Smolder

Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till from some wonder of new woods and streams
He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.

Prologue

         Though the attacker had used a blade to deal with the wife, he took pleasure in using his hands to finish the husband. Two men looked on, unable to avert their eyes from the horror of the desperate man's body as it twisted and lifted off the sleeping pallet. Before long, all was still.

         The murderer withdrew, his eyes gleaming with hate, with greed, with barely restrained excitement. He was here for a prize, and now there was no one to bar him from it.

         "The daughters," he said to the other men. "As he took my son, I take his daughters."

         His accomplices showed no surprise at this remark. They followed their leader into the back room of the house, where two young girls slept peacefully beside one another. They were both lovely, one nearly a woman, the other very much a child. Desire glittered in the eyes of the man who had destroyed their parents only moments before.

         "We will take them both?" asked one of the men, who seemed unable to keep still. His eyes avoided the sleeping girls.

         "Would it not be more cruel to leave the little one alone? She will be a burden, it's true, but she will be valuable on the slave market, or perhaps as a wife in a year or two," answered the killer, his eyes narrowing at the man who had questioned him. "Since you seem so concerned for her well-being, you can be responsible for getting her out. Mazhar and I will take Barakha."

         There was no protest from the man who had spoken as he bent to his task, taking rope to the little one's wrist and wrapping it around. The child began to wake slowly, her eyes fluttering open as the knot around her wrists was yanked tight. The knee pressed into her heels rendered her legs useless, allowing a second rope to secure them together.

         "Barakha!" the girl cried out, panicking. "Wake up! Barakha!"

         The moss-green eyes of the older girl came open, and she reflexively pulled her arms forward, finding them bound with rope as well. She moaned in terror when she saw the face of the man who loomed over her, leering. "You," she sobbed.

         He reached out to touch her hair, and she was too impeded by the ropes to escape his fingers. "Do not be afraid, my pretty little tigress. I promise to treat you like a first wife."

         The henchmen exchanged a glance behind the killer's back, and the one who had been silent so far ventured to speak. "The son, Hariz. What of the eldest, the son? He will never abandon the cause of vengeance. He will find you, and your suffering will be far more terrible than possessing his sister is worth."

         The was a stiff silence for several seconds; even the girls kept quiet in their fear.

         "You are suddenly concerned about the boy's revenge? Why not when I spilled his mother's blood? When I tightened my hands around his father's throat?" answered the leader, his eyes vicious. The older girl cried out at the words, her voice heavy with anguish.

         "I had only remembered him just now," the man responded defensively, cowering back.

         "I have not been so forgetful," said the murderer, pulling a sealed envelope from his belt and dangling it between his fingers before replacing it carefully. "The boy will have the urge to search first in Algiers for his beloved sisters, and before he realizes his mistake, we will be far, far away."

         This reassurance did not appear to bring peace to either accomplice.

         The older girl wept silently below them, trembling with fright, pain, hopelessness. The younger one pushed her head closer to her sister, whispering softly, "He can find us, Barakha. Kemal will bring us home."


Chapter One


TRIPOLI, LIBYA: July, 1834

         "I am looking for a girl," Kemal told the slave trader, holding the vile man against the stone wall by the throat.

         "Aren't we all, my friend?" the shorter man laughed nervously, his grimy cheeks spreading with his smile and exposing several golden teeth. Gold bought by peddling human flesh. Kemal tightened his grip, pinching the man's laughter into silence.

         "A slave girl," Kemal clarified. "Seventeen years of age. Green eyes, dark hair, very pretty. She might use the name Noor."

         The man tried to swallow against Kemal's grip, but found it difficult. "Slaves...don't have names," he choked out, still trying to take the situation lightly. Kemal's anger blazed hotter, and he pulled the man by the neck away from the wall, just to slam him back again, crashing skull into stone.

         "Have you seen her?" Kemal demanded through gritted teeth.

         "There are millions...of slaves...by that description," answered the man, his light tone now full of fear. "And I never know any names."

         "A long scar across her left shoulder blade. She is tall, slender. Her face would resemble mine," pressed Kemal, his voice growing desperate as he grasped for details that might stir the slave trader's memory. He loosened his grip a little, to encourage the man to think clearly.

         "I have seen no such woman in any Libyan or Tunisian markets. Those are the only places I conduct business. I deal in Africans, in savages. Not Arabs. I am a follower of Allah, my friend, like yourself! I would never buy or sell a fellow believer."

         Kemal was overtaken by fury and despair. Another path that led to nowhere. Another lost hope. "You are no follower of Allah, slave trader. A man that sells little children like goats is no follower of Allah."

         He released the man with a shove and began to walk away, wishing the darkness of the alleyway would simply swallow him up, join him to it, turn him into murky nothingness. He was halfway there anyhow.

         The man called out behind him, "You ought to watch your step, boy. This city is crawling with my agents. If I have my way, you'll be dead before sunrise."

         Kemal kept walking, as if he hadn't heard. Part of him welcomed the thought of one of the slave trader's agents sneaking up behind him, putting a knife into his spine. But he couldn't die yet. Not until he found them, not until they were safe.

         This slave trader was only one of the many enemies he had made in Tripoli. Many had threatened him similarly, and he really shouldn't risk the chance that one might find him and follow through. There was nothing for him here, anyway. Just like there had been nothing in Algiers, Casa Blanca, or Tunis. How long had it been now? He had been eighteen when he received the letter. That had been 1827 on the Christian calendar. Since no one kept a Christian calendar in the Barbary states, least of all him, he couldn't be sure what year it was now. Had it been six years? Seven? Ten? All he knew was that it had been a lifetime since he had left Paris. A lifetime since he'd docked in Algiers. A lifetime since he'd received that cruel letter.

         The cobblestones beneath his feet seemed to sink with the weight of his steps as he trudged on. He was lost in his thoughts, burrowing into his pain, searching for an escape though he knew he was looking in the wrong place. He was in so deep that when he was stabbed, he assumed it was merely a creation of his dark mindset.

         But he couldn't breath. A hand was digging into the ribs of his left side, while a sharp point was burrowing into his right. Kemal gasped for breath, his mind lurching with the impossibility of what had just happened to him.

         "Stupid, foolish boy, thinking you can threaten me, threaten my friends? This is what your stupidity has earned you," a malicious voice murmured into his ear. Kemal could feel the hilt of the knife pressing against him. Process. Think, he urged himself, setting aside his pain. It hurt a lot, but the knife did not seem to penetrate very far, probably not far enough to permanently damage anything. However, it was likely that more wounds were intended, and he would surely not get so lucky next time. He had to win this fight now if he hoped to survive. And he must survive.

         He took a tentative breath. The movement of his ribs and skin around the knife was excruciating, but the man's hold was casual enough. He was confident Kemal would not be able to fight.

         Kemal let his head fall forward, as if in defeat.

         "Ma-Salaam," said the villain ironically. Go with peace. The knife was pulled out swiftly, inches away from plunging into his back when Kemal seized the man's wrist out of  the air. He twisted the arm until he heard a muted pop, then used the oddly straight limb to force the man onto the ground.

      He recognized his attacker at once; another slave trader he had exchanged choice words with several days earlier. Kemal recalled the incident angrily, and gave the arm another sharp twist. The slave trader shouted with pain, flailing for a minute before finding a way to push his feet into Kemal's chest, sending him flying back into the wall.

         Kemal felt his head hit stone, and the world spun for a moment. He recovered quickly, but not before the man's hand closed around his throat, pressing his knee uncomfortably against Kemal's groin. The dizziness increased as he tried to gasp in air and lift himself away from the knee at the same time. All he could think about was how badly he wished he carried a knife.

         Desperately, Kemal grabbed for the man's face, getting a hold of his beard so he could jam his thumb with all of his strength into the man's eye.

         The soft tissue gave sickeningly under Kemal's finger and the man shrieked in pain, releasing his grip and staggering backwards. Kemal used the opportunity to search for the knife he had been stabbed with. It lay on the ground where it had been dropped, still wet with his blood. There was blood running down his side, too, and out from between the slave trader's fingers where they were cupped over his wounded eye.

         "I'll kill you!" cried the man, rushing foolishly at Kemal though he was half-blind and unarmed. It was a simple thing to force the point of the knife into a soft spot beneath the man's jaw. Kemal could see death in the undamaged eye even before the body dropped to the ground.

         It was impossible to tell how long he stood there, staring at the dead man. He did not feel remorseful, though he wished he could. He had taken someone's life. He should be sorry.

         But there was too much life charging through his veins to feel regret. After all, he had merely defended himself. He had not invited the attack; he had not even been armed. But he had won. There hadn't been any other option, in his mind.

         Throbbing pain in his side brought his attention back to the present. He had to stop the bleeding, or his triumph over the slave trader would mean little. He supposed the innkeeper's wife would be able to tend the wound well enough. Then he would be on his way. It was clear he was no longer welcome in Tripoli.

         He returned to the inn where he was staying, weary with the thought of restarting this process in a new city. The innkeeper's wife made an absurd fuss over him as she cleaned and dressed the wound, which Kemal found oddly touching.

        Once she was satisfied, he went to gather his meager belongings, giving the innkeeper two of the last four coins in his pocket. The innkeeper's wife packed him food for his journey while her husband retrieved Kemal's horse. He thanked her with an empty voice, wishing he could sound more sincere, wishing he could tell her what her kindness meant to him. She seemed to understand, somehow, and smiled warmly at him. " Salaam," she said quietly. Peace.

         She used the word with far more sincerity than the slave trader. It was unsual, though, the word on its own. The traditional parting phrase was as-salaam alaykum - peace be with you. But her message was simple, and really not meant as a parting phrase at all. Salaam. Peace. It was an alien concept to him now, an empty word. What was peace, really? It had been so long since he'd known it. But he responded to her in kind, "Wa alaykum as-salaam." And with you peace.

         He thanked her again for her kindness and walked outside, where the innkeeper was holding his horse. Kemal mounted, attaching his sack to the saddle. With another quiet thank you and farewell, he urged the horse forward.

      The world around him was hazy and gray as he concentrated only on the clod of the mare's hooves against the street. It seemed to be only seconds before he reached the edge of the city, staring out into the vastness of the desert. The sand glittered in the moonlight, mimicking the bold, white stars that littered the purple-black sky.

         Kemal despised the desert, though he had spent almost as much time traveling through it as he had spent in the cities. The desert maliciously confronted a man with the most violent aspects of his pain. But the worst was facing his loneliness. His family was gone, his sisters lost to a terrible fate. He had no companions. He wasn't even well-aquainted with the horse he rode, having just bought the agile russet mare a few days earlier. He had spent most of his remaining money on her, needing a solid horse with enough stamina to make the long journey to Cairo.

         It was inevitable that he would go to Cairo next. He had run out of cities to put between himself and his birthplace. His stomach clenched and wavered at the thought of going back, setting foot again in the city where his mother and father had been slain, where his sisters had been stolen, and where they were certainly not going to be now.

         Yet the need to extend his knowledge of the events of that cruel night had become unavoidable. He had to know more.

         There was also work to be found in Cairo, a destination for many Europeans. He had always been surprised at how often he'd needed his knowledge of English and French along the way, and there was no reason not to capitalize on it. Westerners were always toddling ignorantly off their boats, bewildered to find no one able to speak their language in the Levant. If Kemal could time it right, swoop in and rescue some dumbstruck nobleman at the last minute, a long term position would be easy to negotiate. It had been his father's whole purpose for sending him to France for schooling, the wish for his son to have a role in the enlightenment of the Ottoman Empire. Kemal wasn't simply flattering himself in the surety that if he were to arrive in Istanbul today, the Sultan would put him on staff immediately.

         And so he was destined for Cairo. There would be information there, more reliable information than the letter had provided him with. Maybe an account from a witness, though he would be grateful even for rumors. Somebody had to know something. He knew that he had to find that somebody soon, before the weight of his guilt and loneliness crushed him into the earth.

~~~

CAIRO, EGYPT: September, 1834

         The first glimpse of Cairo made Wynn's heart beat a little faster. The port of Bulak was crowded and raucous, full of travelers and vendors, donkeys and camels awaiting passengers. Hundreds of ships lined the banks of the port, their masts and yards jutting up like spears along the edge of the river. Hundreds upon hundreds of people moved beyond her, weaving amongst one another, each with their own destination and purpose. The swarm hummed with foreign words and hoofbeats, the sound mesmorizing her with the strange vigor of this odd place.

         The sailors on the riverboat she and her father had taken down the Nile from Alexandria extended the boat's long, narrow plank until it landed with a thunk against the wood of the dock. The noise and mild shudder that resonated through the deck broke her thoughts, and she suddenly noticed the presence of her father beside her.

         "It's magnificent, isn't it, darling?" he remarked, beaming at the scene. She, in contrast, scowled at it.

         "Mmm."

         "Still sulking, are you?" he asked grumpily, displeased with her response.

         "Sulking!" she protested indignantly, frowning at her father.

         "Moping around, scowling constantly -"

         "Bringing your meals, tidying your cabin," she finished for him, "You're right, I've been downright dreadful!" It was a rather unattractive display she would have never dared in England. But at that moment, England seemed impossibly far away.

        A long pause stretched, and she waited for his rebuke.

         "I was referring to your happiness, my love, not your domestic capabilities," he replied softly, and she felt a pang of remorse for snapping at him.

         "How am I to be happy, Papa? You know I had no desire to come here," she said, her voice gentler.

         "You did not have to come."

         "You think I would have been happier left in an empty house, out of my mind with worry over what would become of you? You left me no choice, Papa. I did have to come."

         Another long silence. She peeked at him to see moisture in his eyes.

         "I am a terrible father," he whispered, his voice thick.

         Her heart plummeted. It had not been her aim, to hurt him more than he already was. She hugged his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder.

         "You aren't. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be crass."

         He said nothing else, breathing deeply as if to ward off his pain with air. After a moment, he had mastered himself.

         "I thought you might eventually warm to the idea. You were always my adventurous girl," he said, now sounding somewhat light-hearted.

         "Perhaps I will, in time," she replied obligingly, patting his arm to reassure him, though she firmly doubted her own words. They had the intended effect, however, her father brightening a bit.

         "I will make sure you enjoy yourself. When we return, you will be the most entertaining of all the eligible women in England. Every duke and earl in the country will be eager to wed such a beautiful, fascinating adventurer," he rushed to reassure her, a plea beneath his words. For some reason, this fairytale he had conjured to appease her made her angry.

                   "Every duke and earl shall shake their heads and sigh at the ruined reputation of a girl made wild and uncouth by the Levant. No school will want me, fearing the influence of my stories on the tender young ladies. I'll be forced to remain shut up in our house, a recluse, a burden to my father until the end of his days," she replied harshly, too annoyed to edit her tirade. "Then again, the destruction of my reputation will have been my father's fault to begin with, so I suppose it is a sort of justice."

         Papa sighed resignedly, appearing nonchalant, though she suspected her words had hurt him more than he was willing to admit. "Sulk all you like, then," he said, trying and failing to maintain a playful tone. "I'm going to see if we can't hire a few of these beasts to carry our luggage."

         He moved towards the plank. Wynn eyed it warily, doubting the safety of the flimsy, narrow bit of wood. But her father made it across quite easily, and she reluctantly followed suit, lifting her skirts high in order to see exactly where her feet were going.

         Almost as soon she had set foot on the dock, Papa was accosted by a gentleman with a turban and a great beard. "Chameau?" he asked enthusiastically.

         She had never been gifted when it came to French, and her mother hadn't made her pursue it. Papa knew a little more than she did, but not a lot. He seemed to understand what the man was asking, though, and Wynn asked him to translate.

         "He asks if we need a camel."

         Wynn eyed a group of the long-legged beasts that were gathered not far off past the docks. "You cannot possibly mean for riding."

         Her father grinned, a twinkle in his eye, as if she had told a good joke. "Isn't it grand?"

         "Not very," she replied. He ignored her.

         "Trois chameaux, si vous plait," her father told the man. But it seemed they had reached the limits of the man's French, for he began babbling in Arabic. Both Wynn and her father watched him in confusion before he fell silent, watching them back for an answer. Papa watched him back for a moment, unsure of how to respond, then holding up three fingers.

         "Trois. Three. Three chameaux. Er - camels."

         The man looked blankly at him.          

         Papa counted his fingers, patient as always. "One, two, three. I need three, man." Then Papa pointed at the camels and counted out three of them.

         More Arabic, and then the man held his hand out in a gesture that clearly requested payment. Father rummaged in his coin purse and handed the man a golden sovereign.

         The man eyed it, then shook his head. "Non. Piastres."

         "Piastres?" Her father asked, looking confused. But of course - Papa had failed to realize that, while in Alexandria English currency was happily accepted, Cairo was not so accomodating.

         The man easily translated the empty look on Papa's face, looking annoyed, but he was not about to lose his sale. He began to argue in Arabic, until a French-speaking sailor from the riverboat told Papa, "Vous pouvez échanger l'argent dans la ville."

         "What did he say?" asked Wynn.

         "Hell. I think he said coins are exchanged in the city."

         Wynn sighed, resisting the urge to shake her head at him. "Papa, how are we going to get to the city with all of this luggage?"

         Her father looked as if he was contemplating that very thing. Walking would be impossible, as they would have to make several trips, and it was likely whatever they left behind would be stolen. Not to mention the heat of the Mediterranean sun, showing no mercy despite their proximity to the river. She supposed they might find someone who would accept payment upon their arrival to the city, but then again, they might not.

         Wynn prayed he would give up, suggest they take a nice little vacation in Sicily and get back on the riverboat. But knowing Papa, that was not going to happen.          

         Just as she was about to suggest it when someone behind them said, "Excuse me, sir, miss. I overheard your troubles and wondered if I might be of service."

         She whirled to see the apparent speaker, a tall Egyptian youth with dark curls and moss-colored eyes. "You speak English," she said, revealing her innate grasp of the obvious. He gave her a peculiar look, and she realized she probably should not have spoken before her father.
         
         But he responded courteously, "Quite fluently, my lady. Though admittedly, I am better at French."
         
         Out of the mouth of another, the words would have sounded arrogant. But there was no trace of self-importance in the young man's voice; he was merely stating facts.

         "Bravo, lad! Your timing is impeccable. We have quite a lot of baggage, but we're having a bit of a currency conflict," Papa took over, looking enormously relieved.

         "Ah, yes, I expect he wants piastres, does he?"

         "That's right," Papa confirmed.
         
         "I ought to be able negotiate with someone to accept payment after you are able to exchange your currency," the young man reassured, his eyes resting on Wynn a moment before returning to her father. "Though, if I may offer my humble opinion, I think you prefer donkeys. They are cheaper by far, and easier to navigate through the narrower streets."

         Wynn liked the idea of donkeys infinitely more than camels. Though their odors did not recommend either animal.

         "Indeed, indeed, sound advice! Say, you wouldn't by any chance be looking for long-term position, would you, my boy? I was under the impression that all English-speaking dragomen were employed by the Sultan, but it seems I am mistaken! You would be an invaluable asset to our expedition. And you will be well-compensated, I can assure you."

         Well-compensated? That was a laugh.

         "Sir, I would be honored to serve you. I don't require much in the way of payment, merely a place to rest my head and a meal here and there. I would be grateful for a meager salary, but I would not insist upon it," said young man.
         
         She wanted to interrupt. This was going far too fast for her liking. But what could she say?

         "No doubt! All you ask is more than reasonable. Perhaps you would be up for a bit of travel? My daughter and I have a few other stops on our journey once we have finished with Cairo."

         The young man hesitated, and Wynn prayed he would refuse. She couldn't say what provoked the feeling, but she didn't like this man. His face was too smooth, too emotionless. What was he hiding?
         
         "May I ask where you are destined?"


         "Jerusalem and Damascus, certainly, and Istanbul if all goes as planned," answered Papa, practically beside himself with excitement.

         "Then I am at your service," answered the young man, taking a low bow. When he raised his eyes, they found hers at once. She fixed him with a look of severe skepticism, warning him that, while he may have won her father over, she would be watching him very closely. The corner of his mouth quirked into a sort of smile, which surprised her enough to make her blush a little. But she did not look away. He didn't deserve the satisfaction.

         "Then I suppose introductions are in order," said Papa, oblivious to the eye contact that she was sharing with his new employee. "I am Thomas Danver, and this is my daughter, Wynn."

         "A pleasure, Mr. Danver," he paused and took her hand in his, the heat of his skin penetrating her kidskin gloves. "Miss Danver," he pressed his lips briefly to her knuckles. "I am Kemal al-Malik, of Cairo."

         "The pleasure is ours, Mr. al-Malik. So, donkeys, you say?"

~~~

         Wynn didn't take the time to truly scrutinize the young Mr. al-Malik until he was a safe distance away, negotiating for donkeys to carry them into the city. She didn't like him. The pieces of him she'd seen, though few, didn't fit together. A man with his skills could be living comfortably as a valued member of the Sultan's staff. So why was he scuffling around in the dust, rescuing middle-class Brits and wishing only for food and shelter in return?

         In any case, anyone that could sway her impaired father so quickly put her immediately on her guard. She alone was left to keep him out of trouble, a job that had once belonged to her mother, who had managed it with extreme grace. However, they were far from the safety of England here. Wynn feared she was out of her depth.

         Yet it was the physical force she predicted Mr. al-Malik capable of that frightened her the most.  He was a presence indeed, broad between the shoulders and standing at least head taller than her father. The cream linen garment he wore made no secret of his sturdy build, the light fabric falling to his calves and cinching at the waist with a wide leather belt. His limbs hummed with bridled strength, like a great cat on the prowl. If he wished them harm, who would stop him?

         "What good fortune!" said Papa, a hopeful light in his eyes like she hadn't seen since the onset of Mama's illness. "The only dragoman in the Levant not working for the Sultan, and he has come to our personal rescue! Good fortune, indeed."

         "Hmmm," responded Wynn, who tended not to trust fortune.
         
         "Try not to brood, darling, it's not a very ladylike quality."

         "I can think of many qualities you allow me that are not very ladylike," she replied mildly.
         
         "Go on, then, eviscerate me," he said. It had once been a joke between them, an invitation for her to share her true opinions with him. It wasn't really all that funny anymore, she realized. But she accepted the invitation.

         "It's just...do we truly have the means to pay him? I recall you mentioning the expense of the voyage, and I wanted to make sure you are being realistic about our funds."

         He frowned. "My darling, you must put enough faith in your old Papa to look after our finances."

         "It is not a matter of faith," she mumbled, but did not press the issue. It wouldn't get her anywhere, anyway.

         "I grow tired of your mood, my sweet," he told her. It was a gentle request for her silence. She obliged.

         Mr. al-Malik returned to them a moment later, wearing a self-satisfied grin. "He agrees to accept payment once we enter the city, as long as your daughter and I remain with his representative as collateral security until you return."

         This seemed not to phase her father in the least. "Well done, lad! Lead the way."

         Wynn's mouth fell open in shock. Did he truly mean to leave her with this stranger long enough to exchange their currency? It was outrageous, unthinkable. To leave his maiden daughter in the care of a stranger - a man, a foreigner! - they had met mere minutes ago? He could not be serious.

         "Papa!" she protested when he didn't come to his senses immediately.

         "What is it, my love?" he answered, seemingly oblivious to the scandal he had agreed to.

         Wynn's eyes darted to Mr. al-Malik, trying to think of a way to lodge a complaint without insulting him. He watched her with a placid look in his eyes, daring her to protest.

         "I just...that is to say...would it be proper for me to remain with Mr. al-Malik without a chaperone?" There, that was graceful enough.

         "A chaperone! In Egypt? My silly darling, this isn't England! There is no call for such petty social codes here. Mr. al-Malik will look after you admirably, and after all, it won't take me very long."

         She threw courtesy to the winds. "Petty social codes! Papa, my reputation is already at risk just being here -"
         
         "Then you ought to do something to deserve it, don't you think?"

         There was no getting through to him. She clenched her hands into fists and fixed Mr. al-Malik with a dark look. He looked back at her, but his face was solemn, unreadable. And she suddenly felt foolish. She was pouting like a child. She let her hands relax, her eyes drifting back to the crowd. He probably thought her spoiled and disagreeable. Not that it mattered.

         It was somewhat disturbing, though, her father's insouciance towards the one thing of value she possessed: her reputation. Both of their futures depended on the financial contributions of Wynn's future husband, and such an advantageous marriage would not take place if her good name was tarnished. Papa had never been very good at practical things, it was true. It had always been Mama's gentle coaching that had kept him within the realms of socially acceptable behavior.  But he should know better. He had been reckless with grief for a while now, but this was the first time he had put her at risk. It concerned her, and not only for selfish reasons.