SILK AND SECRETS (14 page)

The basic problem, of course, was that it was impossible for him to forget that she was a woman. Quite impossible.

The kafila-bashi was holding court in a larger cubicle near the entrance to the caravansary. As Ross and Saleh entered, the leader was dealing with the chief of a group of Afghan merchants who had just arrived from Herat and wanted to join the larger caravan. After discussing terms and marching order, the kafila-bashi dismissed the Afghanis and turned to Ross and Saleh.

“Salaam Aleikum.” He waved his hand for them to be seated. “I am Abdul Wahab. How may I serve you?”

As Ross returned the greeting and settled down onto the packed earth floor, he studied the kafila-bashi, whose dress and features indicated that he was an Uzbek. He was a broad-shouldered man of middle years, with shrewd dark eyes and the air of authority of a natural leader.

Ross introduced himself as Khilburn, then presented Saleh and made arrangements for their party to join the caravan, which would depart before dawn the next morning. Then, making a decision based on his favorable judgment of the kafila-bashi, he continued, “I think you should know that I am a ferengi, an Englishman.”

Abdul Wahab’s eyebrows rose. “You speak Persian well for a ferengi. A trace of accent only—I thought you might be a Baluchi from southern Afghanistan.” His gaze went to Saleh. “Surely you are not also a ferengi?”

Saleh shook his white-turbaned head. “Nay, I am an Uzbek, the same as you. The other members of our party are a Persian and a Targui from the Sahara. Only Khilburn is a ferengi.”

The kafila-bashi’s thoughtful glance returned to Ross. “Why have you told me this?”

“The welfare of the caravan is your responsibility. I did not want to conceal a fact that might cause trouble for you.”

“An honorable motive.” Frowning, Abdul Wahab stroked his black beard. “Do not go to Bokhara, Khilburn. If you do, you will be a son of death, for the amir despises all Europeans. If you wait in Sarakhs for a few more days, there will be a caravan that will take you to Khiva, which is my own native city. It is a safer destination for a ferengi.”

Opinions on the wisdom of his going to Bokhara were nothing if not unanimous, Ross thought wryly. “I have no choice. I wish to learn the fate of my brother, a British officer who went to Bokhara on an official mission and was imprisoned by the amir.”

The caravan leader’s bushy brows drew together. “Is he a tall, fair man like you?”

Ian’s hair was auburn rather than blond, but he was Ross’s height, with very fair skin. Ross nodded. “He is.”

“With my own eyes, I saw a ferengi of that description beheaded several months ago, behind the amir’s palace in Bokhara. In the crowd, it was said that he was a soldier.” Abdul Wahab’s expression was compassionate. “I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but surely the man executed was your brother. Very few ferengis ever reach Bokhara—and fewer leave alive. Do not continue your journey, for there is now no reason for it.”

At the kafila-bashi’s words, Ross felt a constriction deep in his chest. In spite of all the rumors and hearsay evidence, this was the first time he had found someone who had personally witnessed the execution of a foreigner who could be Ian. The faint hope that he had carried from Constantinople flickered and died. For a moment he considered following everyone’s good advice and ending his journey here. Not only would that be wiser, it would save him weeks of painful proximity to Juliet.

As the thought of stopping formed in his mind, it was immediately followed by a vivid mental image of Jean Cameron’s pleading face.
Please, Ross, I am begging you.
Even now he could not be completely certain of Ian’s fate, and Jean would still be left with a faint, destructive thread of hope.

And beyond that, Ross realized with painful clarity, he did not entirely want to be saved from the bittersweet pleasure of Juliet’s company. “Your counsel is wise, Abdul Wahab, but I cannot go back without positive proof. If my brother is dead, perhaps the amir will allow me to take his body back to England.”

The leader looked pessimistic, but nodded. “So be it.”

Wanting to know more about the ferengi, Ross said, “The man who was executed—what was his condition?”

“Very grave. He was scarcely more than bones, with terrible sores all over his body. He looked like an old man, though I think he was not.” Abdul Wahab grimaced. “Did you know that the amir breeds special vermin in the Black Well, solely to make the prisoners suffer more? I do not think that the ferengi would have survived much longer as a prisoner. At least the sword spared him further suffering.”

“My brother would have died bravely,” Ross said, his voice not quite a question.

“Aye, he did. Though he was weak, he stood tall and with his right hand he made the sign of the cross over his breast as he spoke in his own language. I cannot know for certain, but I believe that he commended his soul to the Christian God.” The kafila-bashi inclined his head respectfully. “It would have been more fitting for a warrior to die in battle, but I assure you that he did not disgrace himself or his family.”

Ross was briefly surprised, for his brother-in-law had never been religious, and the sign of the cross was hardly standard practice among Scots Presbyterians. But after a moment’s thought, he understood the gesture. Quite apart from the fact that months of imprisonment could change anyone’s spiritual beliefs, crossing himself sounded like Ian’s last gesture of defiance, a public proclamation of his nationality and religion. Even at the end, he had been unbroken. Perhaps that would be some comfort to his family.

“Thank you for your information, Abdul Wahab.” Ross got to his feet. “As compensation for the fact that my presence might cause trouble, I and my servant Jalal are well armed, and we will gladly use our weapons in the defense of the caravan.”

“God willing, your arms will not be needed, but I am glad to know that you have them.” Two more men entered the cubicle, so the caravan leader gave a nod of dismissal and turned to deal with the next problem.

Saleh beside him, Ross went out into the courtyard, thinking that matters were going well. The kafila-bashi seemed a capable and tolerant man, and with luck they would make it across the Kara Kum without incident. Ross looked forward to beginning the last leg of the journey.

Unfortunately, before that would happen, he must tell Juliet what he had learned about her brother, and
that
he was not looking forward to at all.

Juliet hunkered against the wall of the caravansary, arms crossed on her raised knees as she idly watched Murad tend the fire and prepare the evening meal. During the course of the day, the Persian had given up trying to make conversation, for she responded to his efforts with either silence or a growled monosyllable. While she regretted the rudeness, she knew that it would be folly to become friendly with the young man; the less Murad knew about her, the better.

She shifted position to ease the chafing of the vestlike garment she wore under her robes to flatten her breasts. She had never bothered with such a thing before; though she habitually wore male dress, it had always been a matter of convenience rather than a serious attempt to disguise her gender. However, this journey was different, so she had taken precautions to reduce the chance that anyone might realize that she was female. Knowing that she would have to wear it continuously, she had deliberately fashioned the vest to be as loose as possible, but it was still a nuisance. At least the weather was temperate now; the garment would be far more uncomfortable in the summer heat.

Glancing across the courtyard, she saw Ross and Saleh weaving their way between the fires and dozing camels. Ross wore his Asiatic garments as if he had been born to them; it was hard to believe that he was an English aristocrat. Her expression safely hidden behind her veil, Juliet smiled a little, thinking that now he looked like an oriental aristocrat. There was nothing her husband could do to make his appearance undistinguished.

Now that everyone was together, it was time to eat. After Ross, Saleh, and Juliet had seated themselves around a low circular table, Murad set a large platter in their midst, then took his own place. The chunks of roast mutton purchased in the bazaar were served on a bed of cooked rice obtained from the caravansary cookshop, and there was fresh flat bread as well.

Throughout the Islamic world, it was customary to eat with the fingers of the right hand only, since the left hand was ritually unclean and could never be used in a communal platter. Juliet had been eating Muslim-style for so long that it was second nature. She was skilled at rolling rice into a ball with her right hand, then deftly popping it into her mouth with a flick of her thumb, since it was bad manners to put the fingers in the mouth. However, she had never attempted to eat while keeping her face covered, and doing so proved unexpectedly difficult. Even among the Tuareg, only the strictest men stayed veiled while eating, and during Juliet’s exasperating struggle to master the technique, she learned why.

She had loosened the tagelmoust so that she could bring her hand up under it, but found that constant care was needed to avoid displacing the veil. Twice she fumbled while raising her hand to her mouth, and scattered rice down the front of her dark robe. The second time that happened, she caught Ross’s amused glance on her. She glared back, silently daring him to laugh.

Fortunately custom divided the communal platter into invisible zones, and it was discourteous to take food from another person’s area, or she would not have gotten her share of the meal. By the time she finished, the rest of the platter had long since been emptied and the men were drinking tea.

Juliet accepted a small teacup herself and promptly learned that drinking while veiled was even harder than eating. Furthermore, it would be impossible to drink from a waterskin without lowering the tagelmoust. She would have to be careful to drink only when no one but Ross or Saleh could see her. With luck, anyone catching a fleeting glimpse of her face would assume she was a beardless boy, but she would rather not rely on luck.

After they were all done, Ross said to Murad, “We will be leaving before dawn.” Then he glanced at Juliet. Speaking in Tamahak, as if he were repeating the same message, he said, “Meet me behind the caravansary in about a quarter of an hour.”

She gave a noncommittal murmur of assent, curious about why her husband wanted to talk to her privately. Well, there was only one way to find out, so she got to her feet and stalked into the courtyard without explanation. Pretending to be a brusque Targui was giving her the opportunity to behave like a rude schoolboy, and she had to admit that it was rather fun.

The hour was getting late and the noise level was dropping as people began to retire for the night. Taking her time, as if she had no particular destination in mind, Juliet checked the bedded-down camels, then ambled across the courtyard and through the entry arch into the bazaar-lined street. There she turned left and followed the caravansary walls around to the back.

In stark contrast to the front of the building, she found empty desert stretching to the east as far as the eye could see, and a good deal farther. Beneath a thin crescent moon, a fitful wind blew from the north, rustling the thorny shrubs that clung tenaciously to the gravelly soil.

Juliet took a deep breath of the dry, desert-scented air, then exhaled. As she did, she felt tension flowing out of her; apparently her masquerade was more of a strain than she had realized until now, when she could lower her guard. It was one thing to wear male garb when riding with her own men, who knew her for what she was, and quite another to be committed to weeks and months in disguise. But she had gotten through one day successfully, and tomorrow would be easier.

She stood unmoving in the shadow of a gnarled, scrubby tree, letting her eyes adjust to the starlight. There was no one else about, for men who traveled through the vast emptiness of the desert usually preferred to enjoy the companionship of their own kind when it was available.

About ten minutes later, Ross came around the corner of the caravansary, his stride unhurried. Even in the darkness, she had no trouble recognizing him by his height and the controlled power of his movements. Juliet held still, wondering if he would be able to find her. About a hundred feet away, he hesitated for a long moment, then came straight to her.

Impressed, Juliet wondered how he had located her so quickly; he had been upwind, so it could not have been scent, she had not made a sound, and her dark robes must have been invisible in the shadows. However, she refused to give him the satisfaction of asking how he had done it. When he was half a dozen feet away, she said in English, “Is something wrong, Ross?”

“I’m afraid so.” In flat, uninflected sentences, he told her that the kafila-bashi had seen a ferengi executed, then went on to recount the conversation in detail.

Juliet accepted the news stoically, for it was not really a surprise. Yet when Ross described the physical condition of the man who had been executed, and how he had faced death, she drew an anguished, involuntary breath.

“I’m sorry, Juliet,” Ross said, his voice almost inaudible.

“This makes Ian’s death seem real,” she said, struggling to keep her tone even. “In my mind, he was still twenty, with endless energy and exuberance. To think of him emaciated, tortured, perhaps, so weak he could barely stand… it seems so wrong.” She drew a shuddering breath. “When we were young, we both wanted to see the whole world, to dare everything there was to dare. And now Ian’s adventuring days are over, ended in blood in front of a crowd of curious strangers.”

Her voice broke. A vision of her brother suffering had replaced her mental image of him in strength and health, and it was impossible to dislodge. Dully she wondered if that was how adventures usually ended—in pain and senseless tragedy, thousands of miles from home.

For a moment Ross touched her shoulder in silent commiseration. His sympathy almost broke what remained of her control. Juliet bent her head and buried her face in her hands, wanting to weep for all her losses: for the murder of her brother, for the weary erosion of youth and hope, for the death of love. Most of all, for the death of love.