Lady Emily's Exotic Journey (5 page)

Just then they crossed a ridge, and the barren cliff along which they had been riding gave way to gentle hills dotted with herds of goats. On the south-facing slopes were orchards just coming into bloom. Peach trees. He could almost smell the blossoms. After the wild trail they had been following, it looked peaceful.

Emily pulled up her horse to look. “How beautiful,” she whispered.

Yes, it was beautiful. It reminded him, somehow, of home. The spring sun bringing the orchards to life, just like the sun on the vineyards of Burgundy.

Ah, she was dangerous. He had not thought of his home in years. She made him remember the years of his childhood in Varennes. It had not been a bad childhood. In those years they had managed to keep their distance from grandpère
.
Or perhaps in those years grandpère had been less obstinate, less tyrannical. Or perhaps he himself had simply been too young to know about the battles.

It did not matter. For better or for worse, the past was past. He had made his choice. There was no going back.

The last village had been uneasy. No one had been unfriendly, but there had been none of the innocent curiosity Emily was accustomed to. They had been greeted with all the customary phrases and gestures, but it was perfunctory, as if the villagers were going through the motions while looking over their shoulders for something. Even the village itself looked uneasy. The market square was deserted long before sunset, and there were no men gathered there to talk and drink coffee. In the silence of the night, she could hear soft voices calling to each other from the rooftops.

The unease had infected their party as well. They had mounted quickly that morning, with none of the usual laughter and joking comments from Irmak's troopers. They had been riding quietly for several minutes before Emily noticed.

Whatever had upset their party in the village had not been left behind. The unease was traveling with them. Not only were they riding much closer to each other than usual, with none of the troopers talking cheerfully or suddenly darting off in search of game, but all the men—Lucien, David, even Papa—were riding with their rifles across their laps.

There had been no explanation offered, so one would have to be demanded. Emily spoke in an undertone to Lucien. “What is going on? What are you not telling us? What are we supposed to be afraid of?”

His mouth lifted in a half smile, but he continued to scan the rocks surrounding them. “We are not telling you anything so that you will not be frightened. Irmak insisted on it. Your papa and I did not think it would work.”

“Well, now that I am frightened, will you please tell me why? Is it whatever frightened the villagers back there?”

“You noticed that too? Why am I not surprised?” He shot her a quick glance before he turned back to the rocks. “This is Kurdish territory, but those villagers back there, they are not Kurds.” He stiffened, fixing his eyes on a crevice in the rocks, but there was no movement. He eased back. “One of the shepherds did not return yesterday evening. When they went out to look for him, they found his body. He had been murdered.”

She was not going to panic, she told herself. She was not going to shriek. She was not going to show fear at all. She was going to remain calm. It took her a while to be reasonably certain she would not squeak when she tried to talk, but eventually she achieved that level of control. “What makes them think he was murdered?”

He snorted. “Believe me, they knew.”

“But why blame the Kurds?”

“Have you not seen the Kurds? They bristle with weapons. They are warriors, always ready to fight. They do not like being ruled by the Ottomans. They do not like Turks. They tend to kill those they dislike.”

“What has that to do with us? We are not Turks or Ottomans or anything except visitors to this part of the world.”

“We are Infidels. The Kurds also dislike Infidels. And Arabs. They dislike Arabs. And when they run out of other people to dislike, they dislike other Kurds.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“You must remember to tell them so when they ask for your opinion,” he said dryly.

She sniffed, but held her tongue. The tension was affecting her. She found herself scanning the cliffs above them. So intent was she that she did not realize at once that the riders in front had stopped. Fortunately the little mare noticed before she ran into anyone. Irmak and his men began to move again, slowly, and then halted once more. When they went around a curve she saw why.

Ahead was a fork in the road. Blocking one side were five horsemen. Kurds. She recognized the huge turbans wrapped around high hats that the Kurds all wore. The one in the middle wore a bright red tunic. All of them had curling black beards, and all of them were heavily armed with ancient rifles, at least two pistols apiece, powder horns, ramrods, cartridge cases, curved daggers resting in their sashes, and each one carried a spear at least ten feet long with a wicked-looking point and, incongruously, a bunch of feathers tied to it.

They did not smile.

Lucien was not smiling either. No one was smiling.

That was more intimidating than the weapons. She had grown accustomed to smiles. All the villagers seemed to greet newcomers with smiles, though the ones directed at Irmak and his troopers were nervous smiles. And even though Irmak frequently scowled, his men spent much of their time laughing and joking.

David moved up to the head of their party and spoke to the Kurds, presumably in their language since it sounded unfamiliar. The man in the red tunic looked over the rest of their party before replying—rather curtly, it seemed to Emily. David spoke again, and a rapid exchange followed. David was the recipient of fierce glares from the Kurds, but he received them impassively. Eventually, Red Tunic made a guttural noise—half laugh, half sneer—and the Kurds wheeled and rode away.

No one moved until they were quite out of sight. When David finally relaxed in his saddle, the others all did as well. He rode back, followed by an approving look from Irmak and smiling remarks from the troopers.

“Thank you,” said Papa, who rode up to greet him. “I see your diplomatic skills are even better than Sir Henry promised.”

David flushed, but Emily thought it was a pleased flush. “The Kurds are not foolish. They could see that we are a strong enough force to defeat them. So I simply asked if this is the right road for Diyarbakir.”

“Isn't it?” Mama asked curiously. “I didn't know there was any question about the route.”

“There isn't.” David smiled, beginning to relax. “I have been here before. But people are always pleased to give advice and directions. And in this case they added a few sneers about Turks who could not find their shoes on their feet.”

The rest of that day's journey was quiet enough, but still tense. Even after they left the mountains and were crossing a high plain, no one was willing to relax completely. It was with an almost audible sigh of relief that they came within sight of Diyarbakir.

Not that Diyarbakir was a particularly welcoming sight at first. The city, encircled by high black walls studded with huge round towers, loomed up on a cliff at the edge of the desert with no sight of green. If this were a fairy tale, Emily thought, Diyarbakir would be the castle of the wicked ogre, but at least it looked powerful enough to keep threatening Kurds at bay.

As they drew closer, they could see that the cliff fell off down to the Tigris River, its banks edged with palm trees and the slopes covered with gardens full of blossoms and new leaves. This made the city seem a trifle less ominous. Once they were within the walls, the city was remarkably clean and bright, its streets unusually broad. While this was encouraging, Emily could not fail to notice that Kurds made up a large portion of the population, striding about the streets, each one with a hand on his rifle or dagger. Since no one else seemed to feel threatened by this, she decided to keep her misgivings to herself. Perhaps it was only habit that kept their hands so close to their weapons.

Their host for the next few days, until Irmak arranged transport down the river for them, was an Armenian merchant named Najarian. He had traveled sufficiently to be acquainted with European customs, so, for a change, the ladies were not kept so strictly in the women's quarters.

That did not mean there were no restrictions. The women dined in the same room as the men but were seated at the far end of the table. Too far for them to be able to take part in the conversation. Emily took some comfort in the discovery that she could at least listen to the men's discussion and did not have to wait for the next day when she could ask Lucien for an account.

Not that the conversation was precisely comforting. She had known, of course, that the Ottoman Empire contained a great many nationalities within its borders. She had not realized that even after all these centuries they were still so mistrustful of each other.

Mr. Najarian, for example, as a merchant, might be expected to welcome a railway to ease the difficulties of trade. However, he had decidedly mixed feelings on the subject. His first thought was that it would aid the movement of the sultan's troops in their efforts to keep the Kurds in check. That he considered a good thing. His second thought, however, was that a slight change in mood in the capital would mean that a railway would aid the movement of the sultan's troops should they decide to exterminate the Armenians. He did not seem to consider this a far-fetched notion.

This was a way of looking at things that had never occurred to her. She tended to assume that the world was a reasonably peaceful place, where one felt reasonably safe and secure. Even here. After all, the Ottoman Empire had been around for so many hundreds of years that she thought of it as more or less settled.

Mr. Najarian's remarks did not worry her, precisely, but she did notice that her father looked more thoughtful than usual.

After dinner they all sat in the courtyard. Although darkness had fallen, the air was not yet chilly. A few oil lamps were set about, casting flickering shadows but doing little to dispel the darkness. She was grateful when Lucien came to sit beside her. She had grown accustomed to his presence and felt warmed by his nearness. He had become someone she could talk to easily, so she mentioned her uneasiness to him.

He shook his head and smiled. “Is this part of the world peaceful and settled? No. Few things on this earth are ever settled. And while the Ottoman sultans may have ruled for many centuries, in much of their empire the rule is more fiction than fact. The local pashas pay little attention to the sultan's decrees. They obey if it is convenient. And if it is not…” He shrugged. “As for the Arab tribes, the Bedouins—they do not think that anyone rules them.”

“None of that is particularly comforting.”

His smile widened. “You need not have any fear. They may prey on each other, all these pashas and all these little tribes, but they do not harm Europeans. Partly it is because we have no part in their ancient feuds. We are irrelevant. But even more, I think, they consider the danger too great. Not only would the sultan be angry, but the European governments would be angry. And the European troops have much bigger guns than the local tribes do.”

She raised her eyebrows. “In other words, they will not harm us because Queen Victoria might be annoyed?”

“They would not put it quite that way.”

“No, I don't imagine they would. How many of them have even heard of Queen Victoria?”

“Now there you might be surprised. Stories travel swiftly, and a woman ruling over a great nation—there is a tale worthy of the Scheherazade.”

“Unbelievable, you mean?”

“No, no, because there are many to assure them that it is true. And that in turn impresses them. A woman who is so powerful that men obey her? The very thought inspires fear!”

They laughed together, and Emily did feel reassured. So she told herself. But perhaps it was simply Lucien's nearness that comforted her.

She would think about that another time.

Emily wasn't quite sure what sort of craft she had been expecting when David and Lucien announced that they had arranged transportation on the river for the five-day trip to Mosul. Nothing quite as large or elaborate as Papa's steam yacht, of course. That was big enough to carry them from London to Constantinople. Still, in her imagination she had pictured something like the pleasure boats people took on the Thames.

She had not expected this.

Floating placidly on the river in front of her were half a dozen rafts. Not boats. Rafts. Rough wooden platforms sitting atop some sort of balloons. Three of them were piled high with their baggage and two had tents covering half their area.

To make matters worse, Lucien was standing next to her, all too obviously enjoying her reaction.

She couldn't help it. The best she could manage was a question. “What are those?”

“They are called
keleks
,” he said, as if that were an adequate explanation.

“They are keleks,” she repeated. “I seem to have asked the wrong question. What I should have asked is, where is the boat to take us to Mosul?” There had to be a boat, didn't there? After all, Mama and Papa were standing there quite calmly, and so was Julia. Calmly, but not looking around for a boat.

There wasn't going to be a boat.

Lucien hadn't warned her because he had been looking forward to her confusion. That could not be allowed. She was not going to look like a timid little fool. She smiled with as much confidence as she could muster. “Rafts then. That should be exciting.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Well done, my lady.”

She took a closer look at them. The tents were well supplied with cushions and a brazier. For heat, she supposed, but also perhaps for a bit of cooking. The braziers were adequate for making tea or coffee, she had learned, or even for cooking a meal of sorts. But what on earth were those balloon things the wooden platforms were sitting on? She asked.

“Inflated goat skins,” he replied promptly.

She looked at him incredulously.

“No, no,” he protested, “I do not make a joke. They truly are goat skins. And indeed, it is a most practical arrangement. There are some two hundred of them for each raft, so if one of them is torn by a rock, the journey can continue with no problem. And to find another goat skin for a replacement is never a difficulty.”

“Inflated goat skins. How…clever.”

“It is a most ancient way to travel on the river. For thousands of years, rafts like this have been on the Tigris.”

“Thousands of years.” She tried to imbue her words with a semblance of enthusiasm. “Mama must be ecstatic.”

He grinned. “So she says. And now your papa confers with our captain.”

A tall cadaverous man with a bushy beard loomed over Papa, which was not easy to do. Papa was a tall man himself. The bearded man was wearing a sheepskin coat and one of those high hats wrapped around with cloths to make an enormous turban.

Emily's eyes widened. “He's a Kurd.”

“Indeed.” Lucien nodded in agreement.

“But you have been telling us how dangerous the Kurds are.”

“And that is why people hire them for the trip to Mosul. The river is by far the easiest way to travel, but it winds through territories the Kurds consider theirs. If we travel on rafts captained by Kurds, the other Kurds are more likely to leave us in peace.” He took her hand and tucked it under his arm. “Do not distress yourself. We will keep you safe.”

“I'm not frightened, just confused. You seem to keep telling me contradictory things.”

“Yes, I fear that is the way of it here. Someone who is a friend today may be an enemy tomorrow. It is necessary to always take care.”

Why was it, she wondered, that men always seemed to feel it incumbent on themselves to warn women of the dangers of the world? Did they think it made them look braver? Or did they think women were too foolish to recognize danger when they saw it? After all, when she encountered a scowling man brandishing a spear and carrying assorted weapons, she was hardly likely to think him meek and mild.

So it was that she boarded the raft with a mixture of irritation and nervousness. However, they were not long under way when she found herself entranced by this mode of travel. It was remarkably comfortable to sit on the heaps of cushions while gliding smoothly over the water. Each raft had two oarsmen, who did not so much propel the boat as guide it along the current while a captain directed them. It was a simple arrangement, but worked well. Obvious, she told herself. If it didn't work well, it would not have continued for thousands of years.

She was not the only one who found it enjoyable. Julia managed to unbend a bit from her perfectly upright posture, and Mama leaned back and sighed happily. They looked like a pair of Oriental princesses, reclining there. They had removed their cloaks, and their tunics and other garments draped gracefully over them. Emily looked down at herself. The fringe on her sash had gotten caught in the knot and there was a mysterious stain on her tunic. She couldn't imagine what she had spilled on herself.

“Such bliss,” said Mama. “It is such bliss to not be on a horse, to sit on something soft.”

Papa smiled at her. “No one would have known you were not enjoying every minute of it.”

“Well, there was no point in complaining when there was nothing to be done about it, was there?” She reached up a hand to Papa and when he took it, pulled him down to sit beside her.

Lucien snatched up one of the cushions and tossed it on the ground so he could lounge at Emily's feet, looking completely at home. It occurred to her that he was rather like a cat in that way. He could manage to make himself at home in all circumstances. That was doubtless useful for an adventurer.

“They like each other, your maman and papa,” he observed.

“Of course,” she said. It seemed an odd comment.

“Ah, do not say ‘of course' so easily. It is not so ordinary, you know.”

“Well, it's hardly unusual.”

He looked at her quizzically. “You think not? Consider the married people you know. Do they have this liking between them?”

She laughed. “Well, my sister Elinor and her husband—Julia's brother—certainly do. And my brother Pip and his wife.”

“They learned, perhaps, from your parents. Me, I have known far more like Sir Henry and Lady Bulwer.”

She made a face and he laughed.

“What of your own parents?” It was an intrusive question, but she couldn't help being curious.

He gave that Gallic shrug again. “When I was small, yes, perhaps, but I do not know truly. I do not remember them together. If I was with one of them, the other was not there. After a while we went to live with my grandfather, but my father and grandfather were always fighting. My grandmother was there too, but she was of no importance to my grandfather. She always obeyed him and always worried about what he might want, and grandpère, he accepted. This was what he expected, you see, that his wishes were all that mattered. My grandmother wanted my mother to make my father obey grandpère too, but I do not think my mother could have made my father do anything, even if she desired to attempt it. I think perhaps maman died when I was young just to get some peace.”

“How sad. For them and for you.” It was sad. More sad than she knew how to say.

“Ah, no, not for me.” He grinned up at her. “Not sad at all. It means that I am free to explore the world, to go to all those places with the beautiful names.”

“Samarkand. The Gates of Jade,” she said. But she still thought it terribly sad. He was free to be an adventurer, but freedom of that sort meant not caring about others and having no one who cared about you. It was not a freedom she would choose. But perhaps he did not really have a choice.

For all that he sounded eager for adventure, she could hear a note of sorrow in his voice. Or was that only her imagination? Emily did not think so, and she longed to comfort him.

* * *

They stopped to camp each evening, since the rocks and wind made it impossible to travel on the river in the dark. The servants gathered wood for a fire and cooked a dinner in a large pot—rice, with bits of mutton and vegetables seasoned with aromatic spices.

The Kurds were obviously startled when the English ladies not only ate with the men but were served first. Lucien heard the servants explaining that this was indeed the custom of the English pashas, and in their country the sultan was actually a woman with no one above her. The Kurds shook their heads in disbelief. He must remember to tell Emily about this. It would amuse her.

The ladies themselves made an effort to conform to local customs, washing their hands in the running water of the river and eating with the fingers of their right hands only. And they did not turn up their noses at the simple fare they were offered. Lady Penworth even brought out her newly learned Arabic phrases to praise the cook for his efforts.

“Can you imagine what Lady Bulwer would say to this?” Lucien asked Oliphant with a laugh.

But Oliphant did not share his amusement. “Lady Bulwer feels it necessary to maintain her position,” he said, his voice holding more than a trace of bitterness. “These ladies are so assured of theirs that they have no need to assert it. They are so high up that the difference between a chimney sweep and a mere gentleman is indistinguishable.”

“Oliphant…” Lucien shook his head in exasperation.

“No, it is true. They know who they are and are comfortable with it. There is no uncertainty.” Oliphant paused and looked sharply at Lucien. “You too. You have that same assurance, that same comfort. Who are you, really?”

That was an uncomfortable question. Lucien shrugged it off. “
N'importe.
”

Oliphant's mouth twisted in a sour smile. “That's right. It isn't important—for you. But for some of us…” He left the circle around the fire and strode off into the darkness.

There was no point in following him. When he was in this black mood, wallowing in his unworthiness, there was no talking to him.

It was foolishness as well. From what he could see, Lady Julia was quite as taken with Oliphant as he was with her. Everyone in the Penworth party seemed to be aware of this, and no one seemed to think there was any problem. If he was not mistaken, Lady Emily had taken it upon herself to arrange the order of the march so that Oliphant and Julia regularly rode together, with no objections from Lady Penworth.

He smiled to himself. He had no objection to this arrangement either. Riding beside Emily had been nothing but pleasure.

Back in Constantinople, he had considered himself fortunate to be able to attach himself to Lord Penworth's party mainly as a matter of safety. He was willing to deal with danger when it presented itself—and it had presented itself often enough over the past few years—but he was not such a fool that he must seek it out. Traveling with an English nobleman would provide a measure of safety. Enough safety, he expected, to make the trip almost boring.

When they set out, he had assumed that he would be riding with Oliphant, and he had looked forward to the trip. Oliphant was, perhaps, a bit stiff and cautious, always careful to be proper. But once he relaxed, he was an intelligent companion. Conversation with him was usually interesting, and he was grateful to have such an amiable companion for the journey.

Lady Emily had been a surprise.

Oh, he had been pleased to encounter her at the embassy. She was pretty enough and full of life. It was enjoyable to flirt with her. Even once he discovered that she would be one of the party going to Mosul, he had not expected anything beyond a mild flirtation. That was the most he had ever enjoyed with the ladies of his acquaintance in France, who were interested in no conversation more profound than the latest gossip. As for the women of the Ottoman Empire, they were no different from the ladies of France, too ignorant to converse on any topic. Were the English different, or only Emily?

From where he stood at the edge of the camp, he could see the three ladies. They did not sit on the ground, but the troopers had fashioned seats for them from the saddles and bundles of something or other. The firelight was dancing over Emily's face as she turned this way and that to make sure she did not miss anything. They all wore scarves over their heads, but he could see a few locks of Emily's hair peeking out as if impatient to be free.

He had never known someone like Emily. There were women with whom one could enjoy an interesting conversation in the salons of Paris, but these were artists or courtesans or married women of scandalous reputation. Emily was indubitably a lady, and an innocent young lady at that. She was something outside his experience. In France, someone like her would be so closely chaperoned that she would never be allowed to exchange more than a few platitudes with a man outside her family. They would try to turn her into Mlle. Fournier, and that would destroy her.

Did Emily even know any platitudes? He had certainly never heard her converse about the weather other than to laugh about it when a storm tried to blow them off a mountainside. Nor had she fussed about the damage the dust was doing to her wardrobe. Come to think of it, he could not recall her ever making a fuss about her clothes.

She had looked quite lovely in the gowns she wore in Constantinople, gowns that were assuredly in the height of fashion and without doubt the sort of thing she was accustomed to wearing. A trifle mussed, to be sure, with her hair trying to escape its pins, and never quite so elegant as her maman and Lady Julia. But attractive. Most attractive. Yet she had not hesitated to don Turkish garb, and in that she looked quite adorable. As she did now, sitting by the fire.

He stared at her for a few minutes longer, watching her hands wave about as she recounted some tale to her mother. He turned away and walked off into the darkness along the riverbank. He felt restless. It was doubtless the enforced inactivity on the raft. He walked quickly, or as quickly as it was possible to walk in the dark. Not really dark, not with the moon and stars providing their light. There were cliffs on one side, a wall of blackness, true, but on the other side was the river, wide here, and rippling with moonbeams.