Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Of all who knew her, only Zadek suspected the love she and Tariq shared. His warning had been veiled but clear: The One who leads, the One who commands, can never be whole. She must forever remain apart, denied what other women. take for granted. Without home, husband, or family. Only the Prophesy mattered. Sharon was not afraid of the death that awaited her; her only grief came at the thought of losing Tariq. Yet she never spoke to him of these matters, never once gave him cause to question what lay at the end of the road. The saya knew, though. Ah, yes, Carolyn knew. The Panther of the Steppes was a tool, of God and nothing more. When Samarkand was freed and returned to its rightful heirs, her tasks would be complete, her reason for living ended. The dawn after the Night of Atonement would never be greeted by her eyes. Karma. Fate. A fate that could not be altered or denied.

  But at least Tariq doesn’t know! Praise Allah for that!

  He stirred with the wind; she kissed him lightly. His eyes opened and he smiled down at her, running his fingers through her tousled hair.

  “I love you, Sharon,” he whispered.

  “And I love you, Tariq,” she replied. “But it’s late. We have to get back.”

  He wiped dust from his eyes, staring with a child’s wonder at the beauty of the desert, his eternal home. His father, Shoaib the Goatherd, had been buried near here not so many years ago, and Tariq wished no more for himself. No tomb, no marker. Only the sands and the sunrise would greet him every morning for as long as the world existed. Yes, and Sharon would rest beside him, the two of them together, eternally.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  He grinned, sitting up and stretching his muscles. “About us. About how much we have to look forward to, once we’ve finished.”

  He did not see the shadow that crossed her brow. She tossed back her hair, straightened her robe. A small bone comb was retrieved from the saddlebag beside their blanket and she ran it through her hair. Tariq observed her with love in his eyes, frowning when she made ready to get up. He glanced at the tethered horses standing calmly in the dune’s shadow, then pulled her sharply to him. Sharon laughingly pushed him away, stopping when his mouth covered hers. The kiss was long and lingering, as satisfying as the night itself had been.

  “We mustn’t linger,” she warned. “We’ll be missed. You wouldn’t want the Kazir elders to hear we spent this night together, would you?”

  He frowned. “I don’t very much care what they think,” he said, letting anger show.

  Sharon touched his face with her fingertips. “No, Tariq. We cannot be bitter. We must not be bitter. Didn’t we promise that to ourselves when we began? We knew it would be hard...”

  “Yes, but then it was different.” He looked away from her, sighing. It all seemed so much simpler then, this secret love. So easy to hide, to disguise. Now it was different. Their work was almost done, yet in many ways only starting. There were too many demands pulling them further and further apart, denying them even these occasional clandestine hours. But Tariq was a Kazir, a chieftain, the only son of Shoaib, the man who’d unified the desert tribes. His duty could not be denied, nor could Sharon’s, though sometimes he hated both the Law and his people for it.

  “Be not unhappy, my love,” she begged. “This night was wonderful; I shall never forget. A perfect moment in all eternity.”

  He kissed her again, tenderly, with all his heart and desire. And she willingly returned that kiss, subduing the tears that ached to pour from her eyes. If only things had been different, if only...She stopped her musings, shook her head. Life was filled with far too many “if only’s.”

  “When will you leave?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “Zadek says the sooner the better. The inquiry into Niko’s death, plus the unexplained manner in which Karim was found dead, have caused a great many questions. Kabul shall soon no longer blame his sons for these recent events. The saya’s messages urge us to move with haste.”

  The hand of God was at work, the Kazirs could no longer bide their time. If only Le-Dan’s support could be counted on!

  “And you?” said Tariq, facing her squarely.

  “I await only the news of the next action taken,” she said. “Then I shall return to the forest — for the last time.” Her composure began to crumble as Tariq’s eyes fixed on her, and she fell into his strong arms, weeping. “It’s no good, my love,” she cried. “We cannot pretend to each other any longer.”

  Tariq nodded grimly, pressing her face against him. “Our love will not be denied,” he vowed softly, looking toward the sun. “When the deeds are done, we shall have our lives together.”

  Sharon pulled away abruptly, tears spilling. “No,” she said, shaking her head, hair flying loosely before her eyes. She sniffed and turned away from him. “Never! It’s the Law —”

  “The Law was made by men and it can be broken! I don’t care, Sharon. We’ve waited, dreamed too long...”

  “I must go alone,” she answered miserably. “Please understand. You have your duty, I have mine.”

  “I’ll never understand!” he flared. “You’re mine! No man, no Law, can ever change that! I’ll be at your side always, until we are one.”

  His words were killing her. How much she wanted him to be with her now, to share with her what must be! Yet how could she even contemplate such a rash thing, knowing the outcome would still be the same — doom for them both. No, it was better as it was. She would face the future bravely, keep her lover, her gentle lover, well sheltered from the things she was forced to do. It was the only way to save him. The only way.

  “You mustn’t say that,” she pleaded, hands to her mouth and shaking. “You must never even think it! If you love me, Tariq, then believe what I tell you, and never ask me again.”

  “But why, my darling, why? Why is it forbidden?”

  “The Law,” she replied, to which he shook his head. There was more here, he realized. Far more, unspoken all this time, although both of them were as aware of it as they were aware of sunrise following the night. More than the strict Kazir code, the harsh code to which the tribe was sworn.

  Softly, he said, “It’s the Prophesy, isn’t it?”

  “Ask me no more questions,” she said weakly. “Do not probe, Tariq. Let me go to my fate. Karma can never be altered.”

  That much was true. What was written in the stars had been ordained eons ago. Nothing in the world could change it. “Perhaps,” he added quietly, “the Prophesy is flawed. Misinterpreted...”

  She shook her head ruefully, so full of love for him, yet so burdened by his unrealistic dreams. Sweet Tariq, who sought to change the course of destiny. When she drew the courage to look at him again, she repeated all that he already knew. “There will be a time when a new leader shall rise among the Kazirs,” she quoted from the hallowed Book of Wisdom. “A new leader born of those known as Outcasts. One to whom the desert tribes will rally and die for, one for whom destiny cannot be changed.” She watched his anguish sadly. “I am that One, Tariq. It was Zadek who brought me to you and declared as much, the witches themselves confirming it.” She shuddered. “But I was unclean. Forever shamed. Nothing can be done to alter that fact.”

  “To me you have never been shamed,” he said, and she smiled up at him, wanting so very much to believe it.

  She reached out and touched his cheek with the lightness of a feather blown by the wind. “I love you, Tariq. Never forget that!”

  His eyes locked with hers. “You make it sound as though we’ll never see each other again.”

  Her smile was without joy as she answered, “For certain we shall, my love, for certain we shall. But not until you and I have accomplished what we must. Not until we greet each other beneath the wails of Samarkand.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “More wine!” demanded the blustery Khalkali.

  As the servant soundlessly poured, the whore Jasmine, scars of her battered face covered by clever use of makeup and eye shadow, humbly bowed and helped him
off with his boots.

  Khalkali growled as he downed the strong brew, wiping his mouth with the soiled sleeve of his tunic. He belched loudly, picking at a greasy leg of lamb. He grunted as each boot was tugged off and placed at the side of his cushioned seat. Jasmine blocked out the stink of his sweaty, unbathed body, meekly resumed her place at his side, legs folded underneath her, eyes cast down toward the floor, silently awaiting his pleasure.

  It had been several weeks since that night she’d been taken by force. The drugged Mufiqua had, as his first act of love-making, beat her mercilessly before making her submit. Most of the scars had healed well enough; the overseer had seen to that. But the scars of her mind would never heal. At night she relived that awful experience, screaming in her fitful sleep, waking in terror as the animal Mufiqua came at her endlessly in his opium-induced stupor. The overseer had called for her sharply at dawn, standing aghast at the sight of Mufiqua’s debased ideas of pleasure. Carolyn had bowed with due respect to the glassy-eyed son of Kabul, then gently urged Jasmine up, sheltering her bruised body, and led her away. With great pains Mistress Carolyn had cared for her and brought her back to the world of reality. And for this kindness Jasmine had vowed to be her vassal for life, to do whatever was asked without question. She hated Mufiqua, loathed them all. It had been something of a shock to realize that the overseer herself shared many of these feelings. Not that Mistress Carolyn had openly said anything. Indeed the opposite was true; when Jasmine had spilled her young girl’s heart out to her, the overseer had remained silent and impassive. Yet there was something in her eyes, some deep-seeded anger that Jasmine did not understand, assuring her that she was not alone in her hatred. And whatever the reason, for that Jasmine was glad.

  Khalkali almost choked on a tiny splinter of bone, coughed it up and cursed crudely. He wiped his hands clean on Jasmine’s silk-like hair, then patted his belly, satisfied at the meal. A glimmer of carnal lust flickered in his reptilian eyes as he regarded the whore anew.

  “Why did the overseer send me you?” he asked.

  Jasmine forced a smile, inwardly disgusted. “I know not, lord,” she replied sweetly. “Mistress Carolyn said that you required company for the night, and I had the honor to be chosen.”

  He laughed deeply. “Honor, is it? Eh?” He tilted her face closer toward him, examining her skin in the bright light of the brazier. The purple bruises became apparent. “Perhaps, compared to my brother Mufiqua, my company is an honor, eh?” Then he laughed again. “Still,” he mumbled, noting her ample breasts, her peasant features, “I can see that this overseer is a woman with a good eye for flesh. Yes, yes. How are you called, eh?”

  “Jasmine, my lord.”

  “Jasmine, eh? A pretty name.” He yanked her by the hair, forcing her head back. “Afraid of me, whore?” he questioned.

  She shook her head. “No, my lord. Honored to serve you, to give you the pleasures of the night.”

  “But you’d have preferred another, no?” He peered at her more closely, darkly. “You’d have kissed Niko’s feet, hmmm? Moaned with ecstasy had it been his hands all over you instead of mine?”

  “No, my lord. I am yours alone — for tonight.”

  His grin expanded. “And tomorrow another’s?”

  He let go of her hair and she bowed her head. “Such is my work, my lord. A concubine’s duty to her masters.”

  “Bah.” He spat. “Soon there won’t be many others to choose from, eh?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

  “No?” He sighed, instructing her to stand behind and massage him Soft but firm strokes put him at ease. “Well, perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you don’t.” He held out his goblet, Jasmine snapped her finger and the attending slave came running, filling it to the brim. He slurped as he drank, clamored for more. Jasmine dismissed the slave and poured the drink herself. For an instant Khalkali’s eyes met hers. Then he drank.

  “You seem most tired this evening, my lord,” she told him, resuming the massage. Her hands expertly worked the tense muscles of his shoulders and back, and the lord groaned with appreciation. “What did you say your name was, whore?”

  “Jasmine, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes. Jasmine.”

  “Would you like me to bathe you, my lord? Wash your body clean of its dirt before you prepare for sleep?”

  “I dislike bathing,” he said with a grimace.

  “Then would you enjoy my anointing your body with oils? Rare oils from the East, said to wash away a man’s weariness.” Her hands dug in harder, working up and down, side to side.

  “Later, perhaps.” He held out the empty goblet. She poured happily, willing to do his bidding. Once it was finished, he slumped forward, content at this moment to do nothing more than to let her fingers continue probing and pleasing him. It had been a long and difficult day. Niko’s duties, such as they were, had been passed onto him, thus giving him twice the area of the city to be responsible for. His dear departed brother had left his work in a terrible state, and it had fallen upon Khalkali to right it.

  Jasmine was standing before him, smiling. “More wine, my lord?”

  Khalkali snapped from his somber thoughts and nodded. “Yes,” he rasped, toying with the goblet with both hands before he slaked his thirst. The taste of desert and dust was still strong in his mouth, and try as he might he could not get rid of it. How I loathe this place, he mused. This Samarkand. When I am Khan, I shall leave it forever, build a new city, a glorious city, far, far away from here. Khalkalistan, I shall name it. Yes, a monument to me that will survive the ages. Samarkand I shall burn, burn to the ground and leave not a trace of its existence.

  In his melancholia, the swaggering son of Kabul allowed the whore to lead him from his chair, lie him down comfortably on the divan. He sighed as her hands quickly went back to work.

  Has Krishna any news for me? he wondered. Or does my brutish brother go back on our bargain, plotting against me like the others? No, he would not dare. Not now, not yet. He has need of me, does Krishna. More than I have for him. Who else can he count on above the ground?

  Jasmine placed the goblet back in his hand, filled it once more. Khalkali stared into the brew, eagerly drank. He’d been drinking too much these past days, he knew. Allowing himself too many luxuries. He must learn to keep his mind clear, his wits sharp. Yes, that had been Niko’s downfall. Carelessness. Khalkali was positive he would never make the same error.

  He rolled onto his back, his forehead gleaming with perspiration. The wine was making him uncomfortably warm, but the fire in his veins was an elixir, his only antidote to the boredom of his daily routine. The Khan had done this to him, allowed him to wallow like this while Gamal had conquered. Those Western Armies should have been his own to command. Yes, it should have been he returning as the hero. He, Khalkali, fiercest son of Kabul. One day he would have his father’s other eye for this, he vowed. Never again would he take second place behind any man. Any man.

  He finished his cup, the whore was quick to refill it. His eyes lingered on her shape, her small waist, rounded hips. Her breasts taunted him, sensuous mouth slightly parted and teasing. “More wine?” she whispered. He grunted in response, feeling his desire for her begin to rise. Yes, the overseer had chosen well this night, even if the whore did bear blemishes.

  “What...what did you say your name was?” he asked, speech slightly slurred.

  Again the smile, the dancing eyes. “Jasmine, my lord.”

  He drank some more, started to refuse as she took the pitcher to refill his goblet, then changed his mind, let her pour.

  Oh, the wine was good. Tasty and strong. Perfect. Sluggishly he downed the last of it, enjoying even the dregs, feeling his bladder swell. He would have lifted himself to empty it had not the whore started her massage again. Her hands were strong now, stronger than before, grabbing at his flesh, digging into it, heightening the painful sensations.

  “More wine, my lord?”

  He shook his head. �
��No,” he answered with a gaping yawn, rolling over onto his back. “Not...now...”

  Jasmine, though, did not seem to hear. Dutifully she called for a fresh pitcher, placed it carefully on the silver tray, and poured until the brew met the brim of the cup. Khalkali took it, sipped.

  “Is the new brew not to your liking, my lord?” she asked with a frown.

  “Fine, fine, whore.”

  “Then why are you not drinking, my lord?”

  He belched as he started to answer. “Because...because I’ve had...enough. Too much...No more...”

  With one hand cradling his head, Jasmine helped him put the goblet to his lips, lifted it and poured the contents into his mouth. Khalkali coughed, spat much of it out, tried to push her away. But the girl was persistent and he didn’t have the strength now to stop her. More wine poured down his throat, spilling out of his mouth, staining the sheet darkly.

  “Stop!” he sputtered. He rose onto one elbow, felt his head become light, start to swim. The room was going around, her face before him like a swinging lantern, smiling, teasing. The wine continued to flow, he gurgled, then retched. Jasmine lithely stepped back while he heaved his guts over the floor and himself. She brought a towel, wiped his face and the sides of his mouth, stroking his brow. Khalkali followed her eyes, saw as they darted across the room toward the curtains. He tried to sit up, she pushed him back down. Then his mouth was open again. Had he opened it — or had her fingers pried it wide? He didn’t know, didn’t care. More wine pushed down his throat.

  Suddenly the whore was not alone. Someone was standing beside her, bearing the same smile, the same peculiar glint in her eyes. His vision was blurred as he tried to make out who it was. A woman. Another woman. A whore? No. Who? He recognized her slowly, the hair, the stance, the necklace hanging from her throat, dangling over her breasts. It was the overseer. Carolyn.