“What is it, lord? What are you trying to tell us?”
Jamuga tried to speak — oh, how he tried! — but the words would not, could not come. Tupol! So it had been Tupol after all! If only he could say it, warn the others, tell the Khan about his favorite son’s pets, soon to be unleashed against them all. His eyes were clouding, forms of his men growing blurred. They were lifting him, and limply he hung in their arms. I must warn the Khan! Jamuga was screaming at them with his eyes. But they did not hear, they did not see, they did not know. His lungs refused to take in air; Jamuga’s face turned a sickly blue, and by the time his aides had carried him to the threshold of his door, his glassy eyes stared up at them grotesquely. He was dead.
*
“It was not our doing!” insisted Carolyn.
Hezekiah peered at her questioningly. It was dangerous for them to meet like this, even in this private chamber beneath the concubine’s quarters. Still, perilous or no, the saya had sent for him with urgency, an urgency that startled the seer, and made him wonder what dire happening had transpired. Had the Night of Atonement been put off? Had the Panther’s plot been found out? Was it possible that Sharon was dead? Or that the Kazir Stronghold had been captured in some unexpected lightning strike? All these dire possibilities gnawed at Hezekiah when the whore, stealing through the palace in the dead of night, had come bearing the saya’s message.
“There is more afoot here than we realized,” the wearied minister said with a heavy voice. He peered grimly about the chamber, aware of the tiny ducts running from the low ceiling — ducts to which prying ears might be placed.
Carolyn agreed uneasily. She understood his concern, lowered her tone to a whisper. “I don’t like it — it bodes ill for us all.”
“Are you positive of all this?” asked Hezekiah with an air of incredulity. “Perhaps the Panther’s plans were changed and she could not get word to us in time...”
The saya blew out a long breath, restlessly paced before him. “Impossible. Jamuga was to be my charge, to be dealt with by me and none other. No, this act was committed by someone removed from the Brotherhood.”
This was indeed souring news, Hezekiah saw. That there was another assassin loose within the palace did not bother him — but that this murder came at such a time, when already the Devil’s Wind had begun to blow and the hour for the awaited Night of Atonement lay so close, disturbed him greatly. “How — how did the son die?”
With a shudder she tried to conceal, Carolyn said simply, “By a spider. A tropical tarantula, as deadly a creature as ever crawled the world. The poison was virtually instantaneous —”
Both their head dramatically lifted in the direction of the ducts. There’d been a noise, a sudden, quick, unexpected muffled sound. Someone was listening.
The Hebrew put a finger to his lips, continued to talk, speaking gibberish in a barely audible voice as he stepped slowly to the narrow enclosed stairwell. He pushed open the arched door a crack, peeked to the top of the landing, where the exposed pipes crisscrossed the walls. There was a kneeling figure, slight and frail in the shadows, huddled close to the pipes, ear to the open duct. Hezekiah slipped his hidden knife from beneath his robes, pulled the door wide. Light spilled onto the steps. The figure jumped up, ready to flee.
“One move and you’re dead!” snapped the aging Hebrew, knife held high, ready to be flung. He’d been a marksman in his time, Carolyn knew, and his sure and steady hands, arthritic though they might be, were still deadly at close range.
The figure straightened, stood shivering. A dark cowl covered all features. Hezekiah strained to see. “Come down here,” he commanded. “Slowly — one step at a time. Keep your hands raised; one bad move and I’ll kill you without a thought.”
The eavesdropper nodded, complied and walked carefully down the narrow steps, nearly stumbling several times.
“Remove your hood,” said the soothsayer, and gasped when he saw that it was a woman.
“Jasmine!” cried Carolyn.
Hezekiah turned soberly to the saya. “You know her?”
“Of course I know her! She’s one of my girls. She’s —”
“A whore?” His eyes were narrowed and suspicious; angry.
Jasmine bowed low before the overseer, tears in her eyes. “Forgive me, Mistress. Please, I beg you.”
“What were you doing here?”
The girl was beside herself with fear. “I...I,” she sputtered, seeking words. “I meant no harm, no harm...”
“We must get rid of her,” Hezekiah muttered glumly.
Jasmine turned white, her eyes wild with the expectation of death, her shapely form shaking with fear. “No — please! I heard nothing, nothing!”
“She’s lying,” Hezekiah told the saya flatly. He glared at the palace prostitute, sending her into uncontrollable fits.
“Get hold of yourself!” snapped Carolyn, slapping her harshly across the face. Jasmine picked up her head, pushed a shock of long, damp hair away from her tearing eyes. The seer’s curved knife glittered in the dull light, wielded warningly before her face. She swallowed hard, sucked in air, then shifted her gaze toward the overseer.
“How came you here?” Carolyn questioned.
“By accident, Mistress. The eunuch said you were not in your quarters, that you’d gone to inspect the wine cellar for the Khan’s coming banquet, and —”
“She’s lying,” hissed Hezekiah. “The passage to the wine cellar turns well before this landing.”
“I became lost!” cried the whore, searching Carolyn’s stoic face for sympathy. “You must believe me! I heard voices carried from the steps and, thinking it unusual at such an hour, paused to hear what was going on. These are wicked days in the palace, Mistress; I thought only to hear what I could and immediately report it back to you.”
Carolyn fondled her antelope’s horn, studied the girl intently. Could any of this be true? she wondered. Was it possible...?
“I do not trust her,” said Hezekiah, a quick eye to the stairwell in search of other prying eyes. “Let’s be rid of her.”
“She’s been a faithful servant to me, Minister,” reminded the saya. “Remember, it was Jasmine who lulled Khalkali into his stupor; without her I could never have finished him off, not alone.”
“Of course you can trust me, Mistress!” blurted the terrified girl. “Have I ever let you down before? Tell me! Have I once, just once, not been everything you’ve asked of me?”
That much was true, Carolyn knew. Still, the whore’s excuses were a bit too lame. The overseer sighed, turned her back to the seer. “Get the truth out of her, Hezekiah. Quickly. We don’t have much time.”
In the bat of an eyelash the Hebrew had slashed his blade through the air, cut off a curling lock from Jasmine’s flowing hair. The lock tumbled like a feather to the ground. The tip of the blade pressed softly against her jugular. One cut and she was dead.
“The truth,” he rasped. “The truth.”
Her lips were quivering, lipstick smeared, mascara smeared across her lashes. “I...I told you...Please...” The blade dug deeper, almost at the point of drawing blood. Jasmine flinched, held her breath. “The truth!” repeated Hezekiah, growing weary.
The whore stared glumly at the fallen lock nestled at the toe of her shoe. Yes, this man would kill her, she knew. Slay her without the slightest hesitation for his cause. The overseer would do no less. Jasmine knew she was trapped.
“Please,” she begged. “I’ll never tell — never say a word of what I overheard. Let me go, please let me go!” The knife’s tip was cold against her slim throat, working down toward her breasts, leaving a thin line of blood. At her cleavage the blade stopped. Hezekiah’s eyes were smoldering. “What were you doing here?” he asked.
The words blurted out. “I was commanded to follow the overseer! Day and night — to follow her every movement and never release her from my sight!”
Carolyn spun around in shock; she shared a stunned glance with her companion,
froze in her place. “What?”
“Forgive me, Mistress,” pleaded the girl, breaking down, hands to her face and sobbing wildly. “I had no choice! No choice!”
Shaking her by the shoulders, Carolyn said, “Whose orders, whore? Whom do you serve?”
“Don’t you understand? I didn’t do it for myself! But my family was threatened — he said he’d kill them all, if I didn’t become his agent!”
“Who?” demanded Carolyn. “Whose agent?”
“Amar the slaver!”
Hezekiah felt his skin crawl; he’d never trusted the devious peddler of flesh, always had cautioned the Panther in her dealings with him. Now, it seemed they had all been duped.
“For what purpose?” said Carolyn. “Why did Amar want you to spy on me?”
“I don’t know, Mistress; I don’t know!” She broke down again, and Hezekiah twisted her arm up against her back, forcing it until the bone nearly snapped. Jasmine squealed with pain. “Amar — Amar was under orders,” she cried out. “His own life was in peril!”
“By who? Speak!”
“By the one man who plots to wrest the throne and the empire from the Khan!”
“Which man, whore! His name!”
Her head sank and she sobbed again. “Sing-Li! Sing-Li, the Chinaman!”
Carolyn’s face dropped; astounded she looked at the distraught stargazer. “Sing-Li? It’s not possible. Krishna, yes. Tupol, yes. Any of the sons...But the Chinaman? Kabul’s private physician?”
Jasmine laughed a crooked laugh, her face contorted. “You are both as blind as Kabul! Can’t you see? While the eight sons plotted against each other, while the Kazirs provoked the murders, Sing-Li has been secretly scheming to take all power!”
“Never!” barked the saya. “Kabul would not be so stupid...”
“No?” the laugh returned. “Tell me, who is it that the Khan turns to in his time of suffering, eh? Who, above all others, including the treacherous Tupol, has gained Kabul’s ear and become his confidant? Without Sing-Li’s sorcery Kabul would be dead! I tell you the Chinaman knows too well what he’s doing. Kabul is in his power — he needs him — trusts him — counts on him to prolong his life. Without the needles the Khan would suffer unspeakable agony. Sing-Li’s design is to warp Kabul’s mind, keep him totally under his control — and wait for the right moment to seize the city. The others are nothing; the Chinaman laughs at their deaths, laughs because the Kazirs are doing his tasks for him! They pave the way for his succession.”
“Merciful Allah,” mumbled Carolyn. “We’ve been blind! All this time, we’ve been blind!”
An evil glint shone in Jasmine’s eyes. “My instructions were simple. Get close to you by any means. Learn what you were up to, allow the deaths of the sons to continue, meanwhile reporting every word to my true master.”
Suddenly Carolyn felt cold; sickeningly cold. “Then...then the Chinaman knows...about the coming struggle...?”
“He knows everything,” Jasmine said defiantly. “Amar has given him his soul as well as my own. We are both his puppets...”
Hezekiah dropped his knife hand to his side, stared fretfully at the gloating whore. “What are we to do, saya?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I — I don’t know. Warn the Panther. Yes, and Tariq as well.”
“Too late for that. Tariq’s already somewhere in the city; aye, on his way to the palace. As for the Panther,” he shuddered, “by now she’s committed all our forces, summoned the Devil’s Wind.”
Carolyn bit her lip, cursed herself for being such a fool. “Then we’ll have to act alone, you and I.”
“But what can we do? Surely this Chinaman —”
“Roskovitch!” said the saya, snapping her finger. “We’ve got to get him out of the dungeons — fast. Then we’ll spread word throughout the city —”
“Amidst the hamsin? And even if we could, how do we get Roskovitch out? We’d have to get past Krishna.”
The saya tensed at the very mention of the brutish chancellor. Of all the sons it was he that she personally dreaded the most. But now there was no longer any choice. There was no time at all; even being here now could cost them everything.
“I’ll get to the dungeons,” she said briskly, feeling for her secret dagger. “And I’ll find a way to break Roskovitch out.”
“How? The chancellor will kill you.”
“I’ll have to risk it. You go back to your rooms. Wake Temugin. He trusts you. Warn him of the plot, then take his guards with you and have the Chinaman placed under arrest.”
“It’s too late for that,” chortled Jasmine. “Sing-Li is by now on his way to the Khan — informing Kabul of the Kazir treachery. By noon you’ll all be caught — and slaughtered. You’ve failed, Kazir saya! You’ve failed!”
“Not yet!” snapped Carolyn. “Not while the hamsin blows! Not while the Devil’s Wind stirs and sweeps down over Samarkand!” And there was such a conviction in her eyes and voice that Jasmine grew white.
“Go!” commanded the saya to the Hebrew.
He nodded, turned, then glanced behind. “But what about her? What about this whore?”
Carolyn smiled thinly. “Leave her to me.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“Hurry!” snapped Carolyn.
The line of distraught concubines hurried along the dank stairwell, sandals padding over the stone steps, as they wound their way lower through the secret passage and toward the murky entrance toward the subterranean labyrinth.
Jasmine fumbled with the set of keys the overseer had given her. At the foot of the grim, arched door she stopped, seeking the right key to fit the lock. The saya gruffly pushed her while a trusted whore held high a small, smoking torch. The beclouded flame flaring, Jasmine found the right key and fitted it into the lock. It clicked dully.
“You’ll never get away with this,” uttered the traitor. “Krishna’s guards will stop you before —” Carolyn spun her roughly out of the way and signaled for the women to cross inside the passage. “You’ll do exactly as I say, Jasmine,” she reprimanded. “Exactly.” Her dagger was tight in her hand, drawn and ready. Jasmine nodded, backing off.
Carolyn was the last to cross the threshold, and all at once the awful, sickening smell of the dungeons filled her nostrils. The other whores huddled together in a small group, frightened, worried.
Carolyn stood before them, her face masked in darkness. “You know what you have to do,” she hissed, and one by one sent them running off in different directions, each to seek out and find the patrols of the chancellor’s guards, and to keep them occupied with their wiles for just enough time for the overseer to break the prisoner free.
“What about me?” said Jasmine, her dark eyes watching the others disappear into the shadows.
The Kazir saya smiled thinly. “You stay with me.”
Then off they ran also, turning left at the corner of the cavern, working toward yet another downward passage where grim torchlight spilled across a foul pool. Unspeaking, both women held their breath and splashed through the ankle-deep, reeking liquid. From afar came the mumbled tones of dungeon guards. Carolyn stopped in her tracks, panted. A moment later she heard laughter, the subtle squeals of her whores as they playfully kept the men from their duty with vague and teasing promises.
Buy me the time I need! Carolyn’s thoughts cried. You must buy me the time I need!
Then off again she scurried, the hem of her khafti wet and stained. Jasmine stayed right behind, heart thumping, face distraught with anguish. She knew what the Kazir was up to, knew that even together there was little chance of turning loose the barbarian Roskovitch. But even if they did, even if the other girls managed to keep the tunnels clear long enough for the prisoner to be whisked from his cell, how were they to get away? Surely Krishna would be close, expecting such a bold move against him to come sooner or later. The saya was begging for her death — and going to drag her along with her. If she could have killed the overseer, she would have done so
right then and there.
Carolyn paused again. A sharp draft was slashing from the vents above, a cruel chill entering the passage as it broadened and led onto the first tier of cells. Moans and whimpers came whispering on the air, the cries of the dying and maimed and tortured wailing in their tombs. It was an awful sound, horrible. The treacherous whore turned to run; Carolyn caught her by the arm, spun her, slapped her harshly.
“We must leave this place!” Jasmine begged. “Now — while we can!”
The overseer pushed her against the wall, face so close that Jasmine could feel the heat of her breath. “Another move like that and I’ll leave you here forever — understand? Now, which way? Which way to Roskovitch?”
Jasmine swallowed, aware of the pressing steel of the knife against her belly. “Sing-Li says there’s another stairwell, down to the lowest level, where the chancellor’s quarters —”
“Show me!” She shoved the whore back into the tunnel, breath fast and clouded from the cold. Jasmine weakly nodded, led her along the passage until it ended abruptly at a broad, jagged wall of limestone — with no escape.
The knife came up again. “You lied to me, whore!”
“No, no!” moaned Jasmine. “Look.” And she knelt to the ground, wiping away layers of thick dust with her hands, exposing a circular metal slab, a sewer cover, placed carefully into the ancient stone. Jasmine struggled to lift it, groaning as the saya lent a hand. On their knees they worked to get a good hold of the roughened edges. Slowly the heavy iron loosened; they pried it from its fitting, sweated to lift and push it aside into the shadows. And there, gasping for breath, they shuddered and peered down into the well, a gaping black hole, seemingly bottomless.
“How do we get to the bottom?” asked the saya.
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 47