by Harold Lamb
"Hast thou no key?" he exclaimed with the insolence of a child who knows he is protected from harm.
"Nay, little one," the tribesman muttered pacifically, "no key was given me; yet have I gone beyond the Gate."
"So have many," the child sneered. "By what token?"
"I have heard the voice that is not seen."
"What brought thee hither?"
"A message-tidings for him who sits behind the red towers."
"Of silence." The boy laughed, pointing to the marks on the door. "Nay, these are but gateposts and thou art a braying ass without wit. Come and bray."
Without taking offense, the Kara Kalpak led his horse into the courtyard, turned him loose in the shade, and followed the limping boy up an outer stair to a room on the second floor that overlooked the roofs of Talas. He went slowly, as if coming with empty pockets to a moneylender who held long-overdue interest against him. Leaving his peaked riding slippers on the mat, he advanced slowly into the shadow toward a young Persian who knelt by a low table that bore a silver cup of mastic and sugared fruits. He touched the carpet, then his forehead with his right hand, clumsily as a performing bear.
"Ai, tura," he vouchsafed, "I have tidings from the caravan road for him who sits behind the outer gateposts of silence."
The Persian did not smile. He had blue eyes, bloodshot from too many opiates or too little sleep, and soft, protruding lips. His turban cloth was immaculate white silk.
"I am Mir Farash," he said idly, "a poor interpreter of dreams, but I will hear thy tale."
Squatting on the carpet, the tribesman fingered his beard uneasily.
"As the command came, so it was done," he began. "Two of us waited beyond the first well of the great road. We watched in turn, six-eight days. Then when the sun was high we beheld the light flash twice and twice again from the tower of the ruined mosque above Samarkand. We went down to wait in a gully for the rider of the yam. We came out before him, and Yussuf slew him with one stroke when he would have swerved past us."
He paused to glance restlessly behind him at the window.
"The boy watches," Mir Farash observed. "And then?"
"Lord, it was Yussuf who took the silver tube. It bore a Tatar seal."
"Thou hast it not?"
"Yussuf had it. But, Honored One, before we could ride off a strange horseman came to the dying Tatar."
"And ye twain, being greedy of more than payment, lingered to loot him! "
"Nay, by the ninety and nine holy names! We feared that he had seen. He knelt there, unaware-"
The youth's dark eyes flashed.
"He had seen, and yet knelt unsuspecting! What poor lies are these?"
The big tribesman rocked on his haunches. Although he was girdled with weapons and the slender interpreter of dreams looked harmless as a girl, his voice thickened with fear.
"Kulluck! I am thy slave! My words are dull, but it is all true. Am I not here in the dust at thy feet? Do not let anger come. Hearken, we thought to ride down this horseman. He turned like a panther. He struck Yussuf such a blow it slit him open.
"Who was I to ride in where Yussuf had fallen? Nay, a thought came to me, and I hastened along the road to the well, calling upon some dob born Afghans to aid me. I swore that this nameless one had slain the courier and Yussuf also. We gave chase, swift as the black storm wind. At the next station we should have caught him, but he tricked the Tatar guards and went off on a good horse. The officer of the station joined us with ten and two men, after I had sworn to the murder of the courier."
"This nameless one-he had taken the silver tube?" Mir Farash murmured. "And thou, 0 sharp of wit, thou didst tell the Tatar officer of this also?"
"Nay," exclaimed the tribesman with pride. "I was like a fox in guile. I said only that the yam rider had been robbed and his wallet torn open. Those Afghans had seen that. The Tatars could follow the man's trail. After the last light he turned off into the hills, toward Talas. The Tatars were like a dog pack, with their noses to the ground. They made torches and followed slowly. I decided to cast ahead, along the upper trail to Talas. I did not see the thief, but the Hawk House was burning."
Mir Farash nodded reflectively.
"What was he like, this nameless one?"
"A batyr-a matchless swordsman-like to no other I have seen." The tribesman gave a shrewd description of Nial, while visibly he pondered something else. "Surely he must come out of the hills upon this river. The Tatars are behind him, and they will not turn back. Give command to hunt for him here."
Again the Persian nodded, impassively.
"I understand. Thou hast failed."
"Kulluck! But I alone know his face."
The Kara Kalpak tugged at his beard anxiously.
"Then wait below until I summon thee."
When the tribesman had gone off, grateful to escape punishment for the present, at least, Mir Farash nibbled at one of the sugared fruits. Then without enthusiasm he rose and went up to the roof of his house, where he leaned against the parapet in the full glare of sunlight. Idly he scanned the vistas of alleys below him. Talas sprawled from the river halfway up a stony hill, and his house was one of the highest.
It was a dangerous thing to do; for that was the siesta hour and groups of women were lying under canopies on the flat roofs, where layers of fragrant grapes had been spread to dry. A good Moslem dislikes to be stared at, and will resent violently having his women watched from a roof, no matter how distant. Although Mir Farash's white turban reflected the sunlight, drawing instant attention to him, neither taunts nor arrows came his way. Instead, some of the younger women near him began to chatter in the hope that he would notice them.
But he continued to inspect the narrow valley, the twin slopes of gray stone cut up into terraces heavy with grapevines, the turgid Zarafshan* River, and the empty bridge. The great waterwheel groaned and wheezed. A breath of cooler air from distant heights passed down the valley, mingling with the warm odor of tamarisk, of mulberries ripening in the sun, and the dung and offal of the alleys. Mir Farash called a boy to him and gave command to send watchers to the gates and others to search along the river for a solitary rider-a tall infidel with blue eyes and a lion's mane, who spoke both Arabic and the speech of the Tatars.
By midafternoon he had another visitor, a Kara Kalpak who was as voiceless as the first had been voluble.
"Neshavan hath found his grave," he reported.
"And where," Mir Farash asked, "is the proof?"
Reaching into a wicker basket beside him, the tribesman lifted out a human head and placed it before the Persian. It had a long black beard, clotted with dried blood.
"The keeper of the hawks," grunted the Kara Kalpak, and took a second head from the basket. "Karabek, the archer."
Drawing a sharp knife from his waistband, he slit an ear from each and pouched these two pieces of evidence of the success of his mission before rising silently to depart. Mir Farash smiled fleetingly.
"But what of the girl, Alai?" he questioned.
The Kara Kalpak swept his arm outward.
"Gone into the night, like an arrow lost among reeds."
"She will cause trouble. Watch for her and bring her to me. Hast thou seen a tall infidel with blue eyes and a lion's mane? He hath only one straight sword and two saddlebags."
"Allah tzei! Yes, we have seen him and his sword. He also escaped because Karabek stood upon their trail with his bow."
"Go thou and search for him. Let no one plunder him, but bring him hither with all he carries."
The creaking of a far-off waterwheel roused Nial late that afternoon. His first thought was for the saddlebags under his head, and when he had sat isfied himself that the silver tube was safe, he looked around for the Tatar girl. She was not in sight, although her pony stood by the piebald horse.
Nial pushed through the poplar grove in which they had taken refuge early that morning, for both were tired and neither wished to ride into Talas in daylight. The girl was slee
ping in a hollow, curled up on saddlecloths, her white linen headgear drawn over her face. She did not stir when he stood beside her nor when he knelt and lifted the white cloth gently.
Her eyes were closed-long eyes that slanted upward a little under heavy lashes darkened with kohl. Her full lips were blood-red against her white face, the face of a weary child. Around her throat curled the mass of her unbound hair, black as night itself. But, seemingly asleep, she was watching him under the veil of her lashes. And when the tall Scot would have gone away, she looked him full in the face, curiously, without a word.
"How do men call thee?" he asked awkwardly.
"Alai."
The girl rose to her knees, brushing back her hair and winding the white coif around it deftly, but without veiling her face. Nial knew that the Tatar girls often went about freely without the heavy veil of the stricter Moslems.
"I have a little food," he ventured. "No water."
From a bag he produced barley cakes and dried curds, arranging them in two equal piles. Alai took up her share and knelt with her back to him, reaching behind her to break the cakes upon the heel of her boot.
"Was Neshavan thy father?" he asked.
"Nay," she murmured, "he nourished me and protected me. He was like a father."
Alai had been left at the Hawk House by her own father, a Tatar noyon of the great Horde, who had been fleeing through the hills, closely pursued. He had been slain, and no one had claimed the girl, who had been raised by the kindly Neshavan.
"Why did the Black Hats seek him out last night? They meant to kill him."
"The dogs!" She lifted her head and spat. "May Allah turn from them. May their days be bitter and fiends trouble their dreams. They are Gutchluk's men."
"Who is he?"
Alai swept her hand toward the hills.
"All this is his. Our falcons brought down some of his messenger pigeons, and Neshavan read the messages, unknowing. We meant no harm."
She pondered a moment and felt in the broad pocket of her khalat, offering Nial a handful of sugared ginger. She glanced at him shyly when he took some, then turned her back to nibble at hers. When Neshavan was slain she had stormed and wept, but now it was all over except the hopedfor vengeance; the women of mid-Asia were accustomed to the turns of fate. Alai must have been thirsty, but she did not complain as she curled up by the horses, watching Nial's movements curiously.
Going to the edge of the grove, he looked out over the valley of the Zarafshan and the distant roofs of Talas. Several horsemen were passing below him, but no Tatars were visible.
"Soon it will be dark," he said, "and then where will you go-in the town?"
"With you, Lord Nial."
Laughing, he shook his head.
"Nay, Alai, that cannot be. I ride far-alone."
"I have kept the saddle for months with Neshavan. I can point out the way to you."
"You must go to your friends."
"I have not one-" She shook her head vigorously. "Did you not lift the veil from me? By Allah, have we not shared bread?"
Nial did not try to argue; instead he asked if she knew a house outside the wall where they would be safe for a night. He could leave her where she would be protected.
"We can find Abu Harb," she said after thinking it over. "He hunts antelope and at times steals horses. He owed Neshavan a debt, and so he will give me a saddle. Why do you flee, Lord Nial?"
The Scot had fewer words than this girl, and he could not keep pace with her thoughts.
"How did you know?" he asked
"Wallahi-have you not watched the back track? And where are your goods and servants? You are not a merchant, not a Tatar."
"Nay-" he smiled, the harsh lines softening 'round his lips-"I am a devil from over the dark water, the sea."
"Then where will you turn your reins?"
"To Cathay."
This silenced Alai only for a moment.
"Bilmaida-good! If Allah wills, I may find my own people."
When he saddled the piebald, she had the headstall on the pony and was watching him with amusement as he finished. The sunset glow was fading down the valley when they rode from the grove, Alai leading him along a path beyond sight of the bridge. In the gloom by the river's edge she found a ford, passing through fishermen's huts, up the side of the hill. Casting about in the darkness, she drew near what seemed to be a cleft in a solid cliff.
"Ai, Abu Harb," she called softly. "The eagle waits at the hunter's door."
A voice rumbled in the bowels of the hill and presently a torch flared within the cleft. Without waiting for an invitation, the girl dismounted and led in her pony, while Nial followed more slowly, the piebald objecting savagely to crowding through the rock passages.
Rounding a turn, he found himself in a small cavern with smokeblackened roof. A one-eyed Arab stared at him suspiciously beneath the tomb.
"He is the very one!"
Nial turned as if scenting unseen danger.
"Nay, Abu Harb! He is the Lord Nial who struck a blow for Neshavan, and he hath shared our salt."
At once the Arab lifted his head. His long hair, gray at the temples, was braided close to his skull under the flapping headgear, and his gaunt frame looked like a skeleton draped in rough brown cloth. But he moved swiftly; and Nial, who had been raised among such men, knew that there was strength in the lean arms.
"Hadd!" cried the master of the cave. "Be welcome." His eyes opened wide when Nial made answer in sonorous Arabic. "What man art thou, to know the speech of the Nejd! Behold," he added to the girl, "this is the one they seek along the river."
"True, he hath many enemies."
Alai nodded complacently and in the same instant was rocking on her knees, her hair drawn over her face, without a sound. The calamity of last night had struck her afresh.
Abu Harb, who seemed to know how to deal with the grief of women, led her to the rear of the cavern to a rug spread upon a quilt and talked to her, low voiced. Nial noticed that several passages led out of the place and he wandered over to the nearest one, finding it a storage space heaped with hay, antelope horns, odds and ends of saddlery and irons. Before he could look at it more closely, the torch brightened and Abu Harb's lean head was at his shoulder.
"Come, thou," the Arab whispered. "But first, cover thyself with this."
While Nial was putting on the long, light kaffiyeh, winding it across his arms and drawing the edge of it over his head, Abu Harb tied the two horses to rings in the far wall and kindled a fire upon the hearth beside the girl.
"We cannot talk near her," he explained when they were in the darkness outside. "She understands my speech, and the Iranis-everything. Ai-a, she was a piece of Neshavan's liver, and I would lay my one eye at her feet. But now by Allah, Mir Farash is looking for her. How can she hide from him? He will pay gold for her; and the lice of Talas would sell their mothers, if they knew them, for silver. Nay. She must go hence with thee before the next day."
"Nay," the Scot objected. "I go alone."
"How canst thou? She said she belonged to thee. They will search my house."
"She is not mine."
Stopping in his tracks, the Arab shook his head slowly.
"Khawand Nial, I do not understand. Of what use are words? She is a breath from Peristan, and all men look after her. If she wishes to go with thee, she will go. By Allah, I will go also. Come, we will need many things."
With long strides the hunter was off toward the distant lights of the town. But when Nial caught up with him he stopped to whisper fiercely.
"What good comes from sitting in one place? These dogs in stinking sheepskins offend my nostrils. Wallahi, they slew Neshavan, my companion of the road. Am I to sit in peace with them? I will show thee a new road to Samarkand where the horse herds and the antelope run. But we will need barley, dried meat, garlic, a soft blanket for Alai, a packhorse."
Muttering to himself, Abu Harb checked off necessities on his long fingers as he steered Nial toward
an open gate in the wall. He had no hesitation and seemed to expect Nial to take care of himself. Dogs rushed out to snarl at them, and drew off before the sweep of the Arab's long stick. Then both men halted to stare ahead of them.
There were lights in the open square at the head of the alley, and a group of the Kara Kalpaks stood their ground like jackals facing wolves. Three horsemen rode toward them, three Tatars with an officer in the lead. Nial recognized the darogha of the post station who had questioned him.
As the Tatars came on, the tribesmen fingered their weapons and one spat noisily. The darogha glanced at him and loosened the coil of rope that hung at his saddlehorn. The Black Hat knew the meaning of this, because he drew back reluctantly when the horse's muzzle was almost touching him. The tribesmen went off, as if at a signal, and at a word from the officer the two Tatar warriors followed them.
Abu Harb chuckled silently, but Nial watched the officer who remained at the alley mouth, rubbing his arms as if they were stiffened by long riding. Presently, hearing the drip of water from a dark court off the alley, the darogha let his horse wander toward it, and Nial heard him dismount.
"A knife-swiftly," he whispered to the Arab.
Abu Harb asked no questions. He thrust the bone hilt of a curved knife into the Scot's hand and nodded eagerly when Nial bade him follow but not interfere in anything that happened. Only when Nial turned toward the court did the Arab pluck his sleeve.
"Nay," Abu Harb breathed. "That is one of the khan's men. A panther is easier to stalk."
"Hold thy tongue."
Thrusting back the Arab, Nial went on, making no effort to walk quietly. He stepped into the yard, paused to stare in the faint starlight at the horse, and moved to the well. The Mongol, who had finished drinking, looked toward him casually and jerked the horse's head back from the water. As he did so, Nial's left hand closed upon his right wrist, and when he turned angrily he felt the tip of a sharp steel blade press through the coat beneath his ribs.
"Be silent!" Nial whispered. "It is for me to speak, for thee to listen."
"Kai," the man grunted softly, "thou art the slayer of the yam."
"True. But I am here to tell thee more that is true. The man I slew was the robber, the Kara Kalpak."