by Harold Lamb
"There is a way to take the slayer of Rai Singh," went on the Pathan, and Baki shook his head, thinking he would be asked for men or money.
"How?" he asked.
"Write thou a summons to al-Khimar, bidding him find the man and send him to thee, bound."
"For what price?"
"For no price; seal it with thy seal."
Baki and Kushal both looked at him to see if he jested, but Mahabat Khan led the way back to the cell-like chamber, and the governor wrote some words in Pushtu upon a paper.
"Who will take this, Mahabat Khan?" he asked, pausing.
"I will be responsible for that."
When he had signed his name, Baki rubbed some ink on a corner of the paper and pressed his signet ring into the ink, then rolled up the missive and thrust it into a plain wooden tube.
"0 Sirdar," he said, as he handed the tube to Mahabat Khan, "thy coming hath cast the torch of strife into the framework of my administration. Should harm befall thee, my trouble will be grief indeed. So I beg of thee to go upon thy way, relating the plight of Kandahar at the court of our illustrious lord, the Emperor of Ind, so that aid may be sent me and my hand strengthened against these hill dogs."
"Aye," smiled the Pathan, "I will do that, after I have delivered the murderer of Rai Singh to my men."
Baki's eyes darkened and his lips closed in a straight line. Verily, he knew his own mind and did not lack conviction.
"Art thou the Sirdar, conqueror of Bengal, victor in twenty battles, lord of twenty thousand horse, or the son of Ghayur, meddler in feuds and thievery?"
"Both," responded Mahabat Khan, pulling at his mustache. "0 Baki, when an obligation is laid upon thee, dost thou put thy hand to its fulfillment or mount thy horse and ride away?"
Baki smote thin fists together, his slender body rigid as a lance shaft, under its poor and ill-fitting clothes.
"By God, Mahabat Khan, it is my duty to hold Kandahar for the emperor! And thou, riding at pleasure, art bound to anger al-Khimar and give him the very pretense for war that he seeks!" He raised both fists over his head, struggling with anger. "At least, take care whom thou sendeth into the hills with this message, for al-Khimar will send thee back his head and then thou wilt have two blood feuds on thy hands instead of one."
"Then will thy troubles be at an end."
So said the Pathan, rising to go forth, and I pondered the riddle of his words until we had mounted and left the citadel. Then I saw a little of what was in his mind, for he signed to me to come to his side.
"Daril, hast thou a mind to serve the Mogul?"
"Yea, my lord-as a physician."
He smiled fleetingly, white teeth flashing under his clipped mustache.
"Thou art not a man of ready promises. Good! Ride to the tents of Abu Ashtar, and lead him to me before the first hour of this night, with three of his men."
"They are Bedouins, serving no lord. For what reason shall I bid them come?"
"Ask if they wish to increase their honor."
"How?" I questioned, knowing that they would demand to be told.
Mahabat Khan was little accustomed to quibbling over a command, but he seemed to know the men of the tents.
"Bid them come, and learn. Shall I be feasted by Abu Ashtar and not kill a sheep for him?"
Not with three Bedouins, but with eleven, did I come to Mahabat Khan's house in the second hour of that night. At first they had refused loudly, fearing both the walls and the guards of Kandahar, and doubtless with good reason, because of thefts committed by them in the past. But the Father of the Blind had the courage of his affliction, and it was a matter of honor to accept the Sirdar's invitation-of honor and good eating. When he had scolded his men for their fears and announced that he would go alone with me, they all began to think in another fashion and begged to come. Abu Ashtar rode a fine mare, with embroidered caparisoning and silk saddlecloth and fringed reins.
Kushal greeted him at the courtyard of the Sirdar's quarters and led him and his men to the fire, where a whole sheep was boiling. The songmaker explained that his master begged to be excused, as he was with the Rajputs in the chamber where the body of Rai Singh lay. Some of the Rajputs came forth presently and greeted us, taking no part in the feast, for they were Hindus. They seemed both restless and troubled, and Kushal was buried in his thoughts. But the servants brought forth many dishes, offering saffron and dates and sherbet with the mutton, and my companions stuffed themselves comfortably.
When we had licked clean our fingers, Kushal led us into the first room of the house. There, as we sat against the wall, I beheld in the dim light of a hanging lanthorn a tall Pathan striding back and forth. The step and the poise of the head were familiar, and presently I knew him by his beaked nose and lean chin to be Mahabat Khan.
W'allahi, but he had changed more than his garments! His loose, soiled pugri with its hanging end, his long wool shirt and rusty chain mail, his baggy breeches bound to the knee with odds and ends of cloth, and his once-splendid padded and embroidered coat-all these looked and smelled like those of a thieving hillman, and even the gold chain bearing some talisman at his throat, and the battered silver armlets were no more than evidence of plunder taken from a slain foeman. He walked like a man accustomed to stride over boulders and climb goat paths.
The keen eyes of the Bedouins recognized him; and they waited for him to speak.
"0 Abu Ashtar," he said, "I asked only for three men-three who know the way to the den of al-Khimar."
The blind chieftain muttered uneasily:
"We are horse traders, strangers in these hills. How should we know the paths?"
"The talk was otherwise in thy tent. I ask for three men to go with Daril and with me."
Even then I could not believe that Mahabat Khan meant to enter the hills. I thought he was playing a trick, and the Bedouins answered in chorus that they knew nothing of the veiled prophet and his people.
"Are ye al-Khimar's men?" he said, smiling.
"Nay, lord. We are-"
"Choose ye the three who will go," he bade them. "Let Abu Ashtar choose. I ask for three to go up the river gorge, to point out the way to the sangar, and thereafter to watch our horses. No more than that; nor will any blame be upon them."
He went away then to talk with Kushal and the Bedouins turned upon me, accusing me of betraying them. I had a moment to reflect and decided how to answer them.
"What is upon ye?" I cried. "This Sirdar hath a feud with al-Khimar. Think ye he will go into the hills and betray ye? Fear ye the river gorge or Balci's guards?"
"Nay, we fear the anger of the Veiled One."
But Abu Ashtar had been meditating, and now he announced suddenly that his men should go. It was better, he said, to obey the Sirdar. If all went well there would be a reward. The truth was that Abu Ashtar had realized that he himself would be held as a hostage by the Rajputs, and he scoffed loudly at the misgivings of the youths who, he said, were eager enough to slink off and listen to the prophet, but reluctant to earn something for him. So the youth with the lovelocks bethought him and offered to go with me, and likewise two of his companions.
Why did I go with the Sirdar? I had brought the Bedouins to Kandahar and I was responsible for the three men to Abu Ashtar. And then it was not easy to refuse Mahabat Khan, who had power to cast us into chains, but who asked no more of us than suited our minds. Eh, before the end came I watched him take command in truth; but that was not yet.
Only once that night did he use his authority, when we four reached the eastern gate of the city. He drew aside the officer of the guard, and presently the gate was opened-against Baki's order. I have often wondered what the Sirdar said to that man!
For awhile we rode east, then circled through the outer camps, until we were heading west. So we reached the river far out from the wall and dropped into the path that wound toward the dark mouth of the gorge.
"Sahib," I said, drawing abreast Mahabat Khan, "this venture is not wise. There is peril
for thee; and as for me, if thou art harmed, Baki will crucify me, and thy troopers will light a fire under my toes. If harm comes to the Bedouins, Abu Ashtar will make an end of me."
"Thou shalt go with me," he laughed.
"Whither?" I wondered. "To deliver the message to that prophet?"
"Perhaps."
"That is madness, for al-Khimar cares naught for the power of the Mogul."
"Nay," he said, "it would be madness to hang about the streets of Kandahar after what has happened. Tell me, Daril, if thou wert riding upon an open road and an arrow sped against thee out of the brush, what would best be done? To ride on, or to turn thy horse swiftly into the brush?"
"To turn aside and hide, and then watch," I made answer.
"Aye," he said, "and that is what we shall do."
When we drew near the outpost in the ravine, the Bedouins thought that the Sirdar would ride in boldly and make himself known; and that would be folly, if eyes were watching from the hills.
Instead, he turned off the path and climbed a ridge, bidding us dismount and warning me to take care that the mare did not whinny. He led us among boulders and bunches of camelthorn without hesitating, and I thought that he had marked this course from the tower that afternoon. The Bedouins moved almost silently beside their unshod beasts. The mutter of the river filled the ears of the guards beside the fire. Perhaps they heard us once the pack pony stumbled heavily, and we waited, listening for a challenge, but I think they were content enough to stay by the road and keep their skins whole. A hundred men could have passed them as we did.
When the fire was too far behind to outline our figures, Mahabat Khan led us down again to the path and halted.
"Lead ye," he said to the Bedouins.
And when they would have pushed past, he checked them and whispered.
"I am called Mahabat Khan-aye, of the Lodi Pathans. I came to Kandahar to sell horses, and I have come hither with you to hear the prophet preach. Is that understood?"
"Yea," they answered.
They had been surprised when he led past the picket, and more surprised that he thought to warn them of a name and a tale to tell when questioned. And I too began to see that the Sirdar was not on strange footing in these hills. As for the name, there might have been a hundred Mahabat Khans within the borders of Ind. Who would think that he assumed his own name?
But now he was no longer the Sirdar. He had left his authority down below at the outpost. From now on he was to be Mahabat Khan, horse trader of the north, and if his disguise failed him he could expect to be held until al-Khimar was paid what ransom he might deem fitting. That, at the best-at the worst it meant a dead Sirdar and endless trouble for me.
Yet he seemed well content.
Within an hour the Bedouins drew rein and waited until we came up.
"There is the way," they said. "May God protect you!"
We had gone forward no more than an hour from the outpost, and the valley was still open, the gleam of the river clear to our eyes. On our right hand the slope fell away, divided sharply, and I stared into the utter darkness of a narrow gorge. Toward this they pointed.
"We will wait here with the horses. Keep close to the rock on your right hand."
The Sirdar dismounted; I said something about torches.
"Nay, Daril," the Bedouins said in chorus, "al-Khimar's men will shoot at any light. We will guard the horses and the packs."
"But the covenant was that you should show the way," I objected.
The air tasted of ice, and the wind cut through my robes, and my joints ached too much to relish climbing upon a mountain such as this that towered over us.
"Nay," they cried instantly, "Mahabat Khan asked only that we should keep the horses; the beasts cannot go upon that path. Inshallum, it is not very far to the sangar! "
Nevertheless, I saw that the graceless liars took the saddles from the animals and wrapped themselves in their blankets, lying down in a sheltered spot, as if they expected to spend the night in waiting. Mahabat Khan, seeing this, gave them leave to go back to Kandahar, if we did not return by the time the sun crossed its highest point the next day. I too would have liked the warmth of my blankets, and sleep. But how could I abandon Mahabat Khan and lurk with these horse tenders after my high words concerning responsibility? I could not!
Mahahat Khan strode off, and I followed. In a moment his figure was lost in utter gloom. I hastened forward and touched him before I saw him.
"What is upon thee, Daril?" he asked softly.
"The way is hidden," I said.
"Aye, this is a tangi-a water ravine. When we reach the heights we will be able to see the path."
It is not easy to dismount from the saddle and go forward on foot-not at all easy, after the third hour of the night, when the path winds up the rocky face of a cliff. For a man like myself in sandals, lean and stiff-limbed and shivering, it is like an ordeal of Tantalus.
Truly, this was a water ravine. Dropping farther below us, a stream rushed and gurgled its way to the river; even the stones that bruised my knee bones were wet, and the air smelled damp. After the first hour, the gorge narrowed and the stars were obscured; the wind beat at us in gusts, and presently the air began to be truly wet, because it rained.
By keeping close to Mahabat Khan, my feet did not stray from the path, which was well, because stones loosed under our tread rattled down through the darkness until they passed beyond hearing. I thought of the Bedouins and hoped that they too were wet.
My shoulders ached, and the calves of my legs. But Mahabat Khan, who had the harder part of feeling the way, did not lag. He must have had legs of iron.
At times we picked our course over a nest of boulders, and then Mahabat Khan was obliged to seek again for the narrow path that hung between the cliff and empty air. The wind no longer beat at our faces; it swirled up from below or swooped down upon our shoulders, and my thighs and ribs began to be wet.
At times we climbed upon our hands, over slippery stone and treacherous gravel. No longer could I hear the stream; instead, scores of tiny watercourses trickled and pattered in our ears, and, in that terrible gloom, it seemed as if we were wandering blindly, driven like sheep before wind. Nevertheless, I think we tended more and more to the right. Presently the wind ceased. Snow began to beat softly against my chin, under the hood of the robe, and to fall unheeded on my numb hands.
As if Satan had withdrawn a curtain, we beheld a strange dawn. The snow had ceased, and the cold increased; and our bruises ached where we had slipped and stumbled and clung. The stars stood in a clear sky, so deep a blue it seemed a shimmering black. Gray pinnacles came forth from behind the curtain of mist, where an old hidden moon shone. I could see Mahabat Khan's swinging coat and pugi'd head and the black knobs of boulders in his path.
We moved along a shallow ravine that twisted and turned among rock ledges, and, after the murk of the tangi, the half light overhead seemed like the true dawn. Presently Mahabat Khan stopped and looked steadily to one side. I saw a flicker of red light run up a chasm.
"Yea," I said to him, through chattering teeth, "Satan hath lighted a lantern to guide us."
He said that somewhere in these gullies a fire burned, and we had seen its reflection upon ice. But it was the cold and not fear that made my jaws quiver. Indeed, such chill as this I had never known.
We went forward more swiftly, looking for the fire. Once I beheld something that danced and beckoned in the shadows of rocks and went toward it. Eh, it was a grave, and an old grave, because, thrust upon dead branches and knotted to bushes, long rag streamers whipped about in the wind.
"Peace be upon ye," I whispered, hurrying after Mahabat Khan, until we both halted and stared about in the dimness.
"0 ye wanderers," a voice shouted at us, "What seek ye here?"
I saw no man, but the voice had come from the gloom under a cliff beside us, and I wondered what manner of men kept watch over the graves in this lofty valley. Mahabat Khan made answer in the h
arsh Pathan tongue, speaking loudly and arrogantly, until the very rocks rang. The man who had challenged seemed satisfied, because he lifted a long wail like the howl of a wolf.
"Come," Mahabat Khan muttered, and we went on without haste, climbing toward a ridge that showed dark against the stars. Soon we beheld one advancing to meet us, who leaned on a staff, peering at our eyes in the starlight. He grinned and spat and went away without a word, motioning to us to go where we willed.
Thus we followed the path to the ridge and stopped to stare. W'allahi, we had come upon the encampment of the hills, not before, but beneath us!
A hundred cubits or more the ridge dropped away beneath our feet, to the bed of a short valley. And scattered through this valley a score of fires flamed bright. Around the fires squatted men in sheepskins and garments of every sort, and women and children behind them. Off in the brush several hundred horses were picketed.
It seemed to me that there were many different clans grouped at those fires, and Mahabat Khan took his time in studying them, saying nothing. On the other three sides the walls of ridged rock loomed sheer, rising out of the firelight. I thought that this pit of the hills was a good place of concealment-a thousand men might lie here for days unseen.
It seemed to me that another road must lead to the bed of the pit, because there were horses and mules and tents down below that could never have come up the tangi, or scrambled down the footpath that we were now forced to descend.
No one heeded us, because the men of the pit were all rising and moving toward the fires at the far end. Mahabat Khan swaggered among them without turning his head, yet using his eyes and ears to pick up scents, like a hound that has returned to his own abiding place after long years. There was a mutter of talk that I did not understand and a smell of wet mud and sweat and burned leather. The women hurried to fetch more wood for the fires, toward which the wave of hillmen moved, and I saw a white stake set in the earth here, on a level spot under the cliff.