The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

  Burton struggled for breath as small dots began to swim in front of his eyes. He reached down with both hands, wrapped them around Hare’s right knee, and dug his thumbs in beside the two big tendons there, brutally forcing them apart. Hare screeched and fell, dragging Burton down with him. The explorer stabbed an elbow into muscle-padded ribs, broke free as Hare’s grip loosened, and scrambled away from him.

  He saw Darwin rushing to the fallen children and the other youngsters running to their mother.

  Trounce hollered, “Burton!”

  “Get the other one!” the explorer croaked, and was in the middle of gesturing toward Burke, who was getting to his feet, when Hare’s fist connected with the side of his head. Blocking the follow-up—more by luck than skill, for his senses were still reeling and he was off balance—Burton thudded his knee into Hare’s side and pushed himself away. He staggered to his feet and stood swaying. Hare faced him, still grinning, and assumed a fighting stance unfamiliar to the explorer but which he vaguely recognised as Oriental.

  Off to the left, Trounce collided with Burke and they went down in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

  Hare’s right fist swept forward. Burton moved to dodge the blow but it never arrived. Instead, his opponent used the mock punch as a counterbalance, swivelled, and kicked, his heel whipping up into Burton’s nose. The explorer was sent spinning backward, blood spraying around him. Without any awareness of what he was doing, he stopped himself from falling, parried a chopping hand, and—shooting out his arm—grabbed his opponent’s hair. He yanked inward and delivered a savage headbutt to Hare’s mouth, crushing the man’s lips into his teeth. His adversary slumped. Burton twisted his grip and sank his teeth into the other’s cheek, clamping hard until he felt hot blood welling. Hare shrieked and pushed him away with such force that Burton’s feet left the ground. The explorer thudded down, teetered, regained his equilibrium, and spat a lump of wet flesh onto the grass.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Trounce fall. The detective didn’t get up.

  Burke called, “Do you require assistance, Mr. Hare?”

  Hare, standing with his eyes fixed on Burton, his massive arms hanging and blood bubbling from the hole in the left side of his face, made a dismissive gesture then charged at Burton like a stampeding bull. He leaped, revolved through the air, and kicked. Burton ducked, snatched at the man’s ankle, and using Hare’s own momentum spun and slammed him down. Palmerston’s thug tried to dodge away but Burton sprang forward and swung his boot into the man’s head, once, then again, and a third time.

  Hare flopped back and lay still.

  Using his sleeve to wipe the blood from his mouth, Burton looked up and, though his vision was blurred, saw Mrs. Darwin collapsed with children crying over her prone form; saw Trounce motionless on the sward; and saw Burke dragging an unconscious Darwin to one of the steam spheres. He started toward the two vehicles but hadn’t taken more than two steps before meaty fingers closed around his left wrist and jerked him around. He found himself face to face with the ruined features of Gregory Hare and mumbled, “Why won’t you bloody well stay down?”

  Hare gave a malignant hiss, raised his hand, and chopped it into Burton’s forearm. A horrible crunch sounded. Burton fell to his knees as white-hot pain flared through him.

  “Mr. Hare!” Burke shouted. “It is time to leave.”

  “I have to finish this one, Mr. Burke.”

  “No time to waste on irrelevancies. Come along.”

  Hare, with blood streaming down his neck and soaking into his clothes, glared down at Burton and said, “You’d better pray we never meet again.”

  He stumbled off toward the vehicles.

  Burton saw Burke sit the senseless Darwin against one of the spheres, open a hatch at the rear of the vehicle, then lift the scientist and bundle him into what was obviously a storage compartment.

  Hare reached the other sphere and clambered into it. With a puff of steam, it rolled, turned, and sped away from the house and onto the Luxted Road.

  Damien Burke slammed the hatch shut, drew the strange cactus-like pistol from his jacket, and pointed it at Burton.

  “Don’t move!” he said.

  Burton snarled and forced himself to his feet, cradling his broken left arm in his right.

  There came that soft sound again—phut!—and a seven-inch spine embedded itself into the lower-left side of Burton’s waistcoat.

  He gingerly moved his arm aside and looked down at the quill. The front half of it was glistening with a clear substance. He took hold of the dry end and plucked it out.

  The second sphere went rumbling after the first.

  Tottering across the lawn, Burton bent over Trounce and felt his heart. The Scotland Yard man was still alive. One of the spines was sticking out of his shoulder. Burton pulled it out, shook the detective, but received only a groan in response.

  He moved over to little Leo. The boy was also deeply unconscious but alive, with one of the needles in him.

  Burton approached the other children, all gathered around their mother. He selected the eldest, a girl of about sixteen years, squatted down next to her, and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Etty,” she replied, tearfully.

  “Look,” he said, and taking by its tip the spine that was in Emma Darwin’s neck, withdrew it.

  “See where it’s wet?” he said. “That is what has sent your mother to sleep. Go to the other children and take out the needles, but be careful only to hold them by the dry parts. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, her lower lip trembling. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl. They’ll all wake up. My friend will, too.” He nodded toward Trounce. “And when he does, he’ll get help for you all.”

  “What of my father, sir?” she said.

  “I’m going after him now.”

  Burton straightened and, despite himself, gave a yelp as he felt the broken bones of his forearm grind together. He walked unsteadily to the bottom of the garden, climbed into his rotorchair, and turned the small wheel that set the engine in motion. A minute later, the machine soared upward. He steered it, one-handed, over the house, and followed the road to the northwest: the direction in which the spheres had rolled.

  It was a clear day and he could see for miles. Ahead, the road curved northward, and farther on, to the northeast. He saw the two vehicles rounding that second bend and entering the village of Downe. Burton surveyed the field-patched countryside beyond the settlement. He saw that the road exited Downe and ran on through gently undulating meadows. It was bordered on either side by woods and high hedgerows and, a couple of miles ahead, bent sharply to the left.

  He pushed his toes into the rotorchair’s footplate, sending the machine surging forward, and shoved the middle flight lever, which caused the contraption to drop like a stone. He cried out through gritted teeth as pain almost blinded him then yanked the lever back. The rotorchair swooped over the ground, levelling out a mere ten feet above it, and shot across the fields at terrifying speed.

  As the crow flies, Captain Burton. As the crow flies.

  The air forced tears from the explorer’s eyes. He passed the spheres, far off to his right, drew ahead of them, and came to the sharp bend. Shielded by trees, he jerked his rotorchair to a halt, set it down in the middle of the road just beyond the curve, and momentarily passed out.

  The sound of approaching engines brought him back to his senses. He coughed, spat blood, and dived out of the flying machine just as the lead sphere rounded the bend at high speed and, with no time to stop, slammed into it. Both vehicles detonated with a deafening boom and disappeared into a ball of fire. The sound tore into the far distance and left silence behind it.

  Raggedly, Burton, hit by the blast, pirouetted with infinite slowness through the air.

  I can’t do this by myself.

  He watched with detached fascination as the flame-filled world revolved majestically around him.

/>   What of your self-sufficiency? What of your intractable independence?

  Fragments of spinning metal glinted in the sunlight.

  I need a different perspective. The way I apprehend things—the manner in which I and Trounce and Slaughter and Monckton Milnes view the world—it just won’t suffice.

  The branches of a tree embraced him, easing through his clothes and skin.

  That’s because the world isn’t what you think it is.

  Darkness swept in from all sides.

  Exactly.

  “Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.”

  —ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

  NO!

  TO THE CENTRAL GERMAN CONFEDERATION!

  NO!

  TO A GERMAN EMPIRE!

  NO!

  TO A BRITISH–GERMAN ALLIANCE!

  DO NOT BELIEVE THE LIES.

  EVERY GERMAN EMPLOYED MEANS A BRITISH WORKER IDLE.

  EVERY GERMAN FACTORY BUILT MEANS BRITISH TRADE LOST.

  The distant chimes of Big Ben.

  Burton counted them.

  One. Two. Three.

  Edward’s voice: “Do you really suppose I’m built for standing, nurse? Find me a confounded chair. At once! You there—what’s your name?”

  “I’m Detective Inspector Trounce.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot divulge police business to a—”

  “No nonsense! You’ve seen my authorisation—I represent the prime minister. Speak or I’ll have you clapped in irons, damn it!”

  “Humph! Well—I—um—Sir Richard and I are investigating—”

  “Yes! Yes! I know all about that. The accident, man! What caused it?”

  “It was Burke and Hare, sir. They took Darwin and made off with him in steam spheres. I think Sir Richard tried to stop them by landing a rotorchair in their path. There was a collision. He didn’t get clear in time and was thrown into a tree by the explosion.”

  “And Burke and Hare?”

  “I don’t know. There was no sign of them. Whichever was driving the lead vehicle was either blown to smithereens or his corpse was taken away by the other, along with Mr. Darwin.”

  For how long are you going to lie there? Wake up. There’s work to do. The clock is ticking.

  Four. Five. Six. Seven.

  Doctor John Steinhaueser: “We’ll move him this afternoon.”

  Good old Styggins.

  Edward: “Is he strong enough?”

  “He has the constitution of an ox. The bones are already knitting. As for the concussion—hmmm—has he spoken to you?”

  “Yesterday morning. I’m not sure he was aware of it. His pupils were as big as saucers.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me he’d had a heart attack.”

  “He said the same to me. Damned peculiar, hmmm? There’s no sign of one at all. His heart is as healthy as they come.”

  “We can be thankful for that, at least. I need him compos mentis, Doctor. Get him back on his feet. Pour some Saltzmann’s into him. He swears by the bloody stuff.”

  “I’ll not resort to quackery, no matter that it’s you who orders it.”

  “Pah! Principles!”

  Eight. Ten. Nine hundred. One thousand.

  Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

  John Steinhaueser: “Restless, hmmm? It’s all right, old fellow. You’re at home.”

  He heard the clink and clank of camel bells. The most precious moment of his life—waking in a tent in the desert, knowing he would step out and see the oasis, a tiny island amid a vast desolate nothingness, and far, far away, already shimmering in the heat of early morning, the horizon, beyond which there could be—anything.

  He opened his eyes.

  Orange light flickering on a canvas roof.

  Gunshots.

  This again?

  El Balyuz, the chief abban, burst into the tent, yelling, “They are attacking!” He handed a Colt to Burton. “Your gun, Effendi!”

  The explorer pushed back his bedsheets and stood; laid the weapon on the map table; pulled on his trousers; snapped his braces over his shoulders; picked up the gun.

  He looked across to George Herne, who was also dressing hastily. “More bloody posturing! It’s all for show, but we shouldn’t let them get too cocky. Go out the back of the tent, away from the campfire, and ascertain their strength. Let off a few rounds over their heads. They’ll soon bugger off.”

  “Right you are,” Herne responded. Taking up his rifle, he ran to the back of the Rowtie and pushed through the canvas.

  No. No. No. Stop it, you fool. There is pain enough. Why must you always return to this?

  Burton checked his revolver.

  “For Pete’s sake, Balyuz, why have you handed me an unloaded gun? Get me my sabre!”

  He shoved the Colt into the waistband of his trousers and snatched his sword from the Arab.

  “Stroyan!” he bellowed. “Speke!”

  Almost immediately, the tent flap was pushed aside and William Stroyan stumbled in.

  He didn’t. That is not what happened.

  His eyes were wild.

  “They knocked the tent down around my ears! I almost took a beating! Is there shooting to be done?”

  “I rather suppose there is,” Burton said, finally realising the situation might be more serious than he’d initially thought. “Be sharp, and arm to defend the camp!”

  They waited a few moments, checking their gear and listening to the rush of men outside.

  Herne returned from his recce. “There’s a lot of the blighters, and our confounded guards have taken to their heels. I took a couple of pot-shots at the mob but then got tangled in the tent ropes. A big Somali swiped at me with a bloody great club. I put a bullet into the bastard. I couldn’t see Speke anywhere.”

  Something thumped against the side of the tent. Suddenly a barrage of blows pounded the canvas while war cries were raised all around. The attackers were swarming like hornets. Javelins were thrust through the opening. Daggers ripped at the material.

  “Bismillah!” Burton cursed. “We’re going to have to fight our way to the supplies and get ourselves more guns. Herne, there are spears tied to the tent pole at the back. Get ’em.”

  “Yes, sir.” Herne returned to the rear of the Rowtie. Almost immediately, he ran back, crying out, “They’re breaking through!”

  Burton swore vociferously. “If this blasted thing comes down on us we’ll be caught up good and proper. Get out! Come on! Now!”

  He hurled himself through the tent flaps and into a crowd of twenty or so Somali natives, setting about them with his sabre, slicing right and left, yelling fiercely.

  Clubs and spear shafts thudded against his flesh, bruising and cutting him, drawing blood.

  “Speke!” he bellowed. “Where are you?”

  “Here!”

  He glanced back and saw Speke stepping into the firelight from the shadows to the right of the tent. The lieutenant was splashed with blood and his left sleeve hung in tatters.

  Stroyan emerged from the Rowtie and straightened, loading his rifle.

  “Watch out!” Speke yelled, and threw himself in front of the other man.

  A spear thudded into the middle of his chest.

  No! Wrong! Wrong! This is all wrong!

  A club struck Burton on the shoulder. He twisted and swiped his blade at its owner. The crush of men jostled him back and forth. Someone shoved from behind and he turned angrily, raising his sword, only recognising El Balyuz at the very last moment.

  His arm froze in mid-swing.

  Agonising pain exploded in his head.

  He stumbled and fell onto the sandy earth.

  A weight pulled him sideways.

  He reached up.

  A javelin had pierced his face, in one cheek and out the other, dislodging teeth and cracking his palate.

  He screamed and sat up.

  John Steinhaueser—handsome, blond-haired, and blue-eyed,
with an imperial adorning his chin—rose from a chair beside the bed.

  “Hello, old chap. Another nightmare?”

  Burton, disoriented, looked around and saw his own bedroom. The after-image of flames faded. The chamber was illuminated by daylight.

  “God!” he said, hoarsely. “Will they never cease?”

  Steinhaueser felt the explorer’s pulse. “As the pain eases up. Is it still bad?”

  “Just the head.”

  “Let me see.”

  He leaned over Burton and examined the long line of stitches that snaked around his patient’s shaved cranium. “Hmmm. It’s remarkable. Truly remarkable.”

  “What is?”

  “Ten days ago your scalp was hanging half-off, but it’s healed just as fast as your spear wound did back in ’fifty-five. I can take the stitches out tomorrow.”

  “I was dreaming about it. The attack at Berbera. Speke’s death.” Burton realised he had no idea how long he’d been here, in his own bed. He vaguely recalled a hospital room. “What time is it? Midday?”

  “No, it’s ten in the morning. Lie back. Rest.”

  Gingerly and very slowly, Burton eased himself down.

  “I could have sworn I heard Big Ben chime twelve.”

  “Let me look at your ribs,” Steinhaueser said. “Big Ben? Not possible. The bell cracked four days ago. Hasn’t made a sound since. Hmmm, good—the bones are healing nicely and the bruising is changing colour. You’ll be sore and stiff for a while but it’ll pass. As for the arm, you won’t require the splint for much longer. Time and rest are doing their job. I’ll wager you’ll be able to use it in a week or so. How’s your memory, hmmm?”

  Burton was silent for a moment then answered, “I can’t recall anything since the collision. What’s the date?”

  Steinhaueser pursed his lips and stroked the point of his little beard. “Friday the twenty-third of September. You’ve been in and out of consciousness. What about the letters to Isabel?”