The procession of the Khan receded through the winding streets. Harold watched them cautiously until they were out of sight, probably traveling to the mosque. He quickly looked around the area, and no one paid him much mind. Quietly, Harold slipped through the narrow streets, past beggars and merchants, to the inn where he left Murat.
He reflected on his situation as he went. The Russians beat him to town and befriended the Khan, so it seemed. Harold had no idea if the man he saw was the only Russian in the vicinity, or if an entire garrison of Cossacks lay in wait at the Khan’s castle. Either way, the solitary Cossack clearly saw him and recognized Harold’s pale face as surely that of a fellow European. As such, Harold needed to jump town, preferably with Murat in tow. Cossacks tended to be less than hospitable to captured enemy agents.
After nearly getting lost several times, Harold eventually emerged from the extensive matrix of backstreets at his inn. The innkeeper politely directed Harold to Murat at the former’s inquiry. Murat unpacked the saddlebags he removed from the duo’s horses when Harold entered.
“Ah, welcome...” Murat began.
“Put everything back, and get the horses ready! We need to leave immediately,” Harold espoused hurriedly.
Murat grimaced like a parent to an irrational child.
“But you see, we just arrived, and you still need to purchase the horses you sought out for hundreds of leagues,” he explained patiently.
“Murat, I know! But there are some… some men I would rather get away from as quickly as possible.”
Murat rolled his eyes.
“Whatever you say,” he replied, and he began reloading the saddlebags.
Harold thought a moment.
“I need to check one more place for my contact. Then I will return to you, and we’ll leave,” Harold said.
“Best of luck,” Murat retorted sarcastically.
Harold made a mental note to reduce Murat’s tip at the conclusion of the mission, and he left. Once on the street, he made a beeline to a tavern Murat pointed out earlier. If Edward was in town, and not in the marketplace, he would probably be in the tavern. A natural meeting place. Harold entered the dim bar and took a seat in the corner near the back. Islamic law prohibited consumption of alcohol, but apparently, in a merchant town, a run-down, less-than-clean tavern could get by.
Harold peered around the gloom, but he could not make out any figures who looked like Edward. He was about to leave when, suddenly, the door to the tavern opened, and several men from the Khan’s guard entered. Their gazes roamed the patrons, and their leader roughly asked the bartender if any new foreigners came into the tavern lately.
The bartender crossed his arms.
“It’s a bar. Lots of new people come in all the time.”
The two began to argue, and Harold rose quickly and slipped through the nearest door which turned out to be the kitchen. The cook looked at him suspiciously, but he made no protest as Harold silently exited the tavern.
This is bad, Harold thought as he walked. They are actually searching for me. The Cossack must have tipped off the Guard.
Harold exited the backstreets near the inn for the second time that day, stopped, and promptly receded back into the shadows. The Cossack stood tall in the street, facing the inn. He held his long rifle over his shoulder. As Harold watched, two men of the Khan's guard drug Murat from the inn and dropped him, kneeling, in front of the Cossack. The Cossack crouched and spoke softly to Murat. Harold was too far away to hear. Murat replied, and the Cossack nodded, satisfied. He then nodded to one of the Guard, who unslung his flintlock and used the butt to strike Murat sharply on the back of the head. Murat fell silently, his hair wet with blood.
The Guards then each took one of Murat’s arms, and they dragged him in the direction of the Khan’s castle. The Cossack paused pensively, stroking his finely trimmed beard. He then rolled his massive shoulders and lumbered into a side street. Searching.
Harold patted around his waist and placed his hand on his revolver, which he concealed cleverly by a holster sewn inside of his shirt. Its weight was conforming, and Harold felt surprisingly calm. He made towards the stables, and he reclaimed his horse. As much as he preferred to return to Calcutta with Murat and Edward, the intelligence he had on his person could save many more lives than those two. Plus, Murat would probably be released soon anyway, once it became clear he knew nothing.
The guards at the gate moved to bar Harold’s passage, but he kicked his horse and galloped past. They readied and fired their clumsy flintlocks as Harold fled, but, predictably as those with flintlocks are, they missed. Harold rode fast, back the route Murat took them.
As he did, a sharp, clean crack echoed across the valley from a well maintained European rifle. It was not shot to kill but, rather, a warning.
