Desert Justice

by Valerie Parv

  Chapter 13

  Markaz’s trusted attendant took good care of the hidden chamber, Simone noticed. Not only was there a supply of refreshments, but when she explored the en suite bathroom, she found everything she needed to freshen up. There was even a selection of lovely new galabias in a closet.

  She took her time bathing and changing, and was sipping a glass of chilled water when she tracked down the source of her unease. The planning was too good. Markaz had played her the way a virtuoso plays a violin. She didn’t like being so predictable.

  Not that she blamed him entirely. She’d been more than ready to be swept off her feet. Would let it happen again in an instant if Markaz came back now and took her in his arms.

  Stop this, she ordered herself as the thought of being held by him triggered a surge of response. Hiding in a pleasure dome, wishing he’d come back would get her nowhere. She put down the drink and went to the secret door, remembering to secure her veil before she stepped through.

  The antechamber was empty. The majlis sessions were over for the time being, but surely there should have been more activity in the area? The sheikh’s promised guard waited at the entrance to the hall of justice. At her approach, the man came to attention sloppily.

  Hardly one of Markaz’s elite, she thought. Then she recognized Yusef. Or Omar as he called himself. Odd that Markaz should have assigned him to her when he had doubts about the man’s loyalty.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did Sheikh Markaz ask you to be my escort?”

  “Hamal was supposed to take the duty,” the guard said. “But he’s investigating a break-in.”

  “Here at the lodge?” Suddenly she froze with horror. “Is that blood on the floor?” Dear heaven, not Markaz’s. “What happened?”

  “It is not your concern.”

  She grabbed his arm, ignoring his recoil of distaste. “If you don’t want to find yourself bouncing off these marble walls, you’ll answer my question.”

  He tried to shrug her off. “Control yourself, woman.”

  Her hold didn’t slacken. “Maybe women don’t touch men in your world, but where I come from, we do everything men do. Including wipe the floor with anyone giving us a hard time.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Care to put me to the test?”

  He looked thunderous, but one glance at the fire in her eyes silenced further argument. “When the majlis session ended, an intruder hid in this chamber and attacked the sheikh,” he said sullenly.

  Her veil fluttered in time with her labored breathing. She released the man’s arm. “Is Markaz all right?”

  “He fought the man off. The blood mostly belongs to the intruder.”

  Omar sounded suspiciously regretful, she thought. Something more was going on. No matter what had happened, she doubted that Markaz would allow Omar to guard her.

  “Was the sheikh injured.”

  “His personal physician is attending him now,” Omar said.

  While she was pampering herself in the pleasure pavilion, Markaz had been fighting possibly for his life. She could hardly believe it. “Did Hamal catch the intruder?”

  “He escaped into the Lost Quarter. Hamal and his men went after him.”

  Now she knew why the lodge seemed unusually quiet. The guards were either attending Markaz or chasing the intruder. If it was Business Suit, he was more slippery than an eel, she thought. Had he been looking for her when he was tackled by Markaz?

  She drew herself up. “Take me to the sheikh at once.” The dark stains on the floor had shaken her. She would have no peace until she saw for herself that Markaz was all right.

  The guard shook his head. “My orders are to escort you to your room and maintain watch outside until relieved.”

  “I’m giving you new orders.”

  The guard’s lip curled. “I don’t take orders from the spawn of traitors.”

  A chill ran through her. “So you do know who I am.”

  “Everyone in the royal household knows. You are the daughter of cowards who abandoned their country rather than change their wrong beliefs.”

  She refused to be drawn into defending her parents, when there was so much more at stake. “I insist you take me to Sheikh Markaz right now.”

  “Such touching concern. Too bad it is misplaced. You will come with me.”

  She folded her arms. “I’ll go nowhere except to see the sheikh.”

  The delay gnawed at her, fueling her fear that Markaz was more badly injured than she was being told. She had to see, to know.

  She tried to sidestep the guard, but he blocked her way. For days she’d schemed to get the chance to talk to Yusef. Now she struggled to find the words to reach him. “When you were a teenager, my mother gave you a home and cared about you. She’s alone and ill, but she still cares. She sent me to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Why should your mother care about a soldier called Omar Zirhan?” he asked.

  “We both know your real name is Yusef al Hasa and you’re my half uncle. What I don’t know is which side you’re on.”

  “You are mistaken,” he said coldly.

  This was getting her nowhere. “Suit yourself. Just take me back to my room.” There she could seek out Amal and try to get news of Markaz.

  “So you can prepare yourself for your lover, the sheikh?” Omar asked nastily.

  She drew herself up. “What I do is not your concern.”

  “You should have thought of that before you spent the afternoon in the sheikh’s bed.”

  “How do you know how I spent the afternoon?”

  He gestured toward the retreat at the back of the hall. “You and the sheikh were alone in that room for a considerable time. Under our old laws, you would have been stoned for such wanton behavior.”

  “Then thank goodness the old laws no longer apply.”

  “For the moment.”

  “What are you saying? That you’re working to bring back the old laws?”

  “I’m only a humble guard. How can I influence the law?”

  “You could if you’re still in league with the rebels. That’s it, isn’t it? You worked your way into the sheikh’s service so you could sabotage the reform process from the inside. Markaz was right, you’re still loyal to the rebel cause.”

  He turned aside, dodging her gaze. “I am Omar Zirhan, local hero and servant of His Royal Highness, Sheikh Markaz bin Kemal al Nazaari.”

  And a double agent. Her mother would be heartbroken if she ever learned the truth. Not that Simone could tell her. Better to let her think Yusef had vanished without trace. In a way, it was true. “You realize I have to tell the sheikh what I know?” she said.

  “You won’t get the chance.” Apparently to himself, he said, “Take her.”

  Out of the shadows emerged a second man, also in guard’s uniform. Before she could react, she was grabbed and her arms jerked behind her. She felt rope cut into her wrists as her hands were tied. “What is this?” she demanded, trying not to sound as frightened as she felt.

  “You’ll have answers soon enough, not that they’ll do you much good.”

  “The sheikh already suspects you. If you disappear with me, you’ll confirm his suspicions. Your plans, whatever they are, will be finished.”

  Yusef advanced on her. “I’m not going to disappear. You are.”

  “No,” she protested, but her cries were stifled when her veil was pushed into her mouth as a gag, secured by a scarf tied around her head. She was blind as well as silenced.

  Although she fought to put her martial arts training to good use, there wasn’t much she could do tied and blindfolded against two strong men.

  She felt herself being hustled along a corridor, her feet barely touching the ground. Why didn’t somebody see her and report what was happening? Were they all out tracking the intruder, or attending to Markaz? She didn’t like to think Yusef’s people had more support than the sheikh guessed.

>   In fury she kicked out, choosing her target from the man’s grip on her arm. She was rewarded by a cry of pain and an oath in Arabic. Her earthy response was muffled by the gag as she kicked out at her other side.

  This time she wasn’t so lucky. Yusef had learned from his friend’s experience. Her kick met empty air and was followed by an openhanded blow to the side of her head. Dazed, she stumbled, but was held up and dragged along until she got her feet under her again.

  Where did they think they were taking her? Surely they couldn’t abduct her from a well-guarded royal lodge without being challenged?

  But it seemed they didn’t have to. She was pulled to a stop, then forced down onto something that felt like a bed. Not a bed, a stretcher. Straps were fastened over her so she couldn’t move. A blanket was draped across her and she felt the stretcher being lifted. Into a vehicle? The suspicion was confirmed when she heard a door slam and an engine start.

  The straps binding her to the stretcher made for a jolting ride with her hands tied behind her. She slowed her breathing, trying to control her panic. They still had to pass through the main gates.

  Moments later she heard a sentry challenge the vehicle. But her elation was short lived. She heard one of them men say they’d collected the sick woman and were transporting her to the hospital in Karama as arranged.

  “Poor Amal collapsed when she heard about the attempt on the sheikh’s life,” the other man added.

  She tried to scream a denial, but only pulled the veil deeper into her mouth, making her choke. The sentry made a joke with the driver, accepting Amal as their passenger without checking. One veiled woman looked much like another. Damn these concealing garments. The sooner Markaz outlawed them, the better.

  Markaz. Her despair grew as she imagined him hurt or worse. She reined in her errant imagination. The best way she could help him was to stay calm and learn what she could about where she was taken. She couldn’t let herself think about what would happen to her when they got there.

  She heard the main gate open and the vehicle start up again. The wheels bouncing over a cobbled surface added to her discomfort, but helped to orientate her. They were following the main road to Karama. Not the Lost Quarter, she prayed. She might have desert blood, but she was under no illusions that she could survive in such a hostile environment, even supposing she managed to escape. At least in the city there was the chance of help.

  She felt the sleeve of her galabia being thrust back. Automatically she jerked away from the touch.

  “Stay still,” one of her abductors ordered.

  Fighting harder, she felt herself straddled, pinned down by the man’s weight. From the front of the vehicle, she heard a laugh then Yusef’s voice. “Don’t enjoy yourself too much back there.”

  Her attacker growled. “You think this is fun? She fights like a tiger.”

  “No wonder she caught the sheikh’s eye. Do you think Western women are as uninhibited as they say?”

  Her attacker shifted above her. “Maybe we’ll get the chance to find out.”

  “Don’t let Sozar hear you say that,” the driver retorted. “From the way he’s followed her every move, he probably has her picked out for himself.”

  Hearing the name, she stilled. Could Sozar be the man she called Business Suit? What did he want with her? What was she to him? A hand clamped over her arm. She tried to pull free, but was held fast. She felt a sting and a cold sensation of something being injected into her arm, then her attacker climbed off her.

  As whatever he’d given her took effect, the ride became even more surreal. She felt as if she were on a ship plowing through a heaving swell. Nausea made her stomach roll. She breathed shallowly in an attempt to keep her stomach contents where they belonged.

  Within a short time she felt her limbs become heavy and unresponsive. She struggled to stop her eyelids sliding shut. With the blindfold in place, she couldn’t be sure when she lost the battle.

  “With respect, Your Highness, this would be easier if you would hold still.”

  Markaz frowned at the doctor. “Is all this fuss necessary? The wound is only slight.”

  Dr. Rakha glared back. “Any less slight and you would be in hospital getting stitches instead of being taped back together in the infirmary by your kindly royal physician.”

  Grudgingly Markaz relaxed his arm. “It’s bad enough being attacked in my own hall of justice, without an unnecessary visit to the hospital.”

  “I thought you’d see it my way.”

  As the doctor cleaned and dried the gash marring his forearm, Markaz averted his eyes. He wasn’t a big fan of bloodshed, especially his own. The attacker had come at him from behind, having concealed himself behind the heavy drapes possibly for hours since the last session of the majlis ended.

  Hearing a slight sound, Markaz had spun around, thinking that Simone had followed him out of the antechamber. Seeing the knife, he’d instinctively thrown up his arm. His robes had absorbed some of the blow, but where his sleeve had slid back, the blade had sliced along his forearm. Markaz could still see the killing fury in the man’s eyes as he wielded the knife.

  He’d made sure his attacker had suffered, getting in a couple of blows that had crunched bones. Then he’d slipped on his own blood and the attacker had moved in to end the fight. Luckily for Markaz, Hamal had arrived at the hall to consult with the sheikh, and the intruder had fled.

  Thank goodness Simone had been safely within the soundproofed chamber, Markaz thought. Imagining her hurt was worse than the pain of his injury. But Hamal would see her to her quarters when the crisis was past.

  The security chief had wasted no time setting up roadblocks around the royal lodge, but no arrests had been reported so far. Markaz had the feeling there wouldn’t be any, either. The intruder had more lives than a cat. How had he managed to get into the enclave unseen? Only one answer made sense. He’d had help from the inside.

  “Whoever you’re ready to punch, I hope it isn’t me,” the doctor said.

  Markaz unclenched the fist he’d unconsciously made, then swore as he felt a fierce stinging sensation.

  “Sorry,” Dr. Rakha said. “You shouldn’t move. Benzoin touching an open wound can sting like the devil.”

  Markaz wouldn’t put it past the man to let it happen to remind the sheikh of his mortality. Rakha had been the royal physician for most of Markaz’s life, and didn’t take kindly to being told how to do his job. “Get on with it,” Markaz growled.

  “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  “Your groveling doesn’t fool me. You’re enjoying having me at your mercy.”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t dream of fooling Your Highness. Or of groveling, for that matter. But next time you decide to have a run-in with a knife of unknown hygiene, could you do it on my day off?”

  Tempted to tell him every day from now on might well fall into that category, Markaz restrained himself. Rakha loved nothing better than verbal sparring with his boss, but today Markaz wasn’t in the mood. Apart from the pain of his wound, he had the dilemma of what to do about Simone.

  He was afraid she was starting to mean far more to him than was wise. But he’d known the risk when he took her to the secret room. He’d promised himself never to take a woman there unless he intended to marry her.

  He didn’t intend to marry Simone. Did he?

  “Ouch,” he yelped, jerking his arm away from the doctor.

  Rakha straightened, surgical tape dangling from his fingers. “You’re not making this easy. I hope she’s worth it.”

  Markaz eyed him sharply. “I was thinking about affairs of state.”

  The doctor bent to his work again, cutting one of the strips of tape and folding a quarter of it over lengthwise. “Sure you were,” he murmured. “The hidden chamber is tailor-made for discussing such matters.”

  The sheikh felt his face heat. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw the two of you going into your room off the justic
e hall. You weren’t seen again until the intruder showed up a couple of hours later. That’s a long time to spend in an unadorned anteroom.”

  Rakha attached a piece of the prepared tape to each side of the knife wound, then reached for a surgical needle and thread.

  Markaz made an effort not to flinch. “I thought you said this wouldn’t need stitches.”

  “This is only to cinch the tape and bring the skin edges together so the wound heals cleanly. If you prefer, I can tie a lock of hair from a horse’s tail around your arm to cure it,” he said, referring to an ancient piece of Nazaari folklore.

  Markaz finally rose to the bait. “You would be more familiar with that end of a horse than I would.”

  “Ah, the patient’s spirit shows signs of recovery,” the doctor said. He efficiently stitched the tape in place. Markaz felt a tug of pain as the edges of the wound were brought together. “You were talking about the hidden chamber,” the doctor prompted as he snipped the thread.

  Rakha was the one who’d brought up the chamber, but Markaz didn’t think he should say so while the other man was wielding surgical instruments. “How do you know about the room?” he demanded.

  The doctor looked up from filling a syringe. “Your mother told me about it when she was expecting you. Don’t worry, I’ve told no one else. Patient confidentiality.”

  And his own strict ethics, Markaz thought. Rakha might be irritatingly argumentative, but he was the finest doctor in Nazaar. Caring for the royal family was his whole life. He had never married, making him an unlikely advisor on love, but he did know how to hold his tongue when it counted. “In theory, would you say that a man taking a woman to such a place was significant?” Markaz asked.

  Rakha approached him with the hypodermic. “Strictly in theory, I’d say it suggests that he’s pretty serious about her.”

  “Would that be good or bad?”

  “Theoretically, it should be good, if both parties feel the same way.”

  “What about other factors, like the future of the country? In theory,” Markaz added.