by Jane Feather
“You are no Afghan, no Persian, no Indian,” he said, pressing his advantage with great deliberation. “And that, miss, makes you as much a European infidel as I. And I tell you that young ladies where I come from do not stand around in their bare skins flourishing knives at innocent strangers.” He released her wrist as suddenly as he had grasped it and stepped back, straightening the manhandled collar of his tunic, watching her warily.
A look of uncertainty had crept into the jade gaze. She opened her mouth to say something, then her body stiffened. The uncertainty vanished, replaced with a mixture of determination and alarm. “They are coming. You must go. There is no time to lose.”
Kit could hear nothing beyond the background noises of the copse, but the urgency in her voice could not be gainsaid and he found himself striding toward the concealment of the trees. Once out of sight, however, he stopped. A thick screen of bramble offered a vantage point from which he could see the lakeside, whilst remaining hidden himself.
Out of the trees on the far side of the small lake surged a twittering flock of black-shrouded figures. Their voices in anxious and scolding Pushtu filled the small clearing as they scurried toward the figure of the copper-haired woman, who stood beside the pile of discarded clothing, squeezing water from her hair with apparent insouciance.
The watcher in the trees stared, spellbound and bemused. What was this? Who the hell was she? An English girl … woman … How old was she? Nineteen, twenty perhaps … certainly no more than that … an English girl being treated with the utmost familiarity by a flock of Afghan women. Familiarity, yes, but he could detect something else, as the twittering continued unabated while the women busied themselves drying and dressing the girl, who received both the undeniable scolding and the attentions with seeming indifference. They were behaving toward her as if she were a very special charge … a very precious charge. Knowing the fierce reputation of these tribal women, Kit Ralston felt not the slightest inclination to show himself, and understood with considerable gratitude why the girl had sent him into hiding with such urgency.
He watched as she stepped into the wide full chalvar, encasing the long slender legs that still filled his internal vision. Her attendants dropped an embroidered tunic over her head, pushed her feet into curly-toed slippers, bending to attach the toes to the bottom of the trousers. Then they enwrapped her in a voluminous chadri, veiling her from head to foot. Only her eyes were visible behind the ru-band, a mesh insert of embroidered white silk. Apart from the fact that her clothing was of soft, white silky material, as compared to the darker, coarser stuff of her attendants, she was now indistinguishable from the other women; her white skin and burnished hair were hidden from temptation.
Kit shivered slightly at the thought of what would have happened had he been discovered with her in her nakedness. Whoever she was, she seemed as much subject to Koranic law as any woman of Islam—and such women were not for the eyes of infidels. But she must belong to some man, in that case. The idea of an English girl bound to one of these hillmen was not one he could begin to encompass. He knew that the khans were lords of life and death in their own parishes. And as far as he was concerned, that was their own business with their own people. But this was an Englishwoman … a citizen of the greatest empire in the world.
Good God! It was inconceivable. Whatever the circumstances, it could not be permitted—not, at least, by any Englishman deserving of the title! Infused with an impetuous new energy that chased away his earlier jaded depression, he strode back through the trees to rejoin his patrol.
The havildar stood up hastily as his officer appeared in the clearing. “Thought the Ghilzais had got you, sir,” he offered in heavy humor that could not quite disguise the element of truth in the jest. In Abdul Ali’s experienced opinion, men as disaffected and generally blue-deviled as Lieutenant Ralston could not be trusted to take proper precautions in enemy territory. It made them unpopular officers, unless they had a sergeant like Abdul Ali to circumvent the thoughtlessness.
Kit gave him a sharp glance, then, to the havildar’s astonishment, a slight grin quirked the previously forbidding mouth, a glint of wry humor flickered in the heavy-lidded gray eyes. He took off his plumed shako and ran his hands through his thick, slightly curly fair hair. “They almost did, Havildar. But not in the way you mean … Is that tea the men are brewing?”
“Yes, sir. Do you good, it will.” The sergeant called in Hindi to one of the sepoys, who brought over a tin cup of steaming liquid, its reddish-brown color indicative of its strength.
Kit gulped, shuddered, gulped again, and began to feel human. “We’re some four hours out of Kabul,” he said, pulling a map from his saddlebag. “In the heart of Ghilzai country.” He shook out the map with one hand, taking another gulp of tea. “Our orders are to attempt to pinpoint the whereabouts of Uktar Khan and his hillmen.”
“Or Akbar Khan,” said Abdul, pursing his lips. “Seems to me, sir, that it’s Akbar who’s the real menace.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But seven men aren’t going to find the commander-in-chief in these mountains unless he wants to be found. He’s living a nomad’s life and hasn’t shown himself in months.”
“Only through his influence,” Abdul pointed out. “He’s behind every raid, every plot, every skirmish, every murder.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Ralston peered into his empty cup, wondering whether a second dose of that exceedingly vigorous brew would undo the effects of the first, or simply double the benefit. It occurred to him that food might not be a bad idea. “What was there for tiffin, Havildar?”
“Just bread and cheese, sir. We’re traveling light.”
“Of course.” He should have known that. It was his responsibility to give the supply orders to the patrol—iron rations in keeping with this supposedly undercover mission. If he had managed to do so in the aching fog of the night’s excesses, he had forgotten. But Abdul Ali would have seen to it, anyway. He’d make a much better commander of this little patrol of sepoys than Lieutenant Christopher Ralston, who had never been more than a Hyde Park soldier, smart in his regimentals, popular in the mess, a devil with the women who all loved a uniform … That sour wash of self-disgust threatened his newfound enthusiasm.
“Here, sir.” The havildar was holding out a wedge of goat’s cheese and a hunk of bread.
Kit took it with a grant of thanks and turned back to the map. Those women must have come from some village nearby. But it could not be an ordinary peasant village. The English girl’s clothing was too rich for the ordinary villager, and the duty and attention she had received from such a large group of women indicated an establishment of great importance—the establishment of a khan.
He chewed on the dry bread, then swallowed more tea, his brain moving smoothly, no longer addled and weary. It was surely in keeping with his present mission to identify the particular khanate. Who was to say it wasn’t the stronghold of Uktar Khan? It would certainly be a dereliction of duty to ignore the possibility, now that it had occurred to him.
The women had appeared from the far side of the little lake. He and his patrol would explore from there. He refolded the map, hearing the paper crackle satisfyingly as if in tune with his own sense of decision-making. “Tell the men to pack up, Havildar. I’ve a hunch I want to follow.”
Abdul Ali politely hid his skepticism and surprise at this briskly authoritative tone from one whose lassitude and scorn for the entire enterprise they were engaged upon was usually barely concealed. He gave the necessary orders, and within a quarter of an hour the little group was making its way through the trees to the lake.
The lake lay peaceful and deserted, with no sign of its recent visitors. The noon sun shone through the gap in the trees, dancing across the surface of the water like a mischievous imp. For once, Kit found nothing disagreeable in either the light or the fanciful imagery it created. He directed his troop around the lake, where the grass had been depressed by footprints into the semblance of a track.
They followed the track into the trees, then found themselves climbing steeply.
“Seems to be going up into the hills, sir.” Abdul drew alongside Kit. “It looked from the plain as if the wood was only at the base of the cliff.” Kit nodded. “The light plays strange tricks in this place.” They rode on in a gradually deepening silence, until not even the cry of a bird could be heard, only the crackle of the horses’ hooves as they broke twigs underfoot.
The women could not have had more than an hour’s start on foot, so where the devil were they? Kit peered around, his uneasiness growing. Abdul was sitting his wiry pony, sniffing the wind, his eyes darting ceaselessly, trying to catch some warning of the danger they all knew lurked somewhere. And then it found them.
The trees stopped without warning, and the small patrol almost fell on top of a nomad encampment. The black tents huddled on a sandy flat high above a deep gorge in the lee of a jagged cliff.
“Dear God,” Kit muttered, even as he cursed himself for not having the forethought to have sent one of the sepoys ahead as scout. The nomads were not usually warlike, but these days you could rely on nothing, and robbers abounded throughout the land.
Men were appearing from tents, in black headcloths, their long loose chapans of white homespun with wide sleeves flapping around them.
“Wait!” Kit ordered sharply as the soldiers raised their muskets. “See what they do first.”
The nomads seemed to glide toward the group. They had staves in their hands, knives in the folds of their chapans, but no firearms that Kit could see. He could afford to wait for them to get closer in order to judge their intentions. But as they drew nearer, the naked hostility in eye and posture became apparent. He was about to give the order to fire and retreat when a voice—a very familiar voice—called sharply in Pushtu through the menacing silence that had fallen over the encampment.
The figure in the silky white chadri came swiftly toward them, and the men hesitated, although their antagonistic eyes remained fixed on the intruders. Ignoring the patrol, she spoke to the nomads, her words low and rapid. There were frowns, mutterings, but for the moment no one made a move toward the group of soldiers.
She turned at last toward Kit and spoke in Persian. “What business do you have here?”
He looked at the swathed figure, his eyes seeking the green gaze behind the embroidered insert of her veil … seeking and finding. “I was looking for you,” he replied steadily, hoping that no one but themselves spoke Persian. Did he imagine the flicker behind the ru-band?
“That was a foolish quest,” she said in a tone of cold indifference, before turning back to the cloaked and bearded men. She spoke again, and the name of Akbar Khan was clearly distinguishable. Kit felt Abdul stiffen, and with sudden inspiration he spoke in English.
“My business lies with Akbar Khan,” he said clearly. “I would talk with him. I believe that the son of Dost Mohammed would welcome the opportunity for discussion at this stage.”
She stood very still, examining him. “You have a message from Kabul? From General Elphinstone … or from Shah Soojah?” The derision he had noted before invested her voice as she spoke the names, and he could not really blame her. Elphinstone, the general in charge of the British army in Kabul, was a weak, enfeebled, indecisive disaster waiting to happen. And the nominal ruler of Afghanistan was no better. But it was disheartening, not to say alarming, to realize that the Afghans themselves had no illusions about their opponents’ strengths.
“I would talk with Akbar Khan,” he repeated curtly.
“And it is possible he would talk with you,” she replied. “But if you come in peace, then you must lay down your arms and eat the salt of these people. Only thus will they trust you. And you will need their escort.”
“It’s a trap,” Abdul hissed. “Tricky bastards they are, sir. Can’t trust them further than you can see them, even the ones who speak the Queen’s English like this one.”
A scornful laugh came from beneath the chadri, but she made no attempt to dispute the accusation, and Kit did not know what to believe. She appeared to have some authority with these nomads, but what Afghan woman had authority over the men? Of course, he knew she was no Afghan … at least not in body. But in spirit … ? And Abdul was right about the treachery. These people saw things differently, drew different distinctions. But to eat their salt would ensure a guest’s safety … if he could survive long enough to do so.
“You know where to find Akbar Khan?” he asked her.
She laughed again. “None better, feringhee.”
The puzzle was beyond unraveling, at least in the present circumstances. The girl held all the cards, and if he was really determined to lay hands on an ace or two of his own, then he had no choice but to go along with her. The one thing he knew he could not do was to walk away from the mystery surrounding this extraordinary creature.
“We will not lay down our arms,” he said in careful Persian, directly addressing the circle of men. They might not understand him exactly, but they would recognize the courtesy in his attempt to communicate with them. “It is not our way as soldiers to go unarmed, but we will dismount and walk with you.”
The men turned to the girl, who translated swiftly. There was a murmured confabulation, then one of the men walked forward and took the bridle of Kit’s horse.
“They will lead you into the camp,” the young woman said. “You must manage without an interpreter until we leave in the morning. I am not permitted to consort with the men.”
“By whose order?” he heard himself demand, uncomfortably disturbed at hearing pronounced in his own language by a member of his own race this ritual proscription that could not be permitted to apply to such a one as she.
A ripple of laughter tinged her voice, as if she understood and ridiculed his rigid chauvinism. “Akbar Khan’s. Without his permission, I may have no social dealings with men, and he is not here to give it.” The chadri quivered about her shoulders, although he could not see the shrug and could only guess at the movement. “On the journey tomorrow, I will be able to interpret for you if you need it.” She turned aside.
“Wait!”
She stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. “Yes?”
“Who the devil are you?”
“Ayesha,” she replied. “And who the devil are you, feringhee?”
“Christopher Ralston,” he said.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Christopher Ralston.”
“The pleasure is all mine, miss.”
This time there was no mockery in her laughter. It was a clear, infectious chime that brought a grin to his mouth as he watched her move smoothly toward a group of tents pitched to one side of the main encampment.
“Something very queer going on here, sir,” Abdul muttered, grimly relinquishing his hold on his own bridle to an expressionless nomad.
“Very queer, Sergeant,” agreed Kit. “But I’ve never cared for riddles, and I’ve a mind to unravel this one.”
Chapter Two
Lieutenant Ralston passed an unquiet night. He and his men had established their own campground, around their own fire, and he set sentries throughout the night. But the sense of lying in the enemy’s jaws, waiting for the mouth to close, was not conducive to restful sleep. He knew that Abdul Ali and the men did not understand why he was pursuing this dangerous and unnecessary course, following the notorious Akbar Khan into his own den. But the lieutenant could hardly explain that more than the interests of the British army in Kabul lay behind the impulse.
Where was she now? Sleeping soundly in one of those black tents, watched over by black-swathed women, presumably. Who was she? What was she? Where did she come from? And how in the name of all that was good had she ended up here? The long night provided no answers.
Dawn brought him out of a light and unrefreshing doze. The nomad encampment bustled with life as tents were struck, ponies loaded … and not just ponies. Women set off on foot up the narrow winding track weighed down wit
h burdens and babies. Ignoring their struggling womenfolk completely, the men, unladen, strode ahead of them, talking amongst themselves, using their heavy staffs to aid their progress. Children, whistling, ran amongst the herds of sheep and goats, prodding and encouraging them on their way.
The three tribal elders, whom he had identified the previous evening, rode up to the small troop of soldiers. Gestures sufficed to communicate the message that they should mount and accompany the elders, who would ride at the head of the tribe.
And Ayesha? He could not ask, of course, but his eyes roamed the scene. Surely she would not be walking, another beast of burden, with the other women?
Then he saw her, mounted on a neat, high-stepping gray horse that clearly had Arabian lineage. She was still enveloped in the white chadri, but the voluminous garment appeared not to impede her mobility as she sat her cantering mount.
“Salaamat bashi,” she greeted, reining in before them. “It means ‘May you be healthy,’ ” she translated with a chuckle, seeing Kit’s blank expression. “You should respond, ‘Mandeh nabashi. Zendeh bashi.’ It means ‘May you never be tired. May you live forever.’ ”
“Thank you,” he said somewhat feebly. “I will do my best to remember.”
“It is an elementary courtesy,” she said in reproving tones. “If you go amongst the hillmen, then the least you can do is learn a word or two of their language.”
“Does Akbar Khan not speak Persian?” Kit asked, swinging onto his horse. “His father does.”
“Yes, of course he does. He speaks English also. But he may not choose to do so,” she told him. “He may not even choose to see you.”
“But I am assuming that with your vouching for me, he will be only too happy to hear what I have to say,” Kit returned blandly. “You are clearly a person of some influence.”