Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

“Of course it didn’t occur to him. If you knew Miles…” She blinked hard and swallowed.

“Tell me,” Mr. Carsington said, “if it had been you that day, in Vanni Anaz’s shop, would you have haggled?”

IT WAS A desperate attempt. Rupert didn’t know whether it would provoke her or not, but she was on the verge of waterworks, and he needed a distraction. The question was the first to come to mind.

She blinked, wiping out the almost-tears shining in her green eyes.

“Would you?” Rupert pressed. “Would you think, ‘This would make a lovely gift for Miles,’ and say to Anaz, ‘I’ll take it,’ and not stop to add up piastres and purses and such and convert them into pounds, shillings, and pence?”

She considered, her green eyes moving from side to side in that way she had, as though she read her own thoughts.

“Well…possibly…” She blushed. “Yes, probably. Very likely. It was splendid. Impossible to resist.”

“It was artistic, you told me,” he said. “Superior quality. The papyrus version of Manton’s finest, in other words.”

“Oh, it was,” she said, and her voice grew wistful. “I wish you could have seen it. The colors. The figures. There is a handsome papyrus illustrated in color in the Description de l’Egypte, and it is not half so beautiful.”

She went on to describe her papyrus — for it was hers, Rupert was sure, and every word she uttered only confirmed what he’d suspected when she knelt beside the table in the qa’a of her house in Cairo, when she’d discovered the theft.

She had the thing memorized, practically. She described the illustrations, some in large blocks, most in long lines across the top of columns of signs. She told him the names of the easily recognized gods and speculated about the others.

She must have realized she’d said too much, because she stopped midsentence to explain. “I made the copy for Miles,” she said. “That is why I recall so many details.”

“It sounds a great deal of work,” Rupert said. “I vow, you must be the most devoted of sisters.”

Telltale pink washed across her wide cheekbones. “His penmanship was never good and only grows worse. It is barely legible. He must have an amanuensis — and it gives me something useful to do. And of course one learns a great deal in the process.”

If she’d gone about in Society more, Rupert thought, she’d know how to lie better. He wasn’t sure why she lied. It was clear, though, that she’d insufficient practice. It hadn’t occurred to her to conceal her books, or mix them with her brother’s belongings, for instance.

One had only to glance at the collection in the cupboard to realize she’d mastered at least a dozen languages.

Rupert wondered if the same could be said of Miles Archdale.

Sunday night

WHAT COULD BE said of Miles Archdale was this: he sat on a thin, vermin-infested mattress in the dirty cabin of a shabby boat. He stared at the chain fastened to his ankles. He was calculating how many blows with how heavy an implement would shatter the rusty metal, and wondering how to do it without breaking any of his bones in the process.

The boat seemed to have stopped for the night, which meant a rat and mosquito invasion. A pity he couldn’t train the rats to gnaw at the chain. Or to gnaw on his hosts.

One of them looked as though something had gnawed on him.

Butrus, the leader, apparently, was a square block of a brute. His battered and scarred face reminded Miles of the Sphinx’s mutilated visage, especially the nose, for his was smashed flat. His right hand bore a stump where the little finger should be. While the half dozen or so men occupying the boat were not the most attractive lot of villains, Butrus was by far the ugliest.

Miles was allowed on deck to stretch his legs — in a manner of speaking — only after dark and only with an armed escort. On the first night out, he’d tried calling for help. Butrus struck him with the butt of a pistol, which stretched Miles out on the deck unconscious for a time.

When Miles came to upon the filthy mattress, Butrus advised him not to try such tricks again.

“We are not to kill you,” Butrus told him that first night. “We must not cut out your tongue, because this organ is necessary. We must not cut off your hands. But an ear? A few toes? A foot?” He grinned, displaying a sparse collection of crooked brown teeth. “We must keep you alive. But we need not keep you complete in all your parts.”

Miles had assumed they were holding him for ransom. By the third day, as the boat continued upriver, he grew puzzled. The farther they traveled from Cairo, the more inconvenient the exchange of money for captive would be.

They’d been on the river for seven days now. Where in blazes were they taking him, and why?

The sun had set, and the slow nightfall had drained away the last traces of light in the cabin. He sat in the darkness, his mind moving from the problem of the leg shackles to his sister. By now she would know he was in trouble. By now, he hoped, she’d gone to Noxley for help.

The door opened, and a lantern shone, not very brightly, instantly inhabiting the space with shadows.

Butrus carried the lantern. Behind him came one of his shipmates, bearing the familiar wooden tray. Butrus remained, as he usually did, while Miles ate his supper. This, apparently, was to make sure the prisoner did not secret away the single eating utensil, a wooden spoon. No doubt they feared he’d use it later as a weapon or means of escape — perhaps by waving it about until his captors died laughing.

“Where are we?” Miles asked.

He asked the same question every night. Every night Butrus only laughed at him.

He laughed tonight, too.

Tonight, though, Miles was tired of the game. While Arabic did not trip from his tongue as smoothly and naturally as it did from Daphne’s, his grasp of the language was more than adequate. Especially for dealing with common louts like this one.

“Shall I hazard a guess?” Miles said.

Butrus shrugged. “Who cares, Ingleezi?”

“We’ve traveled at a fairly steady clip since Monday,” Miles said. “This tells me the wind’s been favorable for the most part, and we’re well provisioned.” He calculated briefly. Then, “Minya,” he said. “I estimate we’re not far from Minya.” The area had a bad reputation, if he remembered correctly.

Butrus nodded. “I have heard that you are a man of great learning,” he said. “Your cleverness does not surprise me. Before too long we will take you to a quiet place. There, if you are wise as well as learned, you will do what is asked of you.”

“Ah, I’m to do something,” Miles said.

Butrus shrugged. “Perhaps you will, perhaps you will not. Perhaps you will be unwise, and refuse. This will be better for me, because I have not yet tortured any Ingleezi, and I am interested to improve my learning in this way.”

“A man of ambition, I see,” Miles said. “Most commendable.”

He’d been told the Arabs didn’t understand irony or sarcasm. He couldn’t tell whether Butrus did or not.

The brute merely shrugged and said, “Soon we come to the place where some Feransa await you. They have something for you to read.”

Feransa. Not Ferangi — the all-encompassing Frank, applied to Europeans in general. Feransa was the word for the F

rench.

“It is written in the old language of this country,” Butrus went on. “A papyrus.”

“Hmmmm,” Miles said. He dared say no more until he’d collected his wits. It was a joke, he thought first. It had to be a joke. The trouble was, Butrus was not a joke.

Noxley had mentioned having difficulties with the French and their agents. Belzoni, too, had had several unfriendly encounters with them.

This went beyond the usual rivalry, as intense as it was. This was madness. Did the French truly believe that he — that anyone — could read a papyrus?

Butrus must have misunderstood.

Miles said cautiously, “It’s going to be difficult without my notes.”

“When I torture you, maybe you will remember what is in your notes. Perhaps you would like to hear how I will torture you?”

Miles wondered if it was possible to kill somebody with a wooden spoon, because clearly, he must do something and do it quickly —

Which was when the shouting started.

He heard heavy, hurried footsteps over the decks, and the clank of weapons. Butrus jumped up and started for the door. It flung open, just as the boat gave a lurch. Butrus fell backward. A man burst into the room, another behind him. Miles saw the glint of a blade before the lantern toppled. A figure came toward him. He thrust out his shackled feet, and the figure fell. A sword rose and came down. A scream began and stopped suddenly. The last thing he saw was the sheen of metal slicing through the air down toward him.

Chapter 8

THE SWORD STRUCK THE DIVAN CLOSE BY HIM, then rose again. The boat shuddered, and the attacker stumbled. Miles couldn’t see what happened next, though he heard the ring of metal on metal. Then came a shriek, cut short. A grunt. The thud of a falling body — was it more than one? The cabin fell quiet. Outside, the fighting continued.

He felt about for a weapon. He found a knife. Cautiously he made his way out, trying to clank as little as possible and taking care not to trip over any bodies.