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

“Perhaps not, but you are still very old to be without a wife,” Ali said reasonably. “Wives can do all sorts of things for you.”

Andre stared down at Ali for a moment, ready to take the child’s head off, then decided the remark was purely innocent. “I find my life easier without women to complicate it.” He pulled his hands away. “For God’s sake, will you get up? You’re going to make a terrible servant if you insist on kneeling at my feet. And my name is Banes—never mind,” he said, deciding not to complicate the issue. “Call me Andre. Just Andre.”

Ali stood with alacrity. “As you wish, Handray. But you really must not blaspheme so much. Allah does not like it.”

Andre’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Allah can like it or not. If you’re to remain my servant for any length of time, you would be wise to keep Allah to yourself.”

Ali in return regarded him gravely. “I cannot keep Allah to myself. He belongs to all. But I suppose as an infidel it is difficult for you to understand such things.”

An
infidel?
Dear God, what had he taken on? On the other hand, he supposed it was true enough, so there was little point in objecting. And why bother? Ali could cook. That would save them at least to Minara.

He rubbed a finger over his forehead. “I believe it is time for bed,” he said, dismissing the subject, Ali, and the entire situation. “Since you have volunteered yourself as my servant, you may clear up the remains of the meal.”

Andre strode off to his tent, intending to restore a degree of order to his life, an order that had been badly disrupted since the appearance of the blasted brat.

But as he settled on his mattress to read by the light of his lamp, he found that his thoughts kept drifting back to dark, wide eyes that held an extraordinary innocence behind that fierce will.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the pillow. Innocence. Ah, well, there was little enough of that in the world. Ali’s might as well be preserved for as long as possible.

It was a damned joke that he’d somehow volunteered for the job. Still, he supposed he hadn’t saved Ali’s life to throw it into the sewer. He’d see what he could do to arrange for a decent situation once they reached a village.

He put his book down and blew out the lamp, rolling over onto his side and pulling the blanket up over his shoulder. God, he hated the nights and the struggle for sleep, the constant fight against memory that he generally lost. He was so tired of the unending struggle, so tired of waking to yet another day of the same. Tired, period.

Andre closed his eyes. He might not be in his dotage, but he felt two hundred years old. Really, he considered, it would be a great deal easier just to ask Jo-Jean to put a bullet through his head.

Ali quickly fell into the routine, breaking camp early in the morning and riding for most of the day. It wasn’t unlike the journey the Yourooks made once a year to the mountain pastures, although she was accustomed to traveling in a great caravan rather than in a tiny group. But she was thrilled to be traveling on a donkey rather them on her own blistered feet, even though the donkey was not as pleased with the arrangement as Ali was.

As they descended from the high mountain pass, the scenery became lusher, rich with fragrant fir trees and flowers in full blossom. Snipe, plovers, and quail grew plentiful, which Jojan shot and Ali happily cooked using whatever herbs and greens she found along the way.

She delighted in the pleasure the effendis took from her cooking, from their shared glances of approval and their praise—well, Jojan’s praise, anyway. Handray was less forthcoming, but he didn’t fool her, for she saw the way he devoured every last morsel.

She felt stronger every day, although her new master was very silly about not allowing her to carry heavy firewood or pack the donkeys by herself. “Perhaps next week,” was all he said when she objected. Really, he could be very aggravating.

Ali shifted on the donkey. Her bony bottom ached from bouncing around so much, and she hoped they’d stop soon, for she was unaccustomed to riding without soft blankets beneath her.

As if he’d read her thoughts, her master pulled his horse up and took out his compass. Ali still couldn’t believe a piece of metal and glass knew how to tell direction, but so far it had not led them wrong.

“We’ll stop here,” he called. “There’s a river below that will provide water, and we can pitch the tents on this terraced area.”

When the tents were safely tethered, Ali went off to fill the water jugs. On the way to the river she stumbled across a grove of orange trees and after careful consideration of the matter she picked a handful of the young fruit. She didn’t think there was anyone around to mind.

“Look, Handray,” she said, tumbling the oranges to the ground from her shirt when she returned to the tiny camp. “I can cook with them tonight. There are lemon trees too—I think we must be close to the village of Minara, for I also saw the sure traces of goats.”

“We’re two or three miles away at the most,” he said, settling at his writing table. “Tomorrow we’ll be able to restock our supplies. Just think, Ali, fresh milk, butter, eggs, meat, all sorts of good things for you to cook with.”

“I can make
kymac
for you,” Ali said, her eyes shining with pleasure.

“Can you?” he said absently, flipping through the notes he’d made earlier in the afternoon at the tombs.

“Oh, yes, it’s very easy to prepare. All I need is fresh cow’s milk. Then I put it to simmer by the fire and leave it to sit overnight. The next day the scum has formed, and that is the cheese.”

Andre glanced up at her. “Amazing, the things you know how to do.”

“Oh, but I know hardly anything compared to you,” she said earnestly. “You can read and write and speak two languages perfectly.”

“Six, actually,” he said even more absently, checking the nub of his pen.

Ali’s eyes widened in awe. “Six? But I did not know there were so many! What are they?”

“What?” he asked, looking up.

“These languages—what are they called?” she repeated.

“Oh. Well, let’s see. French, English, Italian, then Greek, Arabic, and Turkish, of course,” he said as he unscrewed the top of his ink pot. “Oh, and classical Greek and Latin, but one doesn’t really speak those.”

Ali sighed. “I heard Arabic once, when the imam called prayers from the minaret in Dembre. How did you learn so many tongues?”

“I grew up speaking two of them at home and the others I studied at school.” He rubbed a finger over his eyebrow. “Ali, must you chatter so much?”

“Yes, for how else am I to learn anything? Which is the language you speak with Jojan?” she asked, giddy with the thought that there were so many languages on the earth and her master spoke them all.

“French.” He opened his book and found the page where he’d left off the night before.

“It is pretty,” she said. “Like music. Is it the language of your birth? Where is this place, French?”

Andre sighed impatiently. “France. It’s called France, and it’s far away from here, in Europe.”

“Where is Europe, Handray? Is it sit across the mountains?”

“No, farther than that. Here, look.” He dipped his pen in the ink pot, tore a blank piece of paper from the back of his book, and quickly drew a rough sketch.

“What is that?” Ali asked with fascination, watching over his shoulder.

“This is a map of Europe and Asia Minor.” He pointed. “Here, this is Turkey, this is the mainland of Greece over here, the boot is Italy, and way up here is France. And this,” he said, adding an island on the top of the sheet, “is Great Britain, where I live when I’m not traveling.”

Ali chewed on her lip. “There is much distance between your home and mine.”

“Yes. Yes, there is,” he agreed, trying to find his place again.

“Why did you come to this country, Handray?”

“Because it interests me,” he said, not looking up. “I like to study very old things.”

“Ah. Like the tombs cut into the cliffs that we stopped at today? You wrote down many things.”

“Yes, like the cliff tombs and the old city below it.”

“What is its name?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the table.

Andre finally closed his book altogether and devoted his full attention to her. “It used to be called Pinara by the Lycians, a people who lived here long before we came along. And Xanthos, where we go next, has many more old things, built by the same people.”

“Lycians,” she repeated, rolling the word around on her tongue. “Were they Turks?”

“No, Ali. They were here long before the Turks came. They were—look,” he said abruptly. “If you promise to be a good servant and go away now so that I might work, I’ll tell you all about the Lycians another time.”

“You will?” Ali said joyfully. “Oh, thank you, Handray—I love stories above everything. Except Allah, of course. And I do like to learn,” she thought to add. “Just think of all the things you can teach me.” She smiled winningly. “You like to teach, do you not?”

“You are completely impossible,” he said, handing Ali the sheet of paper. “Here. You keep this.”

“For me? To keep? Oh! Oh, Handray, thank you!” She clutched it to her chest.

Andre smiled. “You’re very welcome. Now off with you and let me get to work.”

He watched as Ali flew away with the makeshift map, holding it as if it were the most precious of possessions. He shook his head, thinking he’d never get any work done with the child around, constantly pestering him. But he made a mental note to spend some time teaching Ali at least to read and write. If nothing else, studying might keep Ali out of his hair.

Andre turned his thoughts to pigeonhole tombs.

Ali lay looking up at the stars that night, the map carefully folded and tucked inside her bundle along with her book, the one with the strange writing she couldn’t read that had belonged to her father. She sighed heavily. There was so much she wanted to learn. She knew so little about the world, about what was outside.

She began to whisper Turkish words to herself the way Handray pronounced them in his beautiful voice. She was going to have a beautiful voice too one day, if she practiced hard enough.

Maybe she would even learn to speak this new language, French, if she listened very carefully. She just had to make Handray speak more often. He was the most silent person she’d ever come across, although she felt she had made a little progress that evening.

Even better, it had been one whole week and she had not yet offended him. She hadn’t even received a single beating. She didn’t think she’d ever managed to go so long without one.

It was a good sign, she thought, turning on her side and propping her chin on her fist, wondering if Handray might not even like her, just a little. Only in the way one might like a dog one was not disposed to kick, of course, but he
had
made her a map of her very own and given it to her as a present.

And he’d actually smiled at her today too, something he never did. He had a beautiful smile, with a full set of lovely white teeth. It would be much nicer if his smile reached all the way into his eyes, though.

She rolled onto her back again and looked up at the moon that had just appeared over the crest of the snowcapped mountain, a lovely deep yellow. She loved the moon. It could be depended on to wax and wane, to rise and fall no matter what. She would have to remember to ask Handray if it did the same thing everywhere, or if it just happened in Turkey.

Handray knew just about everything. But there was one thing he didn’t know much about at all.

Well, she would see what she could do. After all, Allah never did anything without a reason, and obviously He had sent her to Handray to teach him about happiness.

A
ndre returned from his difficult hike up the south side of the perpendicular cliffs hot and tired and filthy, but satisfied. The pigeonhole tombs he’d examined yesterday were far better preserved, but this afternoon he’d come across some spectacular and unusual bas-reliefs.

He practically tripped over Ali, who lay comfortably curled beneath the tree where they’d eaten their lunch, sound asleep and oblivious to the world. He wasn’t surprised. Ali still had a way to go before making a full recovery.

The breeze shifted dark strands of Ali’s hair, and Andre reminded himself that he really did need to do something about a proper haircut. He’d never seen such an awful hack job. The clothes he’d bought in Minara that morning would help too. Ali was as ragged around the edges as could be. But useful. Surprisingly useful for one so young.

The excursion to Minara had been an enormous success, with Ali performing introductions that had him struggling to keep a straight face. A great English pasha, Ali had called him, and Jo-Jean had somehow become an
aga,
although of what, he wasn’t sure. In any event, they came away with far more than he had hoped, and all for an astonishingly low price.

Yes, Ali was definitely useful.

He leaned down and poked a finger into one bony rib. “What kind of servant are you, sleeping away the day?”

“Handray!” Ali’s eyes shot open. “You have not killed yourself! This is good.”

“Why should I have killed myself?” he asked, dropping to his haunches and taking a bottle of water from the knapsack that held the remains of their lunch.

“Because you are very reckless,” Ali said, stretching and sitting up. “It is not wise to climb up cliff faces. You might fall off.”

“But I didn’t, did I?” he said, tipping the bottle into his mouth.

“No, but you managed to make yourself very dirty. Look at your clothes! They are dirty, your face is dirty, everything is dirty.”

“Then you’ll just have to do some washing.” He capped the bottle and put it away again.

Ali beamed. “Yes. Washing is a fine idea. A bath will feel very nice, very soothing after such a long climb and this way your muscles will not be stiff.”

“I was talking about my clothes,” he said, brushing some of the most obvious dirt off with both hands.

“Naturally I will wash them too, but first you must have a nice hot bath. And when you are clean and comfortable I will cook a very wonderful meal with the food that we have bought in the village. Yes? I have time for all of this.”

“If preparing a bath will keep you busy and give me some peace, then very well,” he said, thinking a hot bath would actually be very welcome. “Where is Jo-Jean?”

“Still down in the old city, busy with his pencils. He draws very nicely, although Allah says that it is not proper—”

“Ali,” Andre said dangerously, stretched to the limit by Ali’s ongoing campaign to convert him. Ali hadn’t seemed to grasp the point that there was nothing to convert him from.

“Oh, very well,” Ali said, shrugging. “You refuse to understand about Allah, but I refuse to understand why you spend all your time looking at things that are built by people long dead. Or looking at their tombs.” Ali’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “And then when you are not looking at them, you are writing about them. How can you enjoy the present when you are so busy thinking about the past and dusty broken buildings?”

“What you don’t seem to realize, my young philosopher, is that we can learn a great deal by studying how people lived and died a long time ago. For example, in Xanthos, the place we are headed, the women and children who lived in the dusty broken buildings I intend to study perished at the hands of their own husbands and fathers.”

Ali stared at him in horror. “No.”

“Yes. Rather than be conquered, the Xanthian men herded their slaves and their loved ones into the acropolis and set it on fire.”

Ali swallowed hard. “They
burned
their families? On purpose?”

“Yes. And then they went to battle and died to a man. Furthermore, they committed mass suicide not once, but twice.”

“But how?” Ali asked in confusion. “I thought they all died the first time.”

“They did, but Xanthos was re-established by the few lucky Xanthians who had been away at the time. And then a man named Brutus laid siege to Xanthos hundreds of years later during the Roman civil wars, trying to force it to pay ridiculous taxes to raise money for a battle he was planning to wage. So the Xanthians did it again for the same reason as the first time, in a refusal to surrender. This time they set fire to everything, threw the women and children on the fire, and killed each other.” He noticed with interest that Ali’s eyes had misted over.

“But how terrible,” Ali said in a cracked whisper.

“They were a fiercely independent people,” he said. “Which is one of the things that makes them so interesting to study.”

“Well, maybe so,” Ali said, frowning. “I shall have to think this over. But I still wish you would be more like Jojan. At least he does other things than draw pictures for your book of buildings that have fallen down.”

“That’s because he has the time for other things. I, on the other hand, have to have this book finished by November.”

“And then you will take time for pleasant things?” Ali asked hopefully.

“And then I have to start working on another book,” he said.

“Bah,” Ali said with disgust, throwing the knapsack over one shoulder. “This is not living. My people work hard too, but we know the benefit of relaxing, of holding conversation, of listening to music, and dancing, and celebrating what Allah has given us. Allah says—”

“Ali—
enough!
Any more of your chatter and I shall dismiss you on the spot.”

“Very well, Handray, I will go back to the camp,” Ali said, as usual not looking the least concerned with his threat. “It will take me some time to make everything ready. You will not become involved in your crumbling buildings and forget?”

“No, I won’t forget,” Andre said.

“Do you promise me? I worry that you might think a bath is too much pleasure for you.”

“Too much—” Andre raked his hands through his hair. “Go on, off with you, before I beat you for insolence.”

Ali grinned and vanished from sight.

“Blasted little brat,” he murmured, torn between frustration and laughter, and started toward the ruins of Pinara to consult with Joseph-Jean.

Ali beamed victoriously all the way back to camp. It wasn’t easy getting her master to agree to anything he considered unnecessary, and a proper bath was a huge victory. She hurried about, carrying water, heating it, carrying more, heating that. It was a pity that she didn’t have a vessel large enough to contain him, but that was all right. He would enjoy the bath anyway, and that was all that was important.

She’d chosen a beautiful setting, away from the camp in the middle of a clearing near the orange grove, and conveniently near the river. It was late afternoon, but still warm. The drone of bees in the grove and the gentle song of a flock of bee-eaters in the trees provided a musical backdrop, and the sweet scent of oranges mingling with the spice of fir and the tang of underwood added a sensual delight.

Ali looked around one last time. She had towels, oil, soap, fresh clothes all ready. The water was hot. Yes, everything was perfect. She hurried back to the camp and found Andre exactly where she had expected, at his writing table. He really was absurdly predictable.

“Handray?” she said, pulling at his sleeve. “Handray. You must come.”

“Hmm? Why? Oh, yes, the blasted bath.” Andre reluctantly put down his pen.

“Work, work, work,” Ali said. “Come now. This will not kill you. You might even enjoy yourself.” She took his hand and pulled him along the path.

“Ali, where
are
we going? I thought I was going to have a simple bath.”

“You will see,” she said, beaming up at him. “You are going to like this very much.”

They reached the little clearing, and Ali released him. “Here we are. It is peaceful and soothing, no? Come and sit on this rock.”

Andre went to the rock obligingly enough, where the water jugs still steamed nicely. “Thank you, Ali,” he said. “This was very thoughtful. You may leave now.”

“Leave? Oh, no. You must take off all your clothes.”

“Why must I take off all my clothes?” Andre asked, pulling off his boots.

“So that I can wash you,” Ali said, shoving her hands on her hips. “Why else?”

“
Wash
me?” Andre said, giving her a look of exasperation. “I think I am old enough to wash myself, thank you.”

“But I would be failing you as a servant if I did not wash you. For a great pasha you do not know much about good servants, Handray. I come from a small village, and even I know how these things are done.”

A flash of amusement crossed Andre’s face, and Ali was pleased. “Come, come,” she said coaxingly, holding out her hand. “Are you shy? A large man like you?”

“No, I’m not shy,” Andre said, pulling off his shirt. “But it is not the custom of my people to sit stark naked in the middle of a forest while someone pours water over them. We have indoor bathtubs for that sort of thing.”

“Oh. How silly. It is nice to sit outside and be bathed,” Ali said, watching as Andre removed the rest of his clothing. She eyed him critically, pleased with what she saw.

“What are you looking at?” Andre asked.

“You. You are big and strong. This is good, how a man should be so that he can work hard and keep his family in food and livestock.”

“Ah. Just what I had planned.” Andre sat down on the rock. “And what about you? Are you planning on growing big and strong anytime in the future? How old are you anyway, Ali?”

She dipped a ladle in the bucket of water and poured it over his shoulders. “I do not know,” she said honestly. She thought she must be about fourteen or fifteen, but then she didn’t know how old she’d been when Uri had found her and taken her in, only that she’d been very young.

She finally now had body hair and the very beginnings of breasts, but nothing like the other girls in the village had. They all became women by twelve at the latest. But not her, and the girls had teased her unceasingly about it. She supposed it was what came of being an outsider.

“You don’t know your age?” Andre asked with surprise. “How is that?”

Ali just shrugged. “No one ever said.” That was true enough, but only because they didn’t know either. Not that she was going to tell her master that and invite more questions.

“Well, by the look of you,” Andre said, “you have a lot of growing to do.”

Ali took the bar of soap and the cloth she’d laid out and made a thick lather, then rubbed his back in vigorous circles. It took some time since there was a large area to cover. “Yes,” she agreed. “I hope I grow. It is annoying to be so small and scrawny.”

She soaped his arms, then moved around to wash his chest. She liked the way he felt under her skilled fingers, the hard shape and planes of his musculature, the smooth texture of his skin. She liked the scent of his warm flesh too. For a foreigner he smelled surprisingly nice.

“You’re not bad at this,” Andre said, closing his eyes.

“I told you I make a very good servant. I can do all sorts of nice things. You will find out if you keep me with you long enough.” Ali knelt, soaping his thighs and working her way down his legs to his feet. She was delighted when a contented sigh escaped his Ups.

She rinsed him well, then took a towel and rubbed him dry. “There! Here, you must now wrap yourself in this blanket so that you do not take a chill.”

Andre gave her a long look. “Don’t think to treat me like an invalid just because I allowed you to bathe me.”

“I would never think of such a thing!” she said. “My people are clearly more sensible than yours. When one is clean and relaxed, then one must remain warmly wrapped for a time. It is better for the body. I thought you, a great pasha, would know this.”

She wrapped the blanket around him, then took out the almond oil scented with sandalwood that she’d bought in the village. “Now I will give you a nice rub.” She started to knead his neck.

Andre obligingly dropped his head forward. “Tell me something,” he said. “What makes you think I’m a great pasha? I certainly don’t travel like a great pasha, nor do I dress like one. So what has put this idea in your head?”

“But of course you are a great pasha,” Ali said with astonishment. “You have the speech, the dignity, the bearing and command. What a foolish question!”

“I beg your pardon,” Andre said dryly.

“I am sure if you told Jojan to take off my head he would do it in an instant,” Ali said happily. “Of course, I hope you do not.”

“It is not my whim at this moment, no.”

“Oh, good,” she said, smiling broadly. “So it is true, is it not, Handray?”

“That I am a great pasha? Well, yes and no. In England I am called a marquess.”

Ali finished with his shoulders and came around to his front to massage his hands and arms. “How did you come to be this marquess? Did the vizier make you one?”

“No,” he said. “We don’t have viziers or even sultans. We have kings and queens, and a long, long time ago, a King of England gave one of my relatives the title Marquess of Banesbury. It is now my grandfather’s lesser title, and so I have the use of it until he dies and I step into his shoes.”

“What shoes are these?” Ali asked, imagining beautiful red leather boots with turned-up toes. “And how do you know they will fit your feet?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Andre said with a little smile. “I meant that I’ll inherit his title, and then I’ll be known as the Duke of Montcrieff.”

“So many names,” Ali said, very impressed. “But why are you called Handray, and not one of these other things?”

“Andre is my given name, just as your name is Ali.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “So you are properly called Handray the Banesbury.”

“Well, not exactly,” he said patiently. “Banesbury is my courtesy title, as I explained. The name I was given at birth is Andre Nicholas Serge de Saint-Simon.”