Allen crossed to the farthest corner where a single small keg stood by itself. Tipping it on its side, he rolled it nearer to the daylight from the open door, and removed the plug. He poured a small quantity of its gunpowder into the palm of his hand and held it out for Hector to see. ‘Is that the sort of stuff you used on the galley’s mortar?’ he asked.
Hector looked at the little heap of black grains. ‘Yes, or something very like it.’
‘Thought so. That’s French powder. Best-quality pistol powder, hard to find,’ he grunted. He replaced the bung, rolled the keg back into its place, and ushered Hector out of the magazine. As Allen carefully locked the door behind him, Hector asked, ‘Will you be able to get more of that powder? Enough for the bombs?’
‘We can’t make that quality here and my supplier is, you might say, irregular,’ Allen replied. He gave a hiccup, and Hector realised that the gun founder was slightly tipsy. ‘He’s a corsair who calls in at Sallee. Mostly he operates in the Atlantic, off the Spanish coast or as far north as the Channel. Sallee is convenient for him whenever he has interesting goods to sell. He’s a countryman of ours who took the turban as you did, though rather more seriously. Name of Hakim Reis.’
Hector felt his spine tingle.
‘Hakim Reis.’ he repeated. ‘He’s the corsair who took me captive.’
‘Don’t hold that against him. Man-catching is a good slice of his profession, and he’s a decent enough sort.’
Hector tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Will there be any chance of meeting him?’
Allen gave him a shrewd look. ‘Not thinking of taking revenge, are you? I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘No, no. I just wanted to ask him some questions. When do you think Hakim Reis will next be here?’
‘Impossible to say. He comes and goes as it suits him. He might show up next week, next month or perhaps never again if he’s been sunk at sea or died of the plague. But one thing about him is that if war is declared, he seems to be early on the scene, and the first to come into port with the spoils.’
Hector thought furiously as he tried to find another thread that might lead him to locating Hakim Reis. ‘That powder he sells to the Emperor. Where does he get it?’
‘I’d say he has good contacts on the Spanish coast. There are plenty of small bays and inlets where you can meet up with people willing to sell war material to the highest bidder, and never mind where the guns and powder finish up.’
‘But you said that was French-made gunpowder. How would he obtain that?’
‘Gunpowder’s a valuable commodity. It could have changed hands several times, passed from smuggler to smuggler until it reaches someone like Hakim Reis who has a ready market for it.’
‘And you have no idea who any of these smugglers might be, and whether they know where to find him?’
The gun founder looked at Hector searchingly. ‘Why so keen to meet Hakim Reis?’
‘He may be able to help me locate a member of my family – my sister. She was also taken captive, and I’ve heard nothing of her since. I promised myself I would find her.’
Allen pondered for a moment, and when he spoke his tone was sympathetic. ‘I wish I could help you. I’ve known Hakim since the early days when he used to come in with shoddy muskets to sell. I did ask him on one occasion whether he could get me a further delivery of best powder, and he said he’d consult with someone he called Tisonne, or maybe he said Tison, I can’t remember exactly. But he never mentioned the name again, and I’ve never heard of it, not in these parts anyhow. And if Tisonne or Tison is a professional smuggler, it could be his cover name, not his real one. Then he’ll be even more difficult to locate than Hakim himself.’
Hector and the gun founder had arrived back in the armoury where they found Dan examining a musket from the display. ‘What do you think of it?’ asked Allen.
‘This is exactly the sort of gun we have at home among my people. I hadn’t expected to find one here. The weapon must be at least fifty years old. It still uses the old-fashioned matchlock,’ observed the Miskito.
‘Indeed it does. Have you worked with guns?’
‘Back home, and for a brief period in the workshops of King Louis’s Galley Corps in Marseilles.’
The gun founder gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘You’ve just talked yourself into a job. Rather than helping me concoct exploding bombs, it will be more use if you could supervise these English lads here in the armoury. Show them how to repair the older weapons. Your French friend and the silent bugger can help you. Meanwhile Hector can assist me in providing Moulay with his castle smasher.’
‘Perhaps I could start by interviewing the other survivors from the galley,’ suggested Hector. ‘They should reach Meknes in the next few days, and I could ask them for more information. They might cooperate if they think it will help obtain their early release. Moulay has already appointed me as the go-between to arrange their ransom.’
‘That’s just the sort of quirky idea that would entertain the Emperor,’ Allen agreed. ‘Our friend Diaz will be able to tell us when the prisoners from the galley arrive and where they will be held. He stops by here most evenings as he and his cronies are fond of my brandy.’
IN THE END it was several more days before Diaz reported that comite Piecourt and the other captives from the St Gerassimus had arrived in Meknes. They had been added to the palace labour force, and were being held in the cells built into the arches under the causeway leading to the royal stables. The following evening when all slaves would have returned from their work, Hector set off to find his former masters. Walking along the line of twenty-four arches, he caught sight of the unmistakable figure of Yakup, the rowing master. The renegade Turk was squatting against one of the stone pillars supporting the roadway above. He was stripped to the waist and had tilted his head back against the stonework. The distinctive fork-tailed cross branded on his forehead was clearly visible. As Hector approached, two men emerged from the archway, deep in conversation. One was a tall, ascetic-looking figure and Hector did not recognise him. The other had a pale skin and close-cropped sandy hair. It was Piecourt. Both were dressed in the loose tunic and cotton pantaloons worn by slaves. ‘Good evening, comite, I would like a word with you,’ said Hector quietly. Startled, Piecourt broke off his conversation and swung round towards him. As he did so, the slanting rays of the evening sun fell square on his companion’s face and Hector saw that his otherwise handsome features were marred by a scattering of small dark blue spots spread across his right cheek from just below his eye to the jaw line. ‘Who are you?’ asked Piecourt. A moment later the light of recognition dawned in his eyes. ‘You are from the galley, aren’t you? Middle oarsman, bench three, port side.’
‘That’s correct, comite,’ said Hector. ‘But I am now in the employment of the gun founder to His Majesty Moulay Ismail.’
Piecourt’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. ‘Come to think of it, we’ve already met your bench companion, the brown man. He interviewed us when we were first captured. So more than one of my dogs have survived. What do you want?’
‘I need to interview the technician who looked after the mortar on St Gerassimus, also her captain and anyone else who can provide information about the gun.’
Piecourt was expressionless. ‘Then you will be disappointed. The technician and the captain are not here. After the galley foundered, the captain took the two ship’s boats and headed west along the coast, to seek help. The technician went with him.’