A dangerous smile lit Dil Assa's dark eyes. His gaze swept around the gathered watchers, for as was usual in the East, everything happened with an audience. "As a gesture of friendship to the ferengi, I will invite him to share in one of the glories of Turkoman life." He paused for dramatic effect. "Tomorrow I shall hold a special bozkashi match in his honor. Not only that, the ferengi shall play with us."
After he said bozkashi, the crowd began murmuring with excitement, repeating the word over and over. Ross had heard the term and recognized it as a game played on horseback, but knew nothing more. Distrustfully he asked, "What is bozkashi?"
Dil Assa gave a wolfish smile. "It is the great game our ancestors have played since time immemorial. The name means 'goat catch,' for men on horseback contend for the headless body of a goat. The carcass must be carried around a distant post, then brought back and hurled into the circle of justice. Whoever throws the goat into the circle is proclaimed the winner. Of course, it is not to be expected that a ferengi might actually win, but still I will allow you to play with us."
It didn't take a genius to guess how much violence the brief description concealed. Unenthralled, Ross said, "You honor me, but I have no horse, nor any understanding of the game."
"No matter," Dil Assa said airily. "Bozkashi is so simple, even a ferengi can learn. I will lend you one of my own horses."
Ross glanced around at the expectant faces of the other caravan members. He had garnered a fair amount of goodwill among them, but refusing to play Dil Assa's barbaric game might dissipate that. There was no graceful way out; even the khalifa looked approving. "Then I shall be pleased to join you."
"Splendid!" Dil Assa swung onto his horse. "Come to our tents tomorrow when the sun has risen halfway to its zenith. And bring your friends so they can admire your riding prowess." With flamboyant showmanship he reared his horse, then wheeled and galloped away, followed by his men.
After mentally conceding that Dil Assa had won this round, Ross turned and bowed to the khalifa. "Many thanks for your intervention, majesty. I see God's hand in the chance that brought you to our fire."
Abd Urrahman's black eyes twinkled. "It was not entirely chance, though assuredly you were under God's hand. This morning a camel driver came to my house to tell me of the wickedness of you and your Tuareg servant. He wanted me to order that you both be stoned, but I thought it best to judge you for myself. I also guessed that Dil Assa might seek you out when he heard that a ferengi was in Merv, for his brother was killed by the British in Afghanistan. He is a good lad, Dil Assa, but impulsive." The old man inclined his head graciously. "I enjoyed our discussion, Khilburn. Your theology is novel, but the product of a reverent heart. Enjoy the bozkashi match tomorrow."
Even after the khalifa left, Ross's fire was the center of attention among the members of the caravan, who came over to enthusiastically describe bozkashi matches they had seen. The prospect of a game the next day put everyone in high spirits.
It was well after dark, and most people had drifted away to their beds when Juliet stood and murmured, "Join me for a walk."
A few minutes later, he also got to his feet and ambled away from the campground. As in Sarakhs, the caravansary was on the edge of town, and by the time he overtook Juliet, they were well into the desert. As they wound their way between moon-glazed sand dunes, he asked, "What have I gotten myself into?"
"Think of bozkashi as a cross between fox hunting and the battle of Waterloo," she said dryly.
He laughed. "That bad?"
"Worse. Since Dil Assa promised not to murder you, this is his best hope for putting you in the way of a fatal accident."
"I'm sure he wouldn't grieve if that happened," Ross agreed, "but I imagine that his main desire is to humiliate me as a salve for his wounded pride. Have you seen many bozkashi matches?"
"Only one. Everyone assumed I was a man, but I thought it wise not to press my luck by going to others. Turkoman women are not allowed to attend matches, so it might have been dangerous if I had been discovered." She stopped and plucked a pale flower that had blossomed after a brief shower the night before. "The men adore bozkashi. Even as we speak, the word is spreading across the desert. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, will come to watch tomorrow. It is a winter sport, and this will surely be the last match until autumn, for it is almost too hot to play."
"What are the rules?"
"There are none. There can be any number of players, from a dozen to hundreds, and it's every man for himself. My guess is that bozkashi began as war training for the conquering Mongol hordes. There is nothing the least bit subtle about the game—it's all brute strength and horsemanship." She gave him a doubtful glance. "You're an excellent rider, but you have seen what the Turkomans are like."
"All of them appear to have been born on horseback, and I doubt that they are burdened by any gentlemanly nonsense about fair play." Ross shrugged. "I don't feel the need to outdo them at their own game. If I can stay on my horse until the end, I'll consider that I've done my bit for British honor."
"Will you remember that tomorrow in the heat of the game?"
He smiled and picked another white blossom, then tucked it into a fold of Juliet's tagelmoust over her ear. "I'll remember. I've never been mad for playing games."
Primly ignoring what he had done with the flower, she said, "I thought you were some sort of athletic hero at Eton."
"Yes," he admitted. "At Eton one doesn't have much choice whether to play or not, but I was never mad for games."
"My father would have been shocked speechless at such sentiments," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "He had no respect for men who were uninterested in sporting activities."
Not yet ready to end these precious moments of private conversation, Ross sat down in the lee of a hill where they had a distant view over the winding Merv River. Casually he took Juliet's hand and tugged her down beside him. When she came without protest, he briefly considered retaining her hand before deciding it would be wiser not to.
If he were a single man and had just met Juliet, he would be doing his best to court her, for she was in most ways the same woman he had fallen in love with. But the fact that they were married and separated was an unbreachable barrier.
At least, he did not how to overcome the past, nor was he sure that it would be wise to try. The crucial quality she lacked was interest in him. That first innocent courtship, when they had not feared to show their hearts, had been a lifetime ago.
Still casual, he said, "Do you know, I think that is the first time I ever heard you say a word about what your father was like. I know that he served in several exotic diplomatic posts and that he died when you were sixteen, but apart from that, I know nothing. In fact, I don't believe I ever heard any other member of your family mention him."
Juliet sighed. A breeze was blowing across the dunes, and she pulled her veil down so the soft air could cool her face. "He was a difficult man. Having children was something he owed his name—he had little interest in his sons, and even less in his daughter. While he was admirable in many ways, he was also something of a bully. I suppose that a dozen years ago the memory was too raw for anyone in the family to talk about him easily. Enough time has passed to give me some perspective."
"How did you feel about him?"
She hesitated. "I desperately wanted him to be pleased with me, but because he was a bully, I fought with him constantly. All of us did, except poor Mother, who was caught between her husband and her children, as helpless as a new-fledged chick."
"Interesting," Ross murmured, his gaze fixed on the pale oval of her face. He wanted to reach out and touch her so much that he feared his hand would move of its own volition, so he deliberately scooped up a handful of coarse sand and let it trickle through his fingers. "Was his lack of interest in his daughter the reason you always ran with your brothers, learning the same things and getting into the same kind of trouble?"
There was a surprised pause. "Very likely, though I've
never thought of it in those terms. At the time, it just seemed that boys got to do much more interesting things than girls. Also, it was my brothers or no one when we were living in Tripoli and Teheran. Since there were no European households with girls my age, I had no female playmates."
More than ever, Ross wanted to touch her, but he did not want to risk destroying the fragile mood between them. In the last few minutes she had told him more about the inner life of her childhood than she had revealed during their courtship and brief period of wedded bliss. Perhaps after he digested this new information he would be better able to understand the mystery who was his wife. "No wonder it was so difficult to be sent to an English girls' school after your father died."
"It was horrible," she said vehemently. "I wanted to make friends, but didn't know how. At least, not until Sara took me in hand. It added to my status enormously that she befriended me, for she was the best-respected girl in the school. She taught me how to behave correctly. The English upper class is a positive labyrinth of elaborate rituals, of right and wrong ways to do things. If you make a mistake, you are branded forever as an outsider."
"But you weren't an outsider," he pointed out. "Your parents both came from what are called 'good families.' You had as much right to take your place in society as any other girl in your school."
Juliet gave a rueful chuckle. "Technically that might have been true, but in practice it didn't work out that way. Not only was I ignorant of the rules and the gossip everyone else knew, but I was Scottish, the tallest girl in the whole school, and had horridly unfashionable hair. I didn't even know how to giggle properly! If it hadn't been for Sara, I would have run away."
His heart aching for the unhappy girl she was allowing him to see, he said, "The stories you told me about your school were always amusing. I had no idea you had been so miserable."
"Complaining is never very attractive, so I didn't. Besides, I was sure you wouldn't understand. You grew up in the heart of society, with correct behavior so ingrained that you always knew instinctively what to do, or what the consequences would be if you disobeyed," she said with wry humor. "In time I learned enough of the rules to create the illusion that I belonged, but I still made mistakes."
"I never noticed."
"Ah, but you did," she said gently. "When I was too far out of line, you would mildly tell me where I had gone wrong. That I had been too opinionated, or insufficiently deferential, or that I had broken one of those damned little rules." It was Juliet's turn to scoop up sand, then watch it flow from her taut fingers.
Though her tone had not been accusing, Ross felt as if she had unexpectedly kicked him in the midriff, for she was revealing one of the issues that had separated them. And while he wanted to understand her better, this cut painfully close to the bone. "Damnation," he swore. "I can't even remember criticizing you, yet I hurt you badly by doing so, didn't I?"
Swiftly she turned her head toward him. In the pale moonlight, her eyes were only dark shadows. "And now I've hurt you by mentioning it. I'm sorry, Ross, I shouldn't have said anything. Even then, I knew that the problem was not you, but my own uncertainty and sensitivity. When Sara corrected my behavior, I was grateful, but when you were critical, I felt... undermined. As if I were hopelessly awkward. I was sure you must regret having married me."
"If you were too sensitive, obviously I wasn't sensitive enough. I should have known I was upsetting you." Frustrated, he balled his hand into a fist and ground it into the yielding sand. It was better to know than to remain in ignorance, yet it was difficult to ask the next question, for he feared the answer she might give. "Did you leave because of my criticisms?"
"It was part of the reason, but only a very small part," she replied, choosing her words with care. "I became convinced that I could never be the kind of wife you wanted, and that trying to change was destroying me."
"I didn't want you to change," he said, his voice full of self-directed bitterness. "I liked you very well the way you were. Yet in my youthful foolishness I drove you away."
For just a moment she touched the back of his hand. "Don't blame yourself—it was far more complicated than that. I was confused... so confused. No matter what you had done or not done, I don't think the result would have been any different."
No longer able to restrain himself, Ross raised his hand and gently caressed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. Softly he said, "So our marriage was doomed from the start?"
For a moment he felt a touch of warm moisture on her petal-smooth cheek. Then with one lithe movement she got to her feet and moved out of his reach. "There is no point in talking about the distant past—it's upsetting and changes nothing," she said, her voice brittle. "The very young Juliet Cameron was wholly unsuited to be either a wife or an English lady. It's a great pity she didn't know that, for marrying an English lord distressed a number of people unnecessarily."
She halted for a moment, then finished very quietly, "I learned my lesson. I just regret that I learned it too late to save you from suffering for my sins."
More slowly, Ross also stood. "So you buried yourself in a land where you are so much an outsider that no one will ever expect you to be like anyone else. Has that solved the underlying problem of feeling that you don't belong?"
In the silence that followed, she withdrew from their brief intimacy with a thoroughness that was almost tangible. Juliet had revealed as much as she was willing to, at least for tonight. She gave a light laugh, as cool and detached as any society woman in her own drawing room. "The worst thing about you, Ross, is that you are always right. Such a very maddening trait."
If she had had a fan, she might have tapped him with it. And if she had, he would have broken the damned thing in half.
His expression grim, he got to his feet. If he were always right, she never would have left him. "It's time to get some rest. I'm going to need all my strength if I want to avoid disgracing myself in Dil Assa's equine riot."
Juliet pulled the veil over her lower face again and removed the desert flower he had tucked over her ear. As she tossed it into the sand, she said, "Just remember your resolution not to try to beat him at his own game. We've had quite enough excitement on this journey."
Ross couldn't have agreed more.
Chapter 12
With the exception of a few men left on guard duty, everyone in the caravan went out to Dil Assa's camp, which was a couple of miles up the river from the town. As the loose, good-natured group rode through the barren countryside, Ross glanced at Juliet, whose camel was ambling along by his. "You're right about how popular bozkashi is. Everyone's in a holiday mood."
Dryly she said, "In Turkestan it is considered great fun to watch animals rip each other to shreds—dogs fight dogs, cocks fight cocks, quail fight quail. Even bull camels are set to fighting each other when they're in rut. What does that tell you about bozkashi?"
He chuckled. "That I'll be glad when this is over and I am back at the caravansary, preferably with all limbs intact."
Their destination was a scattered collection of yurts, circular tents made of felt. The effect was rather like a collection of black-roofed beehives. Swarms of children, the next generation of plunderers, buzzed about. Most of the inhabitants wore bright clothing, red being the preferred color. To Ross's surprise, the nomad women were unveiled, a rarity in Islam. Instead, they wore high, elaborate headdresses with red or white scarves that fell behind to their waists.
Everyone stopped and stared at Ross when he rode into the encampment. Since it was common knowledge that he was a ferengi, he had decided to wear the European clothing he was most comfortable in, and his white shirt and plain buckskins were a stark contrast to the flowing, colorful robes of the Turkomans. His only Asiatic garment was his white turban, which he wore for protection against the sun.
As he dismounted from his camel, Dil Assa pushed through the gathering crowd. The Turkoman wore a cap edged with wolf fur, which was the mark of a chopendoz, an acknowledged bozkashi master.
"Ah, my ferengi friend," he said with patent insincerity. "1 am delighted to see that you have not had second thoughts. Here is a bozkashi whip. I will take you to your mount." After handing Ross a short lead-weighted whip, the Turkoman turned and led the way to the edge of the encampment.
Since the playing area was still some distance away, most of the other caravan members continued riding. However, Juliet dismounted and gave Murad the reins to both camels. Then, like a good servant, she trailed along behind Ross, watching his back. However, Ross did not feel as if he was in any immediate danger; if Dil Assa wanted to break the khalifa's injunction by killing the ferengi, he would surely not do so until after Ross had made a fool of himself in the game.
Dil Assa led Ross to where a dozen saddled horses were tethered along a picket line. "Here," the Turkoman said, indicating an elderly bay mare. "A fine, steady beast, perfect for a ferengi who has never played bozkashi."
Ross circled the horse with elaborate care, shaking his head all the while. "Have you no respect for the poor mare's years, Dil Assa? She would expire of exertion before the afternoon is over." He patted the angular rump. "I should profoundly regret being the cause of this venerable lady's demise."
Dil Assa scowled. "I chose the mare because I thought that even a ferengi who sits in the saddle like a sack of grain should be able to manage her. But if you think you can handle a real bozkashi steed, choose from among any of my other horses."
Thoughtfully Ross walked along the picket line, examining all of the beasts with an expert eye. They were similar to the legendary breed that the Chinese called the Heavenly Horses of Ferghana. Bred more for stamina than speed, they lacked the elegant conformation of Arabians, but the best of them could travel six hundred miles in under a week.
Other Turkomans crowded around, none of them showing Dil Assa's hostility, and all of them eager to offer comments on the horses. Ross didn't know the language well enough to understand all the rapid talk, but he caught phrases such as, "A bozkashi horse must have the speed of a hawk, the agility of a goat, the heart of a lion... from full gallop to dead stop in an instant... needs patience, spirit, wit..."