Silk and Secrets

by Mary Jo Putney

  Boisterous talk and laughter echoed through the narrow alleys, and here and there a fluttering torch illuminated faces in the teeming crowd. It was a society of men, for the few women present were veiled so thoroughly as to be almost invisible.

  Merchants and potential customers bargained, storytellers spoke to rapt audiences, scribes wrote letters for the illiterate, odors of food, unwashed bodies, spices, and dung filled the air. Twisting through it all was the acrid bite of smoke as peddlers roasted kebabs over tiny fires. Even with his eyes closed, Ross would have known instantly that he was in Central Asia.

  Though Ross's height and beardlessness attracted a few glances, he was glad to see that no one was unduly interested in him. With her veil and sweeping dark robes, Juliet drew more attention, but it was simple curiosity rather than suspicion or hostility. Men traveled thousands of miles from their native lands along the great caravan routes of Asia and Africa, so "Jalal" was just another exotic visitor. Taller than most of the men around her and walking with perfect masculine swagger, she seemed entirely at home in her surroundings. If Ross had seen her in a Tuareg camp in the Sahara, he would never have guessed her identity.

  Once they set out on the trail, the rations would be Spartan, so Ross decided that they would eat well tonight. As they worked their way through the crowd, he purchased skewers of sizzling roast mutton from a kebab seller, then added fresh bread from a baker and pastries from a confectioner. Murad carried the food, along with a small bag of charcoal for a fire.

  Caravansaries were hotels for both men and beasts and were found along all the caravan routes from the Atlantic to China. When Ross and his party entered the caravansary through the high gates, they found that this one was laid out in typical fashion, with small rooms for visitors and stables for the beasts all opening onto the large central courtyard.

  Because the caravansary was full, animals were bedded down in the open and numerous small fires burned in the courtyard, both for cooking and for warmth against the chilly night. With human voices and animal complaints bouncing from the mud-brick walls, the caravansary was a noisy place.

  Travelers sipped tea and exchanged news around the fires while peddlers wandered through the yard, seeking customers for their wares. At least a dozen languages and races could be discerned, including turbaned Hindus, a group of Chinese with long black queues dangling down their backs, and Arabs with white headscarves tied in place with black camelhair cords.

  A lantern hung above the door to the innkeeper's office, and Saleh went in to book their lodging for the night. Fortunately there was space available and they were assigned a cubicle in the farthest corner of the building. After they had moved their baggage into the small room, Murad started building a fire, Juliet began bedding down the camels, and Ross and Saleh set off to find the kafila-bashi, the leader of the caravan.

  As they worked their way through the crowded court, Ross admitted to himself that Juliet had been right to warn him to restrain his chivalrous instincts. It was difficult for him to stand by and watch her do heavy physical labor.

  Rationally, he knew his reaction was nonsense; if he had not known Juliet was a woman, he never would have questioned her competence at wrestling with camels and their loads. She was taller than either Murad or Saleh and, though lighter in build, was probably as strong as either of the men.

  But old habits die hard. Ross had trouble treating her the same as he would a man. The basic problem, of course, was that it was impossible for him to forget that she was a woman.

  Quite impossible.

  The kafila-bashi was holding court in a larger cubicle near the entrance to the caravansary. As Ross and Saleh entered, the leader was dealing with the chief of a group of Afghan merchants who had just arrived from Herat and wanted to join the larger caravan. After discussing terms and marching order, the kafila-bashi dismissed the Afghanis and turned to Ross and Saleh.

  "Salaam Aleikum." He waved his hand for them to be seated. "I am Abdul Wahab. How may I serve you?"

  As Ross returned the greeting and settled down onto the packed earth floor, he studied the kafila-bashi, whose dress and features indicated that he was an Uzbek. He was a broad-shouldered man of middle years, with shrewd dark eyes and the air of authority of a natural leader.

  Ross introduced himself as Khilburn, then presented Saleh and made arrangements for their party to join the caravan, which would depart before dawn the next morning. Making a decision based on his favorable judgment of the kafila-bashi, he continued, "I think you should know I am a ferengi, an Englishman."

  Abdul Wahab's eyebrows rose. "You speak Persian well for a ferengi. A trace of accent only. I thought you might be a Baluchi from southern Afghanistan." His gaze went to Saleh. "Surely you are not also a ferengi?"

  Saleh shook his white-turbaned head. "Nay, I am an Uzbek. The other members of our party are a Persian and a Targui from the Sahara. Only Khilburn is a ferengi."

  The kafila-bashi's thoughtful glance returned to Ross. "Why have you told me this?"

  "The welfare of the caravan is your responsibility. I did not want to conceal a fact that might cause trouble for you."

  "An honorable motive." Frowning, Abdul Wahab stroked his black beard. "Do not go to Bokhara, Khilburn. If you do, you will be a son of death, for the amir despises all Europeans. If you wait in Sarakhs for a few more days, there will be a caravan that will take you to Khiva, which is my own native city. It is a safer destination for a ferengi."

  Opinions on the wisdom of his going to Bokhara were nothing if not unanimous, Ross thought wryly. "I have no choice. I wish to learn the fate of my brother, a British officer who went to Bokhara on an official mission and was imprisoned by the amir."

  The caravan leader's bushy brows drew together. "Is he a tall, fair man like you?"

  Ian's hair was auburn rather than blond, but he was Ross's height, with very fair skin. Ross nodded. "He is."

  "With my own eyes, I saw a ferengi of that description beheaded several months ago, behind the amir's palace in Bokhara. In the crowd, it was said that he was a soldier." Abdul Wahab's expression was compassionate. "I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but surely the man executed was your brother. Very few ferengis ever reach Bokhara—and fewer leave alive. Do not continue your journey, for there is now no reason for it."

  At the kafila-bashi's words, Ross felt a constriction deep in his chest. In spite of all the rumors and hearsay evidence, this was the first time he had found someone who had personally witnessed the execution of a foreigner who could be Ian. The faint hope that he had carried from Constantinople flickered and died.

  Briefly he considered following everyone's good advice and ending his journey here. Not only would that be wiser, it would save him weeks of painful proximity to Juliet.

  The thought was immediately followed by a vivid mental image of Jean Cameron's pleading face. Please, Ross, I am begging you. Even now he could not be completely certain of Ian's fate, and Jean would still be left with a faint, destructive thread of hope.

  Beyond that, Ross realized with painful clarity, he did not entirely want to be saved from the bittersweet pleasure of Juliet's company. "Your counsel is wise, Abdul Wahab, but I cannot go back without positive proof. If my brother is dead, perhaps the amir will allow me to take his body back to England."

  The leader looked pessimistic, but nodded. "So be it."

  Wanting to know more about the ferengi, Ross said, "The man who was executed—what was his condition?"

  "Very grave. He was scarcely more than bones, with terrible sores all over his body. He looked like an old man, though I think he was not." Abdul Wahab grimaced. "Did you know that the amir breeds special vermin in the Black Well, solely to make the prisoners suffer more? I do not think that the ferengi would have survived much longer as a prisoner. At least the sword spared him further suffering."

  "My brother would have died bravely," Ross said, his voice not quite a question.

  "Aye, he did. Though he was
weak, he stood tall and with his right hand he made the sign of the cross over his breast as he spoke in his own language. I cannot know for certain, but I believe that he commended his soul to the Christian God." The kafila-bashi inclined his head respectfully. "It would have been more fitting for a warrior to die in battle, but I assure you that he did not disgrace himself or his family."

  Ross was surprised. His brother-in-law had never been religious, and the sign of the cross was hardly standard practice among Scots Presbyterians. Yet he could understand the gesture. Months of imprisonment could change anyone's spiritual beliefs, and crossing himself sounded like Ian's last gesture of defiance, a public proclamation of his nationality and religion.

  Even at the end, he had been unbroken. Perhaps that would be some comfort to his family.

  "Thank you for your information, Abdul Wahab." Ross got to his feet. "As compensation for the fact that my presence might cause trouble, I and my servant Jalal are well armed, and we will gladly use our weapons in the defense of the caravan."

  "God willing, your arms will not be needed, but I am glad to know that you have them." Two more men entered the cubicle, so the caravan leader gave a nod of dismissal and turned to deal with the next problem.

  Saleh beside him, Ross went out into the courtyard, thinking that matters were going well. The kafila-bashi seemed a capable and tolerant man, and with luck they would make it across the Kara Kum without incident. Ross looked forward to beginning the last leg of the journey.

  Unfortunately, before that would happen, he must tell Juliet what he had learned about her brother. That he was not looking forward to at all.

  Chapter 8

  Juliet hunkered against the wall of the caravansary, arms crossed on her raised knees as she idly watched Murad tend the fire and prepare the evening meal. During the course of the day, the Persian had given up trying to make conversation, for she responded to his efforts with either silence or a growled monosyllable. She regretted the rudeness, but it would be folly to become friendly with the young man. The less Murad knew about her, the better.

  She shifted position to ease the chafing of the vestlike garment she wore under her robes to flatten her breasts. She had never bothered with such a thing before; though she habitually wore male dress, it had always been a matter of convenience rather than a serious attempt to disguise her gender.

  But this journey was different, so she had taken precautions to reduce the chance that anyone might realize that she was female. Knowing she would have to wear it continuously, she had deliberately fashioned the vest to be as loose as possible, but it was still a bloody nuisance. At least the weather was temperate now; the garment would be far more uncomfortable in the summer heat.

  Glancing across the courtyard, she saw Ross and Saleh weaving their way between the fires and dozing camels. Ross wore his Asiatic garments as if he had been born to them; it was hard to believe that he was an English aristocrat.

  Her expression safely hidden behind her veil, Juliet smiled a little, thinking that now he looked like an oriental aristocrat. There was nothing her husband could do to make his appearance undistinguished.

  Now that everyone was together, it was time to eat. After Ross, Saleh, and Juliet had seated themselves around a low circular table, Murad set a large platter in their midst, then took his own place. The chunks of roast mutton purchased in the bazaar were served on a bed of cooked rice obtained from the caravansary cookshop, and there was fresh flat bread as well.

  Throughout the Islamic world, it was customary to eat with the fingers of the right hand only, since the left hand was ritually unclean and could never be used in a communal platter. Juliet had been eating Muslim-style for so long that it was second nature. She was skilled at rolling rice into a ball with her right hand, then deftly popping it into her mouth with a flick of her thumb, since it was bad manners to put the fingers in the mouth.

  But she never tried to eat while keeping her face covered, and doing so proved unexpectedly difficult. Even among the Tuareg, only the strictest men stayed veiled while eating, and during Juliet's exasperating struggle to master the technique, she learned why.

  She had loosened the tagelmoust so that she could bring her hand up under it, but found that constant care was needed to avoid displacing the veil. Twice she fumbled while raising her hand to her mouth, and scattered rice down the front of her dark robe. The second time that happened, she caught Ross's amused glance on her. She glared back, silently daring him to laugh.

  Fortunately custom divided the communal platter into invisible zones, and it was discourteous to take food from another person's area, or she would not have gotten her share of the meal. By the time she finished, the rest of the platter had long since been emptied and the men were drinking tea.

  Juliet accepted a small teacup herself and promptly learned that drinking while veiled was even harder than eating. Worse, it would be impossible to drink from a waterskin without lowering the tagelmoust.

  She must take care to drink only when no one but Ross or Saleh could see her. With luck, anyone catching a fleeting glimpse of her face would assume she was a beardless boy, but she would rather not rely on luck.

  After they were all done, Ross said to Murad, "We will be leaving before dawn." Then he glanced at Juliet. Speaking in Tamahak, as if he were repeating the same message, he said, "Meet me behind the caravansary in about a quarter of an hour."

  She gave a noncommittal murmur of assent, curious about why her husband wanted to talk to her privately. Well, there was only one way to find out, so she got to her feet and stalked into the courtyard without explanation. Pretending to be a brusque Targui was giving her the opportunity to behave like a rude schoolboy, and she had to admit that it was rather fun.

  The hour was getting late and the noise level was dropping as people began to retire for the night. Taking her time, as if she had no particular destination in mind, Juliet checked the bedded-down camels, then ambled across the courtyard and through the entry arch into the bazaar-lined street. There she turned left and followed the caravansary walls around to the back.

  In stark contrast to the front of the building, she found empty desert stretching to the east as far as the eye could see, and a good deal farther. Beneath a thin crescent moon, a fitful wind blew from the north, rustling the thorny shrubs that clung tenaciously to the gravelly soil.

  Juliet took a deep breath of the dry, desert-scented air, then exhaled. As she did, she felt tension flowing out of her. Apparently her masquerade was more of a strain than she had realized until now, when she could lower her guard. It was one thing to wear male garb when riding with her own men, who knew her for what she was, and quite another to be committed to weeks and months in disguise. But she had managed one day successfully. Tomorrow would be easier.

  She stood unmoving in the shadow of a gnarled, scrubby tree, letting her eyes adjust to the starlight. There was no one else about, for men who traveled through the vast emptiness of the desert usually preferred to enjoy the companionship of their own kind when it was available.

  About ten minutes later, Ross came around the corner of the caravansary, his stride unhurried. Even in the darkness, she had no trouble recognizing him by his height and the controlled power of his movements. Juliet held still, wondering if he would be able to find her. About a hundred feet away, he hesitated for a long moment, then came straight to her.

  Juliet wondered how he had located her so quickly; he had been upwind, so it could not have been scent, she had not made a sound, and her dark robes must have been invisible in the shadows.

  She refused to give him the satisfaction of asking how he had done it. When he was half a dozen feet away, she said in English, "Is something wrong, Ross?"

  "I'm afraid so." In flat, uninfected sentences, he told her that the kafila-bashi had seen a ferengi executed, then went on to recount the conversation in detail.

  Juliet accepted the news stoically, for it was not really a surprise. Yet when Ross desc
ribed the physical condition of the man who had been executed, and how he had faced death, she drew an anguished, involuntary breath.

  "I'm sorry, Juliet," Ross said, his voice almost inaudible.

  "This makes Ian's death seem real," she said, struggling to keep her tone even. "In my mind, he was still twenty, with endless energy and exuberance. To think of him emaciated, tortured, perhaps, so weak he could barely stand... it seems so wrong." She drew a shuddering breath. "When we were young, we both wanted to see the whole world, to dare everything there was to dare. And now Ian's adventuring days are over, ended in blood in front of a crowd of bloodthirsty strangers."

  Her voice broke. A vision of her brother suffering had replaced her mental image of him in strength and health, and it was impossible to dislodge. Dully she wondered if that was how adventures usually ended—in pain and senseless tragedy, thousands of miles from home.

  For a moment Ross touched her shoulder in silent commiseration. His sympathy almost broke what remained of her control. Juliet bent her head and buried her face in her hands, wanting to weep for all her losses: for the murder of her brother, for the weary erosion of youth and hope, for the death of love. Most of all, for the death of love.

  Angrily she drew the back of her hand across her stinging eyes, wiping away the tears. Feeling the need to breathe more deeply, she pulled her veil down, letting the wind touch her face for the first time in many hours.

  "Do you want to abandon the journey?" she asked when her voice steadied. "If we are going to turn back, now is the time."

  "I've considered it," Ross said slowly, "but while Abdul Wahab witnessed the execution, we still don't know why Ian was killed. Such knowledge could be valuable for the government as well as your family, and the only way to learn the whole story is to go to Bokhara. Plus, it would mean a great deal to your mother if Ian's body could be returned to Scotland for burial."