Napoleon Must Die by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

case.”
    “I don’t know enough to ask him myself,” said Victoire with false innocence.
    Roustam-Raza turned on her. “You will not do such a thing. He will not speak with a Frenchwoman, no matter what words she uses.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in the bazaar. “Why would Berthier be purchasing brass, in any case?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know why he is in Cairo,” she reminded him. “What is in the next street? Is there another market?” She did her best to sound optimistic but inwardly she had begun to doubt the wisdom of their action.
    “There are sellers of incense two streets away,” said Roustam-Raza, his manner suddenly acquiescent, which roused her suspicions.
    “Should we go there?” she asked in some surprise.
    “We should go somewhere; we are being followed.” He hitched his shoulder to indicate an area behind him.
    Victoire glanced in that direction but could make out no one who appeared to be after them. “Are you certain?”
    “Of course I am certain,” said Roustam-Raza.
    “Then let us proceed to the street of the incense sellers. We might be able to find out who they are and why they are following us,” she said, pleased that the fear that had taken hold of her had not reached her voice.
    “I do not want to know why. I want them to stop,” said Roustam-Raza darkly as he moved her ahead of him and drew his dagger from his sheath. “If they come for us, stay behind me.”
    It took her a moment to answer. “They’re not going to come for us, Roustam-Raza.”
    “If it is the will of Allah,” he answered doubtfully.
    They slipped through an alley and down a narrow street where the buildings leaned together, throwing everything beneath into perpetual twilight.
    “This is not a good place,” said Roustam-Raza, “Hurry. Through that passage.” He shoved her ahead of him, all the while glancing back over his shoulder. “They will try to rush us here.”
    Victoire did not argue. She could sense the Mameluke’s concern and knew that it was more than his Muslim apprehension of women that prompted his urgency. “Have you seen anyone?”
    “They are coming,” he answered, volunteering nothing more.
    “Can you see them?” she persisted, making her way past a drooping mule laden with bales of flax.
    “They are coming,” he repeated. “Hurry.”
    “Yes, all right,” she said, stumbling ahead while trying to keep her face covered with the length of yellow silk he had insisted she wear.
    The street of the incense merchants was lined with canvas booths, much the way the brass sellers’ had been. But here there were the heady scents of spices and flowers and rare oils, and the merchants were graver, as suited those purveying incense.
    Roustam-Raza carne up behind Victoire. “Be careful. Stay very close to me. They are going to try to separate us.”
    “I will,” she said, and looked down the curving street as far as she could see. “Is it always this crowded?”
    “Oh, yes. Sometimes it is much worse,” he said. “These merchants are busy every day but holy days.” He kept her moving. “I don’t like this. I don’t like to be chased.”
    “Neither do I,” said Victoire. “But at present there is little we can do about it.” She looked around, wondering what it was that alerted Roustam-Raza to their danger—if they were truly in danger. As her eyes lingered on a cavernous doorway, she spotted a familiar figure. “Roustam-Raza!” she cried urgently. “There! Berthier!”
    The Mameluke glanced where she was pointing and he straightened.
    “Indeed,” he said, as he recognized the general’s aide. “What would he want here?”
    “We must find out,” said Victoire, her determination renewed. She was prepared to push through the crowd but Roustam-Raza held her back.
    “No. It would not be proper. And it would bring more attention to you. It isn’t wise, Madame Vernet.” He still held his dagger at the ready. “Stay with me, a step behind. I will