SILK AND SECRETS (32 page)

Then Ross handed over the compass, a gleaming brass instrument of beautiful workmanship. “You might find this an interesting curiosity.”

The nayeb examined the compass’s glasses, reflectors, and screws with bright-eyed interest while Ross explained its use. “It always points the way north, you say?” He twisted it back and forth, fascinated by the action of the needle.

“Exactly,” Ross said. “So it can be used to determine the direction of Mecca.”

“Ahhh…” Abdul Samut Khan nodded enthusiastically. “Truly an instrument of great holiness. Might I purchase it from you?”

“No, for it is a gift, a small mark of gratitude for your hospitality in receiving me into your own house.”

After a cursory demurral, Abdul Samut Khan accepted the compass with an air of satisfaction; Ross guessed that the nayeb had a great fondness for gifts, the more valuable, the better. With goodwill abounding, they turned their attention to an excellent breakfast of lamb kebabs, rice, bread, tea, and the special luxury of coffee. When they had finished eating, Ross said, “Can you tell me more about Major Cameron’s death?”

Abdul Samut Khan sighed. “A great pity. My royal master was distressed that Major Cameron went first to Kokand, the enemy of Bokhara. Perhaps that could have been overlooked, but then it turned out that the major did not carry authorization from the Queen of England. The lack cast doubt on his credentials.”

Ross’s brows rose. “But surely he had papers from Lord Auckland, the Governor General of India.”

“Aye, but that is not the same. Not satisfied with Major Cameron’s documents, my royal master imprisoned him and requested a letter from your queen stating that the major was what he claimed to be. But though a message was sent to London, no such assurance was ever received. The amir waited many months beyond the time it took a message to go to England and return. He even built posting houses in the desert to hasten a reply, but in vain. If Cameron was a genuine English envoy, your government should have vouched for him.”

Ross felt a deep burn of fury; it sounded as if Ian’s life might have been spared if an acceptable response had been sent to Bokhara, only some damned official in Whitehall had decided that such a reply was “inappropriate.” Still, Ross felt obligated to defend his country’s position. “Since Major Cameron was sent from India, the governor general was the correct person to consult if the major’s bona fides were questioned. The queen herself would not respond, particularly not when Bokhara was holding her officer captive.”

Uneasily the nayeb repeated his earlier point. “But Cameron claimed to serve the queen, and she did not acknowledge him. What was my master to think?”

Ross wondered if the amir really understood the size and complexity of the British empire; probably not, in which case he might have genuinely expected a personal reply from the British sovereign. But it was equally likely that the lack was just a pretext for committing murder. Abandoning the point, Ross said, “You say that Major Cameron was caught spying. What did he do? To behave dishonorably seems very unlike him.”

“He tried to smuggle letters out of prison.”

“Did the letters contain treason? Information that might harm Bokhara?”

His host glanced away. “Undoubtedly they did.”

“Since Major Cameron was in prison,” Ross said patiently, “no doubt he was simply trying to let his family and his army superiors know his condition, as is only natural.”

Not meeting his guest’s gaze, Abdul Samut Khan replied, “Perhaps that was natural, but it was not wise. The writings of a ferengi are always viewed with great suspicion.”

Probably because no one read English well enough to recognize treason when he saw it, Ross thought bitterly. This discussion would achieve nothing, for Abdul Samut Khan was duty-bound to support his ruler. Deciding to go to the question most important to the family, he asked, “How did Major Cameron die?”

His host’s eyes brightened. “With great courage. For months he had been in the Black Well, and when they brought him forth his skin was white as snow and covered with sores and his eyes twisted against the sun. But he stood tall, making the sign of a cross over his heart and declaring that he died as a Christian. Then the executioner severed his head with one great blow. He died quickly, without pain. A most inspiring sight.”

Ross nodded, his expression grim. The account matched what Abdul Wahab had told him in the caravansary of Sarakhs.

The nayeb spread his hands. “What is there to be done? Perhaps a mistake was made and the amir’s letter or your queen’s reply was lost, for the road to England is long and dangerous. A great pity, but now Major Cameron is dead. Do you think your countrymen will punish Bokhara for an honest mistake?”

If the amir believed that there was no chance of reconciliation between the two nations, there would be no reason to spare Ross’s life, and several good reasons to imprison or kill him. “As you say, it is a great pity, but nations should not go to war over a misunderstanding,” he said carefully. “When I return to England, perhaps the amir can send an ambassador with me to express regret for the error. This can become an occasion of strengthening the ties between our lands.”

The nayeb beamed. “A splendid notion. I shall suggest that to my master.” He got to his feet. “Come and see my garden. It is at its best in the morning.”

Ross followed obediently. When they stepped from the house, they were met by an enormous Uzbek of military bearing. Abdul Samut Khan said, “Lord Khilburn, I would like you to meet Yawer Shahid Mahmud. He is the captain of my household guard and will be responsible for your safety.”

In other words, this was Ross’s chief jailer. Yawer was a military rank comparable to a British major, and Shahid had a tough air of command. He was tall for an Uzbek, only a couple of inches shorter than Ross, and massively muscled. Judging by his malevolent expression, he had no use for ferengis, though he managed a curt greeting when they were introduced.

As Ross walked away with his host, he felt the yawer’s gaze burning into his back. It didn’t take any special perception to guess that the man was a source of potential trouble; he looked like the sort who would accept a bribe, then accuse the briber of treason.

As they strolled down a walkway into the garden, Abdul Samut Khan waved gracefully at the flowers. “There is an old Persian proverb, perhaps you know it? ”If you have two loaves of bread, sell one and buy a hyacinth.“ ”

“I have heard the saying, and there is great wisdom in it,” Ross replied, wondering what his host really had in mind; somehow, he doubted that it was philosophy.

The garden was a large one, and when they were well away from the possibility of listening ears, the nayeb’s detached manner suddenly vanished. Turning to Ross, he said vehemently, “I could not talk freely in the house, for Bokhara is a nation of spies. Slaves watch their masters, street boys sell information to anyone who will pay their price, husbands cannot speak to their wives in bed without being overheard. I am Persian, you know, I have enemies, for many are jealous of my influence with the amir. For that reason I must be doubly cautious, but I had to tell you that executing your brother was a dreadful deed. He was put to death without sin or crime on his part.”

As the nayeb turned earnest dark eyes to his guest, Ross felt immediately distrustful. His host might genuinely feel that executing Ian had been wrong, but he served the amir and it would be a mistake to forget that. Temperately Ross said, “Ian’s death grieves me greatly, but from what you said, the execution was more a result of misunderstandings than evil intent.”

“I tried to change the amir’s mind. Indeed, I offered him fifty thousand ducats if he would release Cameron, but Nasrullah said only that he was a spy, and as a spy he must die.” Abdul Samut Khan gave Ross a shrewd look. “I am not a rich man, and paying such a great sum would have beggared me, but I was sure that the queen would reimburse me if my gold saved her officer’s life. Do you not think his life worth fifty thousand ducats?”

“It is impossible to put a price on a life, but I know that my government would never pay such a sum,” Ross said firmly. “It would be seen as a ransom, and paying it would endanger the life and freedom of every British traveler everywhere.”

For a moment the nayeb looked perplexed about the reasoning. Then he ventured, “If the queen would not pay that much, would Cameron’s family have done so?”

Ross shook his head; the talk of money was sounding alarm bells in his head. “The Camerons are a family of ancient blood and great warrior skills, but they are not wealthy. Even if they wished to, they could not have paid such a vast sum.”

Abdul Samut Khan looked regretful. “But you are a lord and he was your kin; surely your family could have ransomed him home, as they would you if you were held captive.”

Ross guessed that they had come to the crux of the matter; the nayeb wanted to know what Ross’s life was worth, so it was time to start lying. “If I were imprisoned, my family would mourn but they would not attempt to buy my freedom, for they would see my fate as the will of God. I am but one of many sons and my father would consider it unjust to beggar his other children to save my unworthy life.”

His manner must have been convincing, for the nayeb sighed with disappointment. “A pity.” Then his expression turned crafty. “They say that when Nasrullah became amir, for a time he loved justice and religion but soon he reverted to cruelty and dancing boys. He is a wart on the arse of Turkestan. Let the British government send officers to Khiva and Kokand to persuade their khans to march on Bokhara. Then let the queen give me a small sum, perhaps twenty or thirty thousand ducats, and I, Bokhara’s master of artillery, will support the invasion.”

The speech made Ross even warier. The nayeb might be trying to lure Ross into indiscretion, or he might be quite willing to sell himself to the highest bidder; in either case, he was not to be trusted. “I am not a representative of my government, nor did I come to foment rebellion against the ruler of Bokhara. I wanted only the truth of my brother’s fate, and now I have that.”

Abdul Samut Khan said shrewdly, “You do not trust me, do you? That is good, a wise man is cautious. But I was a friend to Major Cameron. Look, in his own hand he wrote a testimonial to all I did for him.” Reaching inside his coat, he drew out a sheet of paper and handed it over.

Ross felt an eerie prickle along his spine when he unfolded the paper. There, in writing that was shaky but recognizably Ian’s, were the words “
I write this document to attest the good offices rendered to me by the Nayeb Abdul Samut Khan.”
After listing several instances of kindness, he ended, “
I sign this Ian Torquil Cameron at Bokhara, the fourteenth of September in the year of our Lord 1840.”

A letter from a dead man. His hands not quite steady, Ross refolded the paper and handed it back. “On behalf of the major’s family and myself, I offer my most profound gratitude for what you did for him.”

Abdul Samut Khan nodded gravely. “As I was his friend, I will also be your friend.”

Perhaps he would be. But in spite of the nayeb’s words, Ross did not trust him.

After Ross had gone off to meet with the nayeb, Juliet went in search of food for herself. Eventually she found the kitchen and an adjacent servants’ dining area. Reza was there and he greeted her enthusiastically. Apart from acknowledging Reza, Juliet did not speak with any of the other servants, simply ate her bread, drank her tea, and left. As usual, she was watched with considerable curiosity, but after she ignored one or two attempts at conversation, no one disturbed her.

The real challenge came when Juliet went outside to the compound’s main gate and started to walk through the archway. Immediately a watchman armed with a sword and a lance stepped in front of her and barked, “Halt!”

She stopped but did not back off. Letting her hand drop to the hilt of her knife, she stared down at the guard, who was several inches shorter than she, and said in her most guttural Persian, “I am prisoner?”

He hesitated, clearly unsure what the Targui’s status was. Then, deciding that the ferengi’s wild servant was unimportant, he stepped aside.

Without looking back, Juliet swaggered down the street as if she knew where she was going. Saleh had drawn her a map of the city, marking the major streets and buildings, and now she wanted to orient herself as quickly as possible. Fortunately the brilliant turquoise-colored dome of the Grand Mosque was a landmark visible throughout much of the city, and she used that to guide herself to the Registan.

It was interesting to see the life of the square from street level rather than camelback. Sobriety of dress was not considered a virtue here; everyone who could afford them wore robes of brilliantly patterned ikat silks. They were the most famous product of Bokhara, for the city was a great producer of silk as well as an essential oasis on the ancient Silk Road.

Saleh had once told Juliet that many families raised silkworms at home, incubating the eggs, feeding tender mulberry leaves to the voracious hatchlings, then patiently harvesting the valuable cocoons. With a faint smile he had added that silkworms were one thing he did not miss when he left his childhood home.

In the center of the Registan, Juliet bought a delicious concoction of crushed ice and grape syrup called
rahat i jan,
the delight of life. Cleverly designed icehouses made it possible for all Bokharans to enjoy iced drinks all summer. It was a luxury she had never experienced in Britain, but of course in Britain one didn’t need ice; rather the contrary.

After she worked her way around the giant square, she set off through the narrow, twisting streets to find the Djuibar quarter, where Saleh’s brother lived. Aided by the map and her own excellent sense of direction, Juliet managed to reach her destination without getting seriously lost.

Saleh’s brother Tura was a master weaver and his house was a testimony to the prosperity of the silk trade. The servant who opened the door for Juliet had been told to expect her, so she was immediately escorted to a well-furnished room where Saleh and Murad were enjoying a late-morning cup of cardamom-flavored tea.