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was not a request.
    Dryly Ross said, “As your guest or your captive?”
    The way the Targui ignored the comment was answer enough. In Persian he gave an order to the smallest of his companions, a boy in his teens.
    The boy replied, “Aye, Guli Sarahi.” After dismounting, he offered the reins of his horse to the ferengi.
    Ross nodded thanks, then glanced at the Targui. “Please allow me a moment to collect my saddle and bridle.”
    After the veiled man gave an impatient nod, Ross stripped the harness from his dead horse. The saddle would probably be useful in the future; more to the point, a substantial amount of gold was concealed inside, which was why Ross preferred to lift it himself. He fastened the saddle to his pack animal, then mounted the loan horse while the boy climbed behind Guli Sarahi.
    Briefly Ross wondered at his captor’s name, which did not seem Tuareg. Then he shrugged; there were so many better things to worry about. It appeared that he was not going to be killed out of hand, but he suspected that regaining his freedom would be expensive. Worse, arranging a ransom would take time, which was a far more precious commodity.
    As they rode east toward the frontier, the Persians surrounded Ross, eliminating any possibility of escape. He considered starting a conversation with the nearest men, but decided against it, for there might be some advantage in concealing his knowledge of the Persian language. Besides, when in doubt, he had always found it best to keep his mouth shut.
    The journey took about an hour, the track growing narrower and steeper until they were winding single file up a mountain. Near the top, the track swung around a tight turn, and suddenly a sprawling walled fortress loomed above them. Someone behind him announced, “Serevan.”
    Ross drew his breath in, impressed, for this was no shabby village but an enormous compound reminiscent of a feudal castle. Sophisticated irrigation created lush fields and orchards in every bit of arable soil on the hillside and the valley below, and the laborers working in the spring-green fields looked strong and prosperous, unlike most of the villagers who lived in this hazardous, much-plundered border country.
    Like most construction in Central Asia, the massive walls and buildings of the fortress were made of plaster-coated mud bricks, and they glowed pale gold in the afternoon sun. As the party rode through the gate into the compound, Ross noted that the buildings seemed quite old, but they had been repaired within the last few years. There were many abandoned ancient strongholds in this part of the world, and probably Serevan had been one until recently.
    Guli Sarahi raised a hand and the troop pulled to a halt in front of the palace that was the heart of the compound. As the Targui dismounted, boys skipped over from the stables to collect the horses, and a gray-bearded man came out of the palace. For a moment Guli Sarahi conferred with the newcomer, who appeared to be an Uzbek. Then the Targui turned and ordered, “Come.”
    Ross obeyed, the rest of the riders trailing inside after him. The palace had a feeling of great age but was well-kept, with whitewashed walls and handsome tile floors. Guli Sarahi led the group into a large reception room furnished with traditional Eastern simplicity. Cushioned divans lined the white walls, and rich bright carpets lay on the floor.
    As the men formed a loose circle around the stranger, the Targui studied Ross. He had brought his riding whip in, and he drew the leather thong through narrow, long-fingered hands. In his husky, whispering voice he said, “The Turkomans are mansellers. Did they wish to make a slave of you?”
    “They were divided between that and killing me out of hand. A wasteful lot,” Ross drawled in his best cool English style. There was a volatile atmosphere in the room, and being unsure what he was up against, Ross followed the basic rule of not showing fear, much as if his captors were a pack