Companions Of Paradise Part 17

"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.

THE FOLLOWING morning, in a gracious Peshawari sitting room, the British Political Agent to the Punjab cleared his throat. "As you well know, sir," he said evenly, in British-accented Urdu, "the Tripart.i.te Treaty, which was signed more than two years ago two years ago by Lord Auckland, the Governor-General of India, by Maharajah Ranjit Singh of the Punjab, and by Shah Shuja-ul-Mulk, the King of Afghanistan, by Lord Auckland, the Governor-General of India, by Maharajah Ranjit Singh of the Punjab, and by Shah Shuja-ul-Mulk, the King of Afghanistan, particularly particularly provides for a five-thousand-strong Punjabi force to be kept ready at Peshawar, in the event they were needed for our Afghan Campaign. We have yet to see a provides for a five-thousand-strong Punjabi force to be kept ready at Peshawar, in the event they were needed for our Afghan Campaign. We have yet to see a single single member of that force." member of that force."

Major Wade had months ago abandoned his efforts to convince that Neapolitan pirate of a governor to comply with the treaty. Since then he had taken his case to every Punjabi official he could find in Peshawar, but with equally unsatisfactory results. This time would clearly be no different. The young diplomat in front of him barely looked up while he was speaking.

The man glanced briefly at the copy of the treaty the major had brought. "I know what it says," he said wearily. "I was present at the signing."

The major blinked. "Then you are aware of the seriousness of the promises it contains."

"I am."

With the exception of the mercenary governor, the Punjabi officials Wade had met in Peshawar had been Sikhs, with large turbans, carefully wrapped beards, and steel bangles on their wrists. Like them, this man was well dressed, in a loose-robed, native sort of way, but his trimmed beard and chin-length hair indicated that he was Muslim.

He was handsome, for a native. It was a pity, really, about the damage to his left hand. Major Wade, who was bad at such things, had already forgotten the name of the man's father, but there had been something about it-was it Wasif or Wazir or Wahidullah?- that tugged at his memory.

Wade glanced about him, noting the sitting room's beamed ceiling and carved inside balcony. No fewer than five servants hovered along the walls. He gave a mental shrug. This young man might be rich. He might even have influence with the Maharajah's court, but none of that was likely to help the British cause.

Whoever he was, he was no more cooperative than the previous officials had been.

Now that unsubstantiated rumors of a crisis in Kabul had begun to filter in, time was of the essence. The promised reinforcements, so important to the success of the initial British campaign, might now be equally vital to its rescue. Wade slapped his uniform gloves against his thigh, waiting for his host to say something more, but the young man only stared distractedly out of the window, his injured hand moving at his side, as if he were feeling something in an invisible pocket among his clothes.

Paper crackled faintly.

"I will take my leave then," Wade said, a little sharply, "but I will come again tomorrow, hoping for a better answer from your government."

Persistence, he had been told, was the only way to get anything done in India, but his ability to say the same words over and over had worn thin months before. Without waiting for the proper politenesses, he stood, and made for the door.

The young man leapt to his feet. "Forgive me," he said simply. "As I am sure you already know, it will be difficult for me to produce your soldiers. But," he added, half smiling as a servant held aside the door curtain, "you are most welcome to ask for them as many times as you like."

As they crossed a neat courtyard together on their way to the front gate, the man's name came back to Wade. Waliullah Waliullah, that was it. And now he remembered what it was about that name. Two years earlier, an English girl had ruined her reputation with a native whose father's name was Waliullah.

This could well be the same young man. He was certainly good-looking enough to attract a silly girl.

As he waited for his horse, Wade searched his memory. The fool had married him, had she not? But she had since divorced him, or so the gossip ran, and gone to Kabul to find herself a proper husband.

It must have been difficult for this young fellow to give up the honor of having a European wife. After all, whoever the girl was, she had white skin.

Perhaps he still pined for her. If she were in Kabul, he might be worrying about her, trapped up there. After all, he had stared out of the window, his knuckles to his mouth Well, it was all to the good that they were divorced. It was pure insanity for any Englishwoman to entangle herself with the natives. People should stick to their own kind.

After he mounted his horse, Wade memorized the young man's face as he smiled his farewell.

The way these Punjabi officials came and went it was possible he would never see the fellow again. That was a pity. He would have liked to learn more about this interesting young man.

November 11, 1841 Repeating the king's words to himself," the old muns.h.i.+ recounted several days later, his singsong storytelling voice roughened by recent illness, "Muballigh the messenger took the nearest road leading out of the kingdom."

Nur Rahman was not the only person who listened to Muns.h.i.+ Sahib from the corridor, for the young English lady had summoned Dittoo, Adil, and Yar Mohammad to join him. The men looked hungry and chilled to the bone as they squatted beside Nur Rahman, but still they listened eagerly, their heads tilted toward the doorway.

"Muballigh walked for many days," Muns.h.i.+ Sahib continued, "past fruit gardens, emerald-green rice paddies, and golden wheat fields-until he reached the border of his own land. It was easy to see where the boundary lay, for beyond it, instead of the rich fields of his country, a great, tangled forest of thornbushes stretched away as far as he could see.

"A narrow path led away through the bushes. Fearful of what lay ahead but remembering his beloved king's instructions, Muballigh stepped cautiously onto it.

"The path was difficult to follow. Great, pointed thorns tore at his clothes. The bushes grew taller, and towered above his head. The path twisted and turned, so that he could see only a little way before or behind him."

Nur Rahman s.h.i.+vered, feeling the messenger's fear and isolation as if they were his own. With only Painda Gul's bitter companions.h.i.+p, he, too, had been cut off from his home. Never in all those years had he had a confidant, a friend "To give himself courage, Muballigh began to repeat the secret message aloud. 'Happiness lies only in the faithful heart,' he murmured to himself as he struggled along the path, 'in the faithful heart.'

"A clearing opened in front of him. No sooner had he sat down to rest than a whirring sound came from above his head and a large bird with great, ragged wings dropped from the sky and landed clumsily before him.

"The bird c.o.c.ked its head and, looking Muballigh up and down, 'Tell me,' it asked, 'which spell you have been chanting as you travel through this forest.'

" 'I would gladly tell you, O Bird,' replied Muballigh politely, 'but I am forbidden to do so. My message is for the king of this country, and no one else.'

"The bird spread its ragged wings. 'If you tell me your secret,' it said temptingly, 'I will carry you over this miserable forest to the king's palace.'

" 'Alas,' Muballigh said sadly, 'I would like nothing more, but I cannot break my promise to my king.'

" 'As you wish.' So saying, the bird flapped away, leaving Muballigh alone among the thornbushes."

"J would have revealed the secret," Dittoo whispered loudly, "if only to have the bird's company for a little while."

"I, too, would have told," agreed Nur Rahman.

"And I," murmured Adil.

Only Yar Mohammad said nothing.

"Night had fallen," Muns.h.i.+ Sahib went on, "and Muballigh could travel no farther. He wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down to dream of his own peaceful land, where no cruel thorn trees barred the way.

"The next day he struggled again along the path. When at last he emerged from the forest, his clothes torn, his face and hands scratched and bleeding, he saw before him a great, dusty city.

"No fields or peaceful villages dotted the land, for the forest had encroached nearly to the city's high, brick walls. The city gates, open and unguarded, swung in the breeze.

"When Muballigh entered the city, he found its streets deserted. He wandered past closed-up shops and deserted-looking houses, searching in vain for someone to direct him to the palace, until he came to a large, tumbledown building that might once have been the residence of a king.

"He beat upon its great, peeling door until it creaked open a little way and a ragged man looked out.

" 'Peace be upon you,' offered Muballigh. 'I have come to deliver an important message to the ears of the king.'

"The doorkeeper shrugged, then led him across a dusty courtyard and into a small, unadorned room where a disheveled man sat on a reed stool. Had the servant not bowed deeply before him, Muballigh would never have known that he stood before a king."

Muns.h.i.+ Sahib stopped speaking and coughed, a hollow, worrying sound.

His audience exchanged glances.

"He suffers from cold at night," Nur Rahman whispered. "He has only one thin rezai rezai, and it is not enough. Of course he never complains."

"I will bring him another one this evening," murmured Yar Mohammad.