Part 4 (2/2)

Nur Rahman turned away, his throat closing. It was no good. For all that he seemed to know the meaning of panah, it was clear that the old gentleman was no Pashtun. Why, then, should he honor the code, especially for a murder whose cause was too shameful to relate?

Without the truth, Nur Rahman could expect no asylum, no mercy, but how could he reveal his agony in front of this female foreigner? How could he describe the events of the past month, when the hair had lengthened on his face, and the city barbers had called out to him that it was time for the dancing boy to shave his beard? His patron had become more brutal than ever during that month, swearing he would throw Nur Rahman out, threatening him with that terrible knife, telling him he had grown too old, too old Sweat trickled down the dancing boy's spine.

He had made up his mind only two days before, in Istalif, where he and Painda Gul had gone to entertain at a wedding. As Nur Rahman danced for the men in his s.h.i.+ny woman's clothes, his arms moving sinuously over his head, he had seen his patron talking to a little boy, a lovely child of five or six years, who gazed, wide-eyed, into Painda Gul's grinning face. Turning from the child, Painda Gul had glanced at Nur Rahman.

At that instant, the dancing boy had understood. That sweet little boy was to be his replacement. Soon, perhaps tomorrow, Painda Gul would return, stealthily, to Istalif. Soon, abducted from his confused and grieving family, the child would lose his innocence in Painda Gul's bed. Like Nur Rahman, he would spend his childhood weeping for his lost family.

And what of Nur Rahman, who had been Painda Gul's boy for the past eleven years? How would he survive, thrown out of Painda Gul's hovel, alone on the cold streets of the city?

After his dance, Nur Rahman had slipped outside and vomited.

They had returned from Istalif the following night. After the older man fell asleep, Nur Rahman had crept through the darkness to the hook where Painda Gul's long-bladed Khyber knife hung in its scabbard. He had never killed before, but his Pashtun blood had told him what to do. Grasping a handful of greased hair in one hand, Nur Rahman had jerked Painda Gul's head back, then drawn the fierce Khyber blade across his k.n.o.bby throat, slicing through the great blood vessels connecting head and body. Painda Gul had opened his eyes too late.

Now, Nur Rahman shuffled his feet. ”I cannot say more,” he murmured.

”There is nothing more to say,” the old gentleman replied.

”What is he talking about, Muns.h.i.+ Sahib?” inquired the lady from her saddle. ”What does he want?”

”This boy,” the old gentleman replied, glancing at Nur Rahman to make sure he understood, ”is a Pashtun. Pashtuns live by a code of honor. A provision of their code is that protective asylum must be offered for three days to someone who asks for it, even if that person has committed a crime, provided that the person tells the truth about his circ.u.mstances. The boy has told us enough.”

Enough. Relief flooded over Nur Rahman. Relief flooded over Nur Rahman.

”Now he wants us to keep him safe from his pursuers for three days.”

Three days. What a princely time that would be... What a princely time that would be...

When he had arrived at the gate, Nur Rahman's sole concern had been the saving of his skin. But now that his dancing boy's heart had gone out to this peaceful old stranger, a new need thrust itself upon him, blocking out even his desire to survive.

Oh, Allah, he prayed, do not take this old man from me! do not take this old man from me!

”And what,” the lady replied, also in Farsi, ”do you recommend that we do?”

The old gentleman joined his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. ”I leave the decision to you, Bibi,” he said gently. ”My only duty is to explain what he wants.”

The lady's mare pawed impatiently at the dust. The tall groom spoke quietly to her. A cold breeze blew through Nur Rahman's thin clothes. He waited, holding his breath, refusing to s.h.i.+ver.

”He may come inside, but only for three days.”

The lady addressed herself not to Nur Rahman but to the old man, but the dancing boy did not mind. He lowered his head to conceal his joy, imagining himself sitting at the feet of the old man, serving him ”He may stay for three days,” she repeated, ”and not a moment longer. He will sleep in the storeroom at the end of the servants' quarters, but he is not not to mix with the servants. He should understand that if my aunt discovers he is here, he will have to leave immediately.” to mix with the servants. He should understand that if my aunt discovers he is here, he will have to leave immediately.”

The old gentleman turned to Nur Rahman. ”You have understood the lady's instructions?”

Unsure of his voice, Nur Rahman cleared his throat. ”I have, dear Father,” he croaked, before following them inside.

As she rode into the cantonment, Mariana glanced behind her in time to see her odd new guest hurrying to join her muns.h.i.+. They made a curious pair, walking through the rain together, her irreproachable elderly teacher and this young Afghan with his fluent Farsi, whose dissolute face she could scarcely bear to look upon.

The boy must have been beautiful once, with those great, soulful eyes and that perfectly carved mouth. What could have happened to him, she wondered. What poison had he absorbed to make him so curiously repellent?

And what would happen, now that he had been granted his three-day asylum? Would he make impossible demands of her, or somehow contaminate the other inhabitants of the servants' quarters?

Both her servants had stiffened visibly when she agreed to let the boy inside. As he walked behind her mare, Yar Mohammad kept his eyes averted from the boy, and Ghulam Ali scowled with disapproval.

Only Muns.h.i.+ Sahib had seemed unperturbed by his presence. Indeed, something about the old man's manner had encouraged her decision. Even now her teacher seemed to have no difficulty allowing the boy to take his arm and help him past a muddy hole in the road.

Since that was the case, she would leave the boy and his troubles, whatever they were, to Muns.h.i.+ Sahib.

A moment later, she pa.s.sed through an opening in the thick rampart wall that divided the cantonment from the walled Residence compound.

As her mare splashed along a broad path leading past Sir William Macnaghten's walled garden, Mariana wondered for the hundredth time why the British civil officers had been housed outside the sheltering fortifications of the military area. In contrast to the cantonment, whose ramparts were surmounted by a stone parapet, the Residence compound was furnished with no more than a plain six-foot wall on its three exposed sides.

There must have been a good reason for such an optimistic plan, although Mariana could not fathom what it was.

A broad avenue ran parallel to the rampart wall, dividing the Residence compound into two parts. Sir William's grand house and s.p.a.cious gardens with their concealing compound wall took up the area next to the cantonment, while the seventeen hastily built offices and houses of the civil staff, including Mariana's uncle, took up the other. Farthest away, against the useless outer wall, a series of shambling buildings housed the many hundreds of servants who staffed the Residence compound.

But it was not the geography of the compound that occupied her thoughts as she rode, followed by her two servants, past the offices and houses of various secretaries and doctors. Since their brief encounter at the race meeting, she had received no word from Harry Fitzgerald.

According to Aunt Claire, who had managed to keep track of his movements, he had left the next day with his horse artillery, to put down some fighting in the north.

He could have written from there, but he had clearly chosen not to. So much, therefore, for Aunt Claire's dream that he had been waiting, lovelorn, for the past two years.

But Fitzgerald had good reason to dislike Mariana.

Soon after gossip about him had forced their separation, she had s.n.a.t.c.hed little Saboor to safety from Maharajah Ranjit Singh's neglectful grip, then become entangled with his mystical family. Later, believing she was aiding the British invasion of Afghanistan, she had announced in front of a large crowd, including Fitzgerald, that she was engaged to Saboor's father. That sensational disclosure had made Fitzgerald's humiliation even worse. Unsurprisingly, he had soon afterward sent her a bitter, reproachful letter.

In spite of Fitzgerald's anger then, and his failure to write to her now, he had seemed genuinely pleased to see her at the race meeting.

Unlike Lady Macnaghten's nephew, the groping, pallid Charles Mott, whose aunt would have fainted dead away at the thought of his marrying Mariana, Fitzgerald had been both attractive and intelligent. He had laughed with her, and told her of his dreams. Before their hopes of marriage were dashed, they had spent hours together, arguing happily over the great battles of history-Marathon, Tours, the defeat of the Athenians at Syracuse-as she and her father had done in his vicarage study from the time she was twelve. Those conversations, and Fitzgerald's hot, hasty kisses, had provided her with some of her best moments in India.

Harry Fitzgerald could explain the British defenses to her. He could give her vivid battle descriptions to send to her father.

She lifted the rain-dampened riding veil from her face, and turned her mare into the lane where her uncle's small bungalow stood in its garden.

If Ha.s.san still loved her, nothing else would matter. If he had divorced her, she must find a way to love Fitzgerald again, and to make him love her.

If only Ha.s.san would write...

The rain had stopped. An Indian dhobi dhobi saluted as he pa.s.sed Mariana in the lane, bent over beneath a great bundle of was.h.i.+ng, his bare feet covered to the ankles in mud. Someone coughed hollowly behind a mud wall. saluted as he pa.s.sed Mariana in the lane, bent over beneath a great bundle of was.h.i.+ng, his bare feet covered to the ankles in mud. Someone coughed hollowly behind a mud wall.

Uncle Adrian sat on a chair in the sun, deep in conversation with two ragged Afghans who stood in front of him. A pair of carved jezail jezail s had been propped against a verandah pillar. All three men glanced up as she approached. The Afghans turned their heads away immediately. s had been propped against a verandah pillar. All three men glanced up as she approached. The Afghans turned their heads away immediately.

As she handed her reins to Yar Mohammad, the drawing room shutters banged apart, and Aunt Claire appeared, red-faced, in the open window.

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