Standard of Honor by Jack Whyte Page B

Arabic, Sinclair caught himself and continued in his native tongue. “Go on, drink, but pour some for me.” He drew the metal cup from inside his jerkin and tapped it against the splints on his useless arm, then moved forward, his hand outstretched. The Saracen glanced at the arm, then nodded his understanding and filled the cup. Sinclair sipped delicately and rinsed his mouth, spitting before he took a second, proper sip and returned to lean against the wall. The Saracen did the same, rinsing his mouth carefully and deliberately before spitting the resultant mud out with some delicacy. He looked again at Sinclair, clearly asking permission, and when Sinclair nodded, he repeated the sequence, then took a third sip with evident relish, washing it around his mouth but swallowing it this time.
    â€œGo ahead. Take more. And wash your eyes, for I know just how you feel.” Sinclair picked up the cloth that had wrapped the fellow’s head. He took one end of it and flapped it until it was relatively free of sand, then mimed wetting it and bathing his eyes before handing it to the other man, who watched him cautiously and thendid as Sinclair suggested. When he had finished, he hefted the bag, clearly asking Sinclair if he wished to drink again, and when Sinclair shook his head he corked the bag deftly and set it down beside him. Sinclair stepped forward and retrieved the dirk that was still stuck in the sand, then stood looking down at the other man.
    â€œI have a question here, Master Blackbeard: are you my prisoner, or am I yours? I have the dirk and your sword, but I’m no’ certain they’ll do me much good, gin it comes to a fight. It will depend, I’m thinking, on that leg o’ yours, for if it’s in better shape than my arm is, then I might have to pay the piper.” He paused, debating with himself on the best course of action, but well aware that he would have to finish the task he had begun. “Come on, then,” he said, shrugging, “let’s find out.”
    Several minutes later, he unearthed the Saracen’s buried left foot and brushed off the last of the sand from the leg, but the Saracen himself was still proceeding very cautiously with his right, brushing delicately at the sand and clearly concerned about what yet lay beneath it. Soon enough, Sinclair could see for himself what was wrong. The leg was heavily bandaged and splinted, and it had clearly been done by someone who knew how. Sinclair laughed aloud, although there was no humor in the sound.
    â€œWell, we’re the fine pair, are we not? Six good limbs between the two o’ us and both o’ us so useless, we canna even talk to each other, let alone fight.” He hoisted his arm and tapped the steel bolts of his splints with the blade of his dirk, and for the first time a hint ofwhat might have been a smile flickered at one corner of the other man’s mouth.
    â€œWell, we might as well have another drink, because I canna think what to do next. I doubt I’ll be able to climb back onto my horse wi’ this damn arm, lacking a mounting block, and even if I could, you couldna get up behind me.” He picked up the water bag again and handed it to the Saracen. “Here, you pour better than me, so pour away.” Moments later, his cup brimming, he moved away and sat carefully on a heap of sand. As he reached down to balance the cup carefully at his feet, the hilt of the jeweled dagger slipped out from the folds of his jerkin. Before he could push it back in, he heard the Saracen’s gasp, and he looked up to see a strange, wide-eyed expression on the man’s face.
    â€œWhat’s wrong? Is it this?” He pulled the dagger free and held it up, and as the man looked at it, Sinclair saw something enter his eyes, and then his face went as still as it had been before.
    â€œWhere did you obtain that knife?” The question was in Arabic, but Sinclair had anticipated it, and