Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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succession of bubbling pots containing the fiery casseroles of beef,

lamb, chicken and game that are known under the inclusive title of

wat.

These highly spiced, peppery but delicious concoctions were spooned out

on to thin sheets of unleavened bread and rolled into a cigar shape

before eating.

Lij Mikhael warned his guests against the tea and instead offered

Bollinger champagne, wrapped in wet sacking to lower its temperature.

There was also pinch bottle Haig, London Dry Gin, and a vast array of

liqueurs Grand Marnier, yellow and green Chartreuse,

Dam Benedictine, and the rest. These incongruous beverages in the

desert reminded the guests that their host was wealthy beyond the

normal concept of wealth, the lord of vast estates and, under the

Emperor, the master of many thousands of human beings.

The Ras sat at the head of the feast, with a war bonnet of lion's mane

covering his bald pate. It made a startling, but rather moth-eaten wig

for it was forty years since the Ras had slain the lion, and the

ravages of time were apparent.

Now the Ras cackled with laughter as he rolled a sheet of the

unleavened bread, filled with steaming wat, into the shape and size of

a Havana cigar and thrust it, dripping juice, into Gareth Swales's

unprepared mouth.

You must swallow it without using your hands," Lij Mikhael explained

hastily. "It is a game my father enjoys." Gareth's eyes bulged, his

face turned crimson with lack of air and the bite of chilli sauce.

Gulping and gasping and chewing manfully, he struggled to ingest the

huge offering.

The Ras hooted merrily, drooling a little saliva from the toothless

mouth, his entire face a network of moving wrinkles as he encouraged

Gareth with cries of "How do you do? How do you do?" At last with his

dignity in shreds, red-faced, sweating and panting laboriously, the

roll of bread disappeared down Gareth's straining throat. The Ras

folded him once more in that brotherly embrace, and

Lij Mikhael poured another goblet full of Bollinger for him.

However, Gareth, who did not enjoy being the butt of anyone's joke,

freed himself from the Ras, pushed the glass" aside and waved one of

the servants to him. From the reeking bloody platter he selected a

strip of raw beef almost as thick as his wrist and as long as his

forearm. Without warning, he thrust one end of it into the Ras's

gaping toothless mouth.

"Suck on that, you old bastard," he shouted, and the Ras stared at him

with startled rheumy bloodshot eyes. Then, although he was unable to

smile because of the long red strip that hung from his lips like some

huge swollen tongue, the Ras's eyes turned to slits in a mask of happy

wrinkles.

His jaw seemed to unhinge like a python swallowing a goat.

He gulped and an inch of the meat shot into his M(Uthl he gulped again

and another inch disappeared. Gareth stared at him as gulp succeeded

gulp and swiftly the morsel dwindled in size. Within seconds the Ras's

mouth was empty, and he snatched up a bowl of tej and drank half a pint

of the heady liquor, wiped blood and tej from his chin with the skirt

of his sham ma belched like an air-locked geyser, then with a falsetto

cackle-of merriment hit Gareth a resounding crack between the shoulder

blades. In the Ras's view, they were now comrades of the soul both

English aristocrats, renowned warriors, and each had eaten from the

other's hand.

Gregorius Maryam had anticipated exactly what his grandfather's

reaction to his white guests would be. He knew that Gareth's

nationality and undoubted aristocratic background would overshadow all

else in the Ras's estimation.

However, the young prince's feelings for Jake Barton had become close

to adulation and he did not intend that his hero should be ignored. He

chose the one subject which he knew would engage his grandfather's full

attention. He slipped unnoticed from the din of the overcrowded cave,

and when he returned, he carried Jake's stiff crackling lion skin that

had by now completely dried out in the hot, dry desert wind.

Although he held it high above his head, the tail brushed the ground on

one side and the nose on the other. The Ras, one arm still around

Gareth's shoulder, looked up with interest and fired a string of

questions at his grandson, as the boy spread the huge tawny skin before

him.

The replies made the old man so excited that he leaped to his feet and

grabbed his grandson by one arm, shaking him agitatedly as he demanded

details and Gregorius replied with as much animation, his eyes shining

as he mimed the charge of the lion, and the act of hurling the bottle

and the crushing of its skull.

Comparative silence had fallen over the smoky, dimlit cavern, and

hundreds of guests craned forward to hear the details of the hunt. In

that silence, the Ras walked down to where Jake sat. Stepping, without

looking, into various bowls of food and kicking over a jug of tea, he

reached the big curly-headed American and lifted him to his feet.

"How do you do?" he asked, with great emotion, tears of admiration in

his eyes for the man who could kill a lion with his bare hands.

Forty years before, the Ras had broken four broad-bladed spears before

he had put a blade in the heart of his own lion.

"Never better, friend," Jake grunted, clumsy with embarrassment,

and the Ras embraced him fiercely before leading him back to the head

of the board.

Irritably the Ras kicked one of his younger sons in the ribs,

forcing him to vacate the seat on his right hand where he now placed

Jake.

Jake looked across at Vicky and rolled his eyes helplessly as the

Ras began to ladle steaming wat on to a huge white round of bread and

roll it into a torpedo that would have daunted a battle cruiser. Jake

took a deep breath and opened his mouth wide, as the Ras lifted the

dainty morsel the way an executioner lifts his sword.

"How do you do?" he said, and with another hoot of glee thrust it in

to the her.

The Colonel and all the officers of the Third Battalion were exhausted

from long hours of forced march and, by the time they reached the Wells

of Chaldi, were anxious only to see their tents erected and their cots

made up after that they were quite content that the Major be left to

use his own initiative.

Castelani sited his twelve machine guns in the sides of the valley

where they commanded a full arc of fire, and below them he placed his

rifle trenches. The men sank the earthworks swiftly and with little

noise in the loose sandy soil, and they buttressed their trenches and

machine-gun nests with sandbags.

The mortar company he held well back, protected by both rifle trenches

and machine-gun nests, from where they could drop their mortar bombs

across the whole area of the wells with complete impunity.

While his men worked, Castelani personally paced out distances in front

of his de fences and supervised the placing of the painted metal

markers, so that his gunners would be able to fire over accurately

ranged sights. Then he hurried back to chivvy along the ammunition

parties who staggered up in the darkness, slipping in the sandy soil

and cursing softly, but with feeling, under the burden of the heavy

wooden cases.

All that night he was tireless, and any man who laid down his shovel

for a few minutes of rest took the risk of being pounced upon by that

looming figure, the stentorian voice restrained to a husky but

ferocious whisper, and the rolling swagger tense with suppressed

outrage.

At last, the squat machine guns with their thick water jacketed barrels

were lowered down into the new excavaWm and set up on their tripods.

Only after Castelani had checked the traverse of each and sighted down

through the high sliding rear-sight into the moonlit valley was he

satisfied. The men flung themselves down to rest and the

Major allowed the kitchen parties to come up with canteens of hot soup

and bags of hard black bread.

Gareth Swales felt bloated with food and slightly bleary with the large

quantities of lukewarm champagne which Lij Mikhael had pressed upon

him.

On one side, the Ras and Jake had established a rapport that overcame

the language barrier. The Ras had convinced himself that as

Americans spoke English they were English, and that Jake as a

lion-killer was clearly a member of the upper stratum of society in

short a kind of honorary aristocrat. Every time the Ras drained

another pint of tej, Jake became more socially acceptable and the Ras

had drained many pints of tej by this stage.

The atmosphere was indeed so jovial and aflame with bonhomie and

camaraderie that Gareth felt emboldened to ask, on behalf of the

partnership, the question that had been burning his tongue for the last

many hours.

"Toffee, (old lad, have you got the money ready for us?" The Prince

seemed not to have heard, but refilled Gareth's glass with champagne,

and leaned across to translate one of Jake's remarks for his father,

and Gareth had to take his arm firmly.

"If it's all right by you, we'll take our wages and trouble you no

more. Ride off into the sunset with violins playing, and all that

rot."

"I'm glad you raised the point." Toffee nodded thoughtfully,

looking anything but glad. "There are some things we have to

discuss."

"Listen, Toffee old son, there is absolutely nothing to discuss. All

the discussing was done long ago."

"Now, don't upset yourself, my dear fellow." It was, however, in

Gareth's nature to become very agitated when someone who owed him money

wanted to discuss things.

The usual subject of discussion was how to avoid making payment,

and Gareth was about to protest volubly and loudly when the Ras chose

that moment to rise to his feet and make a speech.

This caused a certain amount of consternation, for the Ras's legs had

been turned by large quantities of tej to the consistency of rubber,

and it required the efforts of two of his guardsmen to get him to his

feet and keep him there.

However, once up, he spoke with clarity and force while Lij

Mikhael translated for the benefit of the white guests.

At first, the Ras seemed to wander. He spoke of the first rays of the

sun touching the peaks of the mountains, and the feel of the desert

wind in a man's face at noon, he reminded them of the sound of the

birth cry of a man's firstborn child and the smell of the earth turning

under the plough. Gradually an attentive silence fell upon his unruly

audience, for the old man had still a power and force that demanded

complete respect.

As he went on, so a greater dignity invested him; he shrugged off the

supporting hands of his guard and seemed to grow in stature. His voice

lost the querulous tremor of age and took on a more compelling ring.

Jake did not need the Prince's translation to know that he was speaking

of mans pride, and the rights of a free man. The duty of a man to

defend that freedom with life itself, to preserve it for his sons and

their children.

"And now there comes a powerful enemy to challenge our rights as free

men. An enemy so powerful, armed with such terrible weapons, that even

the hearts of the warriors of Tigre and Shoo shrivelled in their

breasts like diseased fruit." The old Ras was panting now, and a

scanty sweat trickled from under the tall lion headdress and ran down

the wrinkled black cheeks.

"But now, my children, powerful friends have come to stand beside us.

They have brought to us weapons as powerful as those of our enemies. No

longer must we fear." Jake realized suddenly what pathetic store the

Ras had placed in the worn and obsolete war materials they had brought

him. He talked now of meeting the mighty armies of Italy on even

terms.

Abruptly, Jake felt a choking sense of guilt. He knew that a week

after he left, the four armoured cars would be piles of junk. There

was no man in all the Ras's following who could keep their elderly and

temperamental engines running.

Even if they were brought into action before the engines expired,

they would present a threat only to unsupported infantry. The moment

they engaged with Italian armour they would be instantly and hopelessly

out-classed. Even the light Italian CV.3 tanks would be immune to the

fire of the Vickers guns that the cars mounted, while in return the

thin steel of the cars would offer no protection from the 50 men.

armour-piercing shell that the enemy fired. There would be no one to

explain all this to the Ras and teach him how to achieve the best from

the puny weapons he commanded.

Jake visualized the first and probably the last battle that Ras

Golam would fight. Scorning manoeuvre and strategy, he would certainly

throw in all his force armoured cars, Vickers machine guns, obsolete

rifles and swords in a single frontal attack. This was the way he had

fought all his battles and the way he would fight the last.

Jake Barton felt his heart go out to the gallant ancient, who stood now

shouting a challenge to a modern military power, prepared to defend to

the death what was his and Jake felt a curious sense of recklessness.

It was a reaction that he knew well and usually it led him into

positions of acute discomfort and danger.

"Forget it," he told himself firmly. "It's their war. Take the money

and run. "Then suddenly he looked across the dimly lit cave to where

Vicky Camberwell sat. She listened to the old Ras with misty eyes, and

her expression was enchanted as she leaned her golden head close to the

dark curly head of Sara Sagud, not wanting to miss a word of the

translation.

Now she saw Jake watching her, and she smiled and nodded vehemently

almost as though she had read his doubts.

"Leave Vicky also?" Jake wondered. "Leave them all and run with the

gold?" He knew that nothing would induce Vicky to leave with them.

For her the story was here, her involvement was complete, and she would

stay to the end the inevitable end.

The smart thing was to go, the dumb thin to stay and fight another

man's war that was already lost before it had begun; the dumb thing was

to stake twenty thousand dollars which was his share of the profits,

and all his future plans, the Barton engine, and the factory to build

it, against the remote chance of winning a lady who promised to be a

lifetime of trouble once she was won.

never was a dab hand at doing the smart thing," Jake thought ruefully,

and smiled back at Vicky.

The Ras was suddenly silent, panting with the force of his feelings and

the effort of voicing them. His listeners were mesmerized also,

staring at the thin-robed figure with its wild lion wig.

The Ras made a commanding gesture and one of his guards handed him the

broad two-handed sword, its blade long and naked. The Ras leaned his

weight upon it and commanded again, and they carried in the war drums.

The Ras's ceremonial drums, passed down to him by his father and his

father before him, drums that had beaten at Magdala against

Napier, at Adowa against the Italians and at a hundred other battles.

They were as tall as a man's shoulder, elaborately carved of hardwood

and covered with rawhide, and the drummers took up their stance with

the barrels of their drums held between their knees.

The drum with the deepest bass tone set the rhythm and the lesser drums

joined in with the variations and counterpoints, a chorus that arred a

man's gut and loosened his brain in his skull.

The old Ras listened to it with his head bowed over the sword,

until the rhythm took a hold on him and his shoulders began to jerk and

his head came up. With a leap like a white bird taking flight, he

landed in the open space before the drummers. The great sword whirled

high above his head, and he began to dance.

Gareth took Mikhael Sagud by the sleeve and lifted his voice in

competition with the drums, and resumed at the point where he had been

interrupted.

"Toffee, you were telling me about the money." Jake heard him and

leaned across to catch the Prince's reply, but the Prince was silent,

watching his father leap and twirl in the intricate and acrobatic

dance.

"We have delivered the goods, old chap. And a deal is a deal."

"fifteen thousand sovereigns," said the Prince thoughtfully.

"That's the exact figure, "Gareth agreed.

"A dangerous sum of money," murmured the PPrince.

"Men have been killed for much less." And they made no reply.

"I think of your safety, of course," the Prince went on.

"Your safety, and my country's chances of survival. Without an

engineer to maintain the cars, and a soldier to teach my men to use the

new weapons we will have wasted fifteen thousand sovereigns."

"I feel very badly for you," Gareth assured him. "I'll eat my heart

out for you while I am having dinner at the Cafe Royal, I really will

but truly, Toffee, you should have thought of this long ago."

"Oh, I did my dear Swales I assure you I gave it much thought." And

the Prince turned to smile at Gareth. "I thought that no one would be

foolish enough to take on his person fifteen thousand gold sovereigns

in the middle of Ethiopia and then try and get out of the country

without the Ras's personal approval and protection." They stared at

him.

"Can you imagine the delight of the shifta, the mountain bandits,

when they learned that such a rich prize was moving unprotected through

their territory?"

"They would know, of course?" murmured Jake.

"I fear that they might be informed." The Prince turned to him.

"And if we tried to go back the way we came?"

"Through the desert on foot?" the Prince smiled.

"We might use a little of the gold to buy camels," Jake suggested.

"I fancy you might find camels hard to come by, and somebody might

inform the Italians and the French of your movements to say nothing of

the Danakil tribesmen who would slit the throats of their own mothers

for a single gold sovereign." They watched the Ras send the great

sword humming six inches over the heads of the bass drummers, and then

turn a grotesque flapping pirouette.

"God!" said Gareth. "I took you at your word, Toffee. I mean word of

honour, and old school-"

"My dear Swales, these are not the playing fields of Eton, I'm

afraid."

"Still, I never thought you'd welsh."

"Oh, dear me, I am not welshing. You can have your money now this very

hour."

"All right, Prince," Jake interrupted. "Tell us what more you want

from us. Tell us, is there any way we get out of here with a safe

conduct, and our money?" The Prince smiled warmly at Jake,

leaning to pat his arm.

"Always the pragmatist. No time wasted in tearing the hair or beating

the breast, Mr. Barton."

"Shoot," said Jake.

"My father and I would be very grateful if you would work for us for a

six-month contract."

"Why six months? "demanded Gareth.

"By then all will be lost, or won."

"Go on, "Jake invited.

"For six months you will exercise your skills for us and teach us how

best to defend ourselves against a modern army. Service,

maintain and command the armoured cars."

"In return? "Jake asked.

"A princely salary for the six months, a safe conduct out of

Ethiopia, and your money guaranteed by a London bank at the end of that

time."

"What is fair wages for putting one's head on the butcher's block?

"Gareth asked bitterly.

"Double another seven thousand pounds each, "said the Prince without

hesitation, and the men on each side of him relaxed slightly and

exchanged glances.

"Each?" asked Gareth.

"Each,"agreed Lij Mikhael.

"I only wish I had my lawyer here to draw up the contract," said

Gareth.

, "Not necessary," Mikhael laughed, and shook his head and drew two

envelopes from his robes. He handed one to each of them.

"Bank-guaranteed cheques. Lloyds of London. Irrev(.)cable, I

assure you but post-dated six months ahead. Valid on the first of

February next year." The two white men examined the documents

curiously.

Carefully Jake checked the date on the bank draft 1st February,

1936 and then read the figure fourteen thousand pounds sterling only

and he grinned.

"The exact amount the precise date." He shook his head admiringly.

"You had it all figured out. Man, you were thinking weeks ahead of

us."

"Good God, Toffee," Gareth intoned mournfully. "I must say I am

appalled. Utterly appalled."

"Does that mean you refuse, Major

Swales?" Gareth glanced at Jake, and a flash of agreement passed

between them. Gareth sighed theatrically. "Well, I must say that I

did have an appointment in Madrid. They've got themselves this little

war they are working on, but-" and here he studied the bank draft

again, "but one war is very much like another. Furthermore, you have

given me some fairly powerful reasons why I should stay on." Gareth

withdrew the wallet from his inside pocket and folded the draft into

it. "However, that doesn't alter the fact that I am utterly appalled

by the way this whole business has been conducted."

"And you, Mr.

Barton?" Lij Mikhael asked.

"As my partner has just remarked fourteen thousand pounds isn't exactly

peanuts. Yes, I accept." The Prince nodded, and then his expression

changed, became bleak and savage.

"I must urge you most cogently not to attempt to leave Ethiopia before

the expiry of our agreement justice is crude but effective under my

father's administration." At that moment the gentleman under

discussion lifted the sword high above his head and then drove the

point deep into the earth between his feet. He left it there, the

blade shivering and gleaming in the firelight, and staggered wheezing

and cackling to his place between Jake and Gareth.

He flung a skinny old arm around each of them and greeted them with a

hug and an affectionate cry of "How do you do?" and Gareth cocked a

speculative eye at him.

"How would you like to learn to play gin rummy, old son?" he asked

kindly. Six months was a lot of time to while away and there might yet

be further profit in the situation, he thought.

The sound of the drums woke Count Aldo Belli from a deep,

untroubled sleep. He lay and listened to them for a while, to the deep

monotonous rhythm like the pulse of the earth itself, and the effect

was lulling and hypnotic. Then suddenly the Count came fully awake and

the adrenalin poured hotly into his bloodstream. A month before

leaving Rome he had attended a screening of the latest Hollywood

release, Trader Horn, an African epic of wild animals and bloodthirsty

tribesmen. The sound of tribal drums had been skilfully used on the

sound track to heighten the sense of menace and suspense, and the Count

now realized that out there in the night the same terrible drums were

beating.

He came out of his bed in a single bound with a roar that woke those in

the camp who were still asleep. When Gino rushed into the tent, he

found his master standing stark-naked and wild-eyed in the centre of

his tent with the ivory-handled Beretta in one hand and the jewelled

dagger clutched in the other.

The instant the drums began beating, Luigi Castelani hurried back to

the bivouac, for he knew exactly what " reaction to expect from the

colonel. He arrived to find that the Count was fully uniformed,

had selected a bodyguard of fifty men and was on the point of embarking

in the waiting Rolls. The engine was running and the driver was as

eager to leave as his august passenger.

The Count was not at all pleased to see the bulky figure of his

Major come hurrying out of the darkness with that unmistakable

swaggering gait. He had hoped to get clear before Castelani could

intervene, and now he immediately went on the offensive.

"Major, I am returning to Asmara to report in person to the

General," shouted Aldo Belli, and tried to reach the Rolls, but the

Major was too nimble for him and interposed his bulk and saluted.

"My Colonel, the de fences of the wells are now complete," he reported.

"The area is secure."

"I shall report that we are being attacked in overwhelming force,"

cried the Count, and tried to duck around Castelani's right side, but

the Major anticipated the move and jumped sideways to keep belly to

belly.

"The men are dug in, and in good spirits."

"You have my permission to withdraw in good order under the enemy's

bloodthirsty assault." The

Count attempted to lull the man with the prospect of escape, and then

lunged to the left to reach the Rolls but the Major was swift as a

mamba, and again they faced each other. The entire (officer corps of

the Third Battalion, hastily dressed and alarmed by the drums in the

night, had assembled to watch this exhibition of agility as the Count

and Castelani jumped backwards and forwards like a pair of game cocks

sparring at each other. Their sentiments were heavily on the side of

their Colonel, and they would have enjoyed nothing more than the

spectacle of the retreating Rolls.

They would then have been free to follow in haste.

"I do not believe the enemy is present in any force." Castelani's

voice was raised to a level where the Count's protests were completely

drowned. "However, it is essential that the Colonel takes command in

person. If there is to be a confrontation, it will involve a value

judgement." The Major pressed forward a step at a time, until his

chest was an inch from the Colonel's and their noses almost touched.

"We are not formally at war. Your presence is essential to reinforce

our position." The Colonel was pressed to the point where he had no

choice but to fall back a pace, and the watching Officers sighed sadly.

It was an act of capitulation. The contest of wills was over and

although the Count continued to protest weakly, the Major worked him

away from the Rolls the way a good sheep dog handles its flock.

"It will be dawn in an hour," said Castelani, "and as soon as it is

light, we shall be in a position to evaluate the situation." At that

moment the drum fell silent. Up the valley in the caves, the Ras had

at last finished his dance of defiance, and to the Count the silence

was cheering. He threw one last wistful look at the Rolls, and then

let his gaze wander to the fifty heavily armed men of his bodyguard and

took a little more heart.

He squared his shoulders and drew himself erect, throwing back his

head.

"Major," he snapped. "The battalion will stand firm." He turned to

his watching officers, all of whom tried to fade into insignificance

and avoid his eyes. "Major Vita, take command of this detachment and

move forward to clear the ground. The rest of you fall in around

me."

The Colonel gave the Major and his fifty stalwarts a respectable

lead,

so that they might draw any hostile fire, and then, surrounded by a

protective screen of his reluctant juniors and prodded forward by

Luigi

Castelani, he moved cautiously along the dusty path that wound down the

slope of the valley to where' the battalion's forward elements had been

so expertly entrenched.

Phe most junior of Ras Golam's multitudinous grooms was fifteen years

of age. The previous day one of the Ras's favourite mares in his care

had snapped her halter rope while he was taking her down to the water.

She had galloped out into the desert, and the boy had followed her for

the whole of that day and half of the night, until the capricious

creature had allowed him to come up with her and grasp the trailing end

of the rope.

Exhausted by the long chase and chilled by the cold night wind,

the boy had huddled down on her neck and allowed the mare to pick her

own way back to the water holes. He was half asleep, clinging by

instinct alone to the mare's mane, when a short while before dawn she

wandered into the perimeter of the Italian base.

A nervous sentry had challenged loudly, and the startled animal had

plunged into a full run through the outskirts of the camp. Now,

fully awake, the boy had clung to the galloping horse, and seen the

lines of parked trucks and military tents looming out of the

darkness.

He had seen the stacked rifles, and recognize the shape of the helmet

of another sentry who had challenged again as they passed through the

outer lines.

Peering back under his own arm he had seen the flash of the rifle shot

and heard the crack of the bullet pass his bowed head, and he urged the

horse on with heels and knees.

By the time the groom reached the deep wadi, the Ras's following was at

last succumbing to the effects of a full night's festivities.

Many of them had drifted away to find a place to sleep, others had

merely huddled down in their robes and slept where they had eaten.

Only the hardened few still ate and drank, argued and sang, or sat in

tejnumbed silence about the fires watching the womenfolk begin to

prepare the morning meal.

The boy flung himself off the mare at the entrance to the caves,

ducked under the arms of the sentries who would have restrained him and

ran into the crowded, smoky and dimly lit interior. He was gabbling

with fright and importance, the words tumbling over each other and

making no sense until Lij Mikhael caught him by the upper arms and

shook him to restore his senses.

Then the story he told made sense, and rang with urgent conviction.

Those within earshot shouted it to those further back, and within

seconds the story, distorted and garbled, had flashed through the

gathering and was running wildly through the whole encampment.

The sleepers awakened, every man armed and every woman and child

curious and voluble. They streamed out of the caves and from the rough

tents and shelters in the narrow ravines. Without command, moving like

a shoal of fish without a leader but with as ingle purpose, laughing

sceptic ally or shouting speculation and comment and query, brandishing

shields and ancient firearms, the women clutching their infants, and

the older children dancing around them or darting ahead, the shapeless

mob streamed out of the broken ground and down into the saucer-shaped

valley of the wells.

In the caves, Lij Mikhael was still explaining the boy's story to the

foreigners, and arguing the details and implications with them and his

father. It was Jake Barton who realized the danger.

"If the Italians have sent in a unit to grab the wells, then it's a

calculated act of war. They'll be looking for trouble, Prince.

You'd best forbid any of your men to go down there, until we have sized

up Xhe situation properly." It was too late, far too late. In the

first faint glimmer of dawn, when the light plays weird tricks on a