Catherine Coulter - Devil's Duology 02 by Devil's Daughter

Author:Devil's Daughter [Daughter, Devil's]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-02-05T11:18:49+00:00

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“I am coming, captain,” Arabella said. She looked at his dagger as she followed him along the deck, but thought better of it.

“This is Oran, my lady. Look yon.”

Arabella stared toward the bustling city beyond the docks. It looked nothing like Genoa or any other town she had seen. Its close whitewashed huts were nestled under the dazzling bright afternoon sun in a narrow valley between two hills.

“You cannot see the market from here,” Risan said as he steered her down the wooden gangplank, “or the treasures that may be found there. The slave auctions are held there. You, I venture to say, would bring more hoots of laughter than piastres.”

“That is a warming thought,” Arabella said. She looked about the dock at the men lounging about. Adam was right, she thought. Pirates were not a romantic lot; they were loud, dirty, and brutish. She saw no women until Risan guided her onto a wide street. They stood in small groups, clustered in doorways, dressed like crows, covered from head to toe in coarse black robes. They pointed her out to each other with obvious distaste, in Arabic, she supposed.

They began an ascent through winding streets, streets so narrow that the houses touched each other, forming a vault overhead. They walked through a dark passage and emerged in an open square, where the noise was deafening. No one seemed to pay the slightest heed to them. Arabella saw merchants crouched beside their motley wares, their strings of pepper pods and dried fish hanging beside silken robes and embroidered sandals. Sacks of green henna, destined, Risan told her, to dye women’s fingers and feet, were set next to huge sides of raw meat. A scent of decay was heavy and mingled with the aroma of spices and the perfume of flowers. She saw women, different here from the ones that had huddled in the doorways. Their dark eyes were ringed with kohl above the wisps of their veils. They kept to themselves, away from the men. The Arab men all wore turbans and long black cloaks with full cut hoods.

“You are surprised at the attire of our people?” Risan asked. “The ubiquitous long cloak is called a burnoose.” He cocked a dark brow at her. “You show no fear. Perhaps you need to witness a slave auction.”

“No,” Arabella said. “I believe I have witnessed enough.” They emerged from the bazaar at the base of the hill. “That is his highness’s palace, up there,” Risan said, pointing to the huge building sprawled high atop a hill above the city. “The forts below house his Turkish troops. We will ride up on donkeys. I suggest you hold on tightly.” Arabella clung to the rough saddle horn as the donkey weaved his way upward. As they grew nearer to the palace, she could make out the figures of men patrolling the perimeter. It looked to be impregnable.

She felt a knot of fear so intense she might have fallen had Captain Risan not turned in his saddle and called back to her, “Almost there, girl.

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