Falconer's Quest

by T. Davis Bunn

  “What is it?” Bivens demanded.

  Falconer pointed across the lane. “They call that a harem perch. I have never seen them outside Arabia. I would say this is confirmation that Raban is our man.”

  Falconer and Bivens squinted at the long balcony silhouetted against the sky and encased in intricately carved wood. Slender slits permitted whoever sat inside to observe the world and remain unseen. The lieutenant’s features were taut and sweat stained. “My gut tells me we’re walking into the dragon’s lair.”

  Falconer heard the sound of a man in pain. “What does your shoulder tell you?”

  “That I carried too much too soon after the storm,” Bivens confessed. “I fear my injury has been aggravated.”

  The nearest sailor, a rock-solid man of few words, said, “Told you to let me shoulder that load, I did.”

  “And you were right.” Bivens gave the sailor a half grimace, half smile. “You’ll have to watch my weak side in there.”

  “With my life, sir,” the sailor replied, and meant it. Bivens was well liked by all the men.

  Falconer asked, “Does your gut tell you that we should go no further?”

  Bivens, taking the question seriously, gave the harem perch another careful inspection, his focus so stern he might pierce the shadows. “I shared the skipper’s promise to bring Byron home. The little girl too. Even if it means fighting a hundred dragons.”

  A hand signal from Falconer was enough to plant the two sailors inside the café’s front door. The café lay just three steps below the street, yet it felt to Falconer as though he entered a man-made cave. The windows were high and curved like half-moons, and the sunlight filtered through faded, dirty curtains such that the interior was in a constant state of gloom.

  The café was drawn from a distant land. Falconer walked down the carpeted central aisle and felt himself entering a realm of veiled women and daggers shaped like scythes.

  All conversation ceased at their passage. Men in robes sat or lay upon low divans. Wooden shutters carved in arabesque designs separated the tables, forming the suggestion of alcoves. The air was pungent with the fragrance of mint tea and tobacco smoldering in water pipes.

  The man they sought sat in the café’s only Western-style chair, which was drawn up to an octagonal table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. At first glance, the man looked ordinary enough. Of slender build and wearing a pale suit with a white shirt buttoned to his neck, his ring with a diamond the size of a fingernail caught even the dim light. His eyes were cold and so gray they appeared as colorless as his close-cropped hair. A conical Arab hat with a flat top rested upon the table beside a thimble of coffee and a beaker of water. He tapped the ring upon the tabletop as he listened to the man standing on the opposite side. The man whined an entreaty and tugged at the shapeless hat in his hands. Raban appeared to nod at the man’s words, but his eyes remained upon Falconer and Bivens. He halted the supplicant with an upraised finger. He spoke one word. The man’s whine rose an octave.

  The seated man murmured a single word. In response, another man took a step out of the shadows behind the table. Falconer was astonished he had not noticed the man before.

  The guard was as tall as Falconer and outweighed him by a hundred pounds. His arms were as large as the supplicant’s thighs. His wrists were banded by broad sword guards of burnished copper. His neck was as thick as a tree trunk, his head carefully shaved. He wore a leather vest across his massive chest, and two jeweled daggers were tucked into a broad belt. The belt’s buckle was white jade and the size of Falconer’s palm.

  Falconer addressed Bivens so softly that the supplicant’s final whining pleas hid his words. “You do the talking.”

  They stepped to either side of the supplicant, who stumbled as he backed from the table, still beseeching Raban. But the café owner was no longer listening. He addressed them in English. “Let me see. You must be Lieutenant Bivens, yes? Second-in-command of the Langston vessel. But you, sir, I have yet to know your name.”

  Falconer did not answer. Instead, he stepped around the table and slipped into the shadows. The same shadows into which the guard had again vanished. Falconer did not look at the giant.

  The guard growled a warning in a tongue Falconer did not need to understand.

  Raban raised the same finger. The guard subsided, grumbling. Falconer could feel the enormous man’s menace like heat.

  “Never mind,” Raban said. “I shall know your name soon enough.”

  The finger rose another notch. Instantly a waiter appeared. Raban spoke, his words a sibilant rush. The waiter bowed and backed away. Falconer understood only one word the waiter said. It was the same as the title repeated by the supplicant. Effendi.

  The waiter returned with a chair for Bivens and a water pipe for Raban. The waiter used tongs to hold a burning coal over the copper bowl as Raban drew hard upon the carved ivory stem. Only when the pungent smoke clouded the air between them did Raban say, “Make yourself comfortable, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you. I shall stand.”

  “Sit, stand, it is of no consequence.” The water in the hubble-bubble seethed more smoke. “I see the young banker chose not to join you. That man speaks of adventure but fears his own shadow.”

  Falconer felt the guard’s eyes shift over and take his measure. Falconer remained utterly still. He had positioned himself such that his scar was on the side of his face nearest the guard. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guard take a half step away, and Falconer turned slightly, ready for the attack. Good, Falconer said silently. A worried man might hesitate.

  Bivens asked, “Were you behind the attack on me and my men?”

  “My good sir. If I had attacked you, we would not be having this conversation.” The words seeped out with the smoke. “Why ever should I create a ruckus, since you will bring the gold to me of your own accord?”

  A snake, Falconer decided. A viper in a fine desert suit. A man who cared less than nothing for the lives of others.

  Bivens said, “You know why I am here.”

  “Remind me.”

  “If you have what we seek, I do not need to.”

  The water pipe bubbled for a time. Bivens responded with his best parade-ground stance. His eyes were steely, his gaze fastened slightly above Raban’s head. As detached as the seated merchant. And as fierce.

  Raban gave first. “Is that pestering woman with you?”

  “Which lady might that be?”

  “The missionary.” He softly spat the word.

  “Again, such information is yours only if you are the man with whom we need to speak.”

  “I believe a sum of money was mentioned.”

  “Was it?”

  “Five thousand sovereigns. In gold.”

  “Such numbers are meaningless unless we have clear evidence, sir.”

  The pipe bubbled for a time longer. Then Raban spoke in a language Falconer did not understand.

  The guard reached for the blade at his belt.

  Falconer sprang at him with a roar.

  Falconer gripped the guard’s arms by his wristbands and held on for dear life. The guard shouted his fury and bucked like a human bull. Behind him Falconer heard the table overturn. Patrons and waiters shouted protests. Another voice shrilled in panic. Falconer could only hope that Bivens protected his back. Every shred of his strength was required to keep hold of the guard. Twice the giant tried to head-butt Falconer. Twice Falconer shifted his head in time to take the blows upon his shoulder. His arm was going numb from the strikes. He did not know how much longer he could maintain control in this frantic deadly dance.

  “Hold! Hold!” Raban’s voice had risen to that of a frightened woman.

  “Call your man off!” Bivens roared.

  “I never…” Raban switched to Arabic. At least Falconer thought it was Arabic. The giant’s dark eyes were inches from Falconer’s and burned with molten fury. But his struggle subsided.

  Falconer released his hold and backe
d off a step. Another.

  Bivens held Raban facedown upon the table. The coffee thimble, the water carafe, the pipe, all lay in shambles. The two sentinels by the door were now stationed between them and the others within the restaurant, all of whom were now on their feet. Bivens had a pistol planted deep into Raban’s ear. His voice was a seaman’s roar. “You have one chance, do you hear me? One! Give me what I want or I will—”

  “No, no! I was telling my man to do just that!” He squirmed futilely against the officer’s hold. “You’re hurting me!”

  “One chance!” Bivens ground down harder. “Is the young man alive!”

  “Yes, yes, of course!” Raban frantically babbled further in Arabic. The giant glanced warily at Falconer, then reached slowly with one hand for his belt. Falconer tensed but remained where he was.

  The guard pulled two small hinged boxes from a secret pocket inside his belt. Both were of silver chased in some ornate design. He reached forward and set them on the table beside his master’s face.

  Bivens and Raban both tracked the giant’s hands. Falconer’s grip had been so tight the copper wristbands were both crumpled, and one was broken and hung by a slender chain.

  Raban whined, “There, you see! A gift! That’s all—”

  Falconer addressed Raban for the first time. “And the girl?”

  “What?”

  Falconer stepped forward. “The missionary’s daughter. She is alive?”

  Raban sought to draw Falconer into focus. “Of course!”

  Falconer nodded to Bivens. Bivens uncocked the pistol and slipped it back into his belt. He released the man and stepped back. “You will send a man to the ship at midnight. He will speak English. We will discuss how the exchange will take place.”

  Now that he was released, the viper’s hiss returned. “You will pay for this insult.” The empty gray eyes sought out Falconer. “Both of you.”

  Chapter 16

  The clouds began gathering a half hour after the sun melted into the western seas, so low as to crimp the earth with their shadows. The sun’s final rays turned them into a sulfurous yellow. Harkness stood upon the foredeck, joined by Bivens and Falconer and Reginald Langston, frowning at the approaching storm as he would a foe. “What say you, gentlemen? Is this a celestial warning or merely another passing squall?”

  “I would call it a gift,” Falconer replied.

  The three men turned about, but the captain’s response to Falconer’s remark was interrupted by a vague piping from the main deck. Falconer had returned to the vessel to learn that Matt had been assigned duty at the gangplank. Matt had not yet mastered the pipes, and his signaling of the visitor’s arrival sounded like an injured bird. Bivens hid his grin behind his hand. A sailor chuckled from the rigging overhead. Harkness coughed hard.

  Matt’s voice was almost as high as the pipes. “Visitor for Captain Harkness!”

  Bevins said, “It’s the banker Falconer and I spoke to you about. Bernard Lemi.”

  Harkness called down, “Have him attend us on the foredeck.”

  “Aye, sir!” Matt was dressed for the occasion in the coat of another middy, a boy so large the coat’s edge scraped upon the deck and Matt had to sweep the arms up to free one hand for a salute. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  Reginald Langston had ordered fresh provisions from his company’s larder, and they ate well enough. Matt ate with the midshipmen in a small alcove behind the galley. In spite of the fine meal, dinner was a subdued affair. Not morose, rather the reflective quiet of men uncertain of this newcomer. Amelia Henning had elected to join the captain’s table, dressed in what clearly was a new frock from Langston’s local emporium. High-necked and without adornment, it was saved from appearing severe by its soft silk fabric and dove-gray color.

  Bernard Lemi must have sensed the men’s uncertainty. Yet their guest made no attempt to break through their reserve with loud banter or familiarity. Harkness asked a few questions of Lemi’s background, which he answered fully. Otherwise, he accepted the silent hospitality with a calm of his own, clearly content to wait for whatever might come.

  Over a first course of fresh trout and eels, Amelia Henning said, “I cannot thank you enough for your generosity, Mr. Langston.”

  “It is nothing, ma’am. A mere trifle. I am delighted you find the frock appealing.”

  “I was not speaking of the dress, though it is perhaps the nicest I have ever worn.” Indeed, Amelia Henning looked a proper lady this night. The worst of her sunburn lesions were healed over, and her hair was determinedly tied back with a length of gray ribbon that matched her new dress. “I meant for everything. You face your own trials and loss. Yet you have remained a gentleman and more.”

  She took in the men seated at the table with her eyes and her words. “A true saint in the company of saints.”

  Harkness murmured, “My dear lady.”

  “You have put up with my solitude and my worries, and done so without protest. You have asked nothing of me save what was required to unite me with my daughter.” Her eyes glistened like rain-washed gemstones. “I have nothing to offer save prayer, but this do I offer you with a sincere and trusting heart. You shall all be counted among those I bring before God. For the rest of my days.”

  The silence was finally broken by Captain Harkness, who said, “Madam, were you to plant a chest of jewels upon my table, I could not feel wealthier than I do in this moment.”

  “Nor presented with a gift I less deserve,” Reginald agreed. “Though which I accept with heartfelt thanks.”

  “Amen,” Bivens echoed. “I say, amen.”

  “We share in your own distress as well,” Falconer said. “And pray for your swift reunion with your child.”

  “Daily,” Harkness agreed.

  Bernard Lemi showed genuine confusion. He stared at one face after another. Falconer glanced over, but not for long. He knew the young man’s bewilderment all too well. It was not so long ago that he would have felt the same. In the company of men who stood and acted like warriors. Yet who spoke of a higher discipline and a greater calling. And who used such words as prayer and hope with the same confidence as they might comment upon the rising sun.

  Reginald asked, “Where are you from, Mrs. Henning?”

  “Philadelphia. My father was a pastor and then taught at seminary. My husband’s family were missionaries in the province of California. We met when he came to do his seminary training.”

  They spoke of inconsequential matters through the second course, a stew of lamb and potatoes and fresh vegetables from the local market. While Soap and another sailor removed their plates, the steward said, “Begging your pardon, sir. But the gentleman guest brought a great box with him and said I should serve it up as your dessert.”

  “I hope that is permitted,” Bernard Lemi said. “I thought you might like to sample some delicacies of Marseilles.”

  They finished off the meal with perhaps the finest sweets Falconer had ever tasted, small tartlets of some feather-light pastry filled with an astonishing variety of flavors—blackest chocolate, lemon custard, vanilla, cinnamon, cherry. They exclaimed over one essence after another, and still they came. When they could eat no more, Harkness ordered the rest to be shared with the midshipmen. “Never knew a lad who could not eat his own weight in sweets.”

  Captain Harkness then fiddled with his coffee, clearly uncertain whether to ask the banker to let them discuss the matters before them in solitude. Falconer remained silent. This was the captain’s decision.

  As though in response to the unspoken, Lemi asked Falconer, “Did Raban know I brought you?”

  “He did.”

  “No doubt he accused me of cowardice.”

  Falconer hesitated, then confirmed, “In a manner of speaking.”

  The cabin’s oiled woodwork shone ruddy in the candlelight. The faces about the table were cast in taut shades of light and dark. All eyes remained upon the banker as he flattened the tablecloth with a slow sweep of his right
hand.

  “My best friend—my only friend in these parts—he is in terrible debt to Raban. You do not…you cannot imagine…” He hesitated, then lifted his gaze to the woman seated across from him. “Forgive me, madam. I should not speak of such things.”

  “We are a company who have been made close through common wounds and weaknesses,” she replied. “As for myself, what I have endured over the past half year has left me immune to shock, monsieur.”

  Bernard Lemi nodded slowly, as though the motion helped him absorb what he had just heard. “I paid off my friend’s debt. Once, and then again. But he is addicted to the dice. And the dice have made him Raban’s slave. I confronted Raban. I threatened him, demanded satisfaction in a duel.” He glanced at Falconer. “You met his guard?”

  Bivens said to the captain, “A veritable beast of a man.”

  “Raban said if ever I spoke to him again, he would set his guard upon my friend.” Another apologetic glance at Amelia, then he added, “The giant enjoys inflicting pain. Raban…”

  There was no need for Bernard to finish the thought. Falconer saw Harkness and Reginald exchange both a glance and a nod. He took that as his cue. “With your permission, Captain?”

  When Harkness waved assent, Falconer reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the two silver boxes. He set them in the middle of the table. “Raban gave these to Lieutenant Bivens.”

  Bernard Lemi blanched. He said nothing as Reginald reached over and opened the first box, though Falconer could see that it required all the young man’s strength not to turn away.

  Reginald Langston pulled up a lock of dark hair tied with a bit of gold chain.

  “Hair.” Bernard Lemi sighed the word and slumped down into his chair. “Only hair.”

  The second box held the same, except that the hair was blond. The entire table watched as Amelia Henning reached out and accepted the fragment with trembling fingers.

  She declared softly, “It is Catherine.”

  Harkness cleared his throat. “Forgive me, madam. But a simple bit of blond hair could—”

  “Do you think I might mistake a lock from my own daughter’s head?” The woman seemed utterly unaware that she was weeping. “It is feather soft, just as hers. And you see this curl? No, Captain. This belongs to my Kitty.”