Secret of the Sands Read Online Free PDF Page B

made it, she thinks. At least I would have tried.
    As the dawn rises, the fiery orange gradually fades from the sky and through the slats of the locked door Zena catches bare glimpses of the harbour, slices of Muscat life in the bright morning light. It is unexpectedly beautiful. She has never seen anything like this place – a huge bay bordered by high, green hills. It is a big city, she realises – larger than any settlement she has ever known. The dockside is properly paved and the houses and businesses built of a pale mud crammed between the date palms. The newer constructions are whitewashed so they dazzle when the sun hits them, and over time the older ones have muted to a dun brown. Along the dock there is a castle of some kind – a fortification set back from the water’s edge, with huge, dark guns pointing out to sea over its battlements.
    The dock is already busy – a sure sign of a profitable trading port – with forty ships or more at anchor. Outside, the morning’s trade has started – a man with birds in a wicker cage is setting up his stall next to a hawker in a dazzling white jubbah with a litter of prayer mats. The men are boiling water over a small fire and are set to brew mint tea with a sliver of cinnamon and some honey which they will sip from delicate, etched-glass cups. Three dirty goats are tethered between the stalls. A toothless beggar with only one leg and one eye struggles past, arrayed in a filthy swathe of rags, his sole possession a calabash from which he stops intermittently to drink. One of the traders hastens to beat him away. ‘Son of a dog!’ the man shouts, waving his arms as if batting off a fly, the tone of his protestation furious. ‘Away with you!’ Ibn al-kalb. Imshi. Imshi.
    ‘They will eat us,’ one of the other girls bursts out suddenly as the angry words filter through. Her voice is trembling. ‘No one ever comes back when they are taken. They will eat us all.’
    She begins to cry, huge sobs wracking her angular, bony frame. The rest of the group remain absolutely silent though a few shoulders round in fear. Zena ignores the hysteric – she knows she will be sold here, not devoured. Besides, seeing Muscat waking up has somehow heartened her. It is not as alien as she might have expected. The city is prosperous, clearly, and if the call to prayer is anything to go by, there are a lot of mosques so perhaps it is also devout. She knows it is unlikely she will get away now, for apart from anything else, where can she run to? But this is a large and cosmopolitan place, she knows more about it than anyone else she is locked up with and the worst, surely, is over. She turns her head towards the light and thinks she must, at least, try to remain hopeful. Someone kind will buy me, she thinks as she clutches her empty stomach and assures herself that she will eat soon, perhaps within the hour.

Chapter Eight
    In a five-storey, palatial townhouse on Albemarle Street, just off Piccadilly, John Murray, London’s most prestigious publisher, rises late, the summertime sounds of London finally cutting short his slumbers. Some damn fool is shouting his wares at the top of his voice. Murray has to concentrate for the words to become distinct – he has never woken easily and it always takes him a while to come to full consciousness. After a few seconds it becomes apparent that the costermonger has roused the master of the house over some beets and pears that are available to purchase. Murray groans and reaches over to the other side of the bed. His wife is already gone and he is glad of it. They squabble almost constantly and he tries to avoid her whenever he can – the damn woman is as bad as his mother. She will, like many upper-class ladies, leave town at the end of the month to visit friends in the country, and Murray (unlike many upper-class gentlemen) will remain in the capital, shot of her for a few, satisfying weeks. It is a cheering thought.
    He makes use of the chamber