Travelers sipped tea and exchanged news around the fires while peddlers wandered through the yard, seeking customers for their wares. At least a dozen languages and races could be discerned, including turbaned Hindus, a group of Chinese with long black queues dangling down their backs, and Arabs with white headscarves tied in place with black camelhair cords.
A lantern hung above the door to the innkeeper's office, and Saleh went in to book their lodging for the night. Fortunately there was space available and they were assigned a cubicle in the farthest corner of the building. After they had moved their baggage into the small room, Murad started building a fire, Juliet began bedding down the camels, and Ross and Saleh set off to find the kafila-bashi, the leader of the caravan.
As they worked their way through the crowded court, Ross admitted to himself that Juliet had been right to warn him to restrain his chivalrous instincts. It was difficult for him to stand by and watch her do heavy physical labor.
Rationally, he knew his reaction was nonsense; if he had not known Juliet was a woman, he never would have questioned her competence at wrestling with camels and their loads. She was taller than either Murad or Saleh and, though lighter in build, was probably as strong as either of the men.
But old habits die hard. Ross had trouble treating her the same as he would a man. The basic problem, of course, was that it was impossible for him to forget that she was a woman.
Quite impossible.
The kafila-bashi was holding court in a larger cubicle near the entrance to the caravansary. As Ross and Saleh entered, the leader was dealing with the chief of a group of Afghan merchants who had just arrived from Herat and wanted to join the larger caravan. After discussing terms and marching order, the kafila-bashi dismissed the Afghanis and turned to Ross and Saleh.
"Salaam Aleikum." He waved his hand for them to be seated. "I am Abdul Wahab. How may I serve you?"
As Ross returned the greeting and settled down onto the packed earth floor, he studied the kafila-bashi, whose dress and features indicated that he was an Uzbek. He was a broad-shouldered man of middle years, with shrewd dark eyes and the air of authority of a natural leader.
Ross introduced himself as Khilburn, then presented Saleh and made arrangements for their party to join the caravan, which would depart before dawn the next morning. Making a decision based on his favorable judgment of the kafila-bashi, he continued, "I think you should know I am a ferengi, an Englishman."
Abdul Wahab's eyebrows rose. "You speak Persian well for a ferengi. A trace of accent only. I thought you might be a Baluchi from southern Afghanistan." His gaze went to Saleh. "Surely you are not also a ferengi?"
Saleh shook his white-turbaned head. "Nay, I am an Uzbek. The other members of our party are a Persian and a Targui from the Sahara. Only Khilburn is a ferengi."
The kafila-bashi's thoughtful glance returned to Ross. "Why have you told me this?"
"The welfare of the caravan is your responsibility. I did not want to conceal a fact that might cause trouble for you."
"An honorable motive." Frowning, Abdul Wahab stroked his black beard. "Do not go to Bokhara, Khilburn. If you do, you will be a son of death, for the amir despises all Europeans. If you wait in Sarakhs for a few more days, there will be a caravan that will take you to Khiva, which is my own native city. It is a safer destination for a ferengi."
Opinions on the wisdom of his going to Bokhara were nothing if not unanimous, Ross thought wryly. "I have no choice. I wish to learn the fate of my brother, a British officer who went to Bokhara on an official mission and was imprisoned by the amir."
The caravan leader's bushy brows drew together. "Is he a tall, fair man like you?"
Ian's hair was auburn rather than blond, but he was Ross's height, with very fair skin. Ross nodded. "He is."
"With my own eyes, I saw a ferengi of that description beheaded several months ago, behind the amir's palace in Bokhara. In the crowd, it was said that he was a soldier." Abdul Wahab's expression was compassionate. "I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but surely the man executed was your brother. Very few ferengis ever reach Bokhara—and fewer leave alive. Do not continue your journey, for there is now no reason for it."
At the kafila-bashi's words, Ross felt a constriction deep in his chest. In spite of all the rumors and hearsay evidence, this was the first time he had found someone who had personally witnessed the execution of a foreigner who could be Ian. The faint hope that he had carried from Constantinople flickered and died.
Briefly he considered following everyone's good advice and ending his journey here. Not only would that be wiser, it would save him weeks of painful proximity to Juliet.