Under the filth, his skin was dead white and his body was so thin that every rib was visible. There were also open sores visible, perhaps the work of the specially bred sheep ticks. Had it not been for the oath that had emerged from the dungeon earlier, Ross would have thought he had found a corpse.
He knelt beside the prisoner, speaking quietly in French, which an educated Russian should understand, while the men above would not. "I'm a friend, here to take you away. Do you think you can walk? That will make it easier to help you."
Suddenly the man rolled over and lashed out at his visitor with surprising strength. Startled, Ross sprang to his feet and backed across the cell to avoid the attack. Then he sucked his breath in with shock.
The prisoner's face was gaunt and filthy, and he had lost one eye, for the right lid hung nervelessly over a slight depression, but his appearance was not what chilled Ross's blood. Far more stunning was the fact that as the man crashed to the floor, he said in English with a faint, familiar Scots accent, "You'll not fool me again, you bloody-minded son of a bitch."
The prisoner sprawled on the dungeon floor was Ian Cameron.
* * *
Yawer Shahid Mahmud had been told more than once that he had a head like rock, and he proved it by recovering consciousness less than an hour after being assaulted. The grooms had taken him into the house, so he woke in his own quarters.
After his eyes blinked open, Shahid tried dizzily to sort out his memories. The tavern, a Tadjik dancing boy with a great ass, the ride home. He raised a confused hand to his head, thinking that the ache was worse than just the effect of too much wine.
The stables... what had happened by the stables?
Then he remembered and sat up with a bellow, ignoring the pain that lanced through his skull. "Damnation, the bastards have escaped!"
A flurry of activity followed as two soldiers were sent up to the ferengi's rooms. They had to break down the door to confirm what Shahid had already guessed: Lord Khilburn and his Tuareg slave had fled.
It was unthinkable that the ferengi be allowed to get away with his insolence; Shahid's honor was at stake. Rage cleared his mind as nothing else could have.
If Khilburn had gone to ground in the city, sooner or later he would be found. The network of informants would guarantee that, for the ferengi's appearance was too distinctive for him to hide for long.
Khilburn would know that, for the man wasn't stupid; he would try to leave the city as soon as possible. In fact, he might have already done so, because summer caravans always set out at night, when it was cooler.
Pursuit would be hampered by the fact that most of the army had left the city with the amir. Where could Shahid get more troops? Probably at the royal palace, he decided, and perhaps at the prison as well, since it was so secure that guards were scarcely needed.
He staggered to his feet. He would go to the palace right now; the captain of the royal guard was a friend of Shahid's and could be trusted to supervise the search for the ferengi within the city. The captain would also know which gates were being used tonight by caravans.
Shahid would borrow some men at the palace and perhaps go to the prison for a few more. Then he would check the city gates/ If necessary, he'd follow the departed caravans into the countryside.
As Shahid wound a turban around his throbbing head, he smiled with vicious anticipation. When he had run Khilburn to earth, he would exact punishment for the humiliations the ferengi had inflicted. It was common knowledge that criminals were often killed while resisting capture. That fate would surely befall Khilburn.
But the Tuareg boy... Shahid was becoming powerfully curious about just what charms were hidden under those black robes. He intended to find out before Jalal also met his fate.
* * *
Before Ian could gather himself for another assault, Ross whispered urgently, "Ian, it's Ross Carlisle. Don't waste time wondering how it can be true, just accept that I'm here."
His brother-in-law pushed himself to a sitting position, his breathing harsh, and stared at the intruder. "It's... it's not possible. You're another goddamned dream. A nightmare. You don't even look like Ross."
"Wrong. Under this fake beard, I'm as real as you are." Ross paused to think of something that would prove his claim. "Remember the time you took me hunting in India. How furious you were when I had a clear shot at a tiger, but I wouldn't take it so the beast got away?"
"Jesus Christ." The other man's remaining eye closed for a moment, then opened again. It was a bluer gray than Juliet's, a color that was unmistakably Ian. Hoarsely he said, "Ross?"
The hope and despair in that unsteady voice nearly broke Ross's heart. Grimly he suppressed the reaction, for there was no time for emotion. Nor was this the time to mention Juliet, whose presence might strain Ian's belief to the breaking point.