by Harold Lamb
He urged his horse up the slope and glanced over his shoulder.
A quarter mile behind him the tribesman of the black hat was coming up with a half dozen Afghans. Faintly he heard their shout when they sighted him. He tightened his knees, driving the bay mare into a long gallop.
He had to get away from them, and quickly. It would be safer to argue with wild dogs than to try to explain matters to them. The black hat had told his tribesmen his version of the murder. Now the tribesmen were launched on a manhunt, eager for reward if they brought Nial's head in to the Tatars. To throw away the tube would not mend matters; nor could he stand his ground against seven men.
At the next rise he looked back without reining in the mare. The pursuers had not gained on him, and they had scattered a little. Another mile, and he knew that his mare had the speed of them; but he knew as well the endurance of the Afghans' lean ponies, and he forced the mare on while he pondered his chances.
To turn off would be useless in that open plain. They would be watching his tracks; and the ground was becoming more sandy. But by now the post station ought not to be far off. He wondered about that station until he swept around a turn into a camel caravan, making camp by a well, thronged with noisy Tadjiks who ceased their clamor to stare at him when he reined to a halt among them, pointing his finger at the most dignified white beard he could see.
"The yamkhanah-how far is it?" he shouted.
The white beard wagged plaintively.
"Ai, tura, oh Lord Protector of the unfortunate ones-"
"How far?"
"Eh, a laden camel goes there in one watch of the day. A lowly fellow such as thy servant walks there in a watch and a half, and-"
But Nial was off down the road. The post station, he guessed, would be less than an hour's gallop, and he dared not waste another moment. To do what he planned he must gain a mile or so on his pursuers, and he must sacrifice the mare. It would be useless to seek the Tatar officers at the station, hand over the khan's missive and tell his story. By now the Afghans would be ready to swear that they had all seen him slay the courier. There was blood on his sword, and he was fleeing from them.
"Nay, lass," he whispered, "there is no other road. So hie thee on."
The mare bore him well and kept her feet among the stones. When he sighted the haystacks of the station the tribesmen were not in sight. At the gate of the guardhouse he reined in, shouting impatiently:
"A messenger from Barka Khan, Lord of the West and the East! Bring out a fast horse, a good horse."
He had put on his white felt chaban and had slung his saddlebags over one shoulder. As he dismounted, several men in long blue coats rose from their seats and ran with a curious, bowlegged waddle toward the line of horses waiting ready saddled outside the pen. The ring of command in Nial's voice was unmistakable, and the Tatars had learned obedience from infancy.
"Nay," Nial cried impatiently. He had cast his eye over the half dozen remounts and made his own choice. "Not the gray pony. Am I a boy in weight? The piebald horse with the mane!"
The grooms hastened to lead out the long-limbed, Turkoman-bred horse and, as he flung his bags over the saddlehorn, Nial prayed inwardly that he had made a good choice. The piebald looked like a famished brute, but it must have speed in those long legs.
A tall Mongol* in horsehide boots-the darogha, or officer, of the station-came up. Nial greeted him courteously but briefly as he mounted and would have spurred off. The officer caught his rein and stared curiously at his light bags.
"Kiap seme kene," he ventured. "Swiftly thou ridest."
"Aye, swiftly." Nial nodded, forcing himself to show not the least impatience. "For I carry that which is sealed by the seal of Barka Khan."
The Mongol grunted understanding, but pointed down the road to several black specks drawing nearer in the drifting dust.
"And they also, they come as if the ghost wind follows after. What are they?"
"Have I the eyes of an eagle, to see what is hidden and afar?" Nial lifted his rein. "Nay, I may not sit here like a woman with a burden, to see what comes upon the road."
Reluctantly the Mongol officer stepped back. The Scot puzzled him and the approaching riders stirred his curiosity, but it was impossible to delay a messenger of the khan of the Golden Horde. Nial lashed the piebald with the end of the rein and thrilled with satisfaction. The horse was away with a bird-like swoop, head up and muzzle tossing restlessly-a steppe-bred racer, accustomed to keeping to a gallop for hours and expecting no mercy from its rider.
Until sunset he pushed on steadily, noticing that he was climbing out of the loose sand into bare foothills covered with dwarf oak. With the last of the light he paused to breathe his horse and think.
Thanks to his choice of the piebald Turkoman the pursuit was far behind and below him. But he had caught glimpses of a score of horsemen, and he knew that some of the Tatars of the station, led perhaps by the tall darogha, had joined the pursuit. Those men were capable of following the track of a horse over the dry grass of a prairie, and it would be useless to try to throw them off in this brush and sandy clay.
Nor did he dare push on to the next station. He had watched the sky constantly and had seen no pigeons flying high overhead; but messenger pigeons chose their own course and one might have passed him too far off to be seen. Already the clear afterglow of sunset was fading. In a few moments the sky would be dark. It was only a question of hours before word of the murder of the post rider and the loss of the silver tube would go far ahead of him along the road, born on the wing of the pigeon post. And with these tidings would go his own description-even to his height and way of talking. No, the road was closed to him, and his life at hazard wherever Tatar officers, or Moslem spies who served them, might be met.
If he dared face them-if he circled back to Samarkand, surrendered the silver tube and told his story-he could prove nothing. He had no witness; the slain tribesman found lying by the courier's body would be a silent witness against him.
There was nothing for him to do but turn from the road and trust to luck to throw off his pursuers in the hours of darkness. He looked to right and left, seeing only the darkening line of distant hills, purple against the faint glow at the edge of the sky. On the right hand the stony bed of a dry stream ran into a gully.
"'Tis no true road," he observed gravely, "but it will lead somewhere."
When the Daughters of the Tomb had swung nine lights of their constellation nearly overhead, and the night was half gone, Nial found himself threading a path on the brow of a hill. On either side thornbush clustered, whispering under a dry wind. But he caught another sound ahead of him, and the piebald horse went forward with new willingness, lifting its head and whinnying.
Nial fancied that wild horses were moving along the trail, but he was careful to bend forward over the saddlehorn, keeping his head down by the neck of the horse, a trick he had learned in night riding with the Tatars. Then he listened, surprised.
A girl's voice sang in the darkness. A fitful, drowsy song, about a wizard who leaped on the wind from mountain summit to peak. The song ceased and saddle leather creaked.
"Ho, thou wandering devil, art thou here? I waited long for thee."
Nial was aware of a shape beside him and the faint scent of dried flowers.
Other dark forms appeared, moving slowly along the white clay of the trail-loose ponies, he thought, herded together by the girl. At a word from him she would be off into the night. And he had need of a fresh horse.
He groped forward to catch her rein.
Instead his hand fell upon a slender knee that started under his touch.
"Ai!" A frightened gasp, and the heavy thongs of a whip stung his wrist as the girl's pony bounded forward.
He heard her cry at the other horses and, before he could make shift to follow, they were all speeding away like startled deer.
The big piebald plunged after them and presently, rounding a bend in the trail, Nial saw a glimmer of light a
head.
Warily he approached it, watching it spread to an open doorway with the vague shapes of upended carts and a stone wellhead on either hand. The people of the house were still astir. He caught quick voices and rapid footfalls, and guessed that the girl had come in with her ponies. Out of the doorway came a grizzled Tatar in a loose horsehide coat, carrying a newly lighted torch.
Without a word he held the torch close to Nial's head and peered with expressionless eyes into the darkness beyond.
Behind him, as if at a signal, appeared a taller figure-a man of authority in a blue-padded khalat, reaching from throat to slippers, with a majestic black beard flowing down to his girdle. His shaven head was covered by a velvet skullcap and his brown eyes dwelt upon Nial quietly.
"Neshavan of the Khosh-khanah I am," he said. "You ride late, 0 stranger, and alone."
It was more of a question than a statement, and Nial dismounted as courtesy required.
"Alone I come, Neshavan. I wish to change my saddle to another mount. This road is not known to me, and I have far to go before the first light."
The master of the house nodded understandingly.
"Then, my guest, you will honor me by sitting and eating a little of my poor food before taking the road again. Few come along this hill trail."
Nial took his saddlebags over his arm and surrendered the sweating Turkoman to the Tatar servant, noticing as he did so that the man had a powerful bow ready strung and a case of arrows under his loose coat. The Scot felt the irk of hunger, and he needed information even more than food. If Neshavan invited him to eat he had nothing to fear from this house, and he was hours ahead of the pursuit.
When he followed his host into a long room, dimly lighted, he saw why it was called Khosh-khanah-the Hawk House. The other half of the place was given over to dozens of hawks, drowsing on their perches, ranging from small, shapely gyrfalcons to great brown golden eagles. By the assortment of hoods, jesses, and thongs lying about, he suspected that Neshavan trained the falcons himself.
"Aye"-his host followed his glance as they knelt on a clean rug to wash their hands-"my goshawks will take hares. My bouragut will bring down a great crane, or attack antelope. Karabek and I have taught them since we were milk brothers together. Now the nobles of Samarkand pay high for Neshavan's falcons, a just price. Will the road of my honored guest take him beyond Talas?"
In the shadowed alcove behind Neshavan a slender shape appeared silently and settled down on the cushions of the rug to watch them. Nial could distinguish a girl's white kerchief and dark eyes. He did not stare, nor did he mention the woman and the horses upon the trail. This was a Moslem household, and therefore the women did not exist-for the eyes of visiting men. Neshavan had not even asked his name, although he was curious enough about the solitary young rider and about the saddlebags under Nial's elbow.
"Who knows?" The Scot guessed that Talas would be the next town on the trail he was following. "Illah a'lam-God alone knoweth. Is there not a Tatar yamkhanah in Talas?"
"Nay." Neshavan shook his head. "They keep to the great road behind you, that runs through Khodjent to the East. They do not come into these hills except to hunt. Besides, what caravans would go beyond Talas?"
"Is there not a road?" Nial wondered aloud, dipping his fingers into the bowl of rice stew that a servant set between them.
"Once there was a way, from Talas up the river that is called the Gold Bringer. I have heard that in former times many caravans came and went by the river, and the Cate."
"To the East," Nial suggested, because he wished to know.
"To the Far East, through the heights. But now-" Neshavan hesi- tated-"the Gate is closed."
"Yet there is no snow now, even on the peaks."
"On those peaks the snow lies always-aye, and ancient ice. But the pass that we call the Gate is free of snow now in the hot season. Still, it is not open."
"Allah forbid," Nial ventured lightly, because he wished to find out more, "what harm could come of it? I have a tablet from Barka Khan, and I go where I will."
"Where the Gold Bringer rises from the ground, the command of the khans is not obeyed. A Tatar army could not go through."
A whisper no louder than the rustle of silk came from the alcove, and Neshavan checked his words. His tone changed; he smiled.
"Such are the tales that come down from the hills. Men who have gone up the river say that it is safer to ride with the ghost wind, or to steal a horse from the great herd that Satan drives of nights over the barren lands."
"What did they see to frighten them?"
Neshavan still smiled.
"Nothing. But they heard much and turned back."
Again he fell silent. Karabek, the Tatar bowman, came to the rug hastily, without apology.
"Tura," he grunted, "two Kara Kalpaks ride to thy threshold."
The effect upon the master of the house was instantaneous. His eyes opened wide and he drew a long breath. Then he made a sign with his hand toward the alcove, glanced moodily about the chamber and strode to the door. Nial, hearing horses' hoofs on the hard clay, was at his side-wondering whether a pair of the Tatars, knowing this trail and the Hawk House, had come up.
Instead he saw in the light of a torch held by a servant, two tribesmen who looked like gaunt wolves on weary horses. They wore ragged black lambskin headgear, like that of the two slayers of the courier, and Nial understood how they came to be named Kara Kalpaks-Black Hats. The taller of the pair reined forward impatiently, his pony wincing from a prod of the sharp stirrup edge.
"In the name of Allah," he cried, "give us water."
His slant eyes flickered restlessly as Neshavan turned and gravely ordered the man with the torch to fetch a jar. Karabek lingered by the door, bow in hand, tense as a hound scenting game.
"Water," said Neshavan, "thou shalt have, in peace."
He took the filled jar from the servant and stepped forward. The tribesman leaned down and, as Neshavan held out the clay jar, whipped a curved knife from his waistband. Swift as a panther's paw the Black Hat's hand shot out, plunging the knife into Neshavan's throat.
The master of the Hawk House staggered aside, clutching at the ivory hilt projecting from his beard. Then with a queer whine he collapsed on the ground, blood rushing from his mouth. His slayer had drawn scimitar and, with no more excitement than if dealing with a jackal, slashed the forearm of the dazed servant holding the torch.
"Strike down the dogs!" he shouted.
A girl's scream rang through the room, and Karabek turned instinctively to catch in his arms the slender figure that darted from the alcove toward the dying Neshavan. And out of the darkness emerged a dozen Black Hats who must have been waiting beyond the torchlight for just this moment. They flung themselves from the saddles, and their leader lifted his head to laugh.
"Yartak bish yabir-the young woman awaits ye, 0 my brothers!"
Nial had drawn his sword instinctively. Seeing bows in the hands of the men who remained in their saddles, he stepped back into the room, caught a glimpse of Karabek carrying the struggling girl into the alcove and picked up his roped saddlebags. The quarrel was not his affair, and it would be sheer folly to stand his ground against these raiders.
But they were on his heels with a rush and, in a hot wave of anger, he whirled at the curtain of the alcove, striking down the sword of the foremost and laying the face of another open with a side-long slash.
They snarled and hung back, peering into the gloom of the alcove. Then Nial felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Karabek's quiet voice.
"Come."
He stepped back between the curtains, saw Karabek hastening down a passage and ran out into darkness that reeked of cattle and manure. A lantern on the ground guided him to the stable shed, where the Tatar and the girl loosed a horse swiftly.
"Take thine!" Karabek grunted at him, and Nial made out his Turkoman still saddled beside him.
He untied the rein and swung himself into the saddle as the girl
ran off, tugging at the halter of a pony. He followed her past the shed, down a path that brought them under heavy trees. Here he heard his companion stop and busy herself with the pony's head, putting on a headstall as he judged by the click of the iron bit against rebellious teeth. She was sobbing quietly, while the shouts of the Black Hats echoed in the house behind them, above the screaming of the excited hawks.
Then she must have climbed to the pony's back, for he heard them moving off. He followed.
"Where is your servant, Karabek?" he asked.
He repeated the question before she answered, in a whisper:
"Nay, he was Neshavan's servant and foster-brother. He would not go. Ai-a, may God grant that he slays that dog -born dog!"
She would say nothing more, even when they came out upon the road beyond her home and looked back to see a red glare rising among the trees. The Hawk House was burning, and around it the raiders were carrying spoil to their horses. Nial waited, but she was not weeping now.
"Karabek has not come," he ventured. "Will you go on to Talas?"
She lifted her head, brushing back the thick tresses from her eyes, and in the starlight he could see only her small white face.
"Why not," she responded calmly. "All places are alike to me now."
Chapter II
The Seal of the Khan
After the noon prayer the next day, when the streets of Talas were deserted except for black goats, a gaunt Kara Kalpak rode at a footpace across the one bridge, paying no heed to the beggars who sprawled in the shadow of the creaking waterwheel.
Guiding his horse through alleys where the sun beat remorselessly upon clay walls, drawing a stench from the trodden ground, the tribesman glanced from side to side until he came to a rickety wooden door marked with two red stains. They might have been uplifted crimson arms, or rude towers, but they satisfied the Kara Kalpak and he dismounted. He yawned, spat, muttered an invocation, "Hazz-shaitan-Satan in his abode," fidb eted with his waistband, and finally knocked on the door.
It was opened by a lame boy who did not trouble to brush the flies from his sore eyes.