Deadly daggers! How wonderfully feminine. Quickly, my gaze darted around to the other booths, looking for a suitable product for a lady to buy. What I found were several dozen muskets, about ten rifles, one with a suspicious-looking dark red stain on the barrel, and hundreds more daggers and sabres.

'Ehem... well... Dear me. A minute ago I was looking at perfumes and handkerchiefs. I must have lost my way a bit.'

That excuse is really wearing a bit thin. Why don't you think of something new, for a change?

'Should I escort you back to the hotel again?' Captain Carter offered, his eyes returning to my face and staying there, the weapons forgotten.

'That will not be necessary,' a thickly accented voice said from behind me. I winced. Captain Carter's eyes flicked to the man who had spoken. For the first time, he seemed to notice the two large Arabs with their curved sabres, standing behind me like bodyguards. Which was, after all, exactly what they were.

'And who are you, pray?' he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

'They're men my grandmother hired to protect me,' I hurriedly constructed another ramshackle lie. 'She, um... knows a few people whom nobody wants to cross.'

'Your grandmother?' The captain's eyebrows shot up, no doubt thinking of the deaf little old lady he had met a few days ago. He eyed the bulks of my dark-skinned bodyguards again. 'Um... an impressive old lady. I wouldn't have thought she'd have it in her.'

'She has hidden depths,' I assured him solemnly. 'And very powerful contacts. There's not a man in Alexandria who would dare to bring her wrath down on him.'

He eyed the bodyguards again. 'I can readily believe that. At any rate, I'm glad to hear that you're both well.'

'Indeed we are.'

'So... do you know what it was all about? The explosion and the fighting at the Luxor, I mean. Do you have any idea who was behind it?'

Oh yes, certainly. Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh, Peer of the Realm of Great Britain and Ireland, Member of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, resident at East India House, Leadenhall Street, London. It's wonderful to have all-powerful enemies, isn't it?

'None at all, I'm afraid, Captain.'

'Strange... very strange...' For a moment, he looked troubled, thoughtfully stroking the speck of beard on his chin. Then he shrugged. 'Well, as long as you are unharmed – that is all that matters.'

'Yes.' Inside, I breathed a sigh of relief. The difficult part of the conversation seemed to be over. 'Enough about boring old me, Captain. How are things going with you? Was the man you were going to question as informative as you hoped?'

Regretfully, he shook his head. 'Unfortunately, no. I don't know what was the matter with him. When I arrived at Dark Nights of Delight, he was red in the face and shouting at his subordinates at the top of his voice about some fellow named Thomson. When I tried to approach him about the subject of the bandits, he cursed at me and ordered his men to chase me out of the building.'

I coughed delicately. 'Fancy that.'

'I imagine someone must have angered him for some reason, just before I arrived – maybe this Thomson. In any case, he wasn't very informative and, for some reason, neither were the other informants I have been able to find. They all seemed a little on edge.'

Probably a residue left over from our visit a day or two earlier.

'Strange. Very strange indeed.'

'Now there's nothing to do but to head out into the desert and find the bandits by good old tracking and searching,' he sighed, gazing around the bazaar. 'That's why I'm here, in fact, I and a few of my men. We have to buy supplies and camels for our journey into the desert.'

'No! Camels?' My eyes became huge with fake surprise. 'You can buy those creatures here in the bazaar, too? I never knew!'

'Yes, but don't get too close to one. They spit.'

'You don't say!'

From the distance, we heard someone shouting Captain Carter's name. Turning, we saw a young sergeant waving his hat above the crowd, pointing to a particularly disagreeable camel tethered right beside him.

'Sir! Captain Carter, Sir, I've found one for you!'

The captain sighed. 'Well, duty calls, Miss Linton. I'm going to have to leave, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, that's perfectly all right, Captain! You go back to your duties, and the best of luck to you. And to your French and Egyptian comrades, too.' The corner of my mouth twitched. 'Make the world a safer place for helpless maidens such as myself, will you?'

His eyes strayed to the two bulky guards behind me, their hands on their sabres, and his lips twitched, too. 'I'm not sure whether young maidens nowadays are quite as helpless as sometimes assumed. Au revoir, Miss Linton.'

And with a bow, he vanished into the crowd.

Breathing another sigh of relief, I turned back to the nearest booth. Behind it, a Bedouin man with a big dagger at his belt and an equally big paunch behind the belt, looked uncertainly from me to his deadly wares.

'You would, um, be interested in my wares, baaša?'

'Depends. How much is one of those?' I pointed to a wickedly sharp dagger, at least as long as my forearm. The trader's eyes widened.

'Um... perhaps you'd find something more appropriate at another stall, baaša,' he suggested. 'Maybe a trinket, or a nice lace handkerchief?'

I was just about to shoot him a dark glare when I noticed something right behind him. On a peg sticking from one of the posts of the stall hung a long, bright white garment. My eyes lit up. I was supposed to find something to wear, wasn't I? Well... maybe I had found just the right thing.

'Forget about the dagger. How much is that?' I pointed to the unconventional piece of clothing.

'What?' The man's eyes widened even more. 'This is not a clothes booth, baaša!'

'How much would you ask for it?'

The trader drew himself to his full height, width and breadth. 'That garment belongs to my wife's grandfather, baaša! It is absolutely non-saleable!'

'Now then, now then... what seems to be the matter here?' A woman peaked her head out from the back of the stall. 'Fazl, what are you doing? Are you scaring off the customers again?'

'Scaring off the customers?' the man demanded, his belly wobbling in outrage. 'Do you know what this young woman wants, Abda? She wants to buy your grandfather's thobe!'

'She does, does she?' Abda asked, stepping out of the shadows and up beside her husband. Her sharp, intelligent eyes landed on me.

'Yes. Of course, I told her it's not for sale.'

Quickly, the wife's eyes shifted to her husband, narrowing. 'You did, did you?'

'Yes, of course. I would never dishonour your family in such a way as to—'

He cut off with a garbled sound. To judge from the movement of Abda's gown, she had just stepped on his foot, hard.

'You are interested in buying this thobe, yes?' she asked me, swiftly taking it down from the peg and spreading it out on the counter. 'Very fine material, very fine. Of course, a bit used, but it hardly stinks of camel at all. I just washed it this morning.'

I gazed at the white garment and the coloured headdress that seemed to go with it. 'Yes. It looks quite interesting.'

'Abda!' her husband protested. 'That's not for sale! How can you—'

'Don't listen to the old Moghaffal, dear,' his wife cut in with a charming smile that revealed two rows of white teeth contrasting sharply with her dark skin. With an elbow that was no less sharp than the aforementioned contrast, she shoved her husband aside. 'Of course it is for sale. That would make twenty piasters, please.'

*~*~**~*~*

When I found Mr Ambrose, he was busy haggling with an Arab merchant over the price of a sack of grain. The poor merchant was already in a pitiable state. Mr Ambrose seemed to have slight difficulties with the concept of 'haggling'.

'Five hundred piasters!' the merchant exclaimed. 'That is my offer, Effendi! Take it or leave it!'

'One hundred,' was all Mr Ambrose said, his face stone-hard.

'Four hundred and eighty-five! Effendi, you are ruining me! You are robbing me! This is outrageous! I should call the authorities and have you arrested!'

'Please try. That will be interesting to see.'

'Four hundred and seventy-five, Effendi! I beg you, consider, I have three wives and seventy-five children...'

'And overactive loins, I imagine. One hundred.'

'What?' The Arab's eyes almost bugged out of their sockets.

'You heard me. One hundred piasters.'

'Effendi, you cannot be serious! Four hundred and sixty!'

'Perfectly serious. One hundred.'

'You... you...' The merchant waved his hands hysterically. 'Jamalick cil jahash!'

Mr Ambrose remained perfectly calm. 'I do not have a donkey. And if I did, I certainly would not intend to lick any parts of it.'

'Four hundred and fifty!'

'One hundred.'

'Do you intend to destroy me? Four hundred and twenty-five, and that is my last word!'

'Then you won't sell any grain today. One hundred.'

'You... Qad tamut w taefan fi alssahra!'

'I feel in excellent health. It's rather unlikely that I will die any time soon to suit your wishes.'

'Four hundred!'

'One hundred.'

Giving a tortured groan, the merchant grabbed one of the supports of his stall to hold himself upright. He was swaying under the onslaught of his churning monetary emotions, his tender financial heart obviously pierced through with a poisonous dagger. Mr Ambrose stood like a rock, regarding him with a detached look.

Clearing my throat, I stepped closer to Mr Ambrose and, from behind, whispered into his ear: 'I think you are having problems bridging a cultural chasm.'

Mr Ambrose didn't turn to look at me. Which was rather a good idea, considering the way I was dressed. 'Cultural chasm?' he enquired coolly. 'This man for some reason seems to believe that I am willing to deviate in the price I am offering for his wares. That is incredible!'

'That's what I'm talking about. He expects you to haggle.'

'I am. He suggests a price, then I do, then he again, and so on, and so on.'

'Yes, but you see, I think for haggling to work you have to actually change what you are willing to offer.'

'There!' The merchant was suddenly upright again, pointing at me with a shaking finger. 'There, do you hear? Listen to her! The truth flies out of her mouth on wings!'

'Change my offer?' Mr Ambrose directed his gaze at the sack of grain. 'I see. If it will get this over with more quickly, I'll oblige you. You go first.'

'Thank you, Effendi! May shady palm trees turn your garden into an oasis, Effendi! Three hundred and eighty-five piasters!'

Mr Ambrose shook his head. 'No. Ninety.'

The merchant's jaw dropped. 'What?'

'All right, if you insist,' Mr Ambrose gave a shrug. 'Eighty-five.'

'You...! Yixrib beitak!'

'I have several houses that God could destroy. Which do you mean? Seventy-five piasters.'

'Um.... ' I cleared my throat again. 'I think you still don't quite get the principle of haggling. He's supposed to slowly lower his price, while at the same time you slowly change your offer – and by change I mean raise, not lower.'

'What?' Mr Ambrose blinked. 'You want me to offer him more money?'

'Yes.'

'Let us be very clear about this. I am conducting a purchase here. This... individual,' he gestured to the trader, 'is wasting my time by throwing ridiculous offers at me, trying to sell me his wares for a price far greater than their real value, and you want me to reward him for that by offering him more money?'

'Um... well, yes.' How the heck did he manage to make that sound so unreasonable? 'A bit more with every offer. That's how they do it at bazaars.'

There was a pause.

'At least that's what I've read in a book,' I quickly added.

'To your information, my dear...' He still didn't turn around. 'I am not a character in a book.'

'No, Sir! Of course not, Sir!'

Blast! Why did you say that? You're still pretending to be his wife! You should call him Dick, not Sir!

'And I do not have to conform to oriental customs. I am an English gentleman, and do not submit to foreign ways.'

'Yes, Sir! Of course not, Sir!'

Blast, blast, blast! Not again!

It just came so naturally. Mr Ambrose was the kind of man who could make you want to stand at attention just by looking at you.

'Especially if they are expensive.'

'Certainly, Sir!'

Mr Ambrose pointed to the sack of grain. 'Seventy piasters.'

The merchant was nearly in tears by now. 'No! No, you cannot do this! This is against all tradition! Something like this is not allowed in a bazaar! Here we honestly haggle and cheat each other! We do not simply demand to have something! That is not done!'

'Sixty-five piasters.'

Covering his face with one hand, the merchant slumped against a barrel of salted fish. 'This is torture! Inhuman torture! Go!'

'Can I take the grain?' Mr Ambrose probed. 'For sixty-two piasters?'

'Yes! Anything!'

'Anything? So I could take it for sixty piasters, too?'

'Yes!' Wailing like a wounded wolf, the merchant waved his free hand. 'Go! Just take the grain and go, you demon in human form! Do not plague me any longer!'

Depositing a number of coins on the counter, while the merchant was busy bewailing this smudge on his beloved commercial tradition, Mr Ambrose grabbed the sack of grain, swung it over his shoulder and marched off as if were no heavier than a feather. He didn't even bother to glance at me.

Which might not be such a bad idea right now...

Swinging the sack of grain onto the back of a camel, Mr Ambrose signalled to one of his men to come tie it down. Clapping his hands, he turned towards me.

'Well, I think that was all the grain we need. What about you? Were you successful in your search... for... clothes...?'

He saw me, and his voice slowly trailed off.

'Well?' I tried to smile. It didn't really work.

He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

'What do you think?' I did my best to make a twirl for him. The folds of my garment flapped in the breeze. 'Isn't it nice?'

'What – in – Mammon's – name – is – that?' He emphasized every word. Very slowly. Very distinctly.

Oh-oh...

'Can't you see what it is?' I demanded.

'I think I can. But my logical mind is refusing the evidence of my eyes. Are you or are you not standing there in front of me in the middle of a marketplace wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a towel around your head?'

'It's called a headscarf, thank you very much! And the garment you refer to as a bathrobe is called a thobe, I believe. It is not for the purpose of visiting the baths.'

'No?'

'No! And this overcoat is called a kibr, and the cloak,' I proudly held up the article in question, 'is called a burnous! The Bedouins and many other Arabs wear them all the time, apparently. I know it doesn't look very practical, but it's actually very cooling and comfortable.'

And very figure-flattering. You couldn't even detect a hint of my generously-sized derrière under the swirling folds of the thobe. But I wasn't going to mention that reason for buying it to him. Not in a million years!

'You,' he pointed out, his eyes still wide, his nostrils flaring, 'are not a Bedouin.'

I raised my chin. 'True. But you did tell me to pick something appropriate for the desert and for camel riding, didn't you? Well, what could be more appropriate than a Bedouin's dress?'

His left little finger twitched. 'I could think of a number of things.'

'Oh, don't be a spoilsport!' My lips twitched. The desperate effort he was putting into not exploding... It was almost comical. Slinging one of the long white folds of my gown around his neck, I jerked him towards me, until we were standing only inches apart. 'Well? Just tell me! What do you think?'

His slightly widened eyes contracted and cooled, their temperature quickly approaching arctic. 'What do I think?' he hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously. 'I think we need to get you out into the desert, where no one can see you in that thing except passing camels – fast!'

*~*~**~*~*

The remainder of our little shopping trip in the bazaar passed very quickly. Mr Ambrose practically browbeat the merchants into giving him their wares for free, so anxious was he to get me out of there. No wonder he was so rich, if these were his usual ways of negotiation.

Now and again, he threw dark glances at me and my 'bathrobe'. Every time I saw him do it, I gave my headscarf a determined tug. The thing was really coming in useful. I hadn't realized how much heat it would absorb! For the first time in hours I was resting in peaceful shade.

It was only when we all gathered around the camels and Mr Ambrose started giving his orders for our way to the ship that I realized someone was missing, had been missing, in fact before we even arrived. Blast! How had I not noticed this before? It wasn't as if he was hard to overlook or forget.

'Where's Karim?' I demanded.

Mr Ambrose froze in the act of reaching for his camel's bridle. He hesitated. 'He... couldn't come.'

A claw of cold apprehension gripped my heart. O God! Why hadn't I thought of this before? Karim had still been in our hotel room when we left! He had faced all those attackers alone! Had something happened to him?

Please let him be all right! Please!

Yes, the huge Mohammedan and I hated each other with a vengeance – but it was a quite chummy way of hating. I wouldn't like to have to look for someone new to despise. Not at all.

'Why?' I asked, my voice managing to remain steady. 'Is he injured?'

'In a way.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

Mr Ambrose turned away, so I couldn't see his face, and started fiddling with his bow tie. 'You remember there was a fire in the hotel?'

'Yes! And? Was he burned?'

'Not really. He got half his beard singed off.'

For a moment I blinked into nothingness. 'What?'

'His beard. Half of it is burned off. He seems to be very put out by it.'

Slowly, very slowly, a grin started to spread across my face. 'He is, is he?'

'Yes.'

'So, where is he now?'

'At a barber's shop, undergoing emergency surgical barbering.'

My grin widened. 'Oh dear. How terrible. I must remember to express my sympathy, the next time I see him.'

Mr Ambrose gave me a very level look. 'I'm sure he will appreciate that very much.'

And with that he started marching down the street, leading the camels behind him, his men swarming out in a protective circle. With his men forcing a path for us through the crowd, we reached the ship in record time. A man was standing guard at the gangway and saluted when Mr Ambrose approached.

'As-salamu alaykum, Effendi.'

'Are the weapons ready for loading?' Mr Ambrose demanded.

'Yes, Effendi. Karim arrived a while before you did and gave everything a thorough check. Then he went to scout ahead. He, um, seemed to be rather in a hurry.'

'Indeed?' The grin on my face widened. 'What a pity. I'm so looking forward to seeing him again.'

Mr Ambrose shot me a dark look. 'Good. Tell Youssef to start arming the men. Then return to your post. You and Hakim are to guard the ship until our return.'

'Yes, Effendi!'

As I watched, packages that even through their wrappings looked suspiciously rifle-shaped were distributed among the men. There were other packages, too, more curiously shaped and much larger. More men joined us, strolling towards us out of alleys as if they were just sailors come to chat with their friends at the harbour. I didn't believe it for a minute. These men were handed weapons, too, casually, unconsciously, as if nothing interesting at all was happening here. Soon, our number had swelled to over sixty, and I would be very much surprised if outside the city there were not more reinforcements waiting for us.

'So...' Holding the hem of my thobe up, I approached Mr Ambrose. 'Now you might as well tell me. You said you still don't know where the bandits are exactly. What is this mysterious master plan of yours to find them?'

He shrugged. 'Simple. We take the same route as all my caravans did...'

'And then?'

'Then we'll let ourselves be ambushed.' Grabbing his camel's reins, he started to pull the reluctant animal down the street. 'Let's go! We haven't got all day.'

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

As a few among you might already have heard, this chapter of "In the Eye of the Storm" was brought to you after considerable trials and tribulations ;-) An unexpected flood near my home has destroyed my internet connection, and I've had to get a special mobile wireless connection to be able to reach Wattpad and upload this chapter for you to read. If you can, please lend your monetary support to my stories on Radish Fiction, so I can afford this somewhat expensive connection and don't have to stop uploading installments for your enjoyment! :)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob