Adrian (27 page)

When he was within a stone's throw of the wall, Roman stopped abruptly and, before he could think himself out of it, he reached up and gently slipped the leather string from Lou's leg, and then the hood from the falcon's head. The bird blinked and tilted its head wildly, seeming to drink in the sight of the wide open sky.

Roman gave a shrug of his shoulder. “Go on, then.” The falcon flapped its wings for balance and then settled back against Roman's ear. “Go on.” He shrugged again.

This time Lou crouched low and leapt from his shoulder, the quiet whoosh of its wings sending a crisp flip of air across Roman's face. He watched the falcon fly low over the ground for several yards before flapping in earnest and pulling himself up, up, up into the darkening east over the walls of Damascus. The falcon cried out once, and it caused Roman's heart to flinch.

But then he tucked the falcon's hood and tether beneath the flap of his bag and headed into the night himself, his head down, his eyes only on the road. Roman had lost any traces of hesitation he'd felt in the cave. He had set his aim now, freed his obligation, and there was no fear in him of what might happen once he reached the gates, the streets of the city, the prison. His feet fell like hammers beneath his gaze, working to chip away at any obstacles he had once imagined.

So intent was he upon his purpose that it was quite a surprise to realize he had passed through the walls and was in the city. The spicy, fecund smells pressing around him and the sounds of his footfalls muffling gave him a physical start, as did the blaring of a horn that shot the thick, still air, and then another, and the warbling sound of a song in the familiar yet still foreign tongue. Roman glanced sideways and behind him to see the guards closing the gates to the city, not twenty feet beyond his heels, shutting out the last rays of the sun disappearing over the rolling land.

The horns continued to sound, and Roman realized he was caught up in a current of citizens all heading in the same direction. His heart pounded despite himself, and he hunched his shoulders farther, crouched lower on bent knees as the slimness of the general population became glaringly apparent. The narrow black space of an alley between sandstone buildings came upon his left side suddenly, and Roman stepped into it as swiftly as a gust of air, slinking back into the deep shadow and straightening his aching back against the wall of the building.

He watched from the shadows as the stragglers, mostly boys and young men running in the center of the street, hands clapped down on their caps, hurried to answer the call to prayer. Another moment and the ruddy street would be deserted.

Then what? He had no idea in which direction to go. Wandering aimlessly through the maze of pathways connecting the straight and orderly streets might only be enough to render him completely lost, and then when the faithful flooded the city again on their way to their homes . . .

He dared lean toward the opening to glance in either direction. There were no clues whatsoever as to where the city housed its prisoners. He pressed his back against the building once more with a sigh. And then his heart stopped as he caught sight of the woman standing against the wall directly opposite him, so close that he could have touched her without fully extending his arm. The last slash of sunlight slunk away from her face, hidden in veils, as the alley was dipped in indigo. He didn't know how she had come upon him so suddenly, so silently.

“Pardon me, mistress,” Roman said brusquely and looked away, turning toward the street once more. There was nothing for it now but to go. He could not inhabit such a close space with a woman of this culture—it would certainly mean his death, and likely hers, if he were caught.

Not that he thought to be spared if found alone, either.

But before he could step from between the buildings, he felt a hand upon his arm, staying him. Roman paused, but dare not turn to look at her.

“What is it you require of me? I do not speak your language.”

“Not to worry—I speak yours,” she replied. “I will not raise an alarm to betray you, you must believe me.” She tugged on his arm so that he turned to face her once more. “We have not much time before it is discovered I am gone.”

“I fear I am unable to give you whatever it is you seek,” he said, feeling her touch conspicuously upon his arm. He could smell the soft, heady, feminine scent of her in the close alley and it made his skin flush beneath his coarse tunic.

“It is I who shall give to you,” she said, and then slid her palm down his forearm to grasp his fingers, stepping backward as she did so, pulling Roman's arm away as if she would lead him.

He understood then. She was a whore.

Roman pulled free from her grip. “I cannot tarry with you, woman. I am looking for someone in the city.”

She dropped her arm to her side and stared at him for a moment. “I know why it is you've come. I will take you to your friends, but you must come with me now.”

Roman hesitated. If she was a whore, the only place she would likely take him was to her keeper, where Roman would be certainly robbed and probably killed. She couldn't possibly know who he was looking for. But she'd mentioned friends, plural, when Roman had only mentioned he was looking for some
one
. . .

“Where is this friend of mine?” he challenged.

“They are still imprisoned, if that is what you are asking.”

A chill shook his spine. This smelled of a trick to Roman. Likely the guards atop the wall had caught sight of him entering the city but lost him in the crush, and had sent this woman to seek him out during the prayer. He couldn't risk it.

“You're wrong,” he said, and began backing away from her, toward the edge of the buildings where ambient light in the sky from over the mountains urged him to quit wasting time and
search now
.

“They die at dawn,” she called after him. “The two soldiers. A Spaniard as well, if you know of him. One may not live to see morning, he has been tortured so.”

Roman paused. “Who?”

“I have heard him called Hails-worth.”

Lord Adrian Hailsworth, Chastellet's architect.

The woman continued, as if she sensed his hesitation. “I can convince you not standing here. You must trust me, and you must follow me now. If you do not, I shall have no choice but to leave you. You will soon be discovered on your own, and they will have no mercy on you.”

“How can I know you will not betray me?”

She shook her head, a rounded shadow in the already dark alley. “We must go now now.” She held out her hand.

Roman understood that he had two choices: deny the woman, and strike out on his own, or follow her. If he followed her, she could lead him directly to his own death. If he denied her and she was in league with the guards, she would raise the alarm immediately.

But perhaps the worst outcome of all was if he denied her and she was telling the truth . . .

He stepped toward her suddenly and took her hand. “If you lie, or if we are caught, you will regret it, mistress.”

“That I well know.” She didn't waste time with mincing steps, and soon they were running between the close-set buildings which leaned together like crowded molars in a dark, humid mouth of a beast. She led him around sudden corners, pulled him across wide, deserted thoroughfares until they came to an enormous long building on the north side of the city, its pitched roofs black and sharp looking in the gloom.

Over the growing sounds of night, Roman could hear the droning prayers emanating from inside the building. The entire male population of Damascus was contained within its walls.

“Are you mad?” he demanded, pulling free from her in the street.

“Do not slow—no! Hurry!” She grasped his hand again and yanked, but she could not move him.

“Why would you take me here? Why should I believe that you are helping me rather than leading me to my death?”

“You will be the cause of your own death and your friends' if you do not come out of the street!” she hissed angrily and then marched toward him to look up into his eyes. In the next moment, she ripped the veil from her face, and Roman could see the cuts and deep bruises on her delicate cheeks, the swollenness of one eye. “They beat me, tortured me, too! They have killed those whom I love! I will have my revenge!” She was nearly gasping in her anger.

“Who?” Roman queried, shocked at the woman's delicate beauty crushed beneath the heavy weight of the violence visited upon her.

“The prison is below,” she said, ignoring his question and pulling on his arm again as she refastened her veil with her other hand. Roman fell into a trot once more—he had no better option at the moment.

“Follow the corridor at the bottom of the stairs,” she continued as the very building they ran past seemed to watch their flight. “Then turn right at your first opportunity. The cell you seek is at the very end—the only one. There should only be a lone guard in this moment. You must dispatch him quickly though, and do not exit the corridor you enter—it is the way the others shall return.”

“Then how are we to escape?”

She pulled him behind a short wall that seemed to enclose a small garden beyond, and also served as the lintel for a black rectangle of doorway that led down into further darkness. The woman was gasping, and Roman could feel her trembling in his grasp. For all her demands and vows of revenge, she was terrified.

“You must pass this entrance, and continue on through the entirety of the prison. There is another exit.”

“Only one corridor?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Which one do I take?”

“I know not. I have never been below.”

Roman dropped her hand with a breath of agitation and turned in a short circle until he was once more facing the black doorway. The chanting from the domed building had stopped.

“I thank you for your help, mistress,” he said gruffly. “If indeed, you are helping me. I will be in your debt.” He stepped toward the descending stairs.

“Wait,” she called, once more laying her hand on his arm. “I have a message for the general.”

Roman felt his eyebrows raise. This woman had a message for Constantine Gerard?

“He must not return to his home. England is against him now, as they are the other one—Hails-worth. The general has been marked a traitor and is wanted by his own crown. His family is being watched.”

Roman nodded. “Very well. Again, I shall be in your debt.”

She let her hand slide from his skin slowly. “Do not forget me then.”

A screeching cry split the night and then a dark shadow shot from the sky and lighted upon the wall above the doorway. It sidled awkwardly along the rough surface, bobbing and ducking, until it was near enough that Roman could determine its character.

“Lou?” he asked softly.

The falcon flapped-hopped the short distance separating it and Roman, settling on the leather of his hood once more, fidgeting, adjusting, its weight obviously increased.

The woman stepped close to Roman and hesitantly reached up toward Lou with one hand, her wide sleeve sliding up to reveal a slender arm adorned with metal bangles that tinkled in the thick air. The falcon ducked away at first, and then shot its beak forward, nibbling curiously at her fingers.

“Lou,” she whispered. Then she stroked his wing with one finger while speaking a stream of foreign words to the falcon, who seemed to listen intently, swiveling his head to look at her and then the sky with alternating eyes.

The woman abruptly stepped away and began walking backward, looking at Roman as she went, as if she was loath to lose sight of him. “Go now. You have only moments.”

Indeed, Roman heard the distant sounds of a crowd, and although he could see nothing over the wall when he turned his head, he knew that the time of prayers was over.

He looked back for one final glance at the beautiful, mysterious woman who had brought him thus far, but the street before him was empty. She had already disappeared into the city.

Roman ducked through the doorway, pushing all thoughts of her away as he descended the stairs as quickly as he could. A moment later, he had found the right hand turn, and now he ran through the corridor, his wide shoulders nearly brushing the walls, his hood only inches away from the undulating ceiling. A haze of torchlight shone around the corner ahead, but Roman did not slow.

And so he took the guards by surprise—two instead of one. They rose from their crouched positions before a wrought door, one still rolling the woven mat he had knelt upon. Roman came to an abrupt halt, and was unable to stop himself from glancing through the bars to his left.

There, chained by his neck to the back wall, was General Gerard, his tawny mane now long and stringy around his face as he lifted his head to investigate the crashing footfalls. A shadow against the far left wall of the cell grew taller, and then Valentine Alesander stepped into view, his Saracen robes swinging.

Near the Spaniard's feet lay a long, crumpled pile of rags.

One of the guards shouted at Roman, his foreign words challenging, yet hesitant, as if he was unsure what to make of the giant man who had appeared in his prison with a falcon upon his shoulder.

Roman glanced down at the man's waist and saw the ring of keys dangling there. Then he looked both guards in the eyes in turn.

“I've come for my friends.”