No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (7 page)

“Hello, Weselley,” he said curtly, seeing that Weselley had already made himself at home at his table. “Fancy seeing you here. What’s all this about urgent business?”

“Well met, old fellow. I have a letter for you from the British Museum,” Weselley said, lazily holding it out. “Offered to bring it out to you.”

Andre took it, wondering if Weselley had already read it. More than likely. It was nothing urgent, only a letter from Lord Umbersville, updating him on a few developments. It was certainly nothing that couldn’t have waited until he collected his mail in November. Weselley had no doubt bent over backward to convince Umbersville to send it along with him. “Thank you,” he said coolly.

“Ah, yes. Overflowing with warmth and gratitude as always,” Weselley said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “So, Banesbury. Who is this new servant of yours? A little young, don’t you think?”

Andre ignored him. “I suppose you’re planning on staying?”

“For a few days, anyway. I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to rest the horses. If you don’t mind, that is.” He smiled. “I’d hate to disrupt your privacy. Speaking of which, where’s your everpresent companion?”

“Working,” Andre said as politely as he could manage. “And if you would excuse me, I think I should get back to the same. You can set up your tents nearby.”

“Good of you, old boy,” Weselley said, and nodded at Abraham, who smiled smugly.

Andre quickly left, thinking that the next few days were going to be sheer hell.

Ali watched from her place in the shadows. This Lord Weselley was not an unattractive man for a foreigner. His hair was fair and his eyes were pale. But they didn’t reflect light like Handray’s, which had a trick of changing shades with his mood and his surroundings, sometimes more smoke, sometimes more moss, sometimes almost silver.

Weselley’s eyes were simply gray. He was neither tall nor short, broad nor slight. In fact, everything about him was medium. Weselley was like food without spice, she decided. Bland.

But there was something about him that made her uneasy. It was a feeling that there was something bad there, some sort of ill will he bore toward her master, even though he appeared on the surface to honor him. And she’d never seen her master behave in such a fashion. Oh—well, maybe when he’d very first found her, but that was different. This Weselley was one of his own. It was as if Handray were a completely different person, a man with ice in his eyes.

She didn’t like the way Weselley looked at Jojan either, as if Weselley knew a secret he was keeping to himself.

If she’d been able to understand English, she’d have spent more time trying to listen to what he said to his servant when Handray and Jojan weren’t there. She understood the sneering tone well enough.

But instead, she did as she’d been told and stayed out of sight as much as she could. It saved her a beating or two, since Abraham’s crop descended on her shoulders and back every chance he found to use it— always when the others had gone up to the site and there was no one else to see.

She grew to loathe the sight of his turban-covered head, his white robes swirling around him as he commanded her to one task or another, the crop descending if she didn’t fulfill his every wish instantaneously. Weselley she merely disliked. Abraham she hated.

They stayed only five days in the end. Ali breathed a sigh of relief when they finally thundered off again in the early morning, scattering the camels and cattle just as before.

It was Andre who declared a celebration the moment they’d vanished from sight. “Bring on a sheep, Ali!” he said, turning to her, a grin on his face. “We are free at last. God, what a miserable week.”

Joseph-Jean nodded in wholehearted agreement. “You showed admirable restraint, my friend. There were a couple of times that I thought you were about to give him a tongue-lashing.”

“I was,” Andre said. “But what would have been the point?”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you. The monumental arrogance of the man—imagine implying that the British Museum puts more value behind his work than yours.”

Andre sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. “Ah, well, forget about him. He’s gone and that miserable Syrian with him. What are you standing around for, Ali? Get to it!”

Ali, delighted to see a smile back on her master’s face again and the warmth returned to his eyes, hopped on her donkey and took off for the village to find Umar. If her master wanted a celebration, he would have one.

“Umar, quick,” she said, riding into the village. “The foreigners have left. We need a sheep for a feast.”

“A feast?” Umar said, his face lighting up. “What a wonderful idea—we haven’t feasted since my people went up to the summer pastures.” His brow furrowed. “But there’s hardly anyone here, just my father, my brother—”

“And Muzaffer and Hatije and their five children,” she said, dismissing his concern. “And the two of us and the effendis. More than enough for a feast! And we can have songs, and dancing, and—just have fun!”

Umar instantly caught Ali’s enthusiasm. “Fun? Well, come on then, we have to hurry. It will take hours to roast the sheep.”

By the time late afternoon had rolled around, they were ready. Ali had helped grind wheat for
burghul
while Hatije kneaded wheat flour into a dough. With Umar lending a hand they prepared salads redolent with spices that Ali had bought as a present for Hatije on her last trip to the market.

The little village smelled wonderful with the mingled scents of roasting lamb, bread baking in the outdoor oven, spices, and
tulum,
the sharp cheese fermented in goatskin.

Everyone left in the little village gathered around, spreading carpets and pillows out for themselves and their expected guests. Ali, satisfied that all was as it should be, hopped on her donkey and rode back to camp.

“Good God,” Andre said as they approached the tents, “you really did plan a celebration, Ali.”

“Of course!” she said cheerfully. “Do you think I would disobey my master?”

He glanced at her skeptically. “I think you do precisely as you please and try to convince me that whatever you’re doing is for my good.”

Ali smiled happily. “As long as your needs are met, what difference does it make?” She pulled back on the donkey’s reins and slipped off its bare back. “Come,” she said, tugging on Andre’s sleeve. “You and Jojan have the place of honor by the cooked sheep.”

They ate and talked and laughed amid the gentle beauty of flat pastures and grazing land, the mountains rising up behind, the ruins of Xanthos just visible in the distance.

Andre looked around him, content. Ali was carrying on about something or other and had the group in tears of laughter, Jo-Jean included. But then Ali had the gift of bringing laughter to people, like an irresistible flame, a piece of the sun dancing about. One couldn’t help basking in the warmth.

His gaze took in Ali’s mischievous smile, those large, luminescent eyes, the funny, mobile face that twisted into a hundred different expressions, the skinny little body that wiggled about on the carpet in enthusiasm.

Andre smiled. He really had become exceedingly fond of the child. Indeed, he couldn’t imagine life without Ali’s high-spirited presence in it.

He realized that in the three years they had been traveling, never had they been so close to the local people. He and Jo-Jean had been considered oddities, to be looked up to and respected, but not treated as one of their own. But thanks to Ali, they had been accepted. Tonight, he almost felt one of their number.

He sat up a little straighter as another realization hit him. He was actually enjoying himself. Thoughts of Genevieve, of his father’s betrayal and his mother’s complicity, hadn’t crossed his mind in some time—in fact, he couldn’t remember when he’d last fallen into an uneasy sleep, curled up against the pain.

Andre slowly shook his head as if dazed. He had never believed it would happen. He thought he’d be forced to live a lifetime of unceasing agony, but somehow he was sitting here tonight, having a fine time.

He didn’t know whether he ought to be disgusted with himself, or whether he ought to be elated that the anguish that had clawed at his insides for so long was no longer so acute. It had muted into a more distant ache, he discovered, carefully exploring the pain as one might probe a sore tooth.

Yes. It had muted, but how? And when? He was baffled. It was almost as if God—

He pushed that thought away abruptly, deciding to be grateful that time had eased the pain a little. It hadn’t been easy living with a bloody wound where a heart normally resided.

But he didn’t want to think about it anymore. It was a nice evening, and it was pleasant to be part of a festive gathering, especially one that held no reminder of the past—with the exception of Jo-Jean, of course, but he didn’t count.

“Handray,” Ali called. “You are looking too serious for a celebration. Come, dance for us! Umar will play for you on his flute.”

Dance
for you? Ali, are you mad?”

“Certainly not! I am sure you are a fine dancer. Please?” Ali’s shining eyes entreated.

“Oh, very well. Why not?” he heard himself say, as much to his own amazement as Joseph-Jean’s, who stared at him, his mouth hanging open.

Andre grinned at Jo-Jean and stood, and hoots of approval broke out among the little group.

Umar began to play on his flute, a melody with which Andre was familiar. He put his arms out at his sides and began the slow, studied, traditional dance, his movements rhythmic and smooth. It was nice to feel the breeze in his hair, to feel his muscles shifting in time with the music. God, it had been a long time since he’d danced. He closed his eyes and let the music take him. That felt nice too.

He stopped as the music drew to a close only to be replaced by more shouts of approval, and trills of delight. Jo-Jean applauded wildly and Ali’s smile was so broad that it stretched practically from one ear to another.

He laughed, then gave a mock bow and sat down again, and Umar’s brother took over, dancing fast and furiously to a wilder, more primitive song.

Only a moment later he sensed someone approaching, and he glanced up.

“You were very beautiful,” Ali said, squatting down beside him. “Just as I knew you would be. Very magnificent. You danced with the heart you say you do not have.”

Andre was silent for a long moment. “Perhaps I danced with the heart
you
say I don’t have,” he finally replied.

“Ah,” Ali said softly. “So you heard me, then. It is good.”

“Why is it good? Why do you even care, Ali? What difference could the state of my heart possibly make?” His eyes raked Ali’s face as if he might actually find an answer there.

Ali considered. “A man’s heart is the reflection of his soul. In it he carries everything he is made of, everything it is possible for him to give, and everything that is possible for him to become. He needs only to know his own heart to know all of this for himself.” Ali lightly touched his arm. “It is not that you do not know these things. It is only that you do not wish to see them. Perhaps one day you will choose to look.”

A
ndre glanced up from his seat outside Gemil’s carpet shop, sipping on his glass of apple tea as he checked on Ali’s progress through the tented marketplace. He had to smile. Ali adored these monthly excursions, despite the three-hour journey each way, never failing to examine every last piece of produce, of clothing, the big buckets of spices, drinking in the colorful displays and the mingled scents while doing the necessary shopping.

He watched with amusement as Ali looked proudly down at the shopping list, reading his Arabic script, then grinned and tucked the list away.

A procession of camels made its way down the narrow street, their backs laden with merchandise, momentarily obscuring his vision. He returned to his conversation with Gemil. When he looked again, Ali had progressed to the fruit and vegetable stall and was in the process of squeezing a pomegranate, carefully checking it to see if it was ripe.

And then almost before he had a chance to register, a heavily bearded man dressed in the costume of the Yourooics appeared behind Ali and clamped his hand down hard on Ali’s shoulder.

Ali turned, the pomegranate falling to the ground, crimson pulp and seeds splattering as the man brutally cuffed one ear.

“Hadgi, no!” Ali cried, dodging as he lifted his hand again. “No, do not!”

First shock, then rage surged through Andre. He leapt to his feet and tore across the street to the stall. Ali’s head jerked up as he approached, fear sharp in the huge brown eyes that normally sparkled with laughter. His blood boiled even more furiously to see it.

No one—no one—would mistreat Ali. He didn’t even stop to wonder who Hadgi was or what reason he had for his assault. The only thought in Andre’s head was to stop him.

“Unhand my servant,” he commanded, his voice cold as steel.

Hadgi spun around. He glared at Andre in disgust. “Your servant?” he said, his voice filled with contempt. “Your whore is more like it.”

“My
whore
? ‘’ Andre’s eyes snapped with anger. “I should kill you for that remark.” He paused for a moment, struggling for composure. “However,” he continued, “since I am a guest in your country I will let it pass. What is your business here, and what do you want with my servant?” he demanded as a crowd began to gather.

“My business belongs to me,” Hadgi said. “As does your ‘servant.’ ” He spat the word out.

“And how is that?” Andre asked, deliberately making his expression unreadable, but his heart tightened with apprehension at this unexpected piece of news.

“Ali ran away from me, depriving me of a great deal of money. She stole my son’s clothes. She stole food from my household. If you want the little thief, you can pay for the privilege. Otherwise, she comes with me.”

She?
A cold sweat broke out on Andre’s brow and his stomach felt as if Hadgi had just landed his fist in it, but he forced his face to remain expressionless. It would be a big mistake to show his shock. He glanced at Ali for one brief moment, then back at Hadgi. “Do you own her?” he asked.

“She is my niece,” he said. “I was about to receive a bride-price for her when she ran off.”

“A bride-price?” Ali cried. “Hadgi, you were going to sell me to the Turkomen to be put on the auction block as a slave!”

“You be silent,” Hadgi shouted. “Not another word from your viper tongue, do you hear?”

“You will not speak to Ali like that,” Andre said in a voice of cold command he rarely used, and Hadgi fell silent.

Ali stared at him, admiration mingling with the dread on her pale face. If the situation hadn’t been so potentially disastrous, he might have been amused. But there was no room for amusement when Ali’s future hung in the balance.

“So, you were going to sell your niece to the Turkomen,” Andre said after a moment. “And now you would sell her to me.”

Hadgi nervously licked his lips. “I am owed something. I have supported her all of these years and have received nothing in return. Nothing. And all of this I did for an infidel out of the goodness of my heart.”

“An infidel?” Andre asked coolly, even as another shock wave flashed through him, along with a sincere desire to wring Ali’s neck. “How is it that your niece is an infidel?”

“Bah—Ali is not even of Turkish blood. Yet I fed her and provided shelter over her head because my brother was stupid enough to take her in.”

Andre cast another quick look at Ali, whose gaze was fixed on the sticky mess of the pomegranate splattered on the ground. So. Ali had lied to him thoroughly and successfully, not only about her sex, but about her background. Well, there was only one thing for it, and that was a good offense. Ali he would take care of later.

He scratched his cheek. “The goodness of your heart. Yes. Of course. Well, since I find Ali’s services useful, and since I would rot in hell before handing her back to you, I will buy her from you.” A gasp of astonishment went through the assembled crowd.

He dug in his pocket for his purse and he pulled three gold coins out of the leather bag. “It’s more than you would have extorted from the Turkomen,” he said, throwing the coins at Hadgi’s feet. “Consider the extra as payment for your son’s clothes. Take it.”

Hadgi scrambled to pick them up. He examined them, then quickly put the coins in his pocket. “Why do you keep Ali dressed as a boy, foreigner?”

“It amuses me,” Andre said, doing his best to preserve the situation.

Hadgi sneered. “No wonder you paid so well.”

Andre’s brow drew down. “I paid to have you vanish. I suggest you do so. Immediately.”

“I had heard that foreigners had perverted habits,” Hadgi said as a parting remark. “But I had never imagined habits as perverted as whoring with female children dressed as boys. A little of both, is it?”

Andre moved so quickly that Hadgi didn’t even register that he was in danger. Andre’s fist connected with the side of Hadgi’s jaw with a great crack, and Hadgi flew backward into the table laden with fruit and vegetables. Eggplants, cucumbers, and oranges scattered everywhere and Hadgi went down on top of them.

The merchant let out a great wail of dismay, but the crowd broke into loud shouts of approval.

Andre dug once more into his pocket and took out a handful of piastres. He put them into the merchant’s hand, took one last look at Hadgi, who lay groaning amid the pile of multicolored produce, and turned his back.

He walked toward Ali. She dropped to her knees, her face white, and she took his hand, kissing the back. “Thank you, Handray. Thank you,” she whispered.

“Get up,” he snapped, barely able to speak at all. Now that the immediate crisis was over, reaction swept through him as furiously as if a dam wall had broken. He picked up the knapsack she’d filled with the shopping, slung it over his shoulder, and strode off, not looking right or left. She had to run to keep up with him.

They reached the horses and Andre strapped the knapsack to one of the bulging saddlebags. “Let’s go,” he said.

“But—but Handray, aren’t you going to—”

“I don’t wish to speak to you at the moment,” he said, trying very hard to control himself. “In case you can’t tell, I am very, very angry.”

“Oh, please, Handray, beat me, shout at me, anything but this coldness. I can’t bear it!”

“
Enough!
” he roared. “Enough,” he said again a little more quietly when the veins no longer bulged at the side of his neck. “If I hear another word I will probably put my hands around your scrawny throat and throttle the life out of you. And I
hate
to waste good money.”

He mounted his horse and set off at a fast pace, giving Ali no choice but to follow. He said not one word to her all the way back. He couldn’t. He really couldn’t. He was not just angry, he was deeply shaken. And he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Joseph-Jean looked up from his sketchbook as he heard them approach. “You’re back early,” he said with surprise, walking toward the horses. “Did Ali not want to stay and listen to Gemil’s stories after the market?”

“I thought it better to return directly,” Andre replied tightly, swinging down. “There was a bit of a commotion, and I didn’t want to have to answer any questions, since I didn’t
have
any answers.” He glared at Ali, who hung her head.

“Oh, dear,” Joseph-Jean said, looking back and forth between them. “Trouble?”

“You might say that. Ali’s uncle appeared.” He undid the first of the saddlebags and handed it to Joseph-Jean.

“But I thought Ali had no family,” Joseph-Jean said, frowning. “Didn’t they all die of plague?”

“Oh, he wasn’t really an uncle, since they share no blood. But apparently Ali ran away from his home. Ali said it was to avoid being sold into slavery.”

Joseph-Jean threw a startled look in Ali’s direction. “No … how terrible. But why would he do such a thing?”

“Because, Jo-Jean, Ali is nothing to him but a worthless female.”

Joseph-Jean stared at Andre in disbelief.
“What?”
he said when he’d recovered.

“You heard me. A worthless female infidel, who does not even have the honor of being a Turk. That is all I know. As Ali didn’t deny it at the time, I assume it is true.”

“Good God! What did you do?”

“I bought her.” Andre stalked off, leaving Joseph-Jean holding the saddlebag.

Ali thought she might very well die. It had been bad enough in the marketplace when Hadgi had appeared out of nowhere. That had been merely horrible. And when Handray had discovered the truth about her, that had been truly devastating. Oh, she’d always known that the truth would eventually come out, that her life with Handray and Jojan was too good to be true. But despite all of her imaginings, nothing, but nothing, had prepared her for the force of Handray’s anger. That had been worst of all.

She could see that Allah was going to punish her and punish her harshly for the brief happiness he’d allotted her.

“Ali … is this true?” Joseph-Jean walked up to her, examining her tear-streaked face.

Ali nodded, her shame and fear threatening to overwhelm her.

“All
of it?”

She nodded again and slid off her horse, rubbing her eyes with her fists. “What will he do to me, Jojan?” she whispered.

“I have no idea. Why don’t you come sit over here—no, leave the supplies. We can unpack them later. I think we need to talk.”

Ali reluctantly trailed after him. He sat her down at the table outside his tent and brought a bowl of water, dipping a cloth into it and handing it to her. She gratefully washed her hands and face.

“How did you ever get into a situation like this?” he asked, but his words weren’t spoken harshly, as she had expected. Instead, he regarded her with sympathy.

“I did not mean to … that is, not exactly,” she said, faltering.

“It just happened by accident?”

Ali nodded vigorously, pleased that he grasped the point so quickly. “Yes. You see, when you found me, I was not strong enough to explain, and then later … well, I did so want to be Handray’s servant as Allah had willed, and I knew he would not take me on if he knew the truth, so I—”

“Slow down, Ali, slow down. I can hardly make out a word.”

Ali took a deep breath. “I thought I would make Handray happy with me first, and then I would tell him the truth. But oh, Jojan, I found that I liked being a boy!” Fresh tears of misery and shame poured down her cheeks. “It was so nice, and Handray liked me as I was, and I knew he wouldn’t like me at all as I really am.”

“There, there, don’t cry,” Joseph-Jean said, holding out the washcloth. “I can see that there are going to be some problems ahead, but nothing we can’t overcome.”

Ali sniffed and wiped her nose. “I will clean the cloth,” she said, looking down at the mess she’d made of it.

“Never mind the cloth,” he said with a slight smile. “I think we had better start at the beginning. I’m sure we can straighten it out if we have all the facts.”

“But it begins many years ago,” Ali said reluctantly, not certain that it was wise to divulge all the details. “Are you sure it will help to tell you?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” Joseph-Jean reached over and squeezed her hand. “Please. Tell me everything.”

“Well … I was very young,” Ali said, trying to put herself into a storytelling frame of mind, for it was the only way she could make Jojan understand. “I had no mother, and my father lay dead, killed by the Turkomen. I stayed huddled in the cave where he had bid me hide.”

Ali shivered. She never talked of the old memory, only vague now, like a dream. It was not easy bringing the words to her tongue, even now when she needed them desperately. “Uri of the Yourooks was tending to his sheep when he found me. He took me back to his village and asked his wife Magda if she would foster me. She had no children of her own, you see.”

Joseph-Jean nodded. “How nice for her that you came along, then.”

“Yes,” Ali said, “I thought so, although Uri’s brother Hadgi thought him a fool, and an even bigger fool to take in an orphan. And then Uri died a few years later, and Hadgi had to take both Magda and me in.”

“Ah,” Joseph-Jean said. “And Hadgi did not like the situation?”

“No. He did not,” Ali said, her face darkening in memory. “He complained constantly, even though we both worked hard for him to pay our way in his household. Our lives were not easy, for he was not a kind man. And then my foster mother died.”

“I see. And then you really had trouble.”

“I did,” Ali agreed. “Things became worse. One night Hadgi was very angry with me.” Ali left out the reason why, not wanting Jojan to know anything about her humiliation. “He said he had found a way to be rid of me for good.”

Joseph-Jean leaned forward. “And his plan was to sell you into slavery?”

She nodded. “Yes, the Turkomen were coming through in a few days time. He said they would take me to the city and put me up for auction. He would make much money. And so I decided that it would be better to run away.” She looked away. “Even if I died in the attempt, at least I would not die as a coward who had let herself be meekly led away.”

“You were brave, Ali. Very brave.” Joseph-Jean wore a pained expression that she didn’t know how to interpret. “And I am very glad we found you.”