He needed clothes.
Guy quickly stripped the guards and donned garmentsthat were not too bloodied: a voluminous pair of ankle-length pantaloons, atunic, anovergarmentwith a wide belt, and a braidedshoulder mantle. The clothes were a bit small for him, but he hoped that in thedark no one would notice either that or any telltale splatters of blood. Last,he slid on a pair of short leather boots, the only thing that fit him properly,and wound a long scarf around his head, securing it with a black double-ringedcord.
He picked up another highly polished sword and lookedat his reflection in the famedmirrorlikeDamascussteel. With his thick, dark beard and borrowed robes he could easily pass foran Arab on the moonlit streets—if no one asked him any questions. His poorArabic would get him into trouble the minute he opened his mouth. He neededLeila's help . . .
Clutching the precious key ring in one hand and thescimitar in the other, Guy left the cell and its silent, staring dead. He shutthe door, hoping to stave off any curious guards for at least a while, andbegan to search for a way out of the prison. He breathed an audible sigh ofrelief when he spied a bolted door which appeared to face the same direction ashis cell.
Guy lifted the bolt and pushed on the door, but it waslocked. He began fitting key after key into the rusted keyhole, all the whilekeeping a cautious lookout over his shoulder. He tried another key, and thenanother, with still no success.
"Come on . . . come on," he whispered, coldsweat beading his brow. Finally one of the keys grated in the lock and the doorswung open in squeaky protest. A strong breeze snatched at his robes as hestepped into the sweet freedom of the night, tense elation pulsing through hisveins.
He tossed the key ring to the ground and tucked thescimitar into his belt, then shut the door and went directly to the wall he hadvirtually memorized during his captivity. He followed the ragged young boy'srecent example and began to scale the rough-hewn surface, counting brick bybrick. By the time he reached the flat roof, he was straining from exertion,his right shoulder on fire. He hoisted himself over the edge and lay down onhis stomach, gasping in greatlungfulsof the coolnight air.
When he had caught his breath, Guy rubbed his eyes andlooked out over the myriad rooftops of Damascus. The ancient city washauntingly beautiful in the pale moonlight, but he had no time to think of thatnow.
He had to find Leila. She was his only way out of thisgodforsaken place. With her command of Arabic, surely she could get them safelythrough the city gates and on their way to Acre.
Guy began to crawl silently to the opposite side of thebuilding. Even if there was the remotest possibility he might escape this cityon his own, he'd be damned if he would leave without her. He could never livewith himself, knowing he had left her behind in Saracen hands. To do so wouldbe to disgrace his chivalric oath which demanded that he defend his fellowChristians against the cruelty of heretics and infidels.
And if anyone's plight had touched him, it was Leila's.He would find her and help her escape, or gladly die in the attempt.
Guy reached the other side of the roof and looked downinto the narrow deserted alley below. He climbed down the wall just as before,brick by brick, until his feet touched solid ground. So far, all was well.
He walked onto a main street, his robes flutteringaround his legs, and turned left, heading away from the accursed prison. Hekept his head down when passersby drew close, but to his relief he wasattracting no curious attention. He hurried along the dark winding street, forit was past sunset, not stopping until he came upon a bent old man who wasclosing up his fabric shop for the night.
Guy knew that if he said too much he would give himselfaway. "SinjarAl-Aziz," he mutteredgruffly, clearing his throat and coughing. He was counting on the physicianbeing as renowned as Leila had said he was, otherwise he would never find theright house.
The old Arab studied him through dimmed eyes,thenpointed down the street, uttering a string of directionsthat Guy barely understood. When the man finished speaking Guy noddedgraciously, his heart beating hard against his chest as he continued walkingeastward along the same street.
So the physician Al-Aziz was a famous man, Guy thought,amazed and encouraged when each of the three passersby he stopped next was ableto direct him further along his way. No one seemed in the least bit surprisedthat he should be asking about him; perhaps they simply believed he was seekingsome medical treatment for his feigned cough.
At last Guy came to a narrow side street with elegantone-story houses built alongside the northernmost wall of the city. He couldhear rushing water beyond the walls; it sounded like a fast-flowing river. Thelast man he had spoken with had said the home of Al-Aziz was the fourth onefrom the corner. Guy would know it by the intricately carved brass plates uponthe door.
He paused just past the third house and looked up anddown the dark, quiet street. Good. No one was coming. He could see the polishedbrass door on the next house, and his heart seemed to beat all the faster. Hehad found it! Now, how was he going to get inside? Certainly not by the frontdoor, where any armed guards inside might see fit to carve him into littlepieces . . .
He looked up at the flat roof, carefully weighing hisnext move. The windowless front wall was high, but he was probably tall enoughto reach the ledge if he jumped for it.
Guy did just that, grimacing at the pain that shotthrough his shoulder and right arm. Ignoring it, he pulled himself up, swinginghis leg to the side and over the ledge. In the next instant he was hugging theroof's tiled surface, where he craned his neck and got his bearings.
From what he could tell, the house was very large anddivided into two main sections, with multileveled roof terraces here and thereand large, lit spaces which must open into courtyards. All he had to do now wasfind the harem.
He crept across the roof, listening for any light,female laughter. If this physician was so wealthy, surely he had dozens ofwomen to pleasure him. Thinking of Leila among that number, he felt anger sweepthrough him, fueling his furtive search.
He kept low, sometimes stealing on his hands and knees,until he reached the first terrace. All was still and silent; no one occupiedthe white gazebo. He moved around it and came to a courtyard, his eyes wideningat the sight of a stout, silk-clad woman reclining below on a central divanwhile what appeared to be slave women scurried around her bearing silver traysladen with food and drink. The richly dressed woman's tone was sharp andcommanding as she clapped her hands, and Guy shuddered, frowning.
Probably a wife . . . and a most unappealing one at that,he guessed, watching for any sign of Leila among the many slaves.
Long, tense moments passed, and still he did not seeher. Growing impatient and beginning to doubt his chances of finding her, Guycrept past a trellised terrace toward the farthest corner of the house,thenstopped again when the roof opened into anothercourtyard lit by softly glowing lanterns. He crouched there, his gaze sweepingthe lush, green interior, but it was empty.
He sat back on his haunches, a hollow ache of despairwelling inside him. It was an emotion that rarely afflicted him, and he didn'tlike it at all. Yet as he considered his next move, he couldn't seem to shakeit.
Maybe Leila wasn't here. MaybeSinjarAl-Aziz had several homes in Damascus, one for hiswivesand one for his concubines. He had heard stories of such practices among thesmall Moslem population in Acre. If that was the case, the odds of finding herwere dwindling indeed, and he was fast running out of time. Surely his escapefrom prison would be discovered soon, if it hadn't been already. Once the alarmwas raised he would never get out of the city, whether she was with him or not
Guy froze, his breath catching at the sight of apetite, dark-haired woman entering the courtyard. Dressed in rose-colored silk,she paused by a marble couch, her head bowed, the gold embroidered edges of hertranslucent veil hiding her face from view. He heard her sigh, and his heartseemed to stop at the plaintive sound. Then she slowly lifted her head,revealing an exquisite profile . . .
Leila!
Guy jumped from the roof and landed as silently as acat upon a grassy mound at one end of the courtyard. He stole up swiftly behindher, his footsteps masked by the babbling stream. The last thing he wanted herto do wasscream. He caught her around the middle andpressed his hand over her mouth.
