by Jane Feather
The wind whipped her, tugging at the chadri as it flowed around her, and she gave herself into its grip, losing that last unthinkable thought in the wild, elemental rushing around her ears. Then she saw him draw rein, way ahead of her, at a point where the track widened and the challenge died. He sat his horse, watching as she careened toward him, not slackening her speed until she, too, reached relative safety.
The mare’s breath came in great sobbing gasps, whistling through her flared nostrils, and, despite the cold, her flanks were lathered. Ayesha met Akbar Khan’s gaze steadily, a glint of triumph in her eyes behind the mesh. Slowly he nodded, and a tiny smile quirked the corners of his mouth. But he said nothing, and they sat waiting in contemplative silence until the others came up with them and Ayesha’s mount had recovered her breath.
They found shelter for the night in a hill village where the clustered houses of dried mud clung to the mountainside and a watchtower stood sentinel at the entrance. The head of the community, the village aksakai, came to greet them, bowing his venerable old head in acknowledgment of the khan. They were ushered into his one-roomed hut, where a fire of sheep’s dung smoldered sullenly. The village mullah came bobbing through the low doorway, and Ayesha resigned herself to the long ceremonies of greeting in which the women would take no part. Until the ritual was done, there would be no supper, and she was famished. Her only comfort was that the men would also be starving, so with luck Akbar Khan might hurry things along a little.
Patience was a strength she had learned long since, and she now stood with the complete immobility that had so struck Kit, while the talk continued and the fire belched its noxious smoke. The men took green snuff, placed under the tongue, and the holy man’s speech went on in almost hypnotic cadences. But at last his voice ceased, and Ayesha felt the ripple of relief in the women around her. Now, surely they could eat.
As was to be expected in such a poor village, the hospitality offered was hardly elaborate, and Ayesha was well aware of how much of a strain on his limited resources this large party of visitors was placing on the aksakai. But other villagers appeared with their own offerings: talkhan, a cake of dried mulberries with walnuts; round flat loaves of wheat bread to mop up bowls of gaimac, the thick yellowish crust that formed on cream; strips of dried antelope meat; and salt, shaved off a precious block. There was only dugh to drink. Ayesha found the boiled and watered milk a poor substitute for the tea she craved, and her spirit revived remarkably when she saw Akbar Khan offer his host as gift a bar of tea, flavored with red pepper. But would such a luxury be offered to the women? She waited, salivating in a fever of anticipated disappointment.
The samovar was brought forth with much excitement and hand-rubbing. The tea was made, communal bowls filled and passed around the men. Ayesha felt tears prickle ludicrously behind her eyelids. It was absurd to feel so painfully deprived over a cup of tea. But it had been a long, hard day, and the strain of her mad ride with Akbar Khan was taking a belated toll.
Akbar Khan glanced at her. She no longer wore the enveloping chadri, but, in deference to mixed company, her unveiled face was turned away from the room. Nevertheless, he could feel her plaintive disappointment across the small, smoky space that separated them. Sometimes, he was amazed at how finely tuned he seemed to be to her emotions, even over something as trivial as this. He spoke to the aksakai, who made haste to refill the khan’s bowl. He took the tea himself to Ayesha.
“Thank you,” she said softly, lifting her eyes to his face for the barest moment.
“I know how much you enjoy it,” he returned, as quietly. “And after such a ride, you have need of something restorative, I think.” He looked around the crowded little room, and a rueful smile played over his lips. “There are other pleasures we must forgo, I fear, Ayesha … until we reach Kabul.”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment and buried her nose in the rich, peppery fragrance of the tea.
“I do not understand what has happened to General Sale,” Elphinstone fussed, plucking in habitual fashion at the blanket on his knees. “He has orders to return to Kabul without delay, if the safety of his sick and wounded can be assured.” It was the last week of October.
“I suspect, sir, that the general is unwilling to trust the Ghilzais.” Kit looked up from the map he had been studying and spoke in the calm tones he had learned eased his fretful commander. “He will probably not take the route through the Purwan Durrah pass, in case of ambush. If he takes the mountain road to the south of that defile, it will take him longer to reach the Jugdulluk valley, from where he can send on a runner.”
“Why should he not trust them?” demanded Sir William. “They are our allies now. The truce has been agreed. The passes are now free.”
Kit sighed, but made no attempt to engage the Envoy in argument. It would be a fruitless exercise, and would only leave him foaming with frustration. His head already ached.
“General, may I make a suggestion? Do you not think it would be sensible to bring the commissariat stores within the cantonment?” The question had been troubling Kit and others for some time. The commissariat was housed in a fort on the plain outside the cantonment. Supplies were brought into the cantonment when necessary. It was relatively well-garrisoned, but an Afghan-held fort stood in direct line between the commissariat and the cantonment, and it took little imagination to foresee the potential threat this implied to the British access to their supplies.
“Oh, but surely we have taken all necessary defensive measures,” protested Elphinstone. “We have dug a ditch around the cantonment, have we not, Sir William? And an earthwork.”
Over which a cow could scramble, thought Kit sourly. “But the cantonment is surrounded by occupied Afghan forts, sir. Why do we not attempt to destroy them, if we cannot take them?”
“You are exceeding your brief, Lieutenant,” Sir William said coldly. “Decision-making is not the province of an adjutant.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir William.” Kit wondered how long he would be able to contain himself as the knowledge of impending disaster … willful disaster … grew ever stronger. The defensive position of the cantonment was contemptible; Afghan fortifications massed in the surrounding plain. But Elphinstone had at his disposal an equipped and well-ordered force of four infantry regiments, two batteries of artillery, three companies of sappers, and a regiment of cavalry. And in the Balla Hissar, Shah Soojah had a considerable body of soldiers and guns. Such a combined force should surely be able to occupy the Afghan forts, ensure the safety of supplies, and strengthen the defenses of the cantonment. But no one would do anything; no one would even admit that there was a semblance of threat.
“I will have these dispatches sent to Brigadier Shelton,” Kit now said, as if he had never made the previous suggestion. “Then I will give your instructions to Captain Johnson in the Treasury.” He gathered up the papers, straightened his tunic, adjusted the position or his sword, saluted smartly to the general, and left the room. He sent a runner to Shelton, who was in camp with his brigade on the Seah Sung hills about a mile and a half from the cantonment, then he left the headquarters bungalow and rode into Kabul, to the Treasury.
Captain Johnson received him gloomily. “Macnaghten knows the coffers are all but empty,” he said, reading his instructions to supply the shah with a further lakh of rupees. “And now that we’ve had to reinstate the subsidies to the chiefs, we’re in even worse shape. Where does he think I’m going to lay hands on this sum?”
Kit shook his head. “I’m not in Sir William’s confidence, sir. I am merely an adjutant who delivers messages.”
Johnson cast him a sharp, shrewd glance. “Do I detect a note of irritation with our esteemed envoy, Ralston?”
“Of course not, sir. It’s not my place to criticize,” Kit responded smoothly.
“Balderdash!” the other declared. “We all know the man’s a blinkered fool. He only sees what he wants to see. Don’t know what’s goin’ on in the city at the moment, but the atmosp
here out there sets my skin crawling. How about a noggin?”
Kit accepted a brandy with gratitude. The first drink of the day usually put paid to the ill-effects of the previous night’s excesses, and his headache was worsening by the minute. Half an hour of shared grousing and a second brandy later, he took his leave of Captain Johnson and went out into the city streets, feeling much restored.
He left his horse at the Treasury and set off on foot through the narrow streets. Johnson had been right. The very air in the city seemed to vibrate with unease, with a barely suppressed violence. He was accustomed to the hostility of the inhabitants, but this mood was different. There was an insolence in the eyes that met his, a challenge in the way a man would step aside as he approached, as if he would not be contaminated by contact with the feringhee dog.
He turned into the noisy, bustling bazaar, realizing that one hand was resting unconsciously upon the sword hilt beneath his riding coat, his other on the pistol in the deep pocket. Around him, the crowd of buyers and sellers and gossips milled, but the rapid bargaining jabber died an instantaneous death at his approach, and dark eyes glared their challenge and their threat.
Kit suddenly decided that he didn’t wish to be in the bazaar any longer. He turned on his heel … and then he saw her. The blood seemed to still in his veins, the breath to pause in his lungs. The silky white chadri stood out as it had done before amongst the surrounding sea of dark homespun, but even without that identification, even had she been dressed identically with the other women, he would have known her. It was the set of her head, the way she held her body. She was fingering bolts of material on a carpeted stall, the stallkeeper standing to one side, watching and waiting. She said something to one of the women accompanying her, and the woman spoke to the stallkeeper. A rapid exchange took place, in which Ayesha remained silent. Clearly, her companion undertook the bargaining on Ayesha’s instructions.
Kit wanted her to see him. He needed her to see him. The need to catch a glimpse of those jade eyes meeting his from behind her veil became unconquerable. Deliberately, he made his way toward the stall, no longer conscious of the mutters and the glares, of the unconcealed menace surrounding him. He stepped around the stallkeeper.
Ayesha was listening intently to Soraya’s progress in the bargaining, although protocol demanded that she appear completely indifferent. She was gazing off into the middle distance when the hairs on the nape of her neck lifted. She jerked her head around … and met the intent, demanding scrutiny of Christopher Ralston.
A cold sweat bathed her skin and trickled down her rib cage beneath her cashmere tunic as she held herself immobile, resisting with every desperate fiber of her being the urge to touch his body with hers. Her head moved infinitesimally … was it in negation or appeal? But she could not lower her eyes. They drank him in, as if she would absorb him, body and soul, through her vision.
She realized that Soraya was speaking to her. Her companion must not notice her charge’s peculiar absorption. In a moment, she would also become aware of the English soldier, standing rapt a mere five yards away, and she could not fail to detect the current flowing between them. It was almost palpable, so that the air between them seemed to vibrate like a plucked string. Akbar Khan must not know of this … this … could one call it a meeting? Hardly that, but he must continue to believe in her indifference to Christopher Ralston, continue to believe that the night she had passed with the Englishman had disappeared into the mists of memory. If he suspected the truth, he would cease to trust her, and she could not risk the consequences of his loss of trust. Her life would become unendurable.
She dragged her eyes away from the lodestone of his gaze. “Have you concluded, Soraya?”
“He insists on a hundred rupees,” the woman said, irritated with her failure to get her own price.
“It is well worth it,” Ayesha said, fingering the material, trying to control her hand’s tremor. “I did not expect to buy it for less. It will make a most beautiful tunic. If it is lined in lambs wool, it will be warm enough for the winter.”
They were talking in Pushtu, and Kit could not understand more than a word or two, but he did understand that she had as effectively dismissed him as she had done after the buzkashi. But in that moment of intensity he had felt the power of her wanting, and he was satisfied. He walked casually away, rounded a corner into a dark, noisome alley, and waited until she and her companions, business accomplished, left the bazaar. Then he followed, still casually and at a safe distance.
The house stood in the middle of a row of similar houses in the center of the city. It was an affluent neighborhood by Afghan standards, but it was the armed guards at the entrance who most concerned Kit. They carried scimitars and jezzails, wore chain mail and pronged helmets of the kind he had seen in Akbar Khan’s mountain stronghold. There was no possible way an intruder could get past them.
He stood in the shadow of a doorway across the street and watched as the women were admitted. He looked up at the facade of the house. Windows and verandahs lined the upper floor. Did he imagine that glimmer of white crossing one of the windows? He stared until black dots danced before his eyes. If he had seen her up there, she was in a room to the left of center. But what good did that do him? It had a verandah. Perhaps he could shin his way up there, pry open the window, slip inside … But how was he to get them both out again? And besides, she was always accompanied by her shadowy entourage. Perhaps she slept alone, though. Perhaps in the dead of night he could achieve entrance, spirit her away … Oh, he was being ridiculous! It would be as easy to abduct her from the streets of Kabul in full view of a hostile populace as to gain undiscovered entrance and exit to that house.
Without much hope, he strolled to the back of the row of houses. They had high-walled courtyards with barred gates set into the walls. And guards stood again at the gate to Akbar Khan’s house. There was neither help nor inspiration to be gained from that aspect.
Kit turned aside and made his way back to the Treasury. Despite his dismally unproductive reconnaissance, he was infused with an energy and determination that somehow made light of the difficulties he faced. She was here, in Kabul. And she was as much stirred by their proximity as he was. With those two factors in his favor, how could he fail?
“I have reason to believe Akbar Khan is in Kabul,” he told Captain Johnson without preamble.
Johnson whistled softly. “That would explain the atmosphere. But try telling that to Macnaghten. He’s convinced the man’s still skulking in the Hindu Kush.”
“He’s here,” Kit said firmly.
“Of course, you’ve met him, haven’t you?” Johnson regarded the younger man curiously. “I heard tell of your interesting patrol. Didn’t please the powers that be, I understand.”
“No,” Kit agreed aridly. He knew that Johnson’s information about the lieutenant’s encounter with Akbar Khan would include nothing of Ayesha. What a man told his intimates in confidence would remain so. “Warnings are considered croaking. But I daresay I had better inform the general and Sir William of Akbar Khan’s arrival.”
“I wish you luck.” Johnson accompanied him outside to fetch his horse. He glanced up at the ring of mountain peaks and the lowering sky. He drew a deep breath. “If we’re still here when the snows come, Ralston, we won’t have a cat in hell’s chance of getting through. They’ll pick our bones clean.”
“I didn’t realize we were intending to leave,” Kit remarked provocatively. “Does Shah Soojah no longer need British bayonets to safeguard his claim?”
Johnson’s laugh crackled, sharp and bitter in the cold air. “Once we withdraw, the shah will be a dead man, as well you know. But the entire country outside this city is rising against the feringhee. Nott is struggling to hold Kandahar; Sale, you can be sure, is having to fight every step of the way back to Kabul. They’re closing in on us from all sides. The Treasury is almost empty, the commissariat little better, and there’s little enough chance of supplies getting through fro
m Peshawar or Quetta. We’re going to have to withdraw … sooner rather than later. And now you say Akbar Khan is in Kabul.” He shook his head gloomily. “Haven’t got a prayer, Ralston, and you may accuse me of croakin’, if you like.”
“I’m glad to have a fellow offender,” Kit said grimly, mounting his horse. The two exchanged friendly salutes, and Lieutenant Ralston rode back to the cantonment to face the unenviable task of attempting to convince his superiors of a fact they would prefer not to hear.
Ayesha huddled into her fur-trimmed shawl. She stood in deep shadow in the small antechamber of the room where the shura was convened. The oil lamps sent grotesque shapes writhing against the plastered walls. In her complete immobility, she could feel her blood coursing through her body. The stone floor beneath her bare feet was icy. A bitter night draught tongued its way through a crack in the window behind her and set swinging the tapestry over the door to the council chamber. The voices within rose and fell. Occasionally, there would be an angry exclamation, the rasp of a chair on the stone floor, then Akbar Khan would say something, softly soothing, and the angry speaker would fall silent.