by Harold Lamb
“Did she yield herself as a slave, Arab?”
“As a slave.”
“A lie!” exclaimed Yasmi defiantly.
Abdul Dost considered, then spoke coldly to Nasir Beg.
“What price will she bring in the Yarkand slave-bazaar?”
Nasir Beg calculated shrewdly. “Eh, she has a face like a rose, and her form is rounded. Eh, you who have heard know that she graces the necklace of beauty with the pearl of song. Mujir ibn Khojas, who is a judge, has said that her voice is like to a nightingale. At Yarkand she will fetch twelve—nay fourteen—gold mo-hars.”
Yasmi sighed and drew her veil about her face. Her glance was still fixed hungrily on Abdul Dost.
“That is her price?” inquired that warrior.
“Aye.”
Abdul Dost put his hand to his girdle. “I have a whim, Arab.” He opened his band over the carpet. Gold coins tumbled to the floor and rolled about.
“There be mohars—gold. Count seventeen, and take them. The girl's song pleased me, and—she is a free-born Muslim. Shall a falcon of the hills die in a foul cage?”
Wild hope leaped into the eyes of the singer. Mujir stared, licking his lips. Verily, he thought, this was a great lord who could shower gold like copper coins and let another count the tally.
But Nasir Beg drew back with a smile. He bowed and stroked his beard craftily.
“Seventeen? Nay, the generosity of the lord is like to the light of the sun. Yet—” he smiled again—“at Yarkand gold is worth more than here. At the market of the Han slave-merchants Yasmi would fetch twenty such coins.”
“Count then the twenty, and be gone,” Abdul Dost snarled, and the mask of indifference fell from his face.
Nasir Beg still smiled. Without consulting Pir Kasim he did not dare sell the girl. Besides, if she were sold to Abdul Dost it would be known. She would be recognized as the singer who had been stolen from the raja's ghat, and search would be made for those who had taken her from the priests.
The Arab was no coward, yet he knew how closely the Hindus had ransacked the byways of Srinaggar for his party, and he suspected that the yogi he had struck down in their flight had been badly injured.
The fate of the hallal khors, if discovered, was a thing not to be lightly contemplated. And if in addition they had slain a priest death by torture would be the least thing in store for them. “Nay,” he announced. “My master will not sell Yasmi.” Abdul Dost rose to his feet, hand idly at his belt. Yasmi followed his every movement with anxious eyes, scarcely breathing while she harkened to the argument between the two.
“Arab,” said the Afghan slowly, “here is the price you named— and more. Take it or be false to your word.”
“Nay.” Nasir Beg still smiled. “The thought came to me that you jested, so I also made a jest.”
“I do not jest. Twenty-two gold mohars lie on the carpet. Take them!”
The Arab rose lithely, drawing slightly back and glancing at the curtain. But then the voluble hafiz gave tongue.
“O lord and ocean of the nectar of kindness, and mountain of holy righteousness, I, the teller of poems, the faithful Mujir, will tear the veil of blindness from your exalted eyes. O leader of the faithful—” the hafiz saw in a flash, or thought that he did, a chance to redeem himself with Abdul Dost—“talk not of paying such a sum for this worthless one. O noble warrior, she is worth not one silver dinar.”
He paused, pleased at the attention he was receiving—though Abdul Dost was watching the Arab more closely than the speaker. Yasmi tried to take the soldier's hand.
“With my eyes I saw it, lord,” resumed Mujir. “This very night. By chance, it was verily by mere chance, I came upon the ghat. Nay, I knew naught of what was to come to pass, but some worthless beggar had whispered that women were to be burned—not that I believed, lord.
“Nay, by chance I watched—that is, I could not help but see— this very woman led to the ghat and anointed by the priest for death. And then snatched by force—”
For the first time Abdul Dost glanced down at the hafiz angrily. As he did so, Nasir Beg smote the lamp with the flat of his sword. The chamber was in darkness.
A cry from Yasmi—hurried footsteps. An oath from Abdul Dost, who had groped for the girl and finding her not, had sprung for the curtains, drawing sword as he went. His foot struck against something that quivered, jelly-like, and he rolled to the floor over the prostrate form of Mujir.
He was up immediately. But the curtains were cast loosely over his head. He felt the impact of a dagger against his mail shirt and jerked free of the entangling cloth. Then he halted perforce to listen for footsteps, as the tavern was in darkness.
No sound rewarded his seeking. Only the pale light of the new day outlined a window faintly.
“Lord,” muttered a suppliant voice, “have I not saved your—” Abdul Dost was lean, but there was great strength in his arms—the deceptive strength that had made him one of the finest swordsmen of northern Hindustan.
He caught the hafiz by girdle and collar and dragged him to the tavern door. Outside the dawn marked the riverbank, high above the water at this point.
“Harken, hafiz,” said Abdul Dost. “I swear an oath on the faith of my fathers that I shall seek the girl Yasmi until she is free or Nasir Beg is dead.
“It is time,” added Abdul Dost grimly, “that you performed your ablutions.”
Whereupon he raised the struggling man to his shoulder and flung him outward, watching with satisfaction the resulting splash. He was content when the fat bulk of the hafiz failed to climb from the current.
Running footsteps sounded and two armed men hastened up.
“Sluggards!” snarled the mansabdar. “Ahmed—Rasoumi! Heard you not the struggle?”
“Lord,” panted one, “we slept, being weary. Has hurt come to the favored of Allah?”
“Nay. Search me the tavern. Come.”
But their efforts ended in the cellar filled with giant wine-casks. None were visible save the snoring and drunken camel-men.
Abdul Dost passed through the empty rooms, noting grimly by light of the torches his men had kindled that the gold coins were gone from the carpet. Either Mujir or Faizuli Anim had made good use of his time.
But he did unearth the cowering tavern keeper in the rear of a wine vat.
“Speak the truth, or follow Mujir into the river,” he informed the man. “Who is that Arab Nasir Beg? Who was his master? Whither went they?”
By degrees Faizuli revealed the secret of the passage behind the wine cask. But when the Afghan entered it cautiously the lower cellars were bare and the door to the riverbank open. No boat was to be seen.
“Lord, and mountain of mercy,” wailed the tavern keeper, “I know naught of them save that they planned to depart eastward and north along the Sindh caravan route, and they are many. They ride to the Darband Pass in the Ladak border.”
“Thither we also will ride,” said Abdul Dost.
So it happened that the mansabdar and his two men without waiting for further preparation set out along the Sindh trail in the early morning of the day after the feast of Bairam.
And when they had departed a woeful figure, mud-coated and gasping, dragged itself from the reeds by the river and lay cursing the day that Abdul Dost was born of his mother, the day that he had come to Srinaggar, and his father and his father's father, even to all his forebears.
IV
The lightning strikes down a tall tree, but it does not linger to be seen. Not otherwise strikes the sword of a skilled warrior.
Kashmiri proverb
Khlit was glad to be in the saddle again. He was well content to turn his back upon the City of the Sun and journey into the mountain passes. And the rapid pace that the caravan struck satisfied him.
In truth he saw no need for haste. Yet Pir Kasim, who led the cavalcade, pressed the horses to their limit.
No stop was made during the day. Only after dusk did the caravan halt, in a valley ne
ar the highway where water was to be had. And Khlit, who was well versed in such matters, noted that the merchant posted sentries. Also that the fires were put out after the dinner had been cooked.
He saw too that they avoided the villages. Once, when they passed through the outskirts of a collection of huts, ragged Kashmiris ran forth and stoned them. A sally by Nasir Beg and two of his men drove back the villagers, but not before blood had been shed.
Another thing struck Khlit. It was when they met a group of three Hindu riders going in the opposite direction. The men drew back from the trail, scanning the caravan and scowling. Weapons were drawn and Nasir Beg summoned Khlit to his side to wait with their attendants until the horses of Pir Kasim had all passed the spot.
Then they rode after the caravan. But Khlit, looking back, saw the three sitting in their saddles and watching. As long as the caravan was in view the riders watched.
Directly afterward Pir Kasim turned aside from the main highway and led his troop through an unfrequented pass, where the cold—even in early Summer—was great, and the women suffered.
Khlit had noticed with some surprise that the merchandise of Pir Kasim was women. He had met the caravan on his way to the rendezvous at the Sindh road. And the women had been with it then. They rode heavily veiled and closely watched by Mustafa.
For some time Khlit paid no heed to the women. He supposed —since neither Pir Kasim nor Nasir Beg spoke of the matter—that they were slaves.
He did not at first connect the anger displayed against the caravan in the villages with the women. For Khlit cared little for the female sex, slaves or otherwise. He was only annoyed that they were with the caravan, since he knew the cold of the higher passes in the Himalayas would cause them to complain.
Khlit did not even try to understand what was to be done with the women at Yarkand. Presuming them slaves, he thought vaguely that they would be sold and dismissed the matter from his mind.
Not so an event of the first night after they left the main caravan track. This was two days' fast ride up from Srinaggar, due east along the bank of the Sindh, at the Zodjila Pass.
Pir Kasim's change of course had brought them into waste rock ravines through which the tired beasts wound slowly. Twilight found them without food other than some oaten cakes.
Khlit had his own stock of provisions in his saddlebag—dried horseflesh and milk curds—for he disliked to eat with Mustafa, who shared the merchant's board.
They had come upon two donkeymen who had pitched their yurt in a hollow and were stretched beside the fire on their sheepskin cloaks. Besides the donkeys the men had several sheep of the thick-haired Kashmir species.
Pir Kasim halted the cavalcade and descended with Nasir Beg to bargain with the peasants for mutton. Khlit had dismounted to look to the leather shoes of his black pony—he had become attached to the strong horse during their Winter companionship, and the rocky going had caused the beast to limp.
So he did not see the merchants barter. He looked down, however, at sound of raised voices. Nasir Beg had flown into a rage, while the Kashmiris were protesting.
“Eh, will you not give food to women who hunger?” snarled the Arab.
“Aye, lord,” remonstrated a ragged bhikra—beggar. “Yet that our women should have meat, and so yield milk to their babies, we must have a price for the two sheep you ask—”
“Wretch!”
Nasir Beg spurred upon the two donkeymen. Khlit saw that the Kashmiris had made no move to draw weapons, yet the Arab struck one down with his scimitar. It was a shrewd blow at the base of the throat, and the man lay dying where he had fallen.
The other turned and ran up the gorge. Pir Kasim dismounted and drew a Turkish pistol from his girdle. This he leveled across the saddle of his pony. Khlit heard the roar of the report and saw the Kashmiri stagger and fall to his knees.
Then Nasir Beg trotted up to the wounded man and returned presently, to wipe his blooded blade upon the garments of the first Kashmiri.
“Eh,” he called to Khlit, “we shall eat well tonight, and the donkeys will serve us well in the hill paths where the horses are apt to fall.”
Khlit turned back to his own horse in silence. He had been surprised at the uncalled-for slaying. Perhaps—although he had heard it not—the Kashmiris had given cause.
Still, why should Pir Kasim have shot down the wretched beggar who was fleeing? He could not have harmed them overnight.
Pir Kasim, however, set two men to cover the bodies with stones. “By the tracks of blood is the path of the wolf known,” he grinned at Khlit. “And we must leave no trace.”
The Cossack did not share the mutton.
That night they felt the full force of the wind down the gorge. As usual there was no fire. Khlit did not mind it, for he was accustomed to cold and his khalat was well lined.
The three caravaneers managed to sleep among the packs of stores. Pir Kasim had his yurt of hides, which he shared with Mustafa.
But Nasir Beg roused Khlit from a light sleep, and his dark face was blue with chilled blood, in the light of a small torch he had kindled on returning from his watch.
“Be not angered, Khlit,” the Arab said, civilly for him. “My eyes are heavy with sleep, for it is the third watch, and the blood in my limbs is turned to ice. The caravan rascals are too wearied to be trusted. Will you keep watch until dawn?”
Khlit yawned and cursed forcibly.
“Are we hunted antelope, Nasir Beg, that we should stand guard in the darkness? What fear you?”
Nasir Beg was urgent, and took pains to be plausible.
“There be robber folk in the passes, Khlit. Lawless Kirghiz, and without doubt outcast Kashmiris. Pir Kasim, who is wary as a steppe fox, believes they have scented the caravan. 'Tis but three hours to dawn.”
Khlit rose silently, taking his khalat with him and stamping warmth into his feet. He drew on his boots, tightened his belt and strode off to the point where Nasir Beg had stood.
“By Allah, Pir Kasim will thank you,” the Arab called after him softly. “Beyond the rock on the farther side is a nook where you can see up and down the pass and be sheltered from this accursed wind.”
Khlit grunted and wrapped his sheepskin robe over his high shoulders. He did not intend that Nasir Beg should occupy the
warm nest where he had been sleeping. Beyond the line of tethered horses he halted to see where the Arab would seek refuge.
He had not long to wait. As soon as his tall frame had passed beyond the torchlight Nasir Beg threw the burning brand to the ground. By its failing light the Cossack saw Nasir Beg slip off his outer cloak and the long white robe that he wore and pass swiftly into one of the yurts occupied by the women.
There were six women, and they slept—or tried to—two in each shelter. The one the Arab had chosen had been pitched by Mustafa for the youngest of the women—one wearing Persian dress as Khlit had noted—and a slender Hindustani whose ankles and wrists were heavy with bracelets.
As Khlit turned away to his lookout he fancied he heard a cry from the yurt. He reflected grimly that the post Nasir Beg had mentioned was behind the rocks and out of sight of the camp.
Here he sat and watched the sky change in the East from crimson to saffron and gold. He saw the giant peaks overhead take shape against the dawn, first black, then silver, and finally white.
High overhead an eagle rose from a nest of pines and circled against the blue of the sky. He heard the horses stumble to their feet. Even before the sun's rays struck down the pass he heard the caravaneers grumble as they kindled the fire, and caught the pungent scent of green wood.
From the camp his glance wandered to the rock piles that marked the graves of the Kashmiris, and to the donkeys, standing passively in their tethers awaiting their morning meal of dried grass, indifferent as to who their master might be. And he scowled moodily.
He was no longer content with his surroundings. Well as he liked to be in the highlands of the Himalayas, he had begun to m
editate upon the character of his companions and the nature of the caravan.
When Pir Kasim called him to the simmering pot of mutton, Khlit replied gruffly and ate where he sat of his own dried meat.
That day the march was harder than before. Pir Kasim had ordered the packs to be placed on the donkeys; this gave them extra mounts, but they made slow progress along the winding trail that threaded the surface of the cliff, over the gorge a thousand feet below.
The merchant posted Khlit in the rear of the caravan and bade him keep a keen watch over the path behind them. So it happened that the Cossack knew they were followed.
He could see black dots moving along the face of the cliff a mile in the rear. What their pursuers were he could not tell. He counted three dots and so reported to Pir Kasim, who alternately cursed and called upon Allah to hasten their progress.
It was unwise to hurry over the evil footing, where a sheer drop fell to the rocks below, beside a freshet that roared down the cleft of the gorge, sending up a steam of spray in which the sun formed the splendid arch of a rainbow. Once a led horse stumbled and vanished over the brink with a shrill neigh of terror. But Pir Kasim did not slow their gait.
Khlit was riding in the rear of the women. He saw how they shivered at sight of the unfortunate horse. The altitude was affecting them, and they sat miserably in their saddles, hunched under their robes.
Once the rearmost of the group threw back her cloak. Khlit saw her lift her veil and recognized her as the Hindustani of the bracelets. For a moment she stared back at him, her beautiful face wan, and circles under the dark eyes.
Then she jerked the rein of her horse. Khlit saw the beast stumble, rear, and plunge headlong from the path.
A wail from the women and an oath from Pir Kasim. Khlit himself stiffened in his saddle with surprise. The woman had done the thing deliberately.
“Akh, the cloud of madness gripped her spirit,” mourned the merchant. “Yet why was it written that she should be the one to fall? Allah knows she wore the costliest bracelets.
“Akh—I let her keep the ornaments, for she had been the wife of the Maharaja of Guzerat. And this is the reward of my mercy. Verily, it is an evil fate!”