Bold Destiny

by Jane Feather

  “Salaamat bashi, Ralston, huzoor!” Akbar Khan, on a Badakshani charger even more magnificent than those they had seen, hailed their arrival cheerfully, galloping across the upland toward them. The sirdar was clad in a rich, fur-edged jacket and loose britches tucked into riding boots, a round fur hat upon his head. He was bright-eyed and genial, yet Kit detected an undercurrent of excitement, or anticipation, in his posture and in the curve of his mouth. The Englishman did not find it in the least reassuring.

  “Mandeh nabashi,” he responded correctly, offering his host a courteous salute that Abdul Ali and the sepoys instantly imitated.

  “Come, you must position yourself on that ridge over there.” Akbar Khan gestured with his whip. “You will have the best view of the proceedings from there.”

  “Do you also take part, then?” inquired Kit.

  “Oh, but of course. I was taught from the age of twelve the skills necessary for a buzkashi player—how to pick up anything from the ground when riding at high speed, for instance. Also, my father would plant a silver marker in the ground, and I would ride at it at full gallop and shoot at it with my bow and arrow.” Akbar laughed merrily. “One learns a great deal of control and accuracy, Ralston, huzoor, from such exercises.”

  “I believe you,” Kit said truthfully, looking around the natural arena where some thirty men jostled on horseback, all with the same air of impatient expectancy, of barely leashed energy and determination. Then he saw the figure in the white chadri, mounted on her gray Arabian, atop the ridge toward which they were riding. His heart turned over.

  Almost as if he were aware of his guest’s reaction, Akbar Khan glanced slyly at him. “Yes, Ayesha is also a spectator. She will be able to interpret the game for you. Like all Afghans, she has a perfect understanding of its significance.”

  Kit bit his tongue. Nothing would be gained by rising to provocation, and he knew all too well the degree to which Annabel Spencer had adopted the attitudes and behaviors of the Afghan Ayesha.

  She offered no greeting as the party reached the crest of the ridge, did not even look in Kit’s direction. Akbar Khan smiled broadly.

  “Ayesha, I leave my guests in your hands. You will be able to answer any questions Ralston, huzoor, may have on the proceedings.”

  Permission having been granted, she turned toward Kit and offered the ritual greeting. He responded blandly, although his hands felt clammy in his gloves and his mouth felt strangely stiff as he formed the words. He could see no more than the jade glint behind the insert in her chadri, yet his mind’s eye was filled with the image of her as she had been for him, sinuous and white in her nakedness.

  “It is said the game originated with the horsemen of Genghis Khan,” she informed him calmly, as Akbar Khan rode off toward the milling horsemen. “One man must succeed in grabbing the carcass of the goat … you see it over there?” She pointed with her whip to a large shape lying in the center of the arena. “Once he has grabbed it, he must hold on to it and gallop free and clear of the rest.” A chuckle entered her voice. “All the rest, of course, are intent on grabbing the carcass back.”

  Kit nodded, absorbing this information. Some thirty magnificently mounted, superb horsemen all after the same prize … and all fierce in their determination to gain it. “Free and clear?” he queried.

  “Exactly, Christopher Ralston,” she declared with a laugh. “You have grasped the point. How free is free, and how clear is clear? There are no spatial demarcations on the ground.”

  She was talking to him as if they had never spent last night in each other’s arms. He knew why, of course. They were not alone; the arena was surrounded by eager, cheering men from the fortress, and present on the ridge were three tribal elders, armed to the teeth, their eyes never moving from Lieutenant Ralston’s patrol, making manifest the fact that they were well within the reach of the long arm of Akbar Khan’s malicious mischief. Again the sensation of playing mouse to an unseen cat assailed Kit. Except that now he knew the nature of the cat, just as he knew that the all-consuming hatred Akbar Khan bore the English provided motive for his taunting little games.

  “You must leave here with me,” he heard himself say in a fierce involuntary whisper.

  “You should pay particular attention to the jorchi,” she said in neutral tones, as if he had not spoken. “When it is decided that a player has achieved freedom with his prize, the jorchi will sing in his honor, making up the verses as he considers appropriate. He is like a minstrel, a balladeer, whose task is to provide impromptu entertainment for the crowd. I will translate for you when the time comes.”

  “Thank you,” Kit said dryly. “Your assistance will be invaluable.”

  “It is my pleasure, Ralston, huzoor.”

  “I could wring your neck!” he hissed.

  “They are beginning. Watch carefully now.”

  He gritted his teeth in frustration and forced his attention to the arena. Then he forgot all else but the excitement of the drama being played out before him.

  Akbar Khan was easy to distinguish by the fur trim of his garments and his richly caparisoned horse. For a moment, everything seemed confusion. Wild yells accompanied frenzied forays into the seething melee as each man fought to get close enough to the carcass and correctly positioned to reach down and seize it. Suddenly, out of the violent jostling mass, Akbar Khan appeared, breaking free of his pursuers, one leg of the dangling carcass held by both hands, the reins gripped tightly between his teeth. The strain of the weight he was carrying was etched on his face. As three men bore down on him, yelling in frantic excitement and threat, he whirled his horse at breakneck speed away from them, shielding the carcass with his body as he bent low over the saddle and raced across the arena.

  “Oh, do not drop it!” Ayesha gasped, impassivity vanished as she jumped up and down in her saddle. “Is he not the most magnificent rider?”

  Kit wanted to resent the fervency of her praise, but could not. He could only agree with the sentiment. He himself had a considerable reputation as a horseman, but was under no illusions that he could compete with Akbar Khan in such an instance as this. The thrills of fox-hunting across the best country in England seemed tame beside the furious pace and endurance of this buzkashi. And the skills of a huntsman would be of little practical use here.

  A great roar went up from the crowd as Akbar Khan was momentarily surrounded by rivals, but again he broke free, still hanging on to the prize, driving his great black horse across the upland, outstripping his pursuers.

  “He is free and clear,” Ayesha said, slumping suddenly in her saddle. “The crowd has said so.”

  Indeed, the crowd of spectators was cheering, applauding, some even firing rifles into the air. Akbar Khan reined in his horse, turned back to the arena. His rivals fell back and the jorchi rode into the ring, lifting his voice in a resounding tribute to the victor.

  “He is saying that Akbar Khan has the speed of the antelope, the spring of the leopard, the heart of the black bear,” Ayesha translated swiftly. “Will you tell me it is flattery?” Again that mocking laugh was in her voice. “In the buzkashi, Christopher Ralston, you see the true strength and power of the Afghan. They will fight to the death, and will give no quarter. The British army in Kabul must believe very strongly in itself, if General Elphinstone thinks he is going to subjugate the Ghilzais.”

  Kit grimaced. “How can you despise your own people?”

  “They have done nothing to deserve my respect,” she replied shortly. “This …” She gestured toward the arena. “This is deserving of respect. It may be uncivilized, barbarous even, but it is honest and true. They value strength, courage, and determination. You will find no hypocrisy here.”

  “And what of treachery?” he demanded. “You would deny the treachery of the Afghan, the broken pledges, the stab in the back, the ruthless cruelty, the indiscriminate murders of innocent women, children, merchants?”

  She shrugged. “They do not see it as treachery. They are honest about
their lying.” A chuckle entered her voice. “It is permitted if it will save a life, patch up a quarrel, please a wife, and deceive in war the enemies of the faith. Their dealings with the feringhee fall into the latter category. They are untouched by your so-called civilization, Ralston, huzoor, and they will pour out their blood to resist an alien yoke. You will never master this nation.”

  “Goddamnit, woman, one day I will master you!” Kit exploded, pushed beyond bearing by this blind allegiance to savagery.

  “How like an Afghan,” she mocked. “You see how easy it is to pick up their customs.”

  His face darkened; his hands curled impotently around the reins. He knew he had sounded ridiculous; he felt the same way Annabel did about the vaunting, posturing idiots in Kabul; but they were still his people. As they were hers, if only she could be brought to acknowledge it.

  Akbar Khan had thrown the carcass back into the center of the arena, and the horsemen were gathering for a renewed foray. Suddenly, the sirdar held up a hand and turned toward the ridge, his voice in ringing challenge echoing off the cliffs.

  “Ralston, huzoor! Do you care to match the horsemanship and strength of the British cavalry against that of the Afghan?”

  “No!” Ayesha whispered, all mockery gone from her voice, a thread of panic in the one word. “You cannot, Kit.”

  He turned to look at her, and felt the cold emptiness that comes from making the only possible decision. “Do you doubt me?”

  “They will humiliate you, if they do not injure you,” she said. “You cannot outride them.”

  “It is about time you realized, Annabel Spencer, that there is some backbone to the race of your birth,” he declared icily.

  “Sir.” Abdul Ali moved his horse forward. “We’re with you.”

  Kit glanced at his men. Not a flicker of emotion showed on the brown faces, not a hint of alarm in the steady eyes. “Very well, Havildar.” He shook the reins and his horse broke into a canter, then galloped down the ridge toward the milling crowd of horsemen and the triumphant Akbar Khan.

  Annabel felt sick. If she had not taunted him, he would surely not have accepted Akbar’s absurd challenge. Why did she needle him? But she knew why. It was an effort to pierce the complacency she assumed he shared with all the other British in Afghanistan. She had grown up imbibing with every breath the violent contempt and loathing for the feringhee. But she could not also imbibe the easy, automatic acceptance of a wholesale massacre as the only possible weapon against the invader and vengeance for the invasion. Her very soul revolted against the idea in a way that she knew betrayed her essential alienation from the people who had adopted her. She did not believe the Europeans could all be as bad as Akbar Khan made out, or as the arrogant laxity of the British administration in Kabul seemed to confirm. She had adored her parents, was convinced they could not have fitted the mold presented to her by Akbar. But then she would feel a stab of doubt. After all, she had been but a child then. Spoiled, precocious, difficult. How often had she heard the description in long-suffering parental accents. How could she trust the memories and judgments of such a child at such a distance?

  So she had tried to force upon Christopher Ralston some understanding of the true nature of the enemy. And because of the conflict between her learned loathing of what he represented and her instinctive revulsion at the fate Akbar Khan and his fellow sirdars had decreed for them, her attempt had been clumsy. Instead of compelling him to recognize the danger, she had driven him with her mockery into its arms. In the arms of that danger, he would certainly come to the acceptance of the realities she had been trying to instill. But it would be a hard lesson.

  She did not believe that Akbar Khan intended Kit any serious physical harm. But he did mean to humiliate him, as he had tried to do last night. He would send him away from here with his tail between his legs to report on the strength, the indomitable courage, the invincible purpose, the wild savagery of the enemy. And she did not think she could bear to watch that humiliation. But even as her heart shrank with anticipated pain, she could not drag her eyes from the arena.

  Kit acknowledged Akbar Khan’s gesture of welcome with a cool smile as he assessed his rivals. A ferocious bunch, he decided, but what else had he expected. The now somewhat mangled carcass of the goat lay at some distance. It must weigh anything from sixty to eighty pounds, he thought with a dispassion that surprised him. He could not possibly succeed in getting free and clear with the prize. His horse was no match for the Badakshani chargers, and he had not the peculiar equestrian skills and training of these buzkashi players. But he could ensure that he and his men put up a good show. He glanced over his shoulder at Abdul Ali.

  “We work as a team, Havildar. We’re entitled to that advantage, I believe.”

  The sergeant nodded and the sepoys drew together. A great cry of challenge ripped through the still mountain air, and suddenly they were engulfed in movement. For a second, Kit was thrown off balance, then he fixed his eyes on the carcass and forced all else from his sight and mind. The swirling, shrieking mass of horses and men spun around him, but he rode hard, whipping his horse into the middle of the frenzy, aware that Abdul and the others were behind him. Someone was leaning low to grab up the prize; for a breathless second, he had it, was pulling himself upright; then another competitor swooped down, seized the goat; there was a brief, fierce struggle before the carcass slipped to the ground again. And in that split second, Kit was upon it. He swung low, was conscious that Abdul Ali had seized his reins so that he could use both hands to hold the prize. His head hung below the belly of his horse and all he could see were pounding hooves and the rock-encrusted ground. His hand locked onto the tail of the goat; his knees gripped his saddle with a savage strength he had not known he possessed. If he could just get his other hand onto the goat … He did it … got a grasp on a foot, hauled the monstrous weight off the ground, himself upright in the saddle. Then they were off, Abdul still holding his reins, guiding his horse so all he had to do was concentrate on keeping hold of the carcass. The sepoys were clearing a way through the seething, screaming throng struggling to wrest the prize from them. There was one glorious moment when Kit could see only bare terrain ahead, could hear only the thundering of his own mount across the rocky ground.

  How free was free? How clear was clear? He could hear Ayesha’s laughing explanation of the ultimate catch in this game. With one almighty movement, he hurled the carcass from him, to land with a thud and a spray of sand onto the ground ahead. He would make his own rules. And retire gracefully and with honor. There was a pause, as of a collective catch of the breath. “Juldi, Havildar!” he instructed, taking advantage of the grace period.

  The patrol obeyed the Hindi order to move quickly, and the seven men galloped away from the fray, back to the ridge, honor intact.

  Kit was conscious of the most immense exultation as he rode up to Ayesha, who was sitting her horse, a veiled wraith, completely immobile. “Well?” he demanded. “Were we humiliated?”

  She shook her head, and her eyes met his. It was hard to read their expression through the mesh of her veil, but they held his challenging gaze steadfastly. “You were magnificent, Kit. I owe you an apology.”

  The words were the sweetest balm, a triumph much greater than that he had achieved on the field. “We are not without resources,” he said quietly.

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment, saying only, “I fear you will need them.”

  “Well, Ralston, huzoor, you are to be congratulated.” Akbar Khan rode up the ridge. “There is skill in using the resources at one’s hand in an imaginative fashion, and great wisdom in recognizing the battles one cannot win.” He smiled benignly. “In recognition, the host begs his guest to ask anything that is within his humble means to grant.” He gestured expansively. “A horse of Badakshani, perhaps. You are a worthy rider for such a mount.”

  Kit looked out over the upland, across to the steep peaks beyond the pass below them, standing out bold, black, a
nd snowcapped against the brilliant blue sky. He looked sideways at the still, veiled figure beside him. “I would have another night with Ayesha, Akbar Khan,” he said.

  In the deathly hush, the dingy, gray-white bulk of a lammergeyer loomed, hideous and prehistoric, over a narrow gully. Kit found himself watching it intently, as if Akbar Khan’s response could not be of particular importance. The figure beside him had not moved a muscle. Where had she learned such immobility? he wondered absently.

  “Christopher Ralston, you try my hospitality,” said Akbar Khan.

  Danger pricked the air like so many nicks of a knife tip. Kit felt his men close rank behind him, just as he felt the Ghilzais on the ridge ready themselves for the word from their sirdar. That word would ensure that they all died a bloody, messy, unnecessary death because Lieutenant Ralston had allowed his present obsession to override caution. He continued to watch the lammergeyer.

  “If Ayesha is willing, then I grant your request,” Akbar Khan now said, his voice as dry and brittle as old bones.

  Kit turned to her, devouring her with his hungry eyes, certain of her response.

  Her words fell bell-like into the stillness. “I think, Akbar Khan, that Ralston, huzoor, intended to ask that he be granted safe conduct from here, and an escort to the Kabul road.”

  There was nothing he could do but accept his dismissal. He had hoped, blindly, that in one more night of glory, he would persuade her to leave with him, would concoct a foolproof plan, would ride off with her …

  “I must bow to the lady’s wish,” he said in level tones. “We will need no escort, Akbar Khan.”

  “A guide, however,” the sirdar said, suddenly all geniality again. “No … Ralston, huzoor, I insist. You do not know this territory, and there are many pitfalls.” He beckoned to one of the hillmen and spoke rapidly in Pushtu. The man grunted and ranged himself alongside Kit and his men.