By Anne Fraser and Barbara Zuchegna
With assistance from Sharon Pickrel and Jean Lamb
Copyright 1999

Chapter Fifteen

Happily, it turned out that the elders had no intention of reciting the entire history of their people. But the first part, which the Kanum Assieh almost sang in her pleasant, low contralto, was indeed necessary to the understanding of the more recent past.

What she sang, translated in Ardeshir's rumbling bass (and here rather more liberally translated by Adrian Talbot), was this:

The People who now willingly called themselves the Black Baluchi were descended of a race who had lived in eastern Africa from time immemorial. The First Ones, the early people of their race, had been hunters and gatherers of the most primitive sort, tied to the migrating herds of wildebeest and impala, losing their kill to the ever-present predators ... lions, hyenas, jackals ... as often as not. Theirs was a bare subsistence living, and they were little more advanced than the animals they killed. In this manner, they lived for many, many generations.

But then a man had come to them ... and from their description, he was probably an Egyptian. He gave them the arts and skills of civilization, and there was just one tiny little flaw in the ointment of his presence among them. He was a vampire.

But he was a smart vampire, who didn't make a bloody nuisance of himself by killing people, and he worked out a deal eventually where it became a great honor among the People to provide him with a little snack. Adrian got the distinct impression that they were probably providing him with a bit more than that, because they took to calling him The Exalted One, which was pretty much the way his donors seemed to feel when he was done with them. This arrangement seemed to have gone on for many more generations.

Eventually, though, the Exalted One got tired of watching everyone else grow old and die, a feeling to which Adrian could relate only too well, and he decided to just exalt the hell out of a local beauty. Enter Exalted One Number Two.

The People thought this was a super idea, and over time, took to beseeching their Exalted Ones to exalt one or another of their group who had proved to be especially noteworthy. This was only occasionally granted ... after all, too great a supply of Exalted Ones could run through the available willingly donated blood supply more quickly than would be wise. But over a period of several thousand years, there did develop a small and stable group of Exalted Ones who continued to provide guidance and learning to the People, and who could do all kinds of neat things that the People found very useful in their pretty much continual wars with neighboring tribes.

This happy state of affairs lasted until Arab slave traders invaded the homeland of the People and began to round up product for shipment overseas. These guys had nasty things like steel weapons and sticks that went boom and killed people from a distance ... and there were too many of them for the Exalted Ones to easily dispatch. Some of them actually succeeded in capturing some of the People and making off with them, and it happened that, with one bunch, they also got themselves an Exalted One.

This was a vampire by the name of Bizaya. From the stories, Adrian figured he was a pretty responsible fellow ... it was only the exceptional leaders who became Exalted. Because although he could have escaped easily, he decided to go with his People into whatever they were being taken to ... and in this case, it was old Persia, which had recently been overrun by the Arabs. There, he did escape, and found this nice little isolated corner of the country where the village called Sa'idi was located. And here he brought the People he managed to help escape from their captivity. Here, also, congregated the blacks who were freed when their slavery was forbidden under the law.

In time, an arrangement developed here very like that which had existed in Africa. Bizaya honored the People who donated meals to him, and occasionally agreed to exalt one of them. But he was a much less visible minor god than his predecessors in Africa had been, and for the most part, vampires did not appear on a regular basis in Sa'idi. Only a few miles away there was a much more sizeable town, in which the careful vampire could eat well and submerge himself in a more varied population. The name of this place was Saravan.

It was at this point that the Kanum Assieh stopped her edited oral history of her People, opened her eyes, and beamed at Adrian with even more enthusiasm than before. She actually wriggled on her cushions in glee.

Why, Adrian had to wonder, was his presence here such a huge high for these people?

He began to get a very uneasy feeling.

What in the hell was T'beth thinking?

He only did heroes onstage.

Having listened to a blessedly abbreviated version of several thousand years of the history of the people who have come to call themselves the Black Baluchi, Adrian Talbot has grown both glassy-eyed and somewhat apprehensive. Clearly, these people expect something from him. Something wondrous.

Adrian does not willingly do wondrous.

Richard, damn him, had settled back on his stool and was probably keeping himself awake by chewing his tongue bloody or some damned thing. The Baluchis' attention was given entirely to Adrian, and Richard was content to leave it there. Nobody was beaming at him with expectant glee. Nobody seemed to remember he was in the room. Since Adrian knew perfectly well that ignoring Richard was not an easy thing to do under normal circumstances, he knew, too, that Richard was deliberately being as ignorable as possible. Damn him.

Vaje Ardeshir, at the conclusion of the Kanum Assieh's recital, bent his solemn, hopeful gaze on Adrian once more and said, "You will understand, Vaje Adrian, that the Exalted have always been greatly honored among us."

"Yes, I can see that, but..."

"Please," Vaje Ardeshir interrupted, respectfully. "There is more."

He should have known. Adrian settled back, resigned. The group's attention turned to the tiny old lady who was called Kanum Mahasti (she was the one in gold), who closed her eyes, as her sister had, hands clasped in her lap, and began her own recitation. Ardeshir, again, provided the translation. Herewith, Adrian's own rather more liberally interpreted translation:

In 1979, Iran went totally nutso. Granted, the previous government, under the Pahlavi Shah, had been a nightmare, with its extensive secret police organization and its liberal use of torture and assassination to curb dissent. But at least the Shah had dragged this country, kicking and screaming, into the Twentieth Century, and the revolution that removed him did not have to send it skittering helplessly back a thousand years. But that's exactly what it did.

The effects of all this, in this remote and very isolated place, were at first lightly felt. That was before the advent of the Ayatollah Zanjani.

Zanjani, according to the Kanum Mahasti's narrative, was what was called the imam jomeh, or the local religious leader. But since Iran now operated under what its leadership chose to call strict Islamic law (if you didn't read the Koran too closely), the religious leader of a given area was the direct representative of the faqih, or religious leader of the country as a whole ... a job filled in the years immediately following the '79 revolution by the Ayatollah Khomeini and in succeeding years by nutcases only slightly less insane and primitive. This gave the Ayatollah Zanjani authority over the local civil government, the police, and everything else in sight. As Zanjani himself was a totally corrupt hypocrite with about as much religion in him as Adrian himself, to say that he abused his authority was rather like saying that Canadian cuisine, despite its invention of pink popcorn, was a bit lackluster. Belaboring the obvious.

Zanjani took advantage of his position, and the remoteness of his domain, to enrich himself very busily. He set up a protection racket that would have made the Italian Mafia green with envy. Any business conducted within his shahrestan, or area of authority, paid a "tax" to him for the privilege of being allowed to exist. Farmers, herders, merchants ... anyone and everyone, paid this tax, which went into Zanjani's personal coffers ... probably against the day when the people of Iran took their heads out of the sand and kicked the entire bunch of Shi'ite nutsos out of the country.

But even Zanjani had to pay lip service to the ideals of the Islamic Revolution. His town, like any other in the country, had its bands of wandering, half-starved, wild-eyed mullahs, or minor priests, who made it their business to watch everyone constantly, looking for signs of less-than-devout behavior. Particularly on the part of women. A woman, detected by the "morals squads," in so great an offense as allowing her chador to blow in the wind enough to reveal her ankle to the profane sight of men, could actually be declared guilty of a morals violation on the spot and stoned to death. Men were more likely to find themselves hauled before an Islamic "court," comprised of judges who might well believe the world was flat but who were deemed fit to judge their fellow men so long as they were perceived to be pious Muslims. Punishments for crimes that offended devout sensibilities ranged from the actual cutting off of hands to impoverishing fines.

With this kind of mentality roaming the streets of his city, Zanjani had to be circumspect in his methods of enforcing his protection racket. He didn't really swing into high gear until he made a deal with some not-too-responsible members of the local Exalted. Anyone who hesitated to pay his operating tax willingly could expect a visit from what had become Zanjani's "enforcers," who could be very persuasive. Adrian could understand that. He'd been persuasive a time or two himself. Fangs and glowing red eyes did have an undeniably compelling effect on the average mortal. Continued obstinacy on the part of the subject invariably led to a second visit, in which the Exalted involved had a substantial meal and left the subject's survivors with renewed enthusiasm for paying their taxes.

Adrian kept wanting to ask what all this had to do with T'beth, but there seemed to be no way to interrupt the Kanum Mahasti's serene narrative. But at this point, she wound up her share of his enlightenment and stopped, to open her eyes and bend her own lovingly anticipatory smile on Adrian. She said something to Ardeshir, who nodded and bent close to Adrian to say, "The Kanum Mahasti asks that you pardon the lack of poetry in her history; these are recent events, and it takes much time to form them into properly measured cadences. She begs your indulgence."

Adrian smiled at the Kanum Mahasti, nodding his understanding of her difficulty. The Kanum Mahasti smiled back, nodding her gratitude for his understanding. Everyone else smiled, nodding their agreement. Richard was a statue, as impassive and unmoving as your average Egyptian sphinx, and eminently ignorable. Damn him.

What Adrian was getting from all of this was that there were vampires in this area who had hired out their services to the local Big Bad Guy to terrorize the population into submission. What he was afraid of was that T'beth, walking into this situation, had felt compelled to Do Something About It. She did that sort of thing; it was one of the major differences between her and Adrian. He had problems enough of his own.

But much as he would like to believe otherwise, he was quite sure by now that these people's barely contained delight in his presence among them had very little to do with their admiration for his beautiful teal blue eyes.

T'beth had gotten him into something. And he was more certain by the minute that he wasn't going to like whatever it was.

The drumbeat was a heartbeat, and Jake felt his blood pumping to the dark incessant rhythm as he danced with Lafeeta. He could feel her blood pounding through her body as they drew closer together, he could smell it, like cinnamon, like gold, under her dusky skin. His own blood was rushing to some exciting parts of his body, the music was driving him on, turning him on, making him wild with desire, with need ... his stomach was forgotten. Adrian was forgotten. Richard, Ed, T'beth ... who were they? There was only the girl, and the music.

She threw back her head and laughed in her throat as he bent to taste her skin. Spices swam in his nose; his brain went spinning off into the desert night, chased by the drumbeat. Her scarf came winding around his shoulders, a spider web tightening on this willing fly. The drums were faster, louder, his heart was faster, louder ... her skin was like silk, like chocolate, like nothing else on earth.

"We dance in private now, yes, Vaje Ja'ake?" she breathed spices in his ear.

"Yesssss."

She took his hand, scarf holding him to her side, a citizen under willing arrest. The drumbeat was their footsteps, the blood coursing in their veins, the breath in their throats. Jake was dimly aware of other couples drifting off to find a place to dance in private, to make their own drumbeat, but he forgot them when Lafeeta kissed him. Her kiss was fire.

The drums were fainter, left behind in the central square, but the drumbeat of their hearts was still pounding its elemental rhythm. She took him into one of the dwellings, he had no idea whose, all that mattered was that there was nobody else there to impede them in this private dance. She moved like silk, her kisses melting chocolate on his lips. Drumbeat.

Naked, she was beautiful, the desert night embodied, and he was ashamed of his big awkward body, the sunburnt skin, the football scars, the bad knee ... but the fire, the cinnamon of her lips soothed his doubts, his shame fled in the silk of her touch. They moved together to the dimly-heard music, the wild African tempo, the song of the desert night.

Drumbeat.

Adrian Talbot, with the assistance of a small group of suspiciously happy Black Baluchis, has learned far more than he ever wanted to know about Black Baluchis in general and about their local politics in particular in this remote corner of Iran in which they live. He has not learned a damned thing about the whereabouts or difficulties of T'beth, which is the one thing he has come all this way to learn.

His friend, Richard Plantagenet, has been doing a remarkably good impression of woodwork ... silent, unmoving, and utterly ignored. Damn him.

Adrian said, "Vaje Ardeshir, while I sympathize with the problems your people have had to face under this Ayatollah ... what's his name..."

"Zanjani," Ardeshir supplied.

"Uh ... yes. Zanjani. I mean, it's obvious that he has made the lives of everyone in his ... uh...."

"Shahrestan," Ardeshir said, intent.

"Uh ... yes. His shahrestan. Well, clearly, he is making everyone around here very unhappy, and the involvement of the local vampires in his activities is certainly very unpleasant behavior on their part, but I hope you can understand that my friends and I came here because the Kanum T'beth managed to get a message to me that she was in trouble ..."

"We got the message to you," Ardeshir said.

Adrian stopped dead ... well, okay, he couldn't stop any other way. But he stopped. "You did?" he said. His eyes swung around the circle of Black Baluchi faces. They all beamed at him and nodded happily.

Ardeshir said, "We deeply regret the length of time this took, but it was unavoidable. The Kanum T'beth entrusted both messages to one of our own, who served in the Ayatollah's palace in Saravan. One was to go to you; one was to await you here. This lady did not survive her service to the Kanum T'beth, even though she succeeded in her mission. She was found out, before she had a chance to do more than pass the messages to another, and she was killed before we could question her about what she might have known of what had happened to the Kanum T'beth. We took it upon ourselves to see to the delivery of the message that was addressed to you, and it took great effort and much time to pass it from hand to hand to the far land of Canada, and to place it where the lady had instructed it should be placed for you to find. We had given our word that this would be done, and so it was."

Adrian was getting a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. One of these people had died to get T'beth's message to him? He could feel the walls closing in around him. Obligations were walls. They always were. Walls a hundred feet high, with no windows and only one door.

He said, "So T'beth is in this Ayatollah's palace in Saravan?"

Ardeshir spread his hands wide, his head tilted to one side. "Who knows? She was there; this we know."

"But why? T'beth wouldn't have agreed to join his 'enforcers.'"

"No, she did not." Sighing heavily, Ardeshir pushed himself to his feet. "Vaje Adrian, before we tell you more, will you consent to make a small journey with us? And your friend, as well, of course." He nodded at Richard, the first indication anyone in the room had given that Richard was still there.

Adrian looked at Richard, who looked back with no expression whatever on his face. Richard had obviously decided that they were going to learn more, and more quickly, if these people concentrated their attention on Adrian. Damn him.

"Uh ... certainly," Adrian answered Ardeshir. "But it's getting late, and I would have to return before sunrise."

Ardeshir managed to look offended without looking annoyed ... not an easy thing to do. He said, "Vaje Adrian, trust us to know of your needs, and to meet them." He bowed.

Foroud and Daryush, who had also risen, bowed, too. Adrian, not able to think of what the hell else he should do, bowed back. The ancient triplets bowed their heads. They beamed. Foroud and Daryush beamed. Ardeshir, in the spirit of the thing, beamed too, although beaming didn't really seem natural to his somewhat somber personality.

Adrian was damned if he was going to beam at anyone. Richard neither beamed nor bowed. Woodwork seldom did. Damn him. Adrian sighed. "In that case, I'm at your disposal, vaje-ye," he said, just a bit proud of having picked up the proper form of address.

There was more bowing, and then Daryush reached down to help the little old lady in the turquoise silk to unbend and get to her feet. Apparently, wherever they were going, she was going with them.

"It's called an ATV, Richard," Adrian said. "That stands for All Terrain Vehicle."

"Ah." Richard's eyes were gleaming. The vehicle before them, which Ardeshir had just driven out of the stable where it had been well hidden, was clearly inspiring a lust to get behind the wheel of the thing. It was a monster; it's tires were almost as tall as Adrian. Adrian had already heard from Jake about Richard's driving; if they let Richard anywhere near the wheel of this thing, Adrian was going to run, screaming, in the other direction. He was dead; he didn't need to be dismembered.

Foroud and Daryush were carefully lifting up the little lady in turquoise, whom they addressed as Kanum Souri, into the back seat of the monster, where she settled herself on the tuck-and-roll leather seat with, to no one's surprise, more happy beaming. Foroud and Daryush followed, fitting themselves to one side of her and leaving a very small space beyond her. Ardeshir was already under the wheel, happily. That left one bucket seat up front and a very, very small piece of back seat available.

Adrian looked at Richard. Richard looked back. He also looked as if he was perfectly willing to stand there, waiting, until the sun came up. Adrian sighed. All right ... Richard was an inch taller. Richard's shoulders were wider. Damn him.

Adrian climbed up into the back seat and submitted to the Kanum Souri's beaming, and welcoming, smile. She smelled, not unpleasantly, of cinnamon. One tiny wisp of a hand reached out of her turquoise silk to pat Adrian's knee encouragingly. Damn. He hated to be patted. He was learning to hate being beamed at.

Richard climbed up into the bucket seat beside Ardeshir, his eyes avidly watching every move the headman made, and they roared off into the night.

Vaje Ardeshir did not turn on the vehicle's lights, and actually, in the available starshine, it was possible to see reasonably well. For Adrian, it was possible to see very well indeed, and although there seemed to be no shadow of a road, it was clear that Ardeshir knew exactly where he was going and had been there often enough to steer fairly well through the rough brush of the valley floor below Sa'idi. They were headed toward the steep hills that rose on the far side of the valley. When they reached the first rocky slopes of these, Ardeshir brought the ATV to a halt. "We will have to walk from here," he said apologetically. "It is not far."

It wasn't. And if the steep, rocky slope was difficult to climb in the dark, none of the men were about to complain in the presence of the tiny and very aged woman who scampered easily over boulders and around brush with the ease of a mountain goat. What they climbed to was, not surprisingly, a cave.

It was a carefully concealed cave, with dried brush covering the entrance, and it took a few minutes for Ardeshir and Richard, who seemed suddenly to be taking a much greater interest in the proceedings, to clear it away. Adrian was perfectly happy to watch them do it. That stuff had thorns. He didn't like thorns. Thorns drew blood. He could smell it.

With the entrance cleared, Ardeshir stepped aside respectfully to allow his elders to enter first, which they did, beaming every minute. Foroud stopped, just inside, to take down a torch from a niche in the wall and to light it with a Zippo lighter. "This way, Vaje Adrian," he said.

Adrian took one step into the place and stopped in his tracks. Richard, coming behind, ran into him. "Richard," Adrian said, his voice suddenly tense, "there are vampires here."

Ardeshir was at his side quickly. "Please, Vaje Adrian. There is no harm in this place for you or for any other. Come. You must see."

Richard stepped around Adrian and headed on into the darkness after Foroud. Ardeshir waited, watching Adrian. Adrian was rooted in place. He should say something. He should warn Richard. They should get the hell out of here.

"Adrian." Richard was coming back, his face set in very serious lines. "They're right. You must see this." He took Adrian's arm and pulled, and Adrian stumbled after him into the cave beyond this narrow entrance passage.

There were perhaps fifteen or sixteen of them, lying in perfect silence on carefully arranged pallets, stacked like cordwood on two sides of the cave. That they were not breathing was not surprising. That they were not moving was. They lay, men and women, old and young, in serene slumber, as they might have lain in broad daylight. But it was deepest night.

"These," Ardeshir said almost reverently, "are the Exalted who would not act for the Ayatollah Zanjani."

"What's wrong with them?" Adrian was not aware that he was whispering.

"We do not know," Ardeshir said. "Listen." He turned to the Kanum Souri, who had settled her tiny body on a convenient boulder and who folded her hands in her lap now, her eyes closing, and began to recite. As before, Ardeshir translated.

None knew, the Kanum Souri sing-songed, how the Ayatollah had first come into contact with the evil Exalted One, he whose name was Bahram Bakhtiar. But long before this happened, there had been a rift among the Exalted in this place. Bahram was very old, and he had lived, before his exaltation, a good and worthy life. But when he became Exalted, he changed, and evil thoughts took over his mind. The others of the Exalted shunned him, and over time he had chosen to give exaltation to others of his own kind ... those who would answer only to him, and obey him in all things. This had never been the way of the Exalted in this place. Each, before this, had been free to do as he chose. This was no longer true, and Bahram continued to create Exalted Ones of his own line, who were like him in their works. And in their evil.

Adrian, listening to Ardeshir, began to sort out what happened from the commentary in between.

Bahram made a deal with the Ayatollah Zanjani. He and his get would serve as the Ayatollah's enforcers, in return for which they were pretty much allowed to do as they damned well pleased. Always before, the local vampires had kept a low profile, and to most of the people around here, they were no more than legends. Not now. Now, they were nightly marauders, savage killers, monsters out of nightmares ... and they spread terror of the Ayatollah Zanjani, which is exactly what he wanted them to do.

But the local people who knew about the other, older Exalted Ones, turned to them for help ... since only a vampire could hope to successfully fight a vampire. And the older Exalteds had agreed to put an end to the terror. They acted, many times, to stop the activities of Bahram's get, and to protect the people who had appealed to them.

They were over-confident. Nothing had ever been able to harm them; they could not imagine that anything ever would. So when the Ayatollah put out an invitation for all of the Exalted to meet in his palace, to hash out their differences and put an end to the troubles, they readily agreed. And they were never seen in the same condition again.

These sixteen, here in this cave, had been carted out of the palace in the night and left out in the countryside to burn up with the rising sun. But the woman of Sa'idi who worked in the Ayatollah's palace sent a message, and the people of Sa'idi came before the sun to take these Exalted Ones and to hide them here, in this cave. They were not true dead. Adrian already knew that. He could sense, with every fiber of his being, their existence. But they had never awoken again.

With them out of the picture, the Ayatollah Zanjani was free to tighten the screws on the local people even more, and he immediately did so. His "taxes" increased, and even the slightest hesitation brought death. His appetite for women was insatiable, and he freely snatched from any family the wives or daughters he was told were especially beautiful. Those he enjoyed, he kept for a time. The others, or those with whom he was bored, were turned over to his "enforcers," to be used and then killed. Any voice that was raised against him was silenced that very night. And for several years now, no voices at all were raised. He, and the evil Exalted Ones who served him, did whatever they pleased, and the people of the entire area were helpless to even protest.

Adrian reached out and took the torch from Foroud. He walked from one stack of pallets to the other, looking down at the faces of the sleeping vampires in the flickering orange light. He sensed only the barest mental activity. These beings were aware of what had happened to them. Deep in the most remote part of their minds, they raged against their helplessness. But they could not overcome it.

He turned to look at Richard. "They're drugged," he said. "It's the only explanation, Richard."

"Yes," Ardeshir agreed, his voice deep enough to cause dust to drift down from the ceiling. "That is what we believe. Come, Vaje Adrian. We will go back now."

Everyone turned toward the entrance and began to file out. Adrian did not, and Richard hesitated, watching him.

There was no way to explain it to Richard. Something deep inside Adrian was revolted to a degree he had not known was still possible. From what he had heard tonight, these vampires had found a way to live that was a far cry from the way he lived. They were admired and revered, and totally accepted by those who knew of them. They were not mercilessly hunted down as monsters. They were not seen as vile predators who had to be destroyed. But they were still what he was, and they must have found, as he had, the despair of their endless lives. They must have felt, as he had, isolated from human contact, from human warmth, from human love.

And they had been denied even the pseudo-life that was left to them. If they had been true predators, if they had been killers or destroyers, he could have accepted that. But they were what he was. They did no harm. They asked only to be left in peace. And when they had been called upon, they had tried to help.

Something he didn't recognize was stirring inside Adrian Talbot. He imagined T'beth standing here, looking at these fellow vampires, thinking what he was thinking now. He knew exactly what she had decided to do.

He knew because the idea was worming its way, against every instinct he had, into his own mind.

He turned away from the still faces and saw Richard, frowning at him, concerned. He didn't say anything. He walked past Richard and followed the Baluchi elders from the cave.

He knew now why the Black Baluchis were so happy to see him. He was expected to help. He was expected to restore the vampires in this cave. He was expected to find out what had been done to them and to undo it. He was expected to stop the local crazy dictator and to do away with his vampire enforcers. And he was expected to do so because it was what T'beth had decided to do.

What in the hell was it they thought he could do that T'beth couldn't? What in the hell was it that he thought he could do?

Because, one way or the other, stupid beyond belief though it undoubtedly was, totally out of character though it surely was, he was going to do it.

Dammit.

They were seated back in the quiet room in the rear of Ardeshir's house. A servant brought wine. Everyone sipped, and no one said anything at all. It was getting very late; sunrise could not be far away.

Finally, because it seemed no one else was going to say it, Richard asked, "Vaje Ardeshir, what happened when the Kanum T'beth came here?"

It was Daryush who answered, and for the first time that night, except for those few moments in the cave, he was not smiling. Ardeshir, again, translated.

It hadn't taken T'beth long to realize that among the Black Baluchis she did not have to fear being recognized for what she was. She remembered, from long ago, the Exalted Ones of the legends here, but she had never known until she came back that they were real ... and that they were in trouble.

She asked. Of course, T'beth would do that. She didn't wait for anyone to tell her; she heard rumors and she went to Ardeshir and asked. And she was told the same story that Adrian and Richard had been told tonight. Being T'beth, she had to do something about it.

She went to Saravan, to the palace of the Ayatollah. She offered her services, if he could satisfy her that he could make it worth her while. She was entertained, given wine to drink, and Bahram, the oldest of the Ayatollah's enforcers, told her of the benefits of working for Zanjani. She said she would think it over, and get back to them with her answer. She did not realize they had already poisoned her.

Halfway back to Sa'idi, she had become disoriented and briefly, violently ill. The young Baluchi who had driven her into town pulled over and waited while she threw up. Whatever they had given to the other Exalted Ones, the poison that had put them into the long sleep, instead made her sick but did not otherwise affect her. Within moments, she was well again ... and furious.

But they had followed ... Bahram's get. And when they came to Sa'idi and realized she had not fallen into the endless sleep, they took her by force from the village, overpowered her, and carried her away, bound in silver chains. Adrian was sick himself, when he heard it. She would have been in agony. They must have known that.

They took her back to the palace in Saravan. The woman of Sa'idi who worked there saw her there, saw her washed and scented and dressed in silks for the bed of the Ayatollah himself. With the silver chains always in place ... on her wrists, on her ankles. What happened next, the woman of Sa'idi did not know. The Kanum T'beth was taken to the Ayatollah, and then she was brought back to the harem and left there, her chains attached to the wall beside her bed. She was in great pain.

The woman of Sa'idi was told to tend to her, although there was little she could do. But T'beth had seen the sympathy in her eyes, and she had asked if a message might be sent. The woman of Sa'idi knew the risk she took, but she knew, too, why this Exalted One had risked herself. She agreed, and brought pen and paper, hidden in her clothing. T'beth, even in her pain, had laughed when she wrote the notes. She said, "He's never gonna forgive me for this one," and then fell back on the bed.

What had become of her after that, Ardeshir and his people did not know. The woman of their village managed to pass the notes to a fruit seller she knew, with hurried, whispered instructions. But soon after, she was caught ... the people of Sa'idi did not know how ... and she was killed. Her body was brought to the village and left in the square, drained of its blood, as a warning.

Daryush finished his narrative, and silence fell again. Adrian knew his eyes were red; tears were trying to come, and he fought them back, stilled the anger, and the red receded.

"There is nothing more we can tell you," Ardeshir said solemnly. No one was beaming now. They were all aware of how deeply affected Adrian was, and they were sympathetic. But they were still hopeful. "Whatever they gave to her ... the drug, the poison ... she was immune. She was not of the same blood as the Exalted here. Nor are you."

They thought that he could do what T'beth could not. Adrian looked over at Richard. Richard thought so, too. Or, at least, he thought they could do it between them. It was there in his eyes, the absolute, unquestioning confidence. The trust.

Ardeshir rose and went to the door, spoke briefly to someone outside, and waited there. A moment later, a young girl came into the room. She was very pale, among these people, and extraordinarily pretty. Ardeshir introduced her briefly only as Hanan. Her eyes went at once to Adrian, and she smiled.

He smiled back. And then he saw what she was holding in her hands.

"It was all she left with us," Ardeshir said, as the girl came silently across the room and laid the crossbow in Adrian's hands.

The talk went on for a short time after. Richard asked questions the elders answered willingly. They had begun to understand that he was more than just Adrian's friend and companion. The ancient triplets began to smile at him.

Adrian hardly heard anything that was said. He knew Richard was asking questions about the town, Saravan, about the palace of the Ayatollah, about how it was guarded, how access might be gained to it. Adrian left him to it. He held the crossbow across his lap, staring down at it, remembering T'beth holding it...

They must have hurt her terribly to take it from her. Silver. They had used silver. He remembered the touch of silver, the burning agony of silver. And it had been weeks ... long weeks, when she had not escaped. They must have kept her in silver chains. If she was not true dead. And she was not. He knew she was not.

At length, the conference ended. It would not be very long now before the sun rose. Already, gray dawn light was visible around the edges of the window shutters and between their slats. Adrian realized that everyone else was standing, and he did the same. The elderly men, and the ancient ladies, all bowed to him, unsmiling, and said what were surely farewells. He bowed back, silently, and they filed out of the room.

"It is very near sunrise, Vaje Adrian," Ardeshir said. "You must rest now."

He nodded. He followed Richard and Ardeshir out into the hallway. Richard took his arm briefly. "Adrian?"

"I'm all right," he said. He wasn't. Something was swelling up inside his chest until he felt as though it would burst.

"Tonight, we will use the ATV to go to Saravan," Richard said. He was well aware that Adrian had not been listening to his last discussion with Ardeshir. "We'll find her, Adrian."

"I know." He looked up at Richard, moved to sudden, heartfelt gratitude. "Richard, thank you. I must find her."

Richard nodded. "Sleep well," he said, and turned away.

Sleep well. Adrian's hands caressed the crossbow. Wherever T'beth was, was she trying to sleep ... with the agony of silver chains restraining her?

He had to stop this. He would find her. Wherever she was, whatever had been done to her, he would find her, and when they were back in Toronto, they would remember this as no worse than a thousand other things that they had shared...

But suddenly he knew he was not alone. He looked up from the crossbow and saw the girl who had brought it and laid it in his hands ... and she was smiling at him still.

Her name was Hanan, and she was the great-granddaughter of one of the triplets; he never did find out just which one.

She saw his eyes when he had looked at the crossbow she held; their sadness pierced her to the heart. When he took it from her, his hands shook. He had held it through the rest of the night's conversation, cradling it as if he was a girl with a new baby, the pain in his eyes brittle enough to break at a touch.

They would all go away to their own beds, in the end, and leave him alone with the crossbow and his sorrow. A crossbow was a cold, silent companion for a man in pain.

She had heard the young men, the other Baluchis, bragging around the feastfires, that this beautiful blue-eyed boy had willingly played the girl in the games they played to ease the loneliness of the long desert nights. All young men played those games, though; to be the passive one was no shame. And his eyes, sad and distant though they were, had followed her when she had come into the council room. He had smiled at her until he had clearly seen what she carried, and it was not the smile of a man who liked only other men.

She knew he was an Exalted One, but not of the kind from Saravan, nor of the others from the village and surrounding areas, the ones the Saravan Exalted had poisoned. He was of the same blood as the strange, restless woman whose crossbow it was that caused him such pain.

His being an Exalted One only made her want him more. It was not unheard of for the Exalted to share a bed with villagers. And he looked so lonely.

They were coming out now, her great-grandmother and the sisters, the headman and Foroud, the dark-haired Exalted One and his equally dark-haired friend. These last two spoke softly, the slightly taller one gripping the arm of the blue-eyed boy briefly. Then the Exalted sighed, and turned towards his appointed chambers, the room where no killing sunlight could reach him.

She stepped forward, and he stopped, looking at her and still cradling the crossbow.

"Vaje Adrian," she said, with a nod of her head.

"Kanum Hanan," he replied with that slight sad smile. He was not aware that this was not the proper form of address for an unmarried girl, but she did not correct him.

She was aware of the thinness of the night, the coming of another desert dawn. If she wanted him, wanted to take the sadness away from him for just a little while, then she must act now. It was festival night, still; a night when anything could happen and the women need not fear to make the first move.

"Do you mean to sleep with that, Vaje Adrian?" Hanan asked, pointing at the crossbow. "It is not much of a lover."

He looked at the weapon in his hands, then at the pretty cream-colored girl in front of him. "No," he agreed, "it is not. But my truest friend in the world is in peril, Kanum Hanan. This is my reminder that all is not well with her."

She put her right hand over his where it cradled the stock of the bow. "Indeed it is not," she agreed, "but, vaje-ye, there is nothing you can do for her this night. Already the dark mare pulls the traces tighter, sensing the coming of the dawn stallion. Soon you will need the sleep of the Exalted Ones; do you wish a crossbow as your only comfort?"

A slow smile tugged at Adrian's reluctant lips. She was sweet, and willing, and he had not wanted to be alone. "Come with me, Kanum Hanan," he whispered to her. "Show me that you offer better comfort than a crossbow."

She took his offered hand in hers and led him into his dark room. He set the crossbow down, not without a faint look of regret -- it smelled of T'beth -- and lit a tallow candle so that his mortal companion could see.

"Let me see your beauty, Exalted One," Hanan asked, dark eyes sparkling in the candlelight. "Show me."

He slipped out of his clothing, a pile of Banana Republic pooled on the floor. Hanan ran a hand over his slim body, fingers tracing his two silver scars, his chest, his thighs, his ankles and finally his genitals. He closed his eyes and shuddered, but it was with anticipated release.

"You are the most beautiful being I have ever seen," Hanan said.

How many times had he heard that? And yet his damnable ego ate it up, his even more damnable libido starting to race at her touch. Her lips were on him now, exploring and teasing. Did her great grandmother know what this slip of a girl was up to? He pictured the triplets smiling and nodding in approval of this comfort of an Exalted One.

This One was going to be very Exalted if the girl kept kissing him there...

With a gentle push, Hanan got Adrian prone on the cushioned divan that served as a bed. Her own clothes melted off of her, revealing luscious curves that made Adrian stiffen ... at least in one part of his anatomy. She leaned over him and let him touch and taste the perfect round globes of her breasts, and trace the line from between them to her navel and the treasures that lay under that.

He was fully erect now and she caressed him, making him gasp and growl. She drew herself over him, glistening promise just out of his reach, the musk of her making him grimace with desire. Then, finally, she enclosed him between her legs, her knees digging into his sides as if she clung to the saddle of a fierce stallion, rocking herself back and forth over him, each movement calculated to drive him deeper and goad him into action.

He needed little goading.