Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

  Unable to think of any purpose that would be served by silence, Ross replied, "They continued on when my horse fell."

  The Targui made a quick gesture and two of his men turned and cantered off in the direction of Ross's vanished servants. With noticeable dryness he said, "You should choose your men more carefully, monsieur. Their loyalty leaves much to be desired."

  "A horse carrying a double load could not have outrun the Turkomans. There is no wisdom in a meaningless sacrifice."

  "You are rational to a fault, monsieur." Losing interest in the subject, the Targui dismounted and crossed to Ross's injured horse, which was sprawled on its side, chest heaving and eyes glazed with pain. After a moment's study of the beast's fractured foreleg, he calmly raised his rifle, set it against the horse's skull, and pulled the trigger. As the gun boomed, the horse jerked spasmodically, then lay still.

  It took all of Ross's control not to recoil. It was necessary to destroy the injured animal, and Ross would have done so himself if he had had the opportunity, but there was something profoundly chilling about the Targui's dispassionate efficiency.

  Swiftly the veiled man reloaded once more, then swung around to face Ross. He was about five-foot-nine, an average height for his people, which made him tall for an Arab, though several inches shorter than Ross. His slight built and lithe movements implied that he was young, but his air of menace was ageless and timeless. "You are bleeding. Are you injured?"

  Ross realized that he had been rubbing his aching shoulder and immediately dropped his hand. "Nothing to signify."

  "You will come with us to Serevan." It was not a request.

  Dryly Ross said, "As your guest or your captive?"

  The way the Targui ignored the comment was answer enough. In Persian he gave an order to the smallest of his companions, a boy in his teens.

  The boy replied, "Aye, Gul-i Sarahi." After dismounting, he offered the reins of his horse to the ferengi.

  Ross nodded thanks, then glanced at the Targui. "Please allow me a moment to collect my saddle and bridle."

  After the veiled man gave an impatient nod, Ross stripped the harness from his dead horse. The saddle would probably be useful in the future; more to the point, a substantial amount of gold was concealed inside, which was why Ross preferred to lift it himself. He fastened the saddle to his pack animal, then mounted the loan horse while the boy climbed behind Gul-i Sarahi.

  Briefly Ross wondered at his captor's name, which did not seem Tuareg. Then he shrugged; there were so many better things to worry about. It appeared that he was not going to be killed out of hand, but he suspected that regaining his freedom would be expensive. Worse, arranging a ransom would take time, which was a far more precious commodity.

  As they rode east toward the frontier, the Persians surrounded Ross, eliminating any possibility of escape. He considered starting a conversation with the nearest men, but decided against it, for there might be some advantage in concealing his knowledge of the Persian language. Besides, when in doubt, he had always found it best to keep his mouth shut.

  The journey took about an hour, the track growing narrower and steeper until they were winding single file up a mountain. Near the top, the track swung around a tight turn, and suddenly a sprawling walled fortress loomed above them. Someone behind him announced, "Serevan."

  Ross drew his breath in, impressed, for this was no shabby village but an enormous compound reminiscent of a feudal castle. Sophisticated irrigation created lush fields and orchards in every bit of arable soil on the hillside and the valley below, and the laborers working in the spring-green fields looked strong and prosperous, unlike most of the villagers who lived in this hazardous, much-plundered border country.

  Like most construction in Central Asia, the massive walls and buildings of the fortress were made of plaster- coated mud bricks, and they glowed pale gold in the afternoon sun. As the party rode through the gate into the compound, Ross noted that the buildings seemed quite old, but they had been repaired within the last few years. There were many abandoned ancient strongholds in this part of the world, and probably Serevan had been one until recently.

  Gul-i Sarahi raised a hand and the troop pulled to a halt in front of the palace that was the heart of the compound. As the Targui dismounted, boys skipped over from the stables to collect the horses, and a gray-bearded man came out of the palace. For a moment Gul-i Sarahi conferred with the newcomer, who appeared to be an Uzbek. Then the Targui turned and ordered, "Come."

  Ross obeyed, the rest of the riders trailing inside after him. The palace had a feeling of great age but was well- kept, with whitewashed walls and handsome tile floors. Gul-i Sarahi led the group into a large reception room furnished with traditional Eastern simplicity. Cushioned divans lined the white walls, and rich bright carpets lay on the floor.

  As the men formed a loose circle around the stranger, the Targui studied Ross. He had brought his riding whip in, and he drew the leather thong through narrow, long- fingered hands. In his husky, whispering voice he said, "The Turkomans are mansellers. Did they wish to make a slave of you?"

  "They were divided between that and killing me out of hand. A wasteful lot," Ross drawled in his best cool English style. There was a volatile atmosphere in the room, and being unsure what he was up against, Ross followed the basic rule of not showing fear, much as if his captors were a pack of dogs that would turn vicious if they sensed terror. "I carry letters of introduction from the shah and several honored mullahs, and am worth more alive than dead."

  "I should think you would be worth a great deal, monsieur." Gul-i Sarahi began pacing around Ross with catlike grace. Abruptly he said, "Take off your coat and shirt."

  There could be several possible reasons for such a request, and all of them made Ross uneasy. He considered refusing, but decided that would be foolish; though he was the largest man in the room, he was outnumbered six to one and his captors would probably be very rough about enforcing their leader's orders.

  Feeling like a slave being forced to strip in front of a potential buyer, he peeled off his battered garments and dropped them on the floor. There was a murmur of interest from the watchers as Ross bared his torso. He was unsure whether they were impressed by the pallor of his English skin, the flamboyant bruises and lacerations he had acquired earlier, or the vicious scars left by a bullet that had almost killed him a year and a half earlier. Probably all three.

  Gul-i Sarahi stopped in front of Ross, posture intent. Once again Ross cursed the tagelmoust, which made it impossible to interpret his captor's expression.

  With delicate precision the Targui used the handle of his riding whip to trace around the ugly, puckered scar left where the bullet exited. That mark and the entrance wound on Ross's back had faded over time, but they were still dramatic. Then Gul-i Sarahi skimmed the handle over the bruised and abraded areas on his captive's chest and arms. There was an odd gentleness about the gesture that Ross found more disquieting than brutality would have been.

  Softly the veiled man circled behind Ross and touched the other scar. As the swinging leather thong brushed Ross's ribs, he felt his skin crawl with distaste. Given the strange undercurrents of the situation, he did not know whether to expect a caress or a sudden slash of the whip; either seemed equally possible, and equally distasteful.

  Lightly he said, "Sorry about the scars—they might lower my value a bit if you decide to sell me."

  Sharply Gul-i Sarahi said, "To the right buyer you would still be worth a pretty penny, ferengi."

  Ross went rigid with shock. In his irritation, the Targui had abandoned whispering for a normal speaking level, and the husky voice was hauntingly familiar. Familiar, and more stunning that anything else that had happened today.

  Telling himself that what he imagined was impossible, Ross spun around and stared at his captor. The height was about right, as were the light build and supple, gliding movements. He tried to see the shadowed eyes through the slit in the tagelmoust. Were they black, li
ke the eyes of most Tuareg, or a changeable gray that could shift from clear quartz to smoke?

  Mockingly Gul-i Sarahi said, "What is wrong, ferengi—have you seen a ghost?"

  This time the voice was unmistakable. With a surge of the greatest fury he had known in a dozen years, Ross recklessly stepped forward and seized the edge of the veil, just below the eyes, then ripped downward, exposing Gul-i Sarahi's face.

  The impossible was true. His captor was no Targui, but his long-lost betraying wife, Juliet.

  Excerpt from

  Veils of Silk

  Book 3

  The Silk Trilogy

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  © 1992, 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.

  It was nearly midnight when Ian finally reached the village of Nanda. There he was given instructions and a village youth to guide him to Kenneth Stephenson's camp. After passing through a series of moonlit fields, they came to the edge of a dense forest that spread as far as the eye could see.

  The young guide stopped and pointed into the woods. "Follow this track and you will come to Stephenson Sahib's camp. I would go with you but panthers hunt the paths at night."

  Ian didn't blame the boy; he wasn't keen on going through the forest alone himself, though the risk of wild beasts bothered him less than leaving the moonlit fields. However, he had learned that it was possible to bear darkness when he was in the open air, so he thanked the guide, then set his teeth and urged his tired horse into the forest. Very soon, his mission would be accomplished, and he could start for home.

  * * *

  Laura was given no time to mourn. She was still kneeling by her stepfather's bed when Padam said, "Miss Laura, the tiger is near. We can hear it growling in the forest, hunting for prey."

  For Laura, past and present had melded together, and the anguish she felt for Kenneth's death rekindled the shock and grief she had experienced when she lost her first father. Once more she was nine and alone and terrified, and it took time for Padam's voice to bring her back to the present. She wished he would go away. What did a tiger matter compared to the death of the only person in the world whom she had loved?

  Urgently Padam said, "Stephenson Sahib's spirit has departed, miss. It is time to be concerned with the living. All in the camp are in danger. Something must be done."

  Dully Laura realized that her stepfather's death meant she was in charge of two dozen people. The knowledge helped steady her grief-stricken mind; even so, she fumbled for words, though she had been speaking Urdu daily for years. "Build more fires around the edge of the camp. That will keep the tiger away."

  "There isn't enough fuel, memsahib, and gathering more would be dangerous," the bearer explained patiently. "A man-eater is usually an old tiger, perhaps injured, always unpredictable. You must be ready with the guns if it decides to attack."

  Guns? Laura opened her mouth to protest that her marksmanship was nonexistent. Kenneth had tried to teach her to shoot. She had managed to learn how to load and fire several kinds of weapons, but she had found the lessons so upsetting that her stepfather had discontinued them.

  Still, no one else would do better, for her minimal experience was more than any of the servants had. It was her responsibility to set aside her grief, even though she loathed and feared guns. She closed her mouth and got to her feet. With bitter humor, she recognized that she was about to Keep Up Standards with a vengeance.

  Kenneth had not been an avid hunter, but firearms were a necessary part of life in India. He had brought three weapons on tour: a pistol, a double-barreled shotgun, and a powerful rifle for big game. Her father's valet, Mahendar, brought out the guns, and one by one she loaded them with clumsy fingers. After showing Mahendar and Padam how to cock and aim, she put the pistol and rifle in their charge. The shotgun she kept herself, since she thought it would be the best weapon for frightening off a tiger.

  Laura led the way outside and gave orders for a second fire to be built fifty feet from the main cooking fire. There was enough fuel for two fires, and she thought that if the servants slept between them, they would feel safer.

  Though she dutifully went through the motions of securing the camp, she doubted that there was any real danger. Tigers seldom attacked humans, and even a man-eater was more likely to drag a solitary laborer from a field than to invade a busy camp. Still, tigers invoked panic far out of proportion to the risk, and Laura owed it to her servants to deal with their anxiety.

  She managed to keep her voice calm and her step steady, but inside she quivered with grief and fear. She had always refused to consider what she would do if her stepfather died; in India, where disease was swift and lethal, she had been as likely to die as he was. But now he was gone and her life would change utterly. She had lost not just her family, but her home and financial security. She wanted to collapse on the ground and wail like a child.

  When the fires were steady and the servants had begun to settle down, Laura beckoned to the three grooms. "Come, we must move the animals closer. They are in more danger than we are."

  The men exchanged uneasy glances. "Don't worry, I'll guard you." Laura tried to sound cool and confident. "Padam, stay here with the pistol. Mahendar, bring the rifle and come with me."

  Laura made a show of cocking the shotgun, then led the way through the cluster of tents. Behind her the youngest groom carried a torch. Their shadows swayed wildly as the small group walked to the edge of the clearing where the horses and bullocks were tethered. The animals were nervous and hard to handle, and the grooms had their hands full soothing their charges so the beasts could be led to a safer spot near the center of the camp.

  Laura took the rifle from Mahendar so that he could help the other men. Then she chose a position between the line of animals and the forest and waited, shotgun in hand, the rifle lying ready at her feet. Again she reminded herself that no animal was likely to attack the camp, but this close to the forest it was harder to maintain her calm.

  The tropical night pulsed with life, mysterious and dangerous. Shifting shadows looked like crouching beasts that vanished when she looked directly at them. In the distance jackals howled, and once the distinctive cough of a panther sounded from a spot that was shockingly near. She jumped and tightened her grip on the shotgun, but there was nothing to be seen in the teasing shadows. After wiping sweaty palms on her skirt, Laura raised the barrel of her weapon again and trained it at the forest darkness.

  When trouble came, it was fast and incoherent. Two feline roars shattered the silence, so close that she half expected to feel claws sink into her flesh. A shrill whinny sounded behind her, and she glanced back to see a pony rear and jerk its reins free from the groom who was trying to calm it. Eyes rolling, the pony bolted, setting off a chorus of frightened bellows and whinnies from the other animals. The youngest groom shouted, "The tiger comes!" and pointed at the forest beyond Laura.

  As Laura spun around, she heard rustling in the undergrowth. In sudden panic she fired one barrel of the shotgun at the sound. She had forgotten to brace herself for the recoil, and the gun jerked, sending the shot high as the stock kicked bruisingly into her shoulder. Acrid smoke stung her eyes and her deafened ears rang, but she gripped her gun more tightly and discharged the second barrel, this time aiming lower.

  Irrationally convinced that an enraged tiger was about to burst out of the forest, she dropped the shotgun and grabbed the rifle that lay on the grassy turf by her feet. The weapon had the power to fell an elephant; as her finger curled around the trigger, she prayed that if the tiger attacked, her aim would be good enough to stop it.

  * * *

  Imprisonment had sharpened Ian's senses, and he smelled and heard Stephenson's camp long before he saw it. But as he drew close enough to identify individual noises and odors, he pulled his horse to a stop so he could listen more closely.

  Something was wrong. It was past midnight and the camp should be quiet, but instead it was wide awake. More than that, he detected the subtle aroma of fea
r, a scent as unmistakable as it was indescribable.

  He frowned. This was a safe, settled part of India, and it was unlikely that bandits would have attacked. Still, he had been a soldier for too many years to ride heedlessly into an unknown situation. He dismounted and led his horse away from the path, moving silently over the soft leaf mold.

  As he neared the campsite, he heard sharp human voices speaking Urdu and the grunts and whickers of agitated animals. He tethered his horse, then cautiously approached the perimeter of the camp, his bolstered revolver ready to hand.

  The boundary where forest met clearing was marked by thick undergrowth, which provided convenient cover. Stopping behind a large bush, he peered into the clearing. A churning group of men and bullocks blocked his view of the tents, but the layout confirmed that this was the camp of a British official.

  His gaze went to the single guttering torch, which illuminated a youth who was trying to coax a nervous pony toward the tents. Other shadowy human shapes were moving about, but before Ian could study them, all hell broke loose. Two feline roars, one bass and one tenor, sounded from the shrubbery to his right. As the blood-chilling sounds split the night air, the pony whinnied shrilly and broke free, bullocks began bellowing, and someone shrieked that the tiger was coming.

  Startled by the racket, the jungle cats bolted away through the undergrowth, passing less than a dozen feet from Ian. An instant later a shotgun blasted after them. As pellets shredded leaves and slammed into tree trunks around him, he cursed and dived to the ground, rolling to get out of the field of fire.

  The gun thundered again, and this time the shot came closer. Ian crouched behind a tree and studied the darkened clearing. The torch had been dropped or burned out, and all he could see were horses and bullocks rearing and tugging at their tethers, their solid forms silhouetted against the campfires. The only man he could discern was less than twenty feet away, and a flicker of light along the barrel showed that the damned fool was raising a rifle and aiming it directly at Ian.