Part 12 (2/2)
He settled himself near the tea shop's great, hissing samovar, signaled to a small boy for his tea, and recognized a horseman's familiar back, pa.s.sing on the street outside.
There was no mistaking Ha.s.san Ali Khan as he rode past the shop accompanied by half a dozen servants on foot. Who else sat with such grace, or wore such clothes-a yellow durahi durahi turban, a striped sash about his waist, and elegantly embroidered slippers? It was only his horse that Ghulam Ali did not recognize, a startlingly beautiful gray Turkmen mare. turban, a striped sash about his waist, and elegantly embroidered slippers? It was only his horse that Ghulam Ali did not recognize, a startlingly beautiful gray Turkmen mare.
Before Ghulam Ali had time to rise from the tea shop carpet, Ha.s.san reined in his mare, dismounted, and signaled to one of his servants to look after her. A moment later, his back still to Ghulam Ali, he opened his arms to greet someone.
It was the tall, pale-eyed Afghan trader who had rescued him from the Hazuri Bagh, then carried him to the house near the Delhi Gate where Ghulam Ali and the English lady had found him in the middle of the night, b.l.o.o.d.y and ill.
The two men embraced three times, chest to chest and bearded cheek to cheek, first on one side, then the other, then back again, in the manner of men whose hearts can never be separated.
Giddy with relief, forgetting his fear, Ghulam Ali lurched to his tired feet and stumbled down the tea shop steps.
”Her name is Ghyr Khush,” Ha.s.san was saying as Ghulam Ali approached. ”It means 'gray bird' in Turki. Yusuf bought her a few days before he died.”
Seeing the deep grief on his face, Ghulam Ali lowered his eyes. ”As-salaam-o-alaik.u.m, peace be upon you,” he offered to each man in turn.
The Afghan responded somberly, but Ha.s.san's face brightened. ”And peace upon you, Ghulam Ali,” he returned, smiling. ”It is good to see someone from home. You have been traveling hard, I see.”
Ghulam Ali nodded, aware of his dusty beard and filthy, unwashed clothes. ”I have brought a letter to you from Kabul. But there is other news. I must-”
”Give me the letter.” Ha.s.san held out his hand.
The Afghan hitched his two long-barreled jezails higher on his shoulder. Ha.s.san hesitated for an instant, then without even glancing at it, pushed the paper into one of his pockets. As he did so, Ghulam Ali heard a faint crackling, as if another letter already occupied the same place.
”You need food.” Ha.s.san took a silver coin from his purse. ”Eat, keep whatever is left.” He pointed an upturned hand toward a nearby tea shop. ”When you are finished, come to that chaikhana and tell me your news.”
”Yusuf's father insisted I take the mare,” he said with a sigh as Ghulam Ali left them. ”Ah, Zulmai, how I miss him!”
A kababchi kababchi sat outdoors, frying his wares in a great iron pan. As Ghulam Ali started toward the fragrant promise of food, he remembered to be afraid, then changed his mind, straightened his shoulders and lengthened his stride. For the first time since he left the caravanserai, he did not bother to look behind him for pursuing Ghilzais. sat outdoors, frying his wares in a great iron pan. As Ghulam Ali started toward the fragrant promise of food, he remembered to be afraid, then changed his mind, straightened his shoulders and lengthened his stride. For the first time since he left the caravanserai, he did not bother to look behind him for pursuing Ghilzais.
As he sat on an upturned stone, wolfing down a thick oblong nan and several chappli kababs, he studied Ha.s.san's mare, and thought of his friend Yar Mohammad.
The groom, a true lover of horses, should have been here to see Ghyr Khush, as she stood quietly, surrounded by Ha.s.san's protecting servants. Long and slim of line, with a high-set, nearly vertical neck, a narrow breast, and clean, slender legs, she attracted appreciative glances from every man who pa.s.sed by, and rightly so, for she was an Akhal Tekke: a breed that had been favored by kings for as long as anyone remembered.
Yar Mohammad, who had dreamed all his life of caring for an Akhal Tekke, had described the horses to Ghulam Ali, his hands moving in arcs and arabesques as he spoke. They were beautiful to look at, but their proud elegance was only one of their features. Bred for the desert, Akhal Tekkes could withstand extremes of heat and cold, and were capable of going without water and with very little food for as long as four days at a stretch. To carry three men to safety across s.h.i.+fting sands after sustaining a battle wound was nothing to an Akhal Tekke, for their stamina was unsurpa.s.sed by any other breed of horse. They jumped like cats, and their speed had been likened to that of a falcon on the wing.
Ghulam Ali smiled, picturing his friend's face when he saw the mare for the first time, and realized that this perfect silver-gray animal belonged to the very family he served.
When he had eaten, Ghulam Ali crossed the road, dodging men and animals, entered the chaikhana, and squatted down a respectful distance from Ha.s.san and Zulmai, who were deep in conversation on a carpeted platform, gesturing over pots of tea. A smoking chillum stood between them.
Only his left hand, with its missing finger, indicated that Ha.s.san had suffered harm in the Hazuri Bagh. He appeared as calm and elegant as always, his broken nose prominent in his open, fair-skinned face, but Ghulam Ali, a perceptive interpreter of the moods of others, thought otherwise.
Something in Ha.s.san's posture revealed that he was angry.
He frowned at Ghulam Ali. ”When you were in Kabul,” he asked, ”did you hear that the British were cutting their payment to the Eastern Ghilzais?”
”Yes, Sahib.” Ghulam Ali nodded eagerly. ”That is what I have come to tell you. The British have cheated them, and they are very angry. They have begun stopping caravans in the pa.s.ses near Kabul. They are saying that a 'night of long knives' is to begin soon.”
Zulmai nodded. ”So it is true.”
Ha.s.san leaned forward. ”Were you in danger on the road?”
A silver taweez, a powerful talisman, doubtless the work of Safiya Sultana, swung from his neck on a thick black thread. He would soon need all its power of protection, thought Ghulam Ali.
”I was in danger.” Ghulam Ali nodded. ”By Allah's grace I reached Jalalabad before the pa.s.ses were closed, but some Ghilzais here know I am a servant of British people. I fear they will-”
Zulmai waved a careless hand. ”You have nothing to fear now. They will also block the road south between Kabul and Kandahar,” he added, turning to Ha.s.san.
”So,” Ha.s.san said grimly, ”with the roads to India cut, the British are trapped in Kabul.”
British. Ha.s.san's shoulders seemed to tense when he spoke the word. That was it, Ghulam Ali thought. Ha.s.san was angry with the British. Of course he was. The British were fools. Ha.s.san's shoulders seemed to tense when he spoke the word. That was it, Ghulam Ali thought. Ha.s.san was angry with the British. Of course he was. The British were fools.
Ghulam Ali dropped his eyes, remembering the English lady's joy when he gave her the little packet he had carried from Lah.o.r.e and given to her on the road to Kabul. He thought of her blushes when she handed him the letter that now lay in Ha.s.san's pocket.
Surely Ha.s.san was not angry with her....
It was difficult to tell. He scowled silently into the street, his elbows resting on his knees.
”If the shorter route between Jalalabad and Kabul is closed,” he asked at last, ”then what of the other routes? What of the Lataband Pa.s.s?”
Zulmai stirred his tea thoughtfully. ”The Lataband will not be safe. It will be full of Ghilzai kafilas with women and children on their way to India. For all that they will be avoiding the fighting, their men will be happy to take whatever you have. That is their way. If I were going to Kabul, I would take the route from Thal through the Kurram valley and the Paiwar and Shuturgarden pa.s.ses, and I would bring an armed guard.”
”And what is that road like?”
Zulmai opened his hands. ”It is like all roads: good in dry weather, and difficult when it rains. It is steeper than the one you would have taken through Jalalabad, and of course to get to it, you must first travel south to Kohat.”
Ghulam Ali scratched his head beneath his turban. What a harsh country this was!
As if he had read the courier's thoughts, Zulmai the Afghan put back his head and smiled, showing white teeth. ”Hafiz would remind us,” he said, ”not to grieve, for even if the road of life is rough, and the end of it cannot be seen, there is no road that does not lead to the Goal.”
Ha.s.san's face warmed. ”You and your poets,” he said.
”And you and yours.”
Zulmai lost his smile. ”So you are are traveling to Kabul?” traveling to Kabul?”
Ha.s.san spread his hands. ”Now that Ghulam Ali has confirmed our fears, I must see to the safety of my uncle-in-law and other family members.”
Other family members. That, Ghulam Ali knew, was the closest Ha.s.san would come to mentioning the English lady. That, Ghulam Ali knew, was the closest Ha.s.san would come to mentioning the English lady.
Ha.s.san showed no feeling when he spoke.
”And you will go by the Kurram River valley?” Zulmai persisted.
”Since you suggest it.” Ha.s.san's face became still, as if, in his imagination, he was already traveling.
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