No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (2 page)

“Please, effendi, may I take the bread? I am very hungry.” So saying, Ali fainted.

Andre sighed and scooped the child up in his arms, giving Joseph-Jean a look of resignation. “Why,” he said, carrying Ali over to the fire, “do things like this always happen to me? Get the water jug, Jo-Jean, and a spare blanket.”

He felt Ali’s brow to see if it was feverish, relieved to find that it wasn’t, since he didn’t much like the idea of contracting plague. Then he dipped a cloth in water, wiped Ali’s dirty face with it, and wrapped him in the blanket Joseph-Jean brought over.

“Damnation! What are we going to do with a malnourished infant?” he said. “We can’t very well leave him here when we break camp tomorrow, can we?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Joseph-Jean replied. “We’ll have to take him with us at least as far as Minara.”

“I am in no frame of mind to act as nursemaid to a Turkish urchin,” Andre said with annoyance.

“Naturally you are not, but I doubt he will survive much longer under these hellish conditions, not on his own and this far from any village.”

“And what do you propose we do with him when we get to Minara?”

“Perhaps we can make arrangements for a family to take him in?”

Andre shook his head. “Well. He’s suffering from exposure and starvation and certainly exhaustion. He probably won’t live long enough to get to Minara, so it might well be a moot point. Still, I suppose I would rather know how many days it took for him to die rather than spend the rest of my life wondering about it.”

Joseph-Jean nodded slowly. “Good. Apparently, despite your best efforts, you’re not nearly as heartless as you like to make out. Can you get him to wake up and take some nourishment?”

“What do you want me to do, shake him till his brains rattle? Anyway, that stew would probably finish him off.” He pushed a hand through his hair, thinking of what medicines he had in his pack. “I imagine he’ll wake up in his own good time. He needs warmth and sleep more than food right now.”

Andre looked down at the thin child, his face pale beneath the brown skin. He didn’t look sturdy enough to have even contemplated the journey, let alone have made it this far.

“Amazing,” he said. “He has to have been sustained by something to have come over the mountains from as far south as Dembre.”

“A remarkable will, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe his story is mere nonsense and he really was after the packs. In either case, we’re stuck with him for the time being.” He placed Ali on the ground by the fire. “He’ll be better off close to the heat tonight. I’ll watch over him. You get to bed.”

“Are you sure?” Joseph-Jean said in obvious surprise.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he replied, annoyed. “Don’t worry, Jo-Jean, I won’t roast him for breakfast. I may be heartless, but I do have a slight sense of ethics remaining.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Good night, Jo-Jean.”

“As you wish. Good night.”

An hour later Joseph-Jean lifted the flap of his tent and looked out. Andre sat by the fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the child. The firelight flickered over his strong features, so like his father’s.

Take care of my son, Joseph-Jean. Stay with him, at least until he heals.

He’d never forget the devastated expression on the duke’s face, the desolate look in his eyes as he had commended his only child into Joseph-Jean’s care. “I will look after him,
Monsieur le Due,”
Joseph-Jean whispered. “For as long as he needs me.”

Dear God, if only Genevieve had not succumbed to her last illness. If only she had grown stronger instead of becoming more fragile over those last months. Andre hadn’t even realized, away at Oxford, completing his degree.

Perhaps if he had been in the room as the duke stroked Genevieve’s brow at the end, speaking to her in his quiet voice, perhaps then he would have understood.

It is time, beloved. Look, Genevieve, the angels wait for you. Do you see? Go into their arms, dear one. Let them take you to God.

With her last breath Genevieve spoke Andre’s name. And Andre arrived an hour too late to hear it.

Joseph-Jean squeezed his eyes shut. The scene that followed really didn’t bear remembering. Andre had been like an animal mortally wounded, lashing out at anyone who came near him. The anguished rage had only been the beginning. Then had come the deathly cold.

He opened his eyes. Andre still watched the child, his face calm but his eyes intent. Well, Andre might not be able to heal himself, but he had some of his father’s medical skill. He’d spent his childhood watching the duke treat people from near and far. If anyone could help young Ali, Andre could. What was amazing was that he would even bother to try.

But tonight Andre actually looked interested in something other than ancient history. Maybe the Turkish waif was a blessing in disguise. If Ali’s problems could somehow remind Andre that life was worth living, Joseph-Jean would be eternally thankful. He would do anything to see Andre’s pain eased, to see him turn his face to the future.

He lit a lamp and started a letter to the parents whose names Andre refused to speak.

And when he said his prayers that night, he added a fervent one for the child’s life. They’d had enough of death.

A
li stirred and sighed with contentment, unwilling to relinquish the dream. In the dream it was warm. In the dream it was safe. Nothing pursued her, nothing hid in the dark waiting to kill her while she slept. It had been too long since a dream like this had come along, easing the terror of the night, the fear of perishing. There was even a fire that crackled and the distinct smell of food.

A hand touched her cheek. For one awful moment she thought she had failed to escape her uncle’s village, that Hadgi had come to hand her over to the Turkomen. Ali nearly screamed. But as her eyes shot open in sheer terror she remembered.

It was the foreigner who bent over her, the tall, dark-haired effendi with the strange gray-green eyes who had thrown his bread away, the one who had accused her of stealing. He held a cup out to her.

“Drink,” he said in his rich voice. Ali tried to sit up, but her head spun. His arm came immediately around her.

“Drink,” he said again. “It’s sweet tea with some medicinal herbs mixed in. It will do you good.”

Ali obeyed, grateful for the warm liquid. At the same time she realized she had a blanket wrapped about her and that for the first time in weeks she really was warm.

She blinked, wondering how this miracle had come to pass. The last thing she remembered was looking at the piece of bread on the ground, and then the ground rushing up toward her. The effendi must have carried her to the fire and wrapped her up.

Praise be to Allah,
she thought.
He sent the effendi to save me.

Or maybe not. “Am I dying?” she asked weakly, feeling most peculiar, wondering if Allah had perhaps sent the effendi not to save her life, but to bury her body. It was hard to tell.

“No, I think you’re past that,” he said. “You are weak, but you’ll recover. What you need now is rest and food. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“Many days,” Ali said, lying down again. “Thank you, effendi,” she thought to add.

“For what?” he asked, taking food from the pot and putting it into a bowl.

Ali thought that a very odd thing to say when he was busy trying to make her well. “For saving me. And for being kind,” she added.

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes filled with irony. “You have no idea how many people would laugh if they heard you say that.” He came back to her and knelt down, helping her to sit up and supporting her against his chest. “Here. Try to eat this.”

He dipped a piece of bread in the sauce and held it out to her. Ali grabbed it and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing frantically.

“Slowly,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Ali nodded and swallowed. He poured her another cup of tea and helped her to sip it. Then he gave her some more soaked bread. Ali was amazed to find that she couldn’t finish it.

He took it from her. “Sleep,” he said.

She did.

For the next two days that was all she did, save to eat, wobble to the bushes to relieve herself, and wobble back again to sleep some more. She was vaguely aware that the foreigner stayed close by. Sometimes, when she wasn’t really asleep but more in a dreamlike daze, she watched him. Handray, the other called him. It was an odd name, but she liked the way it sounded when she tried it on her tongue.

He liked to write in his book, his dark head bent, his concentration absolute. She memorized the curve of his sculpted cheekbone above his beard, the high, arched bridge of his nose, the way he stared off into the distance, his odd light eyes slightly narrowed in thought.

She liked to watch him move too, his powerful body surprisingly graceful. And when he touched her his hands were gentle. She hadn’t known that men could touch gently, but she liked it very much, the way he washed her face and hands with a cloth as if she were a small child.

She had heard terrible things about foreigners and their strange ways. Hadgi said that they did ungodly things. But then her uncle was not a good man himself, so maybe he was wrong. This foreigner was good, she was sure of it.

By dusk of the third day Ali felt very much better. She came out of her sleep with all her senses intact for the first time in a week. Sitting up, she looked around. Neither of the effendis was anywhere to be seen. She went to the stream and washed herself as best she could, delighted that she no longer felt too weak to do so. Then she returned to the camp.

It was time to take stock of the situation, since she was clearly going to survive. Ali settled herself back on her heels and gazed up at the sky as she always did when she consulted with the Almighty.

“So, Great Allah,” she said, leaning forward and touching her forehead to the ground, before returning her gaze to the sky, “in Your divine wisdom You sent me to the Handray so that I might not die. You would not have saved my insignificant life unless You had a reason in mind. I am to give myself into the Handray’s service, yes?”

Allah didn’t answer, but then she didn’t expect Him to.

“Yes,” she answered for Him, “I can see that I am to devote myself to the Handray’s service, but there is a problem. He thinks me a boy, which I can understand, given my clothes. But it was You, Allah, who put the idea in my head that I must dress like this to keep from harm.”

Ali thought the situation over carefully. “Well,” she said eventually. “If I tell the Handray the truth when he has gone to so much trouble to save me, he will probably be terribly disappointed and want my head on a pike and my body thrown to the lions. He will not wish a mere female to serve him, will he?”

No. The tall, powerful effendi was a leader, that was obvious, probably a pasha in his own country. He might even be a pasha here too, for his Turkish was splendid, and he spoke it with a clear, beautiful accent, different from the guttural speech of her own people.

“So I cannot tell the truth just yet, can I, O Mighty Allah? Still, it will be difficult to keep it from him, for many reasons.”

Ali considered. She couldn’t keep the truth from the Handray forever, obviously. She only needed to keep it from him long enough to make herself indispensable. And that shouldn’t be
too
terribly long, not if this was what Allah intended her destiny to be.

Well, that made sense. A small deception to further the cause of eternal service? Yes, she could see that Allah had planned it all magnificently. And of course, there was the matter of educating the Handray. Everyone knew foreigners were infidels, and surely Allah would wish his conversion.

“So. It is ordered,” she said with satisfaction. “I will obey Your every wish.” She touched her forehead to the ground again, then sat up, pleased with the prospect of the future, which was infinitely brighter than the one she’d been facing four nights before.

And now to make herself indispensable. She looked around wondering where to begin. Yes, the cooking pot. Whatever the Handray had been feeding her had been most unpleasant once her initial hunger pangs had worn off enough to allow her to taste the food.

Ali took the top off the pot and dipped her finger into the stew that was cooking inside. She made a face. “Oh, Allah, he really
does
need me.”

There were packs heaped about, so she opened one. It contained books. That was no help. She opened another. Soaps, brushes, bathing things. But the third pack yielded precisely what she was looking for.

“Ali! What do you think you’re doing?”

She spun around, only to see both the effendis standing there, glaring at her. “I—nothing!” she stammered.

“Feeling better, I see,” the Handray said. “And is this how you show your gratitude, by stealing?” He folded his arms across his chest.

“No, effendi,” she said, her heart about to stop in fright. “I have told you before that I do not steal. I was only looking for spices. You are a terrible cook.” She held up a packet.

“True enough,” the one called Jojan said.

Ali liked Jojan. He was tall, but not as massive of build as the Handray, and he had a warmth in his eyes that made her feel comfortable. She knew he wasn’t going to kill her. The Handray she wasn’t entirely sure about, especially at this moment.

“I tell you the truth,” she said indignantly. “Why would I lie? You have saved my life. I wish only to help you. And why would I want to steal spices, when I have no food to put them in?”

The Handray’s arms dropped to his sides. “All right, Ali,” he said. “I believe you, although you shouldn’t be going through things that don’t belong to you. And you really should be resting.”

“I am much better now,” she insisted. “And since you cannot continue to eat this disgusting food, I shall try to make it better.”

“Please,” he said, waving his hand at the pot. “If you can fix that, I will be indebted to you for life.”

Ali quickly turned back to the pack of spices, sending up a quick prayer of thanks to Allah for making it so easy for her to succeed. It was now only a matter of the Handray’s honoring his words, for she was a superb cook. Even Hadgi, who hated her, said so.

“Good God, Ali!” Andre exclaimed in real surprise, taking a tentative bite. “How did you do this? Jo-Jean, taste this!”

Joseph-Jean, who was looking at his plate with misgiving, first smelled the meat on his fork, then cautiously put it into his mouth. “It’s—it’s good,” he said, looking at Ali in amazement.

“Not good,” Ali said. “It is only passable. It is hard to make anything good that has had such a bad beginning.”

Andre stared down at his plate, trying to work out how a young child had been able to turn something inedible into a palatable meal. “But what did you do? This tastes of food—reasonable food.”

“I used some of the spices in the pack, and I added other things that I found. Raisins, almonds, a little dried fruit. But still, it is not as it should be.”

“Hire the boy instantly,” Joseph-Jean demanded. “I cannot go on any longer eating our own cooking.”

Andre flashed him an exasperated look. “He’s hardly in any condition to be hired for anything.”

“But I am very well now,” Ali said quickly. “And after all, you have no guide, no cook, no bearer, no dragoman. In exchange for food I could do all these things for you.”

“I think not,” Andre replied, dead-set against the very idea. “We are traveling light and have no need of your services. I’m willing to take you as far as Minara, but you can make your own way from there.”

“I eat very little,” Ali persisted.

Andre shook his head. “You could eat an entire sheep every night and it would make no difference. I have work to do, Ali, and I haven’t the time to look after a child.”

Ali stared at him in disbelief. “You think you must look after me? It is you who needs looking after!”

Andre snorted. “I beg your pardon, but who just saved whom? You wouldn’t have survived another night on your own.” And by God, that was true enough. He considered it a minor miracle that Ali was standing here arguing with him at all.

“I cannot help it if I had no money to buy food and animals and warm clothing such as you have,” Ali said indignantly. “It does not mean I am helpless.” Ali’s gaze lowered respectfully under the force of his glare. “I am not ungrateful to you, Handray Bey, I am not. I am fully mindful that you saved my life and that it is now yours. But you cannot cook for yourself, you cannot do all the small but important things that servants do.”

“You are nevertheless a child. You have no idea how rough a life we lead.” He turned, dismissing the subject, but Ali jumped up to face him, eyes flashing.

“You say this to me, knowing I came all the way from Dembre on my own through the mountains? You think I know nothing about this life?” Ali gestured at the tents. “You have shelter, Handray Bey, and blankets. You have food, and pack animals to carry all these things for you, and horses to ride upon. Your life is that of a rich man’s compared to what mine has been these last eight weeks. And still I can look after you better than you can yourself.”

Andre raised one eyebrow in question. “Oh? How?”

“It is simple. I can walk into any village and be accepted. Many people have never seen a foreigner before and will be afraid of you. I can reassure them on your behalf, I can bargain for you, make introductions. But most of all, I can look after all your needs as any good servant does.”

The word “servant” once again rang temptingly in Andre’s ear. Ali must have seen a brief hesitation in his face, for he was assaulted yet again with argument.

“You said you would be indebted to me for life if I could fix the meal, and I did,” Ali said heatedly. “Would you go back on your word?”

Andre gazed at the child in fascination. He’d never come across such a determined, fiery little soul as this one. That determination partially explained Ali’s remarkable recovery, but he was also intrigued. There was something in Ali’s eyes, a fierce blazing light that spoke so intently of life. Maybe that was why he had gone to the trouble of seeing that the life didn’t go out of them.

“All right,” he said, thinking at the same time that he’d lost his mind. “I’ll give you a try. All the food you can eat and two pastries a week. If you have failed me by Minara, I’ll leave you there. If not, you may accompany us to Xanthos—but at Xanthos you will have to find other work, unless you have proved yourself so remarkable that I decide to keep you on.” He crossed his arms. “And I warn you now, that is as likely as finding yourself drinking tea with the Queen of England.”

He turned to walk off, but Ali dropped to the ground and took his hands, fervently kissing the backs. “Thank you, Handray Bey,
thank
you! May Allah bless you and your children, and your children’s children.”

“I thank you for the sentiment, but it’s entirely unnecessary,” Andre said curtly.

Ali looked up at him, sooty lashes blinking in confusion. “You do not wish to be blessed?”

“No, I don’t wish to be blessed. Furthermore, I have no children, so there’s no point in blessing them either. I am not married.”

“Oh. I am sorry,” Ali said, appearing astonished. “But a man of your age, with no wives, no children?”

“I’m not exactly in my dotage,” he said dryly.