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?"
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 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.
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 wasn't Tuareg. But 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 was impressed. 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. 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.