SILK AND SECRETS (44 page)

The hope and despair in that unsteady voice nearly broke Ross’s heart. Grimly he suppressed the reaction, for there was no time for emotion. Nor was this the time to mention Juliet, whose presence might strain Ian’s belief to the breaking point. Lightly he said, “None other. Credit goes to your mother, who wouldn’t accept that you were dead. But now we must both get out of here before they start wondering what’s taking so long.”

He slipped his free arm under Ian’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. “I’m pretending to be a royal chamberlain—all you have to do is keep quiet and pretend you don’t know me.”

Ian said, “Wait. Must take this.” He bent over and lifted a rectangular object wrapped in a dirty rag, then peeled off the fabric to reveal a small leather-bound book with Cyrillic lettering on the cover. As he slid it into the pocket of his ragged trousers, he explained, “Pyotr Andreyovich’s Bible. Promised I’d send it to his family if… if I ever got out.” His face suddenly twisted and he began shaking.

Ignoring Ian’s filthy state, Ross wrapped an arm around him, hoping that the primitive comfort of touch would pull the other man back from his shattering despair. “You’ll get out, I swear it,” he said softly. “Just come with me and in a few minutes you’ll be free. Not out of danger yet, but free.”

When Ian’s trembling had eased, Ross looped the rope under his arms, then shouted up in Uzbek, “Pull him up! And don’t be afraid, you sons of dogs. He won’t hurt you now.”

The rope tightened across Ian’s chest, then lifted him into the air. A minute later he was pulled over to solid ground.

Ross was alone in the Black Well. Though he knew it was illusion, the dank stone walls seemed to be moving inward. Fiercely he told himself not to be a fool, but when a faint rustling sounded behind him, he whirled instinctively, his torch causing grotesque shadows to flare in wild, threatening patterns.

What if the lieutenant discovered the deception and left him here? How long would it be until the torch burned out, leaving him to the demons of the dark? His heart began beating faster. If Murad and Juliet were also captured, who in the distant world would ever learn or care what had become of Ross Carlisle?

Savagely he bit his lip, using the immediacy of pain to stem the rising flood of fear. In the space of another heartbeat he was himself again, but the brief moments of panic were enough to give him a sense of what it was like to be a prisoner here. It was a tribute to Ian’s strength that he had had enough spirit left to attack what he thought was another tormentor.

The rope suddenly dropped down on the floor beside Ross; it was one of the most welcome sights he had ever seen. Rather than put it around his chest, he stepped into the loop and grasped the line higher up so he could be lifted in a standing position and get out of this abominable cell a few seconds sooner.

It took the combined strength of both jailers and Murad to raise Ross’s weight. After swinging to the floor of the chamber and stepping off the rope, he turned and threw the torch into the noisome depths of the Well, hoping it would incinerate some sheep ticks.

Murad was staring at Ian, who leaned against the wall, eye closed and wrists tied with cruel tightness as a parting present from the amir’s men. In the stronger light, he looked worse than he had below. When Ross turned away from the dungeon, Murad gave him a worried glance. Ross knew exactly what the young Persian was thinking: how on earth were they going to get someone in Ian’s condition across the Kara Kum?

That was another thing Ross refused to worry about just now. Brusquely he said, “Come. I’ve wasted enough time here.”

Obediently the lieutenant turned and led the way out, Ross right behind him, while Murad and the squat jailer took Ian’s arms to help him up the narrow stairs. In the duty officer’s cubicle, the lieutenant asked for a receipt for the prisoner. Ross wrote one impatiently, his skin crawling with his desire to get away before something went wrong. It seemed that they had been inside forever, and much remained to be done before dawn.

But the courtyard was still dark and quiet when they went outside to where Juliet waited with their horses. Murad helped Ian to the fourth mount and boosted him into the saddle, then cut his wrists free so he could hold on to the horn.

Juliet began staring at the prisoner as soon as he came down the steps, but even after Ian was mounted she was unable to recognize her brother. Frowning, she glanced a question at Ross. He gave a slight nod and swung onto his horse.

They rode out, still unchallenged. Now they must cross the city to an empty house, where they would have an hour or so to prepare to join the caravan that was assembling now. But first they must reach the safe house without attracting dangerous notice. Silently they rode as far as the deserted bazaar where Murad had met them, then turned their mounts through the arches into the sheltered interior.

While Murad stationed himself by the entrance to watch the street, Juliet brought her horse up to Ross. “Is he really Ian?” she asked in a voice tight with tension.

“Definitely,” Ross reassured her. “He doesn’t know yet that you’re here. I thought it was more than he could absorb at once.”

Juliet didn’t wait to hear more. She spurred her horse over to her brother, calling softly, “Ian, it’s Juliet.”

Though he had been slumped forward over his saddle horn, he lifted his head on hearing her words. The lamp cruelly lit his haggard face and ruined eye, but after a moment of shock, recognition lightened his expression. “My God, Juliet. I should have known that my incorrigible little sister was involved.” Amazingly, a faint, familiar trace of humor could be heard in his rusty voice. “The mustache doesn’t do a damned thing for you.”

Laughing and crying, she hugged her brother, almost pulling him from his horse in the process. It seemed impossible that it was really Ian, after so many tears and dashed hopes. He hugged her back, but they were not allowed long for a reunion. Ross said quietly, “We must go now. Juliet, get the chapan for Ian.”

Returned to awareness of their situation, she released her brother and pulled a dark coat from her saddlebag, then helped him put it on. After it had been loosely belted in place, Ross produced a length of white muslin and wound a hasty turban around Ian’s head, then examined the results.

Dryly Ian said, “I imagine that I still look dreadful.”

“True,” Ross agreed, “but much less conspicuous than a shirtless man with hair and beard like a desert hermit. This will do until we get across the city.”

Ross went over to Murad and was about to speak when the young Persian suddenly waved in a frantic signal to keep quiet. After dismounting from his horse, Ross went quietly to the archway to see what the problem was.

Galloping toward them were half a dozen soldiers, and the leader’s lantern showed the grim face of Yawer Shahid Mahmud.

For a moment Ross stood stock-still, for it seemed as if the riders were coming straight toward them. He was reaching into his chapan for his pistol when the group swept by in a thunder of hooves, heading toward the prison.

Damnation, how had Shahid gotten on their track so quickly? Ross swung into his saddle and motioned the others into the street. Turning away from the prison, they set off through the dark streets; the sooner they left the city, the better.

The lieutenant at the prison had already been bullied enough for one night and was not enthusiastic about lending men to Shahid Mahmud. However, he was outranked and outshouted, so grudgingly he allowed the yawer to take three soldiers.

Mission accomplished, Shahid turned to leave. As he did, he said more to himself than the other officer, “That ferengi will never get out of Bokhara alive.”

The lieutenant said, “Saadi Khan has probably already executed the ferengi. At least, he seemed anxious to do so.”

Shahid swung back, suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”

Several confused minutes passed before it was established that two different ferengis were under discussion. On hearing that a royal chamberlain had taken the foreigner from the Black Well, Shahid said suspiciously, “This chamberlain—describe him.”

The lieutenant shrugged. “Saadi Khan was taller than you, but apart from his height, there was nothing special about him. Dark beard and eyes, perhaps thirty years old.” He thought a moment. “Foreign-born, I think. He spoke Uzbek with a slight accent. Might have been Persian or Afghan.”

“He spoke Uzbek?” Shahid frowned, thinking that the removal of the prisoner tonight must have been coincidence. Then a horrible thought struck him; what if Khilburn
did
know Uzbek? He could have been listening to everything said around him and laughing at his captors the whole time. Beards could be faked, certainly well enough to deceive an imbecile like this lieutenant. And Shahid did not know of any royal chamberlains named Saadi Khan. “Did the fellow have a youth with him, perhaps wearing a dark veil across his face?”

“There was a young man with him, but he wasn’t veiled.”

Shahid began swearing under his breath, producing a steady monotone of curses. Even without proof, he was sure that Khilburn and his damned Targui had come here and removed the ferengi spy from the very shadow of the royal palace.

Spinning on his heel, he barked at his new recruits, “Come. We must go to the city gates. I’ll get those bastards if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

Ross was not sure who owned the empty house, but they owed the use of it to Hussayn Kasem; dragging Muhammad out of the flooded wadi had certainly proved to be one of the best day’s work Ross had ever done. Even when the news about Ian forced him and Juliet to alter their plans, Hussayn had responded with grace and efficiency, offering them extra mounts and the use of this house so that they could clean up the prisoner, if they were successful in their rescue mission.

When they reached the safe house, the horses barely paused long enough to allow Ross and Ian to dismount before Juliet and Murad rode off to a nearby stable owned by the Kasem family. As part of the revised plan, they would now trade the horses for a camel and two donkeys, which they would ride when they joined the caravan and rode through the city gate.

Ross had chosen to act as valet and nursemaid to Ian, guessing that his brother-in-law would prefer his help to that of Murad or Juliet. Ian seemed barely conscious as he was guided across the courtyard and into the small building, but once they were inside, he said with some vigor, “I’d trade my immortal soul to be clean. Is that possible?”

“It should be. We tried to supply everything that a newly liberated prisoner might need.” Ross unshielded the lamp and checked the two back rooms of the house. Over his shoulder he said, “There’s a laundry tub here, with buckets of water, soap, and towels. Sorry it isn’t possible to heat the water.”

“Too much luxury might be fatal in my present condition,” Ian said as he made his way into the back room. “I think that the very worst aspect of that hellhole was the filth.”

The tub was large enough for Ian to sit down in the water, though space was tight. After stripping off his own chapan, Ross wordlessly helped his friend scrub away the accumulated grime. Ian’s hair had to be soaped and rinsed three times before the distinctive auburn color, several shades darker than Juliet’s, was recognizable.

As Ian clambered out of the laundry tub, Ross observed, “You look remarkably better than you did an hour ago.”

Ian gave a faint ghostlike smile. “I feel remarkably better, though there is considerable room for improvement.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple prominent in his thin neck. “I keep thinking that this is a dream and I’m going to wake up soon.”

Guessing that Ian’s mental state was as fragile as his physical one, Ross once more opted for lightness. “I can’t imagine that your dreams would be so disrespectful to my exalted rank that you would choose a marquess for a bath attendant.”

Ian’s gaze sharpened. “Your brother died without an heir?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Ross lifted a towel and started drying the other man. “Do you think you can stay in a saddle? Once we get outside the city, we’re going to switch to some Turkoman horses, then ride for Persia as fast as we can.”

“Nice of you to ask if I can manage, but it sounds as if sitting around and waiting for me to recuperate would not be a wise choice. Don’t worry, I’m stronger than I look. If worse comes to worst, tie me on the horse. And if it looks like we might be captured…” Ian’s breath roughened and his muscles tensed. “Promise that you’ll kill me if that happens.”

Appalled, Ross opened his mouth to protest, but Ian grabbed his arm, the bony fingers like a vise.
“Promise me!”

Like a dank wind from the grave, Ross remembered those moments when he had been alone in the Black Well; he couldn’t blame Ian for preferring death. With effort, he kept his voice steady as he said, “I promise, but I don’t think it will come to that.” As he finished the drying, he continued, “Sit down. You need food and some treatment for those sores.”

Ian sank down on the uncushioned divan. “You thought of everything.”

“If we didn’t, it wasn’t for lack of trying.” Knowing that a man who had been on sparse rations for months would have trouble digesting meat, Ross had asked that a rice dish be left in the house. Across the room, a straw basket held two pottery crocks, one of which contained a pilaf of rice mixed with bits of chicken, vegetables, and yogurt. There was also a jug of tea, packed in straw to keep it warm. Ross handed the tea and crock of rice to Ian. “Don’t make yourself ill, but try to get some of this down. You’re going to need your strength.”

“It’s been months since I felt hungry. I think my stomach gave up from sheer lack of use.” Ian rolled a bite-size ball of rice, then popped it into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of tea. “How the devil did you and Juliet find me?”

While Ian ate, Ross began spreading salve on his brother-in-law’s sores. They were ugly, and some might scar, but all were superficial. As he worked, he gave a brief summary of what Juliet had been doing for the last dozen years, then went on to describe how the two of them had come to Bokhara.