O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [141]
The boom was satisfying; the spray of dust and flakes of rusted iron that settled over me less so. I coughed, sneezed furiously, and squeezed my eyelids together, continuing to hammer away blindly. It was a strain, and about one blow in three missed the wood and bashed into solid rock, sending a jolt along my spine that rattled my teeth. After about a minute of this lunacy I felt something patting my boot, and Jacob’s voice raised above the echoing din. He was offering to take my place.
In the end we all took turns, perched on the creaking ladder, walloping away at the iron-hard door. Jacob the gentleman obviously thought me insane and was waiting for me to tire so he might lead me away and put a cool cloth on my fevered brow, but the three Arabs were having a fine time.
I was taking a turn on the ladder, and beginning to think Jacob might be right about my mental state, when between one blow and the next the door suddenly went hollow. I nearly dropped the cudgel onto the heads below, fumbling to exchange it for the gun in my belt. The door scraped open, my audience gasped, and I was looking over the sights of the revolver at: Ali. A grinning, blood-streaked Ali who had patently succeeded in conquering the house above.
“So, you wish to shoot me this time?” he asked politely, and I reflected that each time I nearly killed him, he became increasingly friendly towards me. His broad hand reached down. I let the battering ram fall onto an unoccupied patch of floor, stuck the revolver back into my belt, and reached up to take his hand and be hauled bodily through the hole. He kicked at the door, and I could only call a hasty “Thank you!” through the gap before it was down and bolted again. I agreed: this was no place for introducing Irregulars.
Ali caught up his lamp from the floor and made for a stairway.
“How many did you get?” I asked him.
“Four,” he answered cheerfully. “All alive, none talking yet. By God, that Holmes of yours is a good fighter.”
That Holmes of mine was nursing a set of swollen knuckles and a reddened eye, and looked immensely pleased with himself. He and Mahmoud were dragging the fourth trussed and gagged body back into the building, where they tossed him down with his companions, looking like so many rolled-up carpets. Holmes shut the door authoritatively on the curious crowd outside, and we stood looking at our haul.
Then, slowly and dramatically, Ali drew forth his wicked blade, and four sets of eyes went wide, four foreheads went instantly damp with sweat. No: five. I too had no desire for that blade to be applied to digging out secrets. I put out a hand to touch Ali’s arm, studying the men at my feet. Four dark-skinned men in Arab dress, not the clothing of the poorest inhabitants, but none of them was wealthy. One was young, scarcely my age, and he looked near to passing out with terror. I squeezed Ali’s rock-like forearm once again for good measure, and went over to kneel beside the young man.
“I will not hurt you,” I said to him. His eyes flickered to my face, then glued themselves back on Ali. I shifted, to remove Ali’s knife from the prisoner’s vision, and then leant forward to untie his gag. He watched me settle back on my heels, waiting warily for my trick.
“We must know where your leader has gone,” I told him. “Not Karim Bey. Bey is dead.” All four went still against their bonds, and the young man’s eyes rose to Ali’s figure standing behind me. I did not disabuse them of their belief that Ali had killed Bey, merely said, “We must have the other. These men will kill you in order to find him. Slowly, and with great pain. Tell me now where the other man is, and you will not be hurt.” I waited while the young man thought about it, then added, “He is not one of you. He paid you for the use of this house and for your silence;