The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные полные книги .TXT) 📗

Yusuf, so that he shouted aloud, "Djinns! God protect meV as the flock

of roosting duck exploded from the water and launched into the dark sky

on noisy wings.

Yusuf started back to the bank and not any of Bacheet's threats could

persuade him to continue the hunt.

"The woman is not as important as the scroll," he protested, as he

climbed back on to the roadway. "Without the scroll there will be no

money. We always know where to find her later."

Turning her head slightly, Royan saw the torches move back down the road

towards the parked Fiat whose headlights still burned. She heard the

doors of the car slam, and then the engine revved and pulled away

towards the villa.

She was too shaken and terrified to make any attempt to leave her

hiding-place. She feared that they had left one of their number on the

road to wait for her to show herself.

She stood on tiptoe with the water lapping her lips, shivering more with

shock than with cold, determined to wait for the safety of the sunrise

before she moved.

It was only much later when she saw the glow of the fire lighting the

sky, and the flames flickering through the trunks of the palm trees,

that she forgot her own safety and dragged herself back to the bank.

She knelt in the mud at the water's edge, shuddering and shaking and

gasping, weak with loss of blood and shock and the reaction from fear,

and peered at the flames through the veil of her wet hair -and the lake

water that streamed into her eyes.

"The villa! she whispered. "Duraid! Oh please God, no! No!

She pushed herself to her feet and began to stagger towards her burning

home.

acheet switched off both the headlights and the engine of the Fiat

before they reached the turning into the driveway of the villa and let

the car coast down and stop below the terrace.

All three of them left the Fiat and climbed the stone steps to the

flagged terrace. Duraid's body still lay where Bacheet had left it

beside the fishpond. They passed him without a glance and went into the

dark study.

Bacheet placed the cheap nylon tote bag he carried on the tabletop.

"We have wasted too much time already. We must work quickly now."

"It is Yusuf's fault," protested the driver of the Fiat. "He let the

woman escape."

"You had a chance on the road," Yusuf snarled at him, "and you did no

better."

"Enough!" Bacheet told them both. "If you want to get paid, then there

had better be no more mistakes."

With the torch beam Bacheet picked out the scroll that still lay on the

tabletop. "That is the one." He was certain, for he had been shown a

photograph of it so that there would be no mistake. "They want

everything - the maps and photographs. Also the books and papers,

everything on the table that they were using in their work.

Leave nothing."

Quickly they bundled everything into the tote bag and Bacheet zipped it

closed.

"Now the Doktari. Bring him in here."

The other two went out on to the terrace and stooped over the body. Each

of them seized an ankle and dragged Duraid back across the terrace and

into the study. The back of Duraid's head bounced loosely on the stone

step at the threshold and his blood painted a long wet skid mark across

the tiles that glistened in the torchlight.

"Get the lamp!" Bacheet ordered, and Yusuf went back to the terrace and

fetched the oil lamp from where Duraid had dropped it. The flame was

extinguished. Bacheet held the lamp to his ear and shook it.

"Full," he said with satisfaction, and unscrewed the filler cap. "All

right," he told the other two, take the bag out to the car."

As they hurried out Bacheet sprinkled paraffin from the lamp over

Duraid's shirt and trousers, and then he went to the shelves and

splashed the remainder of the fuel over the books and manuscripts that

crowded them.

He dropped the empty lamp and reached under the skirts of his dishdasha

for a box of matches. He struck one of them and held it to the wet run

of paraffin oil down the bookcase. It caught immediately, and flames

spread upwards and curled and blackened the edges of the manuscripts. He

turned away and went back to where Duraid lay. He struck another match

and dropped it on to his blood- and paraffindrenched shirt.

A mantle of blue flames danced over Duraid's chest.

The flames changed colour as they burned into the cotton material and

the flesh beneath it. They turned orange, and sooty smoke spiralled up

from their flickering crests.

Bacheet ran to the door, across the terrace and down the steps. As he

clambered into the rear seat of the Fiat, the driver gunned the engine

and pulled away down the driveway.

Durid drifted. He groaned. The first thing he was aware of as he

regained consciousness was the smell of his own flesh burning, and then

the agony struck him with full force. A violent tremor shook his whole

body and he opened his eyes and looked down at himself.

His clothing was blackening and smouldering, and the pain was as nothing

he had ever experienced in his entire life. He realized in a vague way

that the room was on fire all around him. Smoke and waves of heat washed

over him so that he could barely make out the shape of the doorway

through them.

The pain was so terrible that he wanted it to end. He wanted to die then

and not to have to endure it further.

Then he remembered Royan. He tried to say her name through his scorched

and blackened lips, but no sound came. Only the thought of her gave him

the strength to move. He rolled over once, and the heat attacked his

back that up until that moment had been shielded. He groaned aloud and

rolled again, just a little nearer to the doorway.

Each movement was a mighty effort and evoked fresh paroxysms of agony,

but when he rolled on to his back again he realized that a gale of fresh

air was being sucked through the open doorway to feed the flames. A

lungful Of the sweet desert air revived him and gave him just sufficient

strength to lunge down the step on to the cool stones of the terrace.

His clothes and his body were still on fire. He beat feebly at his chest

to try to extinguish the flames, but his hands were black burning claws.

Then he remembered the fishpond. The thought of plunging his tortured

body into that cold water spurred him he pain roused Duraid. It had to

be that intense to bring him back from that far place on the very edge

of life to which he had to one last effort, and he wriggled and wormed

his way across the flags like a snake with a crushed spine.

The pungent smoke from his still cremating flesh choked him and he

coughed weakly, but kept doggedly on.

He left slabs of his own grilled skin on the stone coping as he rolled

across it and flopped into the pond. There was a hiss of steam, and a

pale cloud of it obscured his vision so that for a moment he thought he

was blinded. The agony of cold water on his raw burned flesh was so

intense that he slid back over the edge of consciousness.

When he came back to reality through the dark clouds he raised his

dripping head and saw a figure staggering up the steps at the far end of

the terrace, coming from the garden.

For a moment he thought it was a phantom of his agony, but when the

light of the burning villa fell full upon her, he recognized Royan. Her