It was a melancholy thought.
Juliet had said that she loved him. Ross knew better than to take seriously a declaration made in the throes of passion, for passion was a notorious liar. He was not even sure that he wanted to believe her, for that would open the door to fears and confusion too deep and painful to confront.
Thank God that in a few hours the time for action would finally be at hand. Life and death were so much simpler, so much more clear-cut, than love.
Chapter 23
Finally the time had come to depart. It was late and most of the household should be asleep, tired by the festivities of the night before and the turmoil that had surrounded Abdul Samut Khan's departure today. After looping the rope around the leg of the bed, Ross paused to study Juliet's face for a moment. "I really can't say that a mustache suits you."
She grinned. "But you look rather good in a black beard."
"Let me know if it starts coming off." His levity dropped away and he gave her a quick, intense kiss that said more than words ever could. They both knew that when they left this room, they were putting themselves in the hands of fate, but to dwell on that fact might weaken them.
Ross wrapped the doubled rope around himself, climbed over the windowsill, and disappeared from view. Juliet adjusted the veil of her tagelmoust over her face, thinking that if she had met her husband on the street, she might not recognize him. He was abandoning his European clothing and he was dressed in the robes and turban of a royal chamberlain, but that was just the simplest aspect of his disguise.
After an early dinner they had spent several rather giddy hours creating disguises, using materials that Saleh and Juliet had procured in the bazaar. First they had both applied a weak-solution blend of walnut juice and caustic to darken their faces and hands. Then Ross dyed his brows and lashes a dark brown.
A false beard and mustache, bought from a shifty-eyed merchant who asked no questions, changed his appearance most. Besides concealing his features, they were necessary because facial hair was almost universal among Central Asian men. Most of the dark beard was shaped to fit around Ross's chin and jaws and was attached with a resinous adhesive.
Juliet painstakingly applied individual hairs all around the edges of his beard and mustache to create a natural-looking hairline, for his disguise must be effective at very close quarters. The results would not hold up to a determined tug, but Ross now looked like a Bokharan of Afghan or Persian origin.
Juliet herself was less convincing, for her mustache did not conceal the fact that her features were more feminine than masculine. However, since she was wearing Bokharan dress, she could pass as a young male servant at a distance or in subdued light, and that was good enough for what she would be doing.
Leaning out the window, she watched Ross's descent down the side of the building with concentrated interest. Earlier he had explained how mountain climbers used a rope to lower themselves quickly down a cliff face, but this was the first time she had seen the technique in actual use.
After he reached the ground, it was Juliet's turn. She took one last look around to check that nothing had been forgotten, smiling a little as she thought of her one concession to sentiment. Without telling Ross, she had decided to take her dance costume of the night before. Feather-light, it had been easy to fold the veils and conceal them in a pocket under her robes. God willing, perhaps she could dance again at Serevan.
Juliet put sentiment aside and went out the window. After reaching the ground, she tugged one end of the line so that the length slithered around the bed leg upstairs, then dropped down beside her.
Swiftly Ross coiled the rope and slung it over his shoulder so that there would be no telltale evidence of their departure. Since their apartment upstairs was barred from the inside, with luck it would take until midday tomorrow for the nayeb's servants to realize that the prisoners had escaped.
With Juliet leading the way and Ross a dozen paces behind, they began quietly circling the edge of the gardens, staying in the shadows even though there was only a sliver of moon. Since it was summer, most of the household slept on the flat rooftops for coolness, and unexpected noises might alert a restive sleeper.
For a very reasonable bribe, Zadeh, the helpful guard, had promised to unlock a seldom-used postern door at the far end of the compound, so leaving the nayeb's property should be the easiest part of the night's work. Even if Zadeh reneged or had been unable to obtain the key, they had the rope, so it would not be too difficult to scale the wall.
Their Unfortunately, the plan went awry when Juliet slipped cautiously around the corner of the stables only to run straight into the unsteady form of Yawer Shahid Mahmud. He smelled of horse and alcohol. He must have been out drinking in an illicit tavern and by sheer bad luck had just arrived home.
As Juliet backed hastily away, Shahid growled, "Watch where you're going, daous," using a mildly insulting epithet.
Juliet muttered a hoarse apology and tried to circle around him, but it was too late. The dark tagelmoust she had worn to blend into the shadows was now a dead giveaway.
Suddenly realizing whom he had within his grasp, Shahid grabbed her wrists. "Well, if it isn't the ferengi's fancy boy." His voice turned ugly and he twisted her arms back. "Quite a stroke of luck, for I'm in the mood to finish what I started before, and you won't catch me unaware this time."
Juliet stood still, making no attempt to escape. With Ross right behind her, she wasn't worried about what Shahid might do, but the officer's voice was so loud that she feared he might wake the grooms sleeping above the stables.
"It's time I saw your face." With surprising swiftness he managed to secure both of her wrists with one beefy fist, then lifted his other hand toward her veil.
No longer content to passively await rescue, Juliet jerked back and kicked at her captor's ankle. Where the devil was Ross?
She got her answer an instant later when she saw a flicker of movement behind the Uzbek, but before Ross could strike, Shahid sensed his presence. With a bellow, the yawer released Juliet and started to spin around. His shout was cut off by the sickening thud of a heavy pistol butt smashing into a human skull. Shahid pitched sideways, hitting the hard ground like a falling oak.
Juliet stared down at the massive sprawling figure. "Do you think he's dead?"
"Unfortunately not, but he'll have the devil's own headache when he wakes up." Ross tucked his pistol inside his coat. "So much for our well-laid plans. Let's get out of here and hope that no one will wake up and come out to investigate."
As they sprinted the last hundred yards to the postern, Juliet knew that they had been lucky that Shahid had not had a chance to see Ross's disguise. The postern door, praise God, was unlocked as it was supposed to be.
That was as far as their luck went. Even as Ross pulled the door closed behind them, they heard excited voices rising in the gardens. The unconscious officer had been found.
Juliet swore under her breath. When Shahid awoke, it wouldn't take him long to realize that the ferengi had escaped and the hunt would be on. Still, the alarm would probably not be raised until morning, so it should not affect tonight's attempt to extricate the prisoner from the Black Well.
The streets outside the compound were silent, for the king's drums had already beat out the curfew. Anyone abroad at this hour was required to carry a lantern. Since patrols enforced the law, Juliet and Ross kept to the shadows, hoping no one would see and remember their passing. She led, unerringly finding her way through the twisting maze of streets she had studied for weeks.
A quarter-hour of swift walking brought them to the arches of a small covered bazaar that was now deserted for the night. Murad waited there with four horses. He jumped when Juliet materialized out of the shadows near him, then scanned the newcomers with approval. "Very good, Lord Khilburn. You look exactly like a Bokharan court official."
"Let's hope the prison guards think so." Ross rested a hand on the young Persian's shoulder. "Are you ready to enter the lion'
s den? It might be very dangerous."
Murad managed a quick smile, though tension was obvious in his voice. "More dangerous for you than for me."
"But I do it for love of my brother. It takes greater courage to risk one's life for a stranger." Ross squeezed the younger man's shoulder, then said in a different tone, "Now it is time for the king's chamberlain to ride."
It took only a few moments to make the final preparations. While Murad uncovered one lamp and lit a second, Ross removed the dark scarf he had worn over his white turban on their surreptitious journey through the city and Juliet took off her tagelmoust. Underneath she also wore a white turban.
After packing the extra garments and the rope in saddlebags, they all mounted and rode the final half mile to the prison, which was a massive high-walled structure behind the royal palace. For the moment they were done with stealth; only bluster could make their present mad mission a success.
The entrance to the prison was barred by a heavy gate with a smaller door set in the middle. When their party reached it, Ross pulled out his pistol and, without dismounting, banged the hilt on the small door.
A voice sounded from the guardhouse above his head. "Who goes there?"
Ross took a deep breath. The point of no return had been reached. Speaking in Uzbek, he said, "Saadi Khan, bearing orders from the amir."
"Saadi Khan?" the guard said doubtfully.
"I am a makhram, a royal chamberlain, fool. Let me in!"
Responding to the note of command, the guard signaled one of his fellows to open the door. It was just large enough to admit a man on horseback. Ross trotted through into the courtyard, followed by Murad and Juliet, who led the fourth horse.
As soon as they were inside, Ross ordered, "Take me to the officer in charge."
"Yes, sir," said the highest-ranking of the soldiers, the equivalent of a corporal. He escorted the newcomers to the front steps of the main building.
There Ross and Murad dismounted, leaving Juliet with their horses. Her turban and mustache were adequate to allow her to pass as a young man in the dark courtyard.
With an arrogance modeled on Shahid Mahmud's, Ross swaggered up the steps, Murad right behind him. The corporal turned them over to a different guard, who escorted the visitors to the chamber occupied by the officer in charge of the night watch.
The lieutenant on duty looked up with a supercilious expression. If Murad's friend Hafiz was right, the man was new to this posting and unlikely to recognize that Ross was not a genuine palace official. He was also the sort who bullied his underlings and fawned on his superiors, which made him an ideal candidate for intimidation.
The lieutenant stroked his beard, eyeing Ross with disfavor. "Since the amir is out of the city, what royal business could you possibly have that cannot wait until morning?"
"This business." Ross pulled a document from inside his coat, then tried to look nonchalant as the officer examined it.
The order was a forgery, written in official style and marked with a royal seal that had been carefully removed from a legitimate document. The forgery came from Ephraim ben Abraham. Ross and Juliet had speculated how and why such skills had been learned, but knew better than to ask.
Ross stopped breathing when the lieutenant frowned over the order. "I do not understand."
Relieved that the problem was content, not form, Ross said with studied exasperation, "You aren't supposed to understand. Your job is to produce the ferengi prisoner, not waste my time with foolish questions."
"But why now, when his majesty is away?"
"It is precisely because he is away, imbecile! A foreign spy is a diplomatic embarrassment, dangerous to keep and dangerous to kill. Problems of this sort are best solved when the amir is known to be occupied with more important matters. Now, are you going to obey your orders, or are you going to become part of the problem?"
"My superior has not given me authority to release a prisoner," the lieutenant said doggedly, but his confidence was starting to wane in the face of his visitor's imperious manner.
"The document in your hand is all the authority you need." Not for nothing was Ross the son of a duke. When he chose to, he could bluster with the best. He shifted his weight forward to the balls of his feet, emphasizing his superior height. His voice dropped, becoming deep and threatening. "I've had quite enough of your foolishness. Saadi Khan is not accustomed to being kept waiting. Take me to the prisoner now."
By the time Ross finished speaking, the lieutenant's expression had changed to servile obedience. Scrambling to his feet, he said, "A thousand apologies, sir. I did not mean to offend. It is just that such a procedure is most unusual."
"So is having a ferengi captive," Ross said tersely.
"If you will come along with me, sir." The lieutenant lifted a lamp, then led the way down a narrow, winding staircase that descended to the lowest level of the ancient building.
At the bottom of the stairs they began walking along a corridor lined with heavy doors, their progress haunted by the sounds of misery. In one cell a voice droned prayers in classical Arabic, while ragged, hopeless sobs emerged from another. The very walls were saturated with suffering and decay.
His face rigid, Ross looked neither right nor left. Two jailers from the dungeon-level guard room fell in behind, torches in their hands, but the flares were a feeble counter to the rank, suffocating blackness. The slightest suspicion that he and Murad were frauds would mean they'd never see the light of day again.
Finally they reached a rough-hewn room at the end of the passage. The hole in the floor was covered with a wooden hatch, and a rope and pulley were suspended from the ceiling above. Ross stared at the hatch. Finally he had reached the Siah Cha, the Black Well, the Central Asian version of the oubliette.
One of the jailers leaned over and lifted the hatch away, releasing a stench that caused everyone to step back. Ross's stomach clenched, but this was no time to show weakness. "By the Prophet's beard!" he snarled. "Is the prisoner even alive?"
One of the jailers, a squat man with a broad, unintelligent face, said helpfully, "I think he eats the food we drop down."
The other jailer, who had a sharp, ferretlike face, shrugged. "That don't mean nothing. Could be eaten by rats or sheep ticks. The ticks are specially bred for the Well."
Ross was grateful that false beard concealed his expression. Tightly he said, "Get the prisoner up here."
The squat jailer undogged the end of the rope that ran through the pulley, then lowered the line into the hole. When it reached the bottom, he yelled down in Persian, "Put the loop around you and we'll pull you up. A gentleman here to see you." He smiled nastily. "He says the amir is going to set you free."
It must have been an old taunt, for the only response was a guttural, weakly uttered phrase from the bottom of the hole.
The lieutenant cocked his head, then said regretfully, "I don't understand Russian so I don't know what he's saying, but at least he's alive."
Ross's mouth twisted. He also recognized the language, though Russian was not a tongue he spoke. So it was the other officer, not Ian.
Later he would allow himself to be disappointed, but now he must concentrate on getting the poor devil below away from this evil place. With bitter humor he said, "I imagine that he is saying the Russian version of 'Go fornicate with yourself.' "
The lieutenant smiled appreciatively, but the ferret frowned. "He's probably refusing to take the rope so we can pull him up."
"Then go down after him," Ross ordered.
The two guards looked at each other with obvious reluctance. "He's a mean bastard," the squat one said. "Might attack anyone who comes after him."
"And you're afraid of a prisoner who has been starving down there for months?" Ross said incredulously.
Anxious to assert his authority, the lieutenant said to the ferret, "Pull the rope up so we can use it to lower you down."
The ferret shook his head stubbornly and edged toward the door. "Time I was getting b
ack to my post. I'm in charge of the cells in the other wing."
The lieutenant swelled with rage while the squat guard tried to look unobtrusive so he wouldn't be called on. Seeing that a time-wasting confrontation was imminent, Ross let his fury boil over. "Imbeciles. Must I do everything myself?"
He took the rope and leaned over to secure the upper end. Then he impatiently snatched the torch carried by the ferret, wrapped the rope around himself, and went down into the dungeon in a controlled slide. The walls were damp, and the stench, which had been foul above, was indescribable.
Twenty-one feet was a long way, and it seemed much longer, but finally he reached bottom, almost falling when his feet skidded on the slimy stone. The chamber was roughly ten feet square, hardly large enough to lose a man in, but it was littered with so much nameless offal that it took time to identify as human the long, ragged shape lying by one wall.
Ross brought the torch nearer. The man had wildly tangled dark hair and beard and had thrown an arm over his head, apparently to protect his eyes from the unaccustomed light. His only garment was a pair of ragged European trousers.
Under the filth, his skin was dead white and his body was so thin that every rib was visible. There were also open sores visible, perhaps the work of the specially bred sheep ticks. Had it not been for the oath that had emerged from the dungeon earlier, Ross would have thought he had found a corpse.
He knelt beside the prisoner, speaking quietly in French, which an educated Russian should understand, while the men above would not. "I'm a friend, here to take you away. Do you think you can walk? That will make it easier to help you."
Suddenly the man rolled over and lashed out at his visitor with surprising strength. Startled, Ross sprang to his feet and backed across the cell to avoid the attack. Then he sucked his breath in with shock.
The prisoner's face was gaunt and filthy, and he had lost one eye, for the right lid hung nervelessly over a slight depression, but his appearance was not what chilled Ross's blood. Far more stunning was the fact that as the man crashed to the floor, he said in English with a faint, familiar Scots accent, "You'll not fool me again, you bloody-minded son of a bitch."