by Jane Feather
“I am only a woman,” she retorted. “You must know what that means in this land. I hope for both our sakes you are not as stupid as you seem to be. Akbar Khan does not suffer fools, and if he does not approve of your arrival, I can assure you I will be the one to bear the consequences.”
“Then why are you taking me to him?”
She did not reply immediately, but he found himself most eager to hear how she would answer him. Finally, she spoke. “There will be a massacre if nothing is done to prevent it. With the passing of each day, it becomes more inevitable. Only Akbar Khan can stop it, but he will need to be persuaded that it is in his and his father’s interests to do so.”
“But his father is in voluntary exile in India,” Kit pointed out.
“His father decided that he could best serve his people by yielding the fight himself at this point. But make no mistake, Christopher Ralston, Dost Mohammed knew well he was leaving behind his son to continue the fight for him. Akbar Khan is not as delicate in his methods as his father; the Dost is well aware of that. And this is not a fight to be fought with delicate methods. When it is won, and Dost Mohammed is once again shah of Afghanistan, he will wish to be on good terms with his British neighbor in India, and if he is implicated in the wholesale massacre of the occupying army, then he will find it hard to be so.”
Kit stared. It was the first sensible analysis of the situation he had heard since arriving in Kabul from India two months ago. “It is true then that Akbar Khan is fomenting the rebellion of the tribes?”
“You do not expect me to answer that question, do you?” She looked across at him, and her jade eyes glinted through the mesh of her veil.
“Then tell me about yourself. You cannot deny my right to be curious.”
“In Afghan society, women are defined in terms of the men who own them,” she said. “I belong to Akbar Khan. That is all you need to know … and all you may know.”
“You are an Englishwoman! Englishwomen do not belong in that barbaric fashion. Do not talk such arrant foolishness!” he exploded, then realized his mistake. The robed men who were riding with them drew rein as one. A harsh exclamation accompanied the sudden appearance of their khyber knives. Fierce black eyes glared their menace.
Ayesha spoke swiftly to them, and Kit heard a note of placation in her voice. She was answered by the chief elder, and a low-voiced argument ensued. At the end, she shrugged, saying softly to Kit, “I may not ride beside you. They do not care for a conversation between us which they cannot understand, particularly when it leads to shouting. They sense a threat, but cannot identify it, and it is their duty to watch over me.”
Any argument he might have made died on his lips as the ferocious glares continued in his direction, and hands moved over the knives. He was aware of Abdul Ali and the sepoys riding behind him, knew that their hands would be on their rifles, knew that they were already jumpy, knew that one shot would ensure all their deaths. He inclined his head pacifically, and dropped behind to ride beside Abdul. The elders relaxed, but changed position so that Ayesha was now riding in the middle of them.
“Tricky bastards!” Abdul muttered again. “Thought they were going to spit you, sir.”
“So did I,” he said sourly. “But it seems that one must tread very carefully around Akbar Khan’s woman.”
“How is it that she speaks English like a native?” Abdul wondered aloud. He, of course, had not had the inestimable pleasure of seeing the lady without her clothes. Kit decided not to enlighten him for the moment, and merely shrugged the question aside.
They rode throughout the morning. Despite the September sun, the air carried a bite to it, the first intimations of a mountain winter. The track grew rougher and they were obliged to pick their way over stones and boulders. Once or twice, Kit looked behind to see how the burdened women were faring, but the riders had far outstripped the pedestrians within an hour or two, except for a few of the men whose speed easily matched that of the walking horses. They could hear the calls of the youthful shepherds bouncing against the cliff side, resounding in the rocky gorges.
It was a landscape so barren and hostile that Kit thought it could form the backdrop to his own construction of hell. He had now far exceeded his orders, which were to reconnoiter for two days and report back to brigade headquarters in Kabul on the third day. There was no possibility of his doing that, even if they did not die a gruesome death at the hands of Akbar Khan. But, on the other hand, if he could report on the whereabouts of the rebel leader, could report a conversation with him, then he would have pulled off a considerable coup. And if he succeeded in returning a captive Englishwoman to her own people, such an honorable, chivalrous act could only enhance his reputation. It was an enticing prospect, made all the more inviting by his certainty of the rightness of the mission. Whoever she was, whatever her history, she did not belong with these people, and Lieutenant Christopher Ralston fully intended to return her to her own.
“Notice the scout, sir.” Abdul Ali drew his attention from this preoccupying reverie, pointing to a rocky escarpment ahead. A figure, jezzail held on his shoulder, stood looking down on the path. “We must be close,” the havildar said. “They seem to be providing an escort.”
Indeed, horsemen were appearing, silent and shadowy in the rocks alongside the path. The nomads showed no interest in the escort, although they kept pace, still at a distance, with the little procession. Kit wanted to ask Ayesha if this was normal practice, or was it in honor of the British troop? Had the news already reached Akbar Khan of the unexpected visitors? He urged his mount forward, until it was nudging the tail of her companion’s horse. The man made a threatening gesture with his whip and snarled something.
“I just wish to speak with the lady,” Kit said in his halting Persian, smiling and nodding in vigorous, innocent friendliness as he gesticulated toward the shrouded figure of Ayesha, riding just ahead. “A question for Akbar Khan,” he ventured. The name appeared to have some magic attached to it. The man eased his mount sideways, permitting Kit to draw alongside the gray Arabian.
Ayesha did not look at him, but kept her face forward. “We are being watched by those with considerably more influence than these nomads,” she said quietly. “You should not be speaking to me.”
“Will Akbar Khan be expecting us?” he asked, barely moving his lips and keeping his eyes on the track ahead. “These scouts will report to him?”
“Yes, he will know. He will not know why or how you come to be with us, and I think he will reserve judgment until he does.”
“And if he does not reserve judgment?”
“Then you are all dead men.”
Her ability to state so blandly such an extremely unpleasant fact struck him as both unwomanly and unfriendly. Of course, that was if he was judging her as an Englishwoman. As an Afghan, there would be nothing callous about such an attitude. It was simply the pragmatic acceptance of a way of life. He fell back again, feeling the first uncomfortable prickles of misgiving about his grand rescue design.
The great stone fortress appeared suddenly, seeming to hang over the defile they were traversing, perched precariously on a rocky outcrop at the far end of the narrow pass.
Their shadowy escort closed around Kit and his men; silent, bearded, turbanned, they made no gesture of acknowledgment. They passed through a group of mud-walled huts clustered before the great iron gates of the fortress. People came out of the huts and stood gazing at the strangers with the almost prurient curiosity that folk at home evinced toward the more grotesque exhibits in the fairgrounds. Kit felt the hair on the back of his neck lift, his spine tingle. What craziness was this? He, who until that wretched business in London had never done anything that would jeopardize the comfortable, accustomed, pleasure-oriented course of his life, was following some idiotic, foolhardy whim … out of chivalry, blinkered imperial patriotism, and just plain fascination with a woman, You’d think he would have learned after his last trouble over a woman … and he couldn’t even
blame the demon drink on this occasion. Good God, he’d be the laughingstock of Horseguards Parade, if the tale ever got back. The debonair Kit Ralston falling victim to a woman’s wiles! Except that there were no wiles to speak of.
They passed through the gates, inside the battlements. It was a fortified village, with barracks and stables, a great stone keep; there were a number of robed figures, some wearing steel helmets with vertical prongs, all hurrying about a clearly warlike business. The gates clanged shut behind them, and Kit felt the tension arrow through his men. He had no right to involve them in a personal quest that was rapidly becoming an obsession, had he? But they were soldiers, and this was a war. Forget the girl, he told himself, and concentrate on the war prize to be garnered from this expedition.
“Let’s show them what the British cavalry is made of, Havildar,” he said briskly.
Abdul Ali grinned. “With pleasure, sir.” He shouted an order to the sepoys behind him. There was a crackle and jingle of harness. The horses stepped out, their riders smartly at attention, and the British Empire, in this small representation, prepared to go eye to eye with Akbar Khan.
Their escort simply matched the increased speed until they reached a square house, set behind a stone wall and standing in an incongruously pretty garden. They rode into a courtyard at the rear of the house. Kit signaled his troop to draw rein, and they sat, still at attention, watching and waiting.
Two women, veiled but not enwrapped in the street chadri, emerged from an arched doorway at the side of the building. The men around Ayesha moved aside and the women came over to her, raising their hands to help her dismount. Scorning the proffered assistance, she slipped easily to the ground. She cast a glance over her shoulder to where the lieutenant and his men sat their horses; seemed to hesitate; then, coming to a decision, took a step closer to Kit.
“If you would treat with Akbar Khan, Christopher Ralston, be bold and truthful.”
One of the women flew up her hands and let loose a stream of protestation as Ayesha spoke to the infidel. She seized the girl’s arm and hurried her toward the arched doorway.
Christopher watched the white-wrapped figure disappear. Only then did he become aware of the eyes upon himself. He turned his head toward another doorway, set square in the middle of the back wall of the house. A man stood there, stocky and broad-shouldered, dressed in a plain brown coat, a saber thrust into the sash at his waist. He wore neither turban nor skullcap, and his hands were pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. A bright blue gaze rested in gentle speculation upon Lieutenant Christopher Ralston and his men. Then he turned and went into the house.
Akbar Khan approached the entrance to the zenana, his expression still thoughtful. The two guards salaamed as he passed through the rich beaded curtain into the women’s apartments. He enjoyed the sounds of the women, their soft trilling, the occasional chime of laughter, the warm moving mystery of them in their secret, scented seclusion. They were gathered around Ayesha, now divested of the chadri, sitting unveiled upon a low divan. She looked up as he entered, rose slowly, salaamed with the rest of the women, who vanished in a twittering cloud at the slight dismissive movement of his hand.
“So what have you brought me, Ayesha?” He tapped the tips of his fingers together, regarding her pensively.
Ayesha was not deceived by the calm question, the apparent relaxation of the powerful body. After nearly eight years in Akbar Khan’s zenana, she knew every facet of this passionate, contradictory man. If he did not like her answer, or suspected the least falsehood, those men would die, and she would have to take the consequences of her own bad judgment.
The encounter by the lake must be buried deeper than the earth’s core. And that strange prickle of excitement she felt when in the company of Christopher Ralston must be buried with it, even beyond her own acknowledgment.
“I trust you are not displeased,” she said, turning to a side table where stood a bowl of sherbet. “You will take refreshment?”
“My pleasure or displeasure awaits your explanation,” he said, waving aside the goblet she held out to him. He sat on the divan and gestured to the ottoman at his feet. “Why would you bring the feringhee into my castle?”
She took her place on the ottoman and picked her words carefully, starting from the precipitate arrival of Lieutenant Ralston and his troop in the nomad encampment. As always, she was alert to every indication of Akbar Khan’s mood or attitude, every shift of position, every flicker of an eye, flutter of an eyelash, twitch of a muscle. She thought she knew how he would react to her suggestion that no harm could come from hearing what Kabul had to say at this delicate moment in the hostilities, when the rebels seemed to have the upper hand, but one could never be certain of Akbar Khan. It was his unpredictability that made him such a dangerous foe, and such a quixotic lord.
When she had told her tale and fallen into an expectant but uneasy silence, he stood up. “I shall judge this Christopher Ralston for myself. Let us hope that his mission is an honest one, and your own instincts without fault.” He strolled to the curtained doorway, then paused, turned, and examined her, stroking his small pointed beard, as she stood quietly waiting for his departure to release her.
Something flickered in the bright blue gaze, a gleam that sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine.
“You will join us for the entertainment after we have dined, Ayesha. I am interested in seeing how the Englishman behaves in the company of one who is of his own, yet not of his own.”
The curtain rustled softly at his departure and she stood, chewing her lip. The danger was far from past. In fact, it could be said to be just beginning. He had detected something in her explanation that did not satisfy him, but it was not sufficiently suspicious to convince him of some misdoing, either on her part or on theirs. So he would continue to withhold judgment, watching and waiting until he found what he sought, or was persuaded that the mission was genuine. But what was the significance of that last order? That uncomfortable little gleam? What was he going to be testing? Or should it be whom? Herself … or Christopher Ralston?
The women came back into the room, chattering, but she turned from the questions and attentions, threw a veil over her head, and stepped into a small, enclosed garden. A parakeet screeched noisily from the perch where he was chained. She picked up a handful of sunflower seeds and fed them from her palm to the bird, who squawked and danced excitedly. But when she had no more seeds in her palm and had neglected in her absorption to take away her hand, the sharp beak pecked viciously at the soft mound at the base of her thumb, drawing blood.
She snatched her hand away with a cry of pain that brought one of the men guarding the garden running across the grass toward her, his knife raised to decapitate the errant bird.
“No!” she exclaimed in horror. “It was my fault.”
The man regarded her in surprise, but he thrust the knife into his belt and returned to his post.
Ayesha lifted her veil slightly so that she could suck the wound. Treacherous bird, biting the hand that fed it. If Christopher Ralston merely looked upon Akbar Khan’s Ayesha with interested eyes, then he would stand accused of a similar treachery. She wandered restlessly around the small space. What had he said, when she had asked him his business? She could still hear his voice, quiet and steady. I was looking for you.
She shivered. Did he understand anything of these people? And if he did not understand, or would not accept, the nature of a khan’s power over his subjects, particularly his own women, then they were both in the gravest peril. Was it simply a mischievous, taunting game that Akbar intended to play with Christopher Ralston? Or was there a grimmer, more menacing purpose behind it? And whatever it was, how was she to ensure that Christopher Ralston behaved with circumspection?
Akbar Khan, the son of the deposed shah, might be a fugitive rebel, but he certainly knew how to live well, Kit reflected, looking around the comfortable chamber into which he had been escorted by an expressionless, heavily armed ge
ntleman, who had indicated the porcelain jug of hot water, the towels, the carafe of fruit juice, the plate of sweetmeats, and the basket of fruit, before bowing himself out, leaving Lieutenant Ralston to his own devices.
Abdul Ali and the sepoys had been escorted in a different direction, but neither threat nor discourtesy had been offered any of them so far, so he assumed they were receiving the hospitality consonant with their position. If he was to be granted audience with Akbar Khan, he had better concoct some convincing message. Should it come from Elphinstone? Or Macnaghten, perhaps? The Envoy, as the latter was titled, was the chief political officer in Afghanistan from the East India Company’s Civil Service. Yes, definitely Macnaghten. Everyone knew it was the Envoy who made all the decisions in Kabul, over both General Elphinstone and Shah Soojah. But what would that pompous, self-important, complacent idiot wish to have conveyed to this rebel warrior? Threats? Promises? Conciliation?
If you would treat with Akbar Khan be bold and truthful. Ayesha had taken a risk to give him that advice so publicly. Why not tell the truth, as far as it went: he was sent from Kabul on a reconnoitering mission. Where better to explore than the lion’s den? He wished to hear Akbar Khan’s views on the present situation, and would gladly answer any questions directed to him. You couldn’t get bolder or more truthful than that, he decided. But how did it advance the main goal of this suicidal expedition? How was he to get Ayesha out of this fortress, two days’ ride from Kabul?
Circumstances would have to offer the answer to that one. He could make no plans when he had no idea of the layout or of what was to happen next. Perhaps he would not see her again while he was here. No, that was an altogether unhelpful speculation, the product of a sleepless night. He flung himself down on the cushioned divan beneath a low window and fell instantly, dreamlessly asleep.