Chapter Twenty-Three
Sabine followed Foye out of their room, feeling as if she were a prisoner headed for her last meal. Her interlude with Foye had for a while taken away her troubles. She had lived, for a time, in a world in which she was safe. Now she was walking back into uncertainty. She adjusted the saddlebags she carried, all but the heaviest, which Foye had slung over his shoulder.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs, coming up. Foye slowed and removed the pistol he’d tucked underneath his coat. He checked the weapon and held it behind his back. There was a great deal of noise from downstairs. Sabine drew her pistol as well.
“Remain calm,” Foye said as they continued walking. He sounded horribly nonchalant. “You are my employee. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
When they reached the top of the stairs, Foye put his saddlebag on the floor and stood at the top, blocking any access past him. Sabine stopped, her pulse thundering. She could not see around him. But his shoulders relaxed, and he took a step or two down. He did not, she noticed, replace his pistol. The weapon remained in his hand. “Barton,” he said.
Sabine went to the head of the stairs and peered past Foye to see Barton about halfway down the stairs. He panted as he stood there, bent over, one hand on the wall, the other clutching his hat. “My lord. Thank God I’ve found you.”
She replaced the pistol in her sash.
“What is it?” Foye asked in a low voice.
“Nazim Pasha himself is in Aleppo,” Barton said as softly as he could over his hard breathing. He must have run quite a ways before he found the khan. “The news is everywhere. He stopped us an hour or two out of the city. Furious. He beat Sir Henry’s servant within an inch of his life, my lord. I don’t know how he managed to stay with us. And now the rumor is the pasha’s called on Mr. Barker himself…” He put a hand to his chest and took a deep breath. His face was flushed. “On a matter of grave importance it’s said.”
“Has he?” Foye sounded bored by the subject. He signaled to Sabine to pick up the saddlebag he’d dropped and continued down the stairs, Barton and Sabine following, saddlebag in hand. She slung it over her shoulder with the others she already had. Barton hardly spared her a glance. “What on earth for?”
“Sir Henry’s niece has vanished from Kilis. I heard that from one of the men in service at the consulate. The pasha blames that fellow he nearly killed, Asif.”
Sabine’s heart thudded against her ribs, but Barton wasn’t paying any attention to her whatever. Her dark skin and boy’s attire made her invisible to him.
Foye slowed down. “Miss Godard?” he said. “Vanished?” He was a perfect picture of astonishment. “I don’t see how that could be. I very much doubt she’s actually vanished. It’s a ruse to extort more money from me. Or else he never intended to turn her over, and he’s looking to solidify his excuse when I raise hell over his refusal to return her.”
Her knees felt a little wobbly. Foye was right. She was not in Britain where she understood the law and what was expected of her and what rights she had and did not have. The Sublime Porte might be the voice of the sultan, but as with governments everywhere, the law tended to operate according to the whims and appetites of the local officials. Nazim Pasha had made a point of being useful to the French and the English alike, and his power was felt far from Kilis.
“His men are all over the city, my lord. They are armed,” Barton said. “I’ve seen them myself. There is no question of it. They are asking after you and Miss Godard.”
“Hmm.” Foye shrugged and continued down the stairs. “Were you recognized on your way here?”
“I don’t believe I was, no,” Barton said.
“But you can’t be sure.” As he walked, Foye rechecked his pistols. Both of them. “Pathros,” he said casually. “I advise you to check your weapons as well.”
Sabine nodded and again pulled out the larger of her two pistols.
“It was my impression, my lord, that the pasha believed you may have made off with Miss Godard.”
“Ridiculous,” Foye said. “As you well know.”
Sabine didn’t know how Foye could remain so calm. Her pulse was pounding in her ears as it was, and her hands were shaking.
“Where are the others?” Foye asked.
“In the courtyard, my lord.”
“Excellent.” He put one pistol in his pocket and returned the other behind his back. “Pathros, come along.”
“Sir.” Sabine’s chest constricted until she could hardly breathe. Barton didn’t look twice at her.
“Are the horses ready?” Foye asked Barton as they continued out of the khan.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good man.” Foye clapped his servant on the back. “I’ll need you on your way to Buyukdere before long. Make sure you take Asif with you. Bring him to England if he wants to come.”
“And you, my lord?”
“I’ve a ransom to gather. A business that may take me to Iskenderun if I cannot scrape up enough here.”
“But she’s gone!” Barton said. “What good is a ransom now?”
Foye headed for the door but paused to address Barton. “I want Miss Godard returned, and I intend to see it happen. I won’t give him the excuse of a failed ransom to withhold her from me.” His voice hardened. “Nazim Pasha is lying about Miss Godard, Barton. He means to make a gift of her to the sultan. And these lies of his are the perfect way to have her vanish into the Seraglio.”
They exited the interior of the khan into the enclosed courtyard. The caravan they’d heard from their upstairs room was gone. Asif was there with Godard’s trunks and the men Foye had sent to Kilis with her and Godard. He leaned against the courtyard wall, one arm held across his waist. His lower lip was split and still bleeding, one eye swollen shut, and there were several livid red stripes across his face.
Sabine’s first task was to make sure Foye’s Janissaries were ready for departure. Instructions were duly conveyed to their captain. That done, she hurried to catch up with Foye as he crossed the courtyard to Asif. The servant stayed in the shade cast by the wall, holding the reins of his horse in one hand. He nodded when she and Foye approached. Nabil stood beside him.
“Asif,” Foye said, “you’ve done well, my friend.” Sabine translated, and that earned her a scowl from Nabil. “If you’ve a mind when this is done, come to England. Barton will see your passage there. You’ve a job for life with me. I hope you’ll come.”
The Turk nodded, barely moving his body as he acknowledged Foye’s gratitude. “Effendi,” he said through stiff lips.
Foye put a hand on Nabil’s shoulder. “And you, my dear young fellow, can you continue a little longer for me?” Nabil nodded. “Good. You’ll stay with Barton, then. Barton, when you’ve gotten Godard’s things to Buyukdere, see their house is packed up. My things as well. Ship the Godards’ belongings with mine directly to Maralee. And if Asif elects to come, get him decent passage.”
The horses were ready now, and Foye gave final instructions to Barton before they each rejoined their original parties: Foye and Sabine with the Janissaries captained by the Druze, Barton and Asif ready for the probably month long trek to Buyukdere. Her stomach rumbled as she walked to her mare. She was famished, but she didn’t think she could swallow a single crumb even if she had one to eat. And though her mouth was dry as dust, she didn’t think she could drink anything, either. Nazim Pasha was in Aleppo. He might find them yet.
Barton kicked his mount until he was at her side. She flashed him a grin and pretended to be engaged in resettling her saddlebags. She did not want to talk with him. Barton stayed even with her, eying her far too closely for her comfort. What if she did something to betray herself? Or had already? Would all be lost? Surely, he was wise enough to keep silent if he’d guessed who she was? Asif certainly had. She mounted without any difficulty.
“Peter, is it?” Barton asked. His gaze raked her, deeply suspicious. Her heart thudded against her ribs, and she had to force herself not to grip the reins too tightly. He knew, she thought. Barton knew who she was.
“Pathros.” She gave the native pronunciation, which was not so very far from “Peter,” and buried herself deeper in her guise of a young dragoman. She cocked her head at him and did her best to appear calm. “Yes, Mr. Barton?”
“His lordship seems to depend on you.”
She shrugged. “I am helpful to him, I hope. It is why he employed me.”
“You speak English well enough,” he said. He took out a stained and dusty handkerchief, removed his hat, and wiped his face and temples with the square of cotton. “And that’s a mercy. I can hardly understand that other fellow, Nabil.” He put away the handkerchief. “Damn. I don’t know how you natives bear the heat. It’s not natural, this weather.”
“Perhaps tomorrow it will be cooler.”
Barton shot her another glance. “Don’t be cheeky, my boy. It bloody well is too hot.” After a moment, Barton continued. “You bunked with him last night.” Sabine said nothing. He couldn’t know. He just couldn’t know what they’d done. “Probably for the best. A boy your size doesn’t take up much room, and him such a giant.” Barton chuckled and waited until Sabine thought to smile in return. “Did he sleep at all?”
“Very little, sir.” She relaxed when the expected accusation didn’t come. “He was restless.”
Barton nodded and wiped his forehead again. “He is concerned for Miss Godard and her safety.”
“The woman he will pay ransom for.” She bowed her head, keeping her face down.
“If she hasn’t bloody vanished. You know how these things are in this godforsaken country,” he said. “Tell me, what do you think? Is there any hope for her? Or is his lordship haring off to gather a king’s ransom for no reason?”
She bobbed her head. “Nazim Pasha has released others before. When Lord Foye has paid her ransom, he will release Miss Godard.”
Barton’s expression darkened. “She’s an exceptionally pretty girl from everything I’ve heard. He won’t let her go, you mark my words. Straight to the Seraglio, if you ask me. If she’s not in his, that is.”
“Do you think that is so?”
“No hope for her now, that’s what I say.” He gave a mournful shake of his head. “Mark my words, boy, that pasha has sold her into slavery. She’s already lost, and his lordship’s going to take it hard when he discovers that.”
“I pray God you are wrong,” Sabine said. She crossed herself.
“Back in Buyukdere, he was…fond of the young lady,” he said. “He’s taking this hard. Very hard. You keep a sharp eye on him, lad. He’ll run himself into the ground if he’s not looked after. Especially if it’s true she’s lost to us all.” Barton fixed her with a stare, and Sabine returned his gaze unblinkingly. As far as he was concerned, she was Pathros, a young native boy. Barton didn’t even know what Sabine Godard looked like. How could he recognize her? He would see what be expected to see. “He is a very great man back in England. When he returns, there’s much he might do to help your nation.”
“I am sure that is so, sir.”
They remained in silence for a while. “His lordship says you’re one of those Christian heathens.”
“Heathen?” she said. She put some heat into the inquiry.
Barton flushed redder. “Perhaps not a heathen if you believe in God and Jesus Christ.” He shook his head. “Keep your head about you, lad, and he might take you back to England with him. Would you like that? To live in a Christian nation?”
“It is very far from home,” she said.
“That it is. That it is. Keep it in mind, my boy. Look after him. He treats his staff well. You couldn’t have a better employer in the whole of the British Empire than the Marquess of Foye. I’ve been with him for nearly fifteen years now. There’s no better man. None better.” He glanced at Foye, who was inspecting his horse before they left. “Look out for him for me. See he gets some sleep when you stop and that he eats, too. Will you promise me that?”
Sabine nodded. “I will.”
Foye mounted and rode to Barton and Sabine. “Is there a problem, Barton?”
“No, milord.” He wiped his handkerchief across his face. “Just having a word with the young lad here.”
Sabine stood straighten “Do you require my services, Lord Foye?”
“If you please,” Foye said. Nothing in his tone or expression that suggested he thought of her as anything but Pathros. There was a great deal of noise in the courtyard, and Foye had his back to the high, arched exit to the khan, which was why he did not see the newcomers. Sabine, who was facing him, did.
“My lord.” Sabine reached over and grabbed his arm, squeezing hard. Her heart shriveled in her chest. “Effendi!” she said in a low voice.
“What is it?”
She nodded behind him with her spine solid ice. Her knees went weak. “Nazim Pasha,” she said.