Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

“A Phenomenal Success.”

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Sir Richard Francis Burton was leaning against a palm tree just beyond the final cottage of Kaltenberg. Beside him, Bertie Wells, sitting on a rock, was dabbing at a small wound on the back of his neck with a handkerchief. Burton had just used a penknife to dig a jigger flea out from beneath the war correspondent's skin.

From the trees around them, the shrieks and cackles of birds and monkeys blended into a cacophonous racket.

High overhead, eagles wheeled majestically through the dazzling sky.

The terrain in front of the two men angled down to the outlying houses and huts of Tanga.

Burton squinted, looking across the rooftops of the sprawling town to the ocean beyond. It was like peering through glass; the atmosphere was solid with heat. The humidity pressed against him, making his skin prickle. Respiration required a conscious effort, with each scalding breath having to be sucked in, the air resisting, as if too lethargic to move.

Wells pointed at a large building in the western part of the seaport.“That's the railway terminal. Two major lines run from it—the Tanganyika, all the way west to the lake; and the Usambara, up to Kilimanjaro.”

“Language is an astonishingly liquid affair,” Burton muttered. “We pronounced it Kilima Njaro in my day. Like the natives.”

“Perhaps some still do,” Wells replied. “But it's the fluid quality that makes language an excellent tool for imperialists. Force people to speak like you and soon enough they'll be thinking like you. Rename their villages, towns, and mountains, and before they know it, they're inhabiting your territory. So Kilimanjaro it is. Anyway, as I was saying, that's the station and our forces need to capture or destroy it to slow down the movement of German troops and supplies.” He indicated a twin-funnelled warship lying at anchor in the bay. “And that's HMS Fox. She's almost two decades obsolete but such is our desperation that we have to resort to whatever's available. She's been sweeping the harbour for mines. Look at her flags. Do you understand the signal?”

“No.”

“It's a demand for surrender. The British Indian Expeditionary Force transports have already offloaded the troops onto the beaches. They're awaiting the order to attack. The Fox's captain will lead the assault. He's probably waiting for Aitken to get our lot into position. It won't be long now.”

Burton frowned. “The town looks uninhabited.”

Wells glanced at his bloodstained handkerchief and pushed it into a pocket. “They're all hiding indoors,” he said. “They've known the attack was coming for a couple of days.”

Burton closed his eyes, removed his helmet, and massaged his scalp with his fingertips.

Wells looked at him and asked, “Is that tattoo of yours hurting?”

“No. It's just that—I don't know—I feel like I should be somewhere else.”

“Ha! Don't we all!”

They lapsed into silence, broken a few minutes later when Wells said, “I have a theory about it. Your tattoo, I mean. It looks African in pattern. You still don't recall how you got it?”

“No.”

“I think perhaps you were captured and tortured by some obscure tribe. There are still a few independent ones scattered about, especially up around the Blood Jungle where you were found. Certainly the state you were in suggests some sort of trauma in addition to the malaria and shell shock, and the tattoo possesses a ritualistic look.”

“It's possible, I suppose, but your theory doesn't ring any bells. Why is it called the Blood Jungle?”

“Because it's red. It's the thickest and most impassable jungle on the whole continent. The Germans have been trying to burn it away for I don't know how long but it grows back faster than they can destroy it.”

An hour passed before, in the distance, a bugle sounded. Others took up its call; then more, much closer.

Wells used a crutch to lever himself to his feet. He leaned on it, raised his binoculars, and said, “Here we go. Stay on your toes, we're closer to the action than I'd like.”

A single shot echoed from afar and, instantly, the birds in the trees became silent. For a moment there was no sound at all, then came a staccato roar as thousands of firearms let loose their bullets. An explosion shook the port.

Below and to his left, Burton saw a long line of British Askaris emerging from the undergrowth, moving cautiously into the town. They had hardly set foot past the outermost shack before they were caught in a hail of gunfire from windows and doorways. As men fell and others scattered for cover, Wells let loose a cry: “Bloody hell!”

A stray bullet whistled past him and thudded into a tree.

“Get down!” Burton snapped. The two observers dived onto the ground and lay prone, watching in horror as the Askaris were shredded by the crossfire. It fast became apparent that armed men inhabited all the houses and huts. Tanga wasn't a town waiting to be conquered—it was a trap.

A squadron of Askaris ran forward, threw themselves flat, and lobbed grenades. Explosions tore apart wooden residences and sent smoke rolling through the air. Similar scenes unfolded all along the southern outskirts of the town as the allied forces pressed forward. Hundreds of men were falling, but by sheer weight of numbers, they slowly advanced.

A sequence of blasts assaulted Burton's eardrums as HMS Fox launched shells into the middle of the settlement. Colonial houses erupted into clouds of brickwork, masonry, and glass.

“There goes the Hun administration!” Wells shouted. “If we're lucky, Lettow-Vorbeck was in one of those buildings!”

A Scorpion Tank scuttled out of the smoke and into a street just below them. The cannon on its tail sent shell after shell into the houses, many of which were now burning. When a German soldier raced from a doorway, one of the Scorpion's claws whipped forward, closed around him, and snipped him in half.

Harvestmen were entering the town, too, firing their Gatling guns and wailing their uncanny “Ulla! Ulla!”

Forty minutes later, the last of the troops with whom Burton and Wells had travelled moved past the observation point and pushed on into the more central districts of Tanga. As the clamour attested, the battle was far from over, but it had passed beyond Burton and Wells's view now, so they were forced to judge its progress by the sounds and eruptions of smoke. A particularly unbridled sequence of detonations occurred in the eastern part of the town, and, shortly afterward, a Union Jack was spotted there by Wells as it was hoisted up a flagpole at the top of a large building.

“That's the Hotel Nietzsche!” Wells exclaimed.

Pain lanced through Burton's head.

“Nietzsche!” he gasped. “I know that name! Who is he?”

“Bismarck's advisor,” Wells replied. “The second most powerful man in the Greater German Empire!”

“He—he's going to—he's going to betray Bismarck!” Burton said hoarsely. “He's going to take over the empire! This year!”

Wells regarded his companion, a confused expression on his face. “How can you possibly know that? You're from the past, not the future.”

Burton was panting with the effort of remembering. “I—it—something—something to do with Rasputin.”

“If Ras—”

“Wait!” Burton interrupted. “1914. It's 1914! Rasputin will die this year. I killed him!”

“You're not making any sense, man!”

Burton hung his head and ground his teeth in frustration. A tiny patch of soil just in front of his face suddenly bulged upward and a green shoot sprouted out of it. He watched in astonishment as a plant grew rapidly before his eyes. It budded and its flower opened, all at a phenomenal speed.

It was a red poppy.

Wells suddenly clutched at the explorer's arm. “What's that over there?”

Burton looked up and saw, writhing into the air from various places around the town, thick black smudges, twisting and spiralling as if alive. They expanded outward, flattened, then sank down into the streets. From amid the continuing gunfire, distant screams arose.

“What the hell?” Wells whispered.

Some minutes later, British troops came running out from between the burning buildings. They'd dropped their rifles and were waving their arms wildly, yelling in agony, many of them dropping to the ground, twitching, then lying still. One, an Askari, scrambled up the slope and fell in front of the two onlookers. He contorted and thrashed, then a rattle came from his throat, his eyes turned upward, and he died.

He was covered in bees.

“We've got to get out of here!” Wells shouted. “This is Eugenicist deviltry!”

Many more men were now climbing the incline toward them, all screaming.

Burton hauled Wells to his feet, handed him his crutches, then guided him from the observation point back into Kaltenberg. Behind them, gunfire was drawing closer.

“Counterattack!” Wells said. “Go on ahead, Richard. Get out of here. Don't let me slow you down.”

“Don't be a blessed fool!” Burton growled. “What manner of ridiculous war is this that our forces can be routed by bees?”

Even as he spoke, one of the insects landed on the back of his hand and stung him. Then another, on his neck. And another, on his jaw. The pain was a hundred times worse than a normal sting and he yelled, slapping the insects away. Almost immediately his senses began to swim and his heart fluttered as the venom entered his system. He staggered but found himself supported on either side by a couple of British Tommies who began to drag him along.

“Come on, chum!” said one. “Move yer bleedin' arse!”

“Bertie!” Burton shouted, but it came out slurred.

“Never mind your pal,” the other soldier snapped. “He's bein' taken care of. Keep movin'. Have you been stung?”

“Yes.” Burton's legs had stopped functioning and he had tunnel vision; all he could see was the ground speeding by. There was a buzzing in his ears.

The soldiers' voices came from a long way away: “He's snuffed it. Drop him.”

“No. He's just passed out.”

“He's slowing us down. Aah! I've been stung!”

“I'll not leave a man. Not while he still lives. Help me, damn it!”

A shot. The whine of a bullet.

“They're on us!”

“Run! Run!”

Burton's senses came swimming back. Two men were dragging him along.

“I can walk,” he mumbled, and, regaining his feet, he stood and opened his eyes.

Light blinded him. It glared down from the sky and it glared up from the sand.

He raised a hand for shade and felt a big bump over his right eyebrow. It was sticky with blood.

“Are you dizzy, Captain?” asked Wordsworth Pryce, the second officer of the Orpheus.

“You took quite a knock,” observed another. Burton recognised the voice as that of Cyril Goodenough, one of the engineers.

His vision blurred and swirled then popped back into focus. He looked around, and croaked, “I'm fine. Somewhat dazed. We crashed?”

“The bomb destroyed our starboard engines,” Pryce replied. “It's a good job we were flying low. Nevertheless, we turned right over and came down with one hell of a thump.”

Burton saw the Orpheus.

The huge rotorship was upside down, slumped on desert dunes, its back broken, its flight pylons snapped and scattered. Steam was pouring from it and rising straight up into a clear blue morning sky. The sun was not long risen, but the heat was already intense. Long shadows extended from the wreckage, from the figures climbing out of it, and from the bodies they were lining up on the ground some way from the ship.

William Trounce was suddenly at his side. The detective's jacket and shirt were badly torn and bloodied but his wounds—lacerations, grazes, and bruises—were superficial; no broken bones.

“I think we've got everyone out now except the Beetle,” he said. “The boy is still in there somewhere.”

“What state are we in?” Burton asked, dreading the answer.

“Thirteen dead. First Officer Henson; Helmsman Wenham and his assistant D'Aubigny; Navigator Playfair; riggers Champion, Priestley, and Doe; the two firemen, Gerrard and Etheridge; Stoker Reece-Jones; and, of course, that cur Arthur Bingham. I'm afraid Daniel Gooch bought it, too.”

Burton groaned.

“I'm told Constable Bhatti died a hero's death, heaven bless him,” Trounce said.

“He did. There'd probably be no survivors at all but for his sacrifice. What of the wounded?”

“Tom Honesty is still unconscious. Captain Lawless was pierced through the left side. Engineer Henderson and the quartermaster, Butler, are both in critical condition with multiple broken bones and internal injuries. Miss Mayson has just had a dislocated arm snapped back into place. She'll be all right. Everyone else is battered, cut, and bruised in various degrees. Swinburne is fine. Mr. Spencer has a badly dented and twisted leg. Sister Raghavendra is unharmed, as are Masters Wilde and Cornish. Krishnamurthy was banged around pretty badly but has no serious injuries. He's devastated at the loss of his cousin, of course.” Trounce paused, then said quietly, “What a confounded mess.”

“And one that's fast heating up,” added Pryce. “We're slap bang in the middle of a desert.”

“I suppose the captain is out of action,” Burton said to him, “which makes you the commanding officer. I suggest you order the wreck stripped of everything useful. As a matter of urgency, we should employ whatever suitable material we can find to build a shaded area beside it. Please tell me the ship's water tanks are intact.”

“Half of them are. There'll be plenty enough water.”

“Well, that's something, at least. Have some of it put into containers.”

“I'll organise it at once.”

Pryce strode off.

Trounce cleared his throat. “Um. Captain, this heat—it's not—that is to say, how should we treat our—um—what should we do with the dead?”

The muscles to either side of Burton's jaw flexed. His closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at his friend. “We can't bury them, William. These sands are permanently shifting. We can't leave them in the open—there are scavengers. Our only option is a pyre.”

Trounce considered this for a moment, gave a brusque nod, said, “I'll get it done,” and walked away.

Burton turned to Engineer Goodenough: “What of the cargo hold and the expedition's equipment?”

“It's intact, sir. The vehicles are relatively undamaged. Overturned, of course, but they just need to be righted. Your supplies look like they got caught up in a tornado but I daresay we can sort them out. I'll see to it.”

“Thank you. I'll round up some help for you.”

Burton walked over to where Doctor Quaint and Sister Raghavendra were treating the wounded. Thomas Honesty was sitting up now but obviously hadn't fully regained his wits; his eyes were glazed, his mouth hanging slackly open. There was blood all over his face.

The doctor looked up from Charles Henderson, who was semiconscious and moaning softly, and said, “Almost everyone on the bridge was killed. As for the rest, the extent of their injuries depended on where they were when the ship hit the ground.” He stood, drew Burton aside, and continued in a low voice, “If we don't get the wounded to a hospital, they won't make it.”

Burton examined the landscape. To the north, behind the fallen Orpheus, to the east, and to the south, pale sand undulated all the way to the horizon in a sequence of large dunes. To the west, a thin strip of green and brown terrain clung to the hilly horizon.

“If I can recover my instruments from the hold—and if they're undamaged—I will be able to establish our position, Doctor. Then we can work out how to get to the nearest settlement.”

“But, as I say,” Quaint replied, “these men need a hospital.”

“I assure you, Doctor, the Arabians are masters at the medical arts. They invented surgery.”

“Very well. I'll trust your judgement, sir.”

Burton looked at the Sister. She gave a slight jerk of her head to indicate that she was all right. He moved away, feeling oddly detached. The front of his skull was throbbing, and the dry heat of the Arabian Peninsula was beginning to suck the moisture out of him. He knew that within a couple of hours it would become a furnace. Shelter was the priority now. The inside of the Orpheus wouldn't do—the sun would soon make a giant oven of it.

Swinburne approached with Oscar Wilde and Willy Cornish in tow. The two youngsters were wide-eyed and pale-faced. Wilde was cradling his right arm.

“Are you hurt, Quips?”

“Just a sprain, Captain Burton. I'm thinking it's my wits that are more shaken than my body. I'd only just left the bridge when the ship went down. Escaped by the skin of my teeth, so I did.”

“And you, Master Cornish?”

“I bumped my head, Mr. Burton. Really hard.”

“Me too. How is it now?”

“Not so bad, sir.”

“Good boy. Algy, you appear to have escaped without a scratch.”

“Don't ask me how,” Swinburne replied, glancing across at the Sister's patients. “My hat! I was bounced around like a rubber ball. What infamy, Richard, that our enemies are prepared to kill innocent men, women, and children in order to stop our expedition.”

“All the more reason why we must succeed,” Burton growled. He regarded the stricken Orpheus. “Algy, when the engineers have made it safe, I want you and the boys to search the ship. Locate the Beetle.”

“Is he alive, Mr. Burton?” Cornish asked anxiously.

“I don't know. But if he is, we need to get him out of there before he's cooked. Good Lord! What on earth is that?”

Burton gaped at an approaching figure. It looked something like an upright brown bear, but baggy and shiny and possessed of a strange, narrow head, upon which Pox squatted. The thing moved with an ungainly lurching motion, swaying unevenly from side to side as it drew closer. The parakeet held out first one wing, then the other, to stay balanced.

“Cripes! A monster!” Cornish exclaimed, diving behind Burton and clinging to his legs.

“Pestilent stench-monkey!” Pox whistled.

“Hallo, Boss,” the creature beneath the bird hooted.

“Is that you, Herbert?”

“Aye. I've busted me arthritic leg. Got a whackin' great dent in it. Can't hardly walk straight! Otherwise I came through with just a scratch or two. I'm itchin' all over, though. It's these blinkin' polymethylene togs.”

Swinburne snorted. “You can't possibly itch, Herbert. You're made of brass!”

“I know. But I tells you, I itch!”

Herbert was completely enveloped by the suit. Gloves encased his three-fingered hands, and his flat-iron-shaped feet were booted. The voluminous material billowed around his limbs and torso but was wrapped tightly against his head and held in place by two elasticated belts. There were three openings in the suit, through which the circular features of his “face” could be seen.

“I can't say your outfit is worthy of Savile Row,” Burton noted, “but it looks functional and you're protected from wind-borne sand. Come on, let's give the crew a helping hand.”

They moved to the back of the steaming hulk, from which supplies were being unloaded, and started to sort through them. Thirty minutes later, Swinburne, Cornish, and Wilde were given the all clear to enter the ship. They began their search for the Beetle.

Burton, meanwhile, found his surveying equipment, climbed to the top of a nearby dune, and took readings. He returned and approached Wordsworth Pryce, announcing: “We're about a hundred miles to the northeast of Mecca. Unfortunately, that city is forbidden to us. However, I'm familiar with this area. If the expedition travels south for a hundred and eighty miles, we'll come to the town of Al Basah, where we should be able to join a fast caravan that'll take us all the way to Aden.”

Pryce looked surprised. “Surely you don't mean to continue with your expedition? What about your supplies? How will you transport them?”

“We have no choice but to keep going. Our mission is of crucial importance. The supplies will have to be abandoned, apart from whatever we can realistically carry. We'll purchase what we can when we get to Aden, then more at Zanzibar. There's also a large shipment awaiting us in the Dut'humi Hills in Africa.”

Pryce shook his head. “But travelling nearly two hundred miles through this desert? The injured will never survive it.”

“They won't have to. I want you and your men to use the vehicles to transport them westward until you encounter the ocean, then south along the coast to Jeddah, which has excellent medical facilities and a British Consulate. It's not far. If we work fast, you'll be ready to leave at sunset and you'll arrive there before dawn.”

“But Captain Burton!” Pryce objected. “What about you and your people? You can't possibly walk to Al Basah!”

“If they don't receive proper attention soon, Lawless, Henderson, and Butler will die. Take the vehicles. I'm an experienced desert traveller and I happen to know that there's a chain of oases between here and the town. They're frequented by traders and there's a very high probability that we'll join a caravan within hours of setting forth.”

The aeronaut gripped Burton by the arm. “Come with us, sir! You can get a ship and sail from Jeddah to Aden.”

“We'll not all fit into the vehicles, Mr. Pryce. And strange as it might seem, caravans journey south far more frequently than ships do. Vessels sailing from Jeddah are normally bound for Cairo. We might wait for months for one that's going to Aden. But in Al Basah, camel trains leave on a daily basis and travel rapidly down through central Arabia. We might reach Aden in less than two months.”

“Two months! But by golly, sir—that's a huge delay!”

Burton shook his head. “It might appear so, but it's nothing compared to the hold-ups I experienced during my first expedition. Believe me, Pryce, Speke will be encountering many similar hindrances. I remain confident that we can catch him up, despite this setback. Now, let's get those vehicles out of the cargo hold.”

Frantic hours followed. Supplies were sorted and stacked beneath makeshift awnings, food and water were distributed, and two travois were constructed for Burton and his team to use to transport whatever they could manage.

The Beetle was finally located in a pipe in the heart of the wreck, which the desert heat had not yet reached. He was uninjured but hungry. Burton took him a bag of sausage rolls, some sliced meat, half a loaf of bread, and a canteen of water. He held the comestibles up to a panel in the pipe. It swung open, and a small pale-blue and mottled hand reached out and drew them into the darkness.

“Thank you, Captain,” came a whisper. “And I'm very sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“If I had warned you about the saboteur in London, you might have lost a week. Instead, my scheme has cost you the expedition.”

“No, lad. As I just informed Mr. Pryce, this crash has put us maybe two months behind Speke.”

“Then he has won!”

“Not a bit of it. Time in Africa is not the same as time in England. Where we can measure a journey in hours and days, in Africa, they must be measured in weeks and months and even years. And Speke is in incompetent traveller. He is certain to make mistakes, and they will cost him as much time as we have lost today.”

“I hope so. And what of me, Captain? I appear to be somewhat disadvantaged.”

“We've arranged transportation for you, lad.”

“How so?”

“If you follow this pipe toward the stern and turn right at the second junction, you'll find that it ends at a grille. When you are there, signal by tapping. The engineers will then saw through the pipe behind you, leaving you in a six-foot-long section, the cut end of which they'll immediately seal.”

“I do not want them to see me.”

“They shan't. I'll be there to ensure your continued privacy.”

“That is good of you. What will then happen?”

“The pipe will be loaded aboard one of our vehicles in the custody of William Cornish and Oscar Wilde. You'll travel to Jeddah by night—which will be cold, but that's better than being baked alive. It may take some time for Second Officer Pryce to arrange, but from the port you'll sail with the boys and the crew of the Orpheus to Cairo, and from there home to London. All those who'll accompany you have pledged to guard you en route. It will mean a long time in a cramped pipe, but you'll get home.”

“That is most satisfactory, Captain. Thank you.”

A little later, after Bloodmann and Bolling had cut and sealed the pipe, they and Burton carried it into the long tent-like structure that had been erected beside the ship. The six members of the explorer's expedition were resting there: Swinburne, Trounce, Honesty, Spencer, Krishnamurthy, and Sister Raghavendra; and so were the other nine surviving crew members: Pryce, Goodenough, Quaint, Beadle, Miss Mayson, the boys—Cornish and Wilde—and the injured men, Lawless, Henderson, and Butler.

Those who were conscious had a haunted look about their eyes—they'd all seen the tall column of smoke rising up from the other side of a nearby dune. They knew what it meant. They sat, silently bidding their friends goodbye.

Then they slept.

For the next few hours, the hottest of the day, the clockwork man kept lone vigil over the camp.

There wasn't a single sound from outside, but inside, the exhausted survivors shifted restlessly and gave forth occasional moans, for even in their trauma-filled dreams, they could feel the arid air scorching their lungs.

Five hours later, when they awoke, they felt as desiccated as Egyptian mummies.

“By Jove!” Trounce croaked. “How can anyone live in this?”

“Are Arabs flameproof?” Krishnamurthy asked.

“It will cool rapidly over the next hour,” Burton declared, pushing canvas aside and squinting out at the setting sun. “Then you'll be complaining about the cold.”

“Can't imagine cold. Not now!” Honesty confessed.

“This is a land of extremes, old chap, and we have to take advantage of those few hours, twice a day, when the climate shows an iota of mercy.”

One such period was soon upon them, and after a hasty meal, they stocked the two conveyances with fuel and food and water, and the aeronauts prepared to take their leave.

The vehicles were extraordinary. They were crabs—of the variety Liocarcinus vernalis—grown to gigantic size, their shells cleaned out and fitted with steam machinery, controls, chairs, and storage cabinets. They walked forward rather than sideways, as they had done when alive, and their claws had been fitted with razor-sharp blades, designed to slice and rip through jungle.

Wordsworth Pryce reached up to the underbelly of one of them and opened a hatch, which hinged down, steps unfolding on its inside surface. One by one, Captain Lawless, Charles Henderson, and Frederick Butler were borne up on stretchers by Doctor Quaint and Cyril Goodenough.

“I'm not at all happy about this, Captain,” Pryce said to Burton. “Could you not wait it out here? Myself and one of my men could drive back to you and ferry you south.”

“That would mean us tarrying for two days,” Burton replied, “and in that time, we could be well on our way. The Al Atif oasis is about five hours' walk from here. The chances are good that we'll be able to join a caravan to Al Basah from there. And you must bear in mind that, in travelling westward, you'll soon find yourself on firmer terrain, easy for the crabs to traverse. Southward lies only sand. It would quickly infiltrate the machinery and the vehicles would be rendered inoperable in short order. No, Mr. Pryce, this is the best way.”

Pryce shook the explorer's hand. “Very well, Captain Burton. I wish you luck, and rest assured that the Beetle's privacy will be protected and he'll be escorted all the way back to his chimney in Limehouse.”

With that, Pryce boarded the vehicle and pulled up the hatch.

Burton paced across to the second crab, into which Bolling and Bloodmann had just carried the Beetle's section of pipe. The stoker, Thomas Beadle, joined them.

Willy Cornish and Oscar Wilde lingered a moment to say goodbye.

“Quips, I'm sorry I dragged you into this,” Burton said. “I thought I was doing you a favour.”

Wilde smiled. “Don't you be worrying yourself, Captain. Experience is one thing you can't get for nothing, and if this is the price, I'm happy to pay it, for I'm having the experience of a lifetime, so I am!”

The boys entered the crab.

Burton turned to Isabella Mayson.

“Are you sure you want to remain behind and join our expedition, Miss Mayson? I warn you that we have many months of severe hardship ahead of us.”

“There is barely room for another aboard the vehicles, Sir Richard,” she replied. “And your group will need to be fed—a responsibility I'm happy to make my own. Besides, it will be better for Sadhvi to have another woman present. We must, at very least, tip our heads at propriety, do you not think?”

Burton pushed up the hatch and clicked it shut, then stood back as the two crabs shuddered into life with coughs and growls. Steam plumed from their funnels, and Wilde and Cornish and Doctor Barnaby Quaint waved from the windows as the two outlandish machines stalked away.

The sun sank.

Beside the Orpheus, eight people remained, standing in the gathering twilight watching their friends recede into the distance.

Pox the parakeet sang, “Crapulous knobble-thwacker!” and Burton muttered: “I couldn't have put it better myself.”

One foot in front of the other.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

Eyes on the ground.

Ignore the cold.

“How far?” Krishnamurthy mumbled.

“Soon. By sunrise,” Burton replied.

They were dragging a travois over the sand. It was loaded with food and water, cooking pots and lanterns, rifles and ammunition, tents, clothing, instruments, and other equipment. Krishnamurthy was certain it was getting heavier.

The Milky Way was splattered overhead, dazzling, deep, and endless. The full moon had risen and was riding low in the sky. The dunes swelled in the silvery light.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

A second travois was pulled by Trounce and Honesty.

The two women trudged along beside it.

Herbert Spencer, in his protective suit, limped a little way behind.

“Tired,” Honesty said. “Four hours walking.”

Trounce gave a guttural response.

Ahead, Algernon Swinburne reached the peak of the next dune and stood with his rifle resting over his shoulder. He looked back at his companions, waited for them to catch up a little, then disappeared over the sandy peak. Before the others had reached the base of the upward slope, the eastern sky suddenly brightened.

To Burton, the quickness of dawn in this part of the world came as no surprise; to the others, it was breathtaking. One minute they were enveloped by the frigid luminescence of the night, and the next the sky paled, the stars faded, and brilliant rays of sunshine transformed the landscape. The desert metamorphosed from cold naked bone to hot dry flesh.

They slogged across it.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

“Cover your eyes,” Burton called.

On his recommendation, they were each wearing a keffiyeh—a square headscarf of brightly striped material, secured on the crown with a circlet, or agal—which they now pulled down across their faces. The light glared through the material but didn't blind them, and, as they came to the top of the dune, they could clearly see through the weave that the redheaded poet had reached its base and was starting up the next one.

“I can feel heat!” Krishnamurthy exclaimed. “Already!”

“It will become unbearable within the next two hours,” Burton predicted. “But by that time we'll be encamped at Al Atif.”

A few yards away, Honesty glanced toward the huge molten globe of the sun and whispered, “Gladiolus gandavensis.”

“What?” Trounce asked.

“A plant. Not a hardy one. Dislikes winter. Roots best kept in sand until mid-March. Then potted individually. You have to nurture them, William. Start them off in a greenhouse.”

It was the first time, in all the years they'd worked together, that Thomas Honesty had used Detective Inspector Trounce's first name.

“I say, Honesty—are you all right, old fellow?”

The small, dapper man smiled. “Thinking about my garden. What I'll do when we get back. Do you like gardening?”

“My wife takes care of it. We only have a small patch, and it's given over to cabbages and potatoes.”

“Ah. Practical.”

Step. Step. Step. Step.

“William.”

“Yes?”

“I was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“About Spring Heeled Jack. Didn't believe you.”

“Nor did anybody else.”

“But you were right. He was at Victoria's assassination.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Will you forgive me? Misjudged you.”

“Already done, old fellow. Some considerable time ago.”

“When we get back, there's something I'd like.”

“What?”

“You and Mrs. Trounce. Come over. Have tea with Vera and me. In the garden.”

“We'd be honoured.”

“Maybe the gladioli will be out.”

“That'll be nice.”

“Ahoy there!” Swinburne shouted. “I see palms!”

“The oasis,” Burton said.

“Praise be!” Krishnamurthy gasped.

“Arse!” Pox squawked.

They climbed up to the poet and stopped beside him. He pointed at a distant strip of blinding light. They squinted and saw through their lashes and keffiyehs that it was dotted with wavering palm trees.

“Please, Captain Burton, don't tell us that's a mirage!” Sister Raghavendra said.

“No,” Burton responded. “That's real enough. It's just where it ought to be. Let's push on.”

They each took a gulp of water from their flasks, then returned to the hard work of placing one foot in front of the other, on and on and on, not daring to look up in case the oasis was farther away than they hoped.

Step. Step. Step. Step.

Another hour passed and the temperature soared, sucking away what little strength remained in them.

Then, suddenly, they were in shade, green vegetation closed around them, and when they finally raised their eyes, they saw a long, narrow lake just a few yards ahead.

“Thank goodness!” Isabella Mayson exclaimed, sinking to the ground. “Let me catch my breath, then I'll prepare some food while you gentlemen put up an awning.”

Forty minutes later, they were tucking into a meal of preserved sausages and bread and pickles, which they washed down with fresh water and a glass each of red wine—an indulgence Swinburne had insisted on bringing, despite Burton's directive that they keep their loads as light as possible.

They sighed and lay down.

“My feet have never ached so much,” Trounce observed. “Not even when I was a bobby on the beat.”

Herbert Spencer, sitting with his back against the bole of a palm tree, watched Pox flutter up into its leaves. The colourful bird hunkered down and went to sleep. The clockwork philosopher made a tooting sound that might have been a sigh. “For all your complaints, Mr. Trounce,” he said, “at least you can enjoy the satisfaction of a good meal. All I ever get these days is a touch of oil applied to me cogs 'n' springs, an' that always gives me indigestion.”

Trounce replied with a long, drawn-out snore, then rolled onto his side and fell silent.

Peace settled over the camp, and into it, Swinburne said softly:

“Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear

Wan waves and wet winds labour,

Weak ships and spirits steer;

They drive adrift, and whither

They wot not who make thither;

But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.”

“That's beautiful, Mr. Swinburne,” Sister Raghavendra whispered.

The sun climbed and the heat intensified.

Three hours passed.

They were too tired to dream.

Herbert Spencer's polymethylene-wrapped canister-shaped head slowly turned until the three vertical circles of his face were directed at the king's agent. He watched the sleeping man for many minutes. Very quietly, the pipes on his head wheezed, “Time, Boss, is that which a man is always trying to kill, but which ends in killing him.” Then he looked away and sibilated, “But for us, only equivalence can lead to destruction—or transcendence.”

He sat, motionless.

“Wake up! Wake up! We're attacked!”

Herbert Spencer's trumpeting shocked them all out of their sleep.

“We're attacked! We're attacked!”

“What the devil—?” Trounce gasped, staggering to his feet.

“Grab your rifle,” Burton snapped. “Be sharp and arm to defend the camp!”

He winced, realising that he'd uttered the very same words back in '55 at Berbera; the day a spear had transfixed his face; the day his friend William Stroyan had been killed; the day John Speke had begun to hate him.

There was a thud, and Trounce went down.

A wild-looking man stepped over him and jabbed the butt of a matchlock at Burton's head. The king's agent deflected it with his forearm, lunged in, and buried his fist in his assailant's stomach.

From behind, an arm closed around the explorer's neck and the point of a dagger touched his face just below the right eye.

“Remain very still,” a voice snarled in his ear. Burton recognised the language as Balochi—a mix of Persian and Kurdish.

He froze, tense in the man's grip, and watched as brigands rounded up his companions. They were big men with intimidating beards and flowing robes, wide blue pantaloons, and colourful sashes around their waists. They were armed with matchlocks, daggers, swords, and shields.

Herbert Spencer—who they obviously regarded as some sort of exotic animal—was surrounded and roped. With his enormous strength, he yanked his captors this way and that, throwing them off their feet, until one of the bandits raised a gun and fired a shot at him, at which point Burton, afraid that his friend would be damaged, called, “Stop struggling, Herbert!”

The brass man became still, and his attackers wound him around and around with the ropes then bound him to a tree trunk.

“Goat ticklers!” Pox screeched from somewhere overhead.

Burton was dragged over to the others. The two women were pulled aside, and, with their arms held tightly behind their backs, were forced to watch as the men were lined up and pushed to their knees.

“I say!” Swinburne screeched. “What the dickens do you think you're playing at? Unhand me at once, you scoundrels!”

A heavily built warrior strode over. He sneered down at the diminutive poet and spat: “Kafir!”

“Bless you!” the poet replied. “Do you not have a handkerchief?”

The big man cast his eyes from Swinburne to Honesty, then to Trounce, Burton, and Krishnamurthy.

“Who leads?” he demanded.

“I do,” said Burton, in Balochi.

The man moved to stand in front of him.

“Thou has knowledge of my language?”

“Aye, and I say to thee that there be no majesty and there be no might save in Allah, the Glorious, the Great, and in his name we ask for thy mercy and thy assistance, for we have suffered severe misfortune and have a long journey before us.”

The Baloch threw his head back and loosed a roar of laughter. He squatted and looked into Burton's eyes.

“Thou speakest very prettily, Scar Face. I am Jemadar Darwaas. I lead the Disciples of Ramman. Who art thou?”

“Some call me Abdullah the Dervish.”

“Is that so?” Darwaas pointed at Herbert Spencer. “And what is that?”

“It is a man of brass. A machine in which a human spirit is housed.”

“So! A whole man in a whole mechanism this time! Like Aladdin's djan?”

“Like that, aye. He is concealed within material that protects him from the sand, for if grains of it got into him, he would die.”

While he spoke, Burton took stock of the men into whose clutches his expedition had fallen. He judged there to be about sixty of them—all hardened desert warriors—marauders from Belochistan a thousand miles to the northeast.

“Thou art a storyteller, Abdullah.”

“I speak the truth.”

“Then I would cut through the material and look upon this miraculous brass man of thine.”

“In doing so, thou shall kill him,” Burton advised, “and what would he then be worth?”

Jemadar Darwaas grinned through his beard. “Ah,” he said. “Now, O Abdullah, thou art truly speaking my language! He has value, eh?”

“The British government would pay a substantial ransom for him, and for these others, too,” Burton said, indicating his companions with a jerk of his head. “Especially for the women, if they are unharmed.”

Darwaas grunted. He drew his dagger and held it up, examining its sharp point. His eyes flicked from the blade to Burton's dark eyes. With a fluid motion, he stood, paced away, and began to speak in low tones with a group of his men.

William Trounce leaned close to Burton and whispered, “What was all that about?”

“I'm trying to talk him into holding us for ransom.”

“Why do that?”

“Because it'll buy us some time,” the king's agent replied.

Less than half an hour later, the brigands finished setting up their camp on the edge of the oasis, and the two women were taken to it and placed in a guarded tent.

Darwaas returned to the remaining captives, drew his scimitar, and levelled the point at Burton's face. “Thy people will be held until the British consul in Jeddah pays for their release,” he said. “But thee, Abdullah the Dervish, thee I shall fight.”

“Fight? For what purpose?”

“For no purpose other than I desire it.”

The Jemadar ordered his men to clear a circular area. The prisoners were dragged to its boundary and the bandits gathered around. Burton was yanked up and pushed forward. A warrior threw down a scimitar. It landed at the explorer's feet, and he bent, picked it up, and noted that it was a well-balanced blade.

Sir Richard Francis Burton was a master swordsman, but he much preferred fighting with a point than with an edge. The point demanded skill and finesse; the edge required mainly strength, speed, and brutality, though there were also a few techniques associated with it, in which, fortunately, he was well schooled.

He held the blade, narrowed his eyes at his opponent, and sighed.

Before leaving the wreck of the Orpheus, he'd attached to his belt a leather holster, and in that holster there was a very odd-looking pistol. It was green and organic—actually a eugenically altered cactus—and it fired venomous spines that could knock a man unconscious in an instant. His captives had not removed it, and he wished he could draw it now, for he would far prefer to render the leader of the Disciples of Ramman senseless than to hack at him with a blade. Sword cuts, unless they were to the head, neck, or stomach, very rarely killed quickly. Instead, they condemned the victim to hours—even days—of excruciating agony, often followed by infection and a lingering death. He knew, however, that the moment he went for his gun, matchlocks would be jerked up and fired at him.

Jemadar Darwaas stepped closer and brandished his scimitar. “How didst thou come by that scar on thy face, Abdullah?” he asked.

“A spear,” Burton responded. “Thrust by an Abyssinian.”

“Didst thou kill him?”

“No.”

“That was a mistake. My people say: ‘When thy enemies attack—’”

“'—bathe in their blood,'” Burton finished.

“Ha! Thy knowledge is impressive. Hast thou lived among Allah's children?”

“I am Hajji.”

“What? A pilgrim? A believer? I did not know. Now I shall honour thee doubly after I have spilled thy guts.”

Darwaas suddenly lunged forward and swung his sword at Burton's head. The king's agent deflected it with ease and slashed back at his opponent, slicing through the front of Darwaas's robe. The Baloch jumped back and exclaimed, “Thou art practised with the sword, then?”

“Aye,” said Burton, circling slowly. “And these are designed for fighting from horseback, not for face-to-face combat. Nevertheless, there are tactics that a man can employ with them when on foot. For example—” He paced forward, ducked, and, balancing on one heel, whipped around in a full circle, using his momentum to sweep his scimitar upward at a twenty-degree angle. Darwaas barely had time to react, only just managing to place his weapon between himself and Burton's blade, and when the two scimitars clanged together, his own was forced back hard against him, sending him staggering.

Burton immediately pressed his advantage, striking at his opponent's right side—a blow that was, again, turned aside with difficulty.

Darwaas teetered off balance, stumbled, and gasped, “By Allah! Thou art considerably more than I expected!”

“A man should not be precipitous in his choice of enemy,” Burton advised. “And I am puzzled that thou hath chosen me. Wert thou paid to do so?”

“Aye, 'tis the case.”

“When I told thee of the man of brass, thou didst exclaim, ‘A whole man in a whole mechanism this time!’ Perhaps, then, thou hast seen a man partially of metal? Mayhap it was his head that was half of brass, and this man was your paymaster?”

John Speke.

“I do not deny it. Enough talk. Let us fight.”

Burton transferred his scimitar to his left hand. “Keep thy body loose, Jemadar, and control thy blade with the wrist, not with the entire arm. Now, strike at me.”

“Art thou so confident?”

“Strike!”

The Jemadar gave a grimace. The duel wasn't going at all the way he'd have liked. He spat onto the sand and crouched a little, his sword arm held out. The two men moved around one another, their dark eyes locked.

With such speed that the movement was almost a blur, Darwaas launched himself at Burton and sliced sideways. His blade hit his adversary just below chest level, but Burton was braced against it, with his own weapon shielding him closely, held point downward, tight against his body from shoulder to mid-thigh. He immediately swept it out, up, and around, hooking it beneath the bandit's scimitar. He stepped in with knees bent and pushed upward. Darwaas's sword was instantly levered right out of his hand.

The gathered Baloch men cried out in amazement as their leader's weapon went spinning away, landing at the edge of the arena.

Darwaas stood stunned.

“The sword should be held against the body in defence,” Burton stated, “else, as thou saw, in being knocked backward, it can do as much damage as the attacking blade. Also, this means that, for the defender, the muscles of the shoulders, arms, and wrists are relaxed—are not employed in resisting the offensive—and are thus free to fully power the counterattack.”

Darwaas's face blackened. “Dost thou mean to humiliate me, dog?”

Burton shook his head. “I did not seek to fight thee, Jemadar. I desire only to—”

“Richard!” Swinburne shrieked.

Something impacted against the back of Burton's head. The world reeled around him and vanished.

A conflagration raged in his skull, needled his eyelids, clawed at his skin. He tried to move and found that he couldn't. Thirst consumed him.

He forced his eyes open and squinted up at the pitiless sun. Turning his head, he saw that he was on his back, with limbs spread out, his wrists and ankles bound with cord to wooden stakes driven deeply into the ground.

Dunes rose to either side.

He opened his mouth to shout for help but only a rattle emerged.

Grains of sand, riding a hot, slow breeze, blew against the side of his face.

He experienced a strange sense of déjà vu.

Is this a dream?

Jemadar Darwaas entered his field of vision.

“Art thou comfortable?” he asked. “Thy head aches, I fancy? My moollah—lieutenant—struck thee with a knob stick.” The bandit chuckled. “By Allah, he knows how I hate to be bested! Thou art a fine swordsman, Abdullah! Mayhap the tales told of thy race are true, for it is said that the British are undefeated in battle. Praise be to Allah that the lands of my people have no resources that thy people covet!” Darwaas held his arms out wide as if to embrace the entire desert. He grinned wickedly. “Let us see,” he said, “how that land now judges thee, Britisher.”

He turned away and climbed to the top of a dune, looked back once, spat, then descended the other side of the mound and passed out of sight.

Burton felt his flesh cracking.

It was mid-afternoon and the heat wouldn't abate for at least another three hours. If he survived it, he'd then have to endure the severe chill of night.

He moved his tongue in his mouth. It felt like a stone.

There was a spell of nothingness.

He sucked in a burning breath and realised that he'd been unconscious.

Think. Think, and hang on to the thoughts. John Speke and Count Zeppelin obviously stopped here and warned the bandits to look out for a crashed rotorship and to kill any survivors. How far ahead are they? Already at Aden, perhaps?

Think, and keep thinking!

Awareness slipped to one side and skidded into oblivion.

Awake.

Where?

He tried to form words, to call for help, but the slightest movement of his mouth increased the pain a thousandfold. The agony flared; an unbearable brilliance.

He sank into the centre of an inferno.

Flames.

Flames in a stone bowl hanging by chains from a ceiling so high that it is lost in shadows. Columns. A monolithic temple. It is on a hill in the centre of Kantapuranam, the capital city of Kumari Kandam, the land of the reptilian Nāga.

A man steps forward.

He is Brahmin Kaundinya, and he is wedded to the monarch's daughter, their union a symbolic pact to mark the end of conflict between the lizard race and humans. He has lived a year among them, and is now standing before K'k'thyima, the high priest.

Thin blue smoke from burning incense curls around the human's legs. Onlookers watch attentively. There are at least a thousand of them gathered in the temple, and many millions more in attendance mentally but not physically.

The man bows his respect to the priest.

“Not to me, soft skin,” K'k'thyima hisses. “To the Joined.” With a three-fingered clawed hand, he gestures to his right.

Kaundinya turns to a huge black diamond, which rests on a plinth of gold.

One of the three Eyes of Nāga.

Kaundinya bows again.

K'k'thyima says: “Thy wife may step to thy side.”

The man turns around to look at his mate. “Come, and speak for me, that all may know my character,” he says, following the ritual.

She moves to him. Like all of her race, she is about half his height; her skin segmented into a mosaic of leathery black, yellow, and green; her limbs short and thick; her head confusing to the human, for sometimes it seems to be one of seven heads, other times one of five, and occasionally the sole one. She is wearing extravagant jewellery and a chain-mail tunic.

“Husband,” she says, “I am willing to speak.”

The high priest, who also appears to have multiple heads, orders a human prisoner to be brought forward. As the man is escorted to the plinth, Kaundinya is addressed.

“Thou came as an emissary, O Kaundinya. Thou came to broker peace between the race of soft skins and the race of Nāga. Thou hast lived among us as one of us, and thou hast been husband to Kuma K'sss'amaya.”

He turns to the female.

“Hast thou, my Kuma, been satisfied with the conduct of thy husband?”

“I have,” she answers. “With intervention from our wise ones, that which divides our species was bridged, and the human gave to me a child. He is an attentive and dutiful father. He has respected our ways. He has learned much and has not judged. He brings peace.”

The crowd emits an approving sibilance.

Kaundinya watches the high priest. A single head swims into focus. Its yellow eyes blink, their membranes sliding sideways: a sign of satisfaction. The head blurs. There are seven heads. There are five. There is one. There are seven.

“Pay honour to the Joined,” K'k'thyima orders.

A blade slices through the prisoner's neck and his blood spurts over the irregular facets of the giant gemstone. He convulses and dies and his corpse is dragged out of the chamber.

“A sacrifice is always necessary, O Kaundinya, but the essence of he who gave his life will live on in the Eye.”

The priest performs a number of ritualistic gestures, almost a dance, and intones: “The multitude are one. Individual thoughts are one thought. Separate intentions are one intention. The words of one are the words of all. The days that have been and the days that will come are eternally now.”

He steps to the stone, leans over it, and, with one of his long forked tongues licks blood from its surface. He then dips the same tongue into a bowl containing black diamond dust.

With the organ extended, he returns to Kaundinya—who bows down—and runs it delicately over the human's shaven scalp, leaving a swirling, glittering hieroglyph.

K'k'thyima steps back. Kaundinya straightens.

The High Priest says: “Thou art invited into the Great Fusion, O Emissary. Dost thou accept the Joining?”

“I accept.”

The crowd emits a throbbing susurration, a repetitive refrain. All the gathered priests extend and quiver their multiple neck crests, a dazzling display of vibrating colour.

From somewhere, a throbbing rhythm pulses and a melody of heart-wrenching beauty swells through the temple. Layer after layer is added to it. Its refrains are bafflingly complex, and they are constructed from tones that no human instrument has ever produced; tones that no human being can even properly comprehend.

Kaundinya tries to meet K'k'thyima's eyes but is unable to focus on any single head. He feels the music and the lizard's mesmeric power overwhelming all but one tiny and very well-concealed part of his consciousness, and he allows it.

He looks at the black diamond. His eyes fixate upon it. He feels himself pulled into its depths, the essence of his individuality breaking apart, distributing itself among the planes and lines and points and angles of the great stone.

Kaundinya remains passive as thousands upon thousands of other minds touch his. He loses his sense of independence and becomes enmeshed, soaking into a vast multiple consciousness.

He wills his identity farther and farther into the diamond. He fills it; exists in every part of it; becomes an ingredient in its very existence.

He is one with the Nāga.

He exists with them in the Eternal Now.

All but one tiny part of him.

Kaundinya is no ordinary man. Through rigorous education, meditation, and ritual, he has attained the absolute pinnacle of intellectual order and emotional discipline. Here, at the dawn of human history, his self-control is unmatched; and it will remain so until the end of that history.

The Nāga have been surreptitiously probing his mind from the moment he started to live among them. They have found only good intentions, only a desire for peace between the human race and their own.

Kaundinya's true purpose has never been exposed.

Now, the moment has arrived.

He flexes the one small knot of awareness that has not melted into the Joined and turns it inward, probing deep into the physical matter of his own brain.

He locates a major blood vessel and he wrenches at it.

A massive haemorrhage kills him in an instant, and at the moment his consciousness is destroyed, it sends an inexorable shockwave through the structure of the diamond.

The stone fractures and explodes into seven fragments.

The Joined are ripped apart.

Millions of Nāga drop dead.

The retorts of the shattering gem echo through the temple like rifle fire. The pieces fall from the plinth to the floor, their facets glinting like stars.

Rifle fire and stars.

Rifle fire. Stars.

Rifle fire. Stars.

Sir Richard Francis Burton opened his eyes.

It was night.

Stars filled the sky.

Rifle fire echoed across the desert.

A man screamed.

A camel brayed.

Voices argued in one of the languages of the Arabian Peninsula.

His eyelids scraped shut, time overbalanced and dropped away, and he opened them again and saw the dawn.

A figure climbed into view and stood looking down at him. A breeze tugged at her robes—for it was undoubtedly a woman, Burton could tell that from the curve of her hip, against which she rested the butt of her rifle.

“No,” she said, in English. “It cannot possibly be you.”

Her voice was deep and warm but filled with shock.

He tried to speak but his tongue wouldn't move. His skin was afire, yet the core of him, having suffered the night, was as cold as ice. He could feel nothing but pain.

The woman slipped and slithered down the sand then strode to his side and knelt, laying her weapon to one side. Her face was concealed by a keffiyeh and remained in shadow—silhouetted against the deep-orange sky. She unhooked a flask from her belt, unscrewed its top, and dribbled water onto his lips. It trickled into his mouth, through his teeth, over his tongue, and was so good that he passed out from the sheer relief of it.

When awareness returned, he was inside a tent and sunlight was beating against its roof. Sister Raghavendra smiled down at him.

“Lie still, Sir Richard,” she said. “I have to apply more ointment to your skin.”

“Give him warm water mixed with a spoonful of honey, please, Sadhvi.”

The voice was the same melodious one he'd heard before. Impossibly familiar.

He tried to look but a stab of pain prevented him from turning his head.

Sister Raghavendra drizzled sweet liquid into his mouth.

“We were rescued,” she said.

Consciousness escaped him yet again, only to be summoned back by the tinkle of camel bells and the flapping of the tent's canvas as it was battered by the simoon—the strong hot desert wind.

He'd been propped up into a semi-reclining position, with his back and head supported by soft pillows. Sadhvi Raghavendra was sitting to his left, Algernon Swinburne to his right. The owner of the deep female voice was standing at his feet, with her face still concealed by her Arabian headdress.

She was a tall woman, slender but curvaceous, and she radiated confidence and power. Her large clear eyes, above the scarf, were of a scintillating blue.

She reached up, pulled the material aside, smiled prettily, and said, “Are you compos mentis? You've been ranting about reptiles and temples and diamonds.”

He tested his voice. “I think—” and found that it worked, albeit harshly. “I think my mind is in better order, though my body is burned to a crisp. Hello, Isabel.”

“Hello, Dick.”

Isabel Arundell, who'd once been his fiancée, was wearing a long white cotton shirt, white pantaloons, and an abba—a short-sleeved cloak of dark green woven from the finest of wools. A sword, a dagger, and a flintlock pistol were held in place by a multicoloured sash circling her slender waist. She manoeuvred them out of the way as she lowered herself onto a cushion and sat with her legs tucked to one side.

Burton rasped, “I thought you were running around with Jane Digby in Damascus.”

Sadhvi handed him a canteen. He drank from it sparingly, knowing from experience that gulps would cause excruciating stomach cramps.

“We parted ways,” Isabel replied. “I found her morals to be wanting.”

“My hat, Richard!” Swinburne piped up. “We've experienced a miraculous intervention! Miss Arundell is leading a merry band of Amazonian warriors. They came galloping to our rescue on the most beautiful horses you've ever seen and gave the Disciples of Ramman a proper thrashing!”

Burton looked from his assistant back to Isabel, a question in his eyes.

She smiled again and said, “I seem to have acquired the habit of collecting about me women who've suffered at the hands of their husbands. When I opened a refuge in Damascus, there were objections from those same men. The continued existence of the place soon became untenable, so my companions and I left the city to live as Bedouins. We travelled south, through Syria, collecting more women on the way, until we arrived in Arabia, where we've survived by raiding the bandits who plunder the caravans.”

“Extraordinary!” Burton wheezed. “How many of you are there?”

“A little over two hundred.”

“Great heavens!”

“We saw a plume of steam, went to investigate, and discovered your downed ship. It was abandoned and a lot of supplies had been left behind. Don't worry—we have them with us. Then we followed your trail and happened upon the brigands.”

“The women are armed to the teeth!” Swinburne enthused. “And they revere Miss Arundell as if she were the goddess herself! Guess what they call her!”

“Please, Algernon!” Isabel protested.

“What?” Burton asked.

“Al-Manat!”