into the room. “There’s a gentleman topside, Captain. Says he has to see you. Urgent.”
“If you’ve let another pirate on board, Mr. Crane—”
“Not an Arab,” the mate said hurriedly. “A gentleman, Captain.”
“Very well. Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.” Crane disappeared. “If you’ll excuse me, mademoiselle.”
She put a hand on his wrist as he turned to leave. “Captain, you will help me?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and tried to ignore the way she slumped. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
He wasn’t surprised to find Cathcart on the quarterdeck, but he was surprised to have the consul round on him, frowning. “Fallon, I understand you have a woman on board. Is it Louise de Chardonnay?”
“It is,” Robert said slowly. “What do you know of her?”
“I know she’s trouble. And considering the problems you have already, too much trouble for you. Your information is important, but it’ll be too late to be any good if you end up in the Bashaw’s prison.”
“God, man! Then you didn’t try to help her. How could you leave a woman to the likes of Murad?”
Cathcart colored, his back rigid. “To smuggle her out of the city I’d have had to use favors that—let me finish, Fallon. There are forty-one American seamen in chains in this city despite the treaty. With those favors, and time, I’ll get those men free. I’m the American consul, Fallon, and the choice was between one Frenchwoman and forty-one Americans.”
“I see,” Robert breathed heavily. “I apologize.”
The consul seemed mollified. “If a ship had come in, I might have been able to sneak her aboard in the night. But yours is the first, and there’s no sneaking, now. Do you want to take the risk? Murad will never forgive you for taking something he wants. You’ll be lucky to make a day’s sail from here. Well?”
“You didn’t come out here to tell me about Mademoiselle de Chardonnay,” Robert said quietly.
Cathcart drew a breath and nodded. “You’re right. Well. You have your audience, Captain Fallon. This afternoon at six.”
“This afternoon?”
The other nodded grimly. “Yes, this afternoon. I was wondering what had happened to bring such haste. Perhaps the de Chardonnay woman is the answer. In any case, you can wager there’s trouble in this.”
“Mr. Cathcart, I’ve seen nothing but trouble since I dropped anchor. Now what do I do about this audience?”
“Present yourself about half past five, with your gift, at the main gate of the palace. Wear your fanciest rig. I’ll meet you there and do what smoothing of the way I can. Now, about the de Chardonnay woman—”
“I’ll take care of that.” Robert held out his hand. “Until five-thirty?”
Below, he found the girl still seated at the table. When he entered, she tried to pretend she hadn’t been staring intently at the door.
“Do you need to go ashore for your things?” he asked suddenly. “It might be dangerous.”
A slow smile bloomed on her face. “Then you will help me? No. No, I do not have to go back. I have a few things in the boat that brought me, and my money and jewels are in pouches sewn to my petticoats. The rest I will leave. I promise you, when we reach France—”
“I said nothing about France. I’ll try to put you ashore in Spain. And I do mean ‘try.’ The British Navy takes being in European waters as proof of trade with France, often enough, when it comes to American ships. If I sight a British frigate, I’ll have to run. God knows where you’ll end up then. Are you willing to risk that?”
“I have the fullest confidence in you, Captain Fallon.”
He looked at her, sitting primly with her hands folded in her lap, and grunted sourly. “Yes. Well. That’s as may be. For now, would you mind going on deck? I must dress for an audience with the Bashaw. And decide what sort of gift to give him.”
She had risen smoothly at his request, but now she stopped at the door. “Animal, Captain. A peacock, or a hawk, or a leopard. With expensive trappings, of course.”
“Animal,” he said flatly.
“Yes, Captain.” She seemed amused at his slowness. “I saw my father deal with these people. Unless you wish to give a sack of gold, or a slave. But that would be much more expensive.” She smiled, and disappeared up the companionway.
For a moment he stared after her. “Animals,” he said. Then he began digging out his best suit of clothes.
3
The chimpanzee at Robert’s feet stirred, and he flashed a grin. Merchant captains didn’t run to gold braid. The best suit he could come up with for this interview with the Bashaw was plain blue superfine and silk stockings. The ape, though, met the Frenchwoman’s admonition for fancy dress. It wore a red vest, held with gold chains across the front, and a red hat sporting a long feather. The chain to lead it by was gold, too. By the price the animal trainer had charged, the chains should have been thick enough for an anchor.
The door to the anteroom opened, and a turbaned guard put his head through long enough to gesture for Robert to follow.
Still no Cathcart, he thought sourly. The note delivered just before he left Osprey said the consul would be a few minutes late. What was keeping him? Chain in hand, Robert led the chimp after the guard. Toward the Bashaw.
The guard hurried through ill-lit corridors to a pair of huge double doors. Two more guards stood there, scimitars in hand, but they ignored Robert and his escort as the Tripolitan opened one door just enough for the two of them to squeeze through.
Inside, Robert stopped at a scene of barbaric splendor lit by flickering braziers on tripods. A score of fluted columns supported the high-domed ceiling above an obviously ancient mosaic floor of a man on horseback killing a leopard with a spear. Three girls in transparent silks and jewels danced to a motley group of musicians playing a shrill tune on flutes and odd, stringed instruments. Serving women, dressed more like the shrouded women in the street, moved among two dozen robed and turbaned men seated on cushions on the floor.
Murad Reis, scowling through his beard, sat at the right hand of a man whose pile of cushions, higher than the others, was on a dais at the far end of the room. This, Robert realized must be Yusuf Karamanli, Bashaw of Tripoli.
Karamanli was a dark man, with grasping eyes set in a thin, foxlike face. When Robert entered, he tossed a half-eaten orange over his shoulder and motioned him to come forward. Conversation stopped, and silence fell, except for the music, as he walked forward leading the ape.
“Your Highness,” Robert began slowly, “I do not speak your language. Mr. Cathcart was to—”
“I speak English,” the Bashaw interrupted in a thick accent. “Also French, Spanish, Italian, and others. It is well to know the language of your prey.” A ripple of laughter went through the room. Only Murad failed to smile.
Robert paused while the mirth died. Without Cathcart he felt sure to put a foot wrong. “Your Highness, I brought you a gift; a token of my gratitude for the use of your harbor.” He dropped the chain and tapped the ape on the shoulder the way he’d been shown. Immediately the ape doffed its hat and sprang into the air in a forward somersault, then another, and another.
Karamanli giggled, a startlingly high-pitched sound. “I thought that it was your first mate. I will promote him. I will call him my American Captain.” He cut his eyes at Murad. “American captains are very much like monkeys, getting their paws into things that do not concern them.”
Robert colored, and tried to ignore the laughter that swept the room. “I’m glad Your Highness likes my gift.”
“Your gift,” the Bashaw said absently. “Yes.” He carefully selected a date from a tray and popped it into his mouth. “You have a woman on your ship, do you not, Captain?” He darted another glance at Murad.
“There is a woman visiting my vessel,” Robert said carefully. Sweat began to plaster his shirt to his back. “I’m certain Your Highness realizes few Western vessels touch here. Such a ship would seem like a breath of home to—”
“Home, Captain? A Frenchwoman? An American ship?” He paused. It was a long, uncomfortable moment. “No matter. The woman may visit where she wishes. Go where she wishes. There have been rumors that she may not take passage without my approval.” Again his eyes cut to Murad. “I have issued no such order. Have you heard of such an order, Captain?”
Relief warred with the feeling that he was caught in a maelstrom. “No, Your Highness,” he managed. “If I had heard, I would have obeyed.”
Karamanli’s face drew into an angry frown. “Yes. Not knowing it was a lie.” He glared from Robert to Murad. “The water you need,” he said suddenly, “is at this moment being loaded onto your vessel, Captain. By my order. My order.”
“I thank Your Highness.” Yusuf seemed to be working himself into a towering rage. Robert didn’t want to be there when it broke. “If Your Highness will excuse me, I have duties aboard my ship.”
The rage melted, and the high giggle erupted again. “Of course not. You are my guest. Sit. Eat. Enjoy.” He seemed to forget Robert immediately, turning to talk with Murad Reis in low Arabic, but there was no doubt it was an order.
Robert was guided to a place between two men who frowned at him and edged away. One of the serving women put a tray of fruit in front of him and filled a handleless cup with strong syrupy coffee. The dancing girls gyrated to the shrill music. He settled in with a muttered curse. Why wasn’t Cathcart there to guide him? He’d have to stay there until it was over.
The servants kept his cup filled, but the rest seemed to ignore him, murmuring among themselves and occasionally breaking into raucous laughter. The dancing girls were replaced by acrobats, then more dancing girls appeared. He sipped his coffee and waited, while the night dragged by in inches.
Just after ten o’clock, Yusuf suddenly rose. Murad ducked through a curtain behind the dais. The others rose and bowed toward the dais. At last, Robert thought. He stood and bowed in imitation of the others.
“Captain.”
Slowly Robert straightened. The Bashaw regarded him from the dais. “You are my guest, Captain. It is late. I will have you shown to a room.” He clapped his hands and issued a swift stream of Arabic. There was nothing for it but to obey.
As soon as the door to his chamber closed behind him, Robert began a vigorous search. The door had neither lock nor bar. The walls behind the hangings were solid, and the floor was unbroken tile. The lone window had no bars, but it opened on a fifty-foot drop to the water below, glinting in the moonlight.
What was Yusuf planning? This was too much attention for a simple merchant captain. With an oath he turned back to the window and strained his eyes in the direction of his ship. Unless they were trying to steal the girl back. The pirates might believe watchfulness on the Osprey would slacken with the captain gone.
He couldn’t hear or see a thing. The harbor was a mass of indistinguishable shadows. He refused to believe his ship could be taken in silence. There would be fighting, and noise. For the night, though, he must trust to Crane to hold Osprey. There was nothing for him to do but wait.
Ignoring the low bed in the center of the room, he extinguished the lamps and settled himself in a corner. From under his coat he took a pocket pistol. If there was treachery, he’d exact a price for it.
In the dark silence the night passed slowly. The sound of his own breathing was the loudest thing to be heard. His legs and back began to ache, but his watchfulness never wavered.
Then, after hours, his patience was rewarded. The door slowly opened, and a single figure slid through. Robert cocked the pistol; the sound was loud in the dark. The figure froze.
“That’s right,” Robert said. He got softly to his feet and moved closer. “Don’t move.”
“Not so loud, Fallon.” The answer was a hoarse whisper.
Robert pulled the man to the window, into the moonlight. “Cathcart!”
The consul gestured vigorously. “Keep your voice down. I bribed some guards to let me get to your room, but others can hear too.” He took a deep breath. “Why are you still here? The audience was six hours ago.”
“I’m the Bashaw’s guest,” Robert said drily. “He said water was being sent to Osprey. Is that true?”
“Yusuf doesn’t have guests. And water? Man, I’ve had no time for your problems. News arrived from France. Abbé Sieyès, one of the Directory, has overthrown the government. The National Assembly’s been dispersed by soldiers. Sieyès, Pierre Ducos, and Napoleon Bonaparte have taken the title Consul and set up to rule. I expect the governments of Europe are going mad. Will they stop the war? Expand it? God!”
“Bonaparte,” Robert murmured. “Maybe she could have done it after all.”
“What? Never mind. There’s no time. What’s this about being Yusuf’s guest? Tell me everything that happened.”
Robert complied, but before he was done the consul was shaking his head. “That’s the way it happened,” Robert insisted. “Everything that was said or done.”
“It just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t.”
“Anything that lets me sail with Louise de Chardonnay—”
“That’s what doesn’t make sense, Fallon. Murad’s too important for Yusuf to slap him down like that. Besides, Yusuf’s fond of games. I think he’s playing one with you, now, and one with Murad. He lets you think you’re getting away, and lets Murad think so, too. In the morning, when you sail, he’ll let Murad go after you. I’ll bet on it.”
“Unless I don’t sail tomorrow.”
“What? You can’t just wait him out.”
“I could sail tonight.”
Cathcart gave a low whistle, cut short when he remembered where he was. “You’re mad,” he whispered hoarsely. “This harbor’s no Sunday stroll. You’ll be aground inside half a mile, and lucky not to rip your hull open.”
“It’s that or Murad Reis, now, isn’t it? Can I get out the way you got in?”
“Mad, Fallon. Oh, very well. Stay close, and keep silent.” He cracked the door to peer out, then slipped into the hall. Robert followed.
The palace corridors were dimly lit by scattered braziers, and torches stuck in wall sconces. Pools of light were interspersed with flickering shadows. Robert waited for someone, anyone, to appear. A dozen times, it seemed, he started at a will-o’-the-wisp shifting on the wall. Then one of them resolved itself into a guard.
He bit back an oath and tensed to fight, but Cathcart stepped forward and murmured with the insubstantial figure in the darkness. Something changed hands; the consul motioned Robert to follow. Hesitantly, he did, keeping a close eye on the guard. The bearded Tripolitan stared fixedly over their heads, seeing nothing. Cathcart hissed and jerked his head down the hall, and the two men hurried on.
Twice more the consul did business with a guard in the shadows, and twice more the guard looked the other way as they passed. Then they were in the cobblestone street outside. The city lay dark except for the moonlight, dimmed by clouds pushed along by an offshore wind.
“At least you have the wind,” Cathcart said. “But you’d better hurry.”
“There’s room for another on Osprey. I mean, you did say your position was shaky, and this—”
“The guards won’t talk. You vanished like smoke. Believe me, I’ll know when to go. For now, I’ve work still to be done. God be with you, Fallon,” he finished gruffly. They gripped hands, and then Cathcart was gone in the night.
Robert moved toward the waterfront, drifting from shadow to shadow, keeping a wary eye out. Except for an occasional half-starved dog, though, or more frequently, a boldly scurrying rat, his was the only movement in the streets. Abandoning the shadows, he began to trot.
