Blue Horizon

it to the bird: "Wait for me here, my little friend. I will not be gone long. I must gather the vine to lull the bees."

He found the plant he needed growing on the bank of a nearby stream. It climbed the trunk of a lead-wood tree, wrapping round it like a slender serpent. The leaves were shaped like teardrops, and the tiny flowers were scarlet. Bakkat was gentle as he harvested the leaves he needed, careful not to damage the plant more than he had to for it was a precious thing. To kill it would be a sin against nature and his own people, the San.

With the wad of leaves in his pouch he moved on until he reached a grove of fever trees. He picked out one whose trunk was the right girth for his needs and ring-barked it. Then he peeled off a section and rolled it into a tube, which he secured with twists of bark string. He ran back to the honey tree. When the bird saw him return, it burst into hysterical chitterings of relief.

Bakkat squatted at the foot of the tree and made a tiny fire inside the bark tube. He blew into one end to create a draught, and the coals glowed hotly. He scattered a few of the flowers and the leaves of the vine on to them. As they smouldered they emitted clouds of pungent smoke. Bakkat stood up, hooked the blade of the axe over his shoulder and began to climb the tree. He went up as swiftly as a vervet monkey. Just below the cleft in the trunk he found a convenient branch and took a seat on it. He sniffed the waxy odour of the hive and listened for a moment to the deep murmurous voice of the swarm in the depths of the hollow trunk. He studied the entrance to the hive and marked his first cut, then placed one end of the bark tube into the opening and gently blew puffs of the smoke into it. After a while the humming of the swarm fell into silence as the bees were sedated and lulled.

Bakkat laid aside the smoke tube and braced himself, balancing easily on the narrow branch. He swung the axe. As the blow reverberated through the trunk a few bees came out and buzzed around his head, but the smoke of the vine leaves had dulled their warlike instincts. One or two stung him, but Bakkat ignored them. With quick, powerful axe strokes he cut a square hatchway in the hollow trunk, and exposed the serried ranks of honeycombs.

Then he climbed down to the ground and laid aside the axe. He returned to his perch on the branch with the leather bag over his shoulder. He scattered more vine leaves on the coals in the fire tube, and blew clouds of the thick, pungent smoke into the enlarged entrance. When the swarm was silent again he reached deep into the hive. With bees flowing over his arms and shoulders, he lifted out the combs one at a time and laid them gently in the bag. When the hive was empty he

thanked the bees for their bounty, and apologized to them for his cruel treatment.

"Very soon you will recover from the smoke I have given you, and you will be able to repair your hive and fill it once again with honey. Bakkat will always be your friend, and he feels only great respect and gratitude towards you," he told the bees.

He climbed down to the ground and cut a curl of bark from the trunk of the tam bootie tree to form a tray on which he could lay out the honey-guide's share of the booty. He selected the choicest comb for his little friend and accomplice, one that was full of the yellow grubs, for he knew the bird loved these almost as much as he did.

He gathered up all his possessions and slung the bulging leather bag over his shoulder. For the last time he thanked the bird and bade it farewell. As soon as he stepped back the bird dropped down from the top of the tree, fell upon the fat golden comb and pecked out the juicy grubs at once. Bakkat smiled and watched it indulgently for a while. He knew it would eat it all, even the wax, for it was the only creature that was able to digest this part of the bounty.

He reminded the little bird of the legend of the greedy San who had cleaned out the hive and left nothing for the bird. The next time the bird had led him to a hole in the trunk of a tree in which was coiled a huge black mamba. The snake stung the cheating San to death.

The next time we meet, remember that I treated you well and fairly," Bakkat told the bird. "I will look for you again. May the Kulu Kulu watch over you." And he set off back towards the wagons. As he went, he reached into the bag, broke off pieces of comb and stuffed them into his mouth, humming with deep pleasure.

Within half a mile he stopped abruptly at a crossing place on the stream and stared in astonishment at the prints of human feet in the clay of the bank. The people who had passed this way recently had made no effort to hide their tracks. They were San.

Bakkat's heart leaped like a gazelle. Only when he saw the fresh footprints did he realize how he had pined for his own people. He examined the sign avidly. There were five of them, two men and three women. One man was old, and the other much younger. He divined this from the reach and alacrity of their separate strides. One of the women was ancient, and hobbled along on gnarled, twisted feet. Another was in her prime, with a strong, determined step. She led the Indian file of her family.

Then Bakkat's eyes fell on the fifth and last set of prints, and he felt a great longing squeeze his heart. They were dainty and as enchanting as any of the paintings of the artists of his tribe. Bakkat felt that he

might weep with the beauty of them. He had to sit down for a while and stare at one until he could recover from the effect that they had had upon him. In his mind's eye he could see the girl who had left these signs for him to find. He divined with all his instincts that she was very young, but graceful, limber and nubile. Then he stood up again and followed her footprints into the forest.

On the far bank of the stream he came to the point where the two men had separated from the women and gone off among the trees to hunt. From that point the women had begun gathering the wild harvest of the veld. Bakkat saw where they had broken off the fruit from the branches, and dug out the edible tubers and roots with the sharp, pointed stakes that each carried.

He followed the tracks that the girl had left, and saw how swiftly and surely she worked. She made no false digs, wasting no effort, and it was clear to Bakkat that she knew every plant and tree she came upon. She passed by the poisonous and tasteless, and picked out the sweet and nourishing.

Bakkat giggled with admiration. "This is a clever little one. She could feed her whole family with what she has gathered since she crossed the stream. What a wife she would make for a man."

Then he heard voices in the forest ahead, feminine voices calling to each other as they worked. One was as musical and sweet as the call of the oriole, that golden songster of the high galleries of the forest.

It led him as irresistibly as the honey-guide had. Silent and unseen he crept towards the girl. She was working in a clump of thick scrub. He could hear her digging stick thudding into the earth. At last he was close enough to make out her movements, veiled by the latticework of branches and leaves. Then, suddenly, she moved into the open, directly in front of Bakkat. All the solitary years and loneliness were swept away like debris in the new, surging flow of his emotions.

She was exquisite, tiny and perfect. Her skin glowed in the noonday sunlight. Her face was a golden flower. Her lips were full and petal shaped. She lifted one graceful hand and, with her thumb, wiped the clinging drops of perspiration from her arched eyebrow and flicked them away. They sparkled as they flew through the air. He was so close that one splashed on his dusty shin. She was oblivious of his presence, and began to walk away. Then one of the other women called to her from nearby, "Are you thirsty, Letee? Shall we go back to the stream?" The girl stopped and looked back. She wore only a tiny leather apron in front, decorated with cowrie shells and beads made from chippings of ostrich-egg shell. The pattern of the shells and beads proclaimed that she was a virgin, and that no man had yet spoken for her.

"My mouth is as dry as a desert stone. Let us go." Letee laughed as she replied to her mother. Her teeth were small and very white.

In that moment Bakkat's entire existence changed. As she walked away her little breasts joggled merrily and her plump, naked buttocks undulated. He made no attempt to stop or delay her. He knew that he could find her again anywhere and at any time.

When she had disappeared, he stood up slowly from his hiding-place. Suddenly he gave a leap of joy high into the air, and rushed away to make himself a love arrow. He selected a perfect reed from the edge of the stream, and lavished upon it all his talents as an artist. He painted it with mystic patterns and designs. The colours he chose from his paint horns were yellow, white, red and black. He fledged it with the purple feathers of the lourie, and padded the tip with a ball of tanned spring buck skin stuffed with sunbird feathers so that it would inflict no pain or injury on Letee.

"It is beautiful!" Bakkat admired his own handiwork when it was finished. "But not as beautiful as Letee."

That night he found the encampment of Letee's family. They were temporarily inhabiting a cave in the rocky cliff above the stream. He crept close in the darkness and listened to their banal inconsequential chatter. From it he learned that the old man and woman were her grandparents, and the other couple her mother and father. Her elder sister had recently found herself a fine husband and left the clan. The others were teasing Letee. She had seen her first menstrual moonrise fully three months previously, yet she was still a virgin and unmarried. Letee hung her head in shame at her failure to find herself a man.

Bakkat left the mouth of the cave and found a place to sleep further down the stream. But he was back before dawn, and when the women left the cave to go out into the forest he followed them at a discreet distance. When they started to forage they kept in touch with each other by calling and whistling, but after a while Letee became separated from them. Bakkat closed in on her with all his stalking skills.

She was digging for the fat tuber of the tiski plant, a variety of wild manioc. She kept her legs straight as she bent over and rocked to the rhythm of her digging stick. The protruding lips of her sex peeped out from between the backs of her thighs, and her plump little rear end was pointed to the sky.

Bakkat crept close. His hands shook as he raised the tiny ceremonial bow and aimed his love arrow. Yet his aim was true as ever and Letee squeaked with surprise, and sprang high in the air as the arrow smacked into her bottom. She wheeled round clutching herself with both hands, her expression betraying her astonishment and outrage. Then she saw

the arrow lying at her feet and gazed around her at the silent bush. Bakkat had disappeared like a puff of smoke. The stinging in her bottom abated as she rubbed it. Then, slowly, she was overcome with shyness.

Suddenly Bakkat appeared, so close that she gasped with shock. She stared at him. His chest was broad and deep. His legs and arms were sturdy. She saw at an instant, by the easy way in which he bore his weapons, that he was a mighty hunter, and that he would provide well for a family. He carried the colour pots of the artist on his belt, which meant that he would have high standing and much prestige within all the tribes of the San. She dropped her eyes demurely and whispered, "You are so tall. I saw you from afar."

"I also saw you from afar," Bakkat replied, 'for your beauty lights the forest like the rising of the sun."

"I knew you would come," she answered him, 'for your face was painted on my heart on the day of my birth." Letee came forward timidly, took his hand and led him to her mother. In her other hand she carried the love arrow. This is Bakkat," she told her mother, and held up the arrow. Her mother shrieked, which brought the grandmother running, cackling like a hen guinea-fowl. The two older women went ahead of them to the cave, singing, dancing and clapping. Bakkat and Letee followed them, still holding hands.

Bakkat gave Letee's grandfather the bag of wild honey. He could not have brought them a more acceptable gift. Not only were they all addicted to the sweetness, but it proved Bakkat's ability to provide for a wife and children. The family feasted on it, but Bakkat ate none because he was the giver. With every mouthful Letee smacked her lips and smiled at him. They talked until late in the light of the campfire. Bakkat told them who he was, the totem of his tribe and the list of his ancestors. The grandfather knew many of them, and clapped his hands as he recognized their names. Letee sat with the other women and they did not join in the talk of the men. At last, Letee stood up and crossed to where Bakkat sat between the other two men. She took his hand and led him to where she had laid out her sleeping mat at the back of the cave.

The two left early in the morning. All Letee's possessions were packed into the roll of her sleeping mat, and she carried it balanced effortlessly on her head. Bakkat went ahead of her. They moved at a trot, a pace they could keep up from morning until evening. Bakkat sang the hunting songs of his tribe as he ran, and Letee joined in the chorus in her sweet, childlike voice.

Xhia was concealed in the thickets across the stream from the mouth of the cave. He watched the couple emerge into the early sunlight. He had been spying on Bakkat during all the preceding days of his courtship. Despite his hatred for Bakkat, Xhia was intrigued by the ancient marriage ritual. He felt a lascivious thrill from watching the man and woman play out their appointed roles. He wanted to witness the final act of mating before he interceded, and exacted his revenge from Bakkat.

"Bakkat has plucked himself another pretty flower." The fact that she was the woman of his enemy made her all the more desirable to Xhia. "But he will not enjoy her long."

Xhia hugged himself with glee, and let the couple trot off into the forest. He would not follow too closely for he knew that although Bakkat was distracted by his new companion he was still a formidable adversary. Xhia was in no hurry. He was a hunter and the first attribute of the hunter is patience. He knew there would be a time when Bakkat and the girl were separated, if only for a short time. That would be his chance.

A little before noon Bakkat came upon a small herd of buffalo. Xhia watched as he left his bag and accoutrements in Letee's care, and crept forward. He picked out a half-grown heifer whose flesh would be sweet and tender, not gamey and tough as that of an older beast. She was also much smaller in size so that the poison would work more swiftly. Keeping downwind, Bakkat manoeuvred skilfully into a position directly behind the heifer so that he could send an arrow into the thin skin surrounding her anus and genitals. The thicker hide of her body would resist the frail arrow. The network of veins around the heifer's body openings would convey the poison swiftly to her heart. His shot was true, and the animal galloped away in alarm with the rest of the herd. The shaft of the arrow broke off, but the barbed, poisoned head was buried deeply. She ran for only a short distance before the poison started to take effect, and she slowed to a walk.

Bakkat and Letee followed patiently. The sun had moved only a few fingers across the sky before the heifer halted and lay down. Bakkat and his little woman squatted nearby. At last the beast groaned and rolled over on to her side. Bakkat and Letee broke into a song of praise and thanks to the heifer for giving them her flesh to sustain them, and ran forward to butcher the carcass.

That evening while it was still light they made their camp beside it.

No matter that the flesh would soon turn in the heat, they would remain here until the entire cow was consumed, guarding it from the vultures and other scavengers. Letee made the fire and roasted strips of liver and the back straps of meat. When they had finished eating, Bakkat led her to the sleeping mat and they coupled. Xhia crept closer to spy upon this final act of the courtship. In the end, when Bakkat and Letee writhed together as one and cried out in a single voice, he doubled over and, in a shuddering spasm, ejaculated in concert with them. Then, before Bakkat could recover, he slipped back into the bushes.

"It has been done," Xhia whispered to himself, 'and now the time has come for Bakkat to die. He is lulled and softened by love. There will never be a better time than this."

In the dawn Xhia was watching when Letee rose from the mat beside her husband and knelt before the ashes of the fire to blow life back into them. When the flames burned up brightly, she left the camp and came into the bushes close to where Xhia waited. She looked about her carefully, then untied the string of her beaded apron, laid it aside and squatted. While she was busy, Xhia crept up on her. As she stood again he sprang upon her from behind. Xhia was swift and powerful. She had no chance to cry out before he had covered her mouth and nose with her own apron. He held her down easily while he gagged and trussed her with the bark rope he had plaited the previous evening. Then he lifted her on to his shoulder and carried her away. He made no effort to cover his tracks. The girl was the bait. Bakkat would follow her and Xhia would be ready for him.

Xhia had scouted the ground the previous evening, and he knew exactly where to take the girl. He had chosen an isolated kopje not far from the campsite. The sides were sheer and rocky, so that from the heights he could keep a watch over the approaches. He had discovered only one path to the top, and its entire length was exposed to an archer on the summit.

The girl was small and light. Xhia ran with her easily. At first she kicked and struggled, but he chuckled and told her, "Every time you do that I will punish you." She took no heed of the warning and kicked wildly with both legs. She was moaning and mumbling into her gag.

"Xhia warned you to be still," he told her, and pinched one of her nipples with his fingernails. They were sharp as flint knives, and blood oozed from the wounds they inflicted. She tried to scream, her face contorted with the effort. She writhed and fought, and tried to bump him in the face with her head. He took her other nipple and pinched it until his nails almost met in her tender flesh. She froze with agony and he started up the steep pathway to the top of the kopje. Just below the

summit there was a cleft between two rocks. He laid her in it, then examined her bonds. He had tied them in haste. Now he retied the knots at ankles and wrists. Satisfied that they were tight, he removed the folds of her leather apron from between her jaws. Immediately she screamed with all the force of her lungs.

"Yes!" He laughed at her. "Do that again. It will bring Bakkat to me even as the squeals of a wounded gazelle bring the leopard."

She hissed and spat at him. "My husband is a mighty hunter. He will kill you for this."

"Your husband is a coward and a braggart. Before the sun sets today, I will make you a widow. Tonight you will share my sleeping mat. Tomorrow you will be married again." He performed a few shuffling dance steps, and lifted his apron to show her that he was already tumescent.

Xhia had hidden his axe, bow and quiver among the rocks and he retrieved them. He tested his bowstring, flexing the bow to full draw. Then he removed the leather cover of his quiver and brought out his arrows. They were frail reeds, fl etched with eagle feathers. Each of the arrowheads was carefully wrapped with a leather covering bound in place with twine. Xhia cut the twine and unwrapped the covers. He worked with great care. The arrowheads were carved from bone, barbed and needle sharp. They were blackened with poison made from the body juices of the larvae of a particular beetle boiled until they were thick and sticky as honey. A scratch from one of the poisoned arrows would inflict a death so certain and agonizing that Xhia kept the tips covered in case he accidentally scratched himself.

Letee knew these deadly weapons. She had seen her father and grandfather bring down the heaviest game with them. From infancy she had been warned that she must not touch even the quiver that contained them. She stared at them now in dread. Xhia held up one in front of her face. "This is the one I have chosen for Bakkat." He stabbed the deadly point at her face, stopping it only a finger's length before her eyes. She recoiled in horror against the rocks, and screamed again with all her strength.

"Bakkat, my husband! Danger! An enemy waits for you!"

Xhia stood up with his bow across his muscular shoulder and the unbarred arrows in his quiver, ready to hand. "My name is Xhia," he said to Letee. "Tell him my name, so he will know who it is that waits for him."

Xhia!" she screamed. "It is Xhia!" and the echoes flung the name back at her. "Xhia! Xhia!"

Xhia!" Bakkat heard the name, which only confirmed what he had already read in the sign. It was the sound of Letee's voice that cut him to the heart, with both joy and dread: joy that she was alive, and dread that she had fallen into the hands of such a terrible enemy. He looked up at the kopje from which her cries had come. He made out the one sure and easy route to the summit, and the urge to rush up it was almost too strong to resist. He dug the nails of his right hand into the palm so that the pain would steady him, then studied the bare cliffs of the hill.

"Xhia has chosen his ground well," he said aloud. Once again he considered that single route to the summit and saw it was a deathtrap. Xhia would be perched above him, shooting his arrows down at him all the way.

Bakkat circled the kopje, and on the far side he picked out an alternative route. It was difficult parts of it were so steep and dangerous that they might be impassable: a slip would mean he would plunge down on to the rocks below. However, most of the path was concealed from above by an overhang, jutting out just below the summit. Only the last part of the climb would be exposed to a watcher at the top of the kopje.

Bakkat ran back to the camp. He laid aside his bow and quiver. He would be on the summit and the range was too close for bow work before he and Xhia came together. He selected only his knife and the axe, both better suited to close fighting. Then he laid out the wet buffalo skin, and from it swiftly shaped and cut out a cape that would cover his head and shoulders. The thick hide had already begun to stink in the heat, but it would provide an effective armour against a reed arrow. He rolled the heavy cape and strapped it on to his back. Then he ran back to the kopje, but circled round to come directly to the protected route he had chosen. Stealthily he crept through the bush at the foot of the hill and reached the cliff under cover of the overhang, almost certain that Xhia had not spotted him. But with Xhia you could never be certain.

He rested for only a few moments, gathering himself for the climb, but before he could begin Letee's screams rang out again, high above him. Then Xhia's voice called down to him: "Watch me, Bakkat. See what I am doing to this woman of yours. Ah, yes! There! My fingers are deep inside her. She is tight and slippery."

Bakkat tried to close his ears to Xhia's taunts, but he could not. "Listen to your woman, Bakkat. These are only my fingers, but next she

will feel something much bigger. How she will squeal when she feels

that."

Letee was sobbing and shrieking, and Xhia was giggling. The stone cliffs of the kopje magnified and echoed the dreadful sounds. Bakkat had to force himself to remain silent. He knew that Xhia wanted him to voice his rage, and in so doing betray his position. Xhia could not be sure which path Bakkat would use to try to reach the summit.

Bakkat went to the wall of red rock and began to climb it. He went swiftly at first, running up the wall like a gecko lizard. Then he reached the overhang, and was hanging out backwards reaching for every finger and toe-hold, dragging himself round by the strength of his arms. The axe and the roll of wet skin hampered his movements, and gradually his progress slowed. The drop gaped beneath his dangling feet.

He reached for another handhold, but as he placed his weight on it, it broke off. A lump of rock twice his own size came loose from the roof above him. It grazed his head, and hurtled down the cliff to crash against the wall lower down. The echoes boomed out across the valley as it bounded on, kicking up a storm of dust and rock splinters every time it struck.

For terrible seconds Bakkat hung by the fingers of one hand. He scrabbled desperately with the other, and at last found a hold. He hung there for a while, trying to gather himself.

There were no more taunts from Xhia. He knew now exactly where Bakkat was, and would be waiting for him at the top of the cliff, a poison arrow nocked to his bow. Bakkat had no choice. The slab that had broken away had altered the shape of the wall, and cut off his retreat. There was only one route open to him, and that was upwards, to where Xhia was waiting.

Painfully slowly, Bakkat worked his way over the last stretch, and round the outer angle of the overhang. At any instant he would have a view to the summit ridge, but Xhia would be able to see him. Then, with a rush of relief, Bakkat found a narrow ledge below the lip. It was only just wide enough for him to squeeze himself on to it. He crouched there for what seemed a lifetime, and slowly the strength returned to his numbed, shaking arms. Carefully he unrolled the buffalo-skin cape and draped it over his head and shoulders. He made certain that his knife and axe were still in his belt. He came gingerly to his feet on the tiny ledge and flattened his body against the wall to maintain his balance. He was standing on his toes, his heels hanging out over the drop. He reached up and ran both hands along the lip of the cliff as high as he could reach. He found a niche just wide and deep enough for him to insert both hands and take a firm grip. He pulled himself upwards and

his toes left the ledge. For a long, terrible interlude his feet dabbed against the face without finding purchase. Then he pulled himself just high enough to throw one arm over the top of the cliff.

As his head came up he looked towards the summit ledge just above. Xhia was watching him: he was smiling and his eyes were slitted as he sighted over the arrow. His bow was at full draw, the arrowhead aimed at Bakkat's face. It was so close that Bakkat could see each of the carved barbs, as sharp as the eyetooth of the striped tiger fish the dung-brown poison dried into a thick paste between each barb.

Xhia loosed his arrow. It came with a flitting sound as fast as a darting swallow, and Bakkat was unable to duck or dodge. It seemed that the point would find the opening in his hide cape and strike him in the throat, but at the last instant it drifted off course and struck his shoulder. He felt the jerk as the point of the arrowhead snagged in a fold of the tough buffalo hide. The shaft snapped off and fell away, but the head stayed buried in the cape. Bakkat was galvanized by the threat of horrible death. He threw himself upwards the last few feet but as he teetered on the brink of the cliff Xhia nocked another arrow and aimed from a distance of only a few paces.

Bakkat hurled himself forward, and Xhia loosed the second arrow. Once again Bakkat caught it in the heavy folds of his cape. Though the arrowhead was stuck in the tough hide, the shaft broke off. Xhia reached for another arrow from his quiver, but Bakkat charged into him, and sent him reeling backwards. He dropped the bow and clung to Bakkat, pinning his arms before Bakkat could draw the knife from his belt. Chest to chest they struggled, turning in tight circles as they tried to swing each other off their feet.

Letee lay where Xhia had thrown her after he heard the fall of loose rock that had marked Bakkat's position for him. She was still trussed at hand and foot, and she was bleeding where Xhia had forced his fingers into her and his ragged fingernails had torn her most tender flesh. She watched the two men wrestling each other, powerless to help her husband. Then she saw Xhia's axe lying nearby, where he had left it. With two quick rolls she reached it. She used her bare toes to tilt the axe-head until the sharp blade was uppermost. Then, holding it securely between her feet, she laid the bark ropes that held her wrists across it and sawed at them with all her strength.

Every few seconds she glanced up. She saw Xhia manage to hook one foot behind Bakkat's heels and trip him over backwards. They both feu heavily on to the rocks, but Bakkat was pinned under Xhia's lithe, muscular body. He could not throw him off and, powerless to intervene, Letee watched Xhia reach for the knife on his belt. Then, suddenly)

unaccountably, Xhia screamed and released his grip. He recoiled from Bakkat and stared down at his own chest.

It took Bakkat a moment to realize what had happened. The arrowhead that had broken off in the folds of his cape had come between them as they wrestled, and Xhia's weight had driven the poisoned barbs deeply into his own flesh.

Xhia sprang to his feet and tried with both hands to claw the arrowhead free of his flesh, but the barbs held fast. Each time he tore at them a bright trickle of blood snaked down his bare chest.

"You are a dead man, Xhia," Bakkat croaked, as he came to his knees.

Xhia let out another scream, but this was rage not terror. "I will take you with me to the land of shadows!" He drew the knife from the sheath on his belt and rushed at Bakkat who was still on his knees. He lifted the knife, but when Bakkat tried to dodge the blow his legs caught in the folds of the heavy cape and he toppled backwards.

"You will die with me," Xhia screamed, as he stabbed at his adversary's chest. Bakkat flung himself aside and the knife point grazed his upper arm. Xhia poised for the next blow, but Letee came to her feet behind him. Her ankles were still tied but her hands were free, and she held the axe. She took one hop forward and swung the axe from overhead. The blade glanced off Xhia's skull, shaving away a thick slice of his scalp and one of his ears, then went on to bite deeply into the joint between his shoulder and knife arm. The knife dropped from his paralysed fingers and the arm dangled uselessly at his side. He whirled round to face the tiny girl, clutching his wounded scalp with one hand, blood springing from between his fingers in a fountain.

"Run!" Bakkat shouted at her and started to his feet. "Run, Letee!"

Letee ignored him. Although her ankles were tied, she jumped straight at Xhia. Fearless as a honey badger, she flew at his face and swung the axe again. Xhia reeled backwards and lifted his other arm to protect himself. The axe blade crunched into his forearm just below the elbow and the bone snapped.

Xhia staggered back, both arms maimed and useless. Letee bent swiftly and hacked away the ropes that held her ankles. Before Bakkat could intervene, she rushed at Xhia again. He saw her coming, a small fury, naked and outraged. Grievously wounded, he was tottering on the eJge of the cliff. As he tried to dodge her next attack he lost his balance and went over backwards. He had no arms to save himself and he rolled down to the lip of the overhang, his blood staining the rock. pounds e reached the edge and went over, disappearing from their view. hey heard his scream receding in volume until there was a meaty thump and silence.

Bakkat ran to Letee. She dropped the axe and threw herself into his embrace. They clung together for a long time, until Letee had stopped shaking and shivering. Then Bakkat asked, "Shall we go down, woman?" She nodded vehemently.

He led her to the head of the pathway, and they climbed down to the bottom of the hill. They paused beside Xhia's corpse. He lay on his back, and his eyes were wide and staring. His own arrow-head still protruded from his chest, and his half-severed arm was twisted under his back at an impossible angle.

"This man is of the San, as we are. Why did he try to kill us?" Letee asked.

"I will tell you the story one day," Bakkat promised her, 'but for now let us leave him to his totem, the hyenas." They turned away, and neither looked back as they broke into the quick trot that eats the wind.

Bakkat was taking his new woman to meet Somoya and Welanga.

Jim Courtney woke slowly in the semi-darkness before sunrise, and stretched voluptuously on the car dell bed. Then, instinctively he reached for Louisa. She was still asleep but she rolled over and threw an arm across his chest. She mumbled something that might have been either an endearment or a protest at being awakened.

Jim grinned and held her closer, then opened his eyes fully and started up. "Where in God's name do you think you have been?" he roared. Louisa shot bolt upright beside him and they both stared at the two tiny figures perched on the foot of the bed, like sparrows on a fence pole.

Bakkat laughed merrily. It was so good to be back and have Somoya bellowing at him again. "I saw you and Welanga from afar," he greeted them.

Jim's expression softened. "I thought the lions had got you. I rode after you but I lost your spoor in the hills."

"I have been able to teach you nothing about following tracks." Bakkat shook his head sadly.

Both Jim and Louisa turned their attention to his companion. "Who is this?" Jim demanded.

"This is Letee, and she is my woman," Bakkat told them.

Letee heard her name mentioned and broke into a sunny golden smile.

"She is very beautiful, and so tall," said Louisa. Since leaving the colony she had learned to speak the patois fluently. She knew all the expressions of San courtesy.

"No, Welanga," Bakkat contradicted her. "She is truly very small. For my sake, it is best that Letee is not encouraged to believe that she is tall. Where might such a notion lead us?"

"Is she not at least beautiful?" Louisa insisted.

Bakkat looked at his woman and nodded solemnly. "Yes, she is as beautiful as a sunbird. I dread the day she looks into a mirror for the first time, and discovers just how beautiful she is. That day might mark the beginning of my woes."

At that Letee piped up in her sweet treble.

"What does she say?" Louisa demanded.

"She says she has never seen such hair or skin as yours. She wants to know if you are a ghost. But enough of woman's talk." Bakkat turned to Jim. "Somoya, a strange and terrible thing has happened."

"What is it?" Jim became deadly serious.

"Our enemies are here. They have found us out."

"Tell me," Jim ordered. "We have many enemies. Which ones are these?"

"Xhia," Bakkat answered. "Xhia stalked Letee and me. He tried to kill us."

"Xhia!" Jim looked grave. "Keyser and Koots's hunting dog? Is it possible? We have come three thousand leagues since we last laid eyes on him. Could he have followed us that far?"

"He has followed us, and we can be sure that he has led Keyser and Koots to us."

"Have you seen them, those two Dutchmen?"

"No, Somoya, but they cannot be far off. Xhia would never come so far if he were alone."

"Where is Xhia now?"

"He is dead, Somoya. I killed him."

Jim blinked with surprise, then said in English, "So he will not be answering any questions, then." Then he reverted to the patois: Take your beautiful little woman with you and let Welanga and me dress without the benefit of your eyes upon us. I will talk to you again as soon as I have my breeches on."

Bakkat was waiting by the campfire when Jim emerged from his wagon a few minutes later. Jim called him and they walked away into the forest were no one would overhear them.

Tell me everything that happened," Jim ordered. "Where and when did Xhia attack you?" He listened intently to Bakkat's account. By the time the little man had finished, Jim's complacency had been shaken, oakkat, if Keyset's men are after us, you must find them. Can you backtrack Xhia and find where he came from?"

"That I know already. Yesterday, while Letee and I were on our way back to you, I came upon Xhia's old spoor. He had been following me for days. Ever since I left the wagons to follow a honey-guide I found."

"Before that?" Jim demanded. "Where did he come from before he began to follow you?"

That way." Bakkat pointed back at the escarpment, which was now only a faint, hazy line against the sky. "He came along our wagon tracks, as though he had been shadowing us all the way from the Gariep river."

"Go back!" Jim ordered. "Find out if Keyset and Koots were with him. If they were, I want to know where they are now."

It is eight days since Xhia left," said Captain Herminius Koots bitterly. "I truly believe he has made a run for it." "Why would he do that?" Oudeman asked reasonably. "Why now, when we are on the very brink of success, after all these hard and bitter months? The reward you promised him is almost in his hands." A crafty look came into Oudeman's eyes. It was time to remind Koots about the reward once again. "All of us have earned our share of the reward. Surely Xhia would not desert at this point, and forfeit his share?"

Koots frowned. He did not enjoy discussing the reward. These last months he had been pondering every possible expedient to avoid having to make good his promises in that regard. He turned to Kadem. "We cannot wait here longer. The fugitives will get clean away from us. We must go on after them without Xhia. Do you not agree?" Since their first meeting the two had swiftly forged an alliance of convenience. Koots had in the front of his mind Kadem's promise to open the way for him into the favoured service of the Caliph of Oman, the power and riches that would spring from that position.

Kadem knew that Koots was his only chance of finding Dorian Courtney again. "I think you are right, Captain. We no longer need the little barbarian. We have found the enemy. Let us go forward and attack them."

"Then we are in accord," Koots said. "We will ride hard and get well ahead of Jim Courtney. We will lay an ambush for them on ground where we have the advantage."

It was a simple matter for Koots to keep track of Jim's caravan without closing in on him and disclosing his own presence. The dust kicked up by the cattle herds could be seen from leagues away. Having convinced himself that he no longer needed Xhia, Koots led his troop down the escarpment, then made a wide, cautious detour into the south

to come out ten leagues ahead of the caravan. Now they started back to intercept it head-on. This way they would leave no tracks for Jim Courtney's Bushman tracker to pick up before they had a chance to spring their ambush.

The ground was favourable to them. It was evident that Jim Courtney was following a river valley down towards the ocean. There was grazing and good water for his herds along this way. However, at one point the river was pinched into a narrow gorge where it ran through a line of rugged hills. Koots and Kadem surveyed the bottleneck from the height of the hills above.

They will have to come through here with the wagons," Koots said, with satisfaction. The only other passage through these hills is four days' travel to the south."

"It will take them days to traverse the gorge, which means that they must laager the wagons for at least one night in its confines," Kadem agreed. "We will be able to make a night attack. They will not be expecting that. The Nguni warriors they have with them will not fight in the dark. We will be the foxes in the hen coop, it will all be over before dawn breaks."

They waited on the high ground, and at last watched the slow line of wagons enter the mouth of the gorge below them and follow the bank of the river deeper into the narrow way. Koots recognized Jim Courtney and his woman riding ahead of the lead wagon, and his smile was savage. He watched them make camp and out span in the gut of the gorge. Koots was relieved to see that they made no attempt to laager the wagons, but merely parked them casually among the trees on the river bank, widely separated from each other. Behind the wagons the herds of cattle flowed into the mouth of the gorge. They watered at the river and the Nguni herders began to unload the ivory tusks each beast carried on its back.

This was the first time that Koots had been close enough to the caravan to see the quantity of the booty. He tried to count the cattle, but in the dust and confusion that was not possible. It was like trying to count the individual fish in a shoal of sardines. He turned his spyglass on the mounds of ivory piled up on the bank of the river. Here was a treasure greater than he had allowed himself to imagine.

He watched as the cattle settled down for the night, guarded by their Nguni herders. Then, as the sun sank and the light began to fade, Koots and Kadem left their hiding-place on the high ground and sneaked back from the skyline to where Sergeant Oudeman was holding the horses.

"Good, so, Oudeman," Koots told him as he mounted. They are in a Perfect position for the attack. We will go back now to join the others."

They crossed the next ridgeline, then dropped down a steep game trail into the river gorge.

Bakkat watched them go. Even then he waited until the bottom limb of the sun touched the horizon before he stirred from his own place of concealment on the higher hilltop across the gorge. He was taking no chance on Koots doubling back. In the dusk he dropped swiftly and silently down the steep side of the gorge to report to Jim.

Jim listened until Bakkat had concluded. "That does it," he said, with satisfaction. "Koots will attack tonight. Now that he has seen the cattle and the ivory, he will not be able to contain his greed. Follow them, Bakkat. Watch their every move. I will listen for your signals."

As soon as it was dark enough to hide them from any watcher on the hilltops, Jim in spanned the wagons again and moved them into a narrow re-entrant at the foot of the hills, with steep cliffs on three sides. They worked as silently as possible, without whip cracking or shouting. In this readily defensible position they laagered the wagons securely and lashed them wheel to wheel. They drove the herd of spare horses into the centre of the square. The horses they would ride tonight were hitched to the outside of the wagons, saddled and with muskets and cutlasses in the scabbards, ready for an instant sortie.

Then Jim went out to where Inkunzi, the head herdsman, and his Nguni waited. Under Jim's orders they bunched up the cattle and moved them quietly another three cables' length up the gorge from the bedding ground Koots had spied out at sundown. Jim spoke to the herders and explained exactly what he wanted of them. There was some muttered protest from these men, who looked upon the cattle as their children and were highly solicitous of their welfare, but Jim snarled at them and their protests subsided.

The cattle had sensed the mood of their herders, and they were restless and fretful. Inkunzi moved among them and played them a lullaby on his reed flute. They began to settle and some couched for the night. However, they kept bunched up together; in these nervous hours they needed the mutual assurance of the herd.

Jim went back to the wagons and made sure that all his men had eaten their dinner, and that they were booted and armed, ready to ride. Then he and Louisa climbed a short way up the cliff above the laager. From there they would be able to hear Bakkat's signals. They sat close

together, sharing a woollen cape against the sudden night chill and talked quietly.

They won't come before moonrise," Jim predicted.

"When is that?" Louisa asked. Earlier in the evening they had consulted the almanac together, but she asked again mainly to hear his voice.

"A few minutes before ten of the clock. We are seven days from full moon. Just enough light for it."

At last the moonrise lightened the eastern horizon. Jim stiffened and threw off the cape. On the hills on the far side of the gorge an eagle owl hooted twice. An eagle owl never hoots twice. "That is Bakkat," Jim said quietly. They are coming."

"Which side of the river?" Louisa asked, as she stood up beside him.

They will come to where they saw the wagons at sunset, on this side of the river." The eagle owl hooted again, much closer.

"Koots is coming on fast." Jim turned to the path down to the laager. Time to mount up."

The men were waiting beside the horses, darkly muffled figures. Jim spoke a few words to each quietly. Some of the herd-boys had grown enough to be able to ride and handle a musket. The smallest, led by Izeze, the flea, would bring up the pack-horses with spare powder, shot and the waterbags, in case there was heavy fighting. Tegwane had twenty of the Nguni warriors under his command and he would stay to guard the wagons.

Intepe, Tegwane's granddaughter, was standing beside Zama, helping him secure his equipment on Crow's back. These days, the two spent much of their time together. Jim went to him now, and spoke low: "Zama, you are my other arm. One of us must ride beside Welanga every minute. Do not become separated from her."

"Welanga should stay in the laager with the other women," Zama replied.

"You are right, old friend." Jim grinned. "She should do as I tell her, but I have never been able to find the words to convince her of that."

The eagle owl hooted again, three times. They are close now." Jim looked at the gibbous moon sailing above the hills.

"Mount!" he ordered. Every man knew what he had to do. Quietly they swung up on to the horses' backs. On Drumfire and Trueheart, Jim and Louisa led them to where Inkunzi waited with his warriors, guarding the bedded herds.

"Are you ready?" Jim asked, as he rode up. Inkunzi's shield was on his

shoulder, and his assegai glinted in the moonlight. His men pressed up close behind him.

"I will lay a feast for your hungry blades tonight. Let them eat and drink their fill," Jim told them. "Now you know what you have to do. Let us begin."

Quickly and silently, in an orderly, disciplined evolution, the warriors formed into an extended double rank across the breadth of the gorge, from river bank to cliff wall. The horsemen drew up behind them.

"We are ready, great lord!" Inkunzi sang out. Jim drew his pistol from the holster on the front of his saddle and fired a shot into the air. Immediately the still night was plunged into hubbub and uproar. The Nguni drummed on their shield with the blades of their assegais and shouted their war-cries. The horsemen fired their muskets and yelled like banshees. They surged forward down the gorge, and the cattle lumbered to their feet. The bulls bellowed in alarm for they were sensitive to the temper and mood of their herders. The breeding cows lowed plaintively, but when the ranks of yelling, drumming warriors bore down on them they panicked and whirled away before them.

These were all heavy beasts with great humps and swinging dewlaps. The span of their horns was twice the reach of a man's spread arms. Over the centuries the Nguni had bred them for this attribute, so that the cattle might better defend themselves against lions and other predators. They could run like wild antelope and when threatened they would defend themselves with those great racks of horn. In a dark and solid mass they stampeded down the valley. The running warriors and galloping horsemen pressed close behind them.

Koots was well satisfied that they had made a silent approach, and that they had not been detected by Jim Courtney's pickets. There was a good moon and, apart from the usual night sounds of birds and small nocturnal animals, all was silent and still.

Koots and Kadem were riding stirrup to stirrup. They knew that they had still more than a mile to cover before they reached the spot on the river bank where they had seen the wagons out spanned All of the Hottentots and the three Arabs knew exactly what to do. Before the alarm went up, they must get among the wagons and shoot down Jim Courtney's people as they emerged. Then they could deal with the Ngunis. Even though they were greater in number, they were armed only with spears. They were the lesser threat. "No quarter," Koots had ordered. "Kill them all."

"What about the women?" Oudeman asked. "I haven't had a taste of the honey-pot since we left the colony. You promised us a go at the blonde girl."

"If you can catch yourself a bit of poesje, well and good. But make sure all of the men are dead before you drop your pants. If not, you might get a cutlass up your arse end to help you along while you're pumping cream." They had all laughed. At times Koots could show the common touch and speak to them in the language they understood best.

Now the troopers pressed forward eagerly. Earlier that day, from the heights above the gorge, some had glimpsed the cattle, the ivory and the women. They had told their companions and all were fired by the promise of pillage and rape.

Suddenly a single musket shot thudded out in the darkness ahead and, without waiting for the order, the column reined in. They peered ahead uneasily.

"Son of the great whore!" Koots swore. "What was that?" He did not have long to wait for his answer. Abruptly the night was filled with uproar and clamour. None of them had ever heard before the sound of drumming on war-shields, and that made it more alarming. Moments later there was a fusillade of musket fire, wild shouts and screams, the bellowing and lowing of hundreds of cattle, then the rising thunder of hoofs bearing down on them out of the night.

In the fallible light of the moon it seemed that the earth was moving, a flowing mass like black lava bearing down on them, stretching across the full breadth of the gorge from wall to cliff wall. The sound of hoofs was deafening, and they saw the humped backs of the monstrous herd looming closer and faster, the moonlight glinting on their horns.

"Stampede!" Oudeman yelled in terror, and the others took up the cry. "Stampede!"

The tight-knit group of riders whirled round, broke up and scattered away before the solid wall of great horned heads and pounding hoofs. Within a dozen strides GoffePs horse hit an ant bear burrow with his off fore. The leg snapped as the horse went down. Goffel was thrown forward to hit the earth with one shoulder. In terror he dragged himself to his feet with his arm dangling from the shattered bones, just as the front rank of cattle swept over him. One of the lead bulls hooked at him as it passed. The point of the horn slid in under his ribs and out of the small of his back at the level of his kidneys. The bull tossed its head and Goffel was thrown high, to drop back under the hoofs of the herd, then trampled and kicked to a boneless pulp. Three other troopers were trapped against an angle of the cliff. When they tried to turn back the herd engulfed them, and their mounts were gored by the enraged bulls.

The frenzied horses reared, kicked and threw their riders, and men and horses were overwhelmed by the thrusting of horns and went down under the pounding hoofs.

Habban and Rashood raced side by side, but when Habban's horse stepped in a hole and fell with a broken leg Rashood turned back and, right under the horns of the stampede, dragged him up behind his saddle. They rode on, but the double-loaded horse could not keep ahead of the cattle, and was swallowed up by a wave of swinging horns and bellowing beasts. Habban was gored deeply in the thigh and dragged from his perch behind his companion's saddle.

"Ride on!" he screamed at Rashood, as he hit the ground. "I am lost. Save yourself!" But Rashood tried to turn back, and his horse was horned again and again until it also fell in a tangle of legs and loose equipment. On hands and knees Rashood crawled through the dust and flying hoofs. Though he was kicked repeatedly, felt muscle and sinew tear in his back and chest and his ribs snap, he reached his fallen comrade and dragged him behind the hole of one of the larger trees. They huddled there, choking and coughing in the dust clouds while the stampede thundered by.

Even after the stampede had passed they could not leave their hiding place because a wave of howling Nguni spearmen followed hard on the heels of the herds. Just when it seemed that they would find the two ; Arabs, an unhorsed Hottentot trooper broke from cover and tried to make a run for it. Like hounds on the fox the Nguni went after him, and were drawn away from Rashood and Habban. They stabbed the ". trooper repeatedly, washing their blades in his blood.

Koots and Kadem spurred their horses at full gallop along the bank of the river to keep ahead of the stampede. Oudeman stuck close behind them. He knew that Koots had the animal instinct for survival, and trusted him to find an escape for them from this disaster. Suddenly the horses ran into stands of hook-thorn and were slowed by the dense thickets. The herd leaders coming on close behind them crashed through the thorn without check, and swiftly overhauled them. ;

"Into the river!" Koots bellowed. "They'll not follow us in there."

As he shouted he swerved his mount towards the bank and lashed him over the top. They dropped twelve feet and hit the surface of the water with a high splash. Kadem and Oudeman followed him over. They surfaced together and saw Koots already half-way across the river. Swim", ming beside the horses, they reached the south bank after Koots had i landed. :

They climbed out and stood in a sodden, exhausted group and watched the herd still careering by on the far bank. Then in the;

moonlight they saw Jim Courtney's horsemen galloping close on the heels of the herd, and heard the thud and saw the muzzle flashes of their muskets as they caught up with the surviving riders of Koots's troop and shot them down.

"Our powder is wet," Koots gasped. "We cannot stand and fight."

"I have lost my musket," said Oudeman.

"It is over," Kadem agreed, 'but there will be another day and another place when we shall finish this business." They mounted and rode on swiftly into the east, away from the river, the stampeding herd and the enemy musketeers.

"Where are we going?" Oudeman asked at last, but neither of the other two answered him.

It took the Nguni herdsmen many days to round up the scattered herds. They discovered that thirty-two of the great humpbacked beasts had died or been hopelessly maimed in the stampede. Some had fallen over precipices, run into holes, drowned in the rapids of the river or been killed by the lions when they had become separated from the herd. The Nguni mourned them. Lovingly they drove back those cattle that had survived the dreadful night. They moved among them, soothing and gentling them. They dressed their injuries, the horn wounds of their peers and the rips and contusions where they had run into trees or other objects.

Inkunzi, the head herdsman, was determined to express his outrage to Jim in the strongest terms he dared. "I will demand that he suspend the march and rest in this place until all the cattle are recovered," he assured his herders, and they all agreed staunchly with him. Despite his threats, the request when he made it to Jim was couched in much milder terms, and Jim agreed with him without quibble.

As soon as it was light, Jim and his men rode over the battlefield. They came upon four dead horses of Koots's troop with horn stabs, and two others so badly hurt that they had to be destroyed. However, they retrieved eleven more that were either unhurt or so little injured that they could be treated and added to Jim's own remount herd.

They also found the corpses of five of Koots's men. The features of three were so battered as to be unrecognizable, but from items of their clothing and equipment, and the pay books Jim found in the pockets of two, he could be certain that they were VOC cavalrymen, wearing mufti rather than military uniform. These are all Keyser's men. Although he did not come after us himself, Keyser sent them," Jim assured Louisa.

Smallboy and Muntu recognized some of the corpses. The Cape colony was a small community where everyone knew his neighbours.

"Goffel! Now there was a truly bad kerel," said Smallboy, as he prodded one of the battered corpses with his toe. His expression was stern and he shook his head. Smallboy himself was no angel of purity, and if he disapproved, thought Jim, Goffel must have been a veritable tower of vice.

There are still five missing," Bakkat told Jim. "No sign yet of Koots and the bald sergeant, or of the three strange Arabs we saw with them yesterday. I must cast the far side of the river." He waded across and Jim watched him scurry along the bank and peer at the ground as he read sign. Suddenly he stopped, like a pointer dog getting the scent of the bird.

"Bakkat! What have you found there?" Jim yelled across.

Three horses, running hard," Bakkat called back.

Jim, Louisa and Zama crossed the river to join him and they studied the tracks of galloping horses. "Can you read who the riders were, Bakkat?" Jim asked. It seemed impossible but Bakkat responded to the question as though it were commonplace. He squatted by the tracks.

These two are the horses that Koots and the bald one were riding yesterday. The other is one of the Arabs, the one with the green turban," he declared, with finality.

"How can he tell' Louisa asked, with wonder. They are all steel-shod horses. Surely the tracks are identical?"

"Not to Bakkat," Jim assured her. "He can tell from the uneven wear of the horseshoes, and dents and chips in the metal. To his eye each horse has a distinctive gait, and he can read it in the spoor."

"So Koots and Oudeman have got away. What are you going to do now, Jim? Are you going to follow them?"

Jim did not reply at once. To delay the decision he ordered Bakkat to follow the spoor and make sure of the run of it. After a mile the tracks turned determinedly towards the north. Jim ordered a halt and asked Bakkat and Zama for their opinion. It was a long debate.

They are riding fast," Bakkat pointed out. "They have a start of almost half a night and a day. It will take many days to catch them, if you ever do. Let them go, Somoya."

"I think they are beaten," Zama said. "Koots will not come back. But if you catch him, he will fight like a leopard in a trap. You will lose men."

Louisa thought about that. Jim might be one of those wounded or killed. She thought of intervening, but she knew that might harden Jim's resolve. She had found a wide streak of contrariness in his nature.

She bit back her pleas to make him stay, and instead said quietly, "If you go after him, I shall go with you."

Jim looked at her. The warlike gleam in his eye faded, and he smiled in defeat, but it was still a conditional surrender. "I have a feeling that Bakkat is right, as usual. Koots has abandoned his hostile intentions towards us, for the present at least. Most of his men have been wiped out. But he still has a formidable force with him. There are five still unaccounted for: Koots, Oudeman and the three Arabs. They could make a bitter fight of it if we cornered them. Zama is also right. We can't hope to get away scot-free a second time. If we do catch up with them some of our people will be killed or hurt. On the other hand, what seems to be flight might be a trick to draw us away from the wagons. We know Koots is a crafty animal. If we follow, Koots might circle round and attack the wagons before we can get back to intervene." He drew breath and conceded, "We will keep on for the coast and see what we find at Nativity Bay." They crossed the river and headed back down the narrow gut of the gorge along the path of the cattle stampede.

Now that she knew Jim would not ride off after Koots, Louisa was happy and chatted easily as they rode side by side. Zama was anxious to return to the wagons, and he drew steadily ahead, until he was almost obscured by the trees.

"In a hurry to get back to the lovely lily." Louisa laughed.

"Who?" Jim was puzzled.

"Intepe."

Tegwane's granddaughter? Is Zama--'

"Yes, he is," Louisa confirmed. "Sometimes men are blind. How could you not have noticed?"

"You are the only thing in my eye, Hedgehog. I see nothing but you."

"My love, that was neatly said." Louisa leaned out of the saddle and offered her mouth. "You shall have a kiss as a reward."

But before he could claim it, there was a wild shout and the crash of a musket shot ahead. They saw Frost rear and shy under Zama as he reeled in the saddle.

"Zatna's in trouble!" Jim shouted, and spurred forward. As he caught up he saw that Zama was wounded. He was hanging half out of the saddle, and blood was shining at the back of his coat. Before Jim could reach him he keeled over and fell to earth in a limp heap.

"Zama!" Jim shouted, and rode for him, but at that moment he saw a Hash of movement to one side. There was danger there and Jim turned Drumfire to meet it. One of the Arabs, in a ragged robe stained with dirt and dried blood, was crouched behind the trunk of a fever tree. He was frantically reloading his long-barrelled musket, ramrodding a ball

down the muzzle. He looked up as horse and rider charged down on him. Jim recognized him. "Rashood!" he shouted. He was one of the crewmen from the family schooner, Gift of Allah, Jim had sailed with him more than once, and knew him well, yet here he was riding with a company of the enemy, treacherously attacking the Courtney wagons and he had shot Zama.

At the same moment Rashood recognized Jim. He dropped the musket, sprang to his feet and ran. Jim unsheathed his cutlass, and steered Drumfire after him. When he realized he could not escape Rashood dropped to his knees and spread his arms in a gesture of surrender.

Jim rose over him in the stirrups.

"You treacherous, murderous bastard!" He was angry enough to use the edge and split the man's skull, but at the last moment he controlled himself and swung the flat of the blade across Rashood's temple. The steel cracked against the bone with such force that Jim feared he might have killed him anyway. Rashood collapsed face forward on to the earth. "Don't you dare die," Jim threatened him, as he swung down from the saddle, 'not until you have answered my questions. Then I will give you a royal sen doff."

Louisa rode up, and Jim shouted, "See to Zama. I think he is hard hit. I will come to you as soon as I have this swine secured."

Liisa sent Bakkat to call for help from the men at the laager, and they carried Zama back on a litter. He had received a dangerous wound at an oblique angle through the chest and Louisa feared for his life, but she hid her anxiety. As soon as they reached the laager Intepe came running to help her nurse him.

"He is hurt, but he will live," she told the weeping girl, as they laid Zama on the car dell bed in the spare wagon. With the help of the books and the medicine chest Sarah Courtney had given her, and by dint of much practice and experience, Louisa had become a proficient physician over the months since they had left the Gariep river. She made a more thorough examination of the wound, and exclaimed, with relief, "The ball has gone clean through and out the other side. That's most propitious. We won't have to cut for it, and the danger of mortification and gangrene is much reduced."

Jim left Zama to the women and took out his concern and anger on Rashood. With arms and legs spreadeagled like a starfish, they lashed

him to the spokes of one of the big rear wagon wheels and jacked the rim clear of the ground. Jim waited for him to recover consciousness.

In the meantime Smallboy brought in the body of another Arab they had found lying close to where he had captured Rashood. This one had died from loss of blood: a horn wound in his groin had severed the big artery there. When they turned him face up, Jim recognized him as another of the sailors from the Gift. This one is Habban," he said.

"It is indeed Habban," agreed Smallboy.

"There is something going on here that stinks like rotten fish," Jim said. "I know not what it is, but this one can give us the answers." He glared at Rashood, still hanging unconscious on the rear wheel of the wagon. "Throw a bucket of water over him." It needed not one but three buckets flung into his face to revive him.

"Salaam, Rashood," Jim greeted him, as he opened his eyes. "The beauty of your countenance lightens my heart. You are a servant of my family. Why did you attack our wagons and try to kill Zama, a man you know well as my friend?"

Rashood shook the water from his beard and long, lank hair. He stared back at Jim: he did not speak but the expression in his eyes was eloquent.

"We must loosen your tongue, Beloved of the Prophet." Jim stepped back, and nodded to Smallboy. "Give him a hundred turns of the wheel."

Smallboy and Muntu spat on their hands and seized the rim. They began to spin it between them. Smallboy counted the turns. The speed built up swiftly until the image of Rashood's revolving body blurred before their eyes. Smallboy lost the count after fifty and had to start again. When at last he called the hundred and they braked the wheel, Rashood was writhing weakly against his bonds, his dirty robe drenched with sweat. His eyes were unfocused and he was heaving and gasping with vertigo.

"Rashood, why were you riding with Koots? When did you join his band? Who was the strange Arab with you, the man with the green turban?"

Despite his distress Rashood turned his eyes towards Jim and tried to focus on him. "Infidel!" he blurted. "Kaffirl I act by virtue of the sacred fat wa of the Caliph Zayn al-Din of Muscat and at the command of his pasha, General Kadem ibn Abubaker. The Pasha is a great and holy man, a mighty warrior and beloved of God and the Prophet."

So the one in the green turban is a pasha? What are the terms of this fatuial' Jim demanded.

They are too sacred to be spoken into the ear of the profane."

"Rashood has discovered religion." Jim shook his head sadly. "I have never heard him prate such bigoted and venomous nonsense before." He nodded to Smallboy. "Give him another hundred turns on the wheel to cool his ardour."

The wheel blurred again, but before they reached the count of a hundred, Rashood vomited in a long, sustained jet. Smallboy grunted at Muntu: "Don't stop!" Then Rashood's bowels loosed and his bodily excretions erupted simultaneously from both ends of his body, like a deck hose.

At the hundred count they braked the wheel, but Rashood's befuddled senses could not tell the difference. The sensation of violent movement seemed to become stronger and he moaned and vomited until his stomach was empty. Then he heaved and dry-retched painfully.

"What were the terms of the fatwaT Jim insisted.

"Death to the adulterers." Rashood's voice was barely audible and yellow bile ran down his chin into his beard. "Death to al-Salil and Princess Yasmini."

Jim recoiled at the mention of those two beloved names. "My uncle and aunt? Are they dead? Tell me they are still alive or I shall spin your black soul loose from your foul body."

Rashood recovered his scattered senses and once more tried to oppose Jim's questions, but gradually the wheel broke down his resistance, and he answered freely. "The Princess Yasmini was executed by the Pasha. She died with a thrust through her adulterous heart." Even in his extreme condition Rashood mouthed the words with relish. "And al Salil was wounded to the brink of death."

Jim's anger and sorrow were overwhelming, so much so that he lost all stomach for further punishment that day. Rashood was cut down from the wheel but chained and guarded for the rest of the night. "I will question him again in the morning," Jim said and went to tell Louisa the terrible news.

"My aunt Yasmini was the essence of kindness and goodness. I only wish you could have met her," he said that night, as they lay in each other's arms. His tears soaked her nightdress. Thank God my uncle Dorian seems to have survived the assassination attempt by this fanatic, Kadem ibn Abubaker."

In the morning Jim ordered the wagon to be towed well away from the laager so that Louisa could not hear Rashood on the wheel. They lashed him to the spokes, but Rashood broke down before Jim had ordered a single spin. "Pity, effendi. Enough, Somoya! I will tell you all you wish to know, only take me down from this accursed wheel."

"You will stay on the wheel until you have answered all my questions straight and true. If you hesitate or lie, the wheel will turn. When did this creature Kadem murder the princess? Where did this happen? What of my uncle? Has he recovered? Where is my family now?"

Rashood answered each question as though his life depended on it. Which indeed it does, Jim thought grimly.

When he heard the whole story of how his family had fled from Good Hope in the two schooners, and that they had sailed north after leaving the Lagoon of the Elephants, Jim's sorrow for Yasmini was tempered with relief and his anticipation of an imminent reunion.

"Now I know that we shall find my parents at Nativity Bay, and my uncle Dorian and Mansur with them. I count the days in my heart before I shall see them again. We must resume the journey again tomorrow at first light."

Consumed with eagerness to reach Nativity Bay, Jim's hopes and longings ran ahead of the slow procession of wagons and grazing herds. He wanted to leave the caravan to ride for the coast at once. He urged Louisa to accompany him, but Zama's recovery from the bullet wound was slow. Louisa insisted that he still needed her care and she could not leave him.

"You go on ahead," she told him. Even though he was sure she did not truly mean him to leave her, and that she expected him to refuse, he was sorely tempted to take her at her word. But then he recalled that Koots, Oudeman and the Arab assassin, Kadem, were still at large and might be in the offing. He could not leave Louisa alone. Each morning he and Bakkat rode out far ahead of the caravan to scout the road path, and he made certain that he returned before sunset each evening to be with Louisa.

They emerged from the bottom end of the narrow gorge into a country lush with grasslands and fair hills interspersed with green forests, tach day Bakkat found sign of the elephant herds but none fresh enough

to follow up until the morning of the fifth day after leaving the gorge. As usual he was riding just ahead of Jim, breaking trail and scanning ahead for sign, when suddenly he turned Crow aside and reined him to a standstill. Jim came up beside him. "What is it?" Bakkat pointed wordlessly at the damp earth and the tracks deeply trodden into it. Jim felt his pulse jump with excitement. "Elephant!"

"Three big bulls," Bakkat agreed, 'and very fresh. They passed this way in the dawn of this very morning, not long since." Jim felt his anxiety to reach Nativity Bay abate as he stared at the spoor. "They are very big," he said.

"One is a king of all elephants," Bakkat said. "It may be as large as the first great beast you slew."

They cannot be too far ahead of us," Jim suggested hopefully. There had been many successful hunts since the battle with Manatasee's imp is on the river bank. Each time they caught up with the great ivory bearing bulls Jim added to his fund of experience and knowledge of their habits. By now he had honed his skills as a hunter, and in so doing had become addicted to the dangers and the fascination of the chase after this most noble quarry.

"How long will it take to catch up with them?" he asked Bakkat.

They are feeding as they go, moving slowly," Bakkat pointed out the torn branches of the trees from which the bulls had fed, 'and they are heading down towards the coast, along our own line of march. We need not detour to follow them." Bakkat spat thoughtfully and looked up at the sky. He held up his right hand and measured his spread fingers against the angle of the sun. "If the gods of the hunt are kind, we might catch them before noon, and still be back at the wagons before nightfall." These days Bakkat showed a reluctance equal to Jim's to spend a night away from the wagons, and the golden charms of Letee.

Jim was torn. Despite his passion for the chase, his love and concern for Louisa were stronger. He knew that the vagaries of the hunt were unpredictable. To follow the bulls might add a day or more to the journey to the coast. They might not be able to return to the wagons before the onset of night. On the other hand there had been no sign of Koots and his Arab ally since that disastrous night attack. Bakkat had swept the back trail for many leagues and it was clear. There seemed no longer to be a threat from that direction. Even so, dare he leave Louisa for so long?

He wanted desperately to follow the tracks. In the months of hunting he had learned to read the spoor so vividly that he could picture them in his mind's eye, and he knew that these were magnificent bulls. He

vacillated for a while longer while Bakkat squatted patiently beside the huge oval pad marks, and waited for him to make up his mind.

Then Jim thought of the small army of men who were with the wagons, to guard and protect Louisa. Koots's force had been routed and decimated. Surely he would not return so soon. At last he convinced himself that Koots was heading either for Portuguese or Omani territory, that he would not double back to attack them again.

"Every minute I dither here the bulls are walking away from me." He made up his mind. "Bakkat, take the spoor, and eat the wind."

They rode hard and closed the gap swiftly. The spoor headed steadily through the low hills and forest towards the coast. In places the raw trunks of the trees from which the elephant had stripped the bark shone like mirrors a cable's length ahead of them and they could push Drumfire and Crow into a canter. A little before noon they came upon a huge mound of spongy yellow dung, composed mostly of half-digested bark. It was lying in a puddle of urine that had not yet soaked away into the earth. The dung was covered by a swarm of butterflies with gorgeous white, yellow and orange wings.

Bakkat dismounted and thrust his bare toe into the moist pile to test the temperature. The butterflies rose around him in a cloud. The dung is still hot from his belly." He grinned up at Jim. "If you called his name the bull is so close he would hear your voice."

The words were no sooner out of Bakkat's mouth than they both froze and their heads turned together. "Ha!" Jim grunted. "He heard you speak."

In the forest not far ahead the elephant trumpeted again, high and clear as a bugle blast. Agile as a cricket Bakkat sprang into the saddle.

"What has alarmed them?" Jim asked, as he drew his big German four to-the-pound gun from its sheath under his knee. "Why did he trumpet? Did he catch our wind?"

The wind is in our faces," Bakkat replied. "They have not smelt us, but something else has done it."

"Sweet Mary!" Jim shouted with astonishment. "That is musket fire!"

The heavy reports of the guns boomed out and the echoes were flung back by the surrounding hills.

Is it Koots?" Jim demanded, then answered himself, "It cannot be. K.oots would never give himself away while he knows we're close. These are strangers, and they are attacking our herd." Jim felt a flare of anger: these were his elephant the interlopers had no right to intervene in his hunt. He felt a strong urge to rush forward, but he quelled that dangerous inclination. He did not know who these other hunters might

be. Judging by the fusillade of gunfire he knew that there was more than one. Any stranger in the wilderness might be a deadly threat. Suddenly there was another sound, the crackle of breaking branches and the rush of an enormous body bearing down on them through the thick underbrush ahead.

"Be ready, Somoya!" Bakkat called urgently. "They have driven one of the bulls back towards us. He may be wounded and dangerous."

Jim had only time enough to swing Drumfire to face the sound, when the green forest wall ahead burst open and a bull elephant was upon him at full charge. In that moment of sudden danger, time seemed to slow as though he were caught in the coils of a nightmare. He saw curved tusks that seemed as massive as the main beams of a cathedral roof high above him, and the ears spread wide as the mainsail of a man o'-war, tattered by shot after a close-fought battle. There was fresh blood smeared down the elephant's flank and fury in his tiny, gleaming eyes as they fastened on Jim.

Bakkat had guessed correctly: the gigantic animal was wounded and enraged. Jim realized that flight would be fatal for Drumfire would not be able to use his speed in the confines of the thorn underbrush while the bull would crash through it without check. Jim could not fire from the saddle. Drumfire was dancing in a circle under him and tossing his head. His antics would upset Jim's aim. Holding the heavy gun high above his head so that it would not hit him in the face as he landed, Jim threw one leg back over the cantle of the saddle and dropped to the ground, landing like a cat facing the charge.

He cocked the gun as his feet touched the earth. His fear was gone in that instant, replaced by a strange feeling of detachment, as though he stood outside himself and watched the gun come up.

Without conscious thought he knew that if he sent a ball through the beast's heart its stride would not even check. It would still rip him limb from limb as effortlessly as a butcher dismembers a chicken carcass, then walk another mile before it succumbed.

After his first near-fatal experience with the head shot, Jim had spent hours and days carefully dissecting and studying the skulls of all the other elephant he had killed since then. Now he could visualize the exact location of the brain in the massive casket of the skull as though it was not solid bone but clear glass. As the butt-stock came into his shoulder he seemed not to see the iron sights of the weapon, but he looked through them to his tiny concealed target.

The shot thundered out. He was instantly blinded by the dense fog of gunsmoke, and driven back on his heels by the recoil. Then, out of the

smoke bank, a grey avalanche toppled down on him. He was struck by an enormous slack weight.

The heavy gun was wrenched from his grip and he was hurled backwards. He rolled twice head over heels until he hit a low bush, which brought him up short. He struggled up just as the light breeze blew aside the curtains of silver gunsmoke, and saw the bull elephant kneeling before him on its front legs with the curve of the huge tusks resting on the earth and the tips pointing up to the sky. It seemed to be in an attitude of submission, like a trained elephant waiting to be mounted by a mahout. It was as still and motionless as a granite boulder. There was a round dark hole low between its eyes. It was so close that he reached up and thrust his forefinger full length into it. The pewter hardened ball, a quarter of a pound in weight, had cleaved the massive frontal bones of the skull and driven through to the brain. When he withdrew his finger it was smeared with custard-yellow brain tissue.

Jim stood up and leaned heavily on one of the tusks. Now that the danger was past his breathing came hard and ragged, and his legs shook under him so that they could scarcely bear his weight. While he clung to the great curve of ivory and swayed on his feet Bakkat rode in and seized Drumfire before he could bolt. He brought him back to Jim and handed him the reins.

"My teaching begins to bear fruit." He giggled. "Now you must give thanks and respect to your quarry."

It was some minutes before Jim could gather himself to complete the ancient ritual of the hunt. Under Bakkat's approving eye he broke off a leafy twig of the sweet thorn and placed it between the bull's lips. "Eat your last meal to sustain you on the journey to the shadow land. Take with you my respect," he said. Then he cut off the tail like his father before him. Jim had not forgotten the other musket shots he had heard. But as he stooped to retrieve his fallen musket, he noticed again the thick coating of blood down the bull's flank, and saw a bullet wound high in its right shoulder.

"Bakkat, this animal has been wounded before my shot," he called sharply. Before Bakkat could reply another human voice close at hand shouted a challenge or a question. It was so unexpected, yet so familiar, that Jim stood with the empty gun in his hand and gaped at the tall athletic figure striding towards him through the undergrowth. A white man, dressed in European-style breeches and jacket, boots and a wide brimmed straw hat.

Hey there, fellow. What the devil do you think you're playing at? I drew first blood. The kill is mine." The voice rang as joyously as church

bells in Jim's ears. Under the brim of the hat the interloper's beard curled red and wild as a bush fire.

Jim recovered his wits at once and shouted back just as belligerently, "By God, you saucy knave!" It required an effort to keep the laughter out of his tone. "You will have to fight me for it, and I will crack your pate as I have done fifty times before."

The saucy knave stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Jim, then let out a wild hurrah and rushed at him. Jim dropped his musket and charged headlong to meet him. They came together with a violence that rattled their teeth.

"Jim! Oh, what joy! I thought we would never find you."

"Mansur! I hardly recognized you with that fluffy red bush sprouting all over your face. Where in the name of the devil have you been?"

They gabbled incoherently as they hugged and buffeted each other, and tried to pull handfuls of hair from each other's heads and faces. Bakkat watched them, shaking his head and slapping his sides with amusement.

"And you, you little hooligan!" Mansur seized him, lifted him off his feet and tucked him under his arm, then embraced Jim again. It took some time for them to begin to behave like sensible persons, but gradually they got themselves under a semblance of control. Mansur replaced Bakkat on his feet, and Jim released Mansur from the headlock in which he had pinned him.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the dead elephant's side in the shadow cast by the massive carcass and talked, cutting in on each other, hardly waiting for the reply to one question before asking another. Every now and then Mansur would tug at Jim's beard and Jim would punch him affectionately in the chest or slap his hairy cheek. Though neither mentioned it, each of them was amazed at the changes that had taken place in the other during the time they had been apart. They had become men.

Then the retinue who had accompanied Mansur came looking for him. They were all servants from High Weald or sailors from the schooners. They were astonished to find Jim with their master. After Jim had greeted them affectionately, he set them to work under the supervision of Bakkat to cut out the tusks from the fallen bull. Then he and Mansur could continue their exchange of news, trying to cover in minutes all that had overtaken them and the family since their last meeting nearly two years ago.

"Where is Louisa, the girl you ran off with? Did she have the sense to send you packing?" Mansur demanded.

"By God, coz, I tell you that is a pearl of a lass. Presently I'll take you

back to the wagons to be properly introduced to her. You will not credit your eyes when you see her, how lovely she has grown." Then Jim broke off and his expression changed. "I know not how best to tell you, coz, but only a few weeks past I fell in with a deserter from the Gift of Allah. You must remember the rogue. His name is Rashood. He had a strange and terrible tale to tell, once I could drag it out of him."

The colour drained from Mansur's face and for a minute he could not speak. Then he blurted out, "He must have been in the company of two other of our sailors, all three deserters, and there would have been a strange Arab with them."

"One named Kadem ibn Abubaker al-Juri."

Mansur started up. "Where is he? He murdered my mother, and almost killed my father."

"I know it. I forced the whole story from Rashood." Jim tried to calm him. "My heart breaks for you. I loved Aunt Yassie almost as much as you did. But the assassin has escaped."

Tell me all of it," Mansur demanded. "Spare me not a single detail."

There was so much to tell, and they sat so long telling it that the sun was low on the horizon before Jim stood up. "We must get back to the wagons before nightfall. Louisa will be beside herself."

Liisa had hung lighted lanterns in the trees to guide Jim home, and she rushed out of the wagon where she and Intepe were nursing Zama as soon as she heard the horses. At last she broke from Jim's embrace when she became aware that a stranger was with him, watching their uninhibited display of affection for each other.

There is someone with you?" She tucked the loose strands of her silky hair under her bonnet, and straightened her clothing, which Jim had rumpled.

"Tis no one of consequence," Jim assured her. "Tis only my cousin Mansur, of whom I have spoken and whom you have seen before. Mansur, this is Louisa Leuven. She and I are affianced."

"I thought you had over-extolled her virtues," Mansur bowed to Louisa, then stared at her face in the lantern-light, 'but she is more lovely than you warned me."

"Jim has told me much about you," Louisa said shyly. "He loves you better than a brother. When we saw each other before, on the deck of net Gelukkige Meeuw, there was no opportunity for me to know you better. I hope that in the future we will be able to put that to rights."

Louisa fed the two men, but as soon as they had eaten she left them

to talk without interruption far into the night. It was after midnight when Jim came to join her in the wide car dell bed. "Forgive me, Hedgehog, that I have neglected you this evening."

"I would have it no other way, for I know what he means to you and how close you are to each other," she whispered, as she held out her arms to him. "But now is my time to be closer still."

They were all astir before sunrise. While Louisa supervised the preparation of a celebratory breakfast to welcome Mansur to the laager, Mansur was at Zama's bedside. Jim joined them, and all three chatted and reminisced. Zama was so much encouraged by Man sur's arrival that he declared he was ready to leave his sickbed.

Smallboy and Muntu in spanned the wagons, and the caravan moved off. Louisa relinquished care of Zama to Intepe, and for the first time since Zama's wounding she saddled Trueheart and rode out with Jim and Mansur. They passed through the herds of cattle and Mansur was amazed by their numbers and by the weight of the ivory they carried on the pack-saddles strapped to their backs.

"Even though Uncle Tom and my father were able to escape from the colony with much of the family wealth, you have multiplied it many times over with what you have captured. Tell me how it happened. Tell me of the battle against this Nguni queen, Manatasee, and her legions."

"I described it to you last night," Jim protested.

"It is too good a tale to be told only once," Mansur insisted. "Tell it to me again."

This time Jim embellished Louisa's role in the fighting, despite her protests that he was exaggerating. "I warn you, coz, you must not anger this lady. She is a veritable Valkyrie once she is aroused. She is not feared far and wide as the Dreaded Hedgehog for no good reason."

They rode to the crest of the next hill and looked down towards the ocean. It was so close that they could just make out the windswept white horses that danced on the horizon. "How far are we from Nativity Bay?" Jim demanded.

"It took me less than three days on foot," Mansur answered. "Now that I have this good horse under me I could be there before nightfall."

Jim looked at Louisa with a wistful air, and she smiled. "I know what you are thinking, James Archibald," she said.

"And what do you think about what I am thinking, Hedgehog?"

"I think we should leave Zama, the wagons and the cattle to come on at their best speed and that we should eat the wind."

Jim let out a happy shout. "Follow me, my love. This way for Nativity

Bay."

It took less time than Mansur had predicted and the sun was still above the horizon when they reined in on the hills above the wide, glittering bay. The two schooners were anchored off the mouth of the Umbilo river and Jim shaded his eyes with his hat against the sun's reflection off the water.

"Fort Auspice," Mansur told them, and pointed out the newly erected buildings on the banks of the river. "Your mother chose the name. She wanted to call it Fort Good Auspice, but Uncle Tom said, "That's a mouthful, and we all know that it an't a bad auspice, any which way you look at it." So that was it. Fort Auspice."

As they rode closer they were able to make out the palisade of sharpened stakes that enclosed the high ground on which the fort was set. The earth was still raw around the gun emplacements that covered all the approaches to the fortifications.

"Our fathers have taken every precaution against attack by Keyser or other enemies. We have brought ashore most of the guns off the ships," Mansur explained.

The roofs of the buildings it enclosed showed above the top of the palisade. "There are barracks for the servants and each of our families have their own quarters." Mansur pointed them out as they trotted down the hill. "Those are the stables. That is the warehouse, and there are the go down and the counting house

All the roofs were still bright and unweathered with new-cut thatch.

"Father has the delusions of Nero." Jim chuckled. "He has built himself a city, not a trading post."

"Aunt Sarah did little to dissuade him," Mansur said. "In fact you could say she was an active accomplice." He snatched off his hat and waved it over his head. "And there she is now!" A matronly figure had appeared in the gateway of the fort and was staring across at the little band of approaching riders. As soon as Jim waved she threw all dignity to the winds and came running down the path like a schoolgirl released from the classroom.

"Jim! Oh, Jim boy!" Her joyous cries echoed off the cliffs of the bluff. Jim sent Drumfire into a wild gallop to meet her. He jumped from the saddle while the stallion was still at full charge and gathered his mother into his arms.

when they heard Drumfire's hoofs Dorian and Tom Courtney came running out through the gates of the fort. Mansur and Louisa hung back to let the first frenzy of greeting abate.

it took another five days for the wagons and cattle to reach Fort

Auspice. The entire family stood together on the firing platform of the palisade. The herd of spare horses led the way, and Tom and Dorian cheered as they galloped past. "It will be good to have a horse under me again," Tom exulted. "I have felt that half of me was missing for lack of a good mount. Now we will be able to range through this land and claim it as our own."

Then they gazed in awed silence as the dark mass of the cattle herds poured down the hills towards them. When Inkunzi and his Nguni herders began to off load the ivory on the open parade in front of the gates, Tom climbed down the ladder from the platform and walked among the tall stacks of tusks, marvelling at the quantity and size of some of them. Then he came back and scowled at Jim. "For the love of all that's holy, lad! Have you no sense of moderation? Did you not give a thought to where we were going to store all this? We shall have to build another warehouse, and you are solely to blame." Tom's scowl faded and he laughed at his own wit, then folded his son in a bear-hug. "After this haul, I think we will have no choice but to declare you a full partner in the company."

Over the following months, there was employment for all, and much besides to plan and arrange. The main work on the fort was completed, including the extension to the warehouse to accommodate the abundance of captured ivory. Sarah was able at last to bring her furniture ashore. She set up her harpsichord in the hall, which was to serve as the dining and common room to both families. That night she played all their favourite tunes, while they joined in the choruses. Tone-deaf Tom made up in volume for what he lacked in tunefulness, until Sarah tactfully distracted him by asking him to turn the pages of her music book.

For lack of grazing, such a great number of cattle could not be held in the immediate vicinity of the fort. Jim split them into seven smaller herds, and ordered Inkunzi to move them out into the surrounding country, as far as twenty leagues distant from Fort Auspice, wherever good grazing and water could be found. The Nguni herders built their villages close to these new grazing grounds.

"They will form a buffer round the fort," Jim pointed out to Tom and Dorian, 'and they will give us good warning of the approach of an enemy before they come within twenty leagues." Then he added, as if in afterthought, "Of course, I will have to ride out to inspect them at regular intervals."

"And that will provide you with a fine excuse to run off hunting

elephants." Tom nodded sagely. "Your devotion to company duty is moving, lad."

However, after only a few such expeditions the elephant responded to Jim's attentions by moving out of this country and vanishing into the fastness of the deep interior.

Within a month of their arrival at Fort Auspice, Jim and Louisa waylaid Sarah in her kitchen. After a long and emotional discussion, which left both women in tears of joy, Sarah went off immediately to speak to Tom.

"My oath, Sarah Courtney, I know not what to say," said Tom, which she knew was his most forceful expression of amazement. "There can be no mistake?"

"Louisa is certain. Women are seldom mistaken in such matters," Sarah replied.

"We shall need somebody to splice the knot, and make it all shipshape and legal." Tom looked worried.

"Well, you are a ship's captain," Sarah pointed out tartly, 'so you have that power vested in you."

The longer Tom thought about it, the more the idea of having a grandson appealed to him. "Well, it seems Louisa has passed her trials fair enough," he conceded, with a convincing show of nonchalance.

Sarah placed her fists on her hips, a storm warning. "If that was meant as a jest, Thomas Courtney, it fell far short of the mark. As far as you and I, or anyone else in the world, is concerned, Louisa Leuven will be a virgin bride," she said.

He gave ground rapidly. "I am convinced of that, and I will fight any man who says different. As you and I are well aware, premature birth runs strongly on both sides of our family. On top of that, Louisa is a comely and likely lass. I daresay our Jim would have to sail a long way to find another better."

"Does that mean you will do it?" Sarah demanded.

"I suspect I will not have much peace until I do."

"For once you suspect correctly," she said, and he picked her up and bussed her on both cheeks.

Tom married them on the quarter-deck of the Sprite. There was not space aboard for all the company so the overflow watched from the rigging of the Revenge or from the palisade walls of the fort. Jim and Louisa spoke their vows, then signed the ship's log. When Jim brought his bride ashore, Mansur and his men fired a salute of twenty-one guns from the cannons of the fort, which scattered the Nguni warriors in confusion, and reduced little Letee to hysteria until Bakkat could reassure her that the sky was not falling in upon them.

"Well!" said Tom, with satisfaction. "That should hold them, until they can find a priest to do the job properly." And he doffed his captain's cocked hat and exchanged the job of clergyman for that of bartender, by knocking the bung out of a cask of Cape brandy.

Smallboy slaughtered an ox, and they roasted it whole on a spit on the beach below the fort. The festivities went on until it was consumed and the brandy cask was at last drunk dry.

Jim and Louisa began work on the construction of their own private quarters within the walls of the fort. With so many willing hands to join in the work, it was less than a week before they vacated the wagon that for so long had been their home, and moved under a thatched roof between solid walls of sun-baked brick.

Then there were darker matters to address. Rashood was brought out in his chains from the cell in the fort, which had originally been intended as a cellar. Dorian and Mansur who were, by the law of Islam, the judges and the executioners, took him into the forest far out of sight and earshot of the fort. They were gone for only a few hours, but when they returned they were grim of countenance, and Rashood was no longer with them.

The next day Tom convened a session of the family council. For the first time Louisa Courtney attended as the newest addition to the clan. As the eldest, Tom explained the decisions that faced them. "Thanks to Jim and Louisa we are heavily overstocked with ivory. The best markets are still Zanzibar, the factories on the Coromandel Coast or at Bombay in the realm of the Great Mogul. Zanzibar is in the hands of Caliph Zayn al-Din, so that port is closed to us. I will stay on here at Fort Auspice to conduct company business, and I will need Jim to help me. Dorian will take the ships north, laden with as much of the ivory as they can carry, though I doubt that will be even a quarter of our total stock. When it has been sold he has even more pressing business in Muscat." He looked at his younger brother. "I will ask Dorian to explain it to you."

Dorian removed the ivory mouthpiece of his hookah from between his teeth, which were still white, even and without gaps. He looked around the circle of well-beloved faces. "We know that Zayn al-Din was ousted by a revolutionary junta in Muscat. Both Batula and Kumrah were able to obtain certain confirmation of that on their last voyage to Oman. Kadem ibn Abubaker," Dorian's handsome features darkened as he pronounced the name of Yasmini's murderer, 'purported to bring me an invitation from the junta, to take Zayn al-Din's place on the Elephant Throne, and to lead the battle against him. We don't know if the junta are truly trying to find me, or if it was merely another lie to try to entice

me into Zayn's clutches. In any event, I refused for the sake of Yasmini, but in attempting to protect her I condemned her to death."

Dorian's voice faltered, and Tom cut in gruffly, "You are too harsh on yourself, brother. No man living could have foreseen the consequences."

"Nevertheless Yasmini is dead by Zayn's orders and by the bloody hands of Kadem. There is no surer way for me to avenge her death than by sailing to Oman and throwing in my lot with the revolutionaries in Muscat."

Mansur got up from his stool at the foot of the long table and went to stand at Dorian's shoulder. "If you will allow it, I will sail with you, Father, and take my place at your right hand."

"Not only will I allow it, I will welcome you with all my heart."

That is settled, then," said Tom briskly. "Jim and his bride will be here to help Sarah and me, so we will not be short-handed and we can spare Mansur. When do you plan on sailing, brother?"

The trade winds will give way to the monsoon within six weeks. The winds should stand fair towards the end of next month," Dorian replied. That will give us time to make the preparations."

"We will strip all the remaining cannon out of the ships to give you more burthen for the ivory," Tom said. "Besides, we can use them here in the fort to bolster our defences. We can never be certain that Keyser has not smelt us out. Then there are these marauding Nguni imp is sweeping through the land. Jim has routed one group under Manatasee, but we know from the fugitives who have come in to us that there are others just as savage running amok out there. Once you have sold the ivory you will be able to buy new guns in India. There are handy armourers in the Punjab. I have seen their work, and they make excellent nine-pounders. Just the right weight and length of barrel for our hulls."

When the guns had been lifted out of the schooners, and all the powder and shot with them, they were ferried ashore in the longboats, dragged up the hill by teams of oxen and set in the earth emplacements around the fort.

"Well, that should do nicely." Tom eyed the new defences with satisfaction. "It would take an army with siege machines to subdue us. I think we are safe from marauding tribes, or even from any force that Keyser might care to send against us once he gets wind of where we are."

Relieved of the cannon, the schooners rode lightly at anchor, showing much of the copper sheeting on their bottoms. "We will soon find ballast to restore their trim," Dorian promised, and he ordered the loading of the ivory and the refilling of the water casks.

oince Yasmini's murder Dorian had been cast into sudden moods of

deep melancholy. He seemed prematurely aged by grief. There were new strands of pure silver in his red-gold hair and beard, and fresh lines deeply etched in his brow. But now, with a definite goal in mind and Mansur beside him, he seemed rejuvenated, once more abounding in vigour and determination.

They began to load the ivory aboard the schooners, and to lay in fresh stores and top up the water casks for the voyage ahead. The pickle barrels were refilled with sides of beef from the captured herds, and the hulls of the two ships settled deeper in the water. Dorian and his captains, Batula and Kumrah, agonized over the trim to wring the best speed and handiness from them.

"Until we have new guns to defend ourselves, we will have to rely on speed to run from any enemy that we encounter. Despite our father's and brother Tom's best intentions and effort twenty years ago, there are still pirates at work in the Ocean of the Indies."

"Keep well offshore from the African coast. That's where they have their nests," Tom advised, 'and with the monsoon in your sails you will be well able to outrun any pirate dhow."

They were all so busily employed, the women ordering their new homes, Tom and Jim occupied with the cattle and horses, Dorian and Mansur making the ships ready, that the days sped by.

"It does not seem like six weeks," Jim told Mansur, as they stood on the beach together and looked out at the two little schooners. The yards were crossed and the crews had gone aboard. All was ready for them to catch the tide on the morrow.

"It seems, these days, that we no sooner set eyes upon each other than it is time to part again," Mansur agreed.

"I have a feeling that this time it will be for more than just a short while, coz," Jim said sadly. "I believe that an adventure and a new life await you over the blue horizon."

"You also, Jim. You have your woman, soon you will have a son, and you have made this land your own. I am alone, and I still seek the country of my heart."

"No matter how many leagues of sea or land come between us, I shall always feel close to you in spirit," said Jim.

Mansur knew how great an effort it had taken him to make such a sentimental declaration. He seized his cousin and hugged him hard. Jim hugged him back just as fiercely.

The two schooners sailed with the dawn and the tide, and all the family was on board the Revenge as they cleared the mouth of the bay. A mile offshore Dorian have to, and Tom and Sarah, Jim and Louisa went down into the longboat and watched the two ships sail on and

grow tiny with distance. At last they disappeared over the horizon and Jim turned the longboat back for the bay.

The fort seemed strangely empty without Dorian and Mansur, and they missed their marvelous voices at the family singsongs around Sarah's harpsichord in the evenings.

The voyage across the Ocean of the Indies was swift and almost without incident. With Mansur commanding the Sprite and Dorian the Revenge, the two schooners sailed in close company and the monsoon wind was kind to them. They gave the island of Ceylon a wide berth, mindful of Keyser's threats to warn the Dutch governor in Trincomalee of their trespasses in the colony of Good Hope, and they sailed on to the Coromandel Coast of south-eastern India, to reach it before the change of season. They called in at the competing trading factories of the English, French and Portuguese, without admitting their true identity. Both Dorian and Mansur adopted Arabic dress and in public spoke only that language. In each port Dorian judged the demand for ivory precisely, and was at pains not to flood the market with abundance. They did much better than he and Tom had calculated. With the ships' coffers charged with silver rupees and gold mohurs, and still a quarter of their ivory unsold, they turned back southwards and rounded the southern tip of India, sailing through the Palk between Ceylon and the mainland, then northwards again along the western coast until they reached the territories of the Great Mogul. Here they sold the remainder of the ivory in Bombay where the English East India Company had its headquarters, and in the other markets of the western ports of the crumbling Mogul empire.

The once mighty empire, the richest and most glorious that had ever flourished in the great continent, was now in decay and dissolution as lesser emperors than Babur and Akbar struggled for dominance. Despite the political upheavals, the new Persian influence at the court of Delhi made for a favourable trading climate. The Persians were traders to the marrow of their bones, and the prices for ivory exceeded those that they had received in the factories of the Camatic.

Dorian was now in a position to rearm the two schooners, fill their empty holds with powder and shot, and transform them from trading vessels into fighting ships. They sailed on northwards and anchored in the roads of Hyderabad, through which the Indus river ran to the Arabian Sea. Dorian and Mansur went ashore with an armed party under Batula. They hired a carriage in the main souk, and an interpreter,

to take them to one of the outlying areas of the sprawling, bustling city. The iron foundry of one of the most famous gun manufacturers in all the Punjab and the Indus basin which meant in all India was located on this flat and featureless alluvial plain. The proprietor was a Sikh of imperial when, one Pandit Singh.

Over the following weeks Dorian and Mansur selected from his stores a battery of guns, twelve for each ship. These were all long-barrelled, with a four-inch bore and an eleven-foot-long barrel that fired an iron ball of nine pounds weight. With such a narrow bore relative to the length of barrel it was an accurate, long-ranged weapon.

Dorian measured and bore-gauged each of the barrels so that he could be certain that the same size of round-shot would fit them all, and that there were no discrepancies in the casting. Then, much to the indignation of Pandit Singh who took it as a slur on his workmanship, he insisted on firing the selected guns, to satisfy himself that there were no flaws in the metal. Two barrels burst on the first discharge. Pandit Singh explained that this had nothing to do with his manufacture, but was indubitably caused by the malignant influence of a gop pa the most pernicious variety of shaitan.

Dorian ordered gun carriages to be built by local carpenters to his own design. Then the guns on their own carriages were towed by bullock teams to the harbour, and at last carried out to the ships in lighters. Pandit Singh cast several hundred rounds of iron shot to fit the new guns, as well as great quantities of grape- and chain-shot. He was also able to supply any amount of gunpowder, which he personally guaranteed to be of the best quality. Dorian opened and sampled every barrel, rejecting over half before sending the remainder on board the schooners.

Next he turned his attention to the appearance of his flotilla, which in these seas was a consideration almost as important as its armament. He sent Mansur ashore to bargain for bolts of the finest quality green and burgundy canvas in the souks of Hyderabad. The sail makers made up resplendent suits of sails, to replace the faded and weather-stained articles. The tailors of the souk were also put to work fitting the crews of the schooners with wide-legged cotton breeches and jackets to match the new sails. The results were impressive.

Being so close to Oman, Hyderabad was a hothouse of political and military rumour. While they bargained with the merchants, Dorian and Mansur drank their coffee and listened to the gossip. Dorian learned that the revolutionary junta still held power in Muscat, but that Caliph Zayn al-Din had consolidated his hold on Lamu and Zanzibar and all the other ports of the Omani empire. On every hand he heard that

Zavn was planning an attack on Muscat to overthrow the junta and to recover his lost throne. In this endeavour he would have the assistance of the English East India Company and the Sublime Porte in Constantinople, seat of the Ottoman Turkish empire.

Dorian was also able to learn the identity of the new rulers in Muscat. They were a council of ten, of whom Dorian recognized most by name. They were men with whom he had eaten bread and salt, and ridden into battle in years gone by. His spirits soared when at last he was ready for sea.

Even after they sailed he did not immediately set a course for Muscat, which lay less than seven hundred miles away, west along the Tropic of Cancer in the Gulf of Oman. Instead, they sailed back and forth just out of sight of land while he drilled the crews of both ships in serving the new guns. Dorian had spared no expense on powder and shot, and kept them hard at it until they were almost as swift and expert as the gun-crews of a British Royal Navy frigate.

The flotilla made an impressive show when at last it sailed into the harbour of Muscat with the pristine sails set to the royals and the crew manning the yards in their new uniforms. The schooners flew the gold and royal-blue colours of Oman at their masthead. Dorian ordered the top sails struck and the new guns fired as a salute to the palace and the fortress. The gun-crew had grown fond of the sound of their own fire. Once begun, the honours continued enthusiastically until, in the end, they were persuaded to stop wasting further powder and shot only by the strenuous application of the rope's end.

All this created a great stir on the shore. Through his telescope Dorian watched the scurrying of messengers along the waterfront, and the gunners running to man the batteries on the parapets of the fortress. He knew that there would be a long delay while the junta decided how to react to the arrival of this strange flotilla of warships, so he settled down to wait.

Mansur launched the cutter and had himself rowed across to join his father. The two stood by the rail and turned their attention to the other shipping anchored in the inner harbour. In particular they studied a handsome, well-appointed three-masted ship that flew the Union flag, together with the pennant of his Britannic Majesty's consul general at her maintop. At first he presumed that such a fine ship must belong to the English East India Company, but her defaced blue ensign showed she was a privately owned vessel, like his own.

A wealthy owner. That plaything must have cost five thousand pounds at the very least." He read her name on her stern: "Arcturus. Of

course, we would not find a ship belonging to John Company here in Muscat, because the Company has openly allied itself with Zayn al-Din in Zanzibar," he pointed out to his son.

The blue-jacketed officers on the deck of the Arcturus turned their telescopes on them with equal interest. For the most part they seemed to be Indian or Arab for they were dark-skinned and most were bearded. Dorian picked out the captain by his cocked hat and the gold frogging on his sleeves. He was the exception, a ruddy-faced, clean-shaven European. Mansur swept his glass from the quarter-deck towards the bows and stopped with surprise. "They have white women on board."

Two ladies were strolling along the deck, accompanied by a fashionably dressed gentleman in a frock coat and high white stock. He wore a tall black hat and carried a cane with a gold head with which he illustrated some point he was making to his female companions.

That's your rich owner for you," Mansur observed, 'dressed like a dandy and very much satisfied with himself."

"You can tell so much from so far?" Dorian asked, with a smile, but he studied the man carefully. Of course, it was highly unlikely that he had ever seen him before, but there seemed something hauntingly familiar about him.

Mansur laughed lightly. "Cannot you see how he struts along like a penguin with a lighted candle stuck up its arse? I can tell that the plum pudding waddling along beside him in all the frippery and furbelows is his wife. They make a splendid couple--' Mansur broke off abruptly. Dorian lowered his glass and glanced at him. Mansur's eyes had narrowed and his suntanned cheek was suddenly stained a darker bronze. Dorian had seldom seen his son blush, but that was what was happening to him now. He lifted his telescope and studied the second woman, who was clearly the cause of his son's change of mood. More a girl than a woman, he thought, though tall enough. Waist like an hourglass but, then, she can probably afford an expensive French corset. Graceful deportment and lithe walk. Then he spoke aloud: "What do you make of the other one:

?"

"Which one is that?" Mansur feigned indifference.

"The skinny one in the cabbage-coloured dress."

"She is not skinny, and it's emerald," said Mansur furiously, and was cast into confusion as he realized he had been caught out. "Well, not that I am in the least concerned."

The man in the tall hat seemed to take offence at their bold appraisal for he glared across the water at them, then took the arm of his plump companion and led her across to the starboard rail of the Arcturus. The girl in the green dress hesitated and looked back towards them.

Mansur watched her avidly. The wide-brimmed straw hat must have protected her complexion from the tropical sun. Even so, it was tanned to a soft peach colour. Though he was too far away to make out detail, he could see that her features were regular and finely proportioned. Her light brown hair was gathered up in a net on her shoulders. It was thick and lustrous. Her brow was wide and deep and her expression serene and intelligent. He felt strangely breathless, and wished he could tell the colour of her eyes. But then she tossed her head impatiently and gathered up her green skirts. She followed the older couple across the deck and out of Mansur's sight.

Mansur lowered the telescope, feeling oddly deprived.

"Well, the show is over for now," Dorian said. "I am going below. Call me if there is any change."

An hour passed, then another, before Mansur hailed through the skylight of the stern cabin: "Boat putting out from the palace jetty."

It was a small lateen-rigged felucca with a crew of six, but there was a passenger in the stern sheets. He was dressed in snowy robes and turban, and at his waist was a scimitar in a gold scabbard. As they drew closer Dorian could make out the sparkle of a large ruby in his turban. This was a man of importance.

The felucca came in alongside and one of the crew hooked on to Revenge's chains. After a short interval the visitor came up through the entry-port. He was probably a little older than Dorian. He had the sharp, hard features of one of the desert tribes, and the open, direct gaze of one who looked to far horizons. He crossed the deck towards Dorian with a long, supple stride.

"Peace unto you, bin-Shibam." Dorian addressed him in the familiar form, as one comrade in arms might greet another. "It is many years since you stood at my shoulder in the pass of the Bright Gazelle and let no enemy through."

The tall warrior stopped in mid-stride and stared at Dorian in utter astonishment.

"I see that God has favoured you. You are as strong as you were when we were young. Do you still bear the lance against the tyrant and the patricide?" Dorian went on.

The warrior cried out and rushed forward to throw himself at Dorian's feet. "Al-Salil! True prince of the royal house of Caliph Abd Muhammad al-Malik. God has heard our fervent prayers. The prophecy of Mullah al-Allama is fulfilled. You have come back to your people in the time of their great sorrow, when most they need you."

Dorian lifted bin-Shibam to his feet and embraced him. "What are you, an old desert hawk, doing in the fleshpots of the city?" He held him

at arm's length. "You are dressed like a pasha. You who were once a fighting sheikh of the Saar, the fiercest of all the tribes of Oman."

"My heart longs for the open desert, al-Salil, and to feel a racing camel under me," bin-Shibam confessed, 'but instead I spend my time here in endless debate, when I should be riding free and wielding the long lance."

"Come, old friend." Dorian led him towards his cabin. "Let us go where we can speak freely."

In the cabin they reclined on the piled rugs and a servant brought them tiny brass cups of treacly coffee.

"To my sorrow and discomfort, I am now one of the war council of the junta. There are ten of us, one elected by each of the ten tribes of Oman. Ever since we toppled that murderous monster Zayn al-Din from the Elephant Throne, I have been sitting here in Muscat talking until my jaw aches and my gut grows slack."

"Tell me the subject of these talks," Dorian said, and over the next hours bin-Shibam confirmed almost everything that Dorian already knew.

He told of how Zayn al-Din had murdered all the heirs and descendants of Dorian's adoptive father Caliph al-Malik. He related many of his other unconscionable atrocities and the sufferings he had inflicted upon his people. "In God's Name, the tribes rose up against his tyranny. We met his minions in battle and triumphed over them. Zayn al-Din fled the city and took refuge on the Fever Coast. We should have prosecuted our campaign against him to the end, but we were split by controversy over who should lead us. There were no heirs of the true Caliph left alive." Here bin-Shibam bowed to Dorian. "God forgive us, al-Salil, but we did not know your whereabouts. It is only in the past few years that we heard whispers you were still alive. We have sent out messengers to every port in the Ocean of the Indies to seek you."

"I have heard your pleas, though they were faint and far-off, and I have come to join your cause."

"God's benevolence upon you, for we have been in grievous circumstances. Each of the ten tribes wants their own sheikh to take the caliphate. Zayn escaped with most of the fleet so we could not follow him to Zanzibar. While we talked endlessly we grew weaker, and Zayn al-Din grew stronger. Seeing that we delayed, his minions, whom we had scattered, rallied and flocked back to him. He conquered the ports of the African mainland, and massacred those who supported us there."

"It is the first principle of warfare that you should never give an enemy grace to gather his strength," Dorian reminded him.

"Even as you say, al-Salil. Zayn has gathered powerful allies to his

cause." BiivShibam stood up and crossed to the porthole of the cabin. He drew aside the curtain. "There is one of them who has come to us in all arrogance, purporting to act as a peace-maker, but in truth bringing an ultimatum and a deadly threat." He pointed at the Arcturus anchored in the inner harbour.

"Tell me, who is aboard that ship? I see he flies the flag of a consul general."

"He is the representative of the English monarch, his consul general to the Orient, one of the most powerful men in these seas. He comes purporting to mediate between us and Zayn al-Din, but we know this man well by reputation. As some merchants trade in rugs, he trades in nations, armies and all the weapons of war. He moves secretly from the conclaves of the English East India Company in Bombay to the court of the Great Mogul in Delhi, from the bosom of the Sublime Porte to the Emperor's cabinet in Peking. His wealth equals any of theirs. He has amassed it by dealing in power and war, and the lives of men." Bin Shibam spread his hands expressively. "How can we children of the sands deal with such a one as this?"

"Have you heard his terms? Do you know what message he brings?" "We have not yet met him. We have promised that we will do so on the first day of Ramadan. But we are afraid. We know that we will have the worst of any treaty we make with him." He came back to kneel before Dorian. "Perhaps in our hearts we were waiting for you to come to us, and to lead us into battle as you did so many times before. Give me your permission to go back to the council and tell them who you are, and why you have come."

"Go, old friend. Tell them that al-Salil wishes to address the council." Bin-Shibam returned after nightfall. As soon as he entered the cabin he prostrated himself before Dorian. "I would have come sooner but the council does not wish the English consul to see you come ashore. They bade me convey to you their deepest respect and, for your father's sake, they profess their loyalty to your family. They are waiting now in the throne room of the palace. I beg you, come with me and I will take you to them. From them you will learn more to your great profit and to ours."

Dorian left Mansur in command of the flotilla. He threw a cloak of camel-hair over his head and shoulders and followed bin-Shibam down into the felucca. On the way to the palace jetty they passed close to the anchored Arcturus. The captain was on deck. Dorian saw his face m the light from the compass binnacle. He was giving orders to the orhcer of the watch. His was a fruity West Country accent, but it sounded strangely alien in Dorian's ears. I am already returning to the

ties and loyalties of my childhood, he thought, and then his mind took another turning. If only Yasmini were with me now to share this homecoming.

Guards were waiting for them when they landed at the stone jetty, and they led Dorian through a heavy iron-grid door, and up a circular staircase into a maze of narrow passages. The walls were of stone blocks and lit by torches guttering in wall brackets. It smelt of mould and rodents. At last they reached a heavily barred door. His escort beat upon it with the hilts of their lances, and when it swung open they went on down corridors that were wider and under high-domed ceilings. Now there were rushes on the floors and tapestries of silk and fine wool on the walls. They reached another doorway, with armoured sentries standing before it, who crossed their lance blades to deny them entrance.

"Who seeks admittance to the war council of Oman?"

"Prince al-Salil ibn al-Malik."

The guards drew aside and made deep obeisance. "Pass through, Your Highness. The council attends your arrival."

The doors swung open slowly, creaking on their hinges, and Dorian stepped into the hall beyond. It was lit by hundreds of small ceramic lamps, the wicks floating in perfumed oil. But the light they shed was not sufficient to disperse the shadows that cloaked the far recesses, and left the high ceiling in darkness.

A circle of robed men was seated on cushions at a low table. The tabletop was cast from pure silver in the geometric patterns of Islamic religious art. The men rose as Dorian stood before them. One, who was clearly the elder and most senior of the council, came forward. His beard was shining white and he walked with the deliberate and venerable gait of age. He stared into Dorian's face.

"God's blessings on you, Mustapha Zindara," Dorian greeted him, 'my father's trusted councillor."

"It is him. In God's name, it is verily him," cried the old man. He fell upon his face and kissed the hem of Dorian's robe. Dorian lifted him to his feet and embraced him.

One at a time the others came forward, and Dorian greeted most by name, asked after their families, and reminded them of desert crossings they had made together, battles they had fought as brothers in arms.

Then each took up a lamp. They all gathered around him and led him down the length of the long hall. As they approached the far end, something tall and massive glowed with a pearly lustre in the lamplight. Dorian knew what it was, for the last time he had seen it his father had been seated upon it.

They led Dorian up the steps and placed him on the piles of tiger skins

and silken cushions embroidered with gold and stiver thread that covered the summit platform of that tall structure. It had been carved three hundred years before from one hundred and fifty massive ivory tusks: the Elephant Throne of the Caliphate of Oman.

Over the following days and weeks, from before dawn until after midnight, Dorian sat in council with his councillors and ministers. They reported to him on every facet of the affairs of the kingdom, from the mood of the populace and the desert tribes to the coffers of the treasury, the condition of the fleet and the strength of the army. They told him of the virtual breakdown in trade, and explained the diplomatic and political dilemmas that confronted them.

Swiftly Dorian grasped the desperate straits to which their cause had been reduced. What remained of the fleet that had made Oman a great seafaring nation had sailed with Zayn al-Din to the Fever Coast. Many tribes had become disheartened by the endless procrastination of the council, and most of their squadrons had disappeared like mist into desert fastness. The treasury was almost bare, for Zayn had ransacked it before he fled.

Dorian listened, then gave his orders. They were succinct and direct. It all seemed so natural and familiar, as though he had never ceased to command. His reputation for political and military genius was multiplied tenfold as it was repeated in the streets and souks of the city. His appearance was handsome and noble. He had the air of command. His sure manner and confidence were infectious. He froze what remained of the contents of the treasury, and issued bills backed by his own authority to meet long-overdue expenses. He took charge of the granaries, rationed the food supplies and prepared the city for siege.

He sent messages by swift camel to the sheikhs of the desert tribes, and rode out into the desert to meet them when they came to him to swear their allegiance. He sent them back into the interior to summon their battle array.

Inspired by his example, his military captains plunged with fresh vigour into planning the defence of the city. He replaced those who were clearly incompetent with men he knew from experience that he could trust.

When he toured the defences and ordered immediate repairs, the Populace thronged about him joyously. They held up their children for a glimpse of the legendary al-Salil, and touched his robes as he passed.

I hree times Dorian sent messages to the Arcturus, begging the consul

general's indulgence, pleading the excuse that he was so recently elevated to the caliphate that he had not been able to acquaint himself with all the affairs of state. He fobbed off the inevitable meeting for as long as possible. Every day he could delay made his position that much stronger.

Finally, a boat came from the Arcturus to the palace jetty, bearing a letter from the English consul general. It was written in beautiful flowing Arabic script, and Mansur thought he recognized a feminine touch, and that he knew who had penned it. It was addressed not to the Caliph but to the President for the Time Being of the Revolutionary Council of Oman, and pointedly made no acknowledgement of Dorian's existence or of his title, Caliph al-Salil ibn al-Malik, although by now the English consul, through his spies, must certainly have been aware of all that was taking place.

The letter was brusque, and eschewed any attempt at flowery diplomacy. His Britannic Majesty's consul general to the Orient regretted that the council had been unable to grant him audience. Other more pressing matters made it necessary for the consul general to sail from Muscat to Zanzibar in the near future, and it was uncertain as to when he would return to Muscat.

Dorian was untroubled by the veiled threat the letter contained, but he was flabbergasted when he read the signature appended to it. Wordlessly he handed the letter back to Mansur and pointed out the name and signature that had been written in English.

"He has the same name as us." Mansur was puzzled. "Sir Guy Courtney."

"The same name, yes," Dorian's face was still pale and tight with the shock, 'and the same blood too. The moment I set eyes on him, I thought there was something familiar about him. He is your uncle Tom's twin brother, and my half-brother. That makes him another uncle of yours into the bargain."

"I have never heard his name mentioned before this day," Mansur protested, 'and I do not understand it at all."

"There is every good reason that you have not heard Guy Courtney's name. Dark deeds and bad blood run deep."

"Might I not know now?" Mansur asked.

Dorian was silent for a while before he sighed. "It is a sad and sorry tale of treachery and deceit, jealousy and bitter hatred."

"Tell me, Father," Mansur insisted quietly.

Dorian nodded. "Yes, I must, though it gives me no pleasure to relive these dire affairs. It is only fair that you should know." He reached for the comfort of his hookah and did not speak again until the fire glowed

in the bowl, and the blue smoke bubbled through the scented water of the glass reservoir.

"It's over thirty years ago now that Tom, Guy and I, all brothers together, sailed from Plymouth bound for Good Hope. We were with your grandfather Hal in the old Seraph. I was the baby, scarcely ten years of age, but Tom and Guy were almost grown men. There was another family on board. We were giving them passage to Bombay where Mr. Beatty was to take up a high appointment with John Company. He had with him his daughters. The eldest girl was Caroline, sixteen and a beautiful vixen."

"Surely you do not speak of the plum pudding we saw on the deck of the Arcturus in the harbour?" Mansur exclaimed.

"It seems so." Dorian nodded. "I assure you she was once lovely. Time changes all things."

"Forgive me, Father, I should not have interrupted you. You were about to tell me of the other daughters."

"The youngest was Sarah, and she was sweet and lovable."

"Sarah?" Mansur looked askance.

"I know what you are thinking and you are correct in your assumption. Yes, she is now your aunt Sarah, but wait, I shall come to it- if you give me half a chance to get in a word edgewise." Mansur looked repentant, and Dorian went on: "Hardly had the Seraph cleared Plymouth harbour when Guy fell hopelessly in love with Caroline. She, on the other hand, had sheep's eyes for Tom. Your uncle Tom being Tom obliged her. He double-shot ted her dainty cannon, stoked her fireplace, rattled her timbers and finally placed a large fruit cake to bake in her hot little oven."

Mansur smiled, despite the seriousness of the subject. "I am aghast that my own father should be familiar with such vulgar terms."

"Forgive me for offending your sensitive feelings- but to continue. Guy was infuriated that his brother had so treated the object of his love and devotion and challenged Tom to a duel. Even in those early days Tom was a fine swordsman. Guy was not. Tom did not want to kill his brother, but on the other hand he wanted nothing further to do with the fruit cake Caroline was baking. For Tom it had been nothing more than a bit of fun. I was only a child at the time, and not certain as to what was happening, but I can still remember the storm that rocked and split the family. Our father forbade the duel, luckily for Guy."

Mansur could see how Dorian was suffering at the memory, although he tried to cover his distress with a flippant air. He remained silent, respecting his father's feelings.

At last Dorian continued: "In the end Guy broke away from us. When we reached Good Hope, he married Caroline and took on board Tom's bastard as his own. Then he left us and went on with the Beatty family to India. I never saw him again until now when we spied him and Caroline on the deck of the Arcturws." He was silent again, brooding in the blue clouds of tobacco smoke.

That was not the end of it. In Bombay, with his father-in-law's patronage, Guy rose swiftly to consular rank. When I was abducted at the age of twelve and fell into the hands of the slavers, Tom went to Guy and asked for his help to find me and rescue me. Guy refused, and tried to have Tom arrested for murder and other crimes he had not committed. Tom made a run for it, but not before he had swept up Sarah and eloped with her. This only fanned the flames of Guy's hatred. Sir Guy Courtney, his Britannic Majesty's consul general to the Orient, is a fine hater. My brother he may be, but in name alone. In fact, he is a bitter enemy and the ally of Zayn al-Din. But now I need your help in composing a letter to him."

They took great pains with it. It was in Arabic style, filled with flowery compliments and protestations of goodwill. It went on to offer profuse apologies for any unintended offence that had been given. It expressed the greatest respect for the power and dignity of the consul general's office. Finally it went on to beg the consul general to attend an audience with the Caliph at a date and time of his own choice, but preferably at the first convenient opportunity.

"I would go out to the Arcturus myself but, of course, that would not be diplomatically correct. You must deliver the message. Whatever you do, do not let him suspect that we are blood relatives, nor that you speak English. I want you to assess his mood and intentions. Ask him if we can supply his ship with water, meat or fresh produce. Offer him and his crew the freedom and hospitality of the city. If they come ashore our spies will be able to milk news and intelligence from them. We must try to delay him here as long as possible, until we are ready to confront Zayn al-Din."

Mansur dressed carefully for the visit, in the style befitting the eldest son of the Caliph of Oman. He wore the green turban of the believer with an emerald pin, one of the few notable gems that remained in the palace treasury after Zayn al-Din's depredations. Over his white robes, his waistcoat was of tanned camels king embroidered with gold thread. His sandals, sword-belt and scabbard were all worked with filigree by the skilled goldsmiths of the city.

When Mansur mounted the ladder to the deck of the Arcturus with his red beard glowing in the sunlight, he cut such a magnificent figure

that the captain and his officers gaped at him, and took a minute to recover.

"My compliments, sir, I am William Cornish, captain of this vessel." The English captain's Arabic was poor and heavily accented. "May I enquire who I have the honour of addressing?" His large red face, which had earned him the name "Ruby' Cornish in the fleet of the English East India Company, glowed in the sunlight.

"I am Prince Mansur ibn al-Salil al-Malik," Mansur replied, in flowing Arabic, touching his heart and lips in greeting. "I come as an emissary of my father, Caliph al-Salil ibn al-Malik. I have the honour to bear a message for His Excellency the Consul General of His Britannic Majesty."

Ruby Cornish looked uncomfortable. He followed what Mansur had said only with difficulty, and he had been severely enjoined not to acknowledge any titles of royalty to which these Omani rebels might lay claim.

"Please ask your retainers to remain in the barge," he said. Mansur dismissed them with a gesture, and Cornish went on, "If you will come this way, sir." He led Mansur to where a sail had been rigged over the midships section of the upper-deck as a sun shade.

Sir Guy Courtney sat in a comfortable armchair covered with a leopards king His cocked hat was laid on the table beside him, and his sword was between his knees. He made no effort to rise from his chair as Mansur approached. He wore a burgundy-coloured jacket of fine broadcloth with solid gold buttons, and a high stock. His shoes were square-toed with silver buckles, and his white silk hose reached to his knees, and were held by garters that exactly matched the colour of his jacket. His tight-fitting trousers were also white, with a codpiece that flattered his masculinity. He wore the ribbons and stars of the Order of the Garter and some Oriental decorations.

Mansur made the polite gesture of greeting: "I am honoured by your condescension, Your Excellency."

Guy Courtney shook his head irritably. Mansur knew now that he was Tom's twin and must therefore be in his late forties, but he looked younger. Although his hair was thinning and receding, his figure was slim and his belly flat. But there were liver-coloured bags under his eyes, and one of his front teeth was discoloured. His expression was sour and unfriendly. "My daughter will translate," he said in English, and indicated the girl who stood behind his chair. Mansur pretended not to understand. He had been acutely aware of her presence since the moment he had stepped aboard the yacht, but now he looked directly at her for the first time.

He had the greatest difficulty in keeping his face expressionless. The first thing he noticed was that her eyes were large and green, lively and searching. The whites were clear, and the lashes long and densely curled.

Mansur tore away his gaze and addressed Sir Guy again. "Forgive my ignorance but I speak no English," he apologized. "I do not understand what it was Your Excellency said."

The girl spoke in beautiful classical Arabic, making music of the words: "My father speaks no Arabic. With your forbearance I will translate for him."

Mansur bowed again. "I compliment you, my lady. Your command of our tongue is perfection. I am Prince Mansur ibn al-Salil al-Malik, and I come as the messenger of my father, the Caliph."

"I am Verity Courtney, the consul general's daughter. My father bids you welcome aboard the Arctwrus."

"We are honoured by the emissary of such a powerful monarch, and such an illustrious nation." For a while longer they exchanged compliments and expressions of esteem and respect, but Verity Courtney managed not to acknowledge any royal titles or honours. She was weighing him as carefully as he was her. She was much more handsome than when he had seen her through the lens of a telescope. Her complexion was lightly sun-gilded but otherwise of English perfection, and her features were strong and determined, without being heavy or coarse. Her neck was long and graceful, her head perfectly balanced upon it. When she smiled politely her mouth was large and her lips full. Her two upper front teeth were slightly misaligned, but the imperfection was arresting and attractive.

Mansur asked if there was anything that they needed that he might be able to supply. Sir Guy told Verity, "We are short of water, but don't let him know it."

She relayed the request: "A ship always needs water, effendi. It is not a pressing need, but my father would be grateful for your generosity." Then she gave Mansur's answer to her father.

"The Prince says he will send out the water tender immediately."

"Don't call him a prince. He is a dirty little rebel, and Zayn will feed him to the sharks. The water he sends out to us will probably be half camel piss."

Verity did not even blink at her father's choice of words. Obviously she was accustomed to his phraseology. She turned back to Mansur. "Of course, effendi, the water will be sweet and potable? You would not send us camel's piss?" she asked not in Arabic but in English. It was so artlessly done, her tone so level and her green eyes so candid that

Mansur might have been taken in, had he not been ready for it. Yet he was so taken aback by those words on her ladylike lips that he only just managed to keep his own expression polite but neutral. He cocked his head slightly in blank enquiry. "My father is grateful for your generosity." She switched back to Arabic, having carried out this test of his linguistic skills.

"You are honoured guests," Mansur replied.

"He speaks no English," Verity said to her father.

"See what the blighter is after. They're a slippery bunch of eels, these wogs." It was only recently that a secretary at Government House had penned this acronym for Worthy Oriental Gentleman, and as a mildly derogatory term it had been adopted throughout the Company.

"My father asks after the health of your father." Verity avoided saying the forbidden word "Caliph'.

"The Caliph is blessed with the strength and vigour of ten ordinary men." Mansur emphasized his father's title. He was enjoying the battle of wits. "It is a virtue embodied in the royal blood of Oman."

"What does he say?" Sir Guy demanded.

"He is trying to make me acknowledge that his father is the new ruler." Verity smiled and nodded.

"Make the correct response."

"My father hopes that your father will enjoy a hundred more summers in such robust health and in the sunshine of God's favour, and that his conscience will always lead him in the loyal and honourable path."

"The Caliph, my father, wishes that your father shall have one hundred strong and noble sons, and that all his daughters grow to be as beautiful and clever as the one who stands before me now." It was unsubtle and bordering on insolence, except of course that he was a prince and might take such liberties. He saw the quick shadow of annoyance in the depths of her green eyes.

Aha! he thought, without a smile of triumph. First blood to me.

But her riposte was quick and pointed. "May all your father's sons be blessed with good manners and show respect and courtesy towards all women," she replied, 'even if it is not in their true nature."

"What's all that about?" Sir Guy demanded.

"He is being solicitous of your health."

"Find out when his rascally father will see me. Warn him that I will brook no more nonsense from them."

My father enquires when he may present his compliments and duty in person to your illustrious father."

I he Caliph would welcome such an occasion. It would also be an

opportunity for him to enquire how it is that the consul general's daughter speaks the language of the Prophet with such a mellifluous tongue."

Verity almost smiled. He was such a beautiful man. Even his insults were titillating, and his manner was so engaging that, despite herself, she could not take real offence. The simple answer to his implied question was that since her childhood on Zanzibar island, where her father had at one time been stationed, she had been fascinated by all things Oriental. She had learned to love the Arabic language with its poetic, expressive vocabulary. This was, however, the first time she had ever been even vaguely attracted to an Oriental man.

"If your honoured father would receive me and my father I would be pleased to respond to any question of his personally, rather than send my answers through one of his children."

Mansur bowed to concede that she had taken the bout. He did not smile but his eyes sparkled as he took the letter from his sleeve and handed it to her.

"Read it to me," Sir Guy ordered, and Verity translated it into English, listened to her father's reply, then turned back to Mansur. She made no further pretence at feminine modesty but looked him directly in the eye.

"The consul general wishes to have all the members of the council present at the meeting," Verity told him.

"The Caliph would be delighted and honoured to accede to that request. He values the advice of his councillors."

"How long will it take to arrange this meeting?" Verity demanded.

Mansur thought for a moment. Three days. The Caliph would be further honoured if you would join him in an expedition into the desert to fly his falcons against the bustard."

Verity turned to Sir Guy. "The rebel leader wants you to go out hawking in the wilderness. I am not certain that you would be safe."

"This new fellow would be insane to offer me any violence." Sir Guy shook his head. "What he is after is a chance to speak in privacy to try to win my support. You can be certain that the palace is a hive of intrigue and a nest of spies. Out in the desert I might learn something from him to my great advantage. Tell him that we will go."

Mansur listened to her polite rendition as though he had not understood a single word that Sir Guy had said. Then he touched his lips. "I will personally arrange everything in a manner befitting the importance of the occasion. I will send a barge to collect your luggage tomorrow morning. It will be taken out to the hunting encampment to await your arrival."

That would be acceptable." Verity gave Sir Guy's consent.

"We are honoured. I thirst for the day when I shall set eyes upon your face once again," he murmured, 'as the hard-run stag thirsts after cool waters." He backed away with a graceful gesture of farewell.

"You are flushed." Sir Guy showed a touch of concern for his daughter. "It is the heat. Your mother is also quite prostrated."

"I am perfectly well. I thank you for your concern, Father," Verity Courtney replied smoothly. She, who took great pride in her cool nerves even in the most difficult circumstances, found her emotions most confused.

As the prince went down into the royal barge, she did not want to stare after him. However, she could not leave her father standing alone by the ship's rail.

Mansur looked up at her so suddenly that she could not look away without appearing guilty. She held his gaze defiantly, but as the sail of the felucca caught the breeze and swelled out, it came between them like a screen and cut them off from each other.

Verity found herself breathlessly angry but strangely elated. I am not some brainless simpering Oriental houri, not some plaything for him to dally with. I am an Englishwoman and I will be treated as such, she determined silently, then turned to her father, and took a breath to steady herself before she spoke. "Perhaps I should stay with Mother while you go to parley with the rebels. She really is feeling poorly. Captain Cornish can translate for you," she said. She did not want to be mocked again by those dancing green eyes and that enigmatic smile.

"Don't be daft, child. Cornish doesn't know how to ask the time of day. I need you. You are coming with me, and no arguments."

Verity was both annoyed and relieved by his insistence. At least I will have an opportunity for another passage of arms with the pretty princeling. This time we will see who is quicker with the tongue, she thought.

Before dawn on the third morning the Caliph's barge conveyed the guests to the palace wharf, where Mansur was waiting with a large bodyguard of armed horsemen and grooms to greet them. After another lengthy exchange of compliments, he led Sir Guy to an Arab stallion with a glistening sable coat. Then the grooms led forward a chestnut mare for Verity. She seemed a tractable animal, although she had the legs and deep chest that bespoke both speed and stamina. Verity mounted astride with the ease and grace of an accomplished horsewoman. When they moved out through the city gates it was still dark,

and outriders went ahead with torches to light the road. Mansur rode in close attendance on Sir Guy, elegant in his English hunting dress, Verity at her father's left hand.

She wore an intriguing mixture of English and Oriental hunting dress. Her high silk hat was held in place by a long blue scarf, the loose ends thrown back over one shoulder. Her blue coat reached below her knees but the tails were pleated to allow her freedom of movement while preserving her modesty. Beneath it she had on loose cotton trousers and soft knee-boots. Mansur had chosen for her a jewelled saddle with high pommel and cantle. At the jetty she had greeted him frostily and barely glanced at him while she chatted easily with her father. Excluded from her conversation, Mansur was able to study her quite openly. She was one of those unusual Englishwomen who flourish in the tropics. Rather than wilting and sweating and succumbing to the prickly heat, she was cool and poised. Even her costume, which might have been dowdy or outrageous on another, she wore with elan.

At first they rode through the date-palm groves and cultivated fields outside the city walls where, in the first light of dawn, veiled women drew water from deep wells and carried it away in pots balanced on their heads. Herds of camels and beautiful horses drank together from the irrigation canals. On the fringe of the desert they came upon encampments of tribesmen who had come in from the wilderness in response to the Caliph's summons to arms. They came out of their tents and shouted loyal greetings to the prince and fired joy shots in the air as he passed.

But soon they were out in the true desert. When the day broke over the dunes, they were all awed by its majesty. The fine dust clouds suspended in the air reflected the sun's rays and set the eastern sky on fire. Although Verity rode with her head thrown back to gaze upon this celestial splendour, she was acutely aware that the prince was watching her. His importunity no longer annoyed her so intensely. Despite herself, she was beginning to find his attention amusing, although she was determined not to give him the slightest encouragement.

Ahead of them a large group of riders came over the dunes to meet them. The huntsmen led them. Their horses were gaily caparisoned in the gold and blue colours of the caliphate, and they carried hooded falcons on their wrists. Behind them came the musicians, with lutes, horns and the big bass drums suspended on each side of their saddles, then a rabble of grooms leading spare horses, water-carriers and other retainers. They welcomed the consul general with shouting and musket shots, fanfares and the booming beat of the drums, then fell in behind the prince's party.

After several hours' riding, Mansur led them across a wide, arid plain

to where a steep valley fell away to a dry riverbed far below. On the top of these cliffs stood a weird cluster of massive rock monoliths. As they drew closer Verity realized that they were the remains of an ancient city that was perched above the valley, guarding a long-forgotten trade route.

"What ruins are these?" Verity asked Mansur, the first words she had spoken directly to him all that morning.

"We call it Isakanderbad, the City of Alexander. The Macedonian passed this way three thousand years ago. His army built this fortress."

They rode in among the tumbled walls and monuments where once mighty armies had celebrated their triumphs. Now they were inhabited only by the lizard and the scorpion.

However, a flock of servants had arrived during the preceding days, and in the courtyard where, perhaps, the conqueror had once held sway, they had set up the hunting camp, a hundred coloured pavilions furnished with all the luxuries and amenities of a royal palace. There were servants to meet the guests too. Perfumed water was poured for them from golden ewers so that they might wash away the dust of the ride and refresh themselves.

Then Mansur led them to the largest of the grand tents. When they entered Verity saw it was hung with draperies of gold and blue silk, and that the floors were covered with precious rugs and cushions.

The Caliph and his councillors rose to greet them. Verity's skills as an interpreter were tested by the exchanges of compliments and good wishes. Nevertheless she took the opportunity to study the Caliph, al Salil.

Like his son he was red-bearded and handsome, yet there were the marks of care and sorrow etched deeply into his features, and silver threads in his beard, which he had not covered with henna dye. There was something else she found impossible to fathom. She felt a sense of deja vu when she looked into his eyes. Was it simply that Prince Mansur so closely resembled him? She thought not. It was more than that. Added to this disconcerting impression, something strange was taking place between her father and al-Salil also. They stared at each other as though they were not strangers meeting for the first time. There was a brittle tension between them. It was as though the summer thunderstorms were brewing and the air was heavy with humidity and the sense that the lightning would flash out at any moment.

Al-Salil led her father to the centre of the tent and seated him on a Pile of cushions. He took the place beside him. Servants brought them aniseed-flavoured sherbet in golden goblets, and they nibbled at sugared dates and pomegranates.

the silk draperies kept out the worst of the desert heat, and the

conversation was polite. The royal cooks served the midday meal. Dorian helped Sir Guy to tit bits from huge salvers, which overflowed with saffron rice, tender lamb and baked fish, then waved away what remained to be taken to his retinue seated in ranks outside the pavilion.

Now the talk became more earnest. Sir Guy nodded at Verity to come to sit between him and al-Salil. Then, while the sun rose to its zenith and outside all the world drowsed in the heat, they conversed in low tones. Sir Guy warned al-Salil of how fragile was the alliance of desert tribes that he was building. "Zayn al-Din has enlisted the support of the Sublime Porte in Constantinople. Already there are twenty thousand Turkish troops in Zanzibar, and the ships to convey them to these shores as soon as the monsoon turns."

"What of the English Company? Will they side with Zayn?" al-Salil asked.

They have not yet committed themselves," Sir Guy replied. "As you are probably aware, the governor in Bombay awaits my recommendation before he decides." He might just as well have used the word 'order' rather than 'recommendation'. Al-Salil and every one of his council could be in no doubt as to where the power lay.

Verity was so absorbed with her work of translating that again Mansur could study her intimately. For the first time he became aware of strange depths and undercurrents between her and her father. Could it be that she was afraid of him? he wondered. He could not be certain, but he sensed something dark and chilling to the spirit.

A they talked on through the heat of the afternoon, Dorian listened, nodded and gave the appearance of being moved by Sir Guy's logic. In reality he was listening for the hidden truths and meanings behind the flowery phrases that Verity translated to them. Gradually he was starting to understand how his half-brother had achieved such power and circumstance.

He is like a serpent, he twists and turns, and always you are aware of the venom in him, Dorian thought. In the end he nodded wisely and made reply: "All of what you say is true. I can only pray to God that your wisdom and benign interest in these dire affairs of Oman will lead us to a just and lasting solution. Before we go further I would like to assure Your Excellency of the deep gratitude I feel towards you personally and on behalf of my people. I hope that I will be able to demonstrate these warm feelings in a more substantial manner than by mere words." He saw the avaricious gleam in his brother's eye.

"I am not here for material rewards," Sir Guy replied, 'but we have a saying in my country that the workman is worthy of his wage."

"It is an expression that we in this country understand well," Dorian said. "But now the heat passes. There will be time for us to speak again on the morrow. We can ride out to fly my falcons."

The hawking party, a hundred horsemen strong, left Isakanderbad and rode along the edge of the cliff that looked down upon the dry river-course hundreds of feet below. The lowering sun cast mysterious blue shadows over the splendid chaos of tumbled walls and cliffs, and serpentine wadis.

"Why would Alexander choose such a wild and desolate place to build a city?" Verity wondered aloud.

Three thousand years ago there was a mighty river and the valley floor would have been a garden of green," Mansur replied.

"It is sad to think that so little is left of such a mighty enterprise. He built so much and it was destroyed in a single lifetime by the lesser men who inherited it from him."

"Even Isakander's tomb is lost." Gradually Mansur lured her into conversation, and slowly she lowered her guard and responded to him more readily. He was delighted to find in her a companion who shared his love of history, but as their discussion deepened he found that she was a scholar and her knowledge exceeded his own. He was content to listen to her rather than express his own opinions. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, and her use of the Arabic language.

The huntsmen had scouted the desert for days before and they were able to lead the Caliph to the most likely area in which they might find game. This was a wide, level plain, studded with clumps of low saltbush. It stretched away to the limit of the eye. Now, as it cooled, the air was sweet and clear as a mountain stream, and Verity felt alive and vital. Yet there was a restlessness in her, as though something extraordinary was about to happen, something that might change her life for ever.

Suddenly al-Salil called for a gallop and the horns rang out. They spurred forward together like a squadron of cavalry. Hoofs drummed on the hard-baked sand, and the wind sang past Verity's ears. The mare ran lightly under her, seeming to skim the ground like a swallow in flight, and she laughed. She looked over at Mansur, who rode beside her, and they laughed together for no other reason than that they were young and full of the joy of life.

Suddenly there was a shriller horn blast. A shout of excitement went

conversation was polite. The royal cooks served the midday meal. Dorian helped Sir Guy to tit bits from huge salvers, which overflowed with saffron rice, tender lamb and baked fish, then waved away what remained to be taken to his retinue seated in ranks outside the pavilion.

Now the talk became more earnest. Sir Guy nodded at Verity to come to sit between him and al-Salil. Then, while the sun rose to its zenith and outside all the world drowsed in the heat, they conversed in low tones. Sir Guy warned al-Salil of how fragile was the alliance of desert tribes that he was building. "Zayn al-Din has enlisted the support of the Sublime Porte in Constantinople. Already there are twenty thousand Turkish troops in Zanzibar, and the ships to convey them to these shores as soon as the monsoon turns."

"What of the English Company? Will they side with Zayn?" al-Salil asked.

They have not yet committed themselves," Sir Guy replied. "As you are probably aware, the governor in Bombay awaits my recommendation before he decides." He might just as well have used the word 'order' rather than 'recommendation'. Al-Salil and every one of his council could be in no doubt as to where the power lay.

Verity was so absorbed with her work of translating that again Mansur could study her intimately. For the first time he became aware of strange depths and undercurrents between her and her father. Could it be that she was afraid of him? he wondered. He could not be certain, but he sensed something dark and chilling to the spirit.

A they talked on through the heat of the afternoon, Dorian listened, nodded and gave the appearance of being moved by Sir Guy's logic. In reality he was listening for the hidden truths and meanings behind the flowery phrases that Verity translated to them. Gradually he was starting to understand how his half-brother had achieved such power and circumstance.

He is like a serpent, he twists and turns, and always you are aware of the venom in him, Dorian thought. In the end he nodded wisely and made reply: "All of what you say is true. I can only pray to God that your wisdom and benign interest in these dire affairs of Oman will lead us to a just and lasting solution. Before we go further I would like to assure Your Excellency of the deep gratitude I feel towards you personally and on behalf of my people. I hope that I will be able to demonstrate these warm feelings in a more substantial manner than by mere words. He saw the avaricious gleam in his brother's eye.

"I am not here for material rewards," Sir Guy replied, 'but we have a saying in my country that the workman is worthy of his wage."

"It is an expression that we in this country understand well," Dorian said. "But now the heat passes. There will be time for us to speak again on the morrow. We can ride out to fly my falcons."

The hawking party, a hundred horsemen strong, left Isakanderbad and rode along the edge of the cliff that looked down upon the dry river-course hundreds of feet below. The lowering sun cast mysterious blue shadows over the splendid chaos of tumbled walls and cliffs, and serpentine wadis.

"Why would Alexander choose such a wild and desolate place to build a city?" Verity wondered aloud.

"Three thousand years ago there was a mighty river and the valley floor would have been a garden of green," Mansur replied.

"It is sad to think that so little is left of such a mighty enterprise. He built so much and it was destroyed in a single lifetime by the lesser men who inherited it from him."

"Even Isakander's tomb is lost." Gradually Mansur lured her into conversation, and slowly she lowered her guard and responded to him more readily. He was delighted to find in her a companion who shared his love of history, but as their discussion deepened he found that she was a scholar and her knowledge exceeded his own. He was content to listen to her rather than express his own opinions. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, and her use of the Arabic language.

The huntsmen had scouted the desert for days before and they were able to lead the Caliph to the most likely area in which they might find game. This was a wide, level plain, studded with clumps of low saltbush. It stretched away to the limit of the eye. Now, as it cooled, the air was sweet and clear as a mountain stream, and Verity felt alive and vital. Yet there was a restlessness in her, as though something extraordinary was about to happen, something that might change her life for ever.

Suddenly al-Salil called for a gallop and the horns rang out. They spurred forward together like a squadron of cavalry. Hoofs drummed on the hard-baked sand, and the wind sang past Verity's ears. The mare ran lightly under her, seeming to skim the ground like a swallow in flight, and she laughed. She looked over at Mansur, who rode beside her, and they laughed together for no other reason than that they were young and full of the joy of life.

Suddenly there was a shriller horn blast. A shout of excitement went

up from the huntsmen. Ahead of the line a pair of bustards had been started from the cover of the saltbushes by the thunder of hoofs. They ran with their necks out-thrust, their heads held low to the ground. They were huge birds, larger than a wild goose. Although their plumage was cinnamon brown, blue and dark red it was so cunningly blended to match the desert terrain that they seemed ethereal and as insubstantial as wraiths.

At the sound of the horn the line of riders reined in. The horses milled, circled and chewed their bits, eager to run again, but they held their places in the line while al-Salil rode forward with a falcon on his wrist. It was a desert saker, the loveliest and fiercest of all falcons.

In the short time since they had been in Oman, Dorian had made this particular bird his favourite. It was a tercel, and therefore the more beautiful gender of the species. At three years of age, it was at the peak of its strength and swiftness. He had named it Khamseen, after the furious desert wind.

With the line of horsemen halted, the bustards had not been driven into flight. They had gone back into cover in the saltbush. They must have been lying flat against the earth with their long necks thrust out. They remained still as the desert rocks that surrounded them, concealed from the eyes of the hunters by their colouring.

Al-Salil walked his mount slowly towards the patch of scrub where they had last been seen. Excitement built in the line of watchers. Although Verity did not share the passion of the true falconer, she found her breath coming short and the hand that held the reins was trembling slightly. She glanced sideways at Mansur and his features were rapt. For the first time she felt herself completely in tune with him.

Suddenly there was a harsh, croaking cry, and from under the front hoofs of al-Salil's stallion a huge body launched itself into flight. Verity was astonished at how swiftly and strongly the bustard rose into the air. The whistling beat of the wings carried clearly in the silence. Their span was as wide as the full stretch of a man's arms, blunt at the tips and deep as they hurled the bird aloft.

The watchers began a soft chant as the Caliph slipped the hood off the tercel's marvellously savage head. It blinked its yellow eyes and looked to the sky. The bass drummer began a slow beat that boomed out across the plain, exciting both watchers and falcon.

"Khamseen! Khamseen!" they chanted. The tercel saw the bustard outlined against the hard blue and hated against the jesses that restrained him. He hung for a moment upside down, beating his wings as he struggled to be free. The Caliph lifted him high, slipped the jesses and launched him into the air.

On swift blade-sharp wings the tercel rose, higher and higher, circling. His head moved from side to side as he watched the huge flapping bird that sped across the plain below him. The drummer increased the beat and the watchers raised their voices: "Khamseen! Khamseen!"

The tercel reached the heights, a tiny black shape on sickle wings against the steely blue, towering over his massive prey. Then, abruptly, he cocked his wings back and dropped like a javelin, plummeting towards the earth. The drummer beat a frenetic crescendo, then abruptly cut it short.

In the silence they heard the wind fluting over the wings, and the tercel's stoop was so swift as to cheat the eye. He hit the bustard with a sound like the clash of fighting stags' antlers. The bustard seemed to burst into a cloud of feathers that streamed away on the breeze.

A triumphant cry went up from a hundred throats. Verity found that she was gasping as though she had surfaced from a deep dive below the sea.

Al-Salil recovered his falcon, fed him the bustard's liver and stroked him while he gulped it down. Then he called for another bird. With it on his wrist, he rode ahead with Sir Guy and most of his councillors. In the passion of the hunt that gripped them all, there was no discussion. Verity was no longer needed to translate for them, and she lingered with Mansur. Subtly he slowed his horse and she kept pace with him, so rapt in their talk that she seemed not to realize they were falling further and further behind the Caliph's party.

The antagonism between them evaporated as they talked, and both were animated by the other's proximity. When Verity laughed it was a fetching sound that delighted Mansur, and her handsome, rather austere features were enlivened almost to the point of beauty.

Slowly they forgot the large, colourful entourage in which they rode, and became isolated in the midst of the multitude. A distant shout and the beat of the war drum jerked them back to reality. Mansur rose in his stirrups and shouted with astonishment, "Look! Do you not see them?" The men around them were shouting and the horns blared out; the drummers beat a frenzy.

"What is it? What has happened?" His change of mood was infectious and Verity pressed up close beside him. Then she saw what had caused the pandemonium. On the far slope of the valley the small party of huntsmen led by al-Salil was at full gallop. While casting for bustard they had put up much more dangerous game.

Lions!" Mansur cried. "Ten at least, maybe more! Come, follow me. We must not miss this sport." Verity pushed her mare to keep pace with him as they raced down their side of the valley.

The pride that al-Salil and his hunters were driving before them, were swift, tawny shapes darting through the patches of saltbush, flitting in and out of the steep-sided wadis that rent the tortured desert ground.

The Caliph had passed his falcon to one of the hunters, and they had all snatched their long weapons from the lance-bearers. They were in full chase after the pride, their cries thin and faint with distance. Then there was a sudden terrible roar of pain and fury as al-Salil leaned from the saddle and speared one of the swift shapes. Verity saw the lion bowled over by the lance thrust, rolling and bellowing in a cloud of pale dust. Al-Salil cleared his weapon with an expert backward sweep and rode on after his next victim, leaving the downed lion grunting its last with the lung blood pumping from its jaws. The riders coming up behind him lanced the dying beast again and again.

Then another of the huntsmen scored with the lance, and another, and all became a wild confusion of racing horses and fleeing yellow cats. The hunters shouted each time they hit. The horses whinnied and shrilled under them, driven mad by the smell of lion blood mingled with the roaring of the wounded cats. The horns blew, the drums pounded and the dust shrouded it all.

Mansur snatched a lance from the bearer who rode behind him and galloped after his father. Verity kept pace with him but the hunt swept away over the crest of the hill before they could join in with the sport.

They passed two dead lions stretched out among the saltbush. Their carcasses were riddled with wounds, and the horses shied at the terrifying scent. By the time they reached the ridge and looked over, the hunt was scattered across the plain. Almost a mile away, they could make out al SaliPs distinctive figure in his flowing white robes leading the hunt, but there was no longer any sign of the lion pride. They had disappeared like brown smoke into the vastness of the desert.

"Too late," Mansur lamented, and reined in his mount. "They have run away from us. We will simply use up the horses to no profit if we try to chase after them."

"Your Highness!" In her agitation Verity did not seem aware that she had used his title. "I had a glimpse of one of the lions breaking away along the ridge." She pointed off towards the left. "It seemed to be heading back towards the river."

"Come, then, my lady." Mansur turned his stallion back. "Show me where you saw it."

She led him along the high ground, and then at an angle off the skyline. Within a quarter of a mile they were out of sight of the rest of the entourage, cantering alone through the wilderness. The excitement was still high in both of them, and they laughed together without

reason. Verity's hat blew from her head and when Mansur would have turned back to retrieve it, she called, "Leave it! We shall find it later." She tossed her blue silk scarf into the air. "This will mark the spot for us when we return."

As she cantered on she shook out her hair. Until now she had covered it with a wide-meshed silk net. Mansur was astonished by its length as it floated over her shoulders in a dense honey-brown cloud, thick and lustrous in the soft evening sunlight. With her hair down her appearance was completely altered. She seemed to have become a wild thing, free and unfettered by the restraints of society and convention.

Mansur had fallen a little behind her, but he was content to follow and watch her. He felt a deep longing welling within him. This is my woman. This is the one I have waited and longed for. As he thought it, he caught a flicker of movement ahead of her running horse. It might have been the flit of the wings of one of the drab little thrushes, but he knew it was not.

He concentrated his attention and the complete picture leaped into his mind. It was a lion: the lash of its tail had alerted him. It was crouching in a shallow gully directly in Verity's path. It was flattened against the ground, which was the same pale brown as its sleek hide. Its ears were laid flat against its skull, so that it looked like a monstrous serpent coiled to strike. Its eyes were an implacable gold. There was pink froth on its thin black lips, and a lance wound high in its shoulder, which had angled down to pierce the lung.

"Verity!" Mansur screamed. "It's there, right in your path. Turn back! For God's sake, turn back!"

She looked back over her shoulder, her green eyes wide with surprise. He did not realize that he had shouted at her in English. Perhaps she was so taken aback by his change of language that she did not understand the import. She made no effort to check her mare, and galloped on towards the crouching lion.

Mansur spurred his stallion to the top of his speed, but he had dropped too far back to catch them. At the last moment the mare sensed the presence of the lion, and shied violently to one side. Verity was almost hurled from the saddle, but she snatched at the pommel and prevented herself going right over. She lost her seat, however, and one toot was out of its stirrup. As she was thrown forward over the mare's neck she hung on with both arms. The mare threw her head at the stench of the lion and the reins were jerked from Verity's hand. She was no longer in control.

The lion charged at the mare from the side. It was uttering deep chesty grunts and with each one bloody froth burst from its lips. The

mare pivoted away and Verity was flung to one side, hanging down her flank with one foot trapped in the stirrup. The lion sprang upwards with both front paws reaching out, the claws fully extended, great yellow hooks that could slice through hide and muscle to the bone.

It struck the mare with a force that sent her staggering back on her haunches, but the lion's claws were sunk into her hindquarters. The mare shrilled with terror and agony and kicked out with both back legs. Verity was trapped between the two plunging bodies and her screams cut across Mansur's nerves. It sounded as though she was mortally wounded.

His stallion was already at full charge. Mansur couched his lance and steered the horse under him with his heels, altering the angle of his attack, reaching forward with the bright lance-head dancing before him like a silver insect. The lion humped up over the mare's back, hanging on to her with the strength of those massive forelegs as she reared and bucked. It was roaring in a continuous bellow of sound. Its flanks were roped with muscle and the rack of its ribs was clearly outlined beneath the skin. He aimed the lance just behind the straining shoulder. It struck cleanly exactly at the spot he had intended. He ran the steel in with the impetus of the stallion's weight. It was almost effortless, just the jar as the steel touched bone, then glided on to transfix the lion from shoulder to shoulder. The beast arched its spine backwards in mortal agony, and the shaft of the lance snapped like a reed. The mare tore herself free of the hooked claws and raced away, the blood from her wounds slicked down her quarters. Still writhing and contorting the lion rolled in the low scrub.

Verity was half under the mare, clinging to the side of her neck, one foot still trapped in a stirrup. If she lost her grip she would be thrown to the ground and dragged along, with the back of her head bouncing along on the stones until her skull cracked open like an eggshell. She had no more breath to spare for screams. She hung on with all her strength, as the mare bolted.

Despite the bloody gashes in her hindquarters the horse ran hard. She was mad with terror, her eyeballs rolled back until the red lining of the sockets glared and silver ropes of saliva trailed from her open mouth. Verity tried to pull herself back into the saddle but her efforts merely goaded the mare to greater speed. In extreme terror she seemed endowed with fresh strength.

Mansur dropped the broken stub of the lance and shouted at the stallion, hammering his heels into the animal's heaving flanks, whipping him across the shoulders with the loose ends of his reins, but he could not catch the mare. They raced back down the slope, and at the bottom

the mare turned towards the ancient riverbed. Mansur sent the stallion after her.

For half a mile they ran on, and the gap between the horses never changed, until the mare's dreadful injuries began to tell. Her stride shortened almost imperceptibly and her back hoofs began to throw outside the line of her run.

"Hold hard, Verity!" Mansur shouted encouragement. "I am gaining on you now. Don't let go!"

Then he saw the brink of the precipice open directly ahead of the mare, and he looked down the sheer wall of rock into the river valley two hundred feet below. Black despair clamped down on his heart as he imagined mare and girl hurled out over the cliff and dropping to the rocks far beneath.

He drove the stallion on with the strength of his arms and legs, and fierce resolve in his heart. The mare weakened visibly and the gap between them closed, but only slowly. At the last moment the mare saw the earth open ahead of her and tried to turn away, but as her front hoofs bit into the loose earth of the rim it broke away under her. She reared and teetered in wild panic, then toppled backwards.

As the mare went over Mansur threw himself from the back of the stallion and on the edge of the precipice he reached out and grabbed Verity's ankle. He was almost jerked out over the drop, but then her stirrup leather snapped and her leg was free. Still her weight dragged him face down on the sill, but he held on with all his strength. The mare fell away under them, dropping fifty feet before striking the cliff face and screaming in terror as she bounded out into the void.

Verity swung like a pendulum, dangling upside down from his right hand by one leg. The skirts of her coat fell over her head, but she dared not move, knowing that it might break his precarious grip on her ankle. She could hear his harsh panting above her, but she dared not look up. Then his voice reached her. "Stay like that. I am going to pull you up." His voice was strangled with the effort.

Even in her dreadful predicament she took note that he was still speaking English, unaccented and sweet in her ears, the voice of home. If I must die, let that be the last sound I hear, she thought, but could not trust her own voice to reply to him. She looked down through dizzying space to the valley floor so far below her. Her head swam with vertigo, but she hung quiescent and felt his hard fingers biting into her ankle through the soft leather of her boot. Above her Mansur grunted with the effort, and the rough rock of the cliff scraped against her hip as she was drawn upwards a few inches by his strength.

Blindly Mansur groped backwards with one leg and found a narrow

cleft in the rock. He shoved his knee and thigh deeply into it. It anchored him, and now he could release his left hand with which he had been clinging to a precarious hold. He reached down over the sill of the cliff and locked both hands on to Verity's ankle.

"I have you now with both hands." His voice was harsh with the effort. "Courage, girl!" More decisively she was pulled upwards. He paused to gather himself.

"And a tiger!" Mansur gasped out the old nautical exhortation to encourage himself and her.

She wanted to scream at him to shut his mouth, to eschew the childish nonsense and use all his strength to lift her. She knew that the difficult part still lay ahead when he had to heave her backwards over the rock rim. He pulled again and she was dragged up another short space. There was a pause and she felt him adjusting and strengthening his position, using his hips to wriggle backwards, trying to wedge his other leg into the cleft in the rock. He pulled again more strongly from his enhanced position, and she was lifted higher.

"God love you for this," she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, and he heaved again so hard that she felt her leg might be pulled out of its socket in her hip.

"Nearly there, Verity," he said, and pulled, but this time she did not move. A small shrub had taken root in a crack in the cliff face. Now its branches had hooked into her breeches. He pulled again but he could not budge her. She was firmly held by the wiry bush.

"Can't move you," Mansur grunted. "Something holding you."

"It's a bush, catching my legs," she whispered.

"Try to reach it," he ordered.

"Hold me!" she replied, and bent her body at the waist, reaching up with one hand. She felt the branches under her fingers, and made a quick grab at them.

"Got them?" he demanded.

"Yes!" But her grip was one-handed and tenuous. Then her heart turned to ice in her chest as she felt the boot he was holding begin to slide slowly off her foot.

"Boot's coming off!" she sobbed out.

"Give me your other hand," he panted. Before she could refuse she felt him release one hand from her ankle and reach down along her leg. Her foot slid further out of the soft leather boot.

"Your hand!" he pleaded. His fingers were scrabbling urgently down her thigh towards where the bush had come up against her and blocked her way. She felt the back of her boot ride down under her heel.

"Boot's going! I shall fall!"

"Your hand! For the love of God, give me your hand."

She lunged upwards and their fingers locked. She still had a grip on the bush with her other hand. Mansur was hanging on to the ankle of the boot, but now his right hand was linked to hers. Verity was doubled up, suspended by both arms and one leg. The skirts of her coat fell away from her face so she could see again. His face above her was flushed and swollen. His beard was dark, sodden with sweat. It dripped into her upturned face. Neither dared move.

"What must I do?" she said, but before he could answer it was decided for them. The boot slid off her foot. Her lower body dropped forcefully, then flicked round. Now she was stretched out arms upwards and feet down. Although the jerk had loosened her grip, she was still clinging to his right hand and to the bush.

Both were drenched with sweat, which greased their skin. His fingers began to slide through hers.

"I can't hold on to you," she gasped.

The bush," he said. "Don't let go of the bush."

Though she felt as though he were crushing the bones of her fingers, their grip parted like a faulty chain link, and she dropped again until the bush broke her fall. It cracked and bent with her weight.

"It will not hold," she screamed.

"I can't reach you." He was groping for her with both hands and she was stretching up with her free hand, but she was just beyond his reach.

"Pull! You must pull yourself up so I can get you," he grated. She felt the ice in her heart numbing her muscles. She knew it was over. He saw the despair in her eyes, saw her grip on the bush start to fail. She was going to let go.

He snarled at her savagely, trying to shock her into a last effort, "Pull, you feeble creature! Pull, damn your lily liver!"

The insults stung her and anger gave her the strength for one more attempt. But she knew it was useless. Even if she could reach him their sweat-slimy hands could not hold together. She lunged for the branch and found a double hold, but the bush could no longer bear her weight. It crackled and snapped as it tore.

"I am going!" she sobbed.

No, damn you, no!" he shouted, but the bush gave way. She started to fall, but suddenly both her wrists were seized and held. Her fall was arrested with a strength that made the joints of her upper arms pop in their sockets.

Mansur had made his last effort. He had freed his legs from the cleft in which he had wedged them, and threw himself forward over the lip f the cliff. At the full stretch of body and arms he had just reached her.

He was hanging head down, only his toes hooked into the rock cleft held him. But he had to raise her before she slipped through his fingers again. He braced his elbows against the face of the cliff and slowly bent his arms, raising her until they were face to face. His features were swollen and contorted with the agony of his straining muscles, and with the rush of blood into his inverted head. "I cannot lift you higher," he breathed, with their lips almost touching. "Climb up my body. Use me as a ladder."

She locked one arm through his, the bend of her elbow through the bend in his. This left his other hand free. He reached down and took hold of her leather belt and pulled her a little higher. She grabbed his belt buckle and they pulled together. He reached lower and took a handful of the seat of her breeches. She hooked her other arm between his legs and again they heaved. Now her face was level with his waist and she could see over the top of the cliff. He reached down, linked his fingers together and made a stirrup for her bare foot. With the purchase this gave her she could drag herself up and over the lip.

She sprawled on the rock for only an instant, then whipped round. "Can you get back?" she gasped. He was fully extended, powerless to pull himself backwards and regain the crest.

He was almost too far gone to articulate coherently. "Get the horse," he gasped. "Rope on saddle. Pull me back with the horse."

She glanced around and saw the stallion a quarter of a mile away, trotting back up the valley. "Your horse is gone."

Mansur reached backwards and tried to find a finger hold on the rock, but it was smooth. There was a tiny rasping sound as the toe of one boot moved in the rock crack. He slid forward an inch towards the edge of the cliff. Then his foot caught again. She was frozen with horror. His toehold was all that held him from the drop. She seized his ankle with both hands, but she knew it was hopeless. She could never hope to hold the weight of such a big man. She tried to brace herself as she watched his foot slip again and then his hold in the cleft broke. He slid forward irresistibly, and his ankle was plucked from her hands.

He shouted as he went over the edge, and she flung herself forward across the rock sill to peer down, expecting to see him falling away with his robes ballooning around him. Then she stared in disbelief. The hem of his white robe had snagged on a shard of granite on the lip of the cliff. It had broken his fall, and now he was swinging like a pendulum just below her, dangling over that dizzying void. She stretched down with one hand to try to reach him.

"Give me your hand!" she called. She was weak with her own efforts to escape, and her hand shook wildly.

"You will never hold me." He looked up at her, and there was no fear in his eyes.

That touched her deeply. "Let me try," she pleaded.

"No," he said. "One of us will go, not both."

"Please!" she whispered, and the hem of his robe tore with a sharp, ripping sound. "I could not bear it if you died for me."

"Worth it," he said softly, and she felt her heart break. She sobbed and looked behind her. Then hope bloomed again. She slid back from the edge and wedged herself firmly into the rock cleft. She reached back over her shoulders and seized a double handful of her dense brown hair, pulled it forward and twisted it into a loose rope that hung below her waist. Then she threw herself flat on to the rock sill. She was just able to see over the edge. The rope of her hair tumbled forward.

"Take my hair," she shouted. He swivelled his head and stared up at her as it brushed lightly against his face

"Do you have purchase? Can you hold me?"

"Yes, I am wedged into the rock cleft." She tried to sound confident, but she thought, Even if I can't we will go together. He twisted her hair round his wrist, and with a final crack of tearing cloth the hem of his robe gave way. She had just time to brace herself before the shock of his full weight dropping on to her hair half stunned her. Her head was jerked forward and her cheek slammed into the rock with a force that jarred her teeth. She was pinned down. She felt the vertebrae in her neck popping, as though she were hanged on the gallows.

Mansur hung on the rope of her hair only for the seconds it took him to orient. Then he climbed up, hand over hand, swiftly as a top yard sailor going up the main shrouds. She screamed involuntarily for it seemed that her scalp was being torn from her skull. But then he reached past her, found a handhold in the rock cleft and heaved himself over the rim of the cliff.

He turned instantly, seized her in his arms and dragged her back to safety. He held her to his chest and pressed his face against the top of her head, knowing how intense must be the agony of her scalp. She lay in his arms, weeping as though in bitter mourning. He rocked her gently as though she were an infant, mumbling incoherent words of comfort and gratitude. After a while she stirred against him and he thought she was trying to escape his embrace. He opened his arms to free her, but she reached up and slipped her arms around the back of his neck. She Pressed herself to his chest, and their bodies seemed to melt together like hot wax through their sweat-soaked clothing. Her sobbing stilled and then, without pulling away from him, she lifted her face and looked into his eyes. "You saved my life," she whispered.

"And you saved mine," he replied. The tears still cascaded down her face and her lips were trembling. He kissed her, and her lips opened without resistance. Her tears tasted of salt, and her mouth of fragrant herbs. Her hair fell in a tent over them. It was a lingering kiss, and ended only when they were forced to breathe.