Not listening, Alysson gave a start when Ben Hamadi interrupted her thoughts.
"I trust I have not bored you, Miss Vickery," the khalif said solemnly. "To have discomfited so lovely a young lady would be a shame to my beard."
Dragging her gaze away from Jafar, Alysson managed a faint smile. "Forgive me, Excellency. I am Honoréd that you would share your confidences with me. It has been a long day, though, and I find I am exceedingly weary. If you will please excuse me, I will seek my bed."
She suspected she had violated proper etiquette by asking to be excused, but with the throbbing headache that had developed behind her eyes, she couldn't bear to listen a moment longer to the khalif's effusive exultation of his sultan.
Fortunately he did not take offense, but instead nodded his dismissal. Not looking at Jafar, Alysson escaped into the cool night air with a feeling of relief.
As usual, Saful escorted her back to her tent, then settled himself at the entrance. Alysson wandered around the tent disconsolately, a black depression weighing her down, along with a desperation near panic. She had to act soon, but what could she do? The only way to protect Gervase and her uncle HononS was to escape in time to warn them of the treachery Jafar planned. But all her attempts at escape had been inept and disastrously unsuccessful. She was guarded day and night, and after her last aborted effort, Jafar probably would keep her bound in future, as well. If she did manage to leave the tent and find a horse, there would be a dozen pairs of eyes watching her—
Except now. Now, when most of the camp was at the banquet. Now, when her nemesis Berber captor Jafar was occupied.
Her hopeful gaze flew to where Saful sat just outside the tent. He had his back to her as he carved on a piece of wood. At the moment, he was the only one who would prevent her from leaving. If she could render him senseless . . .
Slipping into the bedchamber, Alysson changed her clothing as quickly as she could, donning pantaloons, blouse, long-sleeved bolero, and her riding boots. She was shaking with anxiety and hope, she realized. Willing her heart to stop pounding so erratically, she retrieved the earthenware wash pitcher and hid it behind her back as she cautiously approached Saful.
She didn't want to hurt him, for he had been kind to her in his way. Yet she had to do it. Never would she have a better opportunity. She raised the pitcher high above his head.
Some sound must have alerted him at the last moment, for he started to turn. Closing her eyes and biting her lip, Alysson brought the pitcher down on his head, flinching at the dull, sickening thud the weapon made. Saful collapsed without a sound.
She stared down at him for a startled moment, her stomach roiling. Slowly, forcibly, she bent down to check on him. She hadn't killed him, Alysson realized with a ragged sense of relief. He was still breathing.
Making herself back away, she collected a hooded black burnous from the bedchamber. In the darkness perhaps she could pass for a Berber woman. Now she had to find water and food for her journey. In the next tent, she came upon a full goatskin bag of that precious liquid. Several tents over, her search revealed both bread and fruit, which she wrapped in a cloth. What she thought would be the hardest task, however, proved the easiest. Tethered in front of the very next tent, she found a small, friendly mare who wore a halter of hemp.
Trying the water bag and cloth filled with food together, Alysson draped the bundle over the mare's back like a saddlebag. Then, untethering the horse, she led it quietly from the camp. She wouldn't dare risk trying to mount just now.
She could hear sounds of music and revelry behind her, yet her heartbeat seemed incredibly loud in her ears. Any instant now she expected to hear the cry that would alert the camp to her escape.
None came.
Tensely, with bated breath, she kept going, struggling to keep her footing in the deep sand, her short prayer for deliverance a litany, please, please, please . . .
When she had covered the distance of several hundred yards, she brought the mare to a halt. Slowly, carefully, murmuring soothing and meaningless sounds, Alysson hauled herself up on the mare's back.
Gathering the lead rope like reins, she nudged the animal forward. Then heading north and east, her way lit by a sliver of moon, she set out across the desert.
Chapter 12
Alysson traveled through the night, across the lonely wastes made lonelier by the eerie cries of the jackals, never stopping. Stars blazed like diamonds overhead in the heavens, while the endless sands stretched before her, pale, mysterious, infinite.
It was the most solitary place of all, the desert. The vast emptiness made her feel insignificant, and yet strangely a part of it. The silence was so deep she could hear the beating of her heart in concert with the soft, rhythmic plodding of the horse's hooves.
The air was clear and cold, the shadowed darkness soothing. For long moments at a time she could almost forget her anxiety, her desperate need to escape. Then fear would return, and she would glance over her shoulder, expecting to see Jafar pursuing her on his powerful black Barb, his burnous streaming in the wind.
The silent hours wore on, enveloping her in weariness. She jerked herself awake whenever she started to nod off, counting the stars and reciting proverbs and childhood poems to keep herself alert. Occasionally she was required to discipline the mare, who wanted to unseat its unfamiliar rider and return to camp.
Near dawn, the mare suddenly swerved and reared, spooked by some unseen phantom. The next instant found Alysson sprawled in the sand, gasping for the breath that had been jolted from her body.
The return of her senses brought a staggering awareness of her new plight. With acute dismay, she listened to the sound of retreating hoofbeats as the mare galloped off into the darkness, back in the direction of the camp. She had no horse. Here, in this arid wilderness, where life depended on the stamina of a man's mount and the availability of water.
Water.
The thought sent her frantically groping for the goatskin bag. Ragged relief flooded through her when her fingers touched the soft leather. At least she still had that.
Her gaze lifted to the eastern horizon that was beginning to lighten over a great, golden stretch of sand. She had no choice but to press on across the desert flats. She couldn't, wouldn't return to her savage captor.