by Jane Feather
Kit felt himself slipping, drowning in the sensual promise of that jade gaze. He grabbed the smooth, cool wood of a chair back and gripped it until the ordinary shape and feel of the object returned him to reality. “Listen to me.”
“I’m listening.” She sat down, toying idly with the diamond-headed pin she had removed from her veil.
“You have to decide whether you are going to be Annabel or Ayesha,” he said. “Annabel cannot live here with me, and Ayesha cannot march around the cantonment giving advice and pouring scorn on the feringhee in impeccable English.”
“Why cannot Annabel live here with you?” She put the pin on the table and looked up at him.
“Because it would make her a social outcast,” he said bluntly. “You cannot be so naive, Annabel, not to know that. You grew up in this kind of society, you told me so yourself. You must remember the rules. As my mistress, you would be beyond the pale. The community here would ostracize you, and would ensure that that continued to happen when you returned to England.”
She shook her head. “Do you think I give a fig for their ostracism?”
“But I do.” Even as he said it, Kit realized that for the first time in his life he did. He had never spared a moment’s worry over how the world viewed his own antics, had laughed at the idea that he should be subject to society’s petty rules and insignificant penalties. But he could not mock them where Annabel was concerned. “If you wish to be Annabel, then I will present you to Lady Sale,” he went on. “We will tell her as much of your story as is appropriate and I am convinced she will take you under her wing. It’s the sort of mission she loves … to rehabilitate—” He broke off in confusion. Annabel was convulsed with silent laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“You cannot be serious!” she cried. “You would pluck me from Akbar Khan’s zenana and hand me over to … to be rehabilitated under the chaperonage of … Oh, no, Kit, admit you were only funning.”
He stared at her. “I was not funning. How else are you to take your place in society?”
She sprang to her feet, the tears of laughter drying rapidly. “How can you talk such nonsense? Here in this beleaguered encampment you can babble such irrelevant inanities! Even assuming, for the sake of argument, that you all manage to leave Afghanistan and reach India safely, the rigors and dangers of that journey through the passes in the middle of winter are going to strip away every vestige of social propriety. It will be a matter of survival, pure and simple. And who or what I am will be of supreme unimportance in the face of that survival.”
Kit absorbed her words and could not argue with them. “That may be so,” he said. “But memories are long, and if we do survive, and if you do wish to make a life for yourself in England or in India, then you must still take some elementary precautions.” A little flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes. “I did not really expect you to agree to enter Lady Sale’s household, but I did want you to understand the way things are. Stay with me as Ayesha.” He held out his hands to her. “To tell the truth, I cannot bear to think of parting with you, but in fairness, I felt I had to show you the alternatives.”
Her hands lay warmly in his. “Understand this, Christopher Ralston. I will never be able to embrace the customs and attitudes of the feringhee. I have spent too long being taught to despise them, and I no longer acknowledge any inheritance or ties. So if my rehabilitation in your society is important in your agenda, you must be prepared for disappointment. But as a free spirit, as neither Akbar Khan’s Ayesha nor the English Annabel, I will stay with you for the moment.”
“For the moment?” His hands gripped hers painfully.
She smiled and shook her head slightly. “Until whatever is going to happen happens. That’s all I meant.” Suddenly she stood on tiptoe, peering with mock gravity into his face. “The Afghans believe that a man’s destiny is written on his forehead, but I cannot read what is written upon yours. So who’s to say what will happen. Let us live in and for the moment.”
“But you will promise to behave with circumspection in the cantonment?” he pressed, releasing her hands.
“With true Muslim modesty and submission, Ralston, huzoor,” she said, with a graceful salaam. “May we have breakfast now?”
Kit found that he was not entirely sure exactly what had been agreed between them. Whatever it was, it was insubstantial and impermanent, but for all that, it was a platform of sorts. She would stay with him of her own free will, until something happened to take her away or until she decided otherwise. He watched her over the breakfast table. She was concentrating on the business in hand with the single-minded serenity he admired and envied. It was as if the morning’s events and their subsequent conversation had not occurred.
Harley entered the dining room. “Excuse me, sir, but there’s a message come from ’eadquarters. An ensign says you’re to report to General Elphinstone immediately.”
Kit tossed his napkin beside his plate. “What does the old man want now? I’ve already had one set of orders for the day.”
“To do what?” inquired Annabel through a mouthful of toast.
“Supervise inventory-taking of the supplies in the cantonment,” he told her. “Not a particularly difficult task since I doubt there’s more than two days’ supply of anything. Replenishing the stocks is going to be the arduous part, with that screaming horde outside.” He came around the table and bent to kiss her, flicking a toast crumb from her lips before he did so. “Why don’t you go back to bed and try to get some sleep? It was a very short night.”
“I don’t need very much sleep.” She touched his mouth lightly with a fingertip. “But I do need a lot of exercise.” She invested the comment with a mischievous hint of innuendo, and he laughed.
“Let me go and see what the masters want, then maybe I can supply your needs.”
“How about a horse?” she said suddenly, as he walked to the door. “Seriously. I can’t possibly spend all day sitting around in the house.”
Kit frowned. “Where would you ride? Around the streets?”
“That doesn’t sound very invigorating.”
“I suppose I could try and get you some time in the riding school. You could do some dressage, if you liked. The rissaldar in charge of the school is an accommodating fellow, for all that he’s a tough riding master. He’d insist on supervising you, if I couldn’t.”
“How would you explain me?”
Kit grinned. “I haven’t the least idea. You’re quite inexplicable. But give me some time to see what I can come up with.”
He made his way to headquarters, feeling ridiculously lighthearted. The cantonment lay under a heavy pall of fearful despondency, although the sound of gunfire had ceased except for an occasional rifle crack, but Kit could find in his own heart not the slightest tremor of fear or gloom. There were few civilians on the streets, but uniformed men were everywhere, hurrying with an air of urgency that Kit suspected was more in the mind than in fact. So many conflicting orders were flying around that no one really knew what was happening or what they were supposed to be doing.
He discovered rapidly what he was supposed to be doing when he presented himself to General Elphinstone.
“Ah, Ralston, I’ve a job for you,” the general declared, sounding for once relatively decisive. “One we feel suited to your particular talents. Sir William will explain.”
Kit turned to the Envoy, who stood in his customary fashion before the fireplace, the tails of his coat spread wide, his chest thrust out. “Sir William?”
“We have received a message from Akbar Khan,” Sir William pronounced. “His messenger and an escort arrived at the gate half an hour ago.” The Envoy permitted himself a small smile. “The man is obviously coming to his senses. He expresses great regret for the riot in Kabul and for the loss of our men and property, and wishes to discuss how best restoration can be made.”
Kit kept his face impassive. “Indeed, sir.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. He explains that his author
ity over the other sirdars is not very reliable, and he cannot guarantee their behavior, but he wishes to discuss a joint plan of action by which his authority, the authority of the deposed Dost’s son, and that of the British can be combined to bring the unruly khans to heel.”
The image of Akbar Khan swam into Kit’s internal vision: those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see so much more than the physical, that incisive mouth, the passionate and capricious nature, the stocky, powerful frame, the unquestioning authority of one accustomed to instant obedience, to controlling with absolute power the lives of all in his ken, the burning purpose of his life—to rid his country of the invader and to exact vengeance for the invasion.
This was the man Macnaghten and Elphinstone believed was interested in conciliation and reparation.
Kit kept silent.
“Since you have already made the acquaintance of Akbar Khan and had some discussion with him, the general and I decided that you would be a suitable negotiator.” Sir William straightened his cravat. “Akbar Khan requests a meeting in Kabul, our representative to go under the escort the sirdar has sent with his own messenger. You may take three men with you. We will leave their selection up to you.”
“And what message am I to take to Akbar Khan?” Kit asked.
“At this stage, Lieutenant, you will simply hear what the khan suggests, and express our sincere desire for a cessation of hostilities,” Macnaghten said. “Then you will report back.”
“Very well.” Kit saluted, revealing not a hint of his skepticism. “I will leave within the hour.” He went in search of Havildar Abdul Ali, having decided that the company of one who had stood by him so reliably during his previous visit to Akbar Khan’s den would be both comforting and sensible.
The havildar listened, nodded stoically, and agreed to select two sepoys from the previous expedition. “D’you think it’s a trap, sir?”
Kit shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think we’ll be in any immediate danger. But you can be certain there’s muddy water beneath the surface of the invitation. Akbar Khan isn’t interested in negotiation.”
This sentiment was echoed forcefully by Annabel when Kit returned to the bungalow to change into full uniform and attend to the ablutions he had not had time for earlier that morning. But she had another concern, one that had not occurred to Christopher.
“Have you thought what will happen if he suspects I am with you?” She moved restlessly around the bedroom as Kit shaved. Harley was laying out the immaculate blue tunic with its gold braid and shining gold buttons, the deep blue britches, the gold sash, epaulets and cummerbund, and the boots so highly polished that the leather seemed to have depth.
“How should he do so?” The razor paused in its careful stroking, but his eyes remained on the mirror.
“He is no fool, Christopher Ralston.”
“I am aware of that.” The razor continued its work. “But I still don’t understand why he should suspect. He did not know I was in Kabul; no one saw either of us leave; no one heard anything. In the chaos in the city that night, anything could have happened.”
“He will look beneath the surface,” she said. “And he will find you beneath that surface.” She knew Akbar Khan had suspected something in the weeks following her night with the Englishman, although nothing had been said openly. But Ayesha was so finely tuned to the khan’s responses that she had needed no words to hear his recognition of a change in her.
Kit buried his face in the hot, damp towel handed him by the silently attentive batman. “He can be sure of nothing, Annabel. Besides, he has another agenda at the moment. Do you think he will take the time to force a confession from me?” He asked the question as a joke, but Annabel’s response was serious.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I would say not, but he is a man of passions and caprices. You know that as well as I do. If the sight of you triggers a certain reaction, he could have your throat cut then and there.”
“Gawd, miss, you can’t be serious?” Harley was provoked into responding. He had been listening to a conversation that went some way to answering the questions he did not consider it his place to ask.
“I can, Harley,” she replied soberly. “Could you not ask the general to send someone else, Kit?”
“On what grounds?” Kit’s fair eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. “Now who’s being foolish?” He shrugged into a clean shirt. “Are you suggesting I say to Elphinstone and Macnaghten that as I have stolen Akbar Khan’s favorite from his zenana, I really consider it would be imprudent for me to face him on his own territory?”
“You could do worse,” she said. “Perhaps if I came with you—”
“If you did what?” He paused in the act of stepping into his britches, one leg suspended.
“If I explained the situation to General Elphinstone and the Envoy, and told them what I know and understand of Akbar Khan, then perhaps—”
“Miss!” exclaimed Harley before Kit could catch his breath. “The lieutenant could never ask to be excused a dangerous mission for any reason! Let alone personal.”
“Oh.” Annabel sat down on the bed. “In that case there’s nothing more to be said.”
And no one said anything further until Kit had fastened his sword belt and taken up his plumed shako. He gestured toward the door, and Harley took his departure.
“Annabel, sweet, do you have no faith in me at all?” Kit came over to the bed where she sat, customarily immobile.
She raised her head, and her eyes were grave. “It is not a question of faith. This is not a situation … you are not dealing with a foe … where your rules apply. You say you cannot in honor excuse yourself from this mission. I accept that. But you must not go to Akbar Khan expecting that he will play by your rules. You must play by his.”
“Do you remember the buzkashi?” He touched her mouth. “I played by his rules, but imposed my own. Was I defeated?”
She shook her head. “No, you were not. Go swiftly, and come back safely.”
She went to the door to see him go, then turned back into the little English bungalow. It seemed to close around her with its assumption of cozy, suburban security, and she knew that she needed to be beside Kit, as he went head to head with the world of complexity and intrigue that she understood so well. Yet she must let him go alone, while she stayed here with Harley and cups of tea.
In the zenana, there had been no shield against the fluctuations and excitements of her world. She had learned to negotiate a path, to recognize dangers, to circumvent them, to plot, to react with speed and stealth. How could Kit possibly expect her to stay here in this sterile, artificial place while he, so much less well-equipped than she, matched himself against the man she had made it her business to know as well as anyone could know the son of Dost Mohammed?
But for the moment, she had no choice. Soon, though, the time for action would engulf them all. She would be ready, then, to take whatever path Destiny dictated.
Chapter Eleven
Six Afghan hillmen sat Badakshani chargers just outside the gate of the cantonment. Long ringlets hung beneath their skullcaps, and their faces were expressionless as the small party of sepoys and the English lieutenant rode out to meet them.
“Salaamat bashi,” Kit said formally.
“Mandeh nabashi,” responded one of the horsemen, and immediately turned his horse toward the city.
“Sullen beggars,” commented Abdul Ali with classic understatement as they fell in behind their escort.
The two-mile ride was undertaken in complete silence. The Ghazi fanatics who had attacked the fort earlier had mostly dispersed, although a few were still to be seen throwing stones in desultory fashion at the earthworks and occasionally screaming insults. They stared at the party and shouted something at the hillmen. Kit heard the name “Akbar Khan” in the response. Apparently satisfied, the Ghazis turned back to their harassment.
The streets of Kabul were riot-torn, the evidence of a night and day of plund
ering, fighting, and murder in the blackened buildings, the piles of rubble, and the bodies that had not yet been removed. There were few people on the streets, and they appeared both fearful and defiant as they stared at the feringhee and the sepoys but made no attempt to molest them with either words or gestures.
Akbar Khan’s house stood as it had done throughout the days of Kit’s vigil when he had watched for a glimpse of Ayesha. He was careful to give no indication of familiarity as they dismounted and were escorted within.
“Ah, Ralston, huzoor, I had not dared to hope that I would have the pleasure of your company again.” Akbar Khan appeared at the head of the stairs. His loose trousers were tucked into the tops of his riding boots, the buttons on his dark green coat glistened, and as before his head was bare. “How fortunate I am that you should be the one to talk with me about this distressing affair … An inestimable honor, as always.” He came slowly down the stairs, a smile on his mouth but not a flicker of warmth in his eyes, which held Kit’s gaze for an unnerving length of time, as if looking for something. Then he nodded, as if he had found what he sought.
“Please …” He gestured an invitation toward a door on the left of the hall. “We shall take a glass of sherbet together. Your men may remain here.”
“Is that wise, sir?” Abdul Ali muttered.
“You are my guest, Ralston, huzoor,” Akbar Khan said smoothly. “You would not insult my hospitality by mistrusting me.”
“Of course not,” Kit said as smoothly. “Remain here, Havildar.”
“Very well, sir.” Abdul Ali stood at watchful attention, one hand resting on his pistol, every inch of him radiating mistrust as the lieutenant and Akbar Khan disappeared behind the door.
There were no other occupants of the room, and Akbar Khan himself filled a goblet with sherbet and handed it to Kit before filling one for himself. “Welcome, Ralston, huzoor,” he said gently, before sipping.
Kit inclined his head and sipped in turn. “I understand you have some proposals, Akbar Khan.”