Not all knowledge, not even all holiness, is contained within Christendom. The Inquisition would have burned me for saying this, but for all my sins, I've never served that Church.
In truth, the Nameless himself was never a Christian; and it's worth remembering that even His Son was born a Jew.
When the Jews say their prayer for the dead, there is no mention of the dead. They talk of God, and of their people—and that's about all; there is no mention of the dead.
I think I understand that, now.
I wish I didn't.—Gray
It had been a long morning, and a longer afternoon.
The red fires on the Montagne Grande had died off well before noon, and while al-Bakilani had two of his servants out behind the dammusa keep their elegant glasses trained on the long trail that snaked down from the distant hilltop, all they reported was that they had seen nothing.
Nothing.
The only surprise was that Randolph's junior midshipman had actually arrived, and DuPuy had been permitted a quick whispered conversation in which Mr. Emmons reported that, in fact, Randolph had been returned to the Lord Fauncher, and was standing by, in accord with his orders.
The boy was scared, but he carried himself well enough, and when he thought that nobody was looking, his raised eyebrow asked the obvious question.
DuPuy just shook his head. Emmons had been thoroughly searched, of course, and after the soldiers had found the third hidden knife he had been taken into the other room to return in, of all things, a spare set of al-Bakilani's elegant robes over his blushes; his uniform, down to his boots, had been unceremoniously dumped in a pile in the corner.
Al-Idrisi had called for a chessboard, and amused himself in winning game after game with one of the dozen soldiers who had been summoned after Smith's departure. DuPuy tried to follow the game—it would be interesting to see just how clever the man was in letting the Sharif win—but it was hard to concentrate on such things, and DuPuy had never been much for chess, anyway.
DuPuy watched for an opening, of course—not on the chessboard, but in the main room of the dammusa.
Equally, of course, he didn't find one.
It was midafternoon when al-Bakilani, who had been trying to engage DuPuy in a pointless conversation about horse-breeding—a subject about which DuPuy knew little and cared less—sat up at a quick exclamation from one of the watchers out behind the dammusa.
"If you'll excuse me, Admiral," he said, rising with his usual catlike grace, his voice level and calm as always, "Adil appears to be somewhat excited."
He walked quickly out the back door, to return but a few moments later, nodding calmly as he tapped the glass against his wrist. He spoke quickly in Arabic to al-Idrisi—and DuPuy cursed himself once again for not having learned the language.
Al-Idrisi was not quite so self-controlled. He shook his head, and reached for the chessboard, as though to throw it, but stopped himself, shrugged, and laid his king over, then rose, and stalked into the other room, his guards backing away, their eyes never leaving DuPuy and Emmons.
"Admiral?" Al-Bakilani's face was unreadable. "If you'd accompany me outside," he said, holding out the glass. "I believe you'll find this of interest. You, too, Mr. Emmons, if the Admiral will permit it."
DuPuy wished he'd had the self-control not to rush out the door, but he knew himself all too well, and he didn't even try; he snatched the glass from al-Bakilani's hand and dashed out through the door.
At first he couldn't see anything of interest. The idiot mud-bathers were still bathing in the stinking mud, and beyond them, the top of the Montagne Grande was as quiet as it had been. But the road . . . there was something moving on the road down from the mountain.
He put the glass to his good eye, squinting pointlessly, as though that would dispel the dancing black motes, as of course it didn't.
And then it came into focus.
It was a curious procession. The first thing he was able to make out was what looked like an oxcart, being pulled by two men, one of them in what appeared to be—yes, by God, it was marine utilities. He couldn't see what was in the cart, but . . . it didn't matter. That wasn't what had frightened al-Bakilani and al-Idrisi: the procession was led by three men. They all were hobbling, and one appeared to have a bandaged arm.
But they were all in the distinctive robes of the Knights of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon.
Simon DuPuy let the arm holding the glass fall to his side. "If you're going to kill me, al-Bakilani, go right ahead. I don't mind." He tapped the glass against al-Bakilani's chest. "Go right ahead. They might not even avenge me. They might never know I was even here."
"Oh, they'd know, Admiral." Al-Bakilani's smooth face was as calm and impassive as always, damn him. "I'm sure that Lord Randolph would mention it." He shook his head. "You're utterly safe from me, at the moment, I can assure you. Although I suspect that the converse isn't necessarily true, given my earlier behavior." He shrugged. "There are other options, of course."
"Options?"
Al-Bakilani nodded. "His Excellency the Sharif has asked me to serve as an emissary to the Court of His Majesty the King. His Excellency is of the opinion that I might soon have some information to share that would be of . . . mutual benefit?" He gestured toward the dammusa behind them. "The late, unlamented dog, Efik? Perhaps he left some trail that points toward his own masters, and, all in all, I think that the Crown and the Dar al-Islam have some mutual interest in sending hunters down that trail." His smile was as calm and maddening as usual. "It's my understanding that a ship—or more than one ship—will soon be dispatched to both Malta and Londinium with all the information that the Commission for the Prevention of Vice and Promotion of Virtue can provide on such matters, and they are quite . . . diligent at such interviews, and quite good at extracting information, and will be more than happy to share it—well, if not all of it, at least all of it that would be of more use to the Crown than to the Dar al-Islam."
"And that won't happen if I wring your neck?"
"Oh, no. It will happen nonetheless. The state of my neck, as fond as I am of it, doesn't affect such matters of our mutual interest, alas. But I would hope that my own good offices would make any information flow more quickly and effectively, all in all."
DuPuy shook his head. The gall of the man. Still . . . "We could just wait," he said. "I don't see your . . . Abdul ibn Mahmoud here, or there. Do you think that, that, dog of a Sharif's soldiers could stand up to the likes of Sir Joshua? And Sir Joshua," he added, gesturing with the glass, "is hardly alone."
Al-Bakilani shook his head. "I rather doubt it. Which is why His Excellency and his guards have already departed with what would normally be unseemly haste, while we've been standing here talking. You could, of course, give chase—but I think the knights are perhaps closer to an hour away from here than farther from it, and by that time, it's my expectation that, even if you choose to try to interfere, even with the aid of the estimable Midshipman Emmons, His Excellency's ship will have already set sail by the time they arrive."
"And I'm expected to load you and a bunch of your attendant spies on the Lord Fauncher to convey you to England?"
"Well, no." Al-Bakilani shook his head. "Much as I would like to have my own people in attendance, I'm not sure that everyone that His Excellency and I brought to Pantelleria is entirely trustworthy—and I trust that you'll find that they've all taken to their heels with His Excellency the Sharif. Should I be your guest, I'll have to trust to the Crown's graciousness, for the time being, while I wait for some . . . very carefully interviewed staff to arrive to serve me." His smile broadened. "If I'm your prisoner, well, prisoners rarely have much of a staff at all, at that. And if you choose to—how did you put it?—wring my neck, well, then, the issue of how I'm to be served won't be of any further interest to anyone at all, myself included." He spread his hands. "What happens next is up to you, Admiral. I'm sure you'll serve your King honorably and wisely, however you decide."
DuPuy wasn't a hesitating sort. "Lieutenant Emmons?"
"Err, Admiral, I'm a midshipman, sir."
Well, Emmons was right, but there was a deep and profound glee in DuPuy. He could make the boy wrong, and by God, he would! "And I'm a bloody Admiral, and if I say you're a lieutenant, you're a bloody lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
"You're out of uniform. I'll forgive the midshipman's braid on the uniform, but get the hell out of those robes and into that uniform—if the damned Arabs have left it intact. Put it on, and then conduct . . . our guest to meet the knights. Ask them to report to me at the port. I've got to stop the Lord Fauncher from leaving, and Randolph is expecting to see me, and me alone."
"Yes, sir." Emmons started to turn away.
"Wait, dammit. I'm not done, Lieutenant. Our . . . guest suffers from a spastic condition. He requests that you tie his hands—and tightly, mind you—behind his back, and that he be gagged, to avoid any unwanted sounds, and that he be conducted to the meeting at sword point. Should his condition cause him to to try to free himself, or make some sort of outcry before he's taken in hand by the knights, or should anybody try to interfere with you or him—and I particularly direct your attention to the fact that that Smith-character is devilishly fast, and that I've not seen his head—His Excellency and I both request that you stick that sword in him to avoid any embarrassment. From him it's a request; from me it's an order. You know how to obey an order, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir."
"You have any problem with that, Excellency?"
"None at all." Al-Bakilani shook his head. "I'm pleased of course, but not surprised that I'm to live. The Admiral, as I've long said and even longer thought, is a most wise and careful man. And may I congratulate Lieutenant Emmons on his promotion?"
"Shut up, Excellency," DuPuy said. "Move it, Emmons. And smartly."
"Yes, sir."
It all mostly decided itself: get the knights home, and quickly, and don't spend a moment regretting losing the services, for the time being, of the most . . . promising captain to ever have served under Admiral Simon Tremaine DuPuy. Get al-Bakilani into the hands of His Majesty—without having it let out that he was ever in Crown hands. Or perhaps not—perhaps he had suffered an accident on Pantelleria?
DuPuy would have to have quick words with Randolph on that subject, but . . . no. Realistically, too many people would know that al-Bakilani had been taken aboard the Lord Fauncher, and DuPuy was sparing his life, and not just postponing an execution. No sense in fooling himself.
The only real decision DuPuy had to make was how to get himself back to Malta.
And that would, all in all, be easy—the Lord Fauncher's cutter would serve, and the blowing Levanter would make the trip fast.
Getting the knights and whatever information was in their hands and their heads back to England as quickly as possible was too important to be delayed for even two days by carrying a fat, old, useless man back to his fur-lined beach billet, after all. Randolph could live without the cutter on his trip to England.
Have to take a few men from Randolph's crew to man it, of course, and that would give DuPuy an opportunity to evaluate them himself.
And dammit, it would be good to have a tiller in his hands.