SILK AND SECRETS (43 page)

“Let’s hope the prison guards think so.” Ross rested a hand on the young Persian’s shoulder. “Are you ready to enter the lion’s den? It might be very dangerous.”

Murad managed a quick smile, though tension was obvious in his voice. “More dangerous for you than for me.”

“But I do it for love of my brother. It takes greater courage to risk one’s life for a stranger.” Ross squeezed the younger man’s shoulder, then said in a different tone, “Now it is time for the king’s chamberlain to ride.”

It took only a few moments to make the final preparations. While Murad uncovered one lamp and lit a second, Ross removed the dark scarf he had worn over his white turban on their surreptitious journey through the city and Juliet took off her tagelmoust. Underneath she also wore a white turban.

After packing the extra garments and the rope in saddlebags, they all mounted and rode the final half mile to the prison, which was a massive high-walled structure behind the royal palace. For the moment they were done with stealth; only bluster could make their present mad mission a success.

The entrance to the prison was barred by a heavy gate with a smaller door set in the middle. When their party reached it, Ross pulled out his pistol and, without dismounting, banged the hilt on the small door.

A voice sounded from the guardhouse above his head. “Who goes there?”

Ross took a deep breath. The point of no return had been reached. Speaking in Uzbek, he said, “Saadi Khan, bearing orders from the amir.”

“Saadi Khan?” the guard said doubtfully.

“I am a
makhram
, a royal chamberlain, fool. Now, let me in!”

Responding to the note of command, the guard signaled one of his fellows to open the door. It was just large enough to admit a man on horseback. Ross trotted through into the courtyard, followed by Murad and Juliet, who led the fourth horse.

As soon as they were inside, Ross ordered, “Take me to the officer in charge.”

“Yes, sir,” said the highest-ranking of the soldiers, the equivalent of a corporal. He escorted the newcomers to the front steps of the main building.

There Ross and Murad dismounted, leaving Juliet with their horses. Her turban and mustache were adequate to allow her to pass as a young man in the dark courtyard.

With an arrogance modeled on Shahid Mahmud’s, Ross swaggered up the steps, Murad right behind him. The corporal turned them over to a different guard, who escorted the visitors to the chamber occupied by the officer in charge of the night watch.

The lieutenant on duty looked up with a supercilious expression. If Murad’s friend Hafiz was right, the man was new to this posting and unlikely to recognize that Ross was not a genuine palace official. He was also the sort who bullied his underlings and fawned on his superiors, which made him an ideal candidate for intimidation.

The lieutenant stroked his beard, eyeing Ross with disfavor. “Since the amir is out of the city, what royal business could you possibly have that cannot wait until morning?”

“This
business.” Ross pulled a document from inside his coat, then tried to look nonchalant as the officer examined it. The order was a forgery, written in official style and marked with a royal seal that had been carefully removed from a legitimate document. The forgery had come from the household of Ephraim ben Abraham; Ross and Juliet had speculated how and why such skills had been learned, but had known better than to ask.

Ross stopped breathing when the lieutenant frowned over the order. Then the officer said, “I do not understand.”

Relieved that the problem was content, not form, Ross said with studied exasperation, “You aren’t supposed to understand. Your job is to produce the ferengi prisoner, not waste my time with foolish questions.”

“But why now, when his majesty is away?”

“It is precisely
because
he is away, imbecile! A foreign spy is a diplomatic embarrassment, dangerous to keep and dangerous to kill. Problems of this sort are best solved when the amir is known to be occupied with more important matters. Now, are you going to obey your orders, or are you going to become part of the problem?”

“My superior has not given me authority to release a prisoner,” the lieutenant said doggedly, but his confidence was starting to wane in the face of his visitor’s imperious manner.

“The document in your hand is all the authority you need.” Not for nothing was Ross the son of a duke; when he chose to, he could bluster with the best. He shifted his weight forward to the balls of his feet, emphasizing his superior height. His voice dropped, becoming deep and threatening. “I’ve had quite enough of your foolishness. Saadi Khan is not accustomed to being kept waiting. Take me to the prisoner
now.”

By the time Ross finished speaking, the lieutenant’s expression had changed to servile obedience. Scrambling to his feet, he said, “A thousand apologies, sir. I did not mean to offend. It is just that such a procedure is most unusual.”

“So is having a ferengi captive,” Ross said tersely.

“If you will come along with me, sir.” The lieutenant lifted a lamp, then led the way down a narrow, winding staircase that descended to the lowest level of the ancient building.

At the bottom of the stairs they began walking along a corridor lined with heavy doors, their progress haunted by the sounds of misery. In one cell a voice droned prayers in classical Arabic, while ragged, hopeless sobs emerged from another. The very walls were saturated with suffering and decay.

His face rigid, Ross looked neither right nor left. Two jailers from the dungeon-level guard room fell in behind, torches in their hands, but the flares were a feeble counter to the rank, suffocating blackness. He could not help thinking that the slightest suspicion that he and Murad were frauds would mean that they would never see the light of day again.

Finally they reached a rough-hewn room at the end of the passage. The hole in the floor was covered with a wooden hatch, and a rope and pulley were suspended from the ceiling above. Ross stared at the hatch. Finally he had reached the Siah Cha, the Black Well, the Central Asian version of the oubliette.

One of the jailers leaned over and lifted the hatch away, releasing a stench that caused everyone to step back. Ross’s stomach clenched, but this was no time to show weakness. “By the Prophet’s beard!” he snarled. “Is the prisoner even alive?”

One of the jailers, a squat man with a broad, unintelligent face, said helpfully, “I think he eats the food we drop down.”

The other jailer, who had a sharp, ferretlike face, shrugged. “That don’t mean nothing. Could be eaten by rats or sheep ticks. The ticks are specially bred for the Well.”

Ross was grateful for the false beard; it helped conceal his expression. Tightly he said, “Get the prisoner up here.”

The squat jailer undogged the end of the rope that ran through the pulley, then lowered the line into the hole. When it reached the bottom, he yelled down in Persian, “Put the loop around you and we’ll pull you up. A gentleman here to see you.” He smiled nastily. “He says the amir is going to set you free.”

It must have been an old taunt, for the only response was a guttural, weakly uttered phrase from the bottom of the hole.

The lieutenant cocked his head, then said regretfully, “I don’t understand Russian so I don’t know what he’s saying, but at least he’s alive.”

Ross’s mouth twisted; he also recognized the language, though Russian was not a tongue he spoke. So it was the other officer, not Ian. Later he would allow himself to be disappointed, but now he must concentrate on getting the poor devil below away from this evil place. With bitter humor he said, “I imagine that he is saying the Russian version of ”Go fornicate with yourself.“ ”

The lieutenant smiled appreciately, but the ferret frowned. “He’s probably refusing to take the rope so we can pull him up.”

“Then go down after him,” Ross ordered.

The two guards looked at each other with obvious reluctance. “He’s a mean bastard,” the squat one said. “Might attack anyone who comes after him.”

“And you’re afraid of a prisoner who has been starving down there for months?” Ross said incredulously.

Anxious to assert his authority, the lieutenant said to the ferret, “Pull the rope up so we can use it to lower you down.”

The ferret shook his head stubbornly and edged toward the door. “Time I was getting back to my post. I’m in charge of the cells in the other wing.”

The lieutenant swelled with rage while the squat guard tried to look unobtrusive so he wouldn’t be called on. Seeing that a time-wasting confrontation was imminent, Ross let his fury boil over. “Imbeciles. Must I do everything myself?”

He took the rope and leaned over to secure the upper end. Then he impatiently snatched the torch carried by the ferret, wrapped the rope around himself, and went down into the dungeon in a controlled slide. The walls were damp, and the stench, which had been foul above, was indescribable.

Twenty-one feet was a long way, and it seemed much longer, but finally he reached bottom, almost falling when his feet skidded on the slimy stone. The chamber was roughly ten feet square, hardly large enough to lose a man in, but it was littered with so much nameless offal that it took time to identify as human the long, ragged shape lying by one wall.

Ross brought the torch nearer and saw that the man had wildly tangled dark hair and beard and had thrown an arm over his head, apparently to protect his eyes from the unaccustomed light. His only garment was a pair of ragged European trousers. Under the filth, his skin was dead white and his body was so thin that every rib was visible. There were also open sores visible, perhaps the work of the specially bred sheep ticks. Had it not been for the oath that had emerged from the dungeon earlier, Ross would have thought he had found a corpse.

He knelt beside the prisoner, speaking quietly in French, which an educated Russian should understand, while the men above would not. “I’m a friend, here to take you away. Do you think you can walk? That will make it easier to help you.”

Suddenly the man rolled over and lashed out at his visitor with surprising strength. Startled, Ross sprang to his feet and backed across the cell to avoid the attack. Then he sucked his breath in with shock.

The prisoner’s face was gaunt and filthy, and he had lost one eye, for the right lid hung nervelessly over a slight depression, but his appearance was not what chilled Ross’s blood. Far more stunning was the fact that as the man crashed to the floor, he said in English with a faint, familiar Scots accent, “You’ll not fool me again, you bloody-minded son of a bitch.”

The prisoner sprawled on the dungeon floor was Ian Cameron.

Yawer Shahid Mahmud had been told more than once that he had a head like rock, and he proved it by recovering consciousness less than an hour after being assaulted. The grooms had taken him into the house, so he woke in his own quarters. After his eyes blinked open, Shahid lay still and tried to sort out his memories. The tavern, a Tadjik dancing boy with a great ass, the ride home. He raised a confused hand to his head, thinking that the ache was worse than just the effect of too much wine.

The stables… what had happened by the stables?

Then he remembered and sat up with a bellow, ignoring the pain that lanced through his skull. “Damnation, the bastards have gotten away!”

A flurry of activity followed as two soldiers were sent up to the ferengi’s rooms. They had to break down the door to confirm what Shahid had already guessed: Lord Khilburn and his Tuareg slave had fled.

It was unthinkable that the ferengi be allowed to get away with his insolence; Shahid’s honor was at stake. Rage cleared his mind as nothing else could have. If Khilburn had gone to ground in the city, sooner or later he would be found; the network of informants would guarantee that, for the ferengi’s appearance was too distinctive for him to hide for long.

Khilburn would know that, for the man wasn’t stupid; he would probably try to leave the city as soon as possible. In fact, he might have already done so, because summer caravans always set out at night, when it was cooler.

Pursuit would be hampered by the fact that most of the army had left the city with the amir. Where could Shahid get more troops? Probably at the royal palace, he decided, and perhaps at the prison as well, since it was so secure that guards were scarcely needed.

Determinedly he got to his feet. He would go to the palace right now, the captain of the royal guard was a friend of Shahid’s and could be trusted to supervise the search for the ferengi within the city. The captain would also know which gates were being used tonight by caravans. Shahid would borrow some men at the palace and perhaps go to the prison for a few more. Then he would check the city gates and, if necessary, follow the departed caravans into the countryside.

As Shahid wound a turban around his throbbing head, he smiled with vicious anticipation. When he had run Khilburn to earth, he would exact punishment for the humiliations the ferengi had inflicted. It was common knowledge that criminals were often killed while resisting capture. That fate would surely befall Khilburn. But the Tuareg boy… Shahid was becoming powerfully curious about just what charms were hidden under those black robes. He intended to find out before Jalal also met his fate.

Before Ian could gather himself for another assault, Ross whispered urgently, “Ian, it’s Ross Carlisle. Don’t waste time wondering how it can be true, just accept that I’m here.”

His brother-in-law pushed himself to a sitting position, his breathing harsh, and stared at the intruder. “It’s… it’s not possible. You’re another goddamned dream. A nightmare. You don’t even look like Ross.”

“Wrong. Under this fake beard, I’m as real as you are.” Ross paused to think of something that would prove his claim. “Remember the time you took me hunting in India—how furious you were when I had a clear shot at a tiger, but I wouldn’t take it, so the beast got away?”

“Jesus Christ.” The other man’s remaining eye closed for a moment, then opened again. It was a bluer gray than Juliet’s, a color that was unmistakably Ian. Hoarsely he said, “Ross?”