By the time Ross finished speaking, the lieutenant's expression had changed to servile obedience. Scrambling to his feet, he said, "A thousand apologies, sir. I did not mean to offend. It is just that such a procedure is most unusual."
"So is having a ferengi captive," Ross said tersely.
"If you will come along with me, sir." The lieutenant lifted a lamp, then led the way down a narrow, winding staircase that descended to the lowest level of the ancient building.
At the bottom of the stairs they began walking along a corridor lined with heavy doors, their progress haunted by the sounds of misery. In one cell a voice droned prayers in classical Arabic, while ragged, hopeless sobs emerged from another. The very walls were saturated with suffering and decay.
His face rigid, Ross looked neither right nor left. Two jailers from the dungeon-level guard room fell in behind, torches in their hands, but the flares were a feeble counter to the rank, suffocating blackness. The slightest suspicion that he and Murad were frauds would mean they'd never see the light of day again.
Finally they reached a rough-hewn room at the end of the passage. The hole in the floor was covered with a wooden hatch, and a rope and pulley were suspended from the ceiling above. Ross stared at the hatch. Finally he had reached the Siah Cha, the Black Well, the Central Asian version of the oubliette.
One of the jailers leaned over and lifted the hatch away, releasing a stench that caused everyone to step back. Ross's stomach clenched, but this was no time to show weakness. "By the Prophet's beard!" he snarled. "Is the prisoner even alive?"
One of the jailers, a squat man with a broad, unintelligent face, said helpfully, "I think he eats the food we drop down."
The other jailer, who had a sharp, ferretlike face, shrugged. "That don't mean nothing. Could be eaten by rats or sheep ticks. The ticks are specially bred for the Well."
Ross was grateful that false beard concealed his expression. Tightly he said, "Get the prisoner up here."
The squat jailer undogged the end of the rope that ran through the pulley, then lowered the line into the hole. When it reached the bottom, he yelled down in Persian, "Put the loop around you and we'll pull you up. A gentleman here to see you." He smiled nastily. "He says the amir is going to set you free."
It must have been an old taunt, for the only response was a guttural, weakly uttered phrase from the bottom of the hole.
The lieutenant cocked his head, then said regretfully, "I don't understand Russian so I don't know what he's saying, but at least he's alive."
Ross's mouth twisted. He also recognized the language, though Russian was not a tongue he spoke. So it was the other officer, not Ian.
Later he would allow himself to be disappointed, but now he must concentrate on getting the poor devil below away from this evil place. With bitter humor he said, "I imagine that he is saying the Russian version of 'Go fornicate with yourself.' "
The lieutenant smiled appreciatively, but the ferret frowned. "He's probably refusing to take the rope so we can pull him up."
"Then go down after him," Ross ordered.
The two guards looked at each other with obvious reluctance. "He's a mean bastard," the squat one said. "Might attack anyone who comes after him."
"And you're afraid of a prisoner who has been starving down there for months?" Ross said incredulously.
Anxious to assert his authority, the lieutenant said to the ferret, "Pull the rope up so we can use it to lower you down."
The ferret shook his head stubbornly and edged toward the door. "Time I was getting back to my post. I'm in charge of the cells in the other wing."
The lieutenant swelled with rage while the squat guard tried to look unobtrusive so he wouldn't be called on. Seeing that a time-wasting confrontation was imminent, Ross let his fury boil over. "Imbeciles. Must I do everything myself?"
He took the rope and leaned over to secure the upper end. Then he impatiently snatched the torch carried by the ferret, wrapped the rope around himself, and went down into the dungeon in a controlled slide. The walls were damp, and the stench, which had been foul above, was indescribable.
Twenty-one feet was a long way, and it seemed much longer, but finally he reached bottom, almost falling when his feet skidded on the slimy stone. The chamber was roughly ten feet square, hardly large enough to lose a man in, but it was littered with so much nameless offal that it took time to identify as human the long, ragged shape lying by one wall.
Ross brought the torch nearer. The man had wildly tangled dark hair and beard and had thrown an arm over his head, apparently to protect his eyes from the unaccustomed light. His only garment was a pair of ragged European trousers.