Saleh stroked his beard. "Truly it is God's mercy that brought the two of you together."
Juliet leaned forward in excitement. "If Hafiz will help us, he might have his teahouse much sooner. Can he be trusted not to betray us to the amir?"
Murad considered carefully. The last weeks had matured him. While he still had an engaging boyish grin, he was more thoughtful now, more likely to think before he spoke. Juliet guessed that he was attempting to be more like Ross.
Finally Murad said, "Yes, I believe he is an honest man, and I know that he wishes to earn money."
Saleh nodded approvingly. "An auspicious combination."
"Can I meet Hafiz now?" Juliet asked.
"He should be at his father's shop." Murad glanced at Juliet. "Would you like to buy some silk from Hafiz's father, Lady Khilburn? I think that will be a good place to begin."
So together they went to buy silk.
* * *
It was almost curfew when Juliet returned that evening, and Ross was becoming worried over her prolonged absence. However, when she breezed into their rooms and removed her veil, her face was glowing. "You know the Arab term baraka? It means the grace or power of God."
"I'm familiar with the concept." Ross gave her a welcoming kiss, his arms going around her hard in his relief. "That was how I felt toward the end of the bozkashi match, as if I was filled with transcendent power and could not fail."
Juliet dropped a floppy package wrapped in cheap cotton onto the divan. "Well, the baraka is with us."
"Does that mean you discovered something useful?" He glanced at the package she had brought in. "Or just that you had a successful day of shopping in the bazaars?"
She grinned, unfazed by his teasing. "I did buy rather a lot of very expensive silk. Not the local kind, but some that was imported from China. Exquisitely light, almost transparent. A complete waste of money, but buying it was a vital step in the information-gathering process. It turns out that a friend of Murad's works at the prison, and from what he told me, the procedures are surprisingly casual. I think we might be able to talk our way in through pure audacity. I also called on the Kasems and Ephraim ben Abraham."
Ross sat her down on the divan, then pulled her boots off and began rubbing her feet. They were long and slender and shapely, like the rest of her. "You've had a full day."
"That feels wonderful." As he massaged her feet, Juliet gave an ecstatic sigh and wiggled her toes with pleasure. "After you hear what I've learned, even you will admit that we have a decent chance of getting Ian out of the prison."
"It might not be Ian who is there," he said softly.
She shook her head, refusing to think about it. "Every marriage needs one person in charge of worrying, and in this marriage, you're it."
Slightly taken aback, Ross stopped massaging her feet. "I always thought of it as having common sense."
Juliet leaned forward and gave him a sweet, hot kiss. "You're in charge of that too." She settled back and began recounting all that she had been told.
By the time she was done, Ross was willing to admit that there was a real possibility that they could enter the prison, and more important, get out again—if none of a thousand different things went wrong. Lavish bribes would have to be paid, which was not a problem.
The danger was that many people would be involved. Each additional person increased the likelihood of error or betrayal.
Still, they had a chance, and he had made a bargain. They would not leave Bokhara without trying to rescue the mysterious man who languished in the Black Well.
Perhaps the baraka was indeed with them, but as his massage progressed from Juliet's slim feet to higher and more interesting places, the phrase that came to mind was not Arabic but the ironic motto of the Roman gladiator: Nos morituri, te salutamus.
We who are about to die salute you.
Chapter 22
As a climactic shower of silver and amber light blazed across the sky, Abdul Samut Khan clapped a jovial hand on his guest's shoulder. "Splendid fireworks, do you not agree? The Chinese engineer who does them for me is a master of his craft."
"Indeed he is," Ross said. "Your festival will be long remembered."
When the last rockets had faded away, slaves relit torches and lamps. The nayeb's description of a small feast for a few friends had been an understatement of massive proportions, for several hundred guests, many of them officers, were enjoying the nayeb's hospitality. Tomorrow the army would march for Kokand to the sound of drums and the firing of cannon, but now an air of fevered pleasure-seeking filled the gardens.
Mountains of food had been served and Ross had caught a couple of whiffs of burning hashish, but the absence of alcohol meant that the crowd was orderly compared to a European one. In one corner a storyteller resumed spinning tales of the famous Nasreddin Hoja to a rapt audience, while mimes performed on an impromptu stage at the far end of the compound.