Straightening from his final bow, he looked the amir full in the face. Nasrullah's eyes were small and rather beady, and the muscles of his face twitched convulsively. Nonetheless, he had the aura of power that absolute authority bestows, plus a bright, unstable glitter that was all his own. It was said that his four Persian wives despised him.
Speaking in a high, rapid voice, the amir said, "You honor us by your presence, Lord Khilburn. Have you come on a mission from the English queen, our sister in royalty?"
Nasrullah knew perfectly well why his visitor had come, but Ross went along with the pretense. After bowing again, he said, "Nay, I do not come on official business, but to beseech your great mercy for my brother, the British Major Ian Cameron."
The amir raised his hand before Ross could say more. "I am told that you have brought a gift for me."
"The merest trifle." Juliet stepped forward and Ross took the pistol box from the case, then opened it for the amir. "I beg that you will condescend to accept this unworthy token."
Nasrullah gave a soft sigh, like a child receiving an especially longed-for sweet. "Exquisite."
He lifted one of the pistols in his hands and caressed it, running his fingers over the softly gleaming surfaces in the same way a man might caress his lover. "Come. I wish to try them." Rising to his feet, he swept imperiously across the room and out to the courtyard.
Ross, Juliet, and the courtiers trailed after him. The courtyard was an enchanted garden with a pink marble fountain tinkling in the center and cooling palms waving high above formal beds of brilliant carnations and roses. The fountain was perfumed, laying the heavy scent of patchouli under the lighter floral fragrances.
Above their heads, the palm fronds rustled dryly as Nasrullah came to a halt and demanded that his visitor load the pistols. Ross had come prepared, and the leather case contained tins of black powder and lead balls. After pouring a measured charge of powder down each barrel, he rammed balls down on top, sprinkled priming powder in the pans, then handed one of the weapons to the amir.
Without bothering to aim, the amir fired the pistol at the fountain. The heavy ball cracked the pink marble and ricocheted away as perfumed water began seeping out of the wide basin. "Splendid, splendid!"
While courtiers coughed at the acrid smoke, Nasrullah exchanged pistols and fired the second one, this time blasting a clump of scarlet carnations to shreds. "Magnificent!"
As Ross reloaded, the amir said mischievously, "Of course, the real test of a weapon is how well it performs the task for which it was created." Lifting one of the reloaded pistols, he continued, "And the task of a gun is to kill."
Alerted by the note of unholy amusement in the ruler's voice, Ross expected trouble. But nothing could have prepared him for the soul-shattering fear he felt when the amir swung around and pointed the gun directly at Juliet's head.
Chapter 16
For an endless terrifying moment, Juliet stared down the deadly black muzzle of the pistol. Under almost any other circumstances she would have dived for cover while reaching for her own concealed knife. But here, in the amir's palace, surrounded by his guards, she dared not do that, for escape was impossible and anything she did might endanger Ross.
Then her view of the pistol was blocked out by her husband's broad blue-clad shoulder as he stepped between her and the amir. In a voice that held just a faint hint of reproach, he said, "Among my people, it is considered a grave breach of etiquette to kill another man's slave without cause."
Juliet heard a burst of unnerving laughter, punctuated by the shattering crack of another gunshot. For an agonizing moment she thought that Nasrullah had fired at Ross, but an instant later fragments of palm frond spattered down on them.
"God forbid that I should offend the customs of a guest's people," the amir said genially. "You are right. It is far more courteous to kill one of my own slaves."
Her heart still pounding with reaction from her narrow escape, Juliet edged back toward the nervous crowd of courtiers, at the same time moving to the side so that she could better see what was happening. Those courtiers who were fortunate enough to be at the back of the group had already slipped away.
Nasrullah scanned the people in the courtyard consideringly. "Who among these jackals has the least value?" His gaze fell on a serving boy who had just entered the garden carrying a brass tray mounded with fresh fruit. Juliet guessed the child was using the courtyard as a shortcut to another part of the palace.
"You, boy." The ruler gestured toward the far side of the courtyard with the pistol. "Go stand over there."
The child was no more than ten years old and probably of Persian blood. Immediately grasping the amir's intention, he gasped and dropped his tray. The brass hit the ground with a hollow gonging sound and fruit bounced in all directions as the boy tried to run, but two guards immediately stopped his flight.
As one guard dragged the chosen victim to the other side of the courtyard, the other removed the child's turban and ripped it into two long strips. Then the men used the fabric to lash the boy's wrists to two palms so that he could not run away. Their task accomplished, both guards stepped hastily out of the way before Nasrullah could decide he preferred larger targets.
Hopelessly the child stared at his royal master. His face was sheened with sweat and his small chest rose and fell in short, harsh pants of fear. The courtyard was absolutely silent except for the tinkling of fountain water and the incongruous chirping of birds in the palms.
Calmly the amir pointed his weapon at his living target and pulled the trigger. As the gun blast echoed painfully from the marble walls and another cloud of smoke rolled out, the boy screamed, a sound of desperate, bloodcurdling terror.
It took several seconds for the smoke to thin enough to show that the boy still stood upright between the trees, unharmed. Sobbing desperately, he twisted and tugged at his bonds.
Nasrullah frowned. "I missed. Give me the other pistol. This may take some time, for I am not an expert marksman."
The thought of standing here watching this maniac blaze away at the child turned Juliet's stomach. How many shots would it take? And would he be satisfied to wound his target, or would he keep going until the boy was dead? For a brief, murderous moment she considered going for her knife and plunging it into the amir's throat, but common sense held her back. Barely.
Ross spoke in the cool tone which could be either maddening or comforting, depending on the circumstances. Now it was the voice of sanity in a mad world. "If it is proof of the weapons' deadliness that you desire, that is easily provided."
Raising the second pistol, Ross aimed it into a palm tree and fired. The small mangled body of a sparrow fell to the ground.
"It seems a pity to waste a slave," he said mildly. "And a sparrow is a more challenging test for a weapon."
Temporarily nonplussed, the amir looked from the dead bird to Ross and back again. Then he smiled with cold cruelty. "You are an excellent shot, Lord Khilburn. Since you are so concerned for my slave, you may display your marksmanship on his behalf."
He beckoned one of the guards over and gave an order Juliet could not hear. The guard stooped and picked up one of the pomegranates that had been dropped earlier, then went over to the child and placed it on top of his head, murmuring a sharp command for the boy to stand still.
Turning back to his visitor, Nasrullah continued, "Shoot the pomegranate from the boy's head and I will make you a gift of him. Miss and I will shoot him myself, however long it takes."
Only someone who knew Ross as well as Juliet would have noticed the nearly invisible tightening of his facial muscles. "Very well," he said emotionlessly, accepting the terms of this grisly game of William Tell.
As he reloaded his pistol, Juliet felt his inner turmoil as sharply as if it were her own. The boy was standing at the outer limit of the weapon's accuracy, and Ross faced the probability that he would either accidentally shoot the boy or miss and deliver him into the amir's lethal clutches.
&n
bsp; The child's only hope was that Ross make a flawless shot. If he failed, she knew that he would never forgive himself.
None of his disquiet was visible as he raised the pistol and took careful aim at the small reddish sphere. For Juliet it was one of those moments that become engraved forever on the mind. Ross looked handsome and calm and utterly English, as relaxed as if he were target shooting in a London gallery. A shaft of light spiked through the palm fronds and touched his hair to blazing gold.
On the far side of the garden the child held rigidly still, his eyes so wide that white was visible all around the dark irises. The sound of his panicky breath filled the air.
Juliet uttered a fervent silent prayer for both the boy's sake and Ross's. Then the gun roared out.
Each time a shot was fired, it took longer for the smoke to dissipate. Impatiently the amir stepped forward to see the results, Ross following more slowly behind. Before they were halfway across the courtyard, the smoke cleared enough to reveal that the boy was unhurt and crimson fragments of ruptured pomegranate were smeared on the white wall behind him.
Nasrullah burst into laughter and clapped Ross on the back. "Splendid, splendid! You are a magnificent marksman." Stepping up to the tethered boy, he ran a languid hand down the downy cheek. "You have won yourself a slave, Lord Khilburn," the amir said. "He is a pretty child. Enjoy him."
Shaking with repressed fury, Juliet stepped forward and untied the bonds from the boy's wrists. The child looked up at her uncertainly, alarmed by her veiled countenance. Under her breath she said gruffly, "Do not fear. All will be well."
She took his hand and led him back toward the group of watchers. When they halted and turned to watch the rest of the scene, his fingers stayed curled in hers.
With the merest hint of irony, Ross was saying, "Your majesty is merciful and generous. I thank you for the gift."
In a lightning jump, the amir said, "You claim that Major Cameron is your brother, yet you do not resemble him except in height. Did your father have you by different wives?"
"No. Major Cameron is not my brother by blood, but by marriage," Ross replied. "His sister is my wife."
"Ah-h-h." Nasrullah stroked his beard. "Have you only one wife? While that is said to be the ferengi practice, surely men of rank such as yourself need not abide by such a paltry custom."
"Some men have concubines," Ross admitted, "but our law binds all men, of all ranks, to one wife at a time."
The amir snorted. "How tedious. A man needs variety."
"Variety is not without charm, but it comes at the cost of deeper love," Ross replied. "A man who has a dozen horses will cherish none of them as much as the man who has only one. In the same way, a man with but one wife will know her better and value her more than a man with a harem full of wives and concubines."
Though he did not so much as flick an eyelash in her direction, Juliet felt as if his comment was aimed at her. She felt a curious blend of pride and guilt. Ross was much too good for her. She had always known that.
Nasrullah was less impressed. "That sounds to me like what a man tries to make himself believe when he has no choice."
Ross smiled. "As you will, your majesty. There are many truths, and this is one of mine."
With another abrupt shift the amir said, "It is extraordinary. I have two hundred thousand Persian slaves in Bokhara—no one cares for them. Yet I take a single British captive and a person comes all the way from England to demand his release."
Juliet tensed and could feel matching tension in Ross. They had reached the heart of their mission.
With a complete lack of pride, Ross dropped to his knees before the amir. "I do not demand, I beseech. If you are holding my brother captive, I beg that you release him. Knowing how the laws of hospitality are honored in your great land, I cannot believe the reports that he has been brutally murdered."
"Your plea is most moving, Lord Khilburn, and perhaps if you had come several months ago, I would have granted your petition. But, alas, you come too late." Nasrullah's voice dripped with spurious regret, but his dark eyes gleamed with malice. "It grieves me to inform you that Major Cameron has been executed."
Juliet closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath as she surrendered the last faint hope. Her brother was dead.
The Persian boy squeezed her hand hesitantly and she realized that her hand had tightened on his. It was to his credit that, after all he had just endured, he was sensitive to her distress. Forcing her eyes open, she saw that her husband had become as still as she. After a long, long pause Ross said, "Might I ask what he did to deserve such punishment?"
There was a dangerous silence, for the amir was seldom questioned, but after a moment he shrugged. "His credentials were not in order, so there was some question of whether he was truly representing the British government. Then Cameron was caught spying. When confronted with the evidence, he converted to Islam and swore loyalty to me, only to recant a few days later." Nasrullah's eyes were cold as death. "According to our law, if a man says he will turn Muslim, he must do so or die."
"I see." Ross got heavily to his feet. "Those are indeed grave transgressions. Yet since he has paid for his crime, I beg that you allow me to take his body home for burial."
"I have wasted enough time on this matter for today," Nasrullah said brusquely. "I will consider your request and speak with you another time." He glanced around until his eye caught that of one of his guards. "The foreign minister has questions for Lord Khilburn. Take the ferengi there." Then the amir strode back into the audience chamber.
Ross's right hand curled into a fist as he watched the ruler move away. He forced his fingers to relax. Nasrullah was as cruel and mad as his reputation, and Ross and Juliet would need the devil's own luck to get out of Bokhara with their necks intact. Schooling his expression to impassivity, he followed the guard from the courtyard, Juliet and the boy following.
Abdul Samut Khan led them to a small office where the Bokharan minister of foreign affairs was dictating to a Persian scribe. The minister was an Uzbek with bushy brows and a permanent scowl, and for the next hour he subjected Ross to a sharp interrogation while Juliet and the boy squatted silently in a corner of the office.
The minister began by asking whether the British people would be angry at news of Major Cameron's death.
When Ross affirmed that they were already upset by the major's captivity and would surely be furious at news of his death, the minister frowned and asked how far it was from England to Bokhara. He relaxed when he learned how great the distance was, then embarked on a series of questions on the internal politics of Britain and Russia. He was well-informed on the latter, not surprising when the Russian empire loomed over Central Asia like a thundercloud.
There was a brief, dangerous flurry when the minister asked the names of the four British "grand viziers," then accused Ross of lying because the names were different from what Ian Cameron had given the year before. Wearily Ross explained that there had been a recent change of government, which led to the complex process of explaining how the British constitutional monarchy worked.
The Bokharan was mollified when his visitor was able to name the previous government's chief ministers, though Ross doubted that his interrogator really believed that an administration could change peacefully. To install a new government without bloodshed was contrary to the tenets of Asiatic rulership.
The questions went on and on, and Ross was so tired that he was having trouble concentrating. The caravan had set out long before dawn, and he had endured a full and stressful day since. Now dusk was falling, but the foreign minister seemed indefatigable. Finally Ross asked, "May my servant take my new slave to collect his personal belongings?"
The minister agreed, and sent a guard to escort Juliet and the boy to the slave quarters. They returned half an hour later, Juliet carrying a small bundle of possessions tied in a square of cotton fabric.
When they appeared, the foreign minister became suddenly affable. "My apologies,
Lord Khilburn, for keeping you so long. I will wish to speak with you again, but that is enough for today. You must be fatigued from your journey." With a clap of his hands, he summoned guards to take the visitors to the quarters that had been assigned to them.
After retrieving their camels, they left the royal palace and were escorted to a massive walled compound about half a mile from the citadel. When they entered the main house, the nayeb bustled up to them. "Greetings, my friends." He bowed. "Welcome to my humble abode."
"This is your home?" Ross asked with surprise.
"Indeed. The amir often allows me to act as a host for distinguished visitors. Let me show you to your apartment."
The two rooms assigned were on the upper level and shared a balcony that overlooked an enormous garden behind the house. The apartment was simply but comfortably furnished, with white walls, cushioned divans, and handsome Bokharan rugs. One chamber had a rope bed, while the other was equipped with a table suitable for eating and writing. Servants were already bringing in their baggage and placing it in the bedroom.
As the nayeb lit oil lamps, he said, "I shall give orders for a meal to be served to you here in a few minutes. Do you wish your servants to stay with you, or shall I send them to my own slave quarters?"
"Jalal can sleep here on the floor. The boy..." Ross studied the child for a moment. "I would like him to dine with me tonight so I can speak with him, but he can sleep in your selamlik. I imagine that you have other boys around his age."
The nayeb nodded. "Is there anything else I can provide for your comfort?"
"A bath," Ross said promptly.
"You are welcome to use the hammam."
Ross would have given six months of his life to do that, but unfortunately Juliet would not be able to do the same, and she surely felt as grubby as he did. Summoning all that remained of his nobility, he said gravely, "It is against the custom of my people to use hammams. Do you have a large tub that could be brought here, and a screen to place in front of it?"
Silk and Secrets Page 23