by Harold Lamb
"0 father of battles," she said reprovingly, "thy hand is more accustomed to the sword hilt than the lancet. I am weary for my land and feverish with longing for my mountains, the snow mountains by the Sea of the Eagles."
Verily, such longing can be no less than fever, and I too longed at times for the bare sahra and its clear night skies. Because it seemed to me that she had spoken the truth, and because I was partaking of her salt and perhaps because I wished to keep Kushal out in the courtyard where he could not stir up any mischief, I talked with her, answering the murmur of her questions.
She told me her name was Nisa. She was a Circassian, born in the mountain land of Persia, a singer who wandered from city to city. For months she had been pent up in Kandahar, because she feared to take the road down into Ind, where the riders of al-Khimar might despoil her of possessions or carry her off.
She asked me about my capture by the pasha, and l told her the truth-that I had seen this pasha, the ambassador of the great shah of Persia, slain in a hill tower, and the gifts he was escorting into Ind scattered among thieving Kurds. Then she asked me if I had seen any nobles of the shah hunting near the frontier.
"I shall go back," she cried softly, "if I can find protection upon the road. Kandahar is full of merchants and hillmen and 1 am weary of it."
"Would the shah's nobles hunt in winter?" I made response.
"Yea, if the whim came to them."
I told her I had passed only one camp, at a distance, where I had seen Persian Red Hat soldiery and many horses, doubtless the frontier guards.
And then Kushal made himself heard. A guitar struck the first light notes of melody, and he sang-I knew not what. Nisa grew silent at once, and I thought that she must have watched us from the window, because she made no effort to look out to see who the minstrel might be.
But the song had the rush of galloping hoofs and the ripple of laughter and the harsh notes of anger, and when I rose and looked through the lattice, I beheld Kushal on his white horse among the warriors of the courtyard. They were sitting, agape, grinning and listening with all their ears.
It was a Pathan love song, this-a thing of fire and grief and passion, and the warriors enjoyed it. When Kushal ceased and bent his head over the guitar and adjusted its strings, Nisa whispered a question.
"Who is the young lord?"
I told her that he was a minstrel of Mahabat Khan's, and she rose to her knees to watch him, the sunlight coming full against her face for the first time. W'allahi, it was my turn to stare!
Unveiled, clouded with pale gold tresses penned beneath a silver fillet, her eyes dark as pools at night, her lips small and fine as the seal of a signet ring, what a face it was! Too young for richness of beauty, too impulsive for peace of mind-it was the face of a child of peristan, of elfland, willful and careless and still tender.
And that moment Kushal chose to ride up under the window. Perhaps he could see her through the lattice or perhaps he heard her whisper, for his ears were keen as his wits and his head was no more than a lance length from the opening.
Nay, she did not complain then of the sun glare or of aching eyes, for she pressed close to the wooden fretwork, and Kushal surely beheld her face. An instant he stared, his fingers fumbling the guitar, then he smiled and salaamed, crying-
"The praise to God who created fair women! " Musing a moment he put his thought into song, choosing a lilting Persian melody, thus:
Nisa, resting on a slender arm, cuddled down to listen, and the slave girl clapped her hands soundlessly.
Not once did the songmaker seem to remember the armed henchmen at his back, nor did he once falter for a word.
The slave girl was sighing with admiration, but Nisa chose to laugh-a soft trill that provoked and mocked, not less melodiously than Kushal's song. Kushal's eyes lighted at the sound.
"Open the casement," Nisa ordered her woman, and when this was done, she turned at once to look back at me. "Verily, Lord Daril, thy companion resembles a peacock in splendor and in self-conceit, and his voice is as harsh as a peacock's."
Now Kushal's improvised song had been put in a Persian measure, and was not to be compared to his native chants, but often I had seen a minstrel rewarded with a jeweled bracelet for less than that, by a pleased patron. Of course, Nisa being a woman, a reward was the last thing he expected.
"Throw him a coin," Nisa whispered quite distinctly to her maid. "Nay, not gold-silver."
Naturally the slave girl giggled and, after a moment's search, a silver dirham was tossed from the casement by the maid. Kushal's face darkened and he sat rigid in the saddle, his eyes fastened upon Nisa's face.
"Close the casement," she whispered, glancing from beneath long lashes at the motionless minstrel.
Although I was not ill pleased to behold Kushal's pride touched, I had seen enough of the girl's pranks.
"Thou hast my leave to depart," she said idly, and slipped from the couch to accompany me to the curtain, which was strange.
Here we met the bearded steward in argument with one of the warriors of the courtyard, and they both looked unhappy when they saw their mistress.
"What is upon you?" she asked at once.
The armed retainer squirmed and held out a closed fist.
"Ai, hanim, a message from the lord who sang, he of the white horse."
"What, then?"
"These words, 'The gift of Kushal Kattack, who has many times bestowed a diamond for a glimpse of a fair face."'
The slender Circassian brushed back the tangle of her tresses and held out her hand. The man opened his fingers reluctantly and yielded up a single coin.
"This was his gift."
Nisa's left hand flew toward his girdle, as if to grasp the hilt of a dagger, and the messenger shrank back. Then, looking amused, she let the copper piece roll down the stair and waved the two servitors to follow it. They went gladly, and I thought that she had made them fear her anger before now.
Verily, by pretending that she had appeared at the casement for a price, Kushal had matched her treatment of him-and he had not stopped to think that we were shut up with a dozen of the Circassian's armed followers. When she dismissed the maid, after the two men, I began to watch for a storm.
"Art thou his friend?" she asked in a whisper.
I pondered, and nodded. For a night I had dwelt in his tent, sharing his salt. She looked at me searchingly, and twice seemed to check the words that rose to her lips. Seldom will a woman do thus.
"Then bear him this message-to him alone. Warn him thus, 'If Kushal abides in Kandahar a week he will meet the hour of his death."'
She spoke impatiently and so softly that I barely caught the words. As to me, she said naught, and I went from her presence wondering. If he had offended her, why should she delay taking vengeance upon him? If she had reason to fear for him, why did she not summon him up and warn him herself? It seemed likely enough that Kushal had enemies in Kandahar- and everywhere.
When we had rid ourselves of Sher Jan, outside the courtyard gate, I gave him Nisa's message, and he smiled.
"No doubt she would like to see me run, as a jackal flees a lion's den."
"As to that I know not, and God alone knows what is behind a woman's words. After all, she is a singing girl, without shame."
To my surprise he turned upon me fiercely.
"Allah karim! Thou liest, Daril! Those eyes-" He meditated, with an inward struggle. "True, she is without shame, knowing not its meaning. She is a child, untaught."
"She said she was a singing girl, and she meets men unveiled."
"I thought thee wiser, Daril. I'll wager my horse and purse she knows no more evil than that pigeon."
He pointed up at a blue pigeon that had swept down out of the west, circling above the poplars. Fluttering, it dropped out of sight upon the roof of Nisa's dwelling. In the clear, level sunlight of late afternoon I caught the flash of silver upon one of its claws.
"A messenger pigeon," I laughed, but Kushal frowned
.
"Why did she summon thee?" he asked moodily.
"To question me and amuse herself; nay, she has mocked us."
Kushal glanced again at the blank white wall of the house and reined forward savagely. While we had been idling in this fashion at the Circassian's, the followers of Mahabat Khan had moved forward into Kandahar, taking up quarters in a large house offered the khan by the governor, who had not known until this day of the coming of the foremost soldier of Ind. To this house Kushal now made his way, saying nothing at all.
And here I would have parted from him, to go back to the Arabs' camp, had not one of the troopers of Mahabat Khan galloped forth to meet us.
"Hai! For an hour the order of Mahabat Khan has awaited thee, to go at once to him at the governor's hall!"
Kushal shook off his meditation and gathered up his reins.
"The Arab physician likewise," added the man.
His voice had a ring to it, and his eyes looked ominous. Beyond him, in the pomegranate garden of the dwelling, other troopers walked about among their saddled horses, talking vehemently. I saw for the first time that these followers of Mahabat Khan were Rajput horsemen, warriors too proud of their own birth and worth to serve any lord of another race who was not a man of the utmost courage and as careful of honor as themselves. And at this moment they looked as if they wanted nothing more than to take to the sword and saddle.
"What has happened?" Kushal asked.
"Enough!" said the trooper, chewing his beard. "When the Sirdar-" in this fashion they named Mahabat Khan-"rode through the marketplace of this city, a man dressed as a pilgrim drew a tulwar and ran at him. Rai Singh, riding at the Sirdar's flank, saw him and spurred forward, taking the blow in his breast. Thus the man failed to do harm to our lord."
"Allah! And then?"
"The man of the tulwar fled through the bazaars, and we heard this cry, 'The stroke of al-Khimar!' Who cried out, we know not. The Sirdar drove his horse into the crowd, but the assassin escaped. Rai Singh died in these last moments, after the Sirdar had gone to the governor. Tell him so."
While we trotted toward the citadel the same thought came to both of us-that al-Khimar had dared take vengeance for the skirmish of yesterday.
At that time Baki the Wise was governor of Kandahar. Kwajah Baki, frugal and penny saving, a learned reader of books, a good man for accounts and management, who trusted no soothsayers but studied the stars himself, making calculations of fortunate and evil days. Wise indeed he was, but too fearful to be a good soldier, though he was the son of a Pathan chieftain and a Persian mother.
We found his palace to be evidence of his peculiarity. The walls were bare of tapestries, the carpets were mended, the servants meanly dressed. Even the merchants and officers who awaited audience with him had come garbed in common stuffs, and the worn slippers that they left at the threshold were no better than my sandals.
And Baki himself we found not in the fountain garden nor in the tiled reception hall, but perched in the high round tower at the rear of the citadel, at a table covered with rolls of paper. We were escorted to this chamber, where Mahabat Khan nodded to us and spoke our names to the governor.
Baki had the large clear eyes and pale skin of the man who goes forth seldom into the sun. His black cotton tunic and loose red khalat seemed to make up in color what they lacked in ornament. He looked fixedly at Kushal's elegance and turned his back upon us, with a curt greeting.
"As to the wound of thy follower," he said to Mahabat Khan, resuming his conversation without heeding us, "that is one of the least of the injuries inflicted by al-Khimar."
"Rai Singh is dead," remarked Kushal.
Mahabat Khan glanced at him and nodded again, clasping his lean hands between his knees. Baki and he sat upon the low carpet-covered platform that ran around the wall, while Kushal and I stood before them, there being no fit sitting place on the clay floor of the governor's workroom.
"0 Kwajah," said the Pathan Sirdar quietly, "thou has heard. My men will expect me to find the murderer."
"How?" asked Baki crisply. He had a keen mind and the gift of plain words. "By now the man who did it is hidden in any one of a hundred cellars. By nightfall he will be lowered over the city wall, on his way to the hills. Once there, thou and I could search for a month and only see more men slain."
"Then he is from the tribes? He wore pilgrim's dress."
"So do a thousand others who journey from Ind to the shrines of Meshed and Mecca yearly. When al-Khiinar is pleased to murder in Kandahar, it is his whim to dress his swordsmen so."
Mahabat Khan called Baki's attention to us.
"This companion of mine was wounded in fighting off raiders yesterday, and this physician was robbed of his silver in a place called the Valley of Thieves, all within thy territory."
The governor pressed his thin lips together and thrust out his chin.
"B'illah! Hadst thou advised me of thy coming, Mahabat Khan, I would have sent two hundred troopers to escort thee."
"The fault is not thine," Mahabat Khan said grimly, "but the responsibility is thine."
"Nay," retorted Baki, "it is God's, who made hillmen-Pathans and Hazaras. Were the Veiled One in Kandahar I could scent him out and make an end of him. But he does not leave his gorge. Only his men wander in and out-excellent spies by all tokens, because they inform him of the coming of the caravans."
"Were any caught?"
Baki spread out his hands.
"Two were caught and accused by twenty witnesses. I tortured them and put them to death thereafter, they swearing by the life of God that they knew naught of al-Khimar. And the next day a message was dropped from the wall at my feet, saying that they had died speaking the truth and al-Khimar knew them not."
Verily, he was a man of peace like myself, desiring quiet to finish his tablets of solar equations and movements of the moon.
"In the end," he said moodily, "it was clear to me that the twenty accusers were al-Khimar's men, and the twain that I slew were enemies of his. In this fashion he cast dirt upon my beard."
"A prophet who sheds blood!" Kushal cried.
"Yea," assented the governor, "who sheds blood to clear the path he means to follow."
"And that path?" Mahabat Khan looked up.
"Leads to war. Promising war and loot, he is rousing the tribes of the hills." Suddenly Baki rose, drawing his heavy coat about his thin shoulders. "Come!"
He unlocked the narrow door behind his table, and a gust of wind whirled into the chamber. We followed him upon a spiral stair that led upward past embrasures to the roof of the tower. Whoever built this tower of the citadel had meant it for a lookout. A solid parapet, breast high, ran around it.
Leaning against this wall, our robes tossed by the buffeting of the icy wind, we could see all Kandahar and the fertile plain below. It was then the hour of early afternoon, after the third prayers.
"Look," cried Baki the Wise, "and you will see why al-Khimar prevails against me."
Mahabat Khan was silent, his dark eyes running over every point of the citadel, as a chess player gazes at the men on the board, with thought for strength of attack and defense.
Indeed, this was a strong kasr, a fort to be held by few against many. On three sides a rocky ditch lay under the wall, which had been built of yellow stone, buttressed and sloping sharply upward four or five times the height of a man. The one large gate of black wood, ironbound and studded, was set in the maw of a squat tower. Instead of the usual litter of stables and stalls against the inner side of the wall, the space was clear to the inner citadel, also of solid stone, rising roof above roof toward this wind-blasted tower.
And the tower sat back squarely against the soaring ridge of the mountain behind us. I could have cast a javelin against the rocky face of the mountain, with its gaping fissures and jagged pinnacles.
To right and left, clear in the glow of the evening sky, other arms of the mountains stretched down toward the dark line of poplars that marked the
highway from Ind to Persia. A dozen shadow-filled gorges led back to the upper slopes of the hills, and it was clear to me that raiders coming from the heights could choose their valley and strike and flee unharmed.
"Listen!" exclaimed Baki, shivering in his wraps.
Below the walls of the citadel all Kandahar was astir, perhaps aroused by the parties of Mogul guards who searched in vain for the murderer.
"Ya hu-ya huk!"
Beggars, scenting profit in the confusion, cried the louder, pulling at the horsemen and cursing those who beat them off. Dust rose about them like a veil, swirling up in the hot air that lurked in the alleys, smelling of camels and dirty cotton and burning dung. Women screamed down from the roofs, abuse mingled with praise and questions for all the world to hear.
"With three hundred men," said Baki, "I am given the duty of holding Kandahar and collecting the tax of the Mogul. Half my men are Pathans, cousins of the hill dogs, fire-eaters, who would like nothing better than to loot on their own account. The landholders in the plain will not support me, because they say I tax them too heavily. The wandering folk who have come down to camp here for the winter are more afraid of al-Khimar than of me. Mahabat Khan, I watch, and I will hold the fort if I am attacked. I have posted guards at the trail that leads to the devil's aerie. Here!"
He led us to the west side of the tower and, shading my eyes, I looked down into the haze of a bare ravine under the city wall at the gray river winding through its depths. On my right hand the ravine wound up into the hills, and a thin column of smoke showed where Baki's outpost camped by the river, within sight of the tower.
"That is well done," said Mahabat Khan gravely.
Baki peered at him curiously, no doubt wondering if the Sirdar meant to complain of him to the Mogul. In truth this was not the place for Baki, a man whose years had been passed in the academies, who craved solitude and was fearful of the unseen. A strong hand and a ready sword were needed to keep this mountain gate for the Mogul.