Napoleon Must Die by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett Page B

had begun a hurried retreat. Even as they did so, a shot fired from a nearby rooftop echoed between the buildings. To her left Victoire saw a stall filled with shelves of jars and pots collapse under the pressure of the mob. Someone to her left grabbed the Frenchwoman’s arm and stared with wild eyes at her fair skin and blonde hair. His outraged scream was cut short by the sudden impact of Roustam-Raza’s elbow on his neck. His eyes glazed almost instantly and he collapsed at her feet.
    Then there was another sound at the far end of the street—the shrill, echoing blare of a trumpet.
    The four men were now standing with their cutlasses drawn and their backs against the wall. A ring of local men stood threateningly a few steps away, most brandishing clubs or knives. Several smaller fights had broken out all over the square. Victoire saw one man, his dagger red with blood, shove his way into a side street. In the square the combatants faltered, then began again.
    A second, louder bray of the trumpet came, and with it the clatter of many hooves. A few moments later a squadron of French cavalry pressed its way into the little square, stopping the last of the fray at once. Instantly the mob began to disperse, but the hussars spurred at them, swords drawn. The horsemen began to drive the Egyptians back to their houses and stalls using the flat sides of their swords.
    The men who had been following Victoire and Roustam-Raza disappeared with the bulk of the crowd and the injured.
    Roustam-Raza stepped toward the leader of the cavalry as the dark-haired and devilishly handsome young officer in splendid uniform swung off his glossy ermine dun. He bowed in the Egyptian manner and said, “You are a very welcome sight.” Victoire noticed that he had reinjured his arm.
    The officer blinked, then understanding came into his eyes. “Oh, yes. You’re that Egyptian the Pasha gave to Napoleon, aren’t you?”
    “I am,” said Roustam-Raza, standing more straight with pride. “Your appearance was fortunate. We had been followed by foreign brigands. In all this ... activity, I feared they might do us harm.”
    “Us,” said the officer. “And who is us?”
    Roustam-Raza stood aside and permitted Victoire to come forward. She made a point of thanking the Mameluke before giving her attention to the cavalry officer, a man she recognized as one of the many eager young officers around Napoleon. This one had been at the beach when they watched that horrible disaster. “I am most grateful for your arrival,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Madame Vernet. My husband is Gendarme Major Lucien Vernet, currently posted to Jaffa, as Inspector-General.”
    A quick look of puzzlement and sympathy passed over the officer’s face, then he bowed in form and gave her a dazzling smile. “I am General Joachim Murat, very much at your service, madame.” He touched the back of her hand with his lips. “And the next time I see your husband, I will tell him what a lucky man he is.”

    * * *

    All the way back to the French camp the troopers moved slowly to keep the horses from growing too tired or thirsty in the heat. It was a long ride, taking several hours, and seemed longer in the afternoon heat. As they went, Murat engaged Victoire in light and affable conversation, spicing it with just enough gossip to make it interesting for them both. The day began to fade toward a blazing sunset. Only when their tents were in sight did he become more serious. “I don’t want to cause you any alarm, madame, but your Egyptian guard was right when he told you it wasn’t safe to go to Cairo. In future I recommend you listen to him and take his advice.”
    “Are you telling me I can’t count on you to appear at the crucial moment next time?” she asked, striving to keep the light and gallant tone he had used before.
    “Alas, no. Those were most likely Turks, or Greeks. If they had caught you—and I am assuming that the Mameluke is correct and you