Part 28 (1/2)

There were no forks, knives, or spoons. Remembering Safiya Sultana's patient lessons, Mariana ate, messily, with the first two fingers and thumb of her right hand.

By the time she had finished eating, her eyelids had begun to droop. Before the young boy had finished his second round with the ewer and basin, she turned to the translator.

”Forgive me,” she murmured, ”for I must sleep.”

Zahida nodded. ”Sleep,” she said. ”We have arranged for your journey to India. You will be leaving the day after tomorrow.”

Still dressed in her homespun clothes, Mariana wrapped herself tightly in her padded quilts, and laid her head on the cotton-stuffed pillow.

Tomorrow, G.o.d willing, Uncle Adrian would come with Aunt Claire, the servants, and perhaps some others from the cantonment. The next day they would be on their way to India.

It was nearly over.

If their caravan took the southern route, they would arrive in the Dera Jat, near the Indus River, a long way southeast of Lah.o.r.e, but at least they would be out of this terrifying place. After that, she would somehow find a way to return to Lah.o.r.e, and Qamar Haveli.

There she would learn if she was still Ha.s.san's wife, as Muns.h.i.+ Sahib had seemed to imply.

The lamp flickered, sending shadows across the ceiling. She stared at them, wondering if he would tell Ha.s.san that she had accepted Fitzgerald.

She squirmed inside her quilts at the thought.

Had Ha.s.san read her first, romantic letter, sent so long ago, its words taken from Rumi's ”Masnavi” and bent to her own purpose?

Had he ever received her second letter? Possibly not, for Ghulam Ali might easily have perished months ago in the pa.s.ses, murdered by cousins of Aminullah Khan himself, her undelivered message still hidden in his clothes.

What a reckless fool she had been She sat up and blew out the lamp.

The women were still awake. Female voices drifted down the stairs, laughing, arguing, talking at once, most likely about her.

These people were her enemies, the enemies of the poor, beleaguered British, and they were happy.

Unable to think any longer, she rolled over on the creaking bed and fell asleep.

January 3, 1842 Ha.s.san and Zulmai had crossed the Logar River the previous day.

By the time Mariana rode into Aminullah Khan's fort, Ha.s.san and his two-man escort had been nearing Kabul, bent low over their horses' necks, shawls wrapped over their heads and faces.

They had set off at sunrise, leaving Zulmai and the baggage behind, and ridden swiftly along the Logar's northward course, past the leafless fruit trees that crowded the river's bank, their branches shaking in the wind.

At noon, seven hours later, the elder of Ha.s.san's guards had held up a hand.

”Our horses cannot go any longer without resting,” he said respectfully, ”but your Akhal Tekke will take you all the way to the city, if you choose to continue without us.”

”I will go on alone. May you live,” Ha.s.san added politely by way of farewell. ”May you not be tired!”

Ghyr Khush's ears twitched when he spoke to her, then she trotted on.

By midafternoon Ha.s.san had reached the great caravanserai and animal market west of Kabul. A chaikhana stood by the gate, its samovar bubbling. He dismounted stiffly, and tethered his mare.

A little while later, the elderly tea shop proprietor put a second pot of tea in front of him, and pointed along the serai's high brick wall. ”The best place to camp is on this side,” he offered. ”It is here that you should wait for your friend's arrival.”

”I will take your advice,” Ha.s.san replied, ”but first I have work to do. Can you tell me the whereabouts of the British fort?”

The old man regarded him seriously. ”If I were you,” he said, ”I would avoid that accursed place. You, who are from India, should give it a wide berth.”

Ha.s.san thanked him, remounted his tired mare, and rode away through the tall caravanserai gate.

He found the road leading to the cantonment choked with heavily armed men and boys, who stared at him as he pa.s.sed. As he approached the walled fort, a foul smell filled the air.

The main entrance was tightly closed. No sentries stood outside. He dismounted and hammered on the great doors, but there was no response. After riding all the way around the cantonment's outer wall, looking in vain for an open entrance, he stationed himself at a discreet distance from a promising-looking secondary gate. When at last it opened to let out a man leading a donkey, Ha.s.san spoke urgently to his mare. Ghyr Khush sprang at once to a gallop, but they arrived too late.

Before the doors closed firmly in front of him, Ha.s.san had looked briefly inside to see a dozen men staring out at him, raw fear on their faces.

”Shut the gate, shut the gate!” they had cried, as if their lives depended on it.

His luck was no better on the second day.

”Did you find what you were seeking?” the old tea seller asked, when Ha.s.san returned to the caravanserai.

”Not yet, father,” he replied politely, ”but I will continue to try. Perhaps,” he added, ”you can give me information about someone who lives in the city.”

MARIANA AWOKE to daylight, and the sound of household bustle outside her room.

Fearing she had overslept, she put her feet over the side of her bed, put on her slippers, draped herself in her shawls, and went outside.

Sunlight fell into the small courtyard in front of her, brightening the coats of the tethered animals and glinting in the icy ground. A servant woman in leather boots climbed the stairs, a water vessel on her head. Rosy-cheeked children darted through a doorway.

Something drew Mariana's glance upward. The fierce old woman from the previous night stood at an upstairs window, studying her.

She caught Mariana's eye, and disappeared inside.

Perhaps she was the matriarch of the family, who held the power to decide who should live and who should die. If so, what was she thinking?

A moment later, a young girl arrived and conducted Mariana to the upstairs room. There, luxuriating in the warmth from the brazier and closely observed by a pus.h.i.+ng crowd of children, she drank hot green tea and ate sweet porridge with ground meat in it, and a piece of Afghan bread.

As she finished her food, male voices shouted from the rooftop.

Someone had arrived.

Mariana hurried into her chaderi, then, together with the flock of children, she rushed out into the main courtyard in time to see the heavy outer doors of the fort swing open. A moment later, her uncle rode inside, accompanied by a nervous-looking groom leading a second horse with a sidesaddle on its back.

They were alone. Uncle Adrian dismounted and stood uncertainly, his eyes roving the courtyard.

She dashed across the snow and flung her arms about his neck. ”Uncle Adrian,” she cried, ”I am so glad you have come! But where is Aunt Claire?” she added, frowning toward the gate. ”Where are the servants?”

He held her away from him, and peered through her latticework. ”Oh, Mariana, it grieves me to see you in native costume.” His voice trembled. ”Tell me, have they hurt you?”

She stared in surprise. ”No, not at all. I had a hot bath last night, and a lovely dinner. They have given me my own room. They have promised to send us to India in a day or two.”