Drakas! Read online

  Familiar, well-remembered sensations engulfed Gordon as he disembarked at the mooring station outside the city's mud-brick walls. The desert heat drenched him like a ferocious wave. The smells, though he was still outside the city proper, slapped him in the face with their intensity: camels, sewage, waste, and the odors emanating from too many people confined in such a small place in so hot a climate.

  A Draka centurion approached him as he stood breathing in the still-familiar, strangely-unforgotten sensations. The officer snapped a smart salute.

  "Sir. Centurion David Desmond. At your command."

  "Ah, yes. Desmond. Von Shrakenbeg told me about you."

  Desmond looked to be an ex-American, probably another of those Draka officers who had once soldiered for the Confederacy and had immigrated to the Domination after the Confederacy had capitulated in 1868.

  "He did?" He smiled speculatively. Clearly Desmond wanted to ask Gordon exactly what von Shrakenberg had said about him, but could find no graceful way to do so. Actually, von Shrakenberg had had very little to say about Desmond. The centurion had been left in command of a small garrison by Hicks when the strategos had gone off into the desert on his ill-fated offensive against the Mahdi. Since no one at all had come back from that disastrous foray, Desmond was the ranking officer in Khartoum and thus in command of the city.

  "This way, sir. The merarch has been anxiously awaiting your arrival."

  Gordon paused before climbing into the open carriage that Desmond indicated. "Merarch? I was given to understand that you were the commanding officer in Khartoum."

  "Ah, yes sir. I was. Merarch Quantrill arrived this morning. His legion is still on the way. He came ahead, up from Archona on a steam dragger."

  "Quantrill?" Gordon asked. "William Quantrill the American bushwhacker?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Gordon had never met Quantrill personally, but the man's reputation preceded him. In fact, he was notorious. Quantrill had also fought for the Confederacy in the American War Between the States, but he really hadn't been much of a soldier. He'd been a raider, a murderer, a thug, and a thief. Most famous for leading the raid on Lawrence, Kansas, that had resulted in the death of every man and boy in the town, he'd picked his battles more for the promise of loot than recognizable military purposes. After emigrating to the Domination Quantrill had preserved his reputation as a vicious, brutal, and ruthless killer during the Domination's rapid expansion over the last fifteen years.

  "Is Quantrill in the regular army?" Gordon asked thoughtfully. "Has he been ordered to bring the Mahdi to heel?"

  "No," Desmond said. "Well, yes. His orders are to destroy the Mahdi and his savages, but he's not regular army. He's a Merarch in the Security Directorate. As I understand it, the problem of the Mahdi is theirs to solve."

  "I see," Gordon said. He looked into the distance.

  "He's expecting us," Desmond said after a moment.

  "Yes. Quite." Of course, this was turning out to be complicated already. Von Shrakenberg had warned him about the Directorate in general, and, specifically, this Quantrill was an unsavory fellow. Not a real soldier at all. Just a freebooter in uniform.

  Gordon looked at Desmond, who was frowning uncertainly.

  "Have my luggage brought to headquarters," he said briskly. "I shall be out and about quite a bit, of course, so I'll need just a small room. Nothing luxurious."

  "But—"

  "I say. May I borrow your carriage?" Gordon looked around. "I don't see many others and I have to get into the city as soon as possible."

  "But—"

  "That's a good lad." Gordon swung into the forward facing seat of the mule drawn carriage.

  "But—"

  "Give the merarch my regards. Tell him I'll drop by the garrison soon as I can."

  "But—"

  He leaned forward. "Driver?"

  The black holding the reins turned back to face Gordon.

  "Do you know the establishment of Nomikos the Greek?"

  The man nodded."Take me there."

  "But—"

  The black twitched his whip above the head of his mule.

  Desmond had time for a final forlorn "But—" as Gordon, waving cheerily, headed towards the mud-brick metropolis of Khartoum.

  The city hadn't changed much the years he'd been away. Constructed largely of sun-dried mud bricks that tended to melt together after a few years and a few rainstorms, its slumping buildings were easy to pull down and build over. Thus Khartoum was constantly changing without really changing as every few years a new veneer was put up over the same time-ravaged features.

  When Gordon had known Nomikos in years past the Greek merchant had traded in gum and ivory and Kordofan gold, but had never dabbled in the most valuable Sudanese commodity, human flesh. He was knowledgeable, intelligent, and though a merchant he was also an honorable man. And he was in Gordon's debt, he and his caravans twice having been saved from bandits by Gordon's patrols.

  Gordon was glad to find him still alive and prosperous, if fatter than ever. Nomikos, too, was apparently glad to see Gordon, if more than a little astonished that the old Pasha had suddenly appeared on his doorstep.

  Dubious to the announced identity of his surprise visitor, Nomikos' eyes became as big around as fat Greek olives when he realized that the man waiting outside the gated entrance to his domain was indeed Charles Gordon.

  "Gordon Pasha, a thousand forgivenesses." Nomikos would have gone down to his knees, but Gordon gripped his forearms, stopping him. There was no telling if the rotund merchant would have been able to fight his way back up to his feet again. "I never knew you were back in Egypt, let alone shining the light of your greatness upon the streets of this humble city, right even upon the door of my most unworthy abode."

  "I've but arrived, old friend, and already I find myself in need of help."

  "Come inside, Gordon Pasha, come, and we shall talk of the old days and of current needs."

  Gordon sighed, not without a certain resigned acceptance. He knew that he was in for a long night.

  The pathway of hospitality was not swiftly trodden in this land. First coffee, drunk in small glasses so laden with sugar that it was a thick syrup. Then food offered on laden trays by Nomikos' curious concubines. Dates and pastries dripping with honey. Sweet, cold melon, and slabs of fish, fresh that day from the Nile, picked free of bones. Cold meats and dried figs.

  It was food Gordon had not eaten the like of in more than a decade. Simple and hardy, yet delicious, it was wonderful to feel those tastes again on his tongue.

  With the food came talk. Not, at first, talk of today, but of years gone by when Gordon had first come to the Sudan and broken the slavers. He had made the country safer for everyone, especially far-ranging merchants like Nomikos, who well-remembered those days and liked to reminisce about them.

  Gradually they worked their way through the years, and Nomikos told of mutual friends and mutual enemies. Who had lived, who had died. Who had prospered, who had disappeared into the dust of a lost caravan. Finally they reached the present day, and Nomikos told Gordon who had joined the Mahdi and who had defied him. And what few of the defiant ones still lived.

  Finally Gordon came to tell him what he wanted, and Nomikos's eyes got large as olives again and he spent over a hour trying to dissuade Gordon from his madness. But Gordon only shook his head and finally the Greek nodded in sad agreement.

  "It will be your death, Gordon Pasha," Nomikos told him.

  Gordon shrugged. "Something will be my death. Long ago I put my life into the hands of my Saviour. He hasn't seen fit to gather me to his bosom yet."

  "You haven't changed," Nomikos said, and Gordon nodded. "Very well, then. I will send a man to you at the garrison tomorrow. He's in Khartoum now, otherwise there's no telling when I could ever find him."

  "He travels far?"

  "He does. Like I did before I had this." Nomikos slapped his big belly resoundingly. "He's a strange one. He will do much for gold. He's t
he only man I can think of who might do this for you."

  "Can I trust him?" Gordon asked.

  The Greek shrugged. "As you can any man in Khartoum. Take that for what you know it to be worth. But I do know one thing about him. He is stubborn. You can buy him and he will stay bought. At least, he always has, before."

  Gordon nodded, said his farewells and took his leave. His carriage had waited, the driver patiently sitting in the dark, half asleep.

  "Headquarters," Gordon said.

  Before rousing the mule from his standing slumber, the driver lit the glass-barreled oil lamp hanging from a pole adjacent to his seat.

  As the driver awoke the mule with a click of his tongue and a touch of his whip to the animal's flank, Gordon could see in the bright patch of lamplight a series of numbers tattooed on the back of the man's neck.

  They were, Gordon knew, serial numbers that the Draka had recently started to tattoo on their serfs, another sign that these so-called serfs were actually slaves. Gordon hated slavers, no matter what their guise, and, patently, the Draka were slavers. Perhaps they were somewhat more benevolent than those he was used to dealing with in the Sudan. Perhaps, somewhat. But that didn't wipe out their sin. And slavery was a sin, though it required careful reading of the Bible to ascertain that. The Bible, though inerrant, wasn't as straightforward as some would have you believe and it took—

  A volley of shots, five or six closely spaced together, suddenly rang out, shattering the serenity of both the evening and Gordon's reverie. The lantern exploded, bringing darkness again to the street. The driver reared back, then slowly puddled forward. The mule shied and shrieked. It, along with the lantern and the driver, had probably stopped a couple of bullets.

  Gordon acted instantly, almost without thought. He flung himself forward and reached over the driver who was now lying on his side on the high carriage seat. The driver had twisted the reins in his fingers, so Gordon grabbed the man's arms, then slid his hands down upon the driver's wrists. Shouting at the mule, Gordon jerked the lifeless hands still clutching the reins and the beast took off at a run as a second volley sounded.

  One bullet whined past Gordon's ear. Others thudded into the carriage. Gordon felt the body of the driver shudder at two more impacts, but the man gave no sign that he felt the additional wounds. Gordon suspected that he was already dead.

  The mule, though, was alive and scared. Gordon gave it its head and it ran through the dark streets. He let the beast run where it wanted to, and simply concentrated on keeping the carriage upright. Gordon was in an awkward position, leaning over the body of the driver, using the dead man's hands to keep the frightened animal under control. It took all his strength to keep the carriage upright.

  The muscles in his back twitched, anticipating another hail of bullets at any second. He was frightened, certainly, but his mouth was also twisted in a strange smile of exhilaration.

  Some one wants to kill me, he thought. I'm still important.

  He hadn't felt this good in years.

  April 26, 1883

  Khartoum

  My Dearest Augusta:

  I'm writing this short note from my room in the Draka military headquarters, Khartoum, just to inform you that I have arrived safely and all is well.

  The dirigible trip was exhilarating. Khartoum, I must say, is something less so. It is the same old drab town with the same old mud-brick buildings and the same old narrow, choked streets that are as difficult as ever to drive even the smallest carriage through.

  It's late at night—or rather very early in the morning—and I find myself so excited about the prospects of achieving real success on this mission that I can't sleep.

  You'll be happy to know that already I've met some old friends—you may remember I've written about Nomikos the Greek in the past—who will be able to help me with my business here. It was good to just sit and chat of old times with Nomikos. He has prospered, and is even fatter than ever.

  The only disagreeable note is that I've discovered that William Quantrill has taken command in the city. I haven't met him yet, but have of course heard of him. He's a most disagreeable chap and may be something of a problem. Nothing, however, with the help of Our Most Benevolent Lord, that I shan't be able to overcome.

  Ah well, Dear Sister, time to post this short missive. Hopefully the mail service will get it into your anxious hands sometime before my planned return to England this fall!

  Your loving Brother in Christ,

  C.

  iii.

  Gordon still couldn't sleep. An assassination attempt could cause insomnia, but it was excitement and a burning need for action that roared through his system like an undeniable drug, not fear.

  He wrestled with Agag for a while, pinned the demon down into the dark hole where he dwelled, and finally fell into a light sleep. He awoke at dawn a few hours later, got up, dressed, and wandered through the still-sleeping old Palace. The Palace was the finest, strongest building in Khartoum, so naturally the Draka used it as headquarters, as in fact Gordon himself had done when he had been Governor-General. It hadn't changed much since then—except, of course, it was quieter and much emptier since Hicks had gotten most of his command slaughtered somewhere out in the desert.

  He dropped into the officers' mess for breakfast. It was empty. He waited impatiently, for there was nothing else to do. After about an hour a sleepy-eyed orderly wandered in. He snapped to attention at the sight of a frowning Gordon.

  "Do the officers habitually breakfast so late?" Gordon asked.

  "Habitually? Well, sir, I wouldn't call it a habit, but, lately, well . . ."

  "Yes," Gordon nodded briskly. "I can see how the death of nine-tenths of the garrison would make the remainder lazier in their habits."

  Wisely, the orderly chose not to reply.

  "Please bring me some tea and toast, if that would not be too much trouble at this apparently early hour."

  "No, sir, not at all." The orderly saluted, turned, and marched off to the kitchen.

  Gordon ate his toast with butter and marmalade, and lingered over his tea. After a while other officers drifted into the mess. They looked at Gordon, and then looked away, whispering among themselves. Gordon knew that he was an anomaly here, and armies, officers particularly, hated anomalies. No doubt the officers knew who he was (Down Agag!). Word of his arrival had no doubt been whispered to ears eager for news, and the story of the attempted assassination had already doubtlessly also made the rounds. They were certainly wondering what he was doing in Khartoum, but apparently they decided to do their wondering at a distance. No one approached Gordon, until Desmond himself wandered in, looking as if he'd gotten considerably less sleep than Gordon had.

  "Join me?" Gordon invited.

  Desmond started at the sound of Gordon's voice and rubbed his face like a man who had just awoken.

  "Yes. Certainly, sir. Thank you, sir." He sat, and Gordon poured him a cup of tea.

  "Thank you, sir," Desmond said as Gordon passed the cup to him. "You . . . you are all right, sir?"

  "Why shouldn't I be?"

  "Well . . . last night. You had some, ah, problems . . ."

  The centurion's voice faded away as Gordon shrugged.

  "Khartoum, I perceive, can still be a dangerous city."

  "Ah, quite. Yes. Indeed. Probably bandits of some sort. Probably."

  "The merarch not down for breakfast yet?" Gordon said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. It was more of an observation than a question.

  "Uh, no. I believe not. He may be off inspecting . . . something . . ."

  "No doubt." Gordon smiled into his tea cup. Given Quantrill's reputation, if he was inspecting anything this time of morning it was probably the inside of a chamber pot because of his excessive drinking of the night before.

  "Sir—"

  The orderly appeared at their table before Gordon could further probe into Desmond's opinion of his superior officer.

  "Someone to see you, sir."
<
br />   "Who the hell would want to see me at this hour?" Desmond asked irritably.

  "Uh, not you, sir, you, sir." The orderly looked at Gordon.

  "Very well, then," Desmond said, his irritation redoubled. "Send him in."

  The orderly shifted his stare to a point somewhere between Gordon and Desmond.

  "It's some kind of native, sir."

  "You heard the centurion," Gordon said quietly.

  "Yes, sir." The orderly marched off, trying not to look scandalized.

  He came back a few moments later with a slight, dark-skinned man in neat, clean Arab dress. The whispering among the other officers redoubled as Gordon inclined his head, offering him a seat.

  "Thank you, monsieur."

  Gordon realized that the man wasn't a native. His English was smoothed by a French accent. His eyes were as sharp as Gordon's, only a slightly darker blue. His hair was black but his thick, drooping mustache was nearly blond. His teeth were in good shape, but stained an unhealthy-looking green.

  Gordon immediately recognized him as a chat chewer. Chat was a mildly narcotic, mildly addictive drug widely utilized in the Sudan, and even more common in Abyssinia, to the east.

  "This is Centurion David Desmond," Gordon said to him. "My name is Charles George Gordon."

  The man inclined his head to Desmond, and returned a speculative eye to Gordon. "You're not unknown in the Sudan. My name is Arthur Rimbaud."

  "Rimbaud," Desmond said, half to himself. He crinkled his brow in concentration, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Say, you're not that Frenchy poet fellow, are you? Fancy meeting you here. Dressed like that. I mean . . ."