As she watched, the plane veered from its course and came slightly over towards their position. Had it spotted them? Now! She tipped the plate, catching the rays and bouncing them back at a shallow angle. She held the angle as long as she dared and then flattened the plate again, slipping a fold of her waistcoat over it.
The plane buzzed and hiccuped towards them watched intently by the men. But then, a second later, for no apparent reason, it jinked abruptly, rising and twisting, bridling like a spooked horse and then sliding back on to its original course. Iskander’s head turned and he shot a look of intense enquiry at Lily. Lily didn’t appear to be aware of his scrutiny. Like everyone else she was staring, open-mouthed and hypnotized by the aerial spectacle, her arms hugging her knees.
When the plane was out of earshot once more Iskander gave the order to move off. Rising to her knees, Lily managed to slip the plate between two rocks and strolled, unconcerned, to her horse. Once again she was allowed to ride free and almost unnoticed at the rear of the column. She was tempted but for no more than a second to wonder what would happen if she lagged behind and then turned her horse and rode like the wind to the east. She was sure now that she would get back to the fort and in much less than the thirty miles it had taken them to get this far but the picture of herself galloping down a series of dark defiles, topping a series of razor-backed passes, no clear idea of where she was going and probably shot at by pursuing tribesmen – to say nothing of the threat of the sinister fate that might await Rathmore – kept her riding once more demurely in convoy. She would do her best to get back to civilization, pull every trick in the book – that was every captive’s duty – but only if she could be sure she wouldn’t bring down the scalping knife on Rathmore.
They were entering more heavily populated country, she decided, as time after time they were challenged by unseen men from the hills. Always Iskander called back the same response and Lily guessed that passwords were being exchanged. Certainly the repeatedly called name of Iskander seemed to open all barriers. Usually, after a satisfactorily answered challenge, the challenger would show himself, waving his rifle in greeting. And a terrifying bunch they were too, Lily thought. All young, wild-eyed, grinning, with the general facial attributes of an eagle and heavy black beards. The troop moved smartly on, working their way through the hills and keeping the distant valley always to their left.
Iskander ranged up alongside and said, ‘Five miles more and we shall arrive at our destination,’ and rode off again.
When Lily had calculated they must be just about there they rounded a bend and came across a herd of sheep crossing under the care of their shepherd. This was a lad, small and still unbearded. He was wearing a tattered tunic and trousers and a felt hat decorated with two pink roses. He carried slung over his shoulder a gun so ancient it looked desperately dangerous but his reaction to finding the track blocked by a troop of warriors was instant. In one smooth movement the child had swung his rifle forward, sunk to his knees in the middle of the path and covered the front riders with an unwavering barrel. He rapped out a challenge, a challenge incongruous in his unbroken voice. The troop halted at once and Iskander answered the challenge. The boy was not satisfied and asked, apparently, for further information. Patiently and seriously Iskander replied and, after a moment’s consideration, the boy stood and lowered his rifle. Lily noticed that not one of the men laughed or said anything patronizing or even complimentary. The boy had done his job – he had behaved as they expected he would behave. She began to wonder what other surprises awaited her at her destination amongst these surprising people.
The little convoy wound on and the way grew narrower and the enclosing hills higher until the sky appeared only as a ribbon of blue, a ribbon of blue in which eagles ceaselessly circled above them. Fancifully, Lily thought that however efficient Fred Moore-Simpson might be a flight of eagles would be a good deal more effective than his little biplane.
Sometimes trotting but more often picking their way over stones they rode on. Dizzy from her sleepless night and choked with dust, Lily began to appraise her situation. ‘Well, I know for sure how I got here but I do wonder what I’m doing here in this moon landscape. This is . . . er . . . Saturday morning. To think – I could be partnering Edward Dalrymple-Webster at badminton if I’d stayed in Simla! Past – imperfect, present very far from indicative and future not simple, whatever else! I wonder what lies round the next corner?’
What lay around the next corner was predictable: a further narrowing of the gorge until they could only ride in single file, the thunder of a waterfall crashing down, it seemed, from the sky, the perpetual rattle of falling stones and the click of advancing hooves. The creak of saddlery and jingle of bits blended into a symphony of sound which to Lily’s dulled senses acquired a quality that was almost soothing and she hardly noticed that their way grew abruptly steeper as it led towards a saddle amongst the rocks.
Iskander came riding back towards her. ‘Miss Coblenz! Lily!’ he said with concern. ‘You’re nearly asleep! I’m sorry you’ve had this arduous journey. I’ve said it before and now I’ll say it again – a few more paces and you will see our journey’s end.’
He shouted to the men ahead of them and at his command they separated, leaving the way clear for Lily to ride to the head of the convoy and over the saddle. Here he waited for her and with a smile and a proud gesture pointed towards the land below. ‘Behold,’ he said, ‘Mahdan Khotal! The fort and the lands of my people welcome you.’
Lily sat back in her saddle with her hands on her hips. ‘What’s this you’re showing me? El Dorado?’ she said but, in truth, she was impressed, she was allured, she was even charmed by the landscape before her which was of orchards and cornfields, of peacefully grazing sheep and hastening streams, terraced cultivation and the tinkle of water blending with the tinkle of sheep bells.
Iskander was eyeing her intently. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Yes indeed! It’s perfectly lovely!’ said Lily, anxious to give nothing away, but all the same she saw this as a land worth fighting for and if necessary worth dying for. The hillsides were dotted with houses large and small, many with watchtowers enclosed within defensive walls. Folded with such skill into the hills that Lily was not at first aware of it was a considerable village, itself within a defensive wall, surrounding an interior fortress, large and forbidding, the home of Iskander and the home of Zeman.
‘We will ride in,’ said Iskander. ‘You have to meet the tribal chieftain. His wife died last year so you will be received by his new wife, Halima Begum. Don’t be alarmed.’
‘Why should I be alarmed?’ said Lily automatically.
‘You would be forgiven if you were,’ said Iskander smiling. ‘It must be very strange to you.’
They rode through the guarded gates in the outer enceinte and across a stretch of open ground the size of a parade ground to reach the central fortress. Everywhere crowds of people stopped to smile and shout and wave at them. The business of a thriving village was being conducted here – market stalls lined the shaded part of the walls, animals were being led about, water jugs carried, and the enticing and unmistakable smell of a bakery wafted towards her. Metallic clashing and a blast of scorching air as they passed might have announced a blacksmith’s forge but the shining new rifles and gun parts stacked outside hinted at a more sinister activity. Small children, boys and girls, ran about barefoot in the dust dashing dangerously close to the horses’ hooves in their eagerness to get a close look at the visitors.
As they approached, the fortress itself presented a truly forbidding appearance. The encircling mud brick wall appeared to be about six feet thick and about thirty feet high. It was crenellated and without windows. Lily became aware of square watchtowers on the battlements and massive corner towers. The defences were manned and the sun picked up from time to time the reflection of a rifle barrel. The massive iron-studded gate was closed and Lily began to feel very small as they advanced towards it. It creaked gently ope
n to reveal a courtyard where, flanked by armed tribesmen, a bearded man sat waiting for them, as one carved from the surrounding hills in silence and immobile, controlling with a sinewy hand a white-eyed black stallion.
‘That,’ said Iskander superfluously, ‘is our chief, Ramazad Khan.’
Without a word of command being spoken her horse and that of Rathmore were taken in hand and held back to the rear of the troop. The men dismounted. The Khan dismounted. Lily and Rathmore did the same and small boys ran forward to gather up the reins and lead the horses away. With his men formed up behind him Iskander Khan sank to his knees and kissed the hands of his chief. They spoke to each other in what Lily judged to be a formal greeting. She looked closely at the impressive figure who was Zeman’s father and wondered whether the news of his son’s death had reached him or whether it was going to be Iskander’s duty to reveal it now.
For the first time in her enforced flight Lily felt true fear. She realized that until this moment she had been placing faith in Iskander’s reassurances that women were not harmed by the Pathan. She had been cushioned from reality also by the sense of her own status. Her father was unimaginably rich. Rich enough to buy up this whole territory, she estimated. Rich enough to buy his daughter out of any scrape she got herself into. And suddenly, here, in the middle of this wild country which obeyed no laws that she had ever heard of, her fate depended on the whims of this chieftain. Iskander, she felt certain, would never harm her but here he was before her eyes making obeisance to this formidable man. And, quite clearly, Iskander’s continued protection must be dependent on the chief’s decisions. What had James said about him? She thought she had overheard him telling Joe that he was a malicious old brute who hated the British. Would he know the difference between British and American? Would he care? Lily thought that they were probably all ferenghi to him.
She looked at him again and decided that James was probably not exaggerating. The Khan was quite obviously the father of Zeman, the likeness was striking, but where Zeman had simply worn a moustache this man had a full and long black beard streaked with grey. The hook-nosed profile was as handsome but where Zeman’s eyes had been full of merriment and cynicism his father’s eye was cold. He was as tall as Iskander; his back was straight, his movements lithe. In fact, he was every last inch a chieftain, thought Lily. And when he found out who she was and, even more pertinently, who Rathmore was, she guessed there was going to be trouble. Lily began to wish Iskander had taken them off to Afghanistan. She thought they would have had a better chance of survival with the Amir who sounded really rather a jolly little feller if Grace was to be believed.
Now what was happening? The men, apart from two who remained one on either side of Rathmore, were dismissed at a signal from Iskander and went off into the village. She dreaded that Rathmore would try to assert himself and put the Khan in his place and tried to give him a warning look. Iskander spoke for a long time to his chief, answering questions put to him in a stiff voice from time to time. Such was the chief’s control of his emotions that Lily could not make out the exact moment when Iskander revealed to him that his son was dead. Finally, the old man turned a baleful glare on Rathmore who opened his mouth to speak and even managed a few words of the ‘I say, are you aware of who I am? . . . His Majesty’s Government . . . Certain reprisals . . .’ type and then, under the spell of the old man’s scorn, thought better of it and fell silent. The chief called forward one of his aides – an interpreter, Lily guessed – who gave him the gist of Rathmore’s pronouncements. Ramazad put a few questions to Rathmore, again pointedly not involving Iskander in the exchange, and then sent Rathmore off with an escort. He turned his attention to Lily and she stared straight back at him unabashed. Summoning up the little Pushtu she had persuaded Zeman to teach her, she greeted him in his own language. He looked at her in astonishment and snapped out a command to Iskander.
At once Iskander took charge of Lily. ‘Follow me, Miss Coblenz. I will take you to your quarters.’
He strode off across the central square and Lily trotted after him.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.
‘Over there.’
He pointed to the far side of the square to a long two-storeyed building with a series of tall narrow windows running along it. Made of baked mud like the rest of the fort, it would have been ugly had its starkness not been relieved by a pretty balcony which ran the length of it and by the delicate tracery of the wooden screens which filled each window. Iskander waited at the closed door and very soon it was opened to them by a veiled woman. She greeted Iskander with great warmth, taking his hands in hers and drawing him inside. She slipped the gauzy rose-coloured veil from her face and looked at him with affection. A tall, light-skinned Pathan with green eyes and rich brown hair, she was beautiful and young and Lily, feeling travel-stained, small and awkward, wondered who she could possibly be.
The girl listened to Iskander explaining the appearance of the dusty little sparrow at his side, looking from one to the other in astonishment. Finally, ‘This is Halima Begum, the wife of our chief,’ he said. ‘Go with her, she will see to your needs.’ He turned on his heel and walked away, closing the heavy door behind him.
Halima Begum took Lily’s hand and spoke to her in a low, sweet voice and, to Lily’s surprise, in English. ‘How do you do, Lily? Please enter.’
Lily was relieved to be out of the sun and the dust but uneasy at the abrupt disappearance of Iskander who had been her lifeline for the past hours. Nervously she greeted Halima Begum and asked, ‘Is this the chief’s house?’
Halima hesitated for a moment and replied slowly, ‘All house here is chief’s house. This is harem house. You are in harem.’
Chapter Thirteen
James Lindsay set his binoculars down on the wall beside him and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ he grumbled. ‘Blasted Powindah! Always glad to see them of course but I’d rather they hadn’t chosen this moment to build an impenetrable dust screen across the Khyber! God knows what’s happening behind it!’
‘What might be happening behind it?’ said Joe, staring northward.
‘Anything!’ said James. ‘Anything in the world. Anything or nothing. Let’s go out and meet them, Joe. Whatever else they operate – and sometimes it’s better not to enquire too closely – they operate a damn good news service. Not much happens,’ he pointed, ‘not much happens over there without their knowing about it. If Iskander and his mates are on the caravan road to Afghanistan – and that’s the only road to Afghanistan – they’ll know where they are and what they’re up to. Care to come? I’m turning out a Mounted Infantry detachment anyway and they can escort us. Probably quite unnecessary but, as I say, you never know what’s happening behind the dust. Come on, Joe! A breath of far from fresh air won’t do us any harm. I’ll just tell Eddy what we’re up to. Betty too. Not feeling too good, poor old thing. This bloody country! Knocks you to bits in the end, even the stoutest.’
At the head of an MI detachment of thirty Scouts James and Joe clattered out of the fort together and made their way into the gut of the Khyber Pass and here they drew aside, halted amongst the rocks and settled down to watch. As the haze of dust blowing ahead of the caravan grew thicker, the noises also began to reach them: a weird dissonance of shouting men, braying donkeys, tinkling camel bells, the whole pierced by an occasional peal of wild girlish laughter and all underpinned by the dull, ear-numbing, earth-drumming pounding of thousands of hooves and hundreds of feet. Overwhelmed, Joe stared and stared again.
‘Not quite what you were expecting?’ said James.
‘I’ll say not! I was expecting – oh, a single file of camels and a few gypsy tribesmen. Not this . . .’ His voice trailed away as his eyes took in the ancient and barbaric splendour of the advancing caravan.
‘It’s a whole people on the move. They’re thousands strong and they’ve been nomadic since history began. They’re tough too. They follow the Silk Route, coming d
own from Samarkand and Bokhara and Kabul, trading all the way. Everyone they pass knows the caravan is full of goods they want for themselves. Some try to take them by force not by haggling in the prescribed manner and usually they end up dead. The Powindah men are hard bargainers but they’re harder on anyone who tries to steal from them or defraud them. You never know quite who you’re going to meet as you emerge from that mountain hellhole – could be Alexander the Great and a squad of Macedonians in a bad temper, a band of Moghul warriors on the rampage or – like today – just a couple of admiring chaps bringing gifts.’ He held up a gilt-wrapped package of Gold Flake cigarettes. ‘The mounted fighting men come first, you’ll see, followed by the young men of the tribe, all armed to the teeth, on foot, then the main caravan with protective outriders and a final rearguard. Oh, and you’ll see dogs. They roam everywhere and are trained to tear bits off anyone who so much as looks at them, so don’t engage their attention. Ah – here they come!’
They waited to the side of the trail as the advance guard emerged from the dust cloud. First there came perhaps a hundred strong, well-dressed and well-mounted Powindahs. Tall, warlike, watchful, competent and completely unabashed: this was the series of Joe’s impressions of the colourful mob. But no – ‘mob’ was not quite right. Colourful army? ‘Yes,’ Joe decided. ‘More like an army.’
Their leader paused as he caught sight of James and escorted by three others drew aside to greet him. As far as Joe could tell the greeting was a formal one but by no means without humour and James replied in kind.
‘What’s he saying?’ said Joe, irritated as always not to understand.
The Damascened Blade Page 17