by Harold Lamb
Dongkor Gelong bowed assent, although his eyes swept the Cossack's face keenly.
“It is well spoken, O Kha Khan. You are not a fool like some of those from the steppe. Harken to the plan of the master of Lhassa. There are enemies you fear, who are planning to invade the lands of the Jun-gar. They are the Khirghiz, who are under the leadership of two khans, Iskander and Bassanghor. Both are formidable men in their way and, being of the hills, are independent of all authority, even that of the Tsong Khapa.”
“Aye,” said Khlit briefly.
Once again the Chutuktu Lama studied him and nodded as if satisfied.
“Iskander Khan and Bassanghor Khan are here in Kashgar,” he went on slowly. “Without those two the Khirghiz are like a body without a head. They are the ones who planned the war against you. And the Tsong Khapa has noted with grief the injuries inflicted on you. We have made, the ones of the Yellow Hat, an opportunity for you to strike at them, swiftly and fatally, and to escape unharmed.”
“To kill them?”
“Aye, both. It is for that we have brought you here. Harken, Kha Khan. We have given out the word that there will be games on the Kashgar plain in two days. The matter is easily disposed of. Both khans are reckless, and they are proud of their horsemanship. A dancer, one of the beauties of Samarkand, has come here at our bidding. A favorite game of the Khirghiz is called the Love Chase—a sport where a woman is set loose on a horse among several riders on a plain and falls to the possession of the one who can first secure her. Nay, you can see—”
“Chagan and I,” Khlit broke in, “are among the riders. In the confusion of horsemen we could strike down the khans, saying afterward that it was a brawl. That is what you plan. But afterward—”
“The Khirghiz are few. My followers are numerous; they will surround you and Chagan before the Khirghiz understand what has happened, and you will be safe in the lamasery. Also, the Khirghiz have never seen you. They will not look for you here.”
Khlit nodded. “We will be escorted safely back to the Jun-gar boundary?”
Dongkor Gelong smiled and waved his hand amiably.
“Such is the will of the all-wise Tsong Khapa. There are other leaders of the Khirghiz who can be dealt with as they ride back to the Thian Shan passes. The pick of the hill chieftains are here in Kashgar. Unless I am mistaken, few will survive to carry on the war against the Jun-gar. And the Tsong Khapa will give you further aid through the Yellow Hats—when, of course, you show your gratitude for his help by continuing the tribute that the Jun-gar owes to Lhassa.”
“And the Khirghiz?”
“The death of their leaders, who are overbearing ruffians without goodwill or understanding, will strengthen the tie of the Yellow Hats to their lands. I speak bluntly, for I see you like short and truthful phrases.”
“Aye, it is ill to lie, among true men,” assented Khlit, tugging at his mustache.
Thereupon followed a silence of such length that the attendants of Dongkor Gelong stirred expectantly, watching the Cossack. Khlit's shaggy countenance was inscrutable, until he turned suddenly to Dongkor Gelong and, to their surprise, laughed heartily.
XI
“I have heard your wisdom, Chutuktu Lama,” he grinned; “now you must listen to mine. Nay, I am no shaman or conjuring monk, but I can read what is hidden. I can tell you what is in your thoughts. Would you like to hear?”
“But you have already agreed to the plan of the Tsong Khapa,” frowned Dongkor Gelong.
He studied the tall figure of the Cossack with the cold, blank stare of one who held the lash of fear over a multitude of slaves.
“Aye. That may be,” admitted Khlit. “I have no love for the Khirghiz khans. Eh, I shall tell your thoughts. The Tsong Khapa has lost the control of his priests over the Khirghiz. And the Tatars of the Jun-gar do not love to pay tribute, especially as I—an unbeliever—have taught them the folly of doing so. Is it not so?” “Obedience to the Tsong Khapa will reward you fully,” objected the lama.
“Aye. The seed of evil will bear fruit. Am I a fledgling, to be fooled by the mummery of Lhassa?” Khlit's voice sank with a growl.
Dongkor Gelong half-rose in his seat; then he sat back, staring at the Cossack.
“Suppose I slay this Iskander Khan and the other. Then the ill will between the Jun-gar and the Khirghiz will become a blood-feud. Do the hillmen ever forget the shedding of blood? Nay; the horde of the Thian Shan, the Kara Khirghiz, the Kazaks, and some of the Kallmark clans who are allied to them will ride against the Jun-gar steppe and lay waste our villages. Then the wisdom of the Tsong Khapa will be fulfilled, because his enemies will have weakened each other. His cursed Yellow Hats will pour over the hills and the steppe, gaining lands and power where good men have died in a blood-feud. Is this not the truth?”
Dongkor Gelong had mastered his surprise. He held up his hand calmly, although his dark eyes had narrowed.
“Take heed, Kha Khan. The Tsong Khapa, in agreement with the sacred oracle which declared in the ashes of forthcoming truth that the Jun-gar should find salvation at Talas, has laid before you a plan. Do you decline?”
Khlit's mustache twitched in a smile which held no mirth. “It may be. What if I do?”
“You speak like one without wits.” Dongkor Gelong shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “Harken, Kha Khan. If you set aside the word of Lhassa, the invisible forces which are at the disposal of the master of the Yellow Hats will claim you. Little you know how strong they are and how weak you are. The Jun-gar know that you came to Talas. It shall be told them how you defied the almighty Tsong Khapa—aye, your very words. And they will hear how your sinful conduct had its reward—for you will fall, by mischance, into the Jallat Kum.”
Khlit shrank back as if in horror. The full force of the lama's trickery revealed itself to him. Also the emptiness of the pledge given by his master, the Dalai Lama. He knew that Kashgar was filled with the open and disguised followers of the Yellow Hats. He was powerless to escape from the walled city. He shivered in spite of himself, as he thought of the black sands of the Jallat Kum.
Dongkor Gelong surveyed him with a pallid smile. The Cossack, he thought, was not altogether to be deceived. But he had been taught a lesson.
“And Iskander Khan?” Khlit asked hoarsely.
“We will deal with him in another way. The girl Sheillil is fair, and she has been well-paid to serve the Dalai Lama. Iskander Khan will be a slave to her beauty.”
Khlit stretched out his hand and saw that it was shivering. His thoughts would not tear themselves from the Jallat Kum. He recalled the unfortunate horse that had blundered into the sands . . .
“Nay,” he complained, “if I slay Iskander Khan, even if I live, there will be a war to the death between his people and mine. Now we may still make peace. It is not too late.”
Dongkor Gelong's face hardened.
“You have your choice. The will of the Tsong Khapa must be carried out. I am but one of his many servants. And do not think to draw your sword in the lamasery. Even now there are two men within arm's-reach of your tall body. A move—and you go to the Jallat Kum. Azim has thrown many into the sands.”
The sweat came to Khlit's forehead. Truly, it was asking greatly of him to face such a death for the Tatars, who, after all, were not of his faith. And, if he did die as Dongkor Gelong threatened, how would the Jun-gar be guarded against further stratagems of the Tsong Khapa?
“Not the Jallat Kum!” he cried and moistened his lips, finding them dry.
“That—or the death of the khans. Choose.”
Then it was that the lama saw what brought the light of satisfaction to his eyes and a hidden sneer to his lips. He saw the lined face of the Cossack quiver as with dread and heard the harsh voice plead brokenly for mercy. Khlit's shoulders bowed, and he clutched the table for support. His eyes wavered about the room, wide with fear. Then he straightened with an effort at control.
“Nay, I am the Kha Khan of the Jun-gar. The strength of my p
eople is in me. Am I to die like that, at price of the life of Iskander Khan? Nay, let the Khirghiz die. I will slay him, and Chagan the other, as you have planned.”
Dongkor Gelong rose.
“Think not to fool us. You will be watched by those who have no mercy. You have chosen.”
“Aye,” mumbled Khlit. “I will take my place in the games. But you must have your followers at the place. And the doors of the lamasery must be open for me when I return, for I will ride here at once.”
“It is well,” agreed Dongkor Gelong.
At a sign from him the attendants led Khlit from the room. He walked slowly, as one who had been broken in spirit.
The eyes of the lama followed him from the chamber. Dongkor Gelong frowned, as if not altogether content with himself. Presently he took a small sandalwood box from the bosom of his gown.
Holding the box well above the table, the lama opened it suddenly. A flood of black wood ashes fell softly to the table. With ill-concealed eagerness the man held the candle close to the ashes. With his finger he tried to trace out diagrams in the black piles. His frown deepened. When Tuvron returned at a late hour that night the Chutuktu Lama was still musing over the ashes.
XII
It was the twelfth night of the fifth moon, as related by Batur Madi, gylong, that the tribes assembled in the courtyard of the lamasery at Kashgar. The moon shed its cold light on the summits of the hills overlooking the town, leaving the valley and the river in dense shadow. A deeper shadow revealed the mass of the lamasery, erected against the wall of the town.
Inhospitable it was, this monastery, with its massive walls of sandstone, its narrow gates and small embrasures. And it was symbolic in its gloomy secretiveness of the priests it housed.
Tonight, however, the courtyard was bright. Lanterns hung from the sides of the wide court, and torch-bearers came and went. From the narrow street outside the place a throng of turbaned and cloaked figures elbowed each other with curses in many tongues for entrance at the gate guarded by armed Tibetans.
Dongkor Gelong had so far departed from the custom of the monastery as to invite the guests from the hills to witness dancing. It was the law that no woman should enter the doors of the monastery itself, so the visitors were not surprised that the festival was held in the court, or that the lamas themselves did not put in an appearance. For rumor had it that one of the dancers of Samarkand, a girl from the sultan's courts, would share in the dance.
These tidings stirred the expectation of the restless Khirghiz. Before the first sound of drums was heard in the street, the hillmen were crowding into the court. With them came richly dressed Jewish merchants of Bokhara, turbaned Usbeks of the town, tousled Dungan camel drivers, and Chinese travelers of the caravans. Among the throng, squatted in rows in the dirt or leaning against the walls, the hillmen made a small minority. Yet, as was their custom, they chose the best places, pushing Usbeks and Tibetans aside, reckless of clutched daggers and black looks.
Khlit and Chagan had selected a place against the monastery wall where they could see without being conspicuous. Apparently they were free to move where they wished, but they suspected that a watch was kept on them from the windows of the lamasery and that any attempt to push through the crowd to the courtyard gate would be prevented.
A space had been cleared in the center of the court, and here there were musicians with drums, tambourines, and guitars. Some boy dancers of the Usbeks stepped into the open space and began their lively posturing, watched attentively by the throng. Khlit, after a brief glance, paid no further heed to these, knowing that the purpose of Dongkor Gelong was to show Sheillil to the visiting khans, that they could judge of her beauty before the events of the morrow.
Khlit's keen gaze swept the crowd, seeking for the two khans of the Khirghiz. He turned carelessly to a mild-looking hafiz—a reader of poems—in a threadbare khalat.
“I have heard,” he said idly, lest the other suspect his interest, “that two khans from the hills, Iskander and Bassanghor, are here. Do you know the two, man of wisdom?”
The hafiz inclined his head and pointed to the farther side of the cleared space. Khlit made out two men who knelt in the first row of spectators. Their dark faces, lean and hawk-like, were fixed indifferently on the dancers; apparently they were waiting impatiently for the appearance of the girl. The Cossack noted that they were richly dressed, even for wealthy chieftains, in leather breeches, velvet outer robes embroidered with gold and jewels. Their sheepskin hoods were clasped at the throat with silver plates.
“The one with the scar is Iskander,” declared the hafiz, pointing. “Allah grant that he and his riders take not to plundering. Truly, he is a man without faith, serving this god or that as he chooses, but chiefly himself.”
“He looks like one who is more at ease in the hills than in a town. What does he here?”
The scholar turned his eyes to the moonlit heavens.
“Allah knows what is before and behind such as he. Nay, I have heard the lamas sent for him.”
This agreed with what Khlit had learned from Dongkor Ge-long, and he was silent. He saw a flash of eagerness on the face of Iskander Khan. At the same instant a murmur went through the crowd. Those who were in the rear pushed and elbowed for a better view as several figures advanced from the courtyard gate to the cleared space.
“Here is the harlot of the desert,” growled Chagan.
Sheillil, cloaked and escorted by two sturdy Tibetans with drawn scimitars, stepped out beside the musicians. She had pushed her veil boldly back, and a sigh went through the crowd at sight of her loveliness. Iskander Khan sat back on his heels with an exclamation of satisfaction.
The muttering and cursing of the throng was silenced as the girl slipped forward into the enclosure, dropping her heavy cloak. The torchlight glinted on her long, dark hair and on the red veil which floated behind it. The satin trousers and tiny, jeweled slippers gleamed in a double light, for the moon was now shining into the courtyard over the dark towers of the lamasery.
Khlit had seen many women dancers of the bazaars, and he paid little heed to Sheillil at first. He was surprised to hear the music change from its shrill whimper to a low monotone of drums, threaded by the soft note of the flutes. Then he saw the hafiz standing motionless, pushing against the man in front of him.
“Look, lord,” grunted Chagan. “Here is no woman, but a spirit.”
Sheillil had grasped her floating veil in both hands. The drapery billowed about her as she moved softly, whirling the veil close to her or holding it wide as her slim form bent and swayed. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, the moonlight gleamed whitely on bare throat and dainty feet.
This was no dance of the bazaars. It was freer in movement, more subtle in its intoxication. Khlit saw that the hillmen were bending forward, scarcely breathing as they watched.
The plaintive note of the flutes grew louder as the veil leaped and tossed about the girl's form. Her eyes were wide and calm, fixed on the sky. Her smile had become fainter, almost wistful.
Then a hoarse mutter of approval ran through the watchers. Two daggers appeared in Sheillil's hands. As she swayed, the twin blades glittered up and down her breast and about her head. Darting swiftly from man to man, Sheillil poised like a bird in flight. Before one she thrust the daggers, laughing as the man drew back, startled. To another she offered her lips swiftly—then slipped away with a glint of a dagger before the bearded face that leaned toward her.
Abruptly she whirled before Iskander Khan. The Khirghiz did not flinch at the knife that passed around his head. His slant eyes, half-closed, were fixed hungrily on the dancer, and his dark face was flushed. As she darted away, he tore the jeweled clasp from his throat and tossed it after her.
As quickly as the dance had begun, it was ended. Sheillil had disappeared among the Tibetan attendants and donned her cloak. The kneeling hillmen rose to their feet clamorously. But the drawn swords of the guards held them back. The dancer turned to make her w
ay through the crowd.
“It is strange,” murmured the hafiz, half to himself. “That was not like a dance of a sultan's woman. I have not seen the like in the towns. Yet it stirred the hillmen to the hazzi shaitan—the passion-spot in the heart. See; she is coming here!”
He stepped back as the girl tripped by, followed by her guards. She paused before Khlit mockingly.
“Here is a graybeard of the steppe!” she cried shrilly. “I like not such as he. Where is your felt tent and mangy pony? By Allah, the man has no wit to his tongue!”
“He has no words for a harlot,” growled Chagan, on whom the events of the morrow weighed heavily and who had no fondness for the dancer whom he held responsible for their evil plight.
Sheillil did not understand or notice the speech. She touched Khlit's sword and peered into his face laughingly.
“Eh, it is a clown. Harken, Graybeard, if you will ride in the kok bura tomorrow, take care to sharpen that curved sword you wear. Many younger men will ride with me tomorrow. If you would guard your life, have the curved sword sharpened by Chu'n Yuen, the armorer of Kashgar. Aye, Chu'n Yuen will quicken your blood with wine in the morning.”
She smiled in the Cossack's face, so close that he caught the subtle scent of roses that came from her garments.
“And will tell you of the Jun-gar,” she added so softly that even Chagan, who was beside them, did not hear.
With that she was gone in the crowd.
The hafiz looked after her with a sigh.
“There will be good sport at the kok bura,” he murmured. “Chu'n Yuen, who hears the whispers of Kashgar, swears that the girl Sheillil was born in the hills, where she learned to ride like a goshawk upon the wind. It will take a shrewd horseman to catch her and hold her. Allah the generous has ordained that I should be too poor to buy a horse. Yet it is well, for I have a thought there will be shedding of blood. The woman is fair-faced and shapely.”
“Aye, there will be blood, hafiz,” growled Chagan.
Khlit made no answer. In his mind was running the phrase the girl had whispered. “And will tell you of the Jun-gar.” What did Chu'n Yuen, or Sheillil, know of the Tatars? Had she news? Again he asked himself the question that had perplexed him since the day at Talas.