O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [39]
—THE Muqaddimah OF IBN KHALDÛN
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The road back to Beersheva seemed even rougher than the outward journey, and was definitely colder. We were let out on the south end of town, below the ancient wells, and in five minutes we were at the inn. Although it was nearly midnight, Ali called out for coffee as we passed the kitchen. I went off to the latrines behind the inn, in no pleasant mood.
I had left the mud-brick building in the hills stewing to myself over Joshua’s patronising words and attitude, and the long, jostling trip back had not dissipated any of my profound annoyance. I arrived back in the room on the heels of the coffee bearers, and waited impatiently while the thick brew was poured out. The instant the door was fixed into place, I gave vent to my irritation.
“ ‘Some use in holding a rifle,’ ” I grumbled furiously. “ ‘Running messages.’ Who does he think he is?”
Holmes did not answer, but Ali did. “He is Joshua.”
“And I’m supposed to be impressed by the name? For God’s sake, he’s got a resource he won’t even consider using. ” I gestured to where Holmes sat on his heels, sipping from the delicate cup pinched between thumb and forefinger, his long mouth twitching in amusement. “Holmes, speaking objectively, would you not agree that it is a foolish commander who neglects to make full use of the strengths of his men?”
He inclined his head to show agreement, but Ali gave out a guttural laugh.
“Strengths? What strengths are those? An old man and a girl.” He added an eloquent mock-spitting gesture of hand and lips, and that, on top of a solid week of disdain and the dismissive attitude of the spymaster, was simply too much. I leapt to my feet and stormed over to thrust my face into his.
“Hit me,” I ordered. Behind me, Holmes put down his cup with alacrity and moved out of the way.
“By Allah, it is a great tempta—” Ali began. So I slapped him. Hard. His face went purple and he surged up, reaching out to grab me by the shoulders, but before he had his balance I performed a manoeuvre that I knew would only work once on a man of his size and strength, when he was both unprepared and off balance. As he came at me, I seized the front of his robes and then hurled myself over backwards, kicking out hard to send him flying over my head and tumbling through the open doorway into the next room. Before he could find his breath or his feet, I was standing over him with one of my two throwing knives in my left hand. His eyes widened, his hand flew to his belt, and I half turned and threw the knife back into the main room, sinking it with satisfaction into the nose of a bearded face on a fly-specked 1913 calendar that decorated the back of the door. Then I turned my back on him and walked away, retrieving my knife and returning to my now-cool coffee.
Holmes dropped back into his place, working hard not to laugh aloud, and murmured, “Do you feel better now, Russell?”
I did, of course, although I was also beginning to regret the insult I had dealt Ali even before he stumbled back into the room with his wicked knife in his hand and his jaws clenched in fury under his beard.
Mahmoud, though, was looking at me with more interest than he had yet shown.
“Can you do that with the knife every time?” he asked me, speaking in Arabic, but slowly.
“Every time.”
Of course, I then had to prove it by dispatching three large spiders, two pencil marks, and a flying apple core. Mahmoud seemed inordinately pleased at this unexpected talent of mine. Ali, predictably, sulked. After the halved apple core had fallen to the floor, he stirred.
“A clever circus trick,” he said dismissively. “Have you ever used a knife? Drawn blood? Killed?”
Holmes cleared his throat. “My dear man, she’s lived in England all her life. Give her time.”
It was, I think, the first time Ali Hazr and I had been in agreement, under the effect of Holmes’ amusement. He was mocking us both, and had a knock at the door not interrupted, Mahmoud