There was also another reason for Carolyn’s sojourn into the underworld. Late in the night word had come to her from a trusted palace guard that an assassin had made an attempt on the life of the Khan. She was dumbfounded to hear it had been Karim; the aging trader must have taken leave of his wits, she was sure. Why else would he have placed so much in jeopardy for such selfish motives? Didn’t he realize what he had done? The attempt had most certainly not been part of the Panther’s scheme to regain Samarkand. It was a foolhardy, insane act. Because of him all plans were in peril. Carolyn had immediately sent word to the Stronghold, risking her own safety in order to warn Tariq and Sharon of the grave turn of events.
Damn his eyes! she thought. Karim may have ruined everything. Everything — at a time when we’re so close.
The fool would be made to talk — that was a certainty; and Carolyn found herself thankful that Karim had little to tell. In truth he knew nothing about Kazir plans, except for the time he had lured Mufiqua to his home. But even that was too much. Once he talked, Amar was certain of arrest, thus provoking even more arrests as the Khan would try to isolate the enemy agents within the Samarkand palace. One by one they would find themselves in mortal danger, from the lowest slave or servant right up to Hezekiah, posing as the soothsayer, and, should matters really get out of control, to the saya herself. Were it within her power, she would have murdered Karim right here and now, even if it meant compromising her own position. Silence the dealer forever. But all this was not in her power, nor even in her authority as leader of the Stronghold. Today she hoped to get a fleeting glimpse of Karim, mark his cell, number his guards, then wait for opportunity. Hence, the carrier pigeons that had flown tonight bore an urgent and dire message: the Night of Atonement must be moved up, carried out quickly no matter what the risk. Waiting was too precarious — for, should Karim crack, the palace and the city would be placed under marshal law, with such security that everything would be lost.
The dungeon guards led them down the final corridor to Krishna’s private quarters, the same stench-ridden chamber that Khalkali had visited and where he had made his pact. Yes, Carolyn knew about that as well, she thought with some satisfaction. A few hours alone with a palace harlot had set to wagging the tongue of a sentry. And then there had been Lina. Ah, how much Carolyn had come to count upon that girl’s quick-thinking brain. Lina had many qualities, many uses. Alone in Khalkali’s bed she’d made the savage more drunk than he was accustomed to, and after climaxing their love-making, it had been easy to coax the swaggering son of Kabul into boasting about the new agreement. Carolyn had listened to Lina recount the news but had neither been troubled nor perturbed by it. On the contrary. If anything, she’d been pleased. Let the brothers divide among themselves, let them turn against each other. In the end this would serve the Kazir purpose. Thus, it had been a clever calculation for her to have another of the prostitutes, one of Niko’s favorites, sweetly whisper of it in his ear, hoping it would pass eventually to Tupol, and maybe Jamuga as well. It was also her hope that these three might then form a new alliance of their own, isolating both the drug-addicted Mufiqua and the brooding, mistrustful Temugin, who, since Gamal’s untimely death, had yet to venture forth out of his rooms.
Now, though, all these careful plans would have to undergo drastic change. Karim had stupidly seen to that. Damn his eyes! And for the moment at least not even Lina could be told, for even she might turn against Carolyn, if it could help her father.
Hulking shadows crisscrossed the lime walls as Krishna stood as she entered his quarters. His frame seemed awesome to the saya, a veritable Goliath, and she shuddered at the unpleasant thought of anyone having to willingly bed with him as the concubine with her was about to do.
Carolyn bowed, said, “Lord Krishna, I have brought the woman for your pleasure.”
Krishna wiped a greasy hand over his mouth, let his eyes pour up and down the figure of the dark-skinned concubine. “You have selected well, overseer. Go. Call back for this one at dawn.”
The whore did her best not to appear frightened by this monster of a man. At Krishna’s command a slave came into the room and gave the prostitute a silk gown. The girl took it in her slim hands, stood frozen. “Put it on,” growled the chancellor. He indicated a black abyss of an adjoining chamber. The whore drew a deep breath, tried to smile at the beast, then glanced forlornly to the overseer as she disappeared behind the soiled curtain.
“I said you can go,” Krishna said dryly.
Carolyn wanted to stall for time, find some way to make him tell her the whereabouts of the assassin. It wasn’t necessary. A wailing scream made her flesh crawl as though a huge spider were on her. Krishna saw her discomfort and laughed loudly. “No reason to shiver, Overseer,” he told her. “It’s only the new arrival.” Another scream, worse than the last; perspiration beaded Carolyn’s palms.
“Who...who is he, my lord?” she managed to ask.
Krishna scratched at his groin, ran a finger across his throat in imitation of a knife. “The would-be murderer of the Khan,” he answered. “Carried with him a poison-edged blade. Poor bugger; he’d have been smarter to use it on himself.” And as if to add weight to his words, Karim screamed a third time, his wail such a horrid shriek that Krishna himself winced.
Poor devil, thought Carolyn. Death at my hand would be a blessing. Then to the chancellor, she said, “I hope you plan on making him suffer for his deed.”
With a mirthless chuckle, Krishna looked deeply into her eyes and said, “A very long time, Overseer. He might even outlive you and me. Right now we’re only toying with him. Sticking hot coals and the like under his feet. Plucking out the hairs on his legs one at a time...”
Carolyn was sickened but she forced a smile, the same sadistic kind of smile that Krishna wore. The cruel chancellor regarded her for a long moment, then said, “Would you like to see my handiwork? But perhaps it’s not for a woman’s eyes. Not for the eyes of one as lovely as you.”
The saya swallowed, met his gaze. “I would consider it an honor, my lord.”
Krishna laughed. He looked to the sentry, mindful of the girl waiting for him. “Take the overseer for a look,” he commanded. “Not too long, mind you. Just enough so she can see how we repay treachery against the Khan.”
The soldier, as much a sadist as his master, bowed stiffly and grinned. “This way, mistress.”
The heavy door shut, Krishna dousing the oil lamp and returning to his whore. Grim, maniacal laughter split the air as the guard took the lead and gestured for Carolyn to follow. They marched gloomily down the passage, unmindful of the reeking pools at their feet. Soon there were cells on either side, thick-barred prisons, iron-gated, with walls of solid granite. By the flickering flames of torches set randomly along the corridor walls, she was able to catch glimpses of the occupants within. It was ghastly, the most shameful and terrible thing she had ever seen: men and women, some missing limbs, others blinded, garbed in rags, bodies festering with sores. Buckets of slop sat in muck inside the cells, filled with slimy water, thick with roaches and vermin. Some of the prisoners stared as she passed, others sat meekly, stooped and bowed, gazing mindlessly into distant space. Still others called out after her; some laughed, some taunted, some mistook her for a new arrival. All, though, even those toothlessly grinning, watched with the same pleading on their skeletal faces. Their frames were like sticks, bellies bloated from starvation, hair fallen from their heads, hands twisted and mangled from torture.
Dear Allah, why do you let them survive? Better they be dead! All of them.
Realizing her plight, the guard looked over his shoulder at her and said, “There’s worse than this, mistress. Far worse. These are the good ones, the ones who’ve behaved, you might say.”
Worse? Worse than this? It wasn’t possible! Or was it?
Her companion abruptly stopped. A barred door groaned open and three grim torturers walked out into the passage. They stared at Carolyn, one mumbled to the guard besi
de her, “’Ad enough for today, ’e’s ’ad. ’Morrow we be back.” Then they turned and left, making sure the door was relocked. Not that the poor bastard inside could have fled in any case. Carolyn grasped at the bars and stuck her face between the slats. There, crumbled on muck and vomit, was Karim, or what was left of him, A small charcoal fire dimly burned in a brazier. Karim’s bare feet were swollen, pus-filled lumps grossly bulging over his toes and ankles, halfway up his calves. He was semiconscious, on the border of delirium. Her eyes stared blankly at him, and his own caught the look of horror. For just an instant there seemed recognition. Then it was gone; Karim moaned, rolled over, blacked out.
“All right now, mistress,” said the guard. “You’ve had your look. Better we go.”
Carolyn numbly nodded. She paid no attention to the prisoners this time as they walked the long way out, but as they came to the final hallway, the one that led directly in front of Krishna’s quarters, she nearly fainted at what she saw. Another new prisoner was being hauled into the dungeons, a man wounded and bandaged but who even so walked with an arrogant defiance. The saya gasped at sight of him, while he, meanwhile, pretended not to have seen her.
It was Roskovitch.
Chapter Eighteen
Naked but for a soiled covering around his loins, Karim the trader lifted his head and peered about agonizingly at his cell. His hair and beard were matted, caked with congealed blood. His lower lip ballooned out more than twice its normal size, purpled, festered with pus-laden blisters. With great effort he dipped a cupped hand into the dregs of the water bucket placed beside him, forced a splash of the slimy liquid into his mouth and groaned. The straw at his feet was infested with roaches. The trader forced himself up, his back against the jagged, damp wall. Insects were crawling between his toes, over his legs. Karim did not have the strength to flick them off. A large welt rising from his cheekbone had almost shut his left eye; the eye watered incessantly, spewing pus and a thick, colorless humor.
The once-gentle trader shuddered at the memory of his last interrogation. When had it been? An hour ago — or yesterday? How long had he been down here like this? Time had no meaning down within the bowels of the Khan’s evil dungeons. Was it daylight, or was it night? Did a hot sun blaze outside or did stars weave a tapestry across the sky? Karim had no way of knowing. Here, it was always black and bleak, silent and forlorn, his solitude broken on occasion by some hideous scream echoing from another unknown cell where another unknown human being shared his grim fate.
Karim had told them nothing. Not even when the towering chancellor himself had supervised the torture. Oh, they’d been clever, these bestial Huns, giving him food and false promises of medical attention, while riddling his flesh with burning coals and white-hot needles. Snickering, they allowed him to slip into blissful unconsciousness, then revived him and began the questioning again.
“How did you gain entry inside the palace? Who are your contacts within the walls?”
Karim had looked dismally into the shadowed faces and remained silent, his ultimate defiance.
“Which masters do you serve?” asked a soft-spoken voice, purposely honeyed to veil the venom behind it. Again Karim had not responded. Then he was stretched out, legs spread-eagle, hands bound behind his head with dampened leather cord that tightened the more he squirmed. A flaming, blue-hot poker had hissed and nudged his belly. His body hairs curled and smoldered, smoke rising from the singed flesh. When they had branded him, the stench of burning meat stank. He remembered his cry, how his mouth had twisted, a mournful sob wrenched helplessly from his gut. A bucket of latrine water had brought him around. The voices were persistent. “Who are your contacts? Who was your accomplice? Name the traitor, gain your freedom...”
Karim had cried before them, insisting he’d acted alone, out of honor. His inquisitors had sneered, rolled him over, forced him to his knees and lashed him with knotted bullwhips, laughing as he howled.
Then the dreaded bull of a chancellor took charge personally. Karim had felt the wine pushed down his throat, drank it thankfully at first. Krishna had someone hold his head and stuffed the neck of the goatskin container into his mouth. Karim was choking, coughing, until a mixture of vomit and wine fountained from his stomach while his head reeled. His inquisitors were laughing, kicking him as he twisted and cavorted across the floor, heaving his guts onto the straw only to have his face forced in it by the sadistic chancellor. Then he passed out. The brazier was burning again, the iron poker was being readied. Karim crawled to the comer, mucus dripping from his nose, pus oozing from his cankers. The straw was wet with his own urine, smelly from when he had soiled it and himself during his sleep.
The inquisitors were huddled together, whispering among themselves. Karim, dazed and semiconscious banged his head against the stone wall in hopes of crushing his skull and taking his life. Quick, expert hands pulled him safely back to the center of the cell before much damage had been done. When the tip of the poker changed hues, glowed eerily like a nightthing’s devil torch, the inquisition began again. The same questions, always the same questions.
Pins were stuck beneath his fingernails, the brand brushed lightly against the soles of his feet.
“For the love of the Prophet, kill me!” he implored as the chains rattled in their hands. Krishna held up a shadowed hand and stopped his men. Then he knelt down beside the prisoner, gazed deeply into his eyes, a gentle hand upon Karim’s bruised shoulder. “Spare yourself further pain,” he spoke softly, kindly. “You’ll never leave this cell alive, Karim. Why prolong your agony?” To the trader’s surprise, he drew a dagger from within the folds of his sleeve. The curved blade glimmered in the light of the glowing coals, and Karim stared at it and gasped. It was his own dagger — the same poison-smeared blade with which he’d attempted to assassinate the Khan.
Krishna saw his expression and smiled thinly. “One prick of this against your flesh and you’ll die peacefully. Eternal oblivion. Isn’t that what you’d like, eh, trader?”
Karim swallowed painfully and nodded. “Please,” he sniveled. “Cut me. Cut me now...” He tried to reach for the dagger, Krishna quickly held it out of reach. “No, no, my friend. Not yet. First you must pay a price.”
“What...price?”
“A few answers to simple questions, nothing more.”
Tears mingled with blood in Karim’s swollen eyes. “But I’ve told you,” he rasped thickly, “I acted alone...”
The chancellor shook his head, heaving a sigh. His men had started to rattle their chains again, the smoldering poker ready. He began to twitch, drawing away; Krishna’s powerful hands kept him in check. “You have a choice, trader. Think it over now. The chains — or the dagger. More torture, or peaceful sleep in the cradling arms of your God...”
“I had no accomplice; why won’t you believe that?”
Krishna eased the blade back inside his sleeve, into its sheath.
“You will find me a man of limitless patience,” Krishna told him. “I am in no hurry; believe me.” He leaned forward with a malevolent grin. “Before I am done everything will be told — gladly.”
“I know nothing,” groaned Karim. “Nothing.”
“The palace is filled with agents of our enemies, trader. We are not fools, and this information is no secret to either you or I, eh? All I need from you are the names of the others. Even a single name might suffice...”
Karim whimpered. It would have been the easiest thing to give in, tell the dreaded torturer all. Even to fabricate a tale, devise his own set of conspirators to please the chancellor.
“Come now, trader. One name, then. What difference can it make to you now? There are so many who would see the Khan dead, no?” He leaned in again, his breath heavy upon Karim’s face. “Tell me. Which master do you serve? Which traitor?”
No answer came, and the cruel chancellor’s face turned to stone. “Perhaps,” he offered, “this deed was the bidding of one of my brothers?”
Karim looked at h
im, unspeaking.
The grim torturers closed in around the hapless prisoner, and this time Krishna made no move to stop them.
“One man could never have come so close, acting alone,” said Krishna. “And soon, I assure you, you will beg to admit the truth.”
All Karim remembered was recoiling in horror as the pain began again. Then, mercifully, he’d blacked out, not waking until now.
That had been the last interrogation. As he sat up, huddled in the corner like a rat, the realization of the stupidity of his act made him weep. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, bemoaning his plight. There, in the depths of terror, he prayed to Allah that some hand might yet come and rid him of life.
Chapter Nineteen
The air had become fetid, the earth at her sandaled feet muddied, from the vicious thunderstorms that had passed during the small hours of the night. The winding streets of the outer city, within sight of the awesome black-iron gate and the camped caravan barely beyond the high gray walls, were like anthills teeming with life. The stalls were filled with fresh supplies of goods, and the traders of the market babbled loudly in half a dozen tongues to the many desert-robed visitors come to barter.
Sharon was dressed in the plain sand-toned robe of a pilgrim on a journey to the holy city of Mecca. With her veil tightly clasped and covering most of her face, her cowl pulled above her head against the glare of the hot sun, she stepped slowly across the byways, slipping unnoticed among the milling crowds, unsuspected by the watchful sentries manning the walls at the fringes of the market.
The enormous bulk of the palace hung solemnly in the distance, its reinforced battlements interlocked with a series of towers and bastions upon which grim soldiers eternally marched. The Huns were everywhere, all garbed in similar fashion. According to rank, each wore either a homed or plumed leather helmet; sheathed killing-daggers tied at the sides of their buckled belts; curving, scabbarded swords dangling from their hips.
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