Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

  "You will come back safely," she said, refusing to let his words tarnish her hope. "Not only that, I have a strong feeling that this mission will benefit not just Ian, but you as well."

  He raised his brows sardonically. "If you recall, it was just such a feeling that led you to believe that Juliet and I were made for each other, though everyone else was doubtful. If you had not given permission, we could not have married and a great deal of grief would have been avoided. I'm not blaming you for doing what Juliet and I both wanted, but forgive me if I am not convinced of the reliability of maternal intuition."

  Her gaze slid away from his. "I still don't understand what went wrong," she said in a small voice. "You and Juliet seemed so right for each other. Even now, in my heart I cannot feel that it was wrong for you to marry."

  "God preserve us from the ghosties, ghoulies, long-legged things that go thump in the night, and unscrupulous Scotswomen with imperfect intuition," Ross said, misquoting the old Scottish prayer, but his tone was affectionate. If he had a child, he would doubtless be as ruthless as Jean in trying to protect it. He crossed the room and put one hand on her shoulder. "I swear that I'll do my best to learn what happened to Ian, and if possible, bring him home."

  He did not say aloud that the greatest success he could imagine would be returning with Ian's bones.

  Chapter 2

  Northeastern Persia

  April 1841

  Ross lifted the waterskin from behind his saddle and sipped a small mouthful, just enough to cut the dust in his mouth, then slung it back in place. The high plateau of northeastern Persia was cold, dry, and desolate, though it was paradise compared to the Kara Kum desert, which they should reach in another day.

  In spite of Ross's best efforts at speed, over three months had passed since Jean Cameron had persuaded him to go to Bokhara. There had been a maddening fortnight in Constantinople while he prepared for the journey. He had already been well-supplied with everything he might need, from compasses and a spyglass to gift items like Arabic translations of Robinson Crusoe, and routine travel documents like passports had been no problem. The delays had lain in getting letters of introduction from influential Ottoman officials. Ambassador Canning had been very helpful with that, even though he thoroughly disapproved of Ross's mission.

  The fruits of their labors were now sewn into Ross's coat. He had letters from the sultan of the Ottoman Empire and the reis effendi, who was the minister of state for foreign affairs. Probably even more valuable were the introductions from the Sheik Islam, who was the highest Muslim mullah, or priest, in Constantinople. The letters were directed to a variety of influential men, including the amir and mullahs of Bokhara. Ross had enough experience of this part of the world to realize that such letters could save his life, but he had still been impatient during the length of time it had taken to acquire them.

  Finally he had been able to leave, taking a steamer along the Black Sea to Trebizond. From there he had set off overland, then been immobilized by blizzards for almost three weeks high in the Turkish mountains at Erzurum. The only bright spot was that a party of Uzbek merchants was among the other stranded travelers. Ross had used the delay to polish his knowledge of Uzbeki, for that was the principal language of Bokhara. Since his Persian was already fluent, Ross was now linguistically as well prepared as possible.

  After the snow had melted enough to resume traveling, it had taken another three weeks to reach Teheran, where he stayed at the British embassy and discussed the situation with Sir John McNeill, the ambassador. McNeill had heard enough rumors to be convinced that Ian Cameron was dead, but he also recounted a story about a high Bokharan official who had supposedly been executed, only to reappear after five years in the amir's prison. The only conclusion Ross could draw was that he would never learn the truth without going to Bokhara himself.

  After collecting more letters from the shah and his prime minister, Ross had hired two Persians, Murad and Allahdad, to act as guides and servants. The nearly six hundred miles between Teheran and Meshed had been covered without major incident. As a ferengi Ross always attracted considerable attention, but he was used to that. The word "ferengi" dated back to the Crusades. Originally just the Arabic pronunciation of Frank, in time the term had come to mean all Europeans, and over the years Ross had been called "ferengi" with every nuance from curiosity to insult.

  Now only five hundred miles remained until he reached his destination. The rest of the journey should take about a month, but it was the most dangerous part of the route, for they must cross the Kara Kum, the Black Sands, a desert with far too little water and far too many marauding Turkoman nomads.

  As Ross kept a wary eye on the tawny, broken hills around them, Allahdad slowed his mount so they were riding side by side. "We should have waited in Meshed for another caravan, Khilburn," he said with gloomy relish. "It is not safe for three men to ride alone. The Allamans, the Turkoman bandits, shall capture us." He spat on the ground. "They are mansellers, a disgrace to the faith. They shall sell Murad and I as slaves in Bokhara. You, perhaps, they will kill, for you are a ferengi."

  Ross suppressed a sigh; they had had this conversation a dozen times since leaving Meshed. "We shall overtake the caravan at Sarakhs, if not before then," he said firmly. "If raiders pursue us, we shall outrun them. Did I not buy us the finest horses in Teheran?"

  Allahdad examined the three mounts, plus the pack- horse Ross was leading. "They are fine beasts," he admitted with a gusty sigh. "But the Turkomans are born to the saddle. Unlike honest folk, they live only to plunder. We shall never escape them."

  As usual, Ross ended the discussion by saying, "They may not come. If they do, we shall fly. And if it is written that we shall be taken as slaves, so be it."

  "So be it," Allahdad echoed mournfully.

  * * *

  The chief of the fortress of Serevan was pacing the walls, watching the plains below with keen eyes, when the young shepherd arrived with news that he thought might be of interest.

  After bowing deeply, the youth said, "Gul-i Sarahi, this morning I saw three travelers going east on the Bir Bala road. They are alone, not part of a caravan."

  "They are fools to travel this land with so little strength," was the dispassionate answer. "And doubly fools to do it so close to the frontier."

  "You speak truly, Gul-i Sarahi," the shepherd agreed. "But there is a ferengi, a European, with them. Doubtless it is his foolishness that leads them."

  "Do you know exactly where they are?"

  "By now they must be nearing the small salt lake," the shepherd said. "This morning I heard from a friend of my cousin that his uncle saw a band of Turkomans yesterday."

  The chief frowned, then dismissed the shepherd with the silver coin the youth had been hoping for. For several minutes Gul-i Sarahi regarded the horizon thoughtfully.

  So there was a ferengi, and a stupid one, on the Bir Bala road. Something must be done about that.

  * * *

  As the terrain became rougher, Ross increased his alertness, for it would be easy for raiders to approach dangerously close. If, indeed, there were any Turkomans in the vicinity; given the poverty of this frontier country, it hardly seemed worth a bandit's time. He glanced at the barren hills, thinking that there should be more signs of human habitation, then studied the track, which did not look as if it was used often. "Murad, how far is it to the next village?"

  "Perhaps two hours, Khilburn," the young Persian said uneasily. "If this is the true road. The winter has been hard and the hills do not look the same."

  Correctly interpreting the remark to mean that they were lost again, Ross almost groaned aloud. So much for Murad's assurances in Teheran that he knew every rock and shrub in eastern Persia. If Ross himself hadn't kept a sharp eye on his map and his compass, they would have been in Baghdad by now. Dryly he suggested, "Perhaps we should retrace our path until the hills begin to look familiar."

  Murad glanced back over his shoulder, offended at his master'
s lack of faith, then stared past Ross, his expression changing to one of genuine fear. "Allamans!" he shouted. "We must flee for our lives!"

  Both Ross and Allahdad turned in their saddles and saw that half a dozen riders in characteristic Turkoman garb had rounded a bend about a quarter of a mile behind them. As soon as the Turkomans saw that they were observed, they shouted and spurred their horses forward, one of them firing a wild shot.

  "Damnation!" Ross swore. "Ride!"

  The three men took off at full speed, Ross offering a fervent prayer that the track they were on wouldn't come to a dead end. If they had room, they should be able to outrun their pursuers, for he had chosen mounts that were large, fast, and well-fed. Turkoman horses were tough and had great stamina, but they were smaller, and at the end of the winter they should be feeling the effects of months of poor forage. And if speed didn't work, Ross had his rifle, though he would prefer not to shoot anyone, for both practical and humanitarian reasons.

  At first it seemed as if his strategy would save them, for the gap between the two groups of riders slowly began to widen. Then Ross's mount put one foot into an unseen animal burrow. The horse lurched, then pitched violently to the ground with a shriek of equine agony, pulling the pack horse with it. With the lightning responses developed during thirty years of riding, Ross lucked free of the saddle, flinging himself sideways so that he wouldn't be trapped under the falling horses.

  For a fraction of a second, too many things were happening at once. As Ross automatically tucked his body so that he would hit the ground rolling, Murad shouted and reined back for an instant, his expression stricken as he briefly considered coming to his employer's aid. Self- preservation won and Murad spurred his horse forward in renewed flight. Then Ross slammed into the rocky ground and all thought disappeared into bruised blackness.

  He recovered consciousness a few moments later to find himself lying on his back, all of the breath knocked out of him and pain stabbing through his left side, which had taken the brunt of the fall. The vibration of thundering hooves shook the ground and he looked up to see an appalling worm's-eye view of six horses stampeding down on him.

  His hat had fallen off, and at the sight of his bright gold hair a voice shouted, "Ferengi!"

  At the last possible instant before trampling Ross, the horses veered off, their dancing hooves throwing up a cloud of grit and dust as the riders formed a milling circle around him. The Turkomans' foot-high black sheepskin hats gave them a military appearance, rather like a squad of royal hussars. They had Mongolian blood in their ancestry, and the dark slitted eyes that stared down at their captive showed emotions ranging from curiosity to greed to flat-out malevolence.

  Ross forced his dazed mind to think and analyze, for they were all young men, and the young hold life more cheaply than the old. They might kill on impulse, without stopping for second thoughts. His rifle was still holstered on his horse, which lay twenty feet away, whimpering with pain, its right foreleg bent at an unnatural angle. The packhorse had scrambled to its feet and appeared to be unhurt. In a few moments the Turkomans would start plundering both horses, but for the moment Ross was the center of attention.

  As he pushed himself upright, one of the Turkomans snarled, "Russian swine!" and lashed out with his riding whip.

  Reflexively Ross raised his arm and managed to protect his face from the blow, though the force of it rocked him back and stung viciously through his heavy coat. As his assailant's mount pranced away, Ross scrambled to his feet. Fortunately the Turkoman language was similar enough to Uzbeki that he could both understand and reply. "Not Russian. British," he croaked through the dust in his throat.

  The whip-wielding rider spat. "Pah! The British are as bad as the Russians."

  "Worse, Dil Assa," another agreed. "Let us kill this ferengi spy now and send his ears to the British generals in Kabul."

  A third rider said, "Why kill him when we can sell him in Bokhara for a pretty price?"

  Dil Assa snarled, "Money is soon spent, but to kill an unbeliever will assure us of paradise."

  "But there are many of us," another objected. "Can we all go to paradise for killing only one infidel spy?"

  Before a full-scale theological debate could develop, Ross interjected, "I am not a spy. I am traveling to Bokhara to learn news of my brother. I have a letter from the Sheik Islam, commending all of the faithful to aid me on an errand of mercy."

  "The Sheik Islam is nothing to us," Dil Assa sneered. "We care only for the blessing of our khalifa."

  Having known that the Sheik Islam was a long shot, Ross was ready with a direct appeal to cupidity. "I am a lord among the ferengis. If you help me, you will be richly rewarded."

  "You are a British dog, and like a dog you shall die." As Dil Assa unslung his old matchlock rifle and pointed it at Ross, his companions burst into a babble of comments that was too quick for Ross to follow. Several appeared to favor preserving his life for possible gain, while others were vying for the privilege of killing the infidel. Ignoring the opinions of his fellows, Dil Assa cocked the hammer of his rifle and aimed the weapon at Ross, his eyes black and deadly.

  The hole in the end of the barrel loomed as large and lethal as the mouth of a cannon, and momentarily Ross was immobilized by the sight. After escaping random death in a dozen other lands, finally his luck had run out. There was no time for fear; instead, all he could think was that Jean Cameron's blithe optimism had been misplaced once more.

  Preferring to go down fighting rather than being shot like a pig in a pen, Ross made a futile dive toward Dil Assa. Once more the world exploded into the messy chaos of violence. The gun went off at deafeningly close range and simultaneously a whole volley of shots sounded, the ragged echoes booming back and forth between the stony hills. As the Turkoman horses began whinnying and rearing in a wild melee, Ross was struck in the shoulder. The impact spun him about, then knocked him down. As he fell, he was uncertain whether he had been shot or merely clipped by the flailing hoof of one of the horses.

  One of the Turkomans called out a warning and pointed at a nearby hill, where a group of a dozen horsemen were thundering down toward the track, firing rifles as they came. Ross managed to get to his feet again and darted over to his injured horse to retrieve his rifle and ammunition. After that, he intended to get on the packhorse and move as fast and far as possible, before he became trapped in the middle of a skirmish between the two bands of locals.

  Seeing the ferengi run, Dil Assa bellowed and reversed the discharged rifle so that he held the barrel in his hands. Then he rode straight at Ross, swinging the gun like a club. Once more Ross dodged, barely escaping a skull-cracking blow.

  Then suddenly the Turkomans were in retreat, fleeing before the newcomers. As the horses galloped by Ross, one sideswiped him and knocked him to the ground again.

  This time he did not quite black out, though his vision darkened around the edges. Dizzily he decided that he had not had quite such a bad day since the memorable occasion when he had met Mikahl in the Hindu Kush. He felt numb all over from the punishment he had taken, and was unable to decide whether he was mortally wounded or merely bruised and breathless.

  From where he lay he had a clear view of what was happening, and he saw the group of newcomers split, half going off in pursuit of the Turkomans, the others riding directly toward Ross. By their clothing, they were Persians, and with luck they would be less bloodthirsty than the Turkomans.

  Then, as the riders drew closer, Ross blinked in surprise, not believing the evidence of his eyes. What the bloody hell was a Tuareg warrior doing in Central Asia, three thousand miles from the Sahara?

  Tall, fierce, and proud, the Tuareg were legendary nomads of the deep desert; they were also the only Muslim tribe whose men veiled their faces and women did not. Ross knew the Tuareg well, for he had lived among them for months when he was traveling in North Africa, and it was incredible to see a Targui, as an individual was called, so far from his native land.

 
As the horsemen galloped up, Ross wearily hauled himself to his feet. He was bruised all over, and bloody abrasions showed through rips in his clothing, but there appeared to be no major wounds or broken bones. He had gotten off rather lightly. At least, so far.

  The riders pulled up a short distance from Ross and they all stared at the foreigner. Ross stared back, his scrutiny confirming that the rider in the center wore the flowing black robes and veil characteristic of the Tuareg. The long blue-black veil, called a tagelmoust, was wound closely around the man's head and neck, leaving only a narrow slit over the eyes. The effect was ominous, to say the least.

  Besides the Targui, the group contained three Persians and two Uzbeks. It was an unusual mixture of tribes; perhaps they came from one of the Persian frontier forts and served the shah. Ross didn't sense the hostility he had felt from the Turkomans; on the other hand, they didn't look especially friendly either, particularly not the Targui, who radiated intensity even through the enveloping folds of his veil.

  Subtle signs of deference within the band implied that the Targui was the leader, so Ross said in Tamahak, the Tuareg language, "For saving a humble traveler from the Turkomans, you have the deepest gratitude of my heart."

  The Targui's sudden stillness implied that he was startled to hear his own language, but with face covered and eyes shadowed, it was impossible to read his expression. After a moment he replied in fluent French, "Your Tamahak is good, monsieur, but I prefer to converse in French, if you know it."

  The veiled man spoke scarcely above a whisper, and it was impossible to tell from the light, husky sound if he was young or old. With cool deliberation he reloaded his rifle, a very modern British breechloader, then rested it casually across his saddlebow. Though the weapon was not pointing at Ross, there was a distinct sense that it could be aimed and fired quickly if necessary. "There were two other men with you. Where are they?"