Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Excellent, Gulzar Khan!" Ian said. "With enough food and ammunition, a man in that cave could hold this pass forever."

  "So we're going to climb up there and wait for the Afghans?" Laura said as she studied the cave.

  "Not 'we.'" Ian braced himself for the argument he knew would come. "I'm going to sit up there with most of the ammunition, and you are going to take the horses and Gulzar Khan back through the pass to his village. Then you'll enlist an escort of his grateful kinfolk to take you into the Punjab until you find a British regiment, which you will lead back here."

  Her head swung around, and she glared at him with feral golden eyes. "No! I won't leave you here alone."

  "You will," he said in a voice that cracked like a whip. "I said you couldn't come unless you were willing to obey me like a subaltern. That time has come, and there will be no arguments. My duty lies here. Yours lies in going for reinforcements."

  Smoldering, she said, "So I'm to leave you to face an army?"

  "Save your sympathy for the Afghans. Their position is far more dangerous than mine." His voice softened. "Believe me, Larishka, my chances of survival are excellent. That cave is virtually impregnable. It's quite possible that the Afghans will retreat and try to force the Khyber Pass instead. Even at its narrowest, it's hundreds of yards wider than this."

  "What if they decide to fight their way through you?"

  "Then I might die here," he said coolly. "But even if I do, I may be able to hold off the Afghans long enough to stop the rebellion from starting. Remember, the Punjabis won't rise unless the Afghans come, and Rajiv Singh won't try anything alone. Isn't that more important than my life? Even, God help me, more important than both our lives?"

  Tears stinging her eyes, she stared at him. Never before had she so clearly seen the core of steely strength that had enabled Ian to survive torture, starvation, and endless darkness. In his determination to do whatever was necessary, whatever the price to him personally, she had never loved him more.

  Throat tight, she said, "I suppose that is worth more than either of us. Very well, I'll go without any more arguments. But how close do you think British troops might be?"

  "If everything went smoothly—if 'Roaring' Rawdon took the bit between his teeth as soon as Zafir and David delivered the news—the advance guard could be here within a few days."

  Laura didn't bother to point out that if things hadn't gone well, it could be weeks until reinforcements were sent to Jallalabad, for Ian knew that as well as she did. She looked up the steep slope to the cave and decided that she could climb it. "I'll help you carry up supplies."

  "That will speed things up. If you start back soon, you can be out of the pass before darkness falls."

  Laura went to her horse and unpacked the majority of the food and a full waterskin. As she did, Gulzar Khan, who had been slumped half-conscious on the back of Ian's horse, revived a little. "Your servant is talkative, huzar," he muttered.

  "She's not my servant," Ian said dryly. "She's my wife."

  The Pathan's head came up. "A woman?" he said, incredulous.

  Ian nodded. "I rely on you to defend her, Havildar."

  "With my life, huzar," Gulzar Khan said gravely.

  Laura gave both men an exasperated glance. She wasn't sure if Ian was trying to insure her an extra measure of protection, or whether he hoped that responsibility would revive the wounded man, but it seemed obvious that she was more likely to defend Gulzar Khan than vice versa.

  She slung the sack of supplies over her back and began climbing. It wasn't quite a cliff and there were a number of handholds. Even so, she was panting with exertion when she reached the ledge at the cave mouth.

  Ian was just behind. Swinging up beside her, he set down his rifle and the heavy saddlebag of ammunition, then looked along the pass toward Afghanistan. "This is as close to an invincible position as I've ever seen."

  Stepping a safe distance back from the edge, Laura followed his gaze. "If you build a stone barricade with gaps to shoot through, it will give you some extra protection."

  "Good idea. I'll do that while I'm waiting for company." Ian turned and went back into the cave. His voice sounding hollow, he said, "This is larger than I expected."

  Laura followed. The cave expanded into a chamber high enough to stand in, then narrowed again and disappeared back into darkness. Ian indicated a trickle of moisture down one wall. "Since there's water here, I can hold out indefinitely. The cave might have another entrance as well. Feel the air moving?"

  Laura scarcely heard his words. Her main reason for climbing to the cave was to give her husband a private farewell, and now her emotions were paralyzed by the knowledge that they were about to part, possibly forever. Voice choked, she said, "Be careful, doushenka."

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her fiercely. "I will be. For God's sake, you do the same. Believe me, I hate the idea of sending you off even more than you hate the idea of leaving me here.''

  She clung to him, willing herself to memorize this moment exactly. The feel of his body, the sound of his voice, the sense of completion she had found only with him. All were so intensely real that it was impossible to believe she might never experience them again. "I love you, Ian," she whispered.

  His embrace tightened until her ribs hurt. "I've had a great deal of good fortune in my life, Larissa Alexandrovna, but none greater than meeting you." His faint accent thickened to a Scottish burr. "God gae with ye, my bonnie lass."

  He gave her one last kiss, aching and sweet. Then they climbed down the cliff to the trail, Ian below so that he could catch her if she slipped. But she didn't slip. She could not afford to falter, for Ian's life might depend on whether she could bring help in time. Though the cave might be almost impregnable, his ammunition was limited, and there was only one of him to an army of Afghans.

  Laura mounted and set off, Gulzar Khan behind her on Ian's horse. She looked back only once. Ian stood watching her go, as still as the stones surrounding him. He hadn't donned his turban yet, and his hair glowed with dark red fire in the cool winter sun. She wanted to turn and race back to him.

  Instead she lifted her hand and blew him a kiss, knowing that she would never forget how he looked at this moment. He smiled, then turned away.

  As Laura picked her slow way back through the pass, she was mutely grateful that Gulzar Khan knew that she was female. Otherwise he might have sneered at her tears.

  Chapter 33

  Ian heard the Afghans long before he saw them, for it was impossible for masses of men to move through the mountains soundlessly. At first it was a vague noise, like the buzzing of distant bees. Eventually it resolved into individual components. Voices, including an occasional shouted curse. Footsteps and the clatter of hooves and sometimes the heavy thumps of equipment and supplies. Any soldier would recognize that an army was on the move, though the sounds were curiously thin because they were spread over miles of winding track.

  It was midmorning and Ian was waiting patiently. He had made all his preparations the day before. After building a crude defensive wall on the front of his ledge, he had climbed down to the track and piled stones into barricades at several points. The Afghans would have to shift the rocks to pass, and they would have to do it under his rifle. Though such defenses might not be needed, he would rather be overprepared than the opposite.

  The night had been quiet. Using dry fuel that wouldn't smoke, he'd built a small fire. After cooking all of his flour into chapatis so he'd have a supply of cold food, he leaned against the wall of the cave and watched the fire fall into embers. It was a simple pleasure, the kind that prison had taught him to appreciate.

  His mood was a blend of resignation and fatalistic calm. In spite of his reassuring words to Laura, he thought it unlikely that he would escape this engagement with his life. In combat, there were a thousand things that could go wrong. Even if all else went well, eventually he would run out of ammunition.

  Yet there was a fitness to dying this
way, for sacrifice in a worthy cause was the only way he might redeem his lost honor. Not that anyone else would ever know or care how he had betrayed himself in Bokhara, except Laura, and she had shown herself to be remarkably tolerant of his weaknesses.

  But he cared, and his sense of failure had made it impossible for him to tell his wife how much she meant to him. Even if he had been poet enough to find adequate words, he would not have done so. Laura deserved a man of untarnished courage and integrity, not an all-too-human failure whose greatest talent was an unheroic knack for survival.

  Even though he had hated sending Laura away without his protection, she should be safe. Meeting Gulzar Khan had been a stroke of blinding good fortune. Not only had the havildar supplied vital information, he and his clan were honor bound to protect Laura because of the assistance she and Ian had rendered, and it was far better to have an Afridi as a friend than an enemy.

  The sounds were getting louder. Though it was hard to judge in the echoing gorge, he guessed that the first Afghan would come around the bend very soon. He was ready, his rifle loaded, more cartridges close to hand, a wet rag on which to rest the barrel of his gun to reduce overheating. Thank God he had a breechloader, which could be fired much more quickly than the primitive muzzleloaders carried by most Afghans.

  Though this was not the first time he had fought for survival among desolate mountains, before he had always had friends by his side. Camaraderie was the great compensation of military life, for facing death together forged a bond like no other. But this time he would fight, and likely die, alone.

  So be it.

  The first man rounded the bend. Ian unhurriedly raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The ball sped off, deadly and true, with a flat report that shattered the air. The Afghan screamed and staggered sideways until he pitched into the gorge. As he fell, his voice resonated horribly from the stone walls until it ended with sickening suddenness.

  As Ian swiftly reloaded, another man bounded around the corner, body crouched and jezzail ready as he scanned the mountain. Ian fired again. Another shot, another casualty. This one, luckily, fell on the path rather than off the cliff.

  He shot half a dozen men before they stopped coming. Six bullets, six casualties. It was superb marksmanship, but Ian took little pleasure in it. Efficiency in killing his fellow man was grim necessity rather than a source of pride.

  There was a long pause. His gaze on the track opposite, Ian sipped some water, for slaughter was dry work. Eventually a voice called out in Pashto, "Who is there? We are not your enemies. If you want tribute for allowing us passage, we will pay it. Then you can join us in our jihad against the British for we can use a warrior like you."

  Ian shouted back, "But we are enemies. I serve the Sirkar, and I tell you now, you shall not pass."

  Silence. Then a group of men rushed around the corner and scattered, looking for cover from which to return fire.

  But there was no cover. Methodically he picked them off, one by one. Three managed wild shots before they fell, but they didn't have time to spot his position, and the bullets didn't even come close.

  It wasn't war, it was more like the slaughter of tame game birds that English gentlemen called hunting. But it was effective. Very, very effective.

  There was another pause. Then a voice shouted, "In the name of Allah, will you allow us to collect our wounded?"

  "In His name, I grant you permission," he called back.

  The first man came around the curve cautiously, his empty hands in the air. When it became clear that their unseen assailant was honoring the truce, more appeared. Hastily they collected the fallen, then disappeared back around the bend.

  A buzz of voices followed. The Afghans were conferring, trying to decide what to do next. Ian felt sorry for the poor bastards. So much courage and fighting skill, yet they were brought to a halt because they could only come at him one at a time. But even though all the advantages were on his side, he didn't hear sounds of retreat.

  He settled down to wait for the next assault.

  * * *

  Laura was lost. If she weren't so tired and saddle-weary, she might have believed she was wandering in the landscape of a nightmare, cold and stark and endless.

  But this was real, as was Gulzar Khan, slumped over the pommel of Ian's horse. The night before, when they had made camp, he had had enough strength to dismount on his own, and he had eaten the humble supper she made with enthusiasm. But when morning dawned, he was feverish and barely able to get into the saddle again.

  Unfortunately, while he could stay on his horse, he was too delirious to give her directions. She had tried to retrace their path back to the village of Nushki, where they had found the guide, but everything looked different when going in the opposite direction. Now they were well and truly lost. At the moment she was following what seemed to be a goat track, hoping it might lead to a settlement.

  Abruptly the situation changed. Three Pathans materialized from behind the rocks and surrounded her, eyes narrowed and jezzails pointed at her heart. One of them barked at her in Pashto. Very carefully Laura stopped her horse and raised her arms, asking, "Do any of you speak Urdu or Persian?"

  No response. As the men drew closer, she tried several different dialects without striking any chords. But there was at least one word that they should recognize. She said "Anglezi. "

  That intrigued them, though they were obviously puzzled since she didn't look much like an Englishman. Slowly she raised her hand to her turban, repeating, "Anglezi." She yanked the turban off and her hair spilled over her shoulders.

  The Pathans stared. Whatever their feelings about the English, she didn't think they would shoot a woman out of hand. She pointed at Gulzar Khan, who was slouched over the neck of his horse, oblivious to what was happening. "Afridi."

  One of the men went for a closer look. After looking in the havildar's face, he exclaimed, "Gulzar Khan!"

  A babble of comments broke out, and the three Pathans lowered their jezzails. Thank heaven that Laura and the havildar were close enough to the man's home that he was recognized!

  Her three captors, or whatever they were, had a brief discussion, then one said, "Kuram."

  The others nodded, so the first man went loping off one way while the other two took the reins of the horses and began leading them through the hills. Laura was content to let them do as they wished.

  After an hour's travel, they reached a compound that was much like Habibur's. There were a number of friendly women who clucked over Laura, touching her hair and petting her.

  Unfortunately, no one spoke Urdu, and Laura couldn't understand more than a few words of Pashto even though the languages were closely related. It was frustrating, for she felt that comprehension was almost within reach.

  Gulzar Khan was also clucked over, then whisked away for treatment. Based on the solicitude of the Pathans, if this wasn't his own home, it was surely owned by near relations. She was confident that he would be well cared for.

  Though the pampering was pleasant, after Laura had eaten and napped for a couple of hours she began to feel restless. When she tried to convey that she wanted to leave, her hostesses made it clear that leaving was not an option. "Kuram," was repeated over and over again. She hoped that it was the name of an Urdu speaker who had been summoned.

  She was almost right. Eventually one of the older women indicated with gestures that Laura was to follow her. They went into the courtyard, then left the compound, the woman covering her face before she stepped outside. "Kuram," she said, gesturing at a tall young Pathan with an intelligent face.

  Eagerly Laura said, "Do you speak Urdu?"

  He smiled and said in fluent English, "Yes, but wouldn't you prefer your own language?"

  "Thank heaven!" she said fervently. "Are you a soldier of the Sirkar?"

  "I once was, until a youthful indiscretion on my part," he said with a trace of wistfulness. "After that, I took salt with a mountain prince and went to England with him. I spen
t two years there." He gestured to a wooden bench set against the mud-brick wall. "Tell me what an Englishwoman is doing here. You are the amazement of all my kinfolk."

  Hoping that Kuram's time in England meant that he had pro-British sympathies, she identified herself. Then she explained the situation, including the fact that she needed to go back through the Punjab to find British troops.

  At the end, she said, "Will you help me? I'll need an escort and guide."

  He considered. "My tribesmen will not be pleased to have British troops cross our lands. Yet even less will they want Afghans to use our territory for an invasion. The Afghans are our cousins, you know, which makes them much easier to hate."

  He rose from the bench. "I will send word to my kin, suggesting they allow the British safe passage to the Shpola Pass. Most will agree that the British are the lesser evil, for they are more likely to leave."

  After that, things happened quickly. Within half an hour, Laura and Kuram were riding toward the main Khyber Pass road. Now all she had to do was find an army.

  * * *

  Having found an army, Ian was now wishing that it would go away. The last hours had made him think of a Hindu prayer: Oh, Lord, from the venom of the cobra, the teeth of the tiger, and the vengeance of the Afghan, deliver us!

  It was easy to see how the Afghans got their reputation. Why didn't these damned fearless idiots concede that they couldn't use the Shpola and leave? But they didn't. They tried rushing out, climbing up, down, and around the opposite cliff and gorge, anything they could think of to get at him.

  His opponents had located his aerie. Occasionally one would pop out and take a quick shot, then try to dodge out of sight before he could retaliate. Sometimes they were successful. More often, Ian was.

  One clever fellow tried a decoy, sticking out a turban wrapped around some other object to draw Ian's fire and waste his ammunition. Ian was fooled once. After that, he waited to see a torso before firing.