Part 4 (1/2)

Mariam was certainly in desperate need of training, but she had courage and a good heart. And although Safiya herself gave little importance to outward appearances, it was clear that with her creamy skin, soft brown curls, and broad, transforming smile, the foreign girl was as beautiful as any young woman in Lah.o.r.e, or would be if she paid more attention to herself.

Safiya sighed. There was no more to be said. She craned her neck, searching for a helpful child among the whispering groups in the sitting room. ”Mehereen,” she called, ”go and tell them to bring the food.”

An olive, she said to herself, remembering the verse inscribed on Ha.s.san's gold medallion, neither of the East, nor of the West... neither of the East, nor of the West...

April 15, 1841 As a horse and rider approached, Nur Rahman Khan sprang up from his vantage point beside the Residence's guarded entrance gate, and narrowed his eyes. To his relief, it was the foreign lady, returning at last from her outing. Sitting sideways in her saddle, dressed in heavy black with a veiled riding hat, she walked her fine mare unhurriedly toward him, ignoring the misty rain that had turned the Kohistan Road to mud. Behind her strode the same pair of Indian servants who had accompanied her when she left: one man tall and long-legged, the other burly and pale-skinned beneath his turban, with a beard the color of corn silk.

Nur Rahman stepped into the horse's path on his quick, dancer's feet, his slender body taut with tension. He must time his move exactly. If he approached the lady too early, while she was too far from the gate, he would risk being set upon by the servants before he could get inside. If he waited too long, she might ride through the entrance without him, leaving him outside to be manhandled by the pair of aggressive-looking sentries who stood by the gate, smart in their red woolen coats and white cross belts.

Later, friendless and without shelter or safety, he would be hunted down From the day of her arrival in Kabul, Nur Rahman had included the lady in his plan. The polite greeting she had offered to Painda Gul on that first morning had caught the young dancer's attention, for only an extremely courteous person would have addressed such a man at all. Later, Nur Rahman had learned in the bazaar that the woman and her uncle were two of only a handful of English people in Kabul who spoke any local language.

One of the foreign women, they had said, speaks both Farsi and Pushto. speaks both Farsi and Pushto.

What a pity, they had added, that of the few foreigners who can speak to us, one should be a woman! that of the few foreigners who can speak to us, one should be a woman!

Her uncle, the gossip ran, was an intelligence agent. Nur Rahman knew this to be the truth, for on his very first day in Kabul, the old man had gone straight to the bazaar, where he had questioned several shopkeepers in rusty, accented Farsi.

Wherever he went, he had inquired about Wazir Akbar Khan.

Only this newly arrived Englishman, people said over their gla.s.ses of tea in the chaikhanas chaikhanas of the city, of the city, asks about the son of our true Amir, who even now waits to wrest his father's throne from the hands of the unbelievers. Only this man knows what is in our hearts. asks about the son of our true Amir, who even now waits to wrest his father's throne from the hands of the unbelievers. Only this man knows what is in our hearts.

Only he, agreed others, understands the danger to his people. understands the danger to his people.

In the crowd at the horse races, Nur Rahman had seen the English lady getting into her palanquin. Calling out to her in the Pushto of his people, he had rushed to her side. She had not dismissed him then, although she had not understood him. He had realized too late that the bazaar gossip had been wrong, that she understood only Farsi. Her bearers had carried her away by that time, but he had known then what he must do.

It was she, he realized, and no other person in all of Kabul, who might, in the proper circ.u.mstances, save his life.

It was a gamble, of course, but he was Afghan, and used to gambling, and the odds were not entirely against him. Perhaps, if she were as kind as she appeared, and if Allah Most Gracious willed, she would accept his request for panah panah, the hospitable asylum that must be given to those who ask properly, even those who have committed unspeakable offenses.

She, of course, was not Pashtun. She might fail to understand this ancient duty, but he had no better hope at this terrible moment than a young, black-clad Englishwoman and her newly built, well-guarded fort.

As her horse approached the gate, Nur Rahman kept his distance from the guards. He knew what they thought of him. Somehow, what he had become was written plainly on his face. But it was not his fault. He no longer remembered clearly how Painda Gul had enticed him away from the safety of his family when he was very young. Perhaps the older man had offered him sweets, perhaps a new kite. It no longer mattered. What had mattered was the desperate grief he had suffered, torn from the love of his mother and small sisters and the protection of his father and brothers. Now, even if he knew the way back to his ancestral village, he could never return there. How would his family, even his mother, receive him after the terrible shame Painda Gul had forced upon him night after night, until he no longer recognized himself?

He was a dancing boy now. Trained with beatings and curses, he whirled and stamped, dressed as a woman, at weddings and the births of other men's sons. He himself would never have a son, although his beard was starting to grow. Who would give his daughter to a grown-up child-slave of Painda Gul?

At last, after all his years of rage and waiting, Nur Rahman was armed and free. His patron's cruel knife with its ten-inch blade lay hidden in his clothes, still streaked with the blood of its former owner. With that same knife, Nur Rahman would defend himself from further harm, perhaps even from the insults he endured wherever he went. He might be a dancing boy, but he had his pride.

But now he needed help, for at this moment Painda Gul lay, eyes staring, his throat slit, in the same city hovel where he had first brought Nur Rahman as a child of six. When his body was discovered, no one in Kabul would doubt the boy's guilt. After all, who had not known the story of the wolf-faced Painda Gul and his bacha?. bacha?.

”Ya Hafiz. Ya Hafiz,” the boy whispered. ”O Protector, come to my aid.” the boy whispered. ”O Protector, come to my aid.”

The lady had nearly reached the entrance. Her servants trailed behind her, relaxing their vigilance as she approached the sentries.

”Khanum, oh, Khanum!” Forcing himself to breathe, Nur Rahman flitted to her side.

She started in her saddle, her eyes wide behind the veil that hung from her stiff black headdress.

He reached out and gripped her stirrup. ”Panah,” ”Panah,” he murmured. he murmured.

Her eyes widening, she kicked out at him. ”Let me go!” she cried.

Ignoring her dismay, he took the hem of her heavy skirt in his other hand and raised beseeching eyes to her face. ”Panah,” ”Panah,” he begged again, tightening his grip as the mare jerked sideways. She he begged again, tightening his grip as the mare jerked sideways. She must must know what the word meant. know what the word meant.

Her servants were already sprinting toward him, shouting unintelligibly, their heavy sandals slapping the wet mud. The sentries stared from the gate.

”Only three days.” He held on, gasping with pain as she brought her riding crop down upon his wrist. ”Three days, Khanum, I swear it.”

The pale-bearded servant arrived first at Nur Rahman's side. Seizing the boy's fingers, he began to pry them from the leather strap. When their hands touched the lady's boot, she cried out again, her voice filled with outrage.

The tall servant arrived. ”Rokho ”Rokho, Ghulam Ali,” he said. When the first man moved aside, he stepped behind Nur Rahman and seized him in a long-armed grip, dragging him away from the woman and her mare, forcing him to loosen his hold on the stirrup.

”Wait,” Nur Rahman gasped, ”I mean no harm, Khanum-Jan! I ask only for protection from my enemies!”

Fearing he had lost his chance, he reached out to her, tears welling in his eyes.

She frowned behind her veil. ”If you wanted protection, why did you not say so?”

”But I did,” he protested. ”I-”

Silencing him with a wave of her riding crop, she spoke sharply to her two servants. The tall one released Nur Rahman. The pale one set off toward the gate, signaling outrage with every movement of his stocky body.

”You are fortunate,” she added, returning to Farsi and glaring at Nur Rahman, ”that we did not turn you over to the guards.”

Hope flickered in the boy's heart. For all her obvious annoyance, the lady's face was full of curiosity.

But her expression held something else as well. She wrinkled her nose. ”Do not touch me again,” she ordered, turning her mare aside.

”We will remain here,” she added, her eyes averted, ”until someone comes who can tell me what all this is about.”

Nur Rahman stood motionless, his eyes lowered, afraid to breathe. Surely if the lady had intended to send him away, she would have done so at once. But who were they all waiting for, the lady sideways on the mare in her strange-looking saddle, the tall groom watchful beneath his untidy turban, the red-coated sentries glowering from beneath the brims of their tall, black uniform hats?

After a long interval, during which Nur Rahman glanced fearfully several times up and down the road, the lady's servant reappeared, followed by an elderly Indian gentleman in a golden qaraquli hat and a pair of woolen shawls.

As he stepped unhurriedly through the gateway, the old man brought with him a wave of peace so powerful that it seemed to perfume the air around him. Nur Rahman filled his lungs with it. ”May peace be upon thee, Father,” he offered giddily, a hand over his heart.

”And upon thee,” the old man replied kindly. ”What is your name, child?”

”Nur Rahman,” the boy breathed.

The lady bent over her mare's neck. ”I am sorry to disturb you, Muns.h.i.+ Sahib,” she said in Farsi, her voice soft with respect. ”This boy has been clutching at me, begging, I think, for asylum. I need your advice.”

”Ah.” The old gentleman turned to Nur Rahman. As he did so, the dancing boy's heart came near to breaking, for there was no disgust in that gentle gaze, no turning away. If Nur Rahman had had the courage, he would have thrown himself right then at the old man's feet.

”And is it panah that you want?” the old man inquired.

”Yes, dear Father, for I have killed a man.” Nur Rahman swallowed. ”I slit his throat this morning. But Father,” he added desperately, putting his stained hands out of sight behind his back, ”by my head and eyes, it was necessary. He was evil. He had, he had-”