Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air

by Melissa Scott

  “Down from the roof,” the policeman said, glancing back at them. “We will check there next.” He turned to Stasi. “Signora, I hate to trouble you, but will you check and make sure your jewels are not missing?”

  “Missing?” Stasi put her hand to her breast in alarm. “Surely not! Why I have been in the suite the entire time! So have the children!”

  “I regret to say that the gentleman upstairs had also not left the suite,” Balderacci said. “It happened while he was in the bath.”

  “Have you been in a separate room from your valuables?” the policeman asked.

  “Yes.” Stasi widened her eyes. “When I put the children to bed I was in their room for some time, and I have been in the sitting room since. You don’t think…” Her voice trailed off.

  “You must check, Signora,” the policeman said solemnly.

  They followed her into the bedroom and watched her take out the elaborate ivory jewel box. “I don’t have much here, thank goodness!” Stasi said. “My watch and some pearls. And some unset cameos my husband just bought me.” She opened the box, holding it out under the light, watch and pearls and the little velvet bag. “Oh thank goodness! It’s all there!”

  “You are fortunate, Signora,” the policeman said with a little bow. “I wonder if you heard anything?”

  “No, nothing in particular,” Stasi said, wide eyed. “You mean to tell me a man was climbing around just outside my room? A cat burglar? I thought they existed only in the movies!”

  “I regret that is not true,” the policeman said.

  “How terrifying!”

  “We shall catch our thief,” he replied. “Come, Signore Balderacci. The next thing is the roof. Perhaps there is a rope or something he left behind.”

  “A rope on the roof! Of my hotel!”

  “It’s very Agatha Christie,” Stasi said. “Or is it Dorothy Sayers? I can’t stand Lord Peter Wimsey, can you? Or rather it’s not Peter I mind but Harriet.”

  The policeman looked unimpressed with this digression into British detection. “The roof, Balderacci.”

  “Yes, yes. I am so sorry we disturbed you, Signora.”

  “It’s quite all right. I’m so relieved to know that you are on the case,” Stasi said. “How terribly exciting! To think that a cat burglar was climbing around outside my room! I don’t know what my husband will say!”

  “I don’t know what the owner will say,” Balderacci said miserably as he followed the policeman out. “A cat burglar! It will be in the papers.”

  “And people will flock to the hotel,” Stasi promised. “It’s a fascinating story.”

  “Signore Hess is not amused,” Balderacci said. “To think this should happen! We have never had anything of the kind before!”

  “I suppose the jewels were very valuable?”

  The policeman turned back. “Signore? The roof?”

  “Excuse me, Signora Sorley,” the concierge said with a little bow.

  “Of course.” Stasi closed the door behind him and locked it firmly. Then she went to put the ivory jewel box away. She did not open the velvet bag. There was no need to handle it. Valuable, yes, but of course not in any conventional sense. It was only silver, a band like a wedding band with runes around it, a skull between those meaning death and rebirth. Birth and growth and war and sacrifice and death and rebirth, a ring without end, an oath to bind life upon life… No, she would not touch it. She would leave it where it was.

  Its loss would certainly give Hess something to think about besides the whereabouts of the Gilchrist Aviation team, and if he was hunting a cat burglar all over Palermo, he would have no time for Göring’s missing nephew.

  And perhaps, just perhaps, one day they would need the ring.

  Alexandria, Egypt

  January 4, 1936

  The catacombs beneath the city were vast, and with no guidance except Willi’s compass, the best they could do was attempt to take tunnels that rose. Most, unfortunately, dead-ended. It seemed to Jerry that they had been walking for days, and he wished that they’d had the foresight to bring supplies, or at least a canteen of water. It would be entirely ironic to die of thirst in a cistern.

  It was the sound of running water that alerted them. “Listen!” Willi said, holding up a hand.

  There was the faint sound of water trickling, just a small sound, but amplified by the acoustics of the tunnels.

  “I think it’s this way,” Hussein said. He shone the light over the floor. There was a dark streak at the bottom of one of the sewer tunnels, the tiny burble where it flowed over a lip of stone between one section and another.

  “It must be coming from a drain above,” Jerry said. “Any chance of rain today?”

  “Not that I heard,” Willi replied.

  “Good.” Jerry wasn’t certain how much water would come this way in the event of one of Alexandria’s brief cloud-bursting thunderstorms. Possibly a good deal more than they would want. A little trickle like this was probably coming from a storm drain, from an open hydrant, or perhaps even watering the garden in one of the walled houses.

  “If we follow it,” Hussein began.

  “Yes,” Jerry said. “A way back to the surface.”

  They followed the trickle, climbing an ascending series of Roman sewers until at last they could climb no more. The water ran down a vertical wall from a tunnel above, a stone pipe no more than three feet in diameter.

  “Damn,” Jerry said. It was at least eight feet to the top, and it was impossible to see what was above that. And yet the sound of the water was louder. “Willi,” he said, “Switch off the flashlight.”

  Willi didn’t ask why. He was too experienced an archaeologist for that. The darkness as he turned the light off was absolute.

  Or not. Some faint light came in from above, a bar of darkness less intense to one side of the hole above.

  “There’s an outlet!” Hussein said excitedly. “I’m going to climb up there!”

  “How?”

  “Like a mountain climber,” Hussein said, bracing hands and feet on either side of the tunnel. “I can do it. I’ve done it in a pyramid, for what it’s worth.” He grinned as Willi turned the light back on so that he could see better. “Just give me a boost, if you wouldn’t mind, Dr. Radke.”

  “With pleasure,” Willi said.

  Jerry watched as Hussein wriggled athletically up, noting that his expensive trousers were almost certainly ruined. Well, a pair of trousers was cheap price for the Soma by any reckoning!

  “It’s a storm drain,” Hussein called down. “In the side of a street. Hello there! Hello!” The last was shouted in Arabic, trying to get the attention of some passerby. “Down here! In the drain! God be praised we are stuck! Will you get the cover off, good man? Or will you call a policeman who can?”

  Willi sighed. “Well,” he said. “That is that.”

  It took quite some time to get someone with the city waterworks out who could remove the cast iron cover over the drain and let down a harness to get Jerry, and quite tactfully Willi, out of the hole. At last Jerry stood blinking on the sidewalk amid the small crowd of the curious who had gathered while Hussein explained their adventure in rapid and voluble Arabic. The light seemed very bright even though it was full night. He stood on the sidewalk in front of a three story bank building with balconies on the second floor across the street from more imposing buildings, a sidestreet that he did not recognize.

  “Where are we?” he asked Hussein.

  “Across the street from the university,” Hussein said. “That’s the back of the dental school. My father practices at the hospital just around the corner. I’m explaining that we’re archaeologists and we got lost. Archaeologists have just slightly more sense than mad dogs.” He smiled, and Jerry couldn’t help but laugh.

  “That sounds excellent,” he said. “You’ve done invaluable work today.”

  “Thank you,” Hussein said. There was a cheer as the waterworks man reclosed the drain with warnings to all
to stay out of the sewers of Alexandria. He lowered his voice. “For a moment, when we were there…” His voice trailed off and he met Jerry’s eyes solemnly. “For a moment when you made the promise, I saw the headdress settle on you, the striped lappets of a priest. I think you are its guardian now. Its priest. The Heirophant.”

  “Yes,” Jerry said. This weight sat on him heavily still, the weight of the dedication on his shoulders, Heirophant of Alexander today as perhaps he had been before. He couldn’t help asking Willi, “What did you see?”

  “I saw nothing but you,” Willi said, but his eyes made it a tenderness.

  Jerry stood in the warm night air of Alexandria and let the crowd go around him, the pulse of the City, Magus and priest.

  Camp Coleman, Amhara Region, Ethiopia

  January 5, 1936

  Alma woke to the sound of a baby crying, and sat up, ready to console Dora, before she remembered where she was. Mitch was already awake and dressed, talking quietly at the tent’s entrance with a woman who’d brought a bowl of something that steamed gently in the cool morning air. Lewis was stirring, too, and Alma pushed aside the heavy blanket and shook out her shoes carefully before she moved to join Mitch.

  “They’re loading up the wagons,” he said. “Colonel Robinson wants to send us and the fuel off with the first group.” He held out the bowl. It was full of what looked like porridge topped with a reddish oil, and smelled of garlic and onions. There were three wooden spoons as well, and Alma took one, tasting gingerly. It was a bit like grits with chilis and butter, and she took a larger mouthful, knowing she’d need a full belly.

  “When does he want to leave?”

  “As close to sun-up as he can manage,” Mitch said. He gave a lopsided smile. “It’s not like we’ve got all that much to pack.”

  Lewis came to join them, running his hands through his hair in a vain attempt to subdue it. The stubble was heavy on his chin, and Alma repressed the urge to rub his cheek. “Any thoughts on how we’re going to make this flight?”

  Alma took another bite of the porridge, buying time. She hadn’t made a decision yet — it depended on how full the plane ended up being, and how desperate the wounded were. “This afternoon, if we can, and if Iskinder can get us clearance to land at Khartoum, we might overnight there. Most of the flight would be in daylight that way.” She shrugged. “Or we could leave first thing tomorrow morning, and worry about a night landing in Cairo. They’re set up for that, surely? But mostly I need to hear what Iskinder and Colonel Robinson can do for us.”

  “It’s a lot of ifs,” Mitch said, his spoon scraping the bowl, and Lewis looked up.

  “I think we should leave today.”

  Alma glanced at him, and he shrugged.

  “It’s just a feeling, nothing specific, but it’s a strong one.”

  “I trust your feelings,” Alma said. “Anyway, from what I saw yesterday, the sooner we get the wounded into a proper hospital, the better.”

  They emerged from the tent into the first light of dawn to find that several ox carts had already been loaded, their beds filled with the wounded and supplies, including two big drums of aviation gas. Alma grimaced, seeing them: no matter how much they needed the fuel, it was hard not to think the space should be given up to the wounded.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Segura, but that’s all we can spare,” Colonel Robinson said, coming up behind her, and she tuned, shaking her head.

  “That’s not — I mean, I’ll take whatever you have, don’t get me wrong, it’s just…” The feeling had been just as futile in the last war, and she let out her breath in a long sigh. “I wish there were more wagons, I guess. That’s all.”

  Robinson’s expression went bleak for an instant. “Colonel Tedesse is still trying to get the guns away to the main body of the army. He’s giving the civilians as much transport as he can afford to.”

  “I know,” Alma said. “Truly I do, I was a nurse in the last war.” She shook herself, hard, focusing on the things she did control. “Do you know how many wounded we’re supposed to carry? We can’t take everyone here.”

  “I don’t,” Robinson answered. “Ras Iskinder will know.”

  “Parts,” Alma said. “I can send back any spares we’re not going to need —”

  Robinson shook his head. “I appreciate it, but nothing’s coming back — there isn’t time. I told the mayor and Father Gedeyon that they could use the drums for floats once you’d emptied them.”

  “Floats?”

  “They’re going to build rafts, try to get down to Bahir Dar that way, Father Gedeyon said. There are a lot of little islands, plus a couple of monasteries out there in the lake,” Robinson said.

  All the way down Lake Tana — half an hour or less in the Cat, but a couple of days, maybe more, on slow-moving rafts, with an entire village and everything they could salvage piled onto the floats… Maybe she could run a shuttle service to Bahir Dar, she thought, take women and children. If the wounded weren’t too bad, and the weather stayed good…

  “My radioman raised Khartoum,” Robinson said, “and they’re supposed to be leaving their beacon lit for you overnight. At least we think that’s what they said — reception was mixed. We’ll keep trying to raise them and confirm. Same for the weather, though I’ve got you the best forecast we could pick up. Things are supposed to be pretty calm today and tomorrow, and then there’s a front coming through.”

  Another reason to go with Lewis’s instincts, Alma thought. She took the slip of paper, the numbers printed in neat pencil. “Thank you.”

  “Colonel!” That was Lieutenant Asha, trotting toward them. He stopped with a rough salute. “The first flight is ready, sir.”

  “I have to go,” Robinson said. “Tell Mr. Sorley and your husband again that I appreciate their help yesterday.”

  Alma nodded. “I will. Good luck, Colonel.” She stuck out her hand and he hesitated only for an instant before taking it carefully.

  “To you, too,” he said, and turned away.

  Alma knew she should join the others at the wagons, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without saying goodbye to Iskinder. Not that this would be the last time she saw him, she refused to let herself imagine that, but because it was only right, only fair. She turned on her heel, scanning the busy camp, and finally saw him emerging from one of the tents. “Iskinder!”

  He turned with a smile and came toward her, holding out a stack of letters. “Alma. Your husband said you would take these for me.”

  “Of course.” Alma tucked the half dozen thin envelopes inside her shirt. “Iskinder…” And suddenly she had nothing to say, not even good wishes. She held out her hands instead and he took them, bowing his head as though they were in circle together.

  “Pray for us all,” he said, and she nodded.

  “You know we will.”

  He turned away, and she joined the others at the side of the straggling convoy, telling herself she would not look back.

  They walked on into the morning’s rising heat, surrounded by dust and the thud of the oxen’s feet and the murmur of voices. Now and then a child cried, and was quieted; the carts creaked and complained, jostling the wounded who lay ominously silent. She was beginning to get a sense of how many people she would have to carry, and revolved the loading plans in her head as she walked. The worst hurt would need to go toward the tail, where there were mounts that could take the stretchers and keep them relatively comfortable; the children could go forward, in the navigation compartment with their mothers — those that had mothers, she wasn’t yet sure how many of them that would be — and the rest sorted in where they would fit. The stretcher cases would risk making things tail heavy; any baggage would need to be shifted forward to keep the center of gravity where it should be. Fifteen adults, Iskinder had said. That would make it about 2600 pounds — call it 2650 to be on the safe side — plus another 700 pounds for the children, plus fuel, plus food and supplies and at least some baggage. It would be very close to
the maximum load, maybe a hair over…

  The air smelled of dust and oxen and dung, and her feet hurt already. She remembered Sultan under her, lithe and strong and full of spirit — yesterday, only yesterday, but it seemed a lifetime ago. She remembered that from the war, the way that an attack could draw a line between one day and the next that could never again be crossed. She had seen enough of war for one lifetime.

  The track had been following a little stream for some distance, she realized, and as the scrubby trees thinned out, she could see the brilliant blue of the lake ahead, the sun glinting from its placid surface. She could see the Cat, too, still tied up at the end of the long pier, and she allowed herself a sigh of relief. She hadn’t let herself admit how afraid she was until she saw it safe and sound. Not that there had been any reason to worry, the bombers had concentrated their attention on the village, but even so. She quickened her pace, in spite of her sore muscles, and saw Tiny step out of the fuselage, shading his eyes to study the oncoming convoy.

  He came down the pier to meet them, waving as they came within earshot. “Mrs. Segura! Mr. Sorley! Are you all right? I saw the planes, but I didn’t want to leave the Cat —”

  He stopped then, as though he’d just realized what he was seeing, and Mitch said, “None of us are hurt. But we’ve got some wounded to take to the hospitals in Cairo.”

  Tiny’s eyes were wide. “Yes, sir. Who are we taking?”

  Mitch looked at Alma.

  “Let me find the priest,” she said.

  He was hard to miss, a tall man with grizzled gray hair and beard, walking beside the cart that carried the most severely injured. He nodded gravely at her approach, saying something in Amharic that she hoped was a greeting.

  “Father — Gedeyon, is it?”

  He nodded again.

  “Can you tell me who we’ll be taking to Cairo? Which ones and how many?”

  “Everyone in this cart,” he said, shaping the words carefully. “And the next. And one more. But it is not yet here.”

  Alma stood on tiptoe to look into the cart, wincing as she recognized the three men on the narrow stretchers. They were the ones Dr. Biniam had been treating before the attack; she had helped change their bandages and wash the skin beneath, and she thought they would all survive if they were treated in a good hospital. Though the one with part of his jaw shot away might wish he hadn’t… She put the treacherous thought aside, and moved to the next cart. It also held three stretchers, civilians this time, including the woman who had lost her son. The gas had hit her hard, her eyes swollen shut and her exposed arms covered with yellow blisters. There would be more on her legs and torso, and Alma guessed they had given her a good dose of morphine before they moved her. Mustard burns were if anything more painful than burns from open flame. She doubted she had enough morphine in the Cat’s first aid to keep them all comfortable for the duration of the flight, and she turned, looking for the priest again