by Chris Paton
The woman kissed the top of the boy’s head and lifted him onto his feet. She smoothed her palm on his cheek as he protested, gave him the bowl of water to carry.
In the heat of the tent, Jamie tugged off his greatcoat. The woman froze at the sight of the lace wrapped around his bare forearm, just below the torn sleeve of his grubby shirt. She dropped to her knees at Jamie’s side and reached out to touch the bloody lace. Her fingers stopped short but a hand’s width from touching. The woman’s eyes misted. She stood, gripped the boy by the arm and rushed out of the tent without another glance at Jamie.
“Hey,” Jamie tried to stand. He slipped on the sheepskin and slumped onto his back.
“What are you doing, British?” Hari bustled into the tent, dumping Jamie’s pack and rifle case on the ground at the lieutenant’s feet. “Where are you going?”
“There was a young woman.”
Hari placed a hand on Jamie’s forehead. “Are you sick? What woman?”
“The one with the child.”
“There is no one here, British,” Hari took a step back and regarded Jamie, his eyes scanning Jamie’s face from beneath his wool cap. “Truly, you are sick.”
“I am not sick, Hari,” Jamie pushed himself into a standing position and wobbled upon his feet. “Hand me my rifle, man.”
“Your rifle?” Hari took another step back. “Why?”
“So I can lean on it. Damn it, Hari. What are you playing at?” Jamie lowered himself to the ground and sat on the blanket. “There was a woman,” he gesticulated with open palms. “She cleaned my wound, Hari. And now she is gone. She left the tent right before you came in.”
Hari stared at the clean bandage around Jamie’s thigh. “Yes. Okay, British.”
“Never mind,” Jamie nodded at his pack. “Did you have any trouble finding my stuff?” he pointed at the blanket beside him and Hari sat down.
“No problem. It was right where you said it would be.”
“Good,” Jamie sighed. “Thank you, Hari.”
“It is my pleasure, British.”
“So,” Jamie looked around the tent. “What do we do now?”
“We rest.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we hunt.” Hari made himself comfortable on the blanket, helping himself to chunks of roasted goat meat and maast. He stopped chewing when Jamie tapped his leg. “Do you want some, British?”
“Did you bring it with you? Without offering me any?” Jamie shook his head. “Hari, after all we have been through together.”
“It was here, when I arrived. You did not see it?”
“No, I did not,” Jamie shrugged. “I had the soup.”
“The soup? Truly?” Hari shook his head and laughed. “You are brave, British.” Hari passed Jamie the plate of food. They ate until the plate was empty and the fire crackled low in the centre of the tent.
Wiping his hands on his shirttails, Jamie reached around his neck and removed a locket. “I want to show you my mother,” he opened the locket and handed it to Hari.
“She is pretty. Is she still alive?”
“I don’t know,” Jamie took back the locket. “She was sleeping when I stole this from her bedside table. I never saw her again. I had planned to sell it, but...”
“You stole from your own mother? Truly?”
“Yes, Hari,” Jamie lifted the locket and chain over his head and let it hang around his neck. “I blame my father, he taught me to drink,” he looked at Hari. “Do you drink, Hari?”
“Water? Of course, British.”
“Not water, Hari. Spirits. Alcohol. Rum.”
“Ah. I understand. No, British. I do not drink.”
“That’s good, Hari. It is evil stuff. It took my father, and it nearly took me. If it wasn’t for the Admiral...”
“Egmont?”
“Yes. He sorted me out. Although, I never did see my mother again.”
“And now, British? Do you still need a drink?”
“No, Hari. I don’t even drink the Queen’s rum,” Jamie paused. “But I can still taste it.”
Outside, the wind whipped at the tent tails and brushed the snow free of spices and all signs of the metal emissary as it continued along the banks of the Cabool River in the direction of the city of Adina Pur.
Chapter 6
The Cabool River
Afghanistan
December, 1850
Jamie woke to the sound of Hari rummaging in his pack. Wiping his eyes with his forefinger, Jamie saw the items Hari had laid out in front of him. Two powder horns, a leather pouch of musket balls and a bag of kindling. Hari found space for them all in Jamie’s pack, along with bundles of dried meats and pastries wrapped in thin leather wafers.
“Is that from our hosts?” Jamie rolled onto his side. He kneaded his left thigh with his palm. The bandage was still tight and showed only the smallest amount of blood that had seeped through the layers of cloth during the night.
“Yes,” Hari smiled. “Good morning, British.”
“Hari,” Jamie pushed himself into a sitting position, the course fibres of the blanket scratching at his palms. “How many times must I tell you that my name is Jamie?”
“Many times, British.”
“Why must you insist on calling me that?”
“British?” Hari weighed a sack of musket balls in his hand. “Because that is what you are.”
“But it does not define me, Hari.” Jamie reached for his rifle. Placing the butt of the stock firmly on the ground, he pulled himself onto his feet. Hari dropped the leather bag of lead and helped the lieutenant stand.
“Here, in the Khyber Pass and the plains before, after and surrounding the mountains, being British is who you are. The man within,” Hari prodded Jamie in the chest, “will never be reached. You can thank your queen for that.”
“She’s your queen too, Hari.”
“Truly, she is,” avoiding Jamie’s eyes, Hari steadied the lieutenant before taking a step back. Satisfied that he would keep his sea legs, Hari returned to finish packing Jamie’s pack.
“What about you, Hari? You are not really a mystic?”
“No,” Hari looked up at Jamie and winked. “It is a disguise.”
“You’re in disguise?” Jamie nodded. “Okay. I understand that. Can I ask you something else?”
“Yes, British.”
“You never told me how you knew I was coming through the pass. Not the whole story,” Jamie shifted his weight onto his left leg, pressing his foot flat on the ground.
“It is not important,” Hari fastened the lid on Jamie’s pack. He stood up and tested the weight. Rearranging his robes and the shirt he wore beneath, Hari cinched the straps tight under his arms. “I will carry this today.”
“Who is Smith, Hari?”
“My master,” Hari shrugged the pack onto the ground and searched for his satchel. Finding it close to the fire he emptied the contents onto a blanket and sorted through them.
“And does Smith answer to London?”
“London?” Hari laughed. “Calcutta is now the true seat of power in the British Empire.” Hari unscrewed the lid of a tin can and sniffed its contents. He replaced the lid and collected the few items together, stuffing them into his satchel. He looked up at Jamie. “You said yourself, British, when the Royal Navy were defeated at Trafalgar, they left a gap to be filled.” Hari shrugged. “The East India Company filled that gap with her fleet and saved Her Majesty’s Empire.”
“Not all of it, Hari,” Jamie said quietly. “We lost a lot of North America.”
“Pah, who needs the New World, British? The east is far more interesting and far richer.” Hari placed his palm flat on his chest and closed his eyes for a moment. Opening his eyes he picked up the tin can and held it before Jamie. “Was not the Empire built upon spices and such?”
Jamie walked a careful route around the inside of the tent. “What about Smith? Was he a good master?” The pain in Jamie’s thigh subsided as the musc
les in his leg warmed with each circuit he walked around the fireplace.
“He is a good man,” Hari sat back on his heels. “He trained me and my fellow pundits. Of course, his first lesson was that of utmost secrecy. A good pundit might never reveal his true identity,” Hari sighed. “Mr. Smith would be most disappointed in me.”
“I find that hard to believe, Hari,” Jamie placed his hand on Hari’s shoulder as he passed him. “You are loyal and trustworthy and perhaps the first real friend I have made.”
“You are kind to say so, British,” Hari clasped Jamie’s hand, released it and stood up. “We must be leaving soon. The emissary will not stop. If it delivers its message before we can intervene, who knows what the Shah will decide to do,” Hari sighed. “I am sorry to say this, British, but there are many other, stronger suitors to Central Asia than your own countrymen. It may not go well for you.”
“I understand, Hari,” Jamie rubbed his thigh. “But my mission is not diplomacy. I am fact-finding. Egmont sent me to verify a rumour and perhaps explain what went wrong at Trafalgar.”
“I see,” Hari paused at the sound of the tent flaps opening. “Of course, if the Shah ignores the emissary, and if Corporal Mint is right...” Hari fell silent at the thought.
The light of the morning sun blinded both men as the young woman of the previous night entered the tent carrying a lantern in one hand and a bundle of firewood under her arm.
“You are not sick after all, British.” Hari bowed as the woman knelt by the fire.
The woman tumbled the sticks and branches onto the ground as she arranged the kindling in the coals and ashes inside the circle of blackened stones. She ignored Hari, only once did she glance at Jamie before making a tipi construction of small sticks. Jamie felt the rush of warm blood to his cheeks.
“This is the woman who cleaned and bound my leg,” Jamie whispered. “She is quite extraordinary, Hari. I am...”
“Yes, British,” Hari finished his bow with a sweeping gesture of his right hand. He straightened and addressed the woman in the language of the Pashtoo.
“What did you say, Hari?” Jamie leaned into the mystic’s side.
“I greeted her, thanked her for her attention to our needs, and...” Hari winked at Jamie.
“And what?”
“I asked her if she would grace us with her name.”
“Aisha,” the woman continued to build the fire, breaking the larger sticks into shorter pieces, and arranging them in a log cabin construction around the tipi.
“Aisha?” Jamie gripped Hari’s arm. “She is the wife of the rifleman. The one at the beginning of the pass.”
“Truly?”
“She must be,” Jamie pulled up his sleeve and untied the lace from his forearm. He held it out to Aisha. “Help me, Hari. Tell her it is from her man.”
“Are you sure, British?”
Jamie watched as Aisha reached forward and took the lace between her fingers. “I am sure.”
Aisha held the ragged strip of bloody lace to her cheek. Tears streamed down her face as she reached for Jamie’s hand and squeezed it.
“Tell her,” Jamie swallowed. “Tell her he died bravely, Hari.”
Jamie listened as Hari spoke to Aisha. She nodded and wrapped the lace around her wrist, tying it with a thin knot. Aisha bent to light the fire with a taper she lit from the oil lantern. She rose gently, smoothed her pantaloons and jacket, wiped her eyes and left the tent.
“I can’t imagine her pain, Hari,” Jamie took a deep breath. “Thank you, Hari. Thank you for helping me.”
“It is nothing, British,” Hari clapped his hand upon Jamie’s shoulder.
“I am not so good around women, Hari,” Jamie shrugged. “My sister is the only woman I can talk to without making a complete fool of myself.”
“You have a sister, British? Truly?”
“Yes,” Jamie smiled, “Her name is Luise.”
“Luise Hanover,” Hari clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “I will hear more about the lovely Luise. Come,” Hari closed his satchel and slung it around his chest. Picking up Jamie’s pack he hefted it onto his shoulder. “Get dressed. We must leave.”
Jamie hobbled over to where his knee-length wool greatcoat lay on the ground. Grimacing as he stooped to pick it up, Jamie straightened, pressing the barrel of the rifle into his chest as he pushed his arms into the coat.
Hari scanned the tent, walked over to the corner and removed a leg from the wooden tripod where it stood next to the empty soup pot. “Put your rifle away and take this, British,” he pressed the tripod leg into Jamie’s hand. “We can carve a handle later, but it will do for now.”
Jamie slid the Baker rifle into its case, slung the case over his shoulder and around his chest. Slipping his hand into the deep inside pocket, Jamie was relieved to find the telescope was still there. He turned to Hari. “I am ready.”
Hari pointed at Jamie’s tangled blonde hair. “You’ll need a hat, British. It has stopped snowing but there is a chill wind blowing down from the mountains.”
Jamie tugged a wool cap from the outside pocket on the left hand side of his coat, fingerless gloves from the pocket opposite. Following Hari from the tent, he paused to take in the activity bustling around the camels and tents of the camp. He searched for signs of Aisha, finding none he followed Hari as the mystic scouted the trail for sign of the emissary.
҉
At the highest point of the trail Bryullov halted, holding his horse still by the halter. He bent his knee and grimaced. Below him, sprawling at the foot of the mountains, the city of Adina Pur bustled with activity. Clouds of dust from the caravans entering and exiting the city gates rolled along the open ground outside the city walls. Bryullov smiled at the sight. It had been many years since he last set foot inside the city. He turned at the sound of Najma’s approach.
“What do you think?” Bryullov pointed at the tall building in the eastern part of the city. “The minaret. It was demolished by the British, about a decade ago. The Shah rebuilt it, vowing to drench the steps in British blood should they ever return. If we had one of those fancy British telescopes we could see the skulls of the British set beneath the arches,” Bryullov smiled at Najma. “A gruesome touch, but effective.”
Najma said nothing.
Bryullov turned to face the Afghan princess. “What is wrong, Najma?”
“I have learned it is best not to speak of them when around you,” Najma took a step backward.
“Them?” Bryullov frowned. “You mean the British?”
Najma nodded. She cast a glance back to her horse. Her father’s jezail hung from the saddle.
“Gods, child,” Bryullov laughed. “The British be damned. I will not harm you.”
“You were going to, back then,” Najma shifted her feet in the snow.
“It was important,” Bryullov shrugged. “I am sorry, but I needed to know.”
“And now?”
“Now,” Bryullov swept his arm in front of him, “Adina Pur.”
Najma smiled. “I have always wanted to go to...”
“Najma?” Bryullov brushed her elbow with his fingers. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Najma pushed past the Russian. Shading her eyes with the flat of her hand she peered into the distance, searching the road leading to the city gates. “Look there,” she pointed. “It is a man, I think. But I have never seen one so big.”
“Where,” Bryullov removed a small monocular from inside his jacket.
“On the road, moving behind the caravan farthest from the city.”
Bryullov’s heart skipped a beat. He held the monocular to his eye and focused what little magnification the optic had on the figure of a large man striding toward the city. “Ah, there you are. Now who do you belong to, I wonder?”
“What is it?”
Bryullov stared at the metal figure striding toward the city. “The British? No, they do not possess the ingenuity,” he cupped the monocular in his hand. “Who then if n
ot us?”
“What is that man?”
“What?” Bryullov turned to look at Najma. The worried look in her eyes struck a chord in the Russian’s heart. “It is nothing. Just a man. That is all.”
“He is so tall. So tall I can see him from all the way up here.” Najma pressed the fingers of one hand to her mouth. “It is a djinni.”
“No, Najma,” Bryullov reached out to grasp Najma as she ran to the camel. Drawing the jezail out from under the flaps of her saddle, she scrabbled to a point higher than the path. “Najma,” Bryullov winced as he placed his foot on the uneven ground, twisting his knee. “Wait.”
“I must stop it before it reaches the city,” Najma charged the jezail with several cranks of the priming handle. It buzzed in her grasp. Feeding a copper-infused lead ball into the barrel, she rammed the ball into place with the rod.
“Najma,” Bryullov scrambled up beside her. “You cannot hit it from here,” he placed his hand on the barrel as she sighted. “No one can. We are too high, too far away.”
“But I can scare it away from the city. Warn the people down below.”
“It would do no good, Najma,” the barrel hummed in Bryullov’s grasp as Najma tried to tug it free. “I know this man, this thing.”
“Djinni? How can you know a djinni?” Najma’s bottom lip quivered as she stared at Bryullov.
“Thing, not djinni, Najma. I know of these things,” Bryullov released the rifle and sat down on the rocks beside Najma. “It is made of metal, as strong as this,” he tapped the barrel of the jezail.
“Metal?” Najma lowered the rifle. “Hah,” she pointed toward the road. “How can a metal thing walk like a man? It cannot be so.”
“It is so, Najma. It has legs and joints like you and I.”
“Does it have a brain, too? How does it find its way? Tell me that.”
“I can do more than tell you. I can show you.”
Najma watched Bryullov pick his way back down to the path. Reaching the horses, he beckoned for her to join him. Najma turned back to the road to watch the metal man as it pounded along the packed surface, getting closer and closer to the city. Discharging the power with a long press of the safety button, Najma gripped the jezail in the crook of her arm and joined Bryullov on the path.
