Call of the Trumpet by Helen A. Rosburg’s Read Free Book Online

basket, or a rug. Once he eyed a beautifully carved chest from Sur, even haggled briefly with its owner, but only for the joy of it. He passed on eventually, empty-handed. Not, however, without what he had come for.
    Rumor had come to him, as he had known it would. He turned up another aisle, eyes no longer on the goods but searching. Soon they found what they sought. A bit amazed at his continued good fortune, the hooded man sauntered toward a group of four men engaged in the inspection of jewel-handled daggers. An older, bearded man, apparently the leader of the group, glanced up as the hooded man passed.
    “Is it you?” he asked, more than a little awe in his tone. “Could it be … El Faris?”
    There was a pause, a nod.
    “I knew it!” The two briefly clasped arms. “But what are you doing in Damascus? Last I heard you were still in the heart of the Sahara.”
    “Even I sometimes long for the sights and sounds of the city, Hassan,” the deep voice rumbled.
    “Well, well.” The older man smiled. “Now that you are here, you must grace my humble house with your presence, and let me offer you its hospitality.”
    “Some other time, perhaps.”
    “Oh, I know, I know,” Hassan nodded. “El Faris has much important business to which he must attend. Yet it is not wise to indulge in business only and forego all other pleasures. Even Allah counsels us against this.”
    A smile appeared within the shadows of the hood. “Very well, Hassan. What do you have in mind? Is there some special … ‘entertainment’ … going on in the city tonight?”
    Hassan’s teeth gleamed. Taking the other’s arm, he moved a few steps farther on and lowered his voice. “There is to be an auction tonight. Rumor has it that our genial host, the infamous Shaban, has managed to procure a piece or two of … white meat. It will be amusing, I think.”
    “Yet you know I prefer darker flesh, Hassan.”
    “Oh, yes, I know. Still, it will be a distraction for you. And if you find nothing you like, well, we shall return to my house where there are plenty of women. In the color you prefer.”
    The hooded man hesitated. Then: “Yes. The entertainment might indeed be amusing. Very well.”
    A few more details were imparted, and the men separated. The hooded man left the bazaar and continued up a twisting street, more quickly now. His thoughts, in spite of himself, were on a white-skinned woman.

    Cecile stared at the tray on the brass-topped table, recently brought by an anonymous servant, and licked her lips. Enticing steam rose from the mound of rice, flecked with almonds, raisins, and tender morsels of lamb. But she did not touch the plate. She would accept nothing from her captor. She turned her back on the tempting dinner in time to hear the lock on her door click. A black-swathed woman entered.
    It was the servant who had earlier led Cecile to her room. Now the woman gestured for Cecile to come to her, not knowing her prisoner spoke her language as well as she herself. Cecile didn’t budge. If they wanted her, they were going to have to come and get her. When the woman approached, Cecile took a step backward.
    “Abdullah,” the woman called, and Cecile’s eyes flicked to the door. A small gasp escaped her lips as she beheld the man who now entered.
    He was a giant, clad only in brilliant yellow, baggy silken pants. His massive chest was as devoid of hair as his gleaming head, and he padded slowly, deliberately, toward Cecile on huge bare feet.
    He was a eunuch; he had to be. The thought did not comfort Cecile. She backed away from the giant a little more quickly than she had from the woman. But it was useless, over almost before it had begun. With a lunge he had her, and she was thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Without missing a step, he turned and strode from the room.
    The nightmare had only just begun.
    A few steps down the hall and Cecile was carried into another room. The enormous eunuch deposited her by the side