by Harold Lamb
“Much,” smiled the minstrel patiently. “In our land men love passionately and long. Jahangir still desires Nur-Jahan—and he is now Mogul. Akbar, foreseeing this in his wisdom, married the maiden to one Sher Afghan, a notable warrior and a proud man. Yet Nur-Jahan fled from Sher Afghan when Akbar sickened.” “Wherefore?”
“Nay, you know not our people, khan. Jahangir, being ruler, will doubtless slay Sher Afghan, for the new Mogul's love for the maiden is great and they betrothed themselves, one to the other, when they were young. Again, Akbar thought of this and pledged the friends of his deathbed to slay the girl before she became the queen of Jahangir.”
Khlit thought that Nur-Jahan might well prove a disturbing influence over a young ruler. Yet surely there must be a further reason for Akbar's command of death. Hamar, as if reading his thoughts, pointed to the slim figure of the girl.
“Shall a serpent come into a nest of eggs? So reasoned Akbar. The maiden Nur-Jahan is devoted to Islam and the rule of the Muslim. She is strong of will, and she would win Jahangir to her views. Then the Mogul would join himself to the Mohammedans and the empire of Babur and Akbar would vanish, thus!”
Hamar plucked a dried rose from a wallet at his girdle and tossed it into the air. The delicate petals fell apart and dropped into the sand. Hamar watched them moodily. His voice had been vibrant with feeling.
“Nur-Jahan escaped death?” Khlit demanded, for the other's story had begun to interest him.
“Once, by aid of Chauna Singh, a follower of Sher Afghan. And fled over the mountains. Now Jahangir has sent me from the Agra court with word for her to return. Once in his palace, he will safeguard her.”
“What of the knight, Sher Afghan?”
Hamar lifted his eyebrows slightly and waved a thin hand.
“A broken twig swept away by the current of a strong river— have you seen it, khan? Not otherwise is Sher Afghan. He is a proud man, who will not give up his wife—even if she be so only in name. His days are numbered.”
Khlit nodded. He had seen a citadel stormed because of the beauty of an insulted woman and the emperor of Han pardon treachery because of the smile of a favorite. The witchery of such women, he reflected, was an evil thing.
“Hey,” he laughed. “Then the matter is simple. We have but to take the maiden to Agra, to the embraces of her lover, the Mogul.”
The minstrel smiled inscrutably.
“Think you so? You forget the word of Akbar. Among his followers are the priests of Kali, the four-armed, and—from the mountains—disciples of Bon, the Destroyer. They have sworn an oath to him that the girl shall not live. Their shrines are found from Khoten to Delhi and in the hills. Their servants are numbered as the sands of the great desert. Likewise they are priests of the gods, and the death of the Persian Muslim will safeguard their faith in Ind. Why did not Jahangir send an army to bring her to him? Nay, in the ranks would be assassins of Kali. The elephant drivers would see that she fell from the howdah.”
Khlit grunted scornfully. Hamar's eyes flashed as he pointed ahead of them, where the dust of a caravan rose.
“If we drink from a cup, we must look for poison. If we sleep in a caravansary, the camel men will come to us like evil lings with drawn knives. We be but four against a thousand. Aye, from his tomb, the hand of Akbar has set the seal of sacrifice on Nur-Jahan's forehead.”
VI
In every Temple they seek Thee; in every language they praise Thee. Each faith says it holds Thee.
Thee I seek from Temple to Temple.
But only the dust of the Rose Petal remains to the seller of perfume.
Akbar, the Mogul
The caravansary was a low stone wall built around a well by the desert route. It was littered with dung and the leavings of former visitors. In the twilight it loomed desolate and vacant.
Chauna Singh had been unwilling to rest there the night, but Hamar pointed out that the sun was down, the air chill, and they had need of water. True, the caravan they had passed a short way back was hard on their heels; but they had been seen as they rode by it, and if danger was to be expected from the merchants and their followers it was better to face it in the lighted enclosure of the caravansary than to journey further into the desert—where they could easily be traced.
Nur-Jahan added her voice to Hamar's, and the Rajput, grumbling, bestirred himself to build a fire for the woman on the blackened debris of the hearth. Khlit tended the horses—a task readily yielded to him by Chauna Singh, who was not overfond of manual labor, except on the behalf of his mistress.
Khlit saw that the enclosure was similar to a Khirghiz aul— sufficiently large to accommodate them and the cortege which presently entered. Chauna Singh had shrewdly chosen a corner of the place farthest from the gate, where they could face the new arrivals. He aided the Cossack in preparing some rice over the fire, both apparently giving no heed to the other caravan but keeping a keen lookout.
“They be low-caste traders from the Han country,” muttered the Rajput beneath his breath. “Men without honor, poor fighters; still—with ruffianly following.”
“Hillmen—Khirghiz, a few,” assented Khlit, who knew the folk of the uplands. “Hook-nosed Usbeks, a fat mandarin or two, some beggarly Dungans—and a swine-faced Turkoman.”
“Aye, the Turkoman may bear watching. He has a score of rascals.”
Chauna Singh glanced at Khlit in some surprise at the Cossack's knowledge. The look was scornful, half askance, the look of a man who traced his ancestors to the gods and held honor dearer than life.
“Whence come you, khan, that you know the people of the hills? What is your caste?”
“For the present, Chauna Singh,” said Khlit, “I come from Tatary. There I was but one among a hundred khans. They called me Khlit, of the Curved Saber.”
“That is a strange name,” meditated the Rajput. “Nay, by Shiva, you must be more than a small khan—a leader of a hundred! Surely, you had rank?”
Khlit stirred the fire calmly. He traced his ancestors to Genghis Khan, and the curved sword was that of Kaidu, overlord and hero of Tatary. Yet the Rajput's insolence irked him. Chauna Singh did not know that Khlit had been Kha Khan of the remaining tribes of Tatary.
“A leader of a hundred?” he growled. “Not so. I am lord of nothing save yonder pony. As for rank, I once spoke to the great emperor of Han—and he gave me some gold.”
The Cossack's whiskers twitched in a smile, for he had saved the emperor Wan Li from burial alive in the tomb of his ancestors and had appropriated the treasure of the tomb as payment. But this he neglected to confide to Chauna Singh.
“Ho—gold!” The Rajput muttered, giving up his questioning as fruitless. “You will have rubies and sapphires if you live to reach Jahangir.”
“You are a follower of Jahangir?” asked Khlit, eyeing the lean face framed in the firelight.
Chauna Singh's head snapped up.
“Since the breath of life was in Ind, a Rajput has been faithful to his lord.”
Nur-Jahan kept in the background as they ate. She had performed her after-sunset prayer as quietly as might be, keeping her veil drawn close. Hamar had impressed upon her the need of caution.
Even Khlit felt something of the alertness that possessed the two followers of the girl. Truly, they must fear the danger they stood from the priests of Akbar, the followers of Kali and Bon. When the Turkoman strolled over from the other fires with several men and stared at them, the Cossack saw Chauna Singh rise indolently, stretch and take up a position between Nur-Jahan and the newcomers.
Hamar had drawn forth his vina—a guitar-like instrument—at which he was plucking softly. The Turkoman's slant eyes took in the scene and he swaggered forward.
Khlit did not hear what the caravan man said to Hamar, but Chauna Singh said in a whisper that he was asking if Nur-Jahan were a slave.
The minstrel responded idly, without raising his eyes from the guitar. As he did so Khlit saw the ragged followers of their visitor edge to e
ither side of the fire, as if to watch the musician.
Intently as he watched, he could not tell if the movement was preconceived or chance. The Turkoman spat into the fire, squatting opposite Hamar.
“He asked,” whispered the Rajput to Khlit, “for a song. He has the face of a dolt, but—take care lest the followers get behind you. They have knives in their girdles.”
The Turkoman, who announced that his name was Bator Khan, demanded in a loud voice that Hamar make them a tune and the slave girl dance. It was a breach of politeness that Chauna Singh and the minstrel passed over in silence. The attendants had ceased moving forward and were staring at them, chattering together, clearly waiting for a word from Bator Khan.
The conduct of the group did not impress Khlit favorably. They were too curious, too serious in what they did. Suppose that the evil-faced Turkoman should prove to be an enemy of Nur-Jahan? They were four against a dozen.
The Cossack was too wise in the ways of violence to show his foreboding. He waited quietly, his hands near his sword hilt, for what was to come. Perhaps Bator Khan was merely a merchant who saw an opportunity to seize a slave girl. If so, he would not be likely to try force unless he thought he could take the three men unaware.
A silence fell as Hamar leaned forward to the fire. Khlit saw him lay a white silk scarf on the ground before him. Reaching behind him, the minstrel placed a crystal goblet on the cloth.
“Bring water,” he said softly to one of the followers of Bator Khan. “And fill the goblet to the edge—no more. The water must be clean.”
The man did as he was bid, with a glance at the Turkoman. All eyes were on the minstrel as he took up his guitar. His delicate hands passed lightly over the strings, which vibrated very faintly.
“You have asked for a song, Bator Khan,” he said mildly. “So be it. I will play the bhairov, which is the song of water. Nay, you know not the high art of music—the training which enables one versed in the mysteries of tones to influence the elements—fire, air, and water—which correspond to the tones. But watch, and you will see.”
With a swift motion he tossed something from his hand into the flames. The smoke grew denser. A strong, pungent odor struck Khlit's nostrils. Some of the men of Bator Khan started back fearfully. Those who held their ground stared wide-eyed. Khlit knew the superstition of their breed.
Hamar closed his eyes. Sounds, faint and poignant, came from the strings under his fingers. Khlit had seen him exchange no word with Chauna Singh or Nur-Jahan. Reflecting on this later, he reasoned that the other two must have known what the minstrel was about.
Bator Khan stared mockingly at the musician. Gradually, however, as the note of the guitar grew louder, the mockery faded and the Turkoman watched open-mouthed.
Hamar was repeating the same chords—varying them fancifully. The melody was like the tinkling of chimes with an undertone as of heavy temple gongs. It vibrated, caressing the same note, until it seemed to Khlit that the note hung in the air.
He had never heard the mystical Hindu music and he liked it little. Yet the impression of chimes persisted. Almost he could have sworn that bronze bells were echoing in the air overhead. And still Hamar harped on the vibrant note.
The ring of men was silent. Khlit saw that they were all staring at the goblet, save Chauna Singh and Nur-Jahan, who were in shadow. And he saw that the water in the glass was stirring, moving up and down.
The melody grew louder. Khlit swore under his breath. For the water was splashing about—although the goblet was steady and the cloth a good yard from Hamar. And then the water began to run down the sides of the vessel, staining the cloth.
It trickled down slowly, while the Turkoman's men drew back. One or two started away from the fire, staring at the cloth in fear. Even Bator Khan got to his feet and stepped back a pace.
The tune of Hamar ceased. And the water in the goblet was still. “Hide of the devil!” swore the Turkoman. “It was a trick.”
Hamar opened his eyes and smiled. Khlit saw him cast a halfglance behind him.
“Lift the cloth, then, O one-of-small-faith,” said the minstrel. “How could it be a trick?”
Bator Khan did so, hesitantly. The whole of the scarf was wet through. But the goblet was still full to the brim. Hamar regarded him smilingly.
Khlit rose, intending to speak to Chauna Singh. He grunted in surprise. The Rajput and the girl were gone.
VII
They did not return to the caravansary. Bator Khan, apparently in an ill humor, left the Cossack and Hamar to themselves. They spent the night in the enclosure. The dawn was yet cold in the sky the next day when Hamar roused Khlit and the two saddled their horses and rode from the place.
“It was agreed,” explained the minstrel, “that if we separated
I was to meet the Rajput and Nur-Jahan at a certain tavern in Khoten. They must have ridden during the night and will be there ahead of us.”
Khlit spurred his horse.
“Hey, minstrel!” he cried. “That was a rare trick you played the Turkoman.”
Hamar's brow darkened.
“Call you that a trick? Dullard of the steppe! One without wisdom! Is my art like to a conjurer's mummery? I will teach you otherwise.” His frown lightened, “Nay, Khlit, you know not our art. 'Tis true I played but to draw the attention of yonder fools while Nur-Jahan slipped away. But as for the music—”
He smiled again, the sad, almost bitter smile that was the habit of the man. For the rest of the day they rode in silence. Khlit's thoughts turned on the man beside him.
Hamar perplexed him. Apparently a Hindu, the minstrel was familiar with the Muslim faith, a deep thinker, an ascetic. Khlit seldom saw him eat, and then only sparingly. His faded eyes, blank almost as those of a blind man, were masks for his thoughts. Khlit had not seen his like before.
At Khoten—a nest of hovels where four caravan routes met and crossed, yet some palaces and temples and a teeming population of every race—Hamar avoided the central squares and led Khlit down a bystreet to a low structure of sun-dried clay.
It was already evening, and they found the tavern half-filled with dirty camel drivers and some ill-favored merchants. Slaves were quartered in the courtyard with the horses.
Hamar left Khlit seated over a beaker of rank wine and a joint of meat, to seek out Chauna Singh and his charge. The Cossack beckoned the tavern-keeper—a silk-clad Chinaman.
“Hey, moon-face,” he growled, “who is the master of this town?”
“May it please the illustrious khan,” bowed the man, speaking in the Tatar tongue, as Khlit had done, “who has sullied his boots by entering my insignificant house—the city of Khoten is free of august authority, save for the Heaven-appointed folk of the temples.”
“And what manner of scum are they?”
“Doubtless the illustrious khan has heard of the never-to-be-profaned Buddha and the many sects of the mountains, who are called the priests of the black hats. He may see for himself, for within two days there is the festival of Bon.”
“A festival? Then there will be feasting in the streets of Khoten?”
The innkeeper, arms crossed in his wide sleeves, became silent. The Cossack, with a swift glance, threw a piece of gold on the board from his wallet. His host caught it up, thrusting it into a sleeve. The slant eyes scanned the room cautiously and he leaned nearer.
“May the liberal khan be blessed with many children and great honor. Lo Ch'un has kept his dirty house in Khoten for twice ten years, but he has not seen the rites of the august black hats—the bonpas. They are divine secrets. Yet it has been whispered by those loose of tongue that the masked slaves of Buddha sacrifice to their altars on the Year of the Rat.”
Khlit nodded impatiently. He, also, had heard tales of the Khoten temples and those of the mountains but had set them down as idly spoken. Nevertheless, he had had reason to know the power of the Buddhist sects in Central Asia—different from the mild religion of the Chinese, and little better than demon
worship.
Lo Ch'un continued with the same caution:
“It is not well to speak of such things, illustrious warrior, and my fear is greater than my yearning to be of service. But—” a crafty smile distorted his features—“I know what may be of value to you—”
Khlit laid another gold-piece on the table, and Lo Ch'un appropriated it with a claw-like hand, his bleared eyes gleaming covetously.
“Servants of Bon, the Destroyer, have arrived from Ladak and Ind and entered the Khoten temples. Men say they have censored the priests here for indolence in serving the faith. There are many black hats in the town and they have insolently—nay, augustly— made search of the caravans and taverns. They bear scowling brows. Harken, noble khan, to a word of wisdom from the lowly Lo Ch'un.”
The tavern-keeper bent his evil-smelling mouth close to the Cossack.
“The Khirghiz and Usbek merchants and tribesmen are leaving Khoten before the festival of Bon. It would be well to go hence— say not that I have spoken thus!”
Khlit nodded indifferently. He had neither fear nor respect for the mummery of the priesthoods that influenced the borderland of China. Interpreting what Lo Ch'un had said in the light of Hamar's story, he guessed that the bonpas from over the mountains had been messengers of the sect bearing news of Nur-Jahan. It was possible. And possible, also, that the Turkoman Bator Khan had been one of the slaves of the black hats.
Frequently, he knew, the priesthood controlled tribesmen through the bondage of fear.
A woman peered between the curtains of the further side of the room, her sallow cheeks crimson with paint, and faded flowers in her hair. She beckoned silently to Lo Ch'un, who pad-padded to her side. For a moment the two talked. Khlit drew out his pipe and scanty stock of tobacco. He began to wonder where Hamar had disappeared to.
When Lo Ch'un came to remove the joint of meat, Khlit stayed him.
“A word, moon-face,” he growled. “Know you aught of the Turkoman merchant Bator Khan? Does he come often to Khoten?”
“I know not, honorable khan.”
“Well, devil take you—do the caravan merchants stop here?” “If it is their noble will.”