No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (5 page)

She regarded Umar carefully and decided that she liked him very much. He would make a good friend and ally. The very idea that she would be able to cultivate his friendship was particularly exciting, since it would have been forbidden had anyone known her true sex. Ali was beginning to get the first taste of a freedom she’d never known. Being a boy was very nice.

It was even nicer being with people who didn’t shun her or make fun of her because she wasn’t one of them.

But the very best of all was her master, Ali thought, looking over at him as he conversed with the chief and Jojan and a few other men gathered around.

The Yourooks wore the usual full costume, knives and handsome silver-mounted pistols tucked in their belts, but they could not compare in splendor to her master, unarmed and unadorned in simple
chalvars,
a white shirt and plain vest, and his European boots. His very presence was more impressive than any show of arms.

The firelight caught and ran like strands of filigree through his dark hair and beard; it shifted the long shadow of his figure against the side of the tent, making his great height appear even more imposing.

Ali’s heart swelled with pride. He was magnificently handsome in body, brilliant in mind, good in heart. And she belonged to him.

Allah had been truly good to her at last.

Ali pulled her gaze away from Andre and stared up at the moonlit mountains rising dramatically from the valley floor, capped with great snow-washed peaks. Their savage beauty served as an acute reminder that sometimes Allah made one suffer greatly before giving His reward.

She managed to offer up one quick prayer of thanks before dozing off.

A
li, sit
still.
I’m going to make a terrible mess of this if you keep wiggling.” Andre put his hand on top of her head and pressed down, then went back to snipping. “Whoever cut your hair in the past obviously put up with your leaping about, which explains the state your head was in when you appeared last April. I’ve never seen such tonsorial butchery.”

Ali wasn’t about to tell him that she had been responsible. It had pained her to take the scissors to her beautiful locks, her only vanity, but she hadn’t had a choice. But she’d since discovered that there were certain advantages to looking like a boy, especially in the summer heat. The pleasures of behaving like one she’d discovered nearly immediately. It was proving to be the best summer of her life.

“Hurry up, Handray, I have things to do,” she said impatiently, squirming on the chair. “And you must go to work.”

“This from the person who constantly tells me I work too much?” He walked around the chair and started on the back of her head.

“You do. But there are so many ruins here that I do not think you can finish writing about all of them by November. It is already August and you are not even halfway done. You have to finish your book, you told me so yourself.”

“Why does this argument come up whenever you want to go your own way?” Andre asked dryly.

Ali twisted around and grinned up at him. “Because it usually works.”

Andre took one last snip. “You’re right. Very well, off you go. You look vaguely more respectable, I suppose.”

Ali leapt out of the chair with alacrity and brushed off her shirt. “I will see you at dinner,” she said, rubbing her hands over her neatly cut hair. “I am cooking the brace of woodcocks Jojan brought.”

“Where are you going in such a hurry, anyway?” he asked, putting the scissors and comb away. “Are you off with Umar again? I’m glad the two of you have become such good friends, and I’m sure the company is nice for him too, with most of the village in the higher pastures. But shouldn’t you leave him to get on with his chores every now and again?”

“We only do things together when our chores are done,” Ali said indignantly. “Anyway, Umar has gone to the mountains for a week to see his mother.” She sighed sadly. “I’ll miss Umar’s dog almost as much as Umar.”

Andre gave her an incisive look. “If this is another blatant attempt at bringing a dog into the camp, you might as well wish for the moon. No pets, Ali. And that’s final. Again.”

“It seems very silly,” Ali said in a small voice.

“We move on in November.”

“A dog could come along. Why not, Handray? Oh, wouldn’t a little dog be sweet? I could sleep with it at night as Umar does with Sherifay.”

“Ali. I have spoken. It’s finished.”

Ali lowered her eyes. “As you say. I am going down to the river to do my lessons. It will be cooler there.”

“You are a devoted student, aren’t you? What are you planning to do with all this education, anyway? Open a carpet shop in Constantinople and swindle Frenchmen out of their money, perhaps?”

“Much better than that. One day I will be a great pasha, you wait and see,” she teased. “But to be a great pasha I need to learn all I can.” She picked up her bundle, then flashed Andre a huge grin. “Do you think it is possible?”

“With you I believe almost anything is possible,” he replied. “But in all truth you have an extraordinarily good ear for language. Your French is coming along beautifully and so is your reading. You make my efforts worthwhile.”

Ali was ridiculously pleased with the rare compliment, but before Andre could see it, she dashed off.

He watched Ali go, a smile lingering on his mouth. He really did derive pleasure from their work together. Ali had a mind like a large thirsty sponge.

Even the whimsical stories he often spun at night for Ali’s entertainment provided fodder. Last week the myth of Leda the swan and the egg that had hatched Helen of Troy had led to a thorough history of the Trojan war. He’d quickly learned that Ali’s imagination was a useful tool to implement just about anything he cared to teach.

Ali was definitely a positive addition to their lives, he thought, picking up his knapsack and starting off to the ruins. It was hard at times to remember what life had been like before.

The breeze by the river was cooling, but it was a scorching day, and the heat, even in the shade, made it difficult to concentrate. Ali reread the same sentence three times, then gave up and put the book down. As much as she wanted to learn everything she could as quickly as possible, and as much as she wanted to make her master proud of her, her head had started to ache.

She gazed at the water longingly, then glanced carefully around. Nothing stirred. The herd of camels in the distance slept, the cows had disappeared into the wood, even the birds had hushed. Handray and Jojan were safely off excavating, the only people out in the heat of the day, as usual.

It was a risk, but one worth taking. She’d suffered the entire summer, laboring under the self-imposed but necessary fiction that she couldn’t swim. But with Umar away and no one else about…

Ali hastily removed her clothes and climbed down the bank, wading into the shallows of the water. She breathed a sigh of immense satisfaction as cool little ripples lapped against her calves, then cast her eye around for the nearest safe pool, since she had no intention of being swept away by a current.

Yes. There was a nice deep one, shaded too, and even a convenient log to dive into it from. She waded over toward the log, her toes relishing the feel of the cold mud squeezing under them. In another moment she was in the pool, shaking water from her freshly trimmed hair.

She rolled onto her back and floated, taking pure pleasure in the moment. It was a pity, she considered, that she couldn’t do this all the time. But discovery would be disastrous.

Ali’s brow furrowed. She wondered how much longer she could keep up the fiction. It was difficult as it was, attending to her bodily needs, bathing, dressing, the nuisance of her monthly bleeding, everything done stealthily and out of sight.

Fortunately, her master and Jojan had drawn the conclusion that she was modest about her body and didn’t question her need for privacy. But she couldn’t go on like this forever. One day something was bound to happen.

And then what would Handray do?

She had planned to tell him the truth, she really had, but the terrible fear that he would cast her aside kept her mouth firmly shut. Her entire world revolved around Handray as completely and unequivocally as the moon revolved around the sun. Every breath she drew, she drew in his service.

What would her life be if she were to be sent from his side? It would be no life at all. No more wonderful stories, no more sharing his tent, watching him as he slept. No more hearing his laughter, or seeing the smile that he produced more and more often these days.

She might as well go straight to the Turkomen and offer herself up, she decided. Better, she could find the nearest cliff to jump from. It was a pity. If he were a violent man, he would instantaneously have her head severed from her shoulders, but there wasn’t any chance of that.

No, she thought sadly, it would be far worse. He’d level that horrible cold look he had, the one that had turned her veins to ice on more than one occasion, and pronounce her gone, cast off, never to darken his days again.

“Oh, Allah,” she said earnestly, gazing up at the sky beseechingly. “Please, please keep my secret safe. I couldn’t bear it if Handray sent me away. I really couldn’t.”

The very thought made her heart pound in panic.

Ali stole a quick glance over at Andre. She’d been unable to shake the depression that had come over her that afternoon at the thought of her probable fate, the cruelty of her master who didn’t care enough about her to keep her, all because she was a lowly female.

Dinner was over and he was busy cleaning his saddle leather, his dark head bent over his task, oblivious to her black thoughts.

Then she looked across at Jojan, whose fair head was equally bent, but in the worthwhile task of writing a letter to his mother. Ali knew, because she’d asked and he’d told her.

Handray never wrote letters. He only wrote in his book. She’d asked him why he didn’t write to his family as Jojan did, and had her head taken off for her trouble.

“You are my servant,” he said curtly. “Confine yourself to questions of a nonpersonal nature. Is that clear?”

It was more than clear.

She knew all about Jojan. He had a mother and a father and three sisters whom he missed very much, and who all lived in a little village in France. She knew that his father was a farmer, so they were not grand people like her master, but they were content.

It was a nice story about a happy family, and that contentment was reflected on Jojan’s face.

Handray was another question altogether. One very big question. Maybe, like herself, he didn’t have a family any longer … but not ever to speak of them?

It occurred to her that he had never once asked about her family, either—not that she could have answered truthfully, but it hurt her that he didn’t even care enough to want to know. He might think they were all dead of plague, but that shouldn’t make any difference.

The fact was that Handray didn’t care about much of anything but his old buildings. She was nothing more to him than the person who cooked and carried and cleaned, who gave him pleasant baths and massaged him when he was tired.

“Why are you glaring at me?” Andre asked, glancing up as if he’d felt her eyes on him. “Is your stomach indisposed, or are you merely indulging in a fit of bad temper?”

Ali scowled even more darkly. “You are very nasty. I have made you a brilliant meal and now you speak like this to me?”

Andre gazed at her with interest. “Let us ignore for the moment that it’s your job to make brilliant meals, along with all the other duties you’re paid to perform,” he said. “Since when did scowling become part of your repertoire? Have I done something to offend you, said something unkind to cause you to look at me in such a manner?”

“No,” Ali said, feeling ashamed.

“Then I’d thank you to keep your bad temper to yourself. You are treated extremely well for a servant”

He was right, of course. She was a servant and had no place expecting anything other than tolerance at best. Indeed, she ought to consider herself lucky that he didn’t beat her. “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend.”

He released a small sigh. “All right. Your apology is accepted. However, it occurs to me that you might be feeling neglected. I haven’t told you a story in a good week. Maybe that would sweeten your mood?”

Ali nodded, although her heart wasn’t really in it. “Yes, please,” she said, trying her best to sound enthusiastic.

“Which one would you like?” he asked, slinging the saddle over the post he’d made for that purpose.

Ali brought him soap and a basin of water. “The story of Xanthos?” she said. She was in the right sort of mood for a good tragedy.

“Surely not again?” he replied, washing his hands and drying them on the towel she provided.

Joseph-Jean glanced up. “I think our Ali has a real love for bloodthirsty drama,” he said. “How many times have you heard the story? Five? Ten?”

“Stories only become better with many tellings,” Ali informed him crisply, and instantly regretted her unintentionally curt tone as Joseph-Jean looked at her in surprise. “It is only that they grow in detail,” she added contritely.

“Yes, I can see that they would,” he replied, but she knew he was puzzled by her mood.

Andre pushed his chair back and stretched out his legs. “Oh, all right,” he said. “Xanthos it is.”

Ali settled herself at his feet, knowing that secretly he loved telling the story of the magnificent and honorable people who had once lived here. She usually loved just as much to hear the tale, especially the way he had of telling it in his deep, rich, melodic voice.

She tried to put herself in the correct frame of mind and closed her eyes for a moment, imagining herself thousands of years in the past.

“Xanthos was the capital city of Lycia,” he began. “But to understand Xanthos, you have to understand the character of the Lycians—a strong and fiercely independent people, who are believed originally to have come from Crete.”

“Probably Minoans, in around 1400
B.C.
,” Ali added, wishing he would skip the boring things, but knowing they would have to wade through them anyway. He always started the same way.

“Thank you,” Andre said. “They were determined to remain separate from all of their neighbors and they fought to retain that independence. They did, however, fight alongside the Trojans during their war—”

“Told in the
Iliad,”
Ali said, moving him along.

“How I am supposed to tell you a story if you keep interrupting?” he demanded.

“I was just helping you get to the good part,” Ali said.

The corners of Andre’s mouth curved up. “Naturally. You want to go straight to the catastrophe. Very well, I will oblige you.”

Ali grinned victoriously. “Start with the king.”

“Brat. When Croesus, King of Lydia, was no longer able to defend himself against Persia, Lydia fell. Lycia was next on the Persians’ list and naturally the independent Lycians weren’t very pleased about the prospect of being taken over.”

“No, how could they be?” Ali said, warming to the tale. “It was very bad of the Persians to want to take all these places that did not belong to them.”

“Yes, it was,” he said, pausing a moment to light a cheroot from an ember he took from the cooking fire, now dying out. “But that didn’t help the Lycians,” he continued. “When they realized there was nothing they could do to defend themselves against domination, they decided that they would do anything rather than surrender.”

Ali sighed heavily. “And so, being the very wonderful people they were, the men herded their brave women and children into the city. The women held their children in their arms to comfort them as their sad husbands set fire to the acropolis, where they had also placed all their possessions, including their loyal slaves. And then they marched out to meet the Persians and perished, every last one.”