by Harold Lamb
“Nay, we will turn back from the City of the Sun—in the space of fifteen days. Aye, when we have that for which we come we ride to the hills of the Mustagh Ata, past Ladak to Yarkand, which is in the northern plain. You will have a double handful of gold at Yarkand.”
“A horse is more to my liking.”
“Aye, a horse if you wish—the pick of the herd,” assented Pir Kasim, adding hastily, “in place of the gold, noble sir.”
“Does a fox run blindly with the wolfpack?”
Khlit made as if to turn away, but the merchant scrambled to his feet and was at the wanderer's knee.
“Before Allah, good sir, my words are the very gems of truth. Nay—” he sighed— “I will grant you a copious handful of gold and a silver-chased saddle with the horse.”
“When did a merchant of Samarkand give much for little? What seek you of me?”
Pir Kasim glanced at Khlit reflectively and hazarded well. “Sword strokes, noble sir. Verily, the path we tread from Sri-naggar to Yarkand will be one of peril. It may be our fate to be pursued—for we have a rich burden. I have need of one who can wield well his sword.”
He could not have framed a speech that fell in better with the wishes of Khlit. The wanderer sought the northern steppe and wished companions. Here both were offered him.
“A good horse,” whispered Pir Kasim—“an Arab. And your share of the gold.”
“Hey, I have a mind to ride with you. Yet it is not wise for me to go to Srinaggar—”
“Excellent, noble sir,” purred the Uzbek. “Have we not all some petty place where we ride not? 'Tis easily contrived; meet me at the caravansary of the river Sindh, an hour's ride west of Srinaggar at dusk on the fifteenth day. On the following dawn we shall mount for Yarkand.”
He smiled up at Khlit, caressing the silver ornaments of his bridle.
“Aye, noble warrior, that day we shall ride hard—and scatter the dust of our going upon these accursed hill villages of the unbelievers, and upon our pack animals we shall bear—spoil! Will you be one with us? The peril will be great—”
“It is well.”
Khlit spurred away, up the pine slope.
“Fail not!” cried Pir Kasim anxiously. “The Sindh caravansary —on the fifteenth evening—”
The rider of the black horse did not look back, and Pir Kasim returned to the group by the spring, rubbing his hands with the air of one who has made a good bargain
Nasir Beg swaggered in front of the merchant, scowling.
“Eh, one without wisdom!” the Arab sneered. “Will you number among us an unbeliever, a caphar—”
“Even so, windbag, and witless mouther of words! This unbeliever is Khlit, he of the curved saber.”
Nasir Beg glanced after the Cossack, trying not to show his surprise.
“The Curved Saber knows the paths through the Mustagh Ata. Aye, the tribesmen know him. His name will be a shield over the dust of our going, Nasir Beg.”
“Had I known it was he I would have struck more swiftly—” Pir Kasim laughed at the moody Arab.
“Eh, you are a brave figure with your tongue, Nasir Beg. But with a sword it is otherwise.”
With a grunt of anger Nasir Beg whipped out a dagger and clutched the shoulder of the merchant. Pir Kasim shivered.
“Nay, good Nasir Beg—it was but a test. Let not the cloud of vexation arise between us, good Nasir Beg. Verily, I would not mar with my breath the mirror of your bravery.”
He pushed back the threatening dagger and freed himself from the other's hand.
“Likewise, Nasir Beg,” he pointed out, “those who know our purpose will not join with us because of the shadow of peril. Khlit will serve us well—”
“Think you he will come to the caravansary?”
“I doubt it not.”
Pir Kasim meditated swiftly, watching his comrade. “If you would cast the cloak of blood upon the fire of your quarrel with Khlit, let the matter rest until we reach Yarkand. Then, if you choose, deal with him shrewdly, and—his horse; nay, his own horse and that which I shall give him—will be yours, with half of his portion of gold.”
The Arab smiled grimly.
“So be it, Pir Kasim. Yet I will not share bread and salt with the unbeliever.”
II
Like the kites that fly over a battlefield and the ravens that follow a caravan are the hallal khors. Yet the hallal khors are not birds but men.
In the round window overlooking the fountain of the seraglio knelt Yasmi Khanim. She lay curled upon the cushions on the tiled floor—a slim girl whose form bespoke youthfulness. Her attar-scented black hair fell about her slight shoulders. Her kohl-darkened eyebrows matched her eyes, which gleamed in the twilight like soft pansies.
“Eyes like a gazelle—hair blacker than the storm wind— a mouth like the seal of Suleiman—teeth finer than matched pearls—her form like a willow, a slender willow.”
So had said the Persian merchant who sold Yasmi Khanim to Raja Ram-Dar adding, “Aye, lord of exalted mercy, Yasmi
Khanim, the Persian singing girl, is a rose from the gardens of Isphahan, a diamond-sheen of the gems of Kuhistan!”
Well-content was the raja with his new purchase, for the girl's face was fair as a Hindu woman of the higher caste, and her voice sweet. Yet only once did he hear her sing.
A great sickness had come upon the raja, such a sickness as the fresh water and cold of Kashmir served to heal not. Nor did the sacred water of the Ganges—the river that flows from the feet of the gods—cure him, although brought by the Brahmans themselves.
On the night before, Raja Ram-Dar drank plentifully of the Ganges water and thereupon died.
Upon this matter and other things Yasmi meditated. From without the silent seraglio came the moaning cry of women's voices. This, Yasmi knew, was the cry of the mourners, of Daray-shi Krisna and the other wives, of the slaves and the women who had been hired to wail.
For the funeral of the raja was to be that night. And fitting honor was to be paid the dead.
Our lord has gone before us to the halls of the Bhanuloka! Ai! He has set the seal of Yama on his brow. Ai! Our lord has bent his royal head at the footstools of the gods!
The chant echoed ceaselessly. Yasmi wondered if the women were tearing their garments and letting their hair fall about their faces. So did the Muslim women of Persia.
But the Hindu women were strange. Yasmi wondered at the fierce exultation of the chant, which was led by the shrill voice of Darayshi Krisna, the favorite wife of the raja.
Yasmi herself was a Muslim, being from the hills of Kuhistan in northern Persia. She was a child of fifteen Summers, raised in a hill village on the Afghan border—an onlooker at the mysteries of life, such as the splendor of a Hindu funeral.
From the burial place came the high plaint of music. Fiddles and guitars were sounding the ragim bhairabi, the music of the fire spirits.
Yasmi stirred uneasily and snuggled down on her cushions. She had chanted the death song at the grave of her father's father, who had been laid in the earth in a clean winding sheet with his face toward Mecca, as was the law. But her song had not been like this.
Yasmi closed her eyes uncomfortably, then opened them alertly to watch a band of white-robed, shaven Brahmans pass through the courtyard toward the burial place. The Persian girl was oppressed by a vague foreboding, bred of the silence in the woman's court and the shrill music without. She had heard of the burial of the sun worshipers, who were infidels, such as the Hindus. The sun worshipers had burned the bodies; perhaps these people did likewise.
Snuggling her feet into their slippers and drawing her velvet bodice closer about her waist—for the evening grew chill—Yasmi waited, looking very much like a brown fawn peering from its nest.
Hurried footsteps sounded in the corridors behind her, and she wriggled farther into the cushion, not wishing to be seen.
“Ho, base-born and shameless!”
The harsh voice of Sasethra, mistress of the slaves, assailed h
er.
“Wench without honor! Wouldst thou hide when the all-potent lord, thy master, is placed upon the ghat? Come!”
Sasethra clutched the girl's arm and jerked her to her feet, staring at her.
“How is this? Thine ornaments—necklaces—pearls! Where are they?”
The mistress of the slaves hurried Yasmi to her chamber and hastily arrayed her in bangles upon wrist and ankle, in silver-broidered cap that fitted over her splendid hair. She thrust jade earrings rudely into her ears, inspected her slim hands to see if they were henna-stained, and coiled a pearl necklace over her throat and breast.
“Ignorant sparrow!” she scolded. “So thou wouldst hide? Ai— is this not the night of nights?”
“Verily,” protested the girl, “I had a fear—”
“A fear?”
The woman screamed with sudden laughter.
“Nay, the Persian songstress trills of fear? Knowest not, wanton, there are those who will see that thou treadest the path of honor—”
She broke off at a new note in the chant without.
“Come! Already we are late.”
Despite her words she fingered the bracelets covetously.
“Ho, these be rare stones—”
“My father's gift—”
“Speak not, shameless one, of thy father on this night when thy lord ascends to a thrice-purified life. Aye, the jade earrings will fetch a good price. And the pearls—”
Her eyes glinted evilly in the dim light, and she urged the child abruptly into a corridor leading to the garden. From there Sasethra sought a small gate which conducted them through the wall of the woman's courtyard out to the glen by the Sindh bank. Seeing many people, men among them, standing about, Yasmi would have drawn her veil over her face but the woman jerked it rudely back.
The river bank and the glen were lined with watchers who faced a large pit. This pit had been nearly filled by a pile of brush and logs, neatly arranged.
By the light of the numerous torches Yasmi could see the body of the raja on the pile, resting on a couch covered with costly satins. At the head of the body a small hut had been built of brush.
And within the hut at the end of the couch sat Darayshi Krisna. The favorite wife of the dead man sat erect and silent, holding her lord's head on her knees.
Beside the ghat squatted musicians. And Brahmans came and went through the assembly, instructing the slaves how to pour oils and ghee upon the brush. Not far from the pit the women rocked, wailing.
Yasmi thought that it was to be a burial like that of the sun-worshipers. And even more ceremonious. Darayshi Krisna, she meditated, must have loved the dead raja with a great love since she waited until the last minute before tearing herself from her lord.
Beyond the pit and the watchers the broad current of the Sindh swept under the willows. A sharp wind from the mountain summits that Yasmi could vaguely see against the stars caused the torches to flicker.
She caught the scent of musk and ambergris. Truly this was to be a lordly burial!
But why Sasethra had dragged her there she did not know. For she could not sing the music that the fiddlers played.
“Honor to the son of Ayodyha and Ram! May he live again as a prince of princes, a king of kings. Ai! May he be purified by the sacred water and the thrice-sacred fire.”
So chanted the women, their voices rising over the sound of the instruments. Then the music changed. Tambourines and cymbals clashed harshly, drowning all other noises.
“The hour of thy lord is at hand, Persian,” whispered Sasethra. “Behold, the high Brahmans have come from Srinaggar, that all due honor shall be paid him by those who were the dust under his exalted feet.”
Yasmi did not reply, for Darayshi Krisna had taken the torch that one of the priests handed her. The wife of Raja Ram-Dar thrust the torch into the brush of the wall of the hut at her side. At once the Brahmans scurried about the pyre, lighting the wood in a dozen places.
“Aie!” cried Yasmi, “she does not move. She will be harmed!”
An angry hiss from the mistress of the slaves silenced her. Then she saw in the light from the growing blaze Darayshi Krisna clad in all her ornaments, with unbound hair, remain tranquilly at the head of her lord.
“Twice, and the blessed five!”1 cried a priest, raising his arms.
Others echoed the speech. But Darayshi Krisna did not see them. She was smiling, although the walls of the hut were crackling and blazing. She did not move when the perspiration poured from her set face and the fire caught her loose hair.
“Blessed is Darayshi Krisna!” cried the priest again in a loud voice.
Yasmi shivered and clasped her hands to her throat. She could no longer see the form of the woman who was burning herself on the pyre. The body of the raja was still visible, his sword on his hands.
By now the fire had filled the whole pit, soaring upward in swirling flames that illumined every person in the glen. The women had ceased their mourning and joined hands. They were running about the pit, crying out something that Yasmi did not hear.
Darayshi Krisna, she thought, wondering, had uttered no sound.
Several Brahmans stood as close to the flames as the heat would permit, leaning on long poles. Yasmi had begun to realize the significance of the poles, and she shuddered, whereupon Sasethra tightened her grip.
Just behind the priests were several men in armor, cloaked. Yasmi noted them only fleetingly, for Sasethra suddenly began to run toward the pit, drawing the girl after her.
Then Yasmi saw that the fire had caught the garment of one of the women—a slave, who straightaway cast herself into the fire. A faint cry echoed above the roar of the flames—a cry that was drowned at once in the blast of noise from tambourines and cymbals.
“High honor shall be paid thy lord!” whispered Sasethra, harshly. “The low-born slave felt the fierce kiss of the fire, and her spirit was weak—but the music overbore her plaint. Come!”
“Aie!” cried the girl in sudden terror “Nay, Sasethra—I am one—”
“Thy lord is dead. Join thy spirit to his!”
Saying this, the mistress of the slaves stripped a costly bracelet from the arm of the trembling singer and thrust the bangle into her own girdle.
Terror-stricken, Yasmi saw one of the armed watchers seize and speak to a woman who danced about the fire. The slave tore herself from the man's grip and plunged into the pyre.
“Pity, Sasethra!” Yasmi implored. “Think, Sasethra—I am not a follower of the Hindu gods.”
“Thy place is with thy lord, shameless one.”
The stout woman tugged at the girl, who recoiled weeping from the heat of the fire.
“Ho, servants of Ram-Dar,” shrilled Sasethra, “cast me this faithless one after the others! Shall a slave outlive her lord?”
Several of the onlookers caught the girl, tearing the pearls from her throat and the jade from her ears. Yasmi whimpered, helpless in their grasp.
“The seal of death is set in her forehead!” screamed Sasethra, who had taken the pick of the girl's jewels. At the words a priest poured scented oil from a jar over her abundant hair.
“See, she feels the kiss of Yama!”
Then a hand gripped Yasmi, and a voice whispered to her in Turki.
“Life! Would you have life, little slave? Speak!”
The last of the dancing-women had vanished and already the fire had taken on a ruddier tinge, as the flames died. But Yasmi quivered with the heat that struck through her thin garments.
“Life—by Allah—grant me life!” she cried.
She felt the pole of the priest thrust at her back and heard the complaisant tones of Sasethra: “'Tis done. The holy Brahman has anointed her for death.”
Then the pole was thrust aside and Yasmi was picked up bodily. The arms that gripped her were mail-clad. Two cloaked figures joined the man who held her as he turned back from the flames.
In sheer surprise the priests and the watchers gave back before the gro
up of men who had seized the girl. Availing themselves of this, they moved hastily toward the edge of the glen.
“Ai!” shrilled the voice of Sasethra. “The hallal khors! Oh, the robbers of the ghat! Oh, the wretched scavengers of the dead!”
A command from one of the priests silenced the strident woman. Yasmi saw an emaciated form appear before them, a figure turbanless, with unkempt beard and hair, who lifted lean arms.
“Back!” commanded the form with calm authority. “No man may take her on whom is the seal of death and live.”
One of the warriors with an oath struck down the yogi and a wail went up from the priests and the unarmed watchers. Some ran toward the group, but drew back at the flash of ready weapons.
Swiftly Yasmi was borne to where horses waited in the shadow of a grove, and the man who held her mounted and wheeled his horse away along a path through the trees, throwing her carelessly over the peak of his saddle.
“A rare jewel we have plucked this night, Pir Kasim,” he said.
For some time the horsemen rode at a rapid pace, and Yasmi Khanim believed that they went in the direction of Srinaggar. They slowed down among some huts, and at the bank of a canal she could see that the others of the party rode off, leaving her with the man who had first addressed her.
He sought for a space among the rushes of the canal and drew in a small skiff, which he bade her enter. He rowed out into the canal, and then more cautiously down the shadow of the bank under a bridge until he paused at what seemed a small gate in the steep slope of the bank.
Yasmi could make out the roofs and towers of the Srinaggar streets rising against the stars. She lay quiet in the boat, watching the man.
He stepped ashore and bent over the wooden door. This was opened presently from within and a gleam of light showed.
“Haste!” grunted the warrior. “And step softly.”
She passed through the narrow door, which smelled strongly of mud and foul weeds. A hand gripped her shoulder and pushed her, stumbling, up a flight of steps. The passageway led toward the light, and Yasmi passed through a poorly walled cellar into a room where the air was stale in spite of the heavy scent of sandal-paste.
Here the hand on her shoulder wheeled her around, and she faced a stout eunuch who eyed her with a grin.