by Harold Lamb
“There were some of your faith at the court of the great king,” she remarked idly.
“What name bears this khan?”
She glanced at him and smiled fleetingly. Resting her rounded chin on her hand, she gazed at the fire. Khlit saw that her beauty was as fine as the texture of a peacock's plumage, as delicate as the tinted heart of a rare shell. Her eyes were not aslant, but level as his own.
The molding of the luminous brow and the tiny mouth bespoke pride and intelligence. The dark hair peering from under the hood of the khalat was abundant and silk-like.
The shawl about her slender shoulders was open at the throat, revealing a splendid throat ringed in pearl necklaces. Here was a woman who had undoubtedly been mistress of many slaves, who was a Mohammedan, with jewels to the value of many horses— even a principality.
“Akbar, of Ind,” she said.
Khlit had heard of Ind as a land of many peoples and great treasure, whence caravans came to China. As far as he had a purpose in his wandering, he was bound there.
“Are there many yurts and tents in Akbar's camp?” he inquired. The girl stared at him frankly and threw back her head with a musical laugh.
“O steppe boor! O one-of-small-wisdom! There be palaces in the empire of Akbar the Mogul as many as the tents of one of your dirty Tatar camps.” The laugh ended abruptly. “Nay, he has a following of millions of many faiths, who obey his word from Samarkand to the Ganges' mouth. And his word has laid the seal of death on Nur-Jahan—”
She broke off, biting her lip swiftly with a vexed frown.
“Hey—is that the name they have given you, little night-bird?” Khlit yawned indifferently. “It has a strange sound.”
“It is mine at the bidding of a prince, dolt!” she cried. “And you have heard it. That is an evil thing, for I wish it not to be known.”
“It matters not,” growled the Cossack, lighting his longstemmed black pipe while the woman regarded him with vexed intentness. “I shall not speak it—nay, I care little for the secrets of a palace courtesan.”
Nur-Jahan leaned swiftly toward him. Khlit caught the glitter of metal in the firelight and threw up his hand in time to seize the slender hand that held a dagger a few inches from his chest. He turned the girl's wrist curiously to the light, inspecting the tiny weapon, scarce larger than the jade pendants that twinkled at her ears.
“Are these the weapons of Ind?” he asked mildly, a glimmer in his deep-set eyes. “And have you forgotten, Nur-Jahan, the faith of a follower of Mahomet, who may not slay one with whom he has shared bread and salt?”
With that he released the Persian's wrist. The girl's cheeks were crimson and her eyes brilliant with anger. But the dagger fell to her lap.
Truly, thought Khlit, she was one of rank, for an ordinary concubine would not be so quick to resent a slight. The favorite of a prince, perhaps.
“Harken, little spitfire. Why did you leave the land of Ind for the foul Gobi desert—alone?”
“Nay, not alone. There was one with me who is worth ten other warriors. In the morning he will come, by the caravan track. Let him find you gone, caphar, or your life will cease as the flame of a candle in the wind, and the ravens will eat of your head!” “He must be a brave khan, then. But he left you, Nur-Jahan, alone in the lap of Gobi. How may that be?”
“He went to Khoten for news—of Ind. For tidings, and another who came over the mountains to join us. Also, to get food, which we lacked. As I said, Chauna Singh is belated and I shall scold him well. Nay, caphar, I could not go to Khoten lest I be seen; and Breath of the Wind—” she pointed to the gray horse—“is a stallion of Kabul, fleeter than the beasts of this country. He would keep me safe.”
“A good horse, little night-bird. But fear you not I will slay you for those jewels—” Khlit nodded at her throat—“take the stallion and leave your fair body for the eyes of this Chauna Singh?” Nur-Jahan shook her dark head with a smile.
“What will be, will be. And it is not written that my grave lies in the desert. Besides, I read honesty in your dull eyes—honesty and stupidity. Strong men are my slaves. Speak, caphar!” She shifted on the robe until her head was near his shoulder. “Without doubt you are old in the ways of loves and have had many women to your will. Have you seen one so fair as I? Speak—is it not so? A prince, ruler of ten thousand swords, swore I was more lovely than the gardens of Kashmir in Spring. Aye, than the lotus and tulips of the divine wife of Prithvi-Raj. What say you, old warrior?”
There was assurance in the poise of the splendid head near Khlit, and a soft undertone to the musical voice. Nur-Jahan spoke artlessly, yet with the pride of one whose beauty had brought to her—power. And great power.
Khlit was conscious of a perfume that came from the silken garments under the heavy khalat—a mingling of faint musk and dried rose-leaves. He looked steadily into the dark eyes, eyes that were veiled shadows changing to luminous pools, deep and full as the waters of quiet lakes.
“You are a child, Nur-Jahan,” he said gruffly, “and there is evil in you as well as beauty.”
Nur-Jahan considered him gravely, drawing the khalat closer about her, for it grew cold.
“What is evil, old warrior?” she mused. “The word of Allah the wise tells us that we know not what is before us or behind. We are wind-swept leaves on the roadway of fate. Our lives are written before we come to the world. Why do you call me evil? Nay, I will show you that it is not so.”
She paused, making designs in the sand with the dagger point. Khlit threw some more wood on the fire.
“You know my name,” she continued. “And that must not be. I am hiding, to save myself from the decree of Akbar, who, when he felt the angel of death standing near, ordered my execution. There was no place in Ind where I would be safe—nor in Tibet or Ladak. So I came with one other over the mountains into the desert. You go to Khoten, doubtless, and my enemies are there. So you may not live to say that you have seen me.”
Khlit made no response. His indifference vexed the girl.
“By the face of the Prophet, you are witless!” she stormed. “Nay, since you have shared bread with me, I will offer you a chance of life before Chauna Singh comes. Or he will assuredly slay you. For the life of one such as you—and a caphar—is of trifling importance beside my secret. In spite of your sharing food with me he will slay you very quickly. He is a swordsman among a thousand.”
“Then I shall wait until I see him, prattle-tongue. I have not seen a true swordsman since a certain Tatar khan died at my side.”
“Fool! If you stay, your grave is dug here. Get you to horse. It will be several hours before Chauna Singh will sight our fire. If you ride north at once, he may not follow far, for he will not leave me again for long. So you may save your skin.”
Khlit stretched his gaunt arms, for he was sleepy and the woman's talk disturbed him.
“I go south to Khoten—not north,” he responded curtly. “As for Chauna Singh, let him look to his own skin, if he stands in my way.”
Nur-Jahan stared at the Cossack as if she had not heard aright. She noted the deep-set eyes under gray brows, still alert in spite of their wrinkles, and the lean, hard cheeks, stretched firmly over the bones. A man not unlike her own people, she thought, yet one of rude dress and coarse bearing.
“Chauna Singh,” she protested, “is a man in the prime of life,
O one-without-wisdom, and you—”
“Truly, I am wearied of talk.”
With this Khlit betook himself to the other side of the fire, where he rolled himself in his long coat and was asleep almost on the instant.
Thus it was that Khlit shared food and fire with the woman who came to him in the desert, whose name was strange to him. And Nur-Jahan, watching sleepily by the tamarisk flames, thought that here was a man of a kind she had not met with, who cared not for her beauty and less for the threat of death, yet who gave up his shelter and the half of his food to her.
IV
It is
written in the annals of the Raj that Pertap, the hero, gave his horse to a generous foe, thus risking death.
Wherefore do the men of the Raj cry: “Ho! Nila-ghora ki aswar,” when they ride into battle. For the memory of a Rajput is long.
The sound of voices wakened Khlit from a deep sleep. A glance told him that two riders had come up and were halted beside the woman, who was on her feet, talking to them.
Khlit rose leisurely and stirred up the remnants of the fire. This done, he scanned the newcomers. Both were well clad and mounted. One, a lean man of great height, bore a scar the length of his dark cheek. The Cossack noted that he sat his horse with ease, that the beast was of goodly breed, that the peaked saddle was jewel mounted and that gold inlaid mail showed under the white satin vestment over the rider's square shoulders. His turban was small and knotted over one ear, the end hanging over the right shoulder.
He was heavily bearded and harsh of face, thanks in part to the scar which ran from chin to brow, blighting one eye, which was half-closed. The other man Khlit passed over for the time. He was bent, with the fragile frame of a child and a mild, wrinkled face.
Nur-Jahan was speaking urgently to the man with the scar, who frowned, shaking his turbaned head. His glance searched Khlit scornfully. Apparently he was refusing some request of the girl's. Without taking his eyes from the Cossack, he dismounted and strode toward the fire.
“Ho! Rider of the mangy pony!” he cried, in broken Uigur. “One without manners, of a race without honor. I have heard the tale of Nur-Jahan and your death is at hand.”
Khlit lifted his arm, showing his empty hand.
“I seek no quarrel, Chauna Singh,” he said slowly. “I am no old woman, to gossip concerning the affairs of others. Peace! Go your way, and I go mine.”
“To Khoten?” The bearded lip of Chauna Singh lifted in a snarl. “It may not be. Nay, I do not desire your death; but the life of Nur-
Jahan is my charge, and the sword is the only pledge that seals the lips of a man. Come, take your weapon!”
Khlit stared at the other grimly. He had no wish to quarrel. And Chauna Singh was an individual of formidable bearing. There was no help for it.
“Be it so,” he said briefly.
On the instant the two curved blades were flashing together, the two warriors soft-stepping in the sand. The weapons, like the men, were of equal size. Chauna Singh, however, wore a vest of fine mail, while Khlit was protected only by his heavy coat.
The warrior attacked at once, his scimitar making play over Khlit's sheepskin cap. A tall man, the champion of Nur-Jahan was accustomed to beat down the guard of an adversary. Khlit's blade was ever touching the scimitar, fending it skillfully before a stroke had gained headway.
Chauna Singh's one eye glittered and his mustache bristled in a snarl. Here was not the easy game he had anticipated. Nor was the Cossack to be tricked into a false stroke by a pretended lapse on his part—as the other speedily learned.
The girl and the other rider watched in intent silence. Khlit had sufficient faith in the honor of his foes not to fear a knife in his back at the hand of Chauna Singh's comrade. He had eyes for nothing but the dazzling play of the other's weapon, which ceaselessly sought head, throat, and side.
While Khlit's sword made play his brain was not idle. He saw that Chauna Singh appeared tireless, while his own arm lacked the power of youth. Soon he would be at a disadvantage. He must put the fight to an issue at once.
And so Khlit lunged at Chauna Singh—lunged and sank on one knee as if from the impetus of his thrust. His blade, for a second, was lowered.
Had Chauna Singh not held his adversary in mild contempt he would have known that a swordsman of Khlit's skill would not have made such a blunder. But the Rajput, heated by the conflict, uttered a cry of triumph and swung aloft his scimitar.
“Ho! Nfla-ghora ki aswar!” he shouted—the war-cry of his race.
Ere the blow he planned had been launched, Chauna Singh jerked himself backward. Khlit's weapon had flashed up under his guard, and the wind of it fanned his beard. Had the Rajput been a whit less active on his feet his chin would have been severed from his neck. As it was, the outer fold of his turban fell to his shoulders in halves.
A blow upward from the knee—a difficult feat—was an old trick of the Cossack.
Momentarily the two adversaries were apart, eyeing each other savagely. The voice of Nur-Jahan rang out.
“Stay, Chauna Singh! Peace! Hold your clumsy hand and let me speak!”
Khlit saw the girl step between them. At her whispered urging Chauna Singh sheathed his weapon with a scowl.
“Harken, gray-beard, you be a pretty hand at swordplay. Almost you had dyed red the beard of stupid Chauna Singh. I have need of such men as you, and, verily, I can ill spare the big Rajput. You know my secret, and Chauna Singh, who has room for only one thought in his thick skull, will not consent to letting you go free. But come with us. Thus we can keep watch over your tongue.”
The Cossack considered this, leaning on his sword.
“I go to Khoten, Nur-Jahan,” he made answer gruffly.
“And we likewise. These men have brought me news which takes us to the city. Come! In Khoten a lone man fares ill, for the place is a scum of thieves and slit throats.”
Khlit had no especial liking for company. On the other hand, Chauna Singh's swordplay had won his hearty respect. The Persian's words had not the ring of treachery. And her champion, although quick to draw blade, was not one to slay without warning.
“Whither go you from Khoten?” he asked.
Nur-Jahan hesitated. But the man on the horse spoke, in a voice strangely musical.
“We go into the heart of peril, warrior—by a path beset with enemies. If you live, you will reach the hills of Kashmir and Ind and find honor at a Mogul's court. Have you heart for such a venture?”
Khlit glanced at the speaker curiously. The other could not have chosen words more to his liking. He saw a thin, dark face bent between slender shoulders, a sensitive mouth and shrewd, kindly eyes.
“Aye, khan,” said Chauna Singh bluntly, “if you want good blows, given and taken, come with us—and gain a treasure of rare horses and jewels. But, give heed, your life will not be safe— for we face a thousand foes, we three, and a thousand that we see not or know not, until they strike.”
“Be you men of the Mogul?”
Khlit saw the three exchange a curious glance. Nur-Jahan's eyes lighted mockingly.
“If we live, khan—aye. But if we die we be foes of the mighty Mogul Akbar of Ind. Will you come, being our comrade-in-arms and the keeper of my secret?”
The Cossack sheathed his sword.
“Aye—be it so. Many enemies give honor to a man.”
The Rajput strode forward, placing hand on lips and chest.
“By the white horse of Prithvi-Raj, I like it well! I have not met such a swordsman in a feast of moons. Ho! If we live, you will drink good wine of Shiraz and I will watch. If we die, we will spread a carpet of dead about us such as will delight the gods.”
Nur-Jahan's piquant face was smiling slightly, but the shrewd eyes of the man on the horse were inscrutable.
V
“And it was as the mir said. The word of a dead man has doomed her. Because of her beauty is she doomed. It is written that a fair maiden is like to a ruby-cup of wine that heats the brain of men while it stirs their senses.”
Hamar, the companion of Chauna Singh, smiled meditatively at Khlit, stroking his mustache with a thin hand. The man, Khlit had discovered, was a musician of Hind, a wandering philosopher of Nur-Jahan's country. He it was who had come from Kashmir to Khoten with word from the Mogul court that they were to hasten back.
The four were trotting along the caravan track, a day's ride nearer the city. Nur-Jahan, on her gray horse, was leading, with Chauna Singh at her side. Khlit and the minstrel followed at some distance, keeping a wary eye on the rear, for they had passed one or two corteges of merchants, j
ourneying from Aksu to Khoten.
“How may that be?” grunted Khlit, who had no liking for riddles and twisted words. “When a man is dead he cannot work harm.”
“Nay, but this is Akbar, lord of Delhi, ruler of the Raj, conqueror of Kashmir and Sind—monarch of five times a hundred thousand blades. His whispered word was law from Turkestan to the Dekkan. A mighty man, follower of Mahomet, achieving by his lone strength the mastery of the Mogul empire. He is dead, but his word lives.”
“And that word—”
“To slay Nur-Jahan.” The faded eyes of the minstrel had gleamed at mention of the glories of Akbar; now they were somber. A man of wisdom, thought Khlit, considering his companion, and a dreamer.
“Harken, khan.” Hamar roused himself. “This is the story. Akbar carved for himself the empire of the Moguls, following in the footsteps of his illustrious grandsire, Babur. Yet is the empire formed of races of many faiths—Muslims from Turkestan, Hindus of Ind, Jains and Buddhists of Ladak, and priests of another temple who are masters in the hills. To hold together such an empire, the ruler must be one with his subjects—and Akbar, of blessed wisdom, was a patron of many faiths. Men say that he died calling upon the gods of Brahma, although a Muslim. I have seen him bow the head in many temples. So he held the jealous races of the empire together. And so must his successor, Jahangir, do.”
Hamar paused, glancing over the waste ahead of them, where the barren trunks of dead trees reared themselves above the whitened bones of camels.
“When Jahangir was a youth of fifteen,” he resumed, “he met the maiden Mir-un-nissa, now called Nur-Jahan, in a palace festival. He gave the Persian girl two doves to hold for him. One escaped her grasp. Jahangir, angered, demanded how. Verily, then the proud temper of the maiden showed. 'Thus!' she cried and freed the other bird. From that moment the prince loved her— aye, steadfastly.”
“The tale wearies me,” growled Khlit. “Bah—doves and a maiden—what have they to do with an empire?”