Desert Song (DeWinter's Song 3) by Constance O'Banyon
Authors: Constance O'Banyon
to freshen your appearance. We are just coming into Cairo."
As she washed from a jug of water, Mallory felt the boat bump against the pier. Hurriedly, she brushed her hair and secured it to the back of her head. Her clothes were hopelessly creased since she'd been forced to sleep in them, but there was no place to change into a fresh gown.
As she emerged from the curtained-off area, she secretly hoped to see Lord Michael once more, but he was not among the waiting passengers, so he must have already departed. She would always remember their encounters, even their disagreements, with fondness.
As the donkey cart rambled over the uneven streets, Sergeant Wickett informed Mallory about the points of interest. "Look, just there," he said, glad to display his knowledge of the city, "see the tall, Byzantine-style mosque that sits atop the great citadel? The one that towers above the rest?"
Mallory glanced at the silver domes that gleamed in the noonday sun. "Yes, I see it."
"That's the Citadel of Cairo. It was planned by the great Saladin, himself." Wickett smiled. "You have no doubt, Lady Mallory, heard of the great Saladin, who defeated our Richard the Lion-heart in the Crusades?"
Mallory nodded eagerly, engrossed in his story. "Yes, of course."
"Saladin took many Crusaders as his prisoners and forced them into labor to make Cairo an impregnable city. That is, in a way justice, is it not?"
Mrs. Wickett was not so magnanimous. "Had our solders captured that man, I'm certain he would have been sent to the Tower and lost his head."
Mallory watched the sights in fascination. Her eyes followed a tall man wearing a black robe and white turban, who carried braided strands of garlic over his shoulder. His voice called out, hawking the prized spice that the Egyptian women used to season their food.
The streets were so crowded with humans and animals that they made slow progress, but Mallory didn't care— she relished each new sight and sound. She was feeling truly alive, enjoying a freedom that she had never experienced before. She was going to love Egypt, she was sure of it.
Chapter 10
Michael arrived at the British consulate and was immediately shown into a small, cluttered office. Behind an imposing desk was a life-size portrait of Queen Victoria.
Michael was greeted by a little man who kept taking out his watch and checking the time, and Michael concluded that this act was performed more out of nervousness than a need to know the correct time.
The man stared anxiously over the brim of his thick glasses. "I'm sorry, m'lord, but the consul is away from Cairo and I don't know when he'll be returning. He's gone to London."
Michael's eyes narrowed. "Then who might you be?"
"I'm the vice-consul, Thomas Abrams, at your service, m'lord.
"Can you help me?" Michael asked.
"If you mean about your father, I don't have any new information about him. But be assured that his lordship will take up the matter with the queen."
"It seems to me that my father's cause would have been better served if the consul had remained in Egypt instead of conferring with the queen in London."
"Well, as to that, I don't know," the man sputtered. "Perhaps I can be of help to you."
Michael leaned forward, placing an impatient hand on the polished desk. "Mr. Abrams, how can you possibly help me?"
"I've been left in charge of your father's case. However, I don't know what anyone can do to find him."
Michael gave him an imperious glare. "You are the third person I've seen today, and none of them could tell me anything about my father either." He stood, towering over the man. "I'll not deal with an underling—do I make myself understood? Unless you can provide me with the information I need, I'll find out on my own."
If the man took offense, he still spoke to Lord Michael with respect. "We found your father's servant, and buried him. But there was no clue as to your father's whereabouts. How can you find a man when it seems that the desert sand just
As she washed from a jug of water, Mallory felt the boat bump against the pier. Hurriedly, she brushed her hair and secured it to the back of her head. Her clothes were hopelessly creased since she'd been forced to sleep in them, but there was no place to change into a fresh gown.
As she emerged from the curtained-off area, she secretly hoped to see Lord Michael once more, but he was not among the waiting passengers, so he must have already departed. She would always remember their encounters, even their disagreements, with fondness.
As the donkey cart rambled over the uneven streets, Sergeant Wickett informed Mallory about the points of interest. "Look, just there," he said, glad to display his knowledge of the city, "see the tall, Byzantine-style mosque that sits atop the great citadel? The one that towers above the rest?"
Mallory glanced at the silver domes that gleamed in the noonday sun. "Yes, I see it."
"That's the Citadel of Cairo. It was planned by the great Saladin, himself." Wickett smiled. "You have no doubt, Lady Mallory, heard of the great Saladin, who defeated our Richard the Lion-heart in the Crusades?"
Mallory nodded eagerly, engrossed in his story. "Yes, of course."
"Saladin took many Crusaders as his prisoners and forced them into labor to make Cairo an impregnable city. That is, in a way justice, is it not?"
Mrs. Wickett was not so magnanimous. "Had our solders captured that man, I'm certain he would have been sent to the Tower and lost his head."
Mallory watched the sights in fascination. Her eyes followed a tall man wearing a black robe and white turban, who carried braided strands of garlic over his shoulder. His voice called out, hawking the prized spice that the Egyptian women used to season their food.
The streets were so crowded with humans and animals that they made slow progress, but Mallory didn't care— she relished each new sight and sound. She was feeling truly alive, enjoying a freedom that she had never experienced before. She was going to love Egypt, she was sure of it.
Chapter 10
Michael arrived at the British consulate and was immediately shown into a small, cluttered office. Behind an imposing desk was a life-size portrait of Queen Victoria.
Michael was greeted by a little man who kept taking out his watch and checking the time, and Michael concluded that this act was performed more out of nervousness than a need to know the correct time.
The man stared anxiously over the brim of his thick glasses. "I'm sorry, m'lord, but the consul is away from Cairo and I don't know when he'll be returning. He's gone to London."
Michael's eyes narrowed. "Then who might you be?"
"I'm the vice-consul, Thomas Abrams, at your service, m'lord.
"Can you help me?" Michael asked.
"If you mean about your father, I don't have any new information about him. But be assured that his lordship will take up the matter with the queen."
"It seems to me that my father's cause would have been better served if the consul had remained in Egypt instead of conferring with the queen in London."
"Well, as to that, I don't know," the man sputtered. "Perhaps I can be of help to you."
Michael leaned forward, placing an impatient hand on the polished desk. "Mr. Abrams, how can you possibly help me?"
"I've been left in charge of your father's case. However, I don't know what anyone can do to find him."
Michael gave him an imperious glare. "You are the third person I've seen today, and none of them could tell me anything about my father either." He stood, towering over the man. "I'll not deal with an underling—do I make myself understood? Unless you can provide me with the information I need, I'll find out on my own."
If the man took offense, he still spoke to Lord Michael with respect. "We found your father's servant, and buried him. But there was no clue as to your father's whereabouts. How can you find a man when it seems that the desert sand just
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