Free Napoleon Must Die by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

herself flush as she put the words on the page. As she signed it, she decided to seal the letter properly, with wax instead of a wafer, so that if it were read, Vernet would know.
    At the door of her tent she found Roustam-Raza waiting, sitting on a mat on the sand. He watched her, unspeaking.
    “Don’t you ever sleep?” she inquired, no longer troubled by his ferocious scowl.
    “I have been ordered to keep watch on you,” he answered.
    “It is after nine, and half the camp is sleeping,” she said, holding her letter tightly.
    “You are not,” said Roustam-Raza.
    “True, but I will be shortly, as soon as I return from handing this to the Jaffa courier,” she said.
    The Mameluke got to his feet. “I will come with you.”
    “It’s not necessary,” said Victoire, her eyes bright with annoyance. “It’s only a short distance.”
    “Nevertheless, I will come,” said Roustam-Raza.
    She shrugged. “As you wish.” It was useless to argue with him, she knew from experience. But she was determined not to speak with him, a silence which she maintained until they passed Berthier’s tent, where she saw that the general’s aide was just mounting his horse, a cloak wrapped around him. “Another one of his mysterious missions to Cairo,” she said to Roustam-Raza, “I wish I knew what they were for.”
    Roustam-Raza pursed his lips. “There are women. And boys.”
    Victoire did not quite laugh; she shook her head in dismissal. “He claims to be in love with a married woman. He does not speak her name for fear of dishonoring her.”
    “It is wrong to love a married woman,” said Roustam-Raza. “Women are not made for such loving. Men are made so that they can have more than one woman.”
    “Not in France, they’re not,” said Victoire with asperity. “Not that there are not times it might be best,” she added in a more thoughtful way as they continued to the tent where the couriers were dispatched.
    Behind them Berthier headed off into the darkness.
    “You see!” approved Roustam-Raza. “Not all French ways are for the best every time.” He slapped his wide, hard hand against his thigh. “Men should have women of their own, to give them sons of their own.”
    “Berthier isn’t married,” said Victoire. “He hasn’t the time. I believe he fears the obligations of a family would compromise his duty to Napoleon.”
    “He is right to worry. But he is wrong not to marry,” said Roustam-Raza, settling the matter.
    As they came up to the dispatch tent, Victoire looked about with some anxiety. “The courier is supposed to leave before first light. I don’t want my husband to have to wait too long to have word from me.”
    “You are a sensible woman,” said Roustam-Raza, and offered no further explanation.
    “I strive to be,” she said, and made a sign to the corporal sitting in front of the tent. She handed him her letter and two coins. “In gratitude for a swift delivery,” she told him.
    “Very good,” said the corporal, and tucked the letter into a crested saddlebag. He gave Roustam-Raza a swift, comprehensive glance, then made a notation on his roster. “Good evening, Madame Vernet.”
    Victoire recognized the dismissal for what it was. “And to you, corporal.” She motioned to Roustam-Raza, and they started back toward her tent. As she walked, an idea burgeoned in her mind. Choosing her words very carefully, she said to the Mameluke, “I am troubled in my mind.”
    “Women are often afflicted,” said Roustam-Raza.
    “No, not that way,” she countered. “I am troubled by what Berthier is doing. I have heard him leave for Cairo on four different nights, and this causes me apprehension.”
    “Why should it concern you?” asked Roustam-Raza, deeply puzzled.
    “Because he has accused my husband of a crime. I know that my husband is innocent, and so I wish to discover who has done the crime. Since Berthier accuses him, I do not trust his motives. And now he rides to Cairo in secret.