Part 31 (1/2)

His eyes drifted to Ghyr Khush, then to the unburdened pack mules.

Zulmai returned his greeting. ”We are travelers on our way to India. If you have a horse and provisions to spare, we wish to buy them for our journey.”

The red-bearded man gestured invitingly toward the fort's open doorway. ”My name is Jamaluddin Khan.” He smiled, displaying several broken teeth. ”Welcome to my house.

”For how many people do you need these provisions?” he asked, after he had settled his guests in the male quarters of his fort.

”Forty,” Ha.s.san replied over the rim of his teacup.

The three men sat, shoeless, on the sheet-covered floor of a large, square room that looked onto the fort's main courtyard, where Ghyr Khush, Zulmai's mount, and all eight mules stood tethered to several trees. Teacups, bowls of dried apricots, mulberries, and pistachio nuts were in front of the sitting men. A samovar hissed outside the door.

”And for how many days?” Jamaluddin went on.

”Twenty-one.”

Jamaluddin nodded. ”That can easily be arranged. But first,” he said, ”you must tell me your stories.”

He turned to Ha.s.san. ”What has brought you, an Indian, to Kabul at this dangerous time? How was your journey? How long have you been here? And you, my Tajik friend,” he added, smiling at Zulmai, ”how have you come to be sitting in my house with an Indian gentleman?

”When you have finished your stories,” he concluded happily, snapping a pistachio sh.e.l.l for emphasis, ”I will tell you mine.”

Two hours later, empty cups and pistachio sh.e.l.ls covered the floor. They were still talking.

Jamaluddin tipped his red beard toward the sitting-room window. ”You have a lovely horse,” he offered. ”It is a long time since I have seen such a beautiful animal.”

His face softened. ”I had an Akhal Tekke stallion once. He was tall and proud, and he ran like the wind as it crosses the steppes. His name was Ak Belek, for he had a white stocking on one foreleg.”

He sighed. ”I have had many good horses since then, but I have never forgotten Ak Belek.”

”Your compliments,” Ha.s.san replied carefully, ”have warmed my heart. But may we now discuss our needs for our journey? Is it possible for you to provide us with rice, beans, tea, and other-”

”But why discuss business so soon?” cried Jamaluddin. ”You have only just arrived. The goat was killed at noon. To cook it properly will take time.”

He leaned forward confidentially. ”You have no idea how few interesting visitors we have in wintertime. You, of course, are from India,” he added, gesturing in Ha.s.san's direction. ”As I am sure you know, people think all Indians are spies for the British.”

”That, of course, is true.” Ha.s.san inclined his head. ”For that reason, I am pleased to be traveling with my friend Zulmai.

”When will he cease these formalities,” he whispered, when Jamaluddin's attention was turned elsewhere, ”and get to our business?”

”We would be wise,” replied Zulmai, ”to wait until after we have eaten.”

”But that will be hours from now.” Ha.s.san hunched his shoulders expressively. ”We have been away far too long already.”

”Do not fear.” Zulmai put out a calming hand. ”Let him talk himself out. We will eat his food, and then we will be on our way with our mules fully loaded.”

All afternoon the food came-soup, fried meat turnovers, kababs with ovals of tandoori bread. As the sun sank behind the mountains, Jamaluddin was still talking. ”This is the best dish of all!” he cried, as he swept a skewer of cubed sheep's liver onto a waiting round of bread in front of Ha.s.san. ”You see,” he explained, a finger raised, ”each dish must be perfectly flavored, and each must be different.

”Kababs are like Akhal Tekke horses,” he went on. ”Each one must have its own character, but each must be of the highest quality, like your lovely mare. What did you say her name was?”

Although his eyes had turned dark, Ha.s.san's well-trained negotiator's body gave no hint of tension. ”Her name is Ghyr Khush,” he replied.

Ha.s.sAN'S WIRY little servant had brought Mariana's lunch. It was very simple-boiled dal, rice, and bread.

”Ha.s.san Sahib will bring better things to eat when he returns,” he had a.s.sured her, stepping aside while another man carried the brazier outside to refill it with hot embers. ”You will see what fine food he has, even when he travels!”

When he held the door covering aside to leave her, the air that rushed in had felt icier than ever. The visible sliver of distant sky looked heavy and forbidding.

Nur Rahman had visited a little later. ”It will snow soon,” he observed. ”I hope Ha.s.san Ali returns before long.

”Many of the kafilas are moving out,” he added. ”If they continue to leave here, the caravanserai will be empty by tonight.”

Unsurprisingly, after delivering her letter to her uncle the previous evening, Nur Rahman had rushed to tell Mariana's servants where she had gone. Equally unsurprisingly, Dittoo and Yar Mohammad had arrived at Ha.s.san's tents soon after his departure.

As she sat among the bolsters, finis.h.i.+ng her morning tea, two different coughs outside her doorway had signaled their presence.

Yar Mohammad had saluted her gravely, then stood, tall, angular, and barefoot, just inside the doorway. He had worn no poshteen, only a mismatched pair of shawls that lay in graceful folds about his shoulders, giving him the dignity of a king.

Dittoo, bundled into his own sheepskin, had rushed inside and taken up a position across the sandali from Mariana. ”I am here to serve you, Bibi,” he announced, straightening his shoulders, and looked meaningfully at her empty teacup. ”I see there is work to be done.”

”I, too, Bibi, ask permission to travel with you to Lah.o.r.e,” Yar Mohammad had added.

When Saboor first came to her, it had been Dittoo who had pushed little b.a.l.l.s of rice and dal into his open, hungry mouth. ”Accha bacha ”Accha bacha, good boy,” he had crooned, as if he were speaking to his own son.

She had always felt safe with Yar Mohammad.

If Dittoo came with her now, he would again have the pleasure of looking after little Saboor. Yar Mohammad would have the joy of caring for Ghyr Khush She shook her head. ”It is not possible,” she said, aware that her tone held no authority, only sadness. ”My uncle and aunt are old, and their journey to India will be difficult. If you come with me, then who will look after them?”

”But they have Adil,” Dittoo wailed. ”They do not need another servant.”

”Adil, too, is old and weak. You must serve them in his place. G.o.d willing, with both of you to care for them, they will live to see India again. Once they are safe, you will return to my service.

”May G.o.d protect you both,” she concluded.

The tall groom bowed his head, his rough turban concealing his expression. ”And may Allah protect you, Bibi,” he had returned, in his resonant voice.

Dittoo had wept.

Before he followed the sobbing Dittoo from Ha.s.san's tent, Yar Mohammad had raised his head and looked once at Mariana, his bony face as calm as ever.

With luck, they would all have a safe journey. And whatever happened, at least they were out of that dreadful, stinking cantonment.

Mariana waited uneasily, all afternoon, for Ha.s.san's return. Tense from wondering why he was taking so long, she relaxed hopefully with each approaching footfall, only to feel her body tighten again as the pa.s.serby moved on.

There was something unsafe about the camp.

Ghulam Ali called on her after sunset.