SILK AND SECRETS (3 page)

Speaking quickly to fill the silence, she said, “I’ve given up trying to get any help from the embassy here. I’ve thought of going to London and raising interest among the British people, but time is precious and it would take months to get results. I just don’t know what to do.”

Turning to face her, he said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but the best course of action is to accept that there is nothing you
can
do. As Canning said, Ian had to have known the risks of going to Bokhara. The odds are about even whether a European who visits there will be welcomed or killed, and I don’t think an officer bearing a request from the British government would have been welcomed, no matter how diplomatic he was.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. After a long speculative pause she said, “Do you know, I have been so distracted that I forgot that you went to Bokhara with Lieutenant Burnes several years ago. I’ve wondered why you haven’t published an account, as you have with your other journeys.”

“Alex Burnes was the leader of the expedition, and his own book said everything that needed to be said. Besides, at the time I was more interested in traveling through the Sahara than going home and writing.” Ross caught her gaze with his, then said slowly, every word emphasized, “It is precisely because I have been to Bokhara that I think the situation is hopeless. The amir is a whimsical man who believes that the desert will protect him from all reprisals. He would not have hesitated to order the execution of an inconvenient or irritating European prisoner.”

He saw the exact moment when Jean Cameron’s weary frustration turned to excitement. “Ross, you are one of the few Englishmen who has actually been to Bokhara,” she said eagerly. “Will you go there now to learn what has happened to Ian? If he is alive, you can ask for his release. And if not…” She gave a shuddering sigh. “It is better to know for sure than to spend the rest of my life wondering.”

So Jean was not as confident that Ian was alive as she pretended. Ross felt deeply sad for her, but that did not alter the facts. He had seen sudden death in too many places to believe in miracles. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go. With my brother’s death, I am needed back in England. Having just canceled my plans to go to Arabia, I can hardly jaunt off to Bokhara. It would be one thing if such a journey would serve any useful purpose, but it wouldn’t. One way or another, Ian’s fate has surely been decided long since.”

“But going there
will
serve a useful purpose,” she argued. “And not just for me. Ian is betrothed to an English girl in India, the daughter of his colonel. How do you think she feels, not knowing if he is dead or alive?”

Until now Ross had kept his equilibrium, but Jean’s words struck deep. “I’m sure that she feels as if she is in hell,” he said harshly. “No one would know that better than I. But my obligation to my family must come first.”

Her face colored, but she did not give up. “Please, Ross,” she said softly. “I am begging you to do this. I could not survive the loss of another of my children.”

In her intensity, for a moment she reminded him unbearably of Juliet. Ross spun away and stalked angrily across the room. Over the years he had felt many things about his failed marriage: grief, fury, and endless despairing questions about why Juliet had left him. And inevitably there had also been guilt as he wondered what nameless crime he had committed that had sent his young wife flying away to bury herself in a distant land. If they had not married, she would never have felt the need to declare her independence in such catastrophic fashion.

He and his mother-in-law had never discussed the subject, but he was sure that she knew how much he blamed himself for what had happened. And now Jean was using that knowledge to coerce him into undertaking a dangerous, futile mission.

He stopped and stared out the window, where the slanting rays of the late-afternoon sun illuminated an exotic un-English scene of domes and minarets. Deliberately he studied the window construction as he fought to regain control of his emotions. Unlike Turkish houses, there were glass panes to keep out the winter air. Several inches beyond the glass, a gracefully shaped iron grille served as both decoration and protection in case a local mob ever decided to direct its anger at the infidels.

The fragile foreign glass was a fitting symbol of the British presence in Asia. A foreigner could die a thousand ways here: of disease, from fierce heat or cold or thirst, at the hands of robbers or an angry mob. Ross had risked all those things many times before, but now he owed it to his parents to have more care for his life.

As his anger faded, he released the breath he had been holding. In truth, having just left England, he had little desire to return so soon. And no matter how hard he worked to fulfill his obligations to his family, ultimately he would fail because of the foolish, headstrong marriage he had made when only twenty-one years old. As long as Juliet lived, he would be unable to produce an heir to carry on the Carlisle name. Yet in spite of everything, he could not wish her dead merely so he could take a second wife and perform his joyless duty. A pity that his older brother had fathered only girls.

Ross had failed his wife and failed his family; perhaps, he thought wearily, he might find some absolution by doing what Jean Cameron was asking of him. There were only two real drawbacks to his going to Bokhara. If he died, it would be very hard on his parents; and if his father died during the extra months he was away from England, it would be very hard on Ross. But by now he was an expert at living with guilt.

He turned and leaned back against the window frame, arms crossed on his chest. “You’re a ruthless woman, Jean,” he said with rueful resignation. “You know that I can’t refuse when you ask like that.”

For a moment she shut her eyes to disguise sudden tears of relief. “I do know that, and it is no credit to my sense of honor that I’m willing to take whatever advantage I can,” she said in a shaky voice. “But I would not ask this of you if I thought it would cost you your life.”

“I wish I shared your optimism,” he said dryly. “I was fortunate to visit Bokhara once and live to tell the tale. Going a second time is definitely pushing my luck.”

“You will come back safely,” she said, refusing to let his words tarnish her hope. “Not only that, I have a strong feeling that this mission will benefit not just Ian, but you as well.”

He raised his brows sardonically. “If you recall, it was just such a feeling that led you to believe that Juliet and I were made for each other, though everyone else was doubtful. If you had not given permission, we could not have married and a great deal of grief would have been avoided. I’m not blaming you for doing what Juliet and I both wanted, but forgive me if I am not convinced of the reliability of maternal intuition.”

Her gaze slid away from his. “I still don’t understand what went wrong,” she said in a small voice. “You and Juliet seemed so right for each other. Even now, in my heart I cannot feel that it was wrong for you to marry.”

“God preserve us from the ghosties, ghoulies, long-legged things that go thump in the night, and unscrupulous Scotswomen with imperfect intuition,” Ross said, misquoting the old Scottish prayer, but his tone was affectionate. If he had a child, he would doubtless be as ruthless as Jean in trying to protect it. He crossed the room and put one hand on her shoulder. “I swear that I’ll do my best to learn what happened to Ian, and if possible, bring him home.”

He did not say aloud that the greatest success he could imagine would be returning with Ian’s bones.

Northeastern Persia April 1841

Ross lifted the waterskin from behind his saddle and sipped a small mouthful, just enough to cut the dust in his mouth, then slung it back in place. The high plateau of northeastern Persia was cold, dry, and desolate, though it was paradise compared to the Kara Kum desert, which they should reach in another day.

In spite of Ross’s best efforts at speed, over three months had passed since Jean Cameron had persuaded him to go to Bokhara. There had been a maddening fortnight in Constantinople while he prepared for the journey. He had already been well-supplied with everything he might need, from compasses and a spyglass to gift items like Arabic translations of
Robinson Crusoe,
and routine travel documents like passports had been no problem. The delays had lain in getting letters of introduction from influential Ottoman officials. Ambassador Canning had been very helpful with that, even though he thoroughly disapproved of Ross’s mission.

The fruits of their labors were now sewn into Ross’s coat. He had letters from the sultan of the Ottoman Empire and the reis effendi, who was the minister of state for foreign affairs. Probably even more valuable were the introductions from the Sheik Islam, who was the highest Muslim mullah, or priest, in Constantinople. The letters were directed to a variety of influential men, including the amir and mullahs of Bokhara. Ross had enough experience of this part of the world to realize that such letters could save his life, but he had still been impatient during the length of time it had taken to acquire them.

Finally he had been able to leave, taking a steamer along the Black Sea to Trebizond. From there he had set off overland, then been immobilized by blizzards for almost three weeks high in the Turkish mountains at Erzurum. The only bright spot was that a party of Uzbek merchants was among the other stranded travelers. Ross had used the delay to polish his knowledge of Uzbeki, for that was the principal language of Bokhara. Since his Persian was already fluent, Ross was now linguistically as well prepared as possible.

After the snow had melted enough to resume traveling, it had taken another three weeks to reach Teheran, where he stayed at the British embassy and discussed the situation with Sir John McNeill, the ambassador. McNeill had heard enough rumors to be convinced that Ian Cameron was dead, but he also recounted a story about a high Bokharan official who had supposedly been executed, only to reappear after five years in the amir’s prison. The only conclusion Ross could draw was that he would never learn the truth without going to Bokhara himself.

After collecting more letters from the shah and his prime minister, Ross had hired two Persians, Murad and Allahdad, to act as guides and servants. The nearly six hundred miles between Teheran and Meshed had been covered without major incident. As a ferengi Ross always attracted considerable attention, but he was used to that. The word “ferengi” dated back to the Crusades. Originally just the Arabic pronunciation of Frank, in time the term had come to mean all Europeans, and over the years Ross had been called “ferengi” with every nuance from curiosity to insult.

Now only five hundred miles remained until he reached his destination. The rest of the journey should take about a month, but it was the most dangerous part of the route, for they must cross the Kara Kum, the Black Sands, a desert with far too little water and far too many marauding Turkoman nomads.

As Ross kept a wary eye on the tawny, broken hills around them, Allahdad slowed his mount so they were riding side by side. “We should have waited in Meshed for another caravan, Khilburn,” he said with gloomy relish. “It is not safe for three men to ride alone. The Allamans, the Turkoman bandits, shall capture us.” He spat on the ground. “They are mansellers, a disgrace to the faith. They shall sell Murad and I as slaves in Bokhara. You, perhaps, they will kill, for you are a ferengi.”

Ross suppressed a sigh; they had had this conversation a dozen times since leaving Meshed. “We shall overtake the caravan at Sarakhs, if not before then,” he said firmly. “If raiders pursue us, we shall outrun them. Did I not buy us the finest horses in Teheran?”

Allahdad examined the three mounts, plus the pack-horse Ross was leading. “They are fine beasts,” he admitted with a gusty sigh. “But the Turkomans are born to the saddle. Unlike honest folk, they live only to plunder. We shall never escape them.”

As usual, Ross ended the discussion by saying, “They may not come. If they do, we shall fly. And if it is written that we shall be taken as slaves, so be it.”

“So be it,” Allahdad echoed mournfully.

The chief of the fortress of Serevan was pacing the walls, watching the plains below with keen eyes, when the young shepherd arrived with news that he thought might be of interest.

After bowing deeply, the youth said, “Guli Sarahi, this morning I saw three travelers going east on the Bir Bala road. They are alone, not part of a caravan.”

“They are fools to travel this land with so little strength,” was the dispassionate answer. “And doubly fools to do it so close to the frontier.”

“You speak truly, Guli Sarahi,” the shepherd agreed. “But there is a ferengi, a European, with them. Doubtless it is his foolishness that leads them.”

“Do you know exactly where they are?”

“By now they must be nearing the small salt lake,” the shepherd said. “This morning I heard from a friend of my cousin that his uncle saw a band of Turkomans yesterday.”

The chief frowned, then dismissed the shepherd with the silver coin the youth had been hoping for. For several minutes Guli Sarahi regarded the horizon thoughtfully.

So there was a ferengi, and a stupid one, on the Bir Bala road. Something must be done about that.

As the terrain became rougher, Ross increased his alertness, for it would be easy for raiders to approach dangerously close. If, indeed, there were any Turkomans in the vicinity; given the poverty of this frontier country, it hardly seemed worth a bandit’s time. He glanced at the barren hills, thinking that there should be more signs of human habitation, then studied the track, which did not look as if it was used often. “Murad, how far is it to the next village?”

“Perhaps two hours, Khilburn,” the young Persian said uneasily. “If this is the true road. The winter has been hard and the hills do not look the same.”

Correctly interpreting the remark to mean that they were lost again, Ross almost groaned aloud. So much for Murad’s assurances in Teheran that he knew every rock and shrub in eastern Persia. If Ross himself hadn’t kept a sharp eye on his map and his compass, they would have been in Baghdad by now. Dryly he suggested, “Perhaps we should retrace our path until the hills begin to look familiar.”