Imperial Fire

XXV

Vallon’s jaw dropped. ‘Seventy solidi!’

Wayland focused slightly beyond the general. ‘More like eighty if you include the auctioneer’s commission and other disbursements.’

‘God’s veins! That’s more than most troopers earn in an entire career. It’s more than my annual salary.’

‘Hero bid only what was necessary. It’s the underbidder who determines the selling price.

‘Why didn’t you seek my permission before throwing so much gold around?’

‘There wasn’t time. The bidding had already started. Hero couldn’t just stand and watch Lucas sold into slavery.’

Vallon sagged in weary disbelief. ‘That youth is the curse of my life. I’d pay seventy solidi to get rid of him.’

‘He’ll come good in time. The underbidder obviously saw something worthwhile in him.’

A last angry surge impelled Vallon to his feet. ‘He’s made me an object of ridicule.’

‘On the contrary. Lucas’s comrades are treating him as something of a charm. Naturally, I’ve spread the word that it was you who arranged his rescue.’

Vallon felt for his seat. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the sanatorium. He had a hard time in the desert.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Vallon. ‘A count’s ransom to redeem a broken-down peasant captured because of his own folly.’

‘I have a feeling that one day Lucas will reward you for your generosity.’

‘I want nothing from that lout except good discipline — and a decent respect for Aiken.’

‘It was Aiken who spotted him. He could have left him there and I wouldn’t have blamed him. I’ll make it plain to Lucas where he must show his gratitude.’

Leaving Vallon to mull over this twist, Wayland made his escape, encountering Wulfstan in the courtyard. ‘I think deep down he’s pleased,’ Wayland said.

‘The gypsy girl?’

‘Vallon didn’t mention her and nor did I.’

Wulfstan cackled. ‘How are you going to get her back?’

Wayland kept walking.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To call on a friend.’

Wayland ducked into a dormitory occupied by Turkmen troopers. He rubbed the dazzle from his eyes. ‘Toghan?’

A Seljuk sprang up, the same trooper Wayland had saved from plunging into a gorge in the Caucasus. He was a good-natured and high-spirited young man. His name meant ‘Falcon’.

They kissed and exchanged blessings. Wayland led Toghan outside. ‘I have a favour to ask.’

‘Everything my lord commands his slave, I will endeavour to perform.’

Wayland reached the shade around the pool. ‘You heard that we rescued Lucas.’

‘Of course. The favour of God was on him.’

‘God didn’t show His favour to Zuleyka. She was sold into slavery the day before.’

Toghan giggled. ‘Her master is a fortunate gentleman.’ His hips rotated in a sinuous pantomime. ‘There will be a baby in the spring, God willing.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ Wayland said.

Toghan’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Ah, Lord, I understand. You desire her for yourself.’

Wayland didn’t waste time denying it. ‘The man who bought her is a wealthy Arab merchant called Sa’id al-Qushair. He owns a house near the citadel and a country mansion about ten miles from Bukhara, just beyond Ramitan on the Golden Road to Samarkand. That’s where he’s taken Zuleyka.’

Toghan pressed a fist against his heart. ‘You want me to rescue her. Of course I will. May I be your sacrifice.’

‘I want you to ride out and scout the house, discover where the girl is kept and look for a way in. If possible, enter the property and commit the layout to memory. Dress shabbily and call at the gate, saying you’re an ex-soldier looking for work in return for a meal.’

Toghan stuck out his elbows and brought them down like a bird springing into flight. ‘At once.’

Wayland hauled him back. ‘Wait until tomorrow. Leave the city as soon as the gates open, ride to the mansion and return before the curfew. I don’t want you getting into trouble.’

Toghan leaned forward and gave a grotesque wink.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Toghan tittered and placed a finger to his lips. ‘I understand, Lord. You cherish this lady as your own and cannot bear to see her innocence defiled by a wealthy old greybeard.’ Still holding a finger to his lips, he backed away.

Wayland lingered in the shade, considering with falling heart the possible consequences of a rescue attempt. Succeed or fail, it might jeopardise the mission and would certainly deepen the wedge between himself and Vallon. A fish in the pond surfaced and gulped down an insect. Wayland pushed off through the heat and entered the sanatorium.

‘It’s hot enough to bake an egg out there.’

Hero looked round. ‘Drink some of Lucas’s sherbet.’

The prodigal lay sprawled on a cot, his legs wrapped in poultices.

Wayland drank the cool liquor and watched Hero unwind the bandages, exposing Lucas’s ulcerated calves. It occurred to Wayland that Zuleyka would be in a similar state and would require treatment and convalescence before her owner judged her fit to share the conjugal bed. He chased the thought away.

‘How is he?’ he said.

‘This is the fourth time I’ve doctored him. That means he has only five lives left.’

‘How long before he’s back on his feet?’

‘I can answer for myself,’ said Lucas. ‘I’m ready to leave now.’

Hero pushed him back down. ‘You’ll get up when I say so.’

Wayland watched Hero apply fresh bandages. ‘Can I have a word with him in private?’

‘Of course,’ Hero said. He put away his dressing and lotions and went out, leaving Wayland and Lucas contemplating each other through the latticed sunlight.

‘Wipe that smirk off your face,’ Wayland said.

Lucas pulled his mouth down. ‘It’s just nervousness. You’re going after Zuleyka, aren’t you? Please take me with you.’

Wayland shook his head. ‘You’re in enough shit as it is.’

‘I know. Whatever I do, I can’t sink any deeper.’

Wayland sat at the end of the bed. ‘We didn’t have a chance to finish our discussion…’ He tapped Lucas’s chest. ‘… Guy.’

Lucas laughed after a fashion. ‘Don’t tell me you still fancy I’m Vallon’s son.’

‘Sometimes I fancy you are, and sometimes I think not. Only you can tell me the truth.’

‘You’re wrong, so let that put an end to it.’

Wayland nodded in a pensive way, stood and made for the door.

‘Is that it?’ Lucas said.

‘If you’re not Vallon’s son, there’s nothing more to discuss.’

‘What about Zuleyka?’

‘She’s none of your business. Troopers don’t have sweethearts.’

Wayland was on the threshold when Lucas spoke again.

‘Have you told anyone else?’

‘No one.’

‘What made you fancy I was Vallon’s son?’

‘At first only the fleeting resemblance. Then I fell to thinking and I wondered why a Frankish peasant youth appearing from nowhere would be so jealous of Aiken, the son of one of Vallon’s closest comrades. Anyone else in your position would have tried to curry favour with the boy. Not you. Instead you treated him like a hated rival.’

Lucas gave a juddering sigh. ‘It’s true. I am the son of the man who calls himself Vallon.’

Wayland closed his eyes and breathed deep.

Lucas spoke in a voice just loud enough to be heard. ‘I was six when he murdered my mother. After he’d fled I ran to her chamber and found her and her lover twined together on a bloody mattress.’

Wayland squinted out though the sunlight. ‘His name was Roland.’

‘He used to bring me toys. My favourite was a puppet carved in the shape of a Moorish soldier. He used to sing to my mother and I’d creep close to their door to listen. I hardly knew Vallon and thought of Roland as my real father.’

‘He was a warped coward who contrived to have Vallon cast into a Moorish dungeon.’

‘A boy of six can’t interpret character. Roland was charming and generous. Guy de Crion was absent for most of my childhood, and when he returned home he was stern and aloof. He scared me.’

Wayland turned, blinded by the change from light to dark. ‘You showed great determination travelling all the way to Constantinople. I imagine your motive was murder.’

‘At first, yes. Not a day passed when I didn’t imagine twisting a sword in Vallon’s guts.’

‘And now?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t. It gnaws into my sleep.’

Wayland strode up to Lucas. ‘Ask yourself who you’d rather serve — the general who sacrificed everything to lead this mission, or the popinjay who betrayed his commander in order to lie with that man’s wife. A wretched cuckoo who insinuated himself into the family nest by giving toys to fledglings and singing merry airs. I’ve had my differences with Vallon, and at many points our personalities jar. But I’ll tell you one thing. The general is a man of principle and honour who only shaves the edges of those virtues to protect his men.’

Sweat popped on Lucas’s brow.

Wayland unclenched his hands. ‘The sooner you tell him the better. Suppose Hero hadn’t redeemed you? Vallon would have gone to his grave not knowing that his son and heir lived.’

‘And died happier in his ignorance.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The last thing he wants is for a forgotten son to confront him with his crimes.’

‘Do you want me to tell him?’

‘No!’

Wayland sat down on the bedside. ‘One day you’re going to have to own up.’

‘Yes, but at a time of my own choosing.’

‘Time has a way of running out faster than you think. Hero said you’ve already used up half a cat’s lives. I don’t want to be the one who has to inform Vallon that the trooper we tipped into a shallow grave in some desert was the blood of his blood.’

Lucas’s head rolled on the pillow. ‘I’ve wrestled with the dilemma since the day I laid eyes on him, and now I’ve decided. Vallon made his name as a warrior when he was the same age as me. Remember I told you I’d be entitled to wear the armour I stole when I’d killed five men in fair combat? On the day I achieve that, I’ll reveal my lineage before Vallon.’

‘That might be a long day coming.’

Lucas gripped Wayland’s hands. ‘The time must be of my choosing. Grant me that. I beg you.’

Wayland nodded. ‘As you wish.’

‘Anyway,’ said Lucas. ‘Right now, it’s Zuleyka I’m worried about.’

‘Leave that problem to me.’

‘Let me join you. I swore I’d set her free, and if you don’t let me help you, it will stain my honour.’

Wayland hid a smile at hearing such a high-flown statement. ‘On two conditions. First, you do what I say without question.’

‘Of course.’

‘Second, you seek out Aiken and beg forgiveness for the slights you’ve dealt him. You don’t have to give the reason, but you must be sincere.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that for you.’

‘Not for me. For Hero who’s cared for you and for Vallon who’s put up with you and for Gorka who’s spoken in your defence despite your ingrate behaviour.’

‘I’ll do it.’

Wayland rose. ‘You know what they’ll do if they catch us. They’ll bury Zuleyka up to her neck and hurl stones at her, the stones selected for size to ensure she doesn’t die quickly. As for you, once they learn how thick-skulled you are, they’ll take out their revenge on your tenderer parts.’

‘If you’re prepared to risk it, so am I.’

Wayland gave a dry laugh. ‘If it goes wrong and Vallon condemns you to the scaffold, you can win a reprieve by declaring his parentage as the noose kisses your throat.’

‘Wayland.’

‘Yes.’

‘During my captivity, I had plenty of time to think. I’m not the same man I was.’

‘I hope not.’

Moths brushed and tapped the lamp in Wayland’s chamber when Toghan returned two evenings later, fizzing with excitement. Wayland sat him down and served him a bowl of curds.

‘I expected you back yesterday.’

‘Lord, what a story I have to tell.’

‘You found the house?’

‘Yes. A grand house. Bigger than this ribat.’

‘Describe it.’

‘A mansion on the Golden Road, just as you said. High walls all round, the road on one side and a canal on another. I told the porter I was a poor soldier seeking work in return for a meal. The man would have driven me away but by chance his master’s overseer happened by and told him to set me labouring in the vegetable garden. That was not long before noon and I dug shit into the soil until there was no light left to see. My reward? A bowl of noodles and a cup of stale water. When I told those brutes I had to be back in Bukhara before the curfew, they threatened me with whips, saying I hadn’t exhausted my obligations. Lord, the master of that house — a plague on his soul — believes every man who lacks might and wealth belongs to him to do with what he likes. Before light next day, his overseer drove me into the estate to resume my drudgery. I’d entered the mansion as an honest day labourer; they treated me like a slave. Me. Toghan son of Chaghri son of Tughril son of…’

Wayland walked the room. ‘How did you get away?’

‘I drew the knife hidden in my boot and held it to the overseer’s windpipe, threatening to feed him his balls if he didn’t return my horse and open the gate for me.’

‘Couldn’t you have devised a subtler means of escape?’

Toghan began lapping up the curds. ‘If a man doesn’t protect his honour, he’s but a husk, an empty shell. I would have killed the overseer and sent him to hell better prepared to endure its torments if you hadn’t made me promise to leave that ungodly household as peacefully as I’d arrived. I rode back with all haste.’ Toghan half-stood. ‘May God consecrate the souls of your ancestors.’

Wayland fell onto his seat and regarded Toghan through splayed fingers. ‘After you took your leave in such a rough fashion, they might suspect you had other designs.’

Toghan licked his fingers one by one. ‘They regarded me as no more significant than a fly. How do you find a fly after it bites? Here? There? No, too late. Gone.’

Wayland pulled up his stool. ‘Did you find Zuleyka?’

‘She’s in the harem of course. I heard the servants talking about her.’

Wayland resigned himself for a long interrogation. ‘Where is the harem?’

Toghan indicated right. ‘On that side.’

Wayland stood, lifted Toghan from his seat and placed him by the door. ‘Start from the moment you entered the property. What did you see?’

‘A luscious garden and the mansion behind it, slave quarters and stables to the left, the harem to the right.’

‘Separated by walls.’

‘Yes. The harem has its own courtyard.’

‘How will we enter?’

‘Over the outer walls.’

‘What’s beyond them? You mentioned a canal.’

‘No canal on that side. Just fields.’

‘How high are the walls?’

‘Not so big.’

One thing Wayland had learned during his employment in the sultan’s court was that the Turkmen had no common scale for measuring. They could spot an enemy two miles away, but they couldn’t agree on the exact distance. Point out a falcon seen close up and they’d declare it was an eagle. Show them an eagle a mile away and it was a hawk or falcon. Wayland had a dozen words for raptors, whereas the Turkmen had only three, meaning big, middling and small respectively.

‘Are the walls higher than the ones surrounding this ribat?’

‘Smaller.’

‘Twice my height?’

Toghan’s gaze roamed. ‘Yes. Twice as tall.’

So any height between ten and twenty feet. Ropes and grappling hooks would be needed.

‘You said the approach was clear.’

Toghan’s manner became evasive. ‘I couldn’t ride all the way around the house. It would have made the guards suspicious.’

‘That was going to be my next question. How many armed men?’

Toghan didn’t hesitate. ‘About a dozen.’ He tossed a hand. ‘Flabby bullies. Three of us could slaughter the whole household.’

‘Killing isn’t our intention. Our goal is to get Zuleyka away without hurting a soul. You’re right about one thing, though. There’ll be three of us. You, me and Lucas. Plus the dog. We’ll do it tomorrow.’

Toghan’s laugh drifted into a wistful register. ‘Can’t I kill the overseer?’

‘No, you can’t. Steal Zuleyka from under his nose and you’ll inflict a sore that will never heal. Rub more dirt into the wound by suggesting that we bribed him to turn a blind eye to our entry.’

Toghan doubled over in husky laughter. ‘How clever you are.’

How stupid, Wayland thought.

The guard at the Samarkand Gate watched Wayland and his two conspirators as they approached, leading a spare horse and with the dog tucked in behind. Wayland continued talking to Toghan in Turkic, sitting his horse in the slouched yet elegant posture that signified a lifetime spent in the saddle. The Turkmen clothes he wore and the indigo turban swathing his yellow hair couldn’t disguise his foreign ancestry. His eyes, blue as the hottest part of a candle flame, betrayed his northern origins.

The guard stopped them. ‘Who are you and where are you going?’

Wayland answered, running a rosary through his fingers. ‘We are the trusted agents of Mohamed ibn Zufar of Samarkand, may the blessings of God be upon him.’ He cocked his finger at Lucas. ‘We’re escorting this infidel to his new owner. I purchased him at the slave market four days ago, along with that horse.’

The guard walked around all three riders before facing Wayland again. ‘When did you join your master’s household?’

‘Eleven years ago. I was captured at Manzikert aged sixteen. Defeat in that battle was my spiritual salvation. Through my master’s teachings I embraced the true religion, thanks and praise be to God the most high exalted, the creator of the world and the knower of hidden things.’

The guard looked at Toghan.

‘He’s very religious,’ the Seljuk confided.

The guard stepped back as if piety might be contagious. ‘Pass in peace and may your journey be an easy one.’

Toghan burst into laughter when they reached the open road. ‘That was a cunning touch.’

Wayland urged his horse into a trot. ‘We’re leaving a trail. He’ll remember our passing and will testify against us when the time comes.’

The evening sky had separated into charcoal and vermilion when they rode past the mansion. Wayland took in the salient features of the compound with a couple of glances. Its walls were higher and thicker than Toghan had described, and there was no cover to hide their approach. They trotted on until the sun went down and then they lay up in a mulberry grove. Bats flickered through the branches. A rind of moon hung low in the south. Out on the plain a lion’s roar shivered the night.

Wayland settled himself. ‘Muffle the horses’ hooves,’ he told Toghan. ‘Wake me at the deadest hour.’

He watched the stars in their orbits, wondering what Syth would make of this crazy adventure. That wasn’t hard to answer. He flinched as he imagined her batting her hands against his chest. You left me and our children to imperil yourself for a gypsy dancer.

‘It’s not like that!’

He gasped against a muffling hand. ‘Hush, Lord. There’s no space on earth so distant that a cry doesn’t enter.’

Wayland prised Toghan’s hand away and blinked awake.

‘Time to go,’ Lucas said.

On padded hooves the horses approached the mansion. A furlong short of it, Wayland left the road and detoured through a field of alfalfa until the compound bulked over him. He slid to the ground, listening. Frogs burped in the waterway behind the house. Jackals snarled and yipped in the distance.

He crept up to the wall. Eighteen feet high at least. ‘You’re sure we’re at the right spot,’ he murmured.

‘Yes,’ Toghan hissed.

‘Let me go in,’ Lucas whispered.

‘Watch the horses,’ Wayland said.

‘But I should be the one who sets her free.’

Wayland grabbed a bunch of Lucas’s tunic. ‘You promised to do what I told you.’

‘Sorry.’

From his saddlebag Wayland drew a rope with two iron claws spliced to one end. He swung it in circles and lobbed it over the ramparts. The clatter when the claws hit the baked mud on the far side made him wince. He listened for sounds of alarm. The frogs went on croaking. The dog looked at him, panting.

He drew in the rope and the claws bit into the parapet. He pulled with all his strength and the anchor didn’t shift. ‘Keep it taut,’ he told Toghan.

He spat into his palms and walked himself up the wall, reaching the top with chest heaving and arms burning. He lay flat on the parapet and conned the layout. Toghan hadn’t got it wrong. The space below was a garden courtyard, the women’s quarters to the right. Not a light showed in the building or anywhere else. Somewhere a fountain tinkled.

He craned back. ‘Toghan.’

‘Lord.’

‘We’ll need you to help haul us up.’

The rope jarred as Toghan heaved himself to the top. Wayland produced another clawed rope from his pack, hooked it over the outer face of the wall and dropped the free end into the courtyard.

‘Make sure it doesn’t work loose.’

He let himself down the rope. His confidence grew when he reached solid ground. He listened again then stalked towards the door of the harem. This was the part he couldn’t plan for. Zuleyka might be confined in a cell deep within the compound. If she was, he wouldn’t have time to find her before his forced entry roused the whole household.

He prowled the harem walls, listening at each shuttered window, picking up no sound at one, a pleasant female purring from another.

Looking back, he could just discern Toghan clamped on the wall — a malevolent incubus primed to descend on sleeping maidens and ravish them. Wayland tested the lock on the door and established that it wouldn’t yield to tinkering.

From his pack he pulled an iron ram weighing twenty pounds. He drew it back and hesitated.

‘Attack the citadel while it sleeps,’ Toghan hissed.

Wayland smashed the lock with two blows, kicked the door open and stumbled inside.

‘Zuleyka!’

Women screamed.

‘Zuleyka!’

Wayland heard a terrific slap and a pained cry.

‘I’m coming.’

Zuleyka threw herself into Wayland’s arms wearing only a sheer silk shift, its luxurious texture not lost on him as he ran her towards the wall. A bugle’s discordant note sounded through the caterwauling from the harem.

‘Grab the rope,’ Wayland said. ‘Toghan will pull you up.’

Holding the free end, he turned to see what forces his invasion had unleashed. The whole establishment was in turmoil, women’s squeals and men’s cries mingling with the shrieks of peacocks. Zuleyka yelped and fell from the rope, knocking him flat. He yanked her up and put her hands to the rope again.

‘Just hold on and let Toghan pull you clear.’

A chubby woman in a nightgown, clamping a wig cockeyed over her head, advanced as if propelled on castors. Gibbering with fury, hands crooked into talons, she made straight for Zuleyka. The gypsy girl took one look at her, released the rope and with a harsh cry launched herself at her jailer, gouging and kicking.

‘Oh, great,’ Wayland said.

He tore them apart, holding off the hellcat and suffering a lacerated cheek in the process.

‘Get up the damned rope!’

He flung the harridan into the dust, where she lay mouthing imprecations to curdle the blood. ‘The same to you,’ he said, watching the gate into the main courtyard.

It burst open a moment after Toghan shouted that he had Zuleyka safe.

‘Don’t wait for me.’

Wayland went up the rope as if Satan’s imps were jabbing from below with pitchforks. A hand brushed his ankle. He kicked it away and climbed hand over fist. Halfway to the top, he heard a falling wail and saw the hooks anchoring the rope on the other side spring loose and whip out of sight. He gained the top and glanced back to see a mob of armed men running towards him.

Toghan swung the rope. ‘Here.’

Wayland glimpsed from the corner of his eye an archer drawing a bow. ‘No time for that.’

He sat on the wall, drew a deep breath, and threw himself off. A fall of nearly twenty feet allowed a surprising amount of time to contemplate the injuries he might suffer. The impact knocked him witless, but he’d landed on soft sand and sprang up, pushing away his ecstatic dog. He hobbled towards his horse and mounted at the second attempt.

He kissed his horse between its ears and clapped his heels against its flanks. ‘Fly!’

They reached the road and galloped down it in a windswept blur. Two miles from the mansion Wayland’s horse stumbled and its rhythm faltered. He eased up. ‘Wait!’

Zuleyka and Lucas returned from the darkness.

Wayland dismounted and lifted his horse’s right foreleg. ‘She’s lame. You two go on. Wait for us outside the Gate of the Spice Sellers.’ He rooted in his pack and lobbed a suit of men’s clothes at Zuleyka. ‘Put them on. Off you go.’

Toghan lay prostrate on the trackway behind him, one ear to the ground. ‘Six riders at least.’

Wayland could already hear the drubbing hooves. ‘We can’t outride them. We have to get off the road.’

Toghan pulled his horse to the right. ‘This way.’

Before they’d ridden a hundred yards a yell told them that they’d been spotted. Wayland cranked a glance across his shoulder to see a rider lashing his horse in pursuit.

‘Split up,’ he shouted.

‘Never,’ Toghan cried. In the next instant he demonstrated what Wayland had witnessed many times but had never been able to accomplish himself — the horse archer’s rearward delivery, the Parthian shot.

Toghan dropped his reins, swivelled until he was facing his horse’s tail, drew his bow and loosed. His arrow hit the pursuing horse square in the chest. It squealed and lurched to the left, spilling its rider over its neck. Five more riders crashed out of the dark. The fallen horseman urged them to continue their pursuit.

Wayland spurred on, the concussions behind him drawing closer, his dog flowing alongside in an easy gallop.

‘Hound them,’ Wayland told it.

It swung round and ran towards the pursuing riders, giving tongue as if it had spotted a fox or jackal. Wayland glimpsed it bounding around a horse before a black canal opened up in front of him. He set his horse at the water and hit it with a mighty splash. His horse flailed to climb the opposite bank but couldn’t find purchase. Wayland leaped off and, with Toghan’s help, dragged it up. Three riders skidded to a halt on the other side and tried to aim their bows. The dog wouldn’t let them. Jaws popping, it nipped their horses’ heels, driving them in circles.

Wayland sprang back into the saddle and flogged his mount on. The yells and barks behind him faded away.

‘Stop,’ he said after covering a mile or so.

He listened through his pumping heart, Toghan panting beside him.

‘I think we’ve lost them.’

Toghan threw back his head. ‘Oh, what fine sport.’

Together they cantered back to Bukhara. Its domes were just beginning to show against the dark when the dog caught up, barely out of breath and very pleased with itself. They made a wide circuit of the walls and approached the western gate as dawn fanned up in pistachio green behind the city’s minarets. Lucas and Zuleyka were waiting, the girl in nomad garb. Lucas gasped in relief.

‘Did you have to fight?’

Wayland swigged from a water bottle. ‘We didn’t have to shed human blood, thank God.’

Not long after the first call to prayer, the gates opened. Wayland rode up to the three guards, his clothes wet and muddied, his turban unravelling. There was no point trying to hide his identity.

‘I’m with the Byzantine mission.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘We were returning from Samarkand when thieves attacked us. To escape them we had to ride cross-country and got lost. We left Bukhara without the general’s permission and must return to the caravanserai before he finds us gone.’

‘Not before you tell us more about these thieves.’

Wayland rolled a gold solidus between thumb and forefinger. ‘There’s one for each of you.’

He placed the coin in a grasping palm and lobbed the other two into the dust.

The guards were still scrapping for the gold when Wayland and his companions rode through the gates.

He pushed Zuleyka into an empty cell and made for the door. ‘Lie low until I say otherwise.’

‘Wayland.’

His blood tingled at the first sound of his name from her mouth. He stopped.

‘Come here,’ she said in Persian.

‘I don’t have time,’ he said in the same tongue.

‘I want to thank you.’

He turned. ‘Make it quick.’

She did, pulling his face towards hers and kissing him in one passionate movement.

She pulled back. ‘I knew you’d come.’

He swallowed. ‘Don’t be daft.’

‘You don’t understand the power of dreams.’

With the lightest of touches, like a marble setting a boulder into motion, she propelled him towards the door. She yawned.

‘Return soon.’

He crossed the courtyard with his lips still tingling and jumped when a voice spoke close by.

‘You’re up early if you slept at all. Where have you been?’

It was Vallon, off to the bath house, frowning at Wayland’s dishevelled appearance.

‘I went hunting.’

‘Catch anything?’

‘Only a wild dove.’