Free The Serpent's Daughter by Suzanne Arruda Page A

have only resided here
since A.D. 682 and ousted another peoples up into the mountains. Long before their
arrival, the entire Maghreb was peopled by tribes now known as the Berbers.
The history of these people is as mysterious as they are.
    —The Traveler
    KEEP TO THE WALL, HUG THE SHADOWS . Jade grimaced when she imagined her mother’s reaction. She could almost hear her snap, “You pretended to be a weasel? Will I never see you behave like a proper lady?” Sorry, Mother. I’m a lost cause.
    The narrow, dark alley afforded some cover, but it didn’t extend beyond the building adjacent to her hotel. Eventually, Jade would have to risk being seen. She just hoped Deschamp’s watchdog was napping now, preferably in the hotel’s lobby. With her carpetbag tucked under her left arm and with her right hand clutching the robe’s hood in front of her face, Jade paused at the alley’s end. It’s now or never . She stepped into the slightly wider side street and matched her pace with the natives around her.
    No one paid any attention to her. To the few Moroccans still about, she was just another body. To the more numerous Europeans enjoying the Tangier nightlife, she represented something to be avoided, a possible beggar or a thief. No one saw her as female since she wasn’t swaddled in white veils.
    Jade passed one of the popular tourist watering holes, a French café of sorts that served wine and spirits late into the night. This one attracted a larger number of tourists by purporting to present Moroccan entertainment. She heard the wailing of some wind instrument and the hypnotic, hollow thum dum of a clay drum. Over this background rose and fell a man’s tremulous voice, singing what had the earmarks of a tragic love song. Jade caught the words “lost,” “beloved,” and what might be “soft hair.” Probably singing about his favorite goat .
    Through the window Jade glimpsed a swaying form, a woman in baggy red trousers and a gaudy red-and-blue striped coat that hung to her knees. Silver bangles adorned her wrists, ankles, and forehead; those on her wrists jingled as she twisted her hennaed hands about in time to the music. The woman was fully clothed, but managed to hold nearly every man’s attention with her softly undulating hips. Little Egypt all over again .
    Jade started to walk away when she noticed Walter Tremaine at one of the tables. He didn’t appear to be particularly interested in the dancer. Instead, he sat staring into his tiny cup of thick, black coffee, lost to daydreams. Jade pulled her hood down lower and moved on.
    Once she was past the more popular European sector, she relaxed a little and turned into the Medina and toward Madame Laferriere’s house. The souks, teeming earlier with shopkeepers and customers, sat silent. Only a stray cat trotted by. It must have spotted some prey, as Jade heard it make a sudden dash, its claws scrabbling for purchase up a wooden crate.
    Suddenly Jade stopped and hugged the wall. The cat wasn’t chasing a rodent. Something had frightened it. She listened, ears filtering through the silence for anything unusual. Nothing. She waited a moment longer and heard the soft oof of a stifled cough.
    Jade sprinted down the narrow street, dodging garbage and the occasional sleeping dog. Each time the opportunity presented itself, she turned left, hoping to eventually double back behind her pursuer. It would have been easier if the streets were straight and built on an orderly plan. In the end, she had only a general idea of where she was, except she had run uphill more often than not.
    She forced herself to breathe slowly as she took note of the buildings. Nothing looked familiar. She sniffed and sorted through the myriad smells. Among the scent of dog refuse and lingering sweat, Jade caught the faint scent of spices creeping out from the tightly shuttered shops. Ah! The street of the doctors and herbalists . She listened again for the sound of pursuit, heard none,