goodbye to Tahira for ever, he’d been unable to make a single decision. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He had decided to leave Nessarah any number of times, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to act on it.
He couldn’t understand it. His quest was over, his amulet buried, his dark and shameful past put firmly behind him, but the long-anticipated sense of relief continued to elude him. He felt unsettled, unprepared for the future he had been longing for, more haunted than ever by thoughts of the past.
Dredging it all up, reliving it in order to make Tahira understand, that’s what had brought it so vividly back. He had been so very clear in his mind that ridding himself of the amulet was the key to wiping the slate clean. He’d expected her to agree, but instead she had questioned him. And her questions, infuriatingly, would not go away.
Why hadn’t Andrew Fordyce sold the amulet? Had the man Christopher had always called father simply been too guilty to profit from blood money? Looking back—and Christopher had done a lot of that over the last two sleepless nights—he could conjure only happy memories, not only of his childhood, but of the close working relationship he’d had with his fa—with Fordyce. What’s more, despite the fact that they hadn’t sold the bloody amulet, Christopher had wanted for nothing. What sacrifices had the Fordyces made? Christopher’s schooling, now he thought about it—wasn’t hindsight a wonderful thing!—had been far superior to the children of the Fordyce’s friends and relations. He’d always believed himself loved, had always loved the people he thought his parents deeply in return. Which is why it had been so painful to discover the damning evidence that he had been duped. Though Tahira didn’t believe he had.
Christopher threw open the door of his abode and strode out into the early morning. ‘She’s wrong,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I will not allow her to fill my mind with doubts.’
But was she wrong? Thanks to the Fordyces he had a name—for Tahira was right, no one save himself and Armstrong knew any different. He’d had a happy childhood—there, he could admit that too—and he had been taught a very profitable profession, again thanks to Andrew Fordyce.
None of which changed the fact that Henry Armstrong was a vile seducer, a manipulative conniver, who had walked away from the mess of his own making without a backward glance. Were it not for Armstrong, Christopher’s mother would still be alive. Mind you, were it not for Armstrong, Christopher would not exist. Which brought him to another thing Tahira questioned, his idea that his mother might have kept him, against the odds. Unlikely, Tahira thought, though she hadn’t actually said so. Not wanting to hurt him? Which forced him to wonder whether she was right about that too. Most likely Tahira understood his mother’s situation better than he did. Were she in a similar predicament, she would...
She would never be in a similar predicament, because she was getting married. Christopher cursed long and furiously in a mixture of English and Arabic. He looked out at the beauty of the desert dawn. A distant sandstorm gave a dark golden tinge to the normal palette of pink and orange. It would not hinder his travel plans, for he was heading due north. Today. Though there was the camel race he’d heard about when visiting the bazaar yesterday for supplies. He’d like to see that, it was reckoned to be quite a spectacle. So perhaps he’d leave his journey until tomorrow.
Today, Tahira’s betrothal was to be finalised. Would there be a celebration of some sort? For her sake, he hoped she would be able to like the man chosen for her. For his own—he didn’t want to think about it. What was she doing at this moment? Was she taking breakfast with her sisters? Or was there some elaborate ritual she would take part in prior to the ceremony—if there was a ceremony? Bathing. Oiling. Those henna designs, the women here painted them on their hands and feet, didn’t they, for special occasions.
Tahira. Christopher groaned. Tahira, Tahira, Tahira. He missed her. He’d never see her again. Another thing that didn’t bear thinking of. The sun had risen. The sky was a perfect pale blue. Ideal conditions for a camel race? He had no idea, but what the hell, he was kidding himself, thinking he was leaving today. Why not head into the city and find out what all the fuss was about?
* * *
The crowds had gathered in the outskirts of the city for the occasion, lining the course in their multitudes. A long row of tents stood off to one side. Various mouth-watering aromas, of roasted goat, delicious concoctions of fruit and yoghurt, toasted coffee beans, and the ubiquitous mint tea wafted from the open fronts of each tent as Christopher wandered through the milling hordes.
Women stood in huddles gossiping and giggling behind their veils, while their menfolk engaged in heated debates over recent form and likely favourites. Children screamed with joy as they ran between the flag poles which marked out the course, some in pairs with silk scarves for reins, mimicking the contest to come. The camels would race around a track which was roughly oblong in shape, which meant that for each lap there would be four tight corners to negotiate.
‘And so this stranger who has been in our midst for some weeks is interested in our camels as well as our horses.’ The man who accosted Christopher was old, his wiry grey hair tied in the multitude of plaits favoured by some of the Bedouins. ‘I saw you at the horse fair some weeks ago,’ he said, in response to Christopher’s raised brows. ‘You are not a man easily forgotten.’
‘My colouring is not a common sight in Arabia, right enough.’
The old man shook his head. ‘It is your eyes. Not the colour, but you are like me, a man who sees what others do not.’ He smiled, revealing a sparkling gold front tooth. ‘Do you come to see our royal family today, Mr Foreigner? We will be granted a rare sighting of the princesses, I am told.’
‘Indeed, I wondered who that lavish construction would house.’ On the opposite side of the track, at the start-and-finish line, a large podium had been erected with benched seating strewn with cushions, a silk tasselled canopy covering the whole. ‘Will Prince Ghutrif be in attendance?’
‘Today is Prince Ghutrif’s gift to the people of Nessarah. Some significant announcement is expected,’ the old man said. ‘A new gold mine, perhaps. Not yet the birth of the long-awaited heir, for the guns would have been sounded from the palace. Have you attended a camel race before, Mr Foreigner?’
‘This is my first,’ Christopher said, wondering if the prince was celebrating the opening of his turquoise mine.
‘You will witness a spectacle rather than a race,’ the old man was saying. ‘Camels, as you will know, take a great deal of encouragement to get going, and once they do, they take a deal more encouragement to stop. Then there is the fact that it is not the most flexible of animals. Have you ever tried to turn a tight corner on camel back?’ When Christopher shook his head, the old man cackled. ‘I advise you to stay clear of the marker poles if you value your life.’
‘But I had heard racing camels were specially bred.’
‘You heard correctly. These beasts are fed on a diet of dates and honey, alfalfa and milk. They eat better than I! Such food makes for a smaller hump—reduced still further by depriving the animal of food and drink the day before the race, and so it is easier for the jockey to balance behind it without a saddle.’
‘No saddle? I would imagine that would be rather—painful,’ Christopher said, wincing.
The old man cackled again. ‘A pain eased by the gold given to the winner by our most venerable Prince Ghutrif. Look, he is arriving now.’
Sure enough, the crowd had dropped to their knees, the cries and laughter changing to hushed, reverential greetings. Following suit, Christopher watched furtively as the royal party arranged themselves on the seating
