They waited a few moments, checking their gear and listening to the rush of men outside.

Herne returned from his recce. “There’s a lot of the blighters, and our confounded guards have taken to their heels. I took a couple of pot-shots at the mob but then got tangled in the tent ropes. A big Somali swiped at me with a bloody great club. I put a bullet into the bastard. I couldn’t see Speke anywhere.”

Something thumped against the side of the tent. Suddenly a barrage of blows pounded the canvas while war cries were raised all around. The attackers were swarming like hornets. Javelins were thrust through the opening. Daggers ripped at the material.

“Bismillah!” Burton cursed. “We’re going to have to fight our way to the supplies and get ourselves more guns. Herne, there are spears tied to the tent pole at the back. Get ’em.”

“Yes, sir.” Herne returned to the rear of the Rowtie. Almost immediately, he ran back, crying out, “They’re breaking through!”

Burton swore vociferously. “If this blasted thing comes down on us we’ll be caught up good and proper. Get out! Come on! Now!”

He hurled himself through the tent flaps and into a crowd of twenty or so Somali natives, setting about them with his sabre, slicing right and left, yelling fiercely.

Clubs and spear shafts thudded against his flesh, bruising and cutting him, drawing blood.

“Speke!” he bellowed. “Where are you?”

“Here!”

He glanced back and saw Speke stepping into the firelight from the shadows to the right of the tent. The lieutenant was splashed with blood and his left sleeve hung in tatters.

Stroyan emerged from the Rowtie and straightened, loading his rifle.

“Watch out!” Speke yelled, and threw himself in front of the other man.

A spear thudded into the middle of his chest.

No! Wrong! Wrong! This is all wrong!

A club struck Burton on the shoulder. He twisted and swiped his blade at its owner. The crush of men jostled him back and forth. Someone shoved from behind and he turned angrily, raising his sword, only recognising El Balyuz at the very last moment.

His arm froze in mid-swing.

Agonising pain exploded in his head.

He stumbled and fell onto the sandy earth.

A weight pulled him sideways.

He reached up.

A javelin had pierced his face, in one cheek and out the other, dislodging teeth and cracking his palate.

He screamed and sat up.

John Steinhaueser—handsome, blond-haired, and blue-eyed, with an imperial adorning his chin—rose from a chair beside the bed.

“Hello, old chap. Another nightmare?”

Burton, disoriented, looked around and saw his own bedroom. The after-image of flames faded. The chamber was illuminated by daylight.

“God!” he said, hoarsely. “Will they never cease?”

Steinhaueser felt the explorer’s pulse. “As the pain eases up. Is it still bad?”

“Just the head.”

“Let me see.”

He leaned over Burton and examined the long line of stitches that snaked around his patient’s shaved cranium. “Hmmm. It’s remarkable. Truly remarkable.”

“What is?”

“Ten days ago your scalp was hanging half-off, but it’s healed just as fast as your spear wound did back in ’fifty-five. I can take the stitches out tomorrow.”

“I was dreaming about it. The attack at Berbera. Speke’s death.” Burton realised he had no idea how long he’d been here, in his own bed. He vaguely recalled a hospital room. “What time is it? Midday?”

“No, it’s ten in the morning. Lie back. Rest.”

Gingerly and very slowly, Burton eased himself down.

“I could have sworn I heard Big Ben chime twelve.”

“Let me look at your ribs,” Steinhaueser said. “Big Ben? Not possible. The bell cracked four days ago. Hasn’t made a sound since. Hmmm, good—the bones are healing nicely and the bruising is changing colour. You’ll be sore and stiff for a while but it’ll pass. As for the arm, you won’t require the splint for much longer. Time and rest are doing their job. I’ll wager you’ll be able to use it in a week or so. How’s your memory, hmmm?”

Burton was silent for a moment then answered, “I can’t recall anything since the collision. What’s the date?”

Steinhaueser pursed his lips and stroked the point of his little beard. “Friday the twenty-third of September. You’ve been in and out of consciousness. What about the letters to Isabel?”

“Letters?”

Steinhaueser chuckled. “You first regained some measure of wits four days after the accident. The first thing you did was demand a pen and paper. Then you composed an astonishingly lucid letter to your fiancée in which you claimed to have fallen sick with a recurrence of malaria. You wrote that you were fine and she should remain in Wiltshire.”

“I did? I recall nothing of it.”

“You’ve written twice since. You also threatened to throttle me if I told her the truth.”

Burton shook his head bemusedly.

“As a matter of fact, it’s not so unusual,” Steinhaueser said. “I’ve witnessed such things before with concussion. You took a mighty blow to the head, Richard, but your eyes are far less dilated this morning, so I’ll venture you’re through the worst of it.”

Burton wondered how much his friend knew. He tested the waters. “Remind me. What happened?”

“You were over Kent in a rotorchair and set it down in the middle of a road. Mechanical failure, perhaps?”

Burton shrugged, and winced as a pang sliced through him.

Steinhaueser continued, “A steam sphere rounded the bend at high speed and smacked into your machine. The explosion knocked you flying. Fortunately, a Scotland Yard man was on business nearby. He found you.”

“And the sphere’s driver?”

“No trace. Burned to ashes, I should think.”

So, the truth had been covered up.

Trounce. I need to see Trounce.

“And I’ve been out of commission for ten days, you say? Gad! So soon after the malaria! This year is developing as many holes as a block of Swiss cheese. What have I missed, Styggins?”

“Not a great deal. You were brought home from hospital a couple of days ago. I’ve been living in your guest room. I had to turn a number of visitors away—Detective Inspector Trounce; Detective Inspector Slaughter; Sir Roderick Murchison; and a rather striking looking lady named Countess Sabina. She left her calling card. Strange. Look.”

The doctor took a small pasteboard from the bedside table and handed it to Burton. On one side, there was printed:

Countess Sabina Elisabeta Lacusta

7 Vere Street, London

Cheiromantist, Prognosticator

On the other, written somewhat shakily by hand: Sir Richard. Beware. There is a storm approaching.

“Ominous, hmmm?” Steinhaueser said.

Burton sneered and shook his head despairingly. “Why do mediums always insist on the vaguest forms of innuendo? Utter rot!” He tossed the card aside. “And what of the wider world? Much happening?”

“The usual. Prussia’s prince regent continues to cooperate with Albert, and has sidelined Bismarck by making him ambassador to the Russian Empire. Old Otto must be livid. In theory, it’s a promotion, so he can hardly complain. In truth, it ousts him from the game.”

“Good show. What else?”

“Things are hotting up in China. The French have thrown their lot in with us. Even America is caught up in it. There’s been fighting, but reports are sketchy. Elgin is on his way back there already and by all accounts he’s mad as hell and in no mood for compromise. His battleship, the Sagittarius, is nearly complete and will fly out before the year is done. Other than that, nothing to report. Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I’ll ask your housekeeper to rustle something up, and will then leave you in her capable hands. A colleague has been looking after my practice. Now you’re on the mend, I should get back to it. Don’t worry, I’m not abandoning you, but I don’t think you’ll require my constant presence any more, hmmm?”