by Jane Feather
Akbar Khan stood outside the window, examining the fair sleeping face. It was a face that carried all the insignia of his class and race, and the Afghan’s lip curled contemptuously. In a few years, the marks of dissipation and self-indulgence would rub out the clear lines of his features, thicken the aquiline nose, slacken the sculpted mouth, coarsen the smooth skin stretched taut over high cheekbones. The muscle would turn to flab as the pursuits of the gaming tables, boudoir, bottle, and dining room took precedence over the energetic activities of youth. It was not an unintelligent face, however. Perhaps he did have some understanding of the realities of the situation, unlike the majority of those idiots, purblind in their arrogance, huddling in the ill-protected cantonments outside Kabul, confident that the majesty of the British raj would prevail without the least assistance from themselves.
But what dealings had this Ralston had with Ayesha? Akbar stroked his short black beard, a frown appearing between his unusual blue eyes. They had spoken English together … natural enough … but her escort had assured him that the woman had been correctly covered from head to toe the entire time. Could she have told him her history in the short time they had spoken together? If the reports he had received were accurate, and he had no reason to believe they were not, then she could not have had time for any detailed explanations. But the Englishman must be intrigued. And what of Ayesha? Had she also been intrigued by her first encounter with one of her countrymen in eight years? Of course she had been. It had been her attempt to hide that that he had detected earlier, when he had sensed a lack of forthrightness in her account.
Akbar Khan turned away from the window. He could hardly blame her for such a natural reaction, but she must learn not to dissemble with him. Maybe he would play a little game with them both, one that would make all their relative positions perfectly clear. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was not an unpleasant smile: capricious, rather.
He glanced up at the sun. It was still early afternoon, and he could afford an hour or so in the pursuit of pleasure before turning his attention to the lieutenant and his business. It had been four weeks since he had left Ayesha in the fortress at Madella—four weeks of hard campaigning—and a little of her softness would not come amiss this afternoon. It was strange how no other woman would do when he felt this need. After three or four weeks’ absence, he would find himself sending for her from wherever he had last left her in his present nomad existence. She had had this hold on him for the last five years.
Akbar Khan strolled in the direction of the zenana.
“Ralston, huzoor.”
The low voice finally penetrated Kit’s sleeping brain. He opened his eyes onto a bewilderingly unfamiliar scene, and for a few seconds could not orientate himself. A brown face, skullcap set over ringlets, dark eyes, the soft-spoken courtesy title, all were unfamiliar. Then his head cleared. He sat up, recognizing that for the first time in months, he had woken without a hangover. He did not count this morning, since he had barely slept all night. He felt amazingly fit.
“The sirdar awaits you, Ralston, huzoor,” the man said in Persian, using the same soft, polite tone.
Kit felt fit, but he also felt filthy. He had a two-day growth of beard, and the dust of the plain caked his skin and clung to his tunic. He needed no circumventable disadvantages when he met with Akbar Khan.
“I must wash and shave,” he said. “And my clothes need to be brushed.” He made appropriate gestures, but his attendant seemed not to need them. He nodded and gestured that the lieutenant should follow him.
They walked through an arched corridor, open on one side to a mosaic-paved courtyard, and turned through another archway into a steam-wreathed chamber.
“Please …” His escort indicated the square tiled bath set into the floor, before raising one of the heavy metal cauldrons set over braziers along the far wall of the chamber. Hot water hissed onto the tiled bottom of the bath, to be followed by the contents of the second cauldron.
Ayesha bathed in cold mountain lakes. The memory, disconcertingly arousing, yet perfectly apposite, caused Kit some embarrassment. He yanked off his boots and stockings, then, turning his back on his attendant, shrugged out of his tunic, peeled off his britches and drawers, and stepped hastily into the hot water. The simple comfort of hot water effectively banished the awkward manifestations of arousing memory, and he lay back with a deep sigh of pleasure.
His attendant gathered up the discarded clothing and soundlessly left the room, returning in a short time with a razor, comb, and hand mirror. He stood stolidly by the window while Kit bathed, shaved, and combed his hair. As he stood up, stepping out of the bath, Kit heard the sounds of laughter outside. It was women’s laughter and he found himself straining to identify the merry, infectious chime that he had heard only once before. But it was not to be heard now, any more than was the uncomfortably mocking chuckle that angered as it provoked.
Perhaps she was with Akbar Khan.
He scrubbed his skin dry with rough, almost punitive vigor. If he was to get himself and his patrol out of the stronghold of the chief sirdar in the Afghan resistance, let alone rescue the woman, he must concentrate on the important issues. Ayesha’s congress with the rebel military chief was an irrelevant distraction just at the moment.
“If Ralston, huzoor, would be so condescending …” His attendant spoke in that same soft, almost obsequious tone, holding out a white chapan.
Kit took the cloak-like garment with a nod of thanks, wondering why the tone did not convince. But, of course, there was no need on God’s earth for this man to play the servant to a feringhee dog who was in essence a prisoner. His unease deepened as the sensation of playing mouse to an unseen cat became undeniable.
His own clothes were waiting for him in the room allotted to him. They had been brushed, pressed, the buttons polished, his boots shined. They would pass muster even before Harley’s eyes, he reflected, thinking of his conscientious and fastidious batman, presumably enjoying a little leisure, safe and sound in Ralston’s bungalow in the cantonment.
Clean skin and tidied clothing did give a man a degree of much-needed confidence, Kit found, as he followed the still expressionless attendant through more corridors. The sense of being in an armored fortress was made constantly manifest. Large, powerful men, heavily armed, stood at doorways, outside windows, marched across briefly glimpsed courtyards. Yet the richness of tapestries, mosaics, Bokhara carpets belied the essential function of the place. Was Akbar Khan as much of an enigma as his palace-fortress?
A heavy tapestry hung across an arched doorway. The tapestry was drawn aside. Lieutenant Christopher Ralston of the East India Company’s Cavalry stepped into the presence chamber of Akbar Khan, son of the deposed Dost Mohammed, sworn enemy of Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Victoria, and all her representatives.
Akbar Khan rose from the cushioned dais as the soldier entered. “Ralston, huzoor,” he said, smiling, stepping forward, hand outstretched in welcome. “This is indeed an honor.”
Kit took the hand, felt the strength in the grip, and found himself wishing he were a million miles from this mountain stronghold, even as he wondered at the demented, chivalrous impulse that had led him here.
“I understand you have business with me,” the sirdar was saying, drawing his guest toward the dais. “Let us discuss it now, if you are willing, then we will eat and enjoy a little modest entertainment.”
Kit banished everything from his mind but the need to match wits with his stocky, powerful, apparently genial host. They sat on the cushions, and Kit was offered a drink of some mild spirit, Akbar Khan saying blandly that he hoped his guest would find it palatable. He himself did not touch alcohol, of course, but would not impose the rules of Islam upon an honored guest.
Kit took a token sip, found it pleasant, but decided that he would join his host in abstinence. He could afford no preventable disadvantages, as he had already concluded. “I am most grateful that you would do me the inestimable honor of receiving me, sirdar,” h
e said formally. “Sir William Macnaghten is most anxious to have some exchange of views with you. I have been so deputed.”
“I see.” Akbar Khan nodded thoughtfully, stroked his pointed beard, sipped a little sherbet. “And what does Macnaghten, huzoor, wish to hear from me, would you say?”
Kit looked at him, and smiled. “I am certain, Akbar Khan, that Sir William would wish to hear that you had withdrawn your opposition to Shah Soojah. I am certain he would like to hear that your occupation of the passes between Kabul and Jalalabad would now cease, and that you and your fellow sirdars would no longer interfere with our communications and supply lines with India.”
Akbar Khan laughed, a wonderful, rich laugh that sounded entirely genuine. “Ralston, huzoor, I like you,” he stated. “I have time only for those who are prepared to be bold and truthful, as you will discover. You may take that message to your Sir William.”
Ayesha had stood his friend, Kit reflected thankfully. He relaxed a little, leaning back into the cushions. “If we restore the subsidies to the tribal chiefs, Akbar Khan, would you make some concession in return?”
“There will be no concessions, Ralston, huzoor, not while an alien yoke lies upon our land; not while one drop of blood still runs in our veins.” The calmness of the tone merely added to the resonance of the words.
Kit heard again Macnaghten’s voice, lightly contemptuous as he dismissed the inconvenient insurgents. What had he said? The people are perfect children, and they should be treated as such. If we put one naughty boy in the corner, the rest will be terrified. Dear God! The man had clearly never met Akbar Khan.
The khan’s bright blue eyes held a glint of amusement now as they watched the young lieutenant’s expression. “What more have we to discuss, Ralston, huzoor? Will you tell me that Macnaghten and General Elphinstone intend to accompany Sir Robert Sale on his return with his brigade to India? Will you tell me that they intend to subjugate the Ghilzais once and for all on that march?”
Christopher shook his head. “No, sirdar, I will not tell you such things. If your information is correct, then you must know that for yourself. If it is incorrect, then it is no task of this envoy to amend it.”
“But I have given you something to take back to Kabul, my friend. Have I not?”
The extent of the rebel’s knowledge of British plans? Yes, he had been given that, just as he had been given a glimpse into the physical strength of the rebels, and the cohesion of their command. Christopher smiled again.
“Indeed you have, Akbar Khan. But am I to be permitted to take that information back to Kabul?”
The military chief looked injured. “You have eaten my salt, Ralston, huzoor. Do you doubt my honor?”
“I cast no aspersions on your honor, sirdar. Your hospitality is most gracious,” Kit said smoothly. “I assume it is in your interests that I report to Kabul on what I have learned.”
“I will not question your assumptions. Let us dine.” Akbar Khan clapped his hands, and the servants standing around the chamber went smoothly into action. Great bowls of succulent, savory stew and rice were placed on low tables drawn up to the cushioned dais, and other men came in to join them. They were clearly warriors of some standing in Akbar Khan’s military court, their coats smart and close-fitting, their sabers shiny, their pointed beards well-groomed. They offered salaams to both their sirdar and his guest, and sat down on the cushions around the table.
The conversation, out of deference to Kit, was conducted in Persian, and Akbar Khan courteously translated whenever he saw his guest in difficulties.
“You speak English with great skill,” Kit complimented, dipping his fingers into the stew and scooping up a mouthful in emulation of his hosts.
Akbar Khan smiled with a hint of mischief. He trailed his fingers in a finger bowl where dried rose petals drifted, and wiped his hands clean with great deliberation. “I had a rather unusual teacher.”
Kit stiffened, but made no overt sign of particular interest. “Indeed?” he queried politely.
“Yes, I think you have made her acquaintance.” The heavy-lidded eyes ran lazily over the lieutenant’s face. “I understood from Ayesha that you and she had some conversation.”
How did he know he was now approaching a most perilous edge? What had Ayesha said of their meetings? She would not have mentioned the encounter by the lake. He took a tiny sip from the spirit in his goblet and shrugged easily. “She interceded for us with the nomads. I think that without her intervention they would have attacked us.”
Akbar shook his head sorrowfully and tutted. “They do not always welcome strangers, Ralston, huzoor, particularly in the uniform of the feringhee. It is most regrettable, but they are ignorant men.” He smiled blandly. “I am certain you understand.”
Kit nodded, responding with equal blandness, “Of course. But I was nevertheless most grateful for the lady’s interest. It averted what could have been a most unpleasant incident for all concerned. I explained that I wished to meet with you, and she seemed to think that you would perhaps not be unwilling.” His eyebrows lifted in query.
“No, I was not unwilling,” Akbar Khan said, passing his guest a bowl of mulberries. “These are a great delicacy, Ralston, huzoor. We call them tut. The nomads bring them up from the plains.”
Kit scooped a handful into his mouth. They were delicious, small and sweet, and he made the correct appreciative responses, all the while wondering if the subject of Ayesha was now closed for good. He certainly could not revive it.
Akbar Khan said something in Pushtu to a hovering servant and the bowls of stew and rice were removed, baskets of mulberries and apricots remaining. A tray of sweet cakes was brought in, and goblets of sherbet that tasted to Kit like honey. The men belched their satisfaction and settled back into the cushions. Akbar Khan smiled at his guest.
“We will have a little music now, if it would please you, Ralston, huzoor. And a little dancing. There are one or two of our women who are most accomplished.”
Kit acquiesced with decent enthusiasm, then froze. A graceful figure, clad in a cream-colored satin chalvar clasped low on her hips, a richly embroidered, sleeveless turquoise tunic, and a cream-colored veil drawn over the lower half of her face and fastened with a glinting emerald at her ear, glided through the archway. He could not see her hair, but those jade eyes were unique … They would be unique anywhere, not just in this mountain fortress.
She came over to the dais, salaamed to Akbar Khan, and said softly to Kit, “Jur hasti, huzoor.”
Akbar Khan chuckled. “She is asking if you are harmonious, Ralston, huzoor. It is a greeting of our people.”
“Zendeh bashi,” Kit responded promptly.
His host applauded admiringly. “I am honored that you would trouble to learn some words of our language. The feringhee, in general, consider it unnecessary.”
The feringhee, in general, did not receive advice from such a one as Ayesha, Kit reflected, trying not to devour her with his gaze. He was not supposed to have seen her in anything but the enveloping chadri. She had just spoken to him in Pushtu, so perhaps he was not supposed to realize who she was. He looked merely polite and waited.
If Akbar Khan was disappointed at this lack of reaction, he did not show it. “You must have wondered how Ayesha became so proficient in your language,” he said, with another chuckle.
Kit looked him in the eye. “She spoke as an Englishwoman, Akbar Khan, not as someone who had learned the language as a foreigner.”
The heavy-lidded eyes narrowed, hiding their expression. “How astute of you, my friend. Ayesha, remove your veil.”
She undipped the emerald pin, and the veil fell away from her face. It was Akbar Khan who rose from his cushion and drew the filmy material from her head, revealing the rich burnished copper mass hanging in a heavy plait to below her waist.
He was not supposed to have seen her before, Kit reminded himself fiercely, even as he gazed at the entrancing countenance, the incredible whiteness of her skin,
the vibrant curve of her mouth, the deep green depths of those almond-shaped eyes.
Akbar Khan looked at them both … and then he smiled. “It is the custom of our people, Ralston, huzoor, to share our most treasured possessions with honored guests … to ensure our guests’ comfort and pleasure at all times.” The smile broadened. He laid a hand lightly on the girl’s bare arm. “For tonight, my honored friend, Ayesha is yours.”
Through his own stupefaction Kit saw shock, followed rapidly by anger, spring into the jade eyes. She swung round on Akbar Khan and said something fiercely in low-voiced Pushtu. His response cracked through the room like a ringmaster’s whip, and she stepped back as if he had struck her. The sirdar turned back to Kit, and the blue gaze was now cold and sharp as a hawk’s.
“You do not refuse the gift of hospitality, do you, my friend?”
Kit glanced around the room, seeing only hostility and menace on every face. No one moved so much as a muscle. If it was a trap, he had no choice but to spring it. He must think like an Afghan. He bowed to Akbar Khan.
“I am deeply honored, sirdar, and accept the gift most willingly.” His eyes flicked toward the motionless Ayesha, who looked straight through him.
Akbar Khan rubbed his hands together with the air of one who has achieved a happy resolution. “Good. Let us listen to some music.”
Without a word, still expressionless, Ayesha moved to sit on a cushion beside Christopher. Taking up the bowl of mulberries, she offered it to him with lowered eyes, before refilling his goblet.
Chapter Three
Kit kept his eyes on the floor before the dais. A group of musicians played strange and sometimes arousing music with reed pipes and rhythmically thudding drums. The girls who danced for them were a mere blur of golden limbs and swirling veils. Their eyes were heavily outlined with kohl, their skin shimmering with sweat as they whirled and quivered to the insistent demand of the music. But he was conscious only of Ayesha at his side. She said nothing, sat as if graven in stone, except when she attended to his wants, offering fruit, sherbet, and the sticky cakes, holding the finger bowl for him, handing him the towel, all these services performed with lowered eyes. Yet, despite this, he could feel the furious energy surging through her, the depths of her rebellion, and he could feel Akbar Khan’s eyes on them both; eyes that were speculative and mischievous in a completely unplayful fashion.