SILK AND SECRETS (29 page)

At the entrance to the palace precincts, the entire party dismounted and Juliet moved forward to take Ross’s reins. For a moment their gazes met. Quietly, under the noise of the crowd, he said, “This is it.”

She nodded. “Tomorrow at this time, we could be headed home.”

He doubted that she believed that any more than he did, but he supposed it was theoretically possible. As they walked up the ramp that led to the turreted entry gate, Ross felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle. This was his first visit to the Ark, for he and Burnes had never sought an audience with the amir, but he had heard many stories about it. Some who entered were never known to leave again.

The design of the Ark was similar to a European castle; in fact, the greatest of the medieval fortresses were designed by builders who had studied Saracen architecture during the Crusades. The towering outer walls enclosed a small city of buildings and a broad courtyard where royal servants and slaves moved back and forth about their business.

The grand chamberlain gestured for a groom to come and take their mounts to the stables. “It is customary to take one’s slave into the palace proper,” he said with a dubious glance at Juliet, “but he must be silent and cause no trouble.”

As Ross removed a leather case from his saddlebags, he asked Juliet in Tamahak, “Think you can behave yourself, slave? It might be better to stay with the camels.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for anything,” she murmured as she took the leather case from him.

The grandest of the buildings was the palace, and a wide flight of steps led them to the main entrance. Inside the palace, high ceilings and marble floors provided a cool contrast to the shimmering heat outdoors. Silently the grand chamberlain led his guests through a series of passages to a large room where other petitioners waited for an audience with the amir. As the chamberlain had said, most men had slaves with them, so Juliet’s presence was unremarkable.

An even more richly garbed man came up. He was about sixty years old and appeared to be Persian. To Ross’s surprise, the man said in accented, almost unintelligible English, “Welcome to Bokhara.” He bowed. “I am the Nayeb Abdul Samut Khan, commander of the amir’s artillery. I have had the honor to serve with others of your splendid race in Afghanistan.”

Ross bowed back. “The honor is mine.” Switching languages, he said, “While you have a masterly command of my native tongue, I prefer to speak in Persian, so that all men may hear and understand that I have nothing to hide.”

“Very wise, Lord Khilburn,” the nayeb said with an approving nod, “for there are many men that do not value the British as I do.” Switching to Persian, he said, “I have been sent to ask if you will submit to the mode of salaam when you are presented to the amir.”

“Of what does the salaam consist?”

“A man who comes before his majesty must stroke his beard and bow three times, saying
”Allah Akbar, Salaamat Padishah.“”

Guessing that there had been ferengis in the past who had balked at performing the ritual, Ross said peaceably, “I would willingly do it thirty times if necessary, for it is fitting to say that God is great and to wish peace to the king.”

Abdul Samut Khan nodded, satisfied, then gestured to the case Juliet carried. “What is that?”

“A modest gift for the amir, as a token of the esteem in which I hold him.”

Juliet opened the leather case. Ross lifted out a flat wooden box with a brass plate set in the lid. Flipping up the lid, he revealed two superbly made flintlock holster pistols nestling in velvet-lined niches.

The nayeb sucked in his breath at the sight of the pistols, for the weapons dazzled like jewels. Every square inch of metal and wood was chiseled and engraved in elaborate patterns, and the walnut stocks were inlaid with gold wire. Moreover, they had been made by one of Britain’s finest gunsmiths, so they should be as accurate as they were beautiful. Ross had bought the pair on the assumption that they would prove useful, perhaps as a gift for some Arab chieftain in the Levant. His instincts had proved sound, for the pistols were truly a gift fit for a king.

Reverently Abdul Samut Khan lifted each of the pistols and checked to see that it was unloaded before replacing it. “Very good,” he said, handing the box back to Juliet. “Now, give me your passport and any letters of introduction that you have.”

Ross produced his travel papers and the letters he had been collecting since Constantinople. There were an even dozen, starting with the sultan and ending with the khalifa of the Turkomans. All the letter writers asked, in incredibly elaborate language, that the amir look favorably on Ross’s petition.

The nayeb accepted the documents, then gestured toward a stone bench along the wall. “Wait here.”

Ross sat and crossed his legs, a vaguely bored expression on his face for the benefit of the curious, while a couple of feet away Juliet squatted by the wall in a dark ball of flowing robes. The wait was surprisingly short— less than half an hour—before the nayeb returned for him.

Under the resentful gazes of those who had been waiting longer, Ross followed his guide from the room, Juliet behind him with the gift case. A short walk brought them to the crowded audience chamber. On the left, arches opened to a courtyard bright with flowers. Inside the chamber, courtiers whose richly patterned robes were precisely graded to reflect their status watched eagerly to see what the ferengi would do.

But Ross paid little attention to his surroundings, for finally, after four long months of travel, he was in the presence of the Amir Nasrullah, called the most brutal ruler in Asia. The man who had murdered his own father and brothers to secure his throne was about forty years old, and stout, with a long black beard. Though the audience chamber was lavishly decorated, he himself wore clothing as plain as any mullah.

Ross removed his hat and held it in his left hand as an English mark of respect, then performed the obeisance. Lacking a beard, he had to stroke his chin, but his bows were deep and he called out
“Allah Akbar, Salaamat Padishah”
in a resonant voice.

Straightening from his final bow, he looked the amir full in the face. Nasrullah’s eyes were small and rather beady, and the muscles of his face twitched convulsively. Nonetheless, he had the aura of power that absolute authority bestows, plus a bright, unstable glitter that was all his own. It was said that his four Persian wives despised him.

Speaking in a high, rapid voice, the amir said, “You honor us by your presence, Lord Khilburn. Have you come on a mission from the English queen, our sister in royalty?”

Nasrullah knew perfectly well why his visitor had come, but Ross went along with the pretense. After bowing again, he said, “Nay, I do not come on official business, but to beseech your great mercy for my brother, the British Major Ian Cameron.”

The amir raised his hand before Ross could say more. “I am told that you have brought a gift for me.”

“The merest trifle.” Juliet stepped forward and Ross took the pistol box from the case, then opened it for the amir. “I beg that you will condescend to accept this unworthy token.”

Nasrullah’s eyes widened with genuine pleasure and he gave a soft sigh, like a child receiving an especially longed-for sweet. “Exquisite.” He lifted one of the pistols in his hands and caressed it, running his fingers over the softly gleaming surfaces in the same way a man might caress his lover. “Come. I wish to try them.” Rising to his feet, he swept imperiously across the room and out to the courtyard.

Ross, Juliet, and the courtiers trailed after him. The courtyard was an enchanted garden with a pink marble fountain tinkling in the center and cooling palms waving high above formal beds of brilliant carnations and roses. As Ross inhaled, he noticed that the heavy scent of patchouli underlay the lighter floral fragrances, and guessed that the fountain was perfumed.

Above their heads, the palm fronds rustled dryly as Nasrullah came to a halt and demanded that his visitor load the pistols. Ross had come prepared, and the leather case contained tins of black powder and lead balls. After pouring a measured charge of powder down each barrel, he rammed balls down on top, sprinkled priming powder in the pans, then handed one of the weapons to the amir.

Without bothering to aim, the amir fired the pistol at the fountain. The heavy ball cracked the pink marble and ricocheted away as perfumed water began seeping out of the wide basin. “Splendid, splendid!”

While courtiers coughed at the acrid smoke, Nasrullah exchanged pistols and fired the second one, this time blasting a clump of scarlet carnations to shreds. “Magnificent!”

As Ross reloaded, the amir said mischievously, “Of course, the real test of a weapon is how well it performs the task for which it was created.” Lifting one of the reloaded pistols, he continued, “And the task of a gun is to kill.”

Alerted by the note of unholy amusement in the ruler’s voice, Ross expected trouble. But nothing could have prepared him for the soul-shattering fear he felt when the amir swung around and pointed the gun directly at Juliet’s head.

For an endless terrifying moment, Juliet stared down the deadly black muzzle of the pistol. Under almost any other circumstances she would have dived for cover while reaching for her own concealed knife. But here, in the amir’s palace, surrounded by his guards, she dared not do that, for escape was impossible and anything she did might endanger Ross.

Then her view of the pistol was blocked out by her husband’s broad blue-clad shoulder as he stepped between her and the amir. In a voice that held just a faint hint of reproach, he said, “Among my people, it is considered a grave breach of etiquette to kill another man’s slave without cause.”

Juliet heard a burst of unnerving laughter, punctuated by the shattering crack of another gunshot. For an agonizing moment she thought that Nasrullah had fired at Ross, but an instant later fragments of palm frond spattered down on them.

“God forbid that I should offend the customs of a guest’s people,” the amir said genially. “You are right. It is far more courteous to kill one of my own slaves.”

Her heart still pounding with reaction from her narrow escape, Juliet edged back toward the nervous crowd of courtiers, at the same time moving to the side so that she could better see what was happening. Those courtiers who were fortunate enough to be at the back of the group had already slipped away.

Nasrullah scanned the people in the courtyard consideringly. “Who among these jackals has the least value?” His gaze fell on a serving boy who had just entered the garden carrying a brass tray mounded with fresh fruit. Juliet guessed the child was using the courtyard as a shortcut to another part of the palace.

“You, boy.” The ruler gestured toward the far side of the courtyard with the pistol. “Go stand over there.”

The child was no more than ten years old and probably of Persian blood. Immediately grasping the amir’s intention, he gasped and dropped his tray. The brass hit the ground with a hollow gonging sound and fruit bounced in all directions as the boy tried to run, but two guards immediately stopped his flight.

As one guard dragged the chosen victim to the other side of the courtyard, the other removed the child’s turban and ripped it into two long strips. Then the men used the fabric to lash the boy’s wrists to two palms so that he could not run away. Their task accomplished, both guards stepped hastily out of the way before Nasrullah could decide he preferred larger targets.

Hopelessly the child stared at his royal master. His face was sheened with sweat and his small chest rose and fell in short, harsh pants of fear. The courtyard was absolutely silent except for the tinkling of fountain water and the incongruous chirping of birds in the palms.

Calmly the amir pointed his weapon at his living target and pulled the trigger. As the gun blast echoed painfully from the marble walls and another cloud of smoke rolled out, the boy screamed, a sound of desperate, bloodcurdling terror.

It took several seconds for the smoke to thin enough to show that the boy still stood upright between the trees, unharmed. Sobbing desperately, he twisted and tugged at his bonds.

Nasrullah frowned. “I missed. Give me the other pistol. This may take some time, for I am not an expert marksman.”

The thought of standing here watching this maniac blaze away at the child turned Juliet’s stomach. How many shots would it take? And would he be satisfied to wound his target, or would he keep going until the boy was dead? For a brief, murderous moment she considered going for her knife and plunging it into the amir’s throat, but common sense held her back. Barely.

Then Ross spoke in the cool tone which could be either maddening or comforting, depending on the circumstances. Now it was the voice of sanity in a mad world. “If it is proof of the weapons’ deadliness that you desire, that is easily provided.”

Raising the second pistol, Ross aimed it into a palm tree and fired. A moment later, the small mangled body of a sparrow fell to the ground. “It seems a pity to waste a slave,” he said mildly. “And a sparrow is a more challenging test for a weapon.”

Temporarily nonplussed, the amir looked from the dead bird to Ross and back again. Then he smiled with cold cruelty. “You are an excellent shot, Lord Khilburn. Since you are so concerned for my slave, you may display your marksmanship on his behalf.”

He beckoned one of the guards over and gave an order Juliet could not hear. The guard stooped and picked up one of the pomegranates that had been dropped earlier, then went over to the child and placed it on top of his head, murmuring a sharp command for the boy to stand still.

Turning back to his visitor, Nasrullah continued, “Shoot the pomegranate from the boy’s head and I will make you a gift of him. Miss and I will shoot him myself, however long it takes.”

Only someone who knew Ross as well as Juliet would have noticed the nearly invisible tightening of his facial muscles. “Very well,” he said emotionlessly, accepting the terms of this grisly game of William Tell.

As he reloaded his pistol, Juliet felt his inner turmoil as sharply as if it were her own. The boy was standing at the outer limit of the weapon’s accuracy, and Ross faced the probability that he would either accidentally shoot the boy or miss and deliver him into the amir’s lethal clutches. The child’s only hope was that Ross make a flawless shot—and if he failed, she knew that he would never forgive himself.