SILK AND SECRETS (28 page)

Even more reluctantly than Murad, she nodded, then looked away. Satisfied, Ross poured himself more tea. At least he could count on Saleh’s good sense.

As he sipped his tea, he reflected on how the incident in the sandstorm had changed his relationship with Juliet. As she had predicted, admitting their mutual attraction had cleared the air and eased the situation—in some ways. Ross no longer attempted to completely conceal his feelings from his wife’s perceptive eyes, and they were more relaxed with each other.

But as he had known at the time, in other ways the situation was far more difficult, for his simmering desire had risen to a level just short of full boil. He couldn’t decide which of his actions had been more insane: kissing her in the first place or stopping even though she had been warm and willing.

Juliet had been more than willing; she had been eager, and that knowledge was a constant torment, especially at night when Ross was trying to sleep. He was haunted by precise tactile memories of her slim body moving under his, her ardent mouth, the feel of her hands on him. And, infuriatingly, his memory also supplied equally exact, though more distant, memories of what it was like to be inside her, for them to be joined together without doubt or inhibition.

He had wanted to teach her a lesson, and instead he had almost been swept away himself. He was still not quite sure why he had drawn back from what he had wanted fervently to do. The fact that a few minutes earlier Juliet had explicitly rejected the idea of becoming lovers was a factor, but he suspected that self-preservation was the major cause. The remote part of his brain still capable of logic had known that bedding the demented Amazon he had married would be a massive mistake; after her blood had cooled, Juliet would surely have despised him for taking advantage of her momentary weakness, and relations between them were already quite volatile enough.

Unfortunately, the knowledge that he had acted wisely could not quench the slow, frustrated burn of arousal that tormented him whenever he thought of Juliet. As he finished his tea, he uttered a silent prayer of thanks for loose, concealing Asiatic clothing. However, yearning for Juliet did have one benefit: it helped distract him from the question of whether he might be butchered like a feast-day lamb the next day.

Though none of his companions referred to his possible fate, an undercurrent of tension was present the rest of the evening. So far, nature had supplied the journey’s worst hazards, but from now on the enemies would be human and far more dangerous.

After another restless night, Ross rose the next morning and put aside his Asiatic garments for English clothing. As he had told Juliet back at Yerevan, whatever influence he might hope for came from his status as Ian’s countryman and kin, and his well-tailored blue coat, white shirt, and tan breeches instantly proclaimed that he was European. He even donned his black English hat, a folding style which he had brought because of its ability to survive being packed.

The rat-faced Uzbek must have spread his story around the caravan, for most of the other travelers kept their distance from Ross. Some were unobtrusive in their avoidance, while others shunned the ferengi as if he were a plague carrier. Given the amir’s reputation for quixotic violence, Ross didn’t blame them.

Nonetheless, the first part of the day’s journey was quiet. By noon they had left the trackless desert behind and were traveling along a shady, poplar-lined road. The land was dead flat, and lushly irrigated orchards and fields ran as far as the eye could see. After the desolate Kara Kum, the country seemed both prosperous and crowded, for the road carried a steady flow of traffic in both directions, heavily laden ponies competing with bored donkeys and high-wheeled carts.

They had passed through the village of Shahr Islam and were only five or six miles from Bokhara itself when Ross saw a large dust cloud in the road far ahead of them. Since it was unusual to travel at high speed during the midday heat, he said to Murad, who had the keenest vision among them, “Can you make out what kind of party is coming toward us?”

The young Persian shaded his eyes and squinted against the brilliant sunshine. “Three men. They are dressed as royal chamberlains—and two are carrying baskets.”

Ross tensed as he remembered what the rat-faced Uzbek had said the night before. His journey from Constantinople had had its risks, but they had been no worse than on any journey through wild, unsettled lands. Bokhara, however, represented a very different kind of danger, for putting himself in the power of a xenophobic madman was like a fly landing on a web and asking for the spider’s mercy.

Until now it had always been possible to turn back, but the point of no return was at hand. If the men in the distance were indeed royal chamberlains and were coming for him, there was a small but very real chance that he might be killed within the next half-hour. He did not consider that likely; even if the chamberlains were hostile—and they might not be—they would probably take him prisoner rather than slaughter him out of hand.

What had the Uzbek said would be in the baskets— bandages, chains, and blades? If ever he needed his English sangfroid, it was now, for it took a special kind of courage to remain stoic while waiting to see if his doom had arrived. On the whole, Ross would prefer being attacked by marauding Turkomans, but his voice was calm when he said, “You all know what to do. Now do it.”

His companions slowed their mounts and merged into the caravan. As the chamberlains thundered toward them, all of the travelers watched warily. Some cast sympathetic glances at Ross, but no one spoke, though the air twanged with tension.

Riding alone and wearing his European clothing, Ross was readily identifiable, and the riders galloped right up to him, then pulled up their horses with a flourish. The leader, who wore a lavishly patterned silk robe, announced, “I am the amir’s grand chamberlain. You are the English Lord Khilburn?”

Ross reined in his camel and inclined his head respectfully. “I am, O servant of the great and powerful king, the successor of the Prophet.”

The chamberlain gave a broad gap-toothed smile. “Nasrullah Bahadur, the King of Kings and Commander of the Faithful, bids you welcome. As a token of his desire that there be peace between our great lands, he invites you to be his guest during your stay in Bokhara.” The man waved a hand at his minions, who opened the baskets and brought forth a lavish spread of food that included fresh fruit, roast horseflesh, and jugs of tea.

It was the most welcome anticlimax Ross had ever experienced. Reining in his giddy relief, he said formally, “The amir does this insignificant traveler great honor.”

The chamberlain’s speculative glance shifted from Ross to the caravan, which had ground to a stop, all its members watching the show. “Have you no slave, Lord Khilburn?”

Ross made an instant decision. Although the amir’s invitation was no guarantee of limitless royal favor, for the moment Ross’s head would stay attached to his shoulders. It was time for their party to split according to their plan, though he still hated the idea of Juliet staying with him and facing at least some of the same dangers. “I have one, but he preferred to stand aside until it was clear whether fortune would smile or frown on me.”

The chamberlain’s lip curled. “Like a dog running off with his tail between his legs.”

For Juliet’s own sake, it was important that she not be perceived as a loyal servant, so as Ross beckoned to her, he said matter-of-factly, “One’s own life is sweet. Why should a son of the Prophet, on whom be peace, risk his life for a ferengi?”

Silently Juliet rode up beside him. She was leading the pack camel that carried Ross’s baggage; the other beast had been placed in Murad’s charge.

After a curious glance at Juliet, the chamberlain said, “We shall eat now. Then we shall escort you to the royal palace so you can make your obeisance to the amir.”

Startled at the swiftness of events, Ross said, “You mean I will be able to present my petition today?”

“If it pleases his majesty, yes.” The chamberlain turned and barked, “The rest of you, be off about your business!”

The members of the caravan set their beasts in motion and streamed by. Saleh and Murad deliberately avoided looking at their erstwhile companions, while others, including Muhammad and Hussayn Kasem, called friendly farewells and good wishes. The Kasems had already given Ross instructions on how to find their house in Bokhara, along with solemn assurances that they would help his mission in any way they could.

Within a few minutes Ross and Juliet were alone with the royal officers. As they settled down for a picnic under the poplars, Ross asked, “My lord chamberlain, surely you have heard what brings me to Bokhara. Is my brother, the British Major Cameron, still numbered among the living?”

The chamberlain’s dark eyes became opaque. “That is a subject that you must discuss with the highest. I am but an ignorant servant.” Opening a jug, he said, “Especially for you, we have brought tea with milk and sugar. That is the English fashion, is that not so?”

“Indeed it is. Once more I am flattered by your courtesy.”

It was the best meal Ross had had in weeks, and having just received a stay of execution, he enjoyed it thoroughly. Juliet also ate well, though she said nothing. She was thoroughly into her role of dark, enigmatic desert marauder, her eyes darting around warily, as if expecting attack. After snatching her food, she hunkered down a little apart from the others to eat.

The Bokharans watched with interest as she raised food to her mouth behind her veil. One of the deputy chamberlains said to the other in Uzbek, “That slave is a wild one. The ferengi is lucky the fellow has not taken his gold and perhaps his life.”

Ross ignored the comment; he had decided to use his fluent Persian so that he could communicate freely with Bokharan officials, but to conceal his knowledge of Uzbek on the chance that he might overhear useful comments by men who thought that he did not understand. Even if the comments weren’t useful, they could be amusing, like the one he had just heard.

As they finished the meal, the grand chamberlain said, “Your slave is a Targui of the Sahara, is he not? Once or twice I have seen one of his tribe in Bokhara.”

“Aye, but he is a servant, not a slave. Among his own people, he is of high rank. He serves me only as long as it pleases him.” Ross bit into a ripe, juicy date. “The Tuareg are great thieves. In their own language, the words ”to plunder‘ and “to be free’ mean the same thing. But Jalal usually does what I ask, and he’s good with camels.”

“Does he speak or understand Persian?”

“A little, I think.” Ross gave a bored shrug, clearly indicating how tedious he found the topic of his servant. “It is hard to tell just how much he understands.”

“The lad has unusual gray eyes, like a Baluchi,” the chamberlain said reflectively, his gaze still on Juliet. “It is said that the Tuareg are a handsome race.”

“The women, who go unveiled, are very handsome. Of Jalal himself, I cannot say, for I have never seen his face.”

Curiosity finally satisfied, the chamberlain rose to his feet. “And now, Lord Khilburn, we will ride to Bokhara.”

The Silk Road had turned Bokhara into the richest oasis in Central Asia, an arrogant citadel guarded by the perilous deserts that surrounded it. The city had not changed in the years since Ross’s first visit; he doubted that its massive walls and lofty watchtowers had changed in centuries.

When they reached the giant gateway that was the western approach to the city, Ross halted his camel, preparatory to dismounting. The chamberlain frowned. “Why are you stopping?”

Ross raised his eyebrows. “Is it not forbidden for unbelievers to ride in the city?”

“Usually, but exceptions are made for those in the amir’s favor,” the chamberlain said. “Of course you will have to dismount when we reach the royal palace. Even I will, for only the amir and his grandees may ride within the palace walls.”

Ross nodded and set Julietta in motion again. He and Alex Burnes had had not only to put aside their mounts inside the city but also to change to humbler garments, since they were infidels. Because they were traveling as private individuals rather than as representatives of the British government, they had quietly obeyed all local customs so that they would not attract unwelcome attention.

The city skyline was dominated by minarets and domes. Bokhara was one of the holy cities of Islam, and it was said that a good Muslim could pray in a different mosque every day of the year. Ross and Burnes had decided that that was an exaggeration, but certainly there were a couple of hundred mosques and dozens of religious colleges.

On this journey it was not possible to avoid attention. The wide street that led from the entry gate to the palace teemed with people who stopped to stare at Ross, with more emerging onto their flat rooftops to see him. A hum of comments about his clothing, coloring, and general foreignness arose from the watchers. As on the trip across the Kara Kum, the general tone was more curious than hostile. Once a young water carrier who had pressed against a wall to let the riders pass called out cheerfully, “Salaam Aleikum!”

Ross smiled and lifted his hand. “And peace be unto you.”

The great public square in front of the royal palace was called the Registan. Ross remembered it from his previous trip, for the square was the heart of the city, and it churned and buzzed during all the daylight hours. In the center was a great market with canopies shading sellers of fruit, tea, and goods from all over Asia, but most of the throng were present to talk, to see and be seen.

The diversity of the crowd was incredible. The majority were either oriental-eyed Uzbeks from Bokhara’s ruling class or people of Persian descent, who were called Tadjiks when they lived in Turkestan. However, virtually every other race of Asia was also represented, from Hindus to Uighars to Chinese. The few women present rode astride like men, their bodies invisible under black horsehair veils that covered them from head to foot.

Two sides of the Registan were flanked by
medressehs,
religious colleges, and another side was bounded by a great tree-shaded fountain. But it was the vast thousand-year-old bulk of the royal palace that dominated; called the Ark, it loomed threateningly over the rest of the square.