Part 17 (1/2)
”Family business, you say? In Kabul, where the Englishwoman you married so hastily has gone?” Avitabile raised his eyebrows. ”But they say you have divorced her.”
He shrugged at Ha.s.san's silence. ”In any case, there is nothing to the work I am giving you. Everyone knows you are acquainted with good Afghan traders. Peshawar is full of horses. They are not as good as your Akhal Tekke, but they are good enough. Freshly made shawls pour into the city from Kashmir at this time of year. The whole business will take you less than three weeks.”
”The horses and the shawls,” Ha.s.san replied patiently, ”I can provide, but the khelats are a different matter. Proper robes of honor will take time-months, perhaps-to prepare. The cloth must be woven, the embroidery designs decided upon and executed. This is work for an experienced wardrobe master, not a diplomat.”
Behind the governor's damask-covered platform, an array of Sikh officials stood listening, their fine jewels and Kashmir shawls scarcely less elaborate than those of the royal courtiers at the Lah.o.r.e Citadel.
The Neapolitan's smile widened. ”Nonsense.” He gestured at Ha.s.san's yellow handwoven choga choga, covered with intricate embroidery in faded red and celadon green. ”Have copies made of the coat you are wearing.”
”This coat,” Ha.s.san said evenly, ”belonged to my greatgrandfather. It may have taken a year to complete.”
”The British,” Avitabile went on smoothly, ”have recently been trying to persuade the local chiefs to ally themselves with Afghanistan, and consequently with them. It is my duty to demonstrate to those chiefs the benefit of remaining with our Sikh government.”
”I would have thought,” Ha.s.san returned, ”that the minarets of Mahabat Khan's mosque were reminder enough. I understand that the ground below them is well dented from the impact of falling bodies.”
A courtier gave a giggling laugh.
Avitabile did not join him. ”We must seize this moment of confusion to reinforce the loyalty of the chiefs. I always prefer,” he added pointedly, ”to offer gifts and friends.h.i.+p first. I resort to punishment only if honest persuasion does not get me what I desire.”
”And what does 'honest persuasion' mean in this case, Governor Sahib?”
The Neapolitan waved a beringed hand. ”It means the time-honored method of keeping hostages. I already have members of all the families I intend to deal with under lock and key here at the Citadel.”
”And of course there are the minarets,” murmured another courtier.
Ha.s.san opened his hands. ”But the chiefs need only gold to persuade them. You must know there is an uprising in Afghanistan, and that the British are losing whatever control of the country they may have had.”
”I,” Avitabile purred, ”am becoming tired of this conversation. You know as well as I do that if I offer those people gold, they will expect more and more. A khelat is a different matter. No one expects to be sent a new horse and robe of state each month. And speaking of khelats, I am sure another man can be found to procure them. Of course to search for him at this critical time would be a great inconvenience for me, but I might be persuaded to do so in exchange for something from you-your lovely horse, perhaps?”
Ha.s.san pushed away his teacup. ”I am sorry, Governor Sahib, but she was a gift. As for your khelats, I will do my best to arrange for them. And now, with your kind permission-”
”I quite understand your attachment to the horse,” Avitabile replied, as Ha.s.san stood to leave, ”but please do not consider leaving for Kabul on your 'family business' before the work is done. And in your next letter to Lah.o.r.e, please be sure to send my regards to your respected father, and a kiss to your little son. As I said earlier, you must be very proud of the child.”
LATER THAT morning, as Ghulam Ali squatted by the sitting-room door in Ha.s.san's borrowed house, Zulmai the Afghan put down his teacup. ”And you are certain,” he asked Ha.s.san, frowning, ”that the governor has threatened to take your son hostage?”
Ha.s.san Ali Khan gestured impatiently. ”The man has no heart and an insatiable greed for power. I believe he is trying to build a kingdom of his own in Peshawar, by playing the British off against the Maharajah. He does not care about the khelats. I believe he wants me to stay here and help him with his dirty work.”
Zulmai shook his head. ”Avitabile's cruelty is well-known, even in Kabul,” he agreed. ”Since this is so, even his most subtle threats should not be ignored.”
”For all I know,” Ha.s.san said, ”he has already sent qasids to Lah.o.r.e, ordering his henchmen to storm into Qamar Haveli and s.n.a.t.c.h away my son. After all, hostage-taking is one of his games.”
Zulmai nodded. ”Then you must send a message to your father, telling him of the danger to the child.”
”I have already tried to engage one of the governor's qasids, but his relay-runners, like his hostages, are now under lock and key. Only he has access to them.”
”I will carry your warning myself,” Ghulam Ali put in abruptly from his place by the door.
”No.” Ha.s.san shook his head. ”You will never get there in time. Only official relay-runners can do the work swiftly enough. But here is what you will do, Ghulam Ali,” he declared, brightening, ”you will post yourself outside the Citadel's main gate and stop the first qasid you see, whether he comes out through the gate or arrives there from somewhere else. You will then bring him to me, at knifepoint, if necessary. He will start my warning on its journey to Lah.o.r.e.
”Until I know that my Saboor is safe,” he added bitterly, ”I must remain here, buying time, producing shawls and fripperies for that foreign son of shame.”
He turned and stared out past the sitting room's filigreed shutters.
After laying a hand over his heart to express his feelings, Ghulam Ali set out on his mission. What, he wondered, as he wrapped his shawl about him and started for the Citadel, would happen to the Englishwoman and her family, now that Ha.s.san Ali's rescue mission had been delayed? And what of his friends, the honest, b.u.mbling Dittoo and the dignified Yar Mohammad? What of the frail old muns.h.i.+, and that fool, the dancing boy? May Allah Most Gracious keep them safe TWO HOURS later, a slight, dark-skinned runner with a mop of dusty hair trotted uphill toward the Citadel's main entrance, a short spear in one hand, a whip in the other. The dozen small bells tied to his whip jingled with each step he took.
His head raised, his eyes on the crowded Citadel entrance, he did not see a sunburned man with a yellow beard lurch to his feet. By the time sandals pounded on the dust behind him and a long, pointed Khyber knife dug into his ribs, neither his spear nor his swift running feet could save him.
”Turn around.” His a.s.sailant's eyes were pink. He pushed the blade against the runner's slight body for emphasis. ”Come with me.”
By the time the little man stumbled into the sitting room of a fine city house, his face was streaked with tears.
”I must deliver my message to the governor,” he wept, throwing himself at the feet of a bearded, elegantly dressed man. ”If I do not, I will be thrown to my death like so many others. I have ten children, Sahib, ten small ones. Sahib, I beg you to let me do my duty.”
”No one is asking you to die.” The man picked up a paper that lay beside him on the carpet and wrote something diagonally across its back. ”I am only asking you to send an important letter to Lah.o.r.e. This man,” he added, handing the paper to the terrifying yellow-beard, ”will escort you back to the Citadel. When you arrive there, you will turn over whatever letter you were already carrying to the guards at the gate. When they ask why you are not taking it inside yourself, you will tell them you are feeling very ill, and that there was cholera in the village where you ate your evening meal. They will send you away at once.
”As soon as you are out of sight of the guards, Ghulam Ali here will give you this letter,” he added, pointing to the paper in the yellow-beard's hands. ”It is to be delivered into the hands of Shaikh Waliullah Karakoyia of Lah.o.r.e's walled city, whose house is inside the Delhi Gate. Is that clear?”
The little runner wiped his nose on his sleeve. ”Yes, Huzoor,” he mumbled.
”What is your name?” the elegant man inquired.
”It is Hari.”
The elegant man reached into his pocket. ”Well, then, Hari, you must eat and drink before you leave.”
He held out a small gold coin.
The little runner stared.
”The letter concerns my small son,” the man added softly. ”Since you have children of your own-”
Hari had already pocketed the coin. He put his hands together in front of him. ”Your letter will reach Lah.o.r.e in three days,” he decreed in the tone of a man who knew his work.
The man nodded. ”Inshallah, if G.o.d is willing,” he murmured.
Three hours later, Hari the runner was trotting once again, bells jingling, along the Sarak-e-Azam, the ancient road leading from Kabul, through Peshawar and Lah.o.r.e, and ultimately to Bengal, a distance of nearly two thousand miles. A mile outside Peshawar, he stopped at a ramshackle hut beneath a thorn tree and shook his whip. When another man as small and dark-skinned as himself emerged from the hut, Hari held out Ha.s.san Ali's letter.
”This is for Lah.o.r.e, brother,” he puffed.
His fellow runner nodded, took the folded paper, and without saying more, set off at an even trot along the old road, his own bell-encrusted whip jingling with every step.
As Hari sat beside a dung fire that night, enjoying his supper of a chappati and a raw onion, he estimated that the letter would take a little more than two days and three nights to reach its destination.
That, he decided, as he bit down on the gentleman's gold coin, making certain it was genuine, would be good enough time. And the coin, which was indeed real, would be fair payment for the fright he had been given, and his extra exertion in running twice in one day.
No. He smiled to himself as he hid his new riches among his clothes. It was much more than fair.