by Talbot Mundy
Gup had to urge him up the ladder. They followed Jonesey and Rahman to a breathing-hole hewn through the rock where twenty men might stand and stare into the gorge. They were a thousand feet above the boulder-strewn floor, and from another tunnel, near by, came the alternating sob and muffled thunder of underground boiling geysers. Nevertheless, there was no steam.
“There is a natural retort down there,” said the Russian. “It condenses against almost ice-cold rock and — but you ought to come and see the stalactites!”
“How much poison-gas have you made?” Gup asked him.
“Very little. Twice enough, perhaps to destroy all the life in this gorge in ten seconds. I can figure it for you mathematically if you wish.”
“What is it in?”
“Glass containers. Simply smash them and there you are, wherever that is. Everybody in hell or heaven instantly — in other words, in a different chemical combination. I sometimes think of doing it.”
Gup gave him one of the Ranee’s cigarettes and held a match for him. Never, even when he thrashed Glint, had he felt so impelled to do murder; one quick shove, and the Russian would have tested Newton’s law of gravity and Allah’s rule that only they with wings may fly.
“Before we try to use that stuff,” he said slowly in English, “I will have to get some instructions from you.”
Even Rahman gasped. No ordinary death could trouble Rahman, but — perhaps he was astonished at the sudden change in Gup’s attitude; he had not imagined him capable of such thought. He seemed not to know whether to admire or shudder. Jonesey merely blinked. The Russian became genial:
“I am at your service.”
“Do me a favor now,” said Gup. “Where are your quarters?”
The Russian pointed down into the valley, toward where thin smoke rose above a pile of tumbled boulders. “I used to sleep here but it made me nervous, I have a hut down yonder.”
“Writing materials? Good. Then go now and write me a report — in German if you like — on your poison-gas and how to use it. Have it ready when I send for it to-night.”
The Russian walked off, looking happy, and Gup waited until his irregular footsteps died away in the distance; he had noticed it was never safe to trust the echoes in those tunnels; sometimes they repeated words distinctly at great distances, and sometimes not.
“Cement?” he asked at last, looking at Jonesey.
“Lots of it — in bags — I showed it to you.”
“Take a dozen men and cement up the cavern where he keeps that damned stuff. Use plenty of small rock and make it solid — one cement, two sand, three rock should do it — several feet thick. If you leave an opening that I can find I will stuff you through it. Report to me as soon as you’ve finished. Come along, Rahman — let’s look at something wholesome. Let’s see the stables. — Oh, and by the way, Jonesey, take away that Russian’s boots and pants and lock him up.”
Life’s mystery is this: that what appeared
As strength is weakness, and the long-drawn length
Of loneliness, so aching dark, so feared,
So comfortless, shall bring forth strength.
Then Magic needs no Merlin. Then the shroud
That shuddered in the loveless wind of doubt
By instant alchemy is armor! And aloud
Hope shouts within, though none else hears it shout.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I don’t care a damn what you think of me. It’s what I think of you that matters.”
AT a reception that night in the throne-room Gup was formally presented to what Jonesey described as “the inside works” — a momentary, whispered lapse from Islamic dignity. Jonesey was on his best behavior, acting his favorite rôle of fanatical mystery-man. He had secret news for everybody’s ear, which no one was to tell to anybody else, and he told no two persons exactly the same story.
“One of the Russians — he who makes poison-gas — is suspected of treason. Gup Bahadur ordered him arrested. It is said that the Russian was offered a lakh of rupees to loose his poison-gas and kill us all. Gup Bahadur saved our lives.”
The news spread through the crowded chamber faster than Jonesey could whisper it. It multiplied itself in the fertile soil of feverish imagination. One version was that a British spy had wormed his way into the caverns and actually paid the Russian two lakhs of rupees in paper money; Gup Bahadur had found the money on his person. But an alternative, more plausible tale was to the effect that the Amir of Afghanistan had promised to appoint the Russian governor of a province if he would poison the Ranee and all her principal adherents. That story was made circumstantial by the fact that the Amir’s personal representative was present at the reception, with two men in attendance on him who had reputations for intrigue. And Gup Bahadur had been seen emerging from a cavern near where the Russian was known to mix his chemicals; the Russian had vanished; he was said, by whom nobody exactly knew, to have been bricked and cemented up, to perish of his own foul mysteries.
And where was Rahman? And where was Pepul Das? It was known that runners had been sent to summon the army to its secret gathering-place; and on a peak that could be seen for fifty miles around there was a huge fire burning — the anxiously awaited signal to “make ready.” There was magnetism in the air.
The Ranee was superb but not communicative. Through the Turkish form of veil that she had adopted for official purposes, she looked more lovely and mysterious than any princess from a story of the Thousand and One Nights; above its subtly curving edge her eyes were like Allah’s secrets, marvelous and never to be wholly understood nor exactly the same from one breath to the next — and yet always the same in essence, always glowing with the light of an unfathomable riddle; they outshone her jewels, that men spoke of in the same breath with those of the Queen of Sheba, whom Solomon once envied.
All her companions were there, veiled as she was and making themselves agreeable in an aristocratic way to men who knew of no more thrilling entertainment than to be mystified by ladies whose gauzy veils were like the gossamer that rests on flowers. They have not yet forgotten, those Moslems, the lure of the vaguely perceptible, near, unattainable. It is only the known and possessed that turn to weariness and disillusion; wise men prefer illusion while it lasts, to the far more false reality, which doesn’t last long either, as a rule.
Harriet Dover and one companion were beside the Ranee, on chairs on each side of the throne. In deference to the Ranee’s wishes Gup had dressed himself in Pathan costume, even to bare feet in crimson slippers. He only lacked a beard to make him look like a descendant of one of those warrior chiefs who led their conquering hordes from the North in olden days; the turban increased his stature; the loose line of the white smock seemed to add to the muscular bulk of his frame; the flowered crimson cloak hung from his great shoulders like a Roman general’s, and he wore in the sash at his waist a jeweled Persian scimitar-of-state. Because he was hardly conscious of what he was wearing he stood with almost inimitable dignity.
The Ranee hardly spoke to him. He had plenty of time to observe all the other occupants of the room, particularly a Russian in smoked spectacles with a mustache clipped in the German fashion. He noticed that the Russian talked with the Amir’s representatives and that Harriet Dover watched the conversation as if she burned to overhear it.
After a while the Ranee made Gup stand on the edge of the low dais, where he acknowledged the bows of the men who filed past, introduced to him sonorously by Mustapha Kara Khan, the black-bearded captain of her body-guard. He was announced as Gup Bahadur, without other title or explanation and nothing was said at that time, by her or by any one else, about his being commander-in-chief.
That ceremony over, for a while he mingled with the guests, sipping coffee and talking politely about nothing in the world that mattered. The Afghan Amir’s men seemed to avoid him, drifting away as he drew near. He had plenty of time to watch the Ranee’s face, and he was aware that Harriet Dover’s eyes, at no time lusterle
ss and now made doubly brilliant by the contrast of the veil she was wearing, watched every movement he made and noted every person with whom he spoke. He began to wonder whether he could trust Rahman to set spies watching Harriet Dover; he was almost sure it would not be safe to trust Jonesey to do it.
When he backed Rahman into a corner at last where he could question him without being overheard he could see that Harriet Dover’s eyes were watching him intently. He saw her make an almost imperceptible signal to Jonesey.
“Rahman,” he said, “you spread a net for me and caught me. Nevertheless, I would like to be your friend. But how shall you believe that unless we can share one article of faith between us; for we are neither of one race nor one religion.”
“By my beard, I ask no better measure of my manhood than your friendship,” Rahman answered. “How shall we pledge each other? There is not an oath on earth that is fit to bind two men who look into each other’s eyes. I like you, Gup Bahadur. If my life is as safe in your hands as yours in mine, we two should live long, if Allah wills.”
“To you,” said Gup, “I will open my heart, if you will open yours to me.”
“Speak then,” Rahman answered. “And may my tongue be torn out and my heart the food of town-dogs if I lie to you.”
“Which do you serve? This vision of a kingdom in the Hills? Or the Ranee herself?”
“By God, I might have known there was a rock in the road! I serve the Ranee. What of it?”
“I also.”
“Well and good, Bahadur, and we believe each other. What then?”
“Why did you drag me into this? It was not because you feared your own lack of ability.”
“What else should I fear?” asked Rahman.
“Harriet Dover?” Gup suggested.
“Then by God, we understand each other! Nay. Not her, but the Ranee’s love for her! Lo, I went forth looking for a man for her to love, and I think I found him! That other woman is a devil — she and the Bibi Marwarid are twin devils. It was Bibi Harriet Dover who first thought of this madness. And as Allah is my witness, she has driven the roots of her cunning to the bottom of all this business, so that none can trace them or drag them forth.”
“Do you believe she is loyal to the Ranee?”
“Allah! Not I. She is loyal to nothing and to no one but the devil in herself.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Nay. If I could prove it I would have denounced her long ago. Who shall prove anything against her? It is to her that all our spies report. Little by little she has gathered the power into her hands, though without the appearance of it, until none knows what she is doing or how to prevent her. And she lies to the Ranee; but who shall prove she is a liar?”
“What about Jonesey?”
“He is a mischief in a man’s skin. Not a devil, but a mischief. Jonesey is like a moth that turns for ever to the brightest light, but to him a bright light and amusement are the same thing; and what amuses him most of all is to see into the bowels of intrigue.”
“What is the secret of Harriet Dover? Ambition?”
“Of a sort, yes. For herself, nothing; money and outward show mean nothing to her. But she loves power. By Allah, she loves the feel of it! She is never amused like Jonesey; she craves power as some men crave opium, and she hardly sleeps, she hardly eats for craving it. When she has some, she demands more. And she is more jealous than a money-lender of his money. It was she who set that Russian to brewing poisons.”
“What was her purpose? The gas was an afterthought?”
“God knows it was — and a bad one. This I think, although I have no proof of it: she had a plan to poison the Amir. That might have put the throne of Kabul at our mercy. I would not take oath that she is not still planning that. But I think that she has an alternative plan. She is one of those to whom nothing is of any importance except winning. And I think she thinks that this army of ours can not win because we have no artillery. Therefore, you will notice, three of the Amir’s men pay us this unannounced visit. And
I swear by God — for I have taken pains to know it — that she has exchanged messages with the Amir these many weeks past.”
“Who are her special pets?” Gup asked him.
“The Russians — of whom that one yonder commands a thousand of our men.”
“Do you believe she would betray the Ranee?”
“Aye — and herself also in the end, for the sake of the feel of having done the unexpected thing. Long ago I would have slain her — aye, and she me — had not each of us feared the Ranee’s anger. For I tell you, our Ranee is royal and not to be trifled with. Her weakness is that she trusts and believes no tales against her chosen friends.”
“Set a spy on the Amir’s men,” said Gup. “Can you set spies on Harriet Dover?”
“I doubt it.”
“Try. Meanwhile, let us annoy her in every way possible. To me, who knows, perhaps, but little of such matters, she looks overwrought — we have been speaking of horses.”
“True,” said Rahman, and they separated, moving among the crowd.
The ceremony was a bore. It was one of those necessary social gatherings that serve to gild the lily of intrigue and make it look like shop-worn cabbage. One by one the notables were guided to the dais, where they stood in conversation with the Ranee, exchanging compliments, avoiding any reference whatever to the dangerous business in which they were all engaged. Many of them, in fact, had no other reason for being there than to be able, afterward, to brag to envious underlings of being in the Ranee’s confidence. Others were there to be made to believe they were in her confidence, and those were led aside by Jonesey or the treasurer or the captain of her body-guard, or even by one of her veiled and subtly scented women, and were asked for advice on minor problems that had already been solved in secret. If they guessed right, they were flattered and told their advice would be taken; if not, their answers were received with solemn assurance that they would be well weighed and considered. It was the ordinary ancient game of politics, made picturesque by costume and important by the use of an air of mystery.
At last the Ranee dismissed them with gracious dignity. But Gup, the treasurer, Jonesey, the captain of the body-guard, Rahman and the Amir’s three men grouped themselves as if they meant to file out last. And when the other guests and the servants had withdrawn the Ranee threw off all that air of mystery, although she kept her veil for the sake of the Amir’s men, in whose presence she began by reprimanding Gup, in Pushtu:
“You already start imprisoning my experts? How many will be left in a week from now to do their duties? I have ordered that Russian released.”
Gup smiled. One glance at Harriet Dover’s face explained that speech. He wondered again whether the Ranee knew what deadly stuff the Russian had been brewing. However, he waited before taking up the challenge. Impetuosity and patience had entered into deadly combination in him.
The servants carried in broad divans and spread them with cushions, then withdrew, taking away the throne-chair. The Ranee nestled comfortably, several of her women grouped around her and the others whispering together within call, amid heaped cushions in a window recess. Gup and the other men spread themselves Roman fashion on divans arranged in a semicircle facing the low dais.
“Bakheir braiyed,” said the Ranee, which literally means “come safely,” but the purport of it was that the Amir’s representative had leave to speak on any subject that he pleased and without formality. He sat bolt upright at once, cross-legged. His name was Rafik Khan — a man with sallow skin and Semitic features, of middle height and middle-age. His neat black beard was trimmed in the European style into a point, but he possessed more Oriental dignity than did either of his companions, both of whom bore the obvious marks of European education and the half-contempt for their own native culture that too often goes with it.
“I was chosen,” said Rafik Khan, “for this honorable mission because I speak English with ease, as my companions do also.”
The Ranee nodded.
“My august employer,” he began again, “his Majesty the Amir of Afghanistan, does not consent to negotiations as between one equal and another. By my hand he has sent gifts, which I have delivered; by my lips he presents his compliments, which are sincere, and which he will be proud to have conveyed when I report to him the cordiality of my reception as his agent and the almost overwhelming dignity and beauty of her Highness the ex-Ranee of Jullunder, with whom I have been authorized to discuss certain possibilities — and,” he added, “to whom I am instructed to make certain definite complaints.”
“Let’s hear the complaints first,” Gup suggested. Rafik Khan glanced sharply sidewise at him, hesitated, almost visibly removed one layer of his suavity and adopted the suggestion:
“Great liberties have been taken with the Amir’s name. Supplies not ordered by him nor intended for him have been dispatched up the Khyber, met by men pretending to be sowars of his Majesty’s army and conveyed to this place. This has led to sharp misunderstandings with the Indian Government. Furthermore, there has been a persistent outpouring of rumor from the ex-Ranee of Jullunder’s headquarters, to the general effect that his Majesty the Amir of Afghanistan contemplates invading India. This appears to have caused unrest in India, and that again has led to strained relations with the Indian Government. Subjects of the Amir, known by him to be disloyal and even openly rebellious, have been received here and placed in positions of trust. All these are matters that admit of no denial.”
“Who wants to deny them?” asked Harriet Dover. “The Amir intends to invade. We know that. Our spies are as good as his, or better, and we know most of what goes on in Kabul. What interests us is: what does the Amir offer us as an inducement for our friendship?”