Free Napoleon Must Die by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett Page B

“It would disgrace me.”
    “Then I’ll do my best not to be abducted,” Victoire said. “And I will depend on you to guard me well.”
    Roustam-Raza flung his hands into the air. “Perhaps. Perhaps.”
    Before Berthier made his next bolt to Cairo, Victoire had persuaded Roustam-Raza.

    * * *

    The desert ended abruptly perhaps three miles outside Cairo. Victoire was surprised at what a relief it was to see green, healthy plants again. There were none near the camp near Alexandria. Cairo itself was less appealing. Sprawling along the Nile, the city’s odor, a mixture of open sewers and spices, rivaled even the notorious smell of Paris after a thaw. All along the Nile they had passed small villages, the homes barely large enough to hold more than a few people at one time. Most were made of a gray or brown concrete or plaster that was comprised mostly of the abundant sand and shared its color. Many of the poorer homes, Victoire was astonished to notice, had no roofs. As they approached Cairo itself, the houses became larger, with elaborate decorations painted or carved into their walls.
    The city itself had no walls, nor any real boundary. The buildings, now a mixture of homes, shops, and granaries, simply became more densely packed. Occasionally they would cross through a small courtyard, though none of the markets they sometimes housed were occurring. At Roustam-Raza’s request, Victoire was almost completely covered with robes borrowed from one of the camp followers who were beginning to appear even in this exotic land. With her in disguise, the Mameluke attracted much more attention, almost dread, and Victoire began to wonder just what their reign had been like.
    They left their horses with the city garrison, entrusted to a Bernaise sergeant whose face was almost as long and soulful as the horses he tended. Cairo was a jumble of narrow streets, some almost too small for them to walk side by side. Only occasionally did they travel along a wide roadway, paved with large stone blocks. Several times they passed buildings whose age or design made them stand out from the others. A few of the savants that had accompanied the army were scurrying over one, measuring it and making sketches. Victoire almost stopped to chat with another Frenchman, but Roustam-Raza signalled they should keep moving.
    While the streets were incredibly crowded, the crowd seemed to part for the Mameluke. The Frenchwoman also noted that even when there was almost no space for them to pass, the Egyptian peasants were careful to avoid even brushing against her. Their trek ended in a massive market that bordered the Nile. Occasionally a cool breeze off the water tempered the dry heat that made the air shimmer inside the merchant’s stalls. The clamor of bargaining, braying camels, and clanging pottery rose to a din that made talking difficult.
    “You cannot expect to find Berthier in this crowd,” Roustam-Raza said to Victoire as they made their way through the booths of brass sellers. “You do not know where he is in the city.” He clapped his hands in aggravation. “You should never have come here. I was a fool to listen to you. There is no worth in the plans of women.”
    “Do be quiet,” said Victoire as she tugged on his sleeve. “You’re attracting attention.”
    “I am not. You are attracting attention. That yellow silk over your face fools no one. Your skin is white and your clothes can be seen whenever the breeze stirs the cloth. Everyone knows that you are French.” His accent was rougher, as if his frustration worked on his tongue.
    “And you are making them certain of it, if they were in doubt,” she reminded him. She paused to stare at three enormous platters of hammered brass. At another time she would have been tempted to bargain with the vendor for such beautiful work. “Ask this man if he has seen Berthier.”
    “No,” said Roustam-Raza. “He will not know one Frenchman from another, and he would lie, in any