The Amulet of Power - Mike Resnick [94]
“I won’t be here that long,” she said. “In the meantime, I have a question for you.”
“Ask it, and I will do my best to answer.”
“I know the Seychelles were a former British possession . . .”
“That is true.”
“So why does almost everyone who works at the hotel and the airport speak with a French accent?”
Ibraham smiled. “Have you ever heard of the Chevalier Jean-Baptiste Queau de Quinssy?”
“No.”
“At the dawn of the nineteenth century, the Seychelles were a French colony. Then came the Napoleonic Wars, and first the British claimed them and then the French did. De Quinssy was the administrator of the Seychelles, and though he was French by birth his only concern was for the islands, not for the politics of two nations that were thousands of miles away. So whenever a French fleet put in to port in Mahé he flew a French flag, and when a British fleet approached he flew the Union Jack. And since he never went to war with either side and was never conquered by either side, the English and French who lived here stayed here. Neither was ever forced to leave.” He paused. “You mentioned that most of the people you’d met speak English with a pronounced French accent, and that is true; what you don’t know is that most of the people you would meet at some of the other hotels or certain government offices speak French with a British accent. It is all because of the Chevalier de Quinssy, who refused to take sides in matters that were truly none of his concern.”
“That’s a fascinating story,” said Lara.
“There are many interesting aspects of Seychelles history,” replied Ibraham. “Perhaps over the next few days I can share some of them with you.”
“Were you born here?”
He shook his head. “I come from the Sudan. I have been here for nine years.”
“What are you doing here? You couldn’t possibly have known I was coming.”
“I grew tired of the desert. Only mad Englishmen like Gordon and Lawrence love the desert. Those of us who were born there prefer water and green things.”
“Makes sense to me,” she said.
She walked over to the shoulder bag, withdrew her holsters, strapped it on, and then began checking out the pistols.
“Those are remarkable weapons,” said Ibraham admiringly.
“They’re Wilkes and Hawkins Black Demon .32s. Fifteen shots to the clip, specially weighted, and with a palm print chip lock.”
“They are very impressive,” said Ibraham. “What do you call them?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your weapons.” He pulled out a small pistol from a hidden shoulder holster. “This, for instance, is the Spitting Cobra.”
She sighed. “You guys and your toys.”
Ibraham frowned. “You must have a name for your weapons,” he said in a voice filled with concern. “It is customary.”
“All right.” She pulled out a pistol and twirled it around an index finger. “This one is called Lara’s Gun, and this one”—she pulled out the remaining pistol—“is called Lara’s Other Gun. Okay?”
He looked defeated. “Okay.”
“Whoops—I forgot!” she said, suddenly removing the holsters.
“What is wrong?”
“I’ve got to go out, and I can’t wear my guns out in the street.” She stared at Ibraham. “Maybe you can help me.”
“That’s what I am here for.” His voice took on a hopeful tone. “Would you like me to kill the man you arrived with—the man in the next room?”
“He’s my friend,” she said sharply. “Leave him alone.”
“As you wish.”
“I need to find a really fine artisan, someone who works in bronze. Do you know of such a person?”
“I know many.”
“I want the best. Cost is no object.”
“I can take you there.”
“How far is it? I didn’t see any shops when the cab drove up, except for the gift shop in the lobby.”
“It is not far. I have an automobile here.”
“Let’s go,” she said, returning her pistols and holsters to her bag. “This shouldn’t take too long. There’s no sense bothering Malcolm.”
He led her out of the hotel to a small Japanese car that had seen better days and better decades, headed back to Victoria, and pulled up before a wooden shack a few minutes later.
“You wait here,” she said, getting out of the car.
“I will come in and bargain for you.”
“I don’t