by Zoë Archer
Even so, the leer the British officer had given her still made fire surge through his veins. Mikhail had meant exactly what he’d said: anyone who tried to harm her would learn new definitions of pain.
That had been out in the street. Walking into the smoky café, with its many chipped, tiled columns and an abundance of sinister looks from its patrons—most of whom sported daggers up their sleeves or tucked into their robes—Mikhail knew he’d have a harder fight on his hands if anything happened in this place. But he’d emerge the winner. He always did. He’d just have to keep Miss Carlisle safe in the process.
She’s an investment. That’s all.
Tension showed in her eyes as she scanned the room. “The emissary said we’re supposed to meet him in a back room.”
“Of course he did,” Mikhail muttered. He rested his hand on the ether pistol strapped to his thigh. A brief hesitation, and then he pressed something into her hand.
“My revolver,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d taken it from me.”
His ship was crewed with thieves who could steal the Pope’s miter while it was on his head. “Now you’ve got it back. Don’t waver if you have to use it.”
“Never have in the past.” At his surprised expression, she continued, “Sometimes out in the field, bandits or raiders tried extortion. They wanted gold or jewels, or me.” With a practiced movement, she checked the Webley’s cylinder to ensure it was loaded, then snapped it back into place. She tucked the weapon into her jacket’s inside pocket.
“And got neither for their trouble,” he surmised.
“I couldn’t send them on their way empty-handed. So I gave them limps, or pretty holes right in the middle of their shooting hands.”
“Ought to rethink my opinion of academics,” he murmured, reluctantly impressed.
She sent him a smile that spread light through his chest. “We’re not all trapped behind desks or squabbling over tenure.” But her smile quickly faded, replaced by the same tension that had followed her into the café. “Where the hell is this back room? We find it, then I get my parents back.”
He doubted it would be that simple. Few things in life ever were.
Before they took another step, a man in a robe and vest approached them, saying in Arabic, “This way, sayidati.” He walked briskly ahead, his arm outstretched as he guided them around columns and tables, past a boy rattling a tambourine, until they reached a curtained chamber. The man pulled the curtain back and waved them inside.
Neither Mikhail nor Daphne Carlisle moved.
“Ah, Miss Carlisle. I am Abdul Shakur al-Zaman.” A man with a neatly trimmed white beard rose up from the table at which he’d been sitting. His robe was richly dyed, and golden threads wove through the sash at his waist. A curve-handled blade was tucked into his sash. He bowed, not very deeply. “Very punctual. A British quality I so admire. Though I hear you nearly caused a brawl outside the ferengis’ club.”
It wasn’t a surprise that whoever this man was, he had eyes all over the city. And it didn’t shock Mikhail that the emissary spoke smooth, elegant English.
The shock, however, came from the two men who stood directly behind al-Zaman.
Two other rogue Man O’ Wars. One, Mikhail had never seen in his life. But the other, he knew very well. He’d killed him in his dreams many times.
“The hell are you doing here, Olevski?” Mikhail demanded.
Olevski smirked. “Earning a living, just like you.” His gaze flicked up to Mikhail’s hair, and down his altered coat. “How you’ve changed, old friend.”
“Treachery agrees with you,” Mikhail answered. “As ugly as ever.” Which wasn’t entirely true. Olevski still had the square jaw and blond hair that had made him so favored in the navy. And by Mikhail’s sister, Irina. But the bastard’s face turned Mikhail’s stomach.
The other rogue Man O’ War had long black hair, worn tied back with a bandana. He looked bored by the exchange between Mikhail and Olevski. A true mercenary, that one.
Miss Carlisle’s gaze shot back and forth between Mikhail and Olevski. “Whatever bad blood you two share,” she said tightly, “it’s going to have to wait.” She turned her attention to al-Zaman. “I demand to see my parents.”
Al-Zaman merely smiled. “Of course I would not bring them to a disreputable place such as this. My master wants them as safe and well cared for as possible.”
“How courteous,” she shot back. “But I need evidence that your master is, in fact, keeping them safe and cared for. That they aren’t, in fact”—she swallowed hard—“dead.”
The pain in her voice pierced through the red haze of anger engulfing Mikhail.
“It wounds me that you would doubt my master.” Al-Zaman pressed a hand to his heart.
“Go cry on your mother’s tits,” Mikhail growled. “Give us proof.”
Al-Zaman heaved a put-upon sigh, then nodded at the unknown Man O’ War. The man muttered something in French, then placed a wood-and-brass box upon the table and opened it. A square of white silk was attached to the front inside edge of the lid, while the bottom of the fabric was affixed to the inside edge of the box itself. As the lid was positioned, the silk stretched taut.
Al-Zaman snapped a small brass crank into place on the side of the box. He began to turn it. Doing so, he activated a small lamp inside. Light illuminated the square of silk from behind. The emissary continued to turn the crank, and more delicate machinery within the box came alive.
Daphne Carlisle gasped as tiny figures in a tiny room appeared on the silk. They were, in fact, projected images, with the silk acting as a screen. Film scrolled past the lamp within.
“A miniature cinemagraph,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“We are an advanced culture,” said al-Zaman. “You asked for proof, and so here it is.”
She peered closer at the screen. “Those are my parents! Their assistants, too.”
Though the images upon the screen were small, Mikhail identified the Carlisles immediately. They wore a mixture of European and Arabic clothing, and there could be no denying the fact that Daphne Carlisle had her mother’s gentle beauty. In the footage, the middle-aged couple stood side by side, Mr. Carlisle’s arm around his wife’s shoulders, and they both stared at the camera, their expressions tense but not pained. Their assistants gathered around them, some standing, some crouching.
“That cinemagraph reel was taken only yesterday,” al-Zaman explained. “As you see, they are kept in a very pleasant chamber within my master’s abode. It has a courtyard and a fountain. See how sleek and well they look? My master does not starve nor beat them. He is a man of honor.”
“Honorable enough to take two harmless English people and their workers hostage,” Mikhail noted.
Al-Zaman merely shrugged.
“This footage could have been taken weeks ago,” she snapped.
“A moment’s patience.” Al-Zaman held up a finger. “Ah, here it is.”
A burly local man stepped in front of the camera and held up a newspaper. It took a moment for the lens to focus, but when it did, it narrowed in on writing printed in the upper corner of the newspaper. Mikhail could speak some Arabic, but he couldn’t read it, so the words meant nothing to him.
“Yesterday’s date.” Miss Carlisle gave a small exhalation of relief, then narrowed her eyes. “Anything might’ve happened to them between yesterday and today.”
“Herein you must trust my master,” al-Zaman said.
“Fine,” Mikhail rumbled, conscious of Olevski’s continued smirk. “The Carlisles are alive. Now it’s time for you to hand them and their assistants over.”
“Oh, but that is not possible,” al-Zaman answered, remorseful.
“Why the hell not?” Miss Carlisle demanded.
“This standing is indeed tiring, and we’ve much to discuss.” Al-Zaman gestured to the table, where glasses of tea and a plate of sweetmeats were arrayed. “Shall we all sit and refresh ourselves fir
st?”
“I don’t need any sodding refreshment,” she said, banging her hand on the table, causing the glasses to rattle. Mikhail liked how her language coarsened, the angrier she got. “I want my parents back.”
“And you shall have them safe in your custody very soon,” al-Zaman said. “But there is something that my master requires first.”
“Ransom,” Mikhail said.
Yet the emissary shook his head. “That is to be considered later. He has a very special task for you, sayidati Carlisle, and if you are successful in that task, then, and only then, will we discuss the terms of your parents’ release.”
Olevski chuckled, and Mikhail knew the bastard enjoyed watching al-Zaman make him dance.
Frost crept up the back of Mikhail’s neck. Nothing good could come of this. He deliberately let the muscles of his body loosen, as if in preparation for a fight.
“What is this special task?” she said through gritted teeth.
“You spent much of your youth with your parents, did you not? Robbing from graves.”
“Archaeology isn’t grave robbing,” she said tartly.
“Oh, you English and your love of semantics.” Al-Zaman sounded almost cheerful. “Regardless of how you justify your work, it is theft. Thus, you are the perfect candidate for the task my master wishes completed.”
“You want her to steal something,” Mikhail said.
Miss Carlisle made a sound of outrage, but al-Zaman spoke over her protests. “There is a prized astrolabe, a marvel of engineering, and of surpassing age. It is currently in the possession of Khalida bint Afra al-Nazari. Though Khalida and her tribe keep to the desert, the astrolabe is kept in a specially guarded vault here in the city. Here, I am gracious enough to give you a map to the vault in question.” He set a folded square of paper on the table and slid it toward her.
Though Mikhail didn’t know all the intricacies of tribal politics in this part of the world, even he had heard of Khalida. The woman was one of the fiercest and most respected warlords in the whole of the Arabian Peninsula. She was also al-Rahim’s greatest rival, their feud long-standing and marked by episodes of blood-soaked violence.
Stealing the astrolabe would be a prime means for al-Rahim to strike a symbolic blow against his most powerful enemy. Khalida might lose the confidence of her followers, may even be deserted by her warriors, giving al-Rahim the perfect opportunity to surpass her as the region’s dominant force.
Daphne Carlisle knew this, too, and her freckles darkened with her anger. “I’m not going to play a role in your master’s schemes for more unrest. Aren’t the people of Arabia suffering enough with the presence of the Europeans?”
“Perhaps my master could bring peace to his homeland,” al-Zaman offered.
Both Mikhail and Daphne Carlisle snorted in disbelief.
“Even if I were to agree,” she said, “Khalida is a known ally of Britain. If word were to get out that a British citizen robbed her, the consequences would be disastrous.”
“Then you must be very clever,” the emissary said, “and not reveal your nationality to anyone. Nor get caught.” As she started to object, al-Zaman said with a voice like iron, “This is not open to negotiation. If you do not steal the astrolabe from Khalida, my master’s hospitality will be at an end, and your parents will die.”
Mikhail could only imagine how well guarded the vault holding the astrolabe had to be. Most likely it was an impenetrable fortress. Not only was Khalida’s power legendary, so was her wealth. Without a doubt, she’d have spent a fortune to keep her most prized possession secure.
“You’ve got two Man O’ Wars in your pocket,” Mikhail said with contempt. “Have them do it for you.”
“Ah, but it must be a Briton who purloins the astrolabe.”
The task al-Rahim had set was preposterous for anyone who wasn’t a Man O’ War. The best thief couldn’t breach the vault’s security. Anger stirred embers in Mikhail’s chest, that al-Rahim could be so sadistic as to torment Daphne Carlisle with hope that wasn’t truly hope. Just a heartless exercise in cruelty.
Mikhail glanced down at her, anticipating her despair. If faced with the same unwinnable situation, most people would crumble.
Instead, her face was dark with anger. For an instant, Mikhail believed she’d actually launch herself across the table and curl her hands around al-Zaman’s neck. She certainly seemed capable of violence at that moment. He readied himself to wrap his arms around her and hold her back.
Keeps on surprising me, my professorsha.
She drew in a few ragged breaths, fighting for calm. “When must this theft be accomplished?” she said through clenched teeth.
“The sooner it is done,” al-Zaman said, “the sooner your mother and father will be returned to you.”
“Tomorrow morning,” she said without hesitation. “We’ll meet here. You’ll have your damned astrolabe.”
Mikhail wasn’t the only man in the room to be surprised. Al-Zaman raised his brows, and both Olevski and the French rogue Man O’ War wore similar stunned expressions.
“In the morning, then,” al-Zaman finally said. “If you do not appear by noon, I’ll assume that either you have run away or you have failed.”
“I’ll do neither.” She grabbed the map, turned on her heel, and left the chamber.
For a moment, Mikhail didn’t move. His gaze locked with Olevski’s. All Mikhail wanted to do was kick the table aside and unleash years of rage and hatred on the bastard. His telumium implants goaded him, too. They demanded and fed his aggression, scorching his veins, his muscles, with fury that had to be released. He didn’t care about the other Man O’ War. Al-Zaman meant nothing. Finally, Mikhail had a chance to face the son of a bitch who’d led him into ruin, who’d betrayed him and his family so bitterly. A moment he’d been craving for years.
But Daphne Carlisle was out there, headed toward what would surely be her death.
He made the choice without thinking. He threw Olevski one final glare before stalking from the room and through the café.
She was already in the street by the time he caught up with her. Rather than looking afraid, she seemed determined, drawn forward by unshakable resolve.
“You can’t really mean to do it,” he said. “It’s a madman’s errand.”
She barely glanced at him as she strode onward, occasionally glancing down to consult the map. “I’ve got no choice in the matter.”
“There’s always a choice.” He’d made more than a few wrong choices in his life, however.
“Not in this, there isn’t.” She turned a corner, away from the more populated avenues, and he kept pace. They negotiated narrow, snaking lanes and alleyways where the hovering gas lamps were fewer in number, the shadows abundant. He was almost too large to navigate through the alleys, turning sideways so he could fit. Her steps didn’t hesitate, resolutely moving ahead.
Goddamn it, he didn’t want to respect her courage. He didn’t want to appreciate how she was rising to meet an insurmountable challenge. But ever since he laid eyes on her in that tavern in Palermo, she’d shown nothing but courage in the face of danger.
And deception, too. Don’t forget that.
“What happened between you and that other Russian Man O’ War?” she asked abruptly.
Merely the thought of Olevski relit the fuse of Mikhail’s anger. “The professorsha is a dancer, too. Spins and turns around the topic.”
She glanced up at him. “Whereas you simply stomp on anything you don’t want to discuss.”
“History,” he finally answered. “Nothing more than that.”
“Yet you would’ve ripped his throat out if given the opportunity.”
“I might, still.” He didn’t know if killing Olevski would grant him any sense of peace, resolution, or even exoneration. It certainly wouldn’t give him his family back. But he didn’t much care. Spilling that bastard’s blood would be enough.
The narrow lane abruptly ended, leading them into a plaz
a. They quickly stepped back into the shadows to get a better look at the plaza’s lone structure: Khalida’s vault.
The two-story structure was adorned sparsely, only a few mosaics decorating the walls. There were no windows on the ground floor, but the second story appeared to be surrounded by an enclosed catwalk. Here and there along the outer wall of the catwalk were windows covered with metal lattices. Crenellations ran along the very top of the building, offering a good vantage for anyone trying to defend the vault against attack. A large, heavy door was the only entrance, guarded by a burly man with both a gun and a scimitar tucked into his sash. For now, the guard hadn’t noticed them. He looked, actually, bored as hell.
Despite these protective measures, the vault itself seemed less defended than Mikhail would’ve expected. A prized item lay inside, something that bestowed its owner with tremendous symbolic power. Why was the guard outside so bored? Why weren’t there more sentries, more defenses, more weapons?
He understood why: there was no need. All of the vault’s true fortifications were inside. Only a fool would attempt to get himself inside.
“I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll get the astrolabe.”
OF ALL THE things she expected Denisov to say to her—including trying to dissuade her—what he just said ranked at the very bottom of the list.
“You said yourself it’s a madman’s errand.”
“Haven’t been sane for a long time now,” he answered. As she started to object, he spoke over her. “More guards will be inside. Other security apparatuses, too. Tough warlord like Khalida won’t be satisfied with a simple locked safe or a few booby traps. Whatever she’s got in there is going to be big, and dangerous.”
“And outwitted,” she added.
“I can take more physical punishment than you can. I’m stronger and faster. Trained in combat and evasion. You’re …” He took her measure, and she felt the thoroughness of his perusal. As if he was seeing into every part of her. “Brave and clever you might be, but that’s not enough.”
She flushed at his words, that he would think of her as anything good, let alone brave and clever.
“My parents’ lives depend on this,” she said.
