Daughter of the God-King(99)

The cart finally came to a halt and the sack was once again shimmied down over her head. The vendor counted under his breath, and the three lifted her and unloaded her out the back. Kicking and twisting furiously, Hattie hoped that since it was still daylight she could draw enough attention so as to allow her rescuers to trace her. Or perhaps she could hold the pistol to a hostage and parlay her way out—unless they never unbound her, which seemed a likely possibility, given her attempts at escape. She would wait and reassess her strategy; perhaps it would be best to feign passivity, although she wasn’t certain she could do such a thing.

After having been deposited on a chair, the sack was removed. Her hair tangled around her face, Hattie gazed in bemusement at Hafez, the Minister of Antiquities who regarded her with a solemn expression. They were in a rude hut, barely big enough for the number of people crowded inside.

“Forgive me, Miss Blackhouse,” the minister apologized, bowing. “I am down to my last bargaining chip, I’m afraid.” He carefully untied the gag and Hattie’s captors, observing this, stepped back a cautious pace.

“What is the meaning of this—this outrage?” Hattie asked in an ominous tone. In truth, she had quickly grasped the meaning of this outrage upon being confronted with the minister; it appeared Hafez was afraid he’d be summarily murdered by Chauvelin—as had his other allies—and had decided he’d use her as a hostage until he could come to terms with his enemies.

Hafez spread his hands. “You will come to no harm if you cooperate—my assurances on it.”

She tossed her head to clear the curls away from her eyes. “I wish that I could say the same for you—you will be made to pay for this, and pay dearly.”

Hafez moved to twitch the curtain back and peer out the door as he mopped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “I would point out that you are in no position to make threats, Miss Blackhouse.”

“Shame on you,” pronounced Hattie with disdain. “You backed the wrong horse; then you and your cohorts turned coat and scurried over to the British. Did you think Napoleon’s people would overlook your double-dealing?”

Annoyed, he allowed the curtain to fall back. “You must calm yourself, Miss Blackhouse—I ask only that you sit quietly.”

As this seemed unlikely, Hattie eyed him with skepticism. “What is it you hope to gain? You cannot imagine to survive—your cohorts certainly didn’t. You would be better served to seek my favor, and ask that I intercede for you.”

He approached to stand before her in a manner meant to intimidate. “It is none of your concern—stay quiet.”

Hattie curled her lip in scorn. “My only consolation is that Bing is not here to see this.”

Fast losing patience, Hafez leaned over to put his finger in her face, warning, “You will stay quiet, or I will gag you again.”

So that he would not think she had been cowed, Hattie lifted her chin and looked around her. She was in the worker’s village, in one of the huts hidden away in the maze of other huts, which meant she may be difficult to find. Possessing her soul in patience, Hattie tried to sit quietly in the hope that they would unbind her so that she could summarily shoot someone.

After about an hour, murmuring voices could be heard outside the curtain, the general tone evidencing concern. The curtain twitched aside and the faces of several native men were revealed, one asking a question.

“Get help,” Hattie implored in an urgent tone, wishing she knew some Arabic.

Hafez stepped to the curtain and angrily gestured the men back. “Gag her,” he instructed the vendor of trinkets.

And so the gag was reapplied while Hattie sat and seethed, waiting for she knew not what.

Finally, as the light began to fade, noises and voices outside the hut signaled the approach of a sizable party. Hafez gave an instruction in Arabic to her captors, then passed outside the curtain. The vendor stepped forward, drew his pistol, and held it to Hattie’s head. They cannot mean to kill me, she assured herself, but found that the proximity of the barrel caused a curious sensation in her midsection. The curtain parted and Hafez reentered, accompanied by the baron and an escort of several native men.

Upon seeing her situation, the baron paused upon the threshold and spoke in French. “Surely there is no need for such measures?”

“There is every need,” Hafez insisted. “I cannot trust you.”

The Frenchman considered Hattie’s situation with a frown. “No—you would not dare.”

Hafez cocked his head. “It is not I who would have to explain to him that she was dead due to my carelessness.”