Bewildered, Alysson glanced around her to discover they were drawing curious stares from several passersby, while a few paces behind her, Chand stood glaring at her. "I will pretend I am admiring the stallion in your charge. Perhaps I might wish to purchase him."
"But he is not for sale, lallah!"
"I know that, but it will do no harm if I am seen making inquiries. Now tell me what has happened to bring you here."
Mahmoud shifted uncomfortably, while his brow took on a gloomy cast. "Have you not heard of the defeat of our armies?''
"Yes . . . and I am sorry, Mahmoud. I wish the outcome could have been different."
"It should have been different! Allah could not have deserted the true believers to side with the French infidels— those foul offspring of snakes and scorpions!"
Alysson murmured an appropriately soothing sound of agreement. "But what is your master doing here . . , that was Jafar I saw just now, was it not?'' When the boy didn't answer at once, Alysson bit her lip, trying to control her impatience. "Mahmoud, please, you have to tell me."
"The lord is here on behalf of the Sultan of the Arabs, Abdel Kader."
"What does that mean?"
"It is not my place to say."
Mahmoud obviously did not want to tell her, but Alysson would not give up. When she continued to press, she learned that Jafar was here to negotiate terms of exile for the vanquished. leader. Jafar had presented himself to the French authorities, not as a Berber warlord, but as the Englishman Nicholas Sterling, the grandson of the Duke of Moreland.
Her thoughts racing ahead, Alysson stared at Mahmoud in horror. In hopes of aiding his vanquished sultan, lafar had given up his Berber identity in exchange for the bargaining power his British nationality and noble family name could give him. But even if hed adopted English dress and assumed his English name, Gervase would surely recognize him as the Berber warrior who had abducted her, the same one who had nearly killed him. And then Gervase would expose the man she loved as an enemy of the French government, as a traitor.
A shudder of fear ran up Alysson's spine. She had to find Gervase at once and prevent him from setting eyes on Jafar.
With only a brief word to Mahmoud, ordering him to wait, she whirled and reentered the building where her Uncle Honotb was just concluding his conversation. Sweeping past her startled uncle, Alysson pushed her way into Gervase's office, only to discover that he was no longer there. When she demanded to see him, she was told apologetically that the colonel was now closeted in conference with other officials of the French government and could not be disturbed.
She finally gave up when Honoré forcibly took her by the arm and steered her outside. To her further dismay, Mahmoud. had disappeared with the horses. Alysson wanted to search for him, but Honoré insisted that enough was enough, and she didn't dare push him further. So far her uncle had acquiesced to her wishes and protected Jafar by remaining silent, but he was not likely to continue if her abductor could easily be brought to justice.
So instead of protesting, Alysson reluctantly, quietly, returned home to wait in a state of nervous dread, wondering if any minute she would hear that her fierce Berber lover had been captured and taken away in chains.
The same concern lay in the back of Jafar's mind.
He had risked recognition in order to participate in the negotiations, but he could not have done otherwise. If there was the slightest possibility that he could impact his sultan's fate, he had to take it. And so he had attended the conference called by His Highness, the Due d'Aumale, determined to lend whatever weight his family name and position in the European community could bring.
Any moment, though, Jafar expected to be arrested. He was even resigned to that eventuality. He had little doubt that Colonel Bourmont could identify him. And he was prepared to face the consequences—afterward, when the negotiations were completed. The case against him was not particularly strong, he thought. It would be his word against the colonel's, in fact. But Jafar hoped sincerely to delay the moment of reckoning. If it occurred now, the charges would be serious enough to complicate matters and completely destroy his ability to plead his commander's case.
He knew the exact instant the colonel made the linkage between the Englishman Nicholas Sterling and the Berber warlord who had captured an innocent young woman and used her to lure the French army into the desert where they could be slaughtered.
The two of them were sitting at opposite ends of a long table, but Jafar could feel the colonel staring at him during the opening remarks, and later, when, as Nicholas Sterling, he rose to address the gathering.
At his first words, he could see Bourmont's face freeze in a startled expression, then slowly turn dark with anger.
But the colonel did not leap to his feet and point an accusing finger at him. Bourmont made no move at ail- probably, Jafar decided, because he preferred not to interrupt the proceedings. Thankful for the reprieve, Jafar forced himself to relax and devote his attentions to the subject at hand, though knowing his conflict with the colonel was not over by any means.
The present discussion over what to do with the vanquished Berber leader was both heated and surprising to Jafar. He had not expected to find himself on the same side of the debate as his blood enemy, arguing for leniency. Like he, Colonel Bourmont favored exile to any of the harsher punishments to which the leader of the Arabs could have been sentenced. The Due d'Aumale listened with appropriate graveness before making his decision. When it was over, Jafar felt he had achieved the best terms he could have hoped for. Abdel Kader would be escorted to France, where the king would determine his fate.
The gathering of government officials and military men was starting to disperse when Jafar heard a hard voice at his left shoulder.
"Might I have a word with you, m'sieur? In private."
He turned to meet the dark, narrowed eyes of his longtime enemy. With a brief nod, Jafar followed the colonel to his offices, noting the half dozen armed subalterns that accompanied them at a discreet distance. The colonel, it seemed, was taking no chances that his enemy could escape.
But this was to be a civilized discussion, apparently. The colonel offered him a chair and a glass of claret before hesitating thoughtfully. "Or do you drink liquor?"
"Occasionally," Jafar replied, accepting the drink. Bourmont's odd question only confirmed what he already suspected; the colonel knew who he was. Otherwise the Frenchman would not have shown such consideration in asking if his religion allowed him to imbibe alcohol.
Waiting uneasily, Jafar sipped the wine and studied the colonel over the rim of his glass while endeavoring to hide his surprise. He was accustomed to French officials who showed a contemptuous display of superiority and superciliousness when dealing with Muslims, officials who enforced the regulations laid down by the French government with haughtiness and severity.