by Harold Lamb
“Aye, Ahmad Rumi is like to one that sits in the dark; still in his spirit there is a lamp by whose rays he sees an assemblage wherever he looks. So he said, and I wondered. Now I understand that he has within him a vision, while you—"
She broke off in contempt. Other women of her race perhaps would have cursed Khlit, being angry. Kera however was gentle.
“Where Rao Singh goes I guide my horse," she added as he did not speak. “His smile opens my heart like a flower. Why should it be otherwise?"
Khlit was satisfied. He had thought to test the girl's feeling for the Hindu. He had done so crudely. But it did not occur to him to explain this to her. He was indifferent to what she might think of him.
He returned to the thought that had impelled him to follow her along the sheep path.
“Kera, the thorn of unrest is in the side of the son of Sattar Singh. He has seen the evil that is wrought upon his people. And he is angry. He knows not the path he should follow."
The Cossack spoke gruffly.
“Likewise his thoughts are bound up in a woman."
The girl made no response, and Khlit went on.
“What has the stripling learned of war? He can think of naught but to find the path to your hut and to lie with your arms about him. Yet it is time he should mount and take up his sword. There be those who will follow."
“Nay."
Timidity—the shrinking of a woman who loves—gave Kera speech. “Here he is safe. If he rode far the men of Shaista Mirza would hear of it."
“The time must come, little sparrow," growled Khlit, “when your lord will try sword-strokes with this same mirza. It would be well were he to strike first."
“It may not be, baba-ji. Aie, how should that come to pass? The Persian is friend to Jahangir."
“Not so. The master of Jhilam—whatever name he bear—will be well treated by Jahangir. For Jhilam is a key to the hills. It lies too far to the north for the Mogul to muster his banners to attack it. So 'tis said, but I have a thought the Mogul fears to leave the Delhi court, and those who would plot against him, so far in his rear. So he must conciliate him who is lord of the fortress."
Out of his wisdom, hard-won in dealing with merciless foes, Khlit spoke. Out of her love for Rao Singh—blind love—the girl responded. “Does a hunting-dog walk into the den of a lion?"
“Aye, when death awaits him without."
“No danger lies about the davan. The riders have drawn their reins from these hills."
Khlit moved angrily.
“It is not I who am blind, Kera. Hide of Satan, see you not that Rao Singh must slay Shaista Mirza, or the Persian will sprinkle the cub's blood on the snow of his native hills?"
Kera drew back with a shiver.
“Aie—it is cold! Nay, baba-ji, it is said you are wise in battle. The gods may have so willed. Yet it is but the space of a short day I have Rao Singh at my side.
“The time for sword-strokes has not yet come; he lacks followers—perchance time will bring Kargan's riders to his aid, then proudly shall I gird the belt of war on the twain. Ahmad Rumi has said that this would come to pass."
Khlit would have turned away angrily, not knowing that the words of the woman were to come true. Yet in a manner such as he had not conceived. Ahmad Rumi possessed something of the gift of prescience which is found at times in men of frugal life and intensity of thought.
“Stay!" The girl touched his shoulder. “Shaista Mirza has five hundred horsemen under Jaffar his sword-bearer. I pray the gods that he will fall in the dust of defeat.
“I have heard it said that you are a father of battles. Will you ride with Rao Singh against Shaista Mirza when it is his fate that this should come to pass?"
The Cossack shook off the girl's hand impatiently.
“When Rao Singh is—a man," he growled.
“My lord will be a great ghazi conqueror," she cried proudly. “He is one among a thousand, and like to his father. So Ahmad Rumi swore."
Her mood changed swiftly and she looked up beyond the trees where the stupendous mountain peaks of the Himalayas were coming into view under the silver torch of the moon like sentinels taking their posts. A breath of the cold air from the heights above brushed her long hair across her face and she pushed it back, gazing up with eyes dark as fate.
“Aie—on the high places of the hills live the gods. Who knows what is in the heart of the gods? Who can pierce the cloud that covers the will of the many gods?
“I have prayed that they will be kind to Rao Singh! I have bent my head on the footstools of the gods, but they will not answer— save to send the wind and the cold."
She stretched up her slim arms.
“Why will the gods not answer? They hide their faces. Once I thought that they were near. Aie—they are cold, and I have naught to offer them. There is no mountain sheep to be slain for their pleasure. If they had an offering then they would turn the sun of their kindness on Rao Singh—"
She broke off in a moan that changed to a cry of delight as a rider came trotting down the trail on a spent horse, passing swiftly under the changing shadows of the moon.
Long after Rao Singh and Kera had gone, Khlit leaned against the rock, pondering many things. And in his thought Kera and her plaint had no place.
Khlit was not content with their position in the valley. The next day he went on a tour of inspection down to the lake. As usual, he went alone. The ride warmed his blood, and he sought for a fishing settlement that Ahmad Rumi had mentioned.
He was unable to locate it and wasted several hours, so it was late in the afternoon when he returned, hungry, for he had not eaten that noon. He was in high spirits, being naturally suited by a cold climate, and he had formed a plan which he intended to confide to Rao Singh.
The sun had set and Khlit had put his horse to a swift trot when he halted abruptly at sight of a body in the path. It was a peasant, an arrow projecting from his side. The man had been dead some time.
Khlit passed him by silently after observing that the trail of several horsemen led from the body away in the direction of the lake.
He was now in the davan, and scented smoke from the fire in the hut. He pushed his horse forward, rounded the turn by the spring, and then set spurs to flank.
Prone on his face in the snow lay Cheker Ghar, his small limbs twisted strangely. Beside the body of the conjurer were the tracks of many horses. Yet the valley was silent, strangely so. Khlit uttered a gruff exclamation. He was now before the cave entrance. Here the horse tracks ran, and among them the imprint of booted men. These footsteps led to the cavern.
The snow was gray with early twilight and trampled in spots as if men had struggled. And here and there were dark blotches of blood.
Just outside the door lay Ahmad Rumi, his white beard ominously stained. His turban was askew over one ear and the front of his tunic was slashed in a dozen places. From the pallor of his thin face Khlit knew that he was dead.
And beside the legend-teller was the form of Kera.
Khlit dismounted and stepped to the girl's side. Her dark hair flooded over the snow. She lay on her back, one hand clenched on her breast. And Khlit saw that her dark eyes were half-closed, the small, red mouth half-shut as if in a deep breath.
A scimitar stroke had slashed the base of her throat, severing the jugular vein. Her khalat was thrown back, revealing the grim message of death embodied in her torn and pierced chest:
Shaista Mirza has found those whom he sought.
Bember Hakim hobbled from the nearby thicket fearfully and stared at the form of the girl and the blind man.
The story written in the snow was plain for Khlit to read. A group of horsemen had ridden swiftly up the valley, encountering Cheker Ghar on the way, and had surrounded the hut entrance. Some had dismounted and dragged Ahmad Rumi from the cavern.
Kera seemed to have attempted to flee but had been struck down beside the blind man. Her slender dagger lay near her clenched hand.
Then the
riders had passed out by the way they came in, leaving the valley desolate with its dead. Of the Hindu youth there was no sign.
“Eh," cried the Arab, “I was at the cliff summit—Allah be praised—and I saw Jaffar and his men ride hither. It was an ill deed—"
“Rao Singh?" questioned Khlit sharply.
“He ran from the cavern at the cry of Cheker Ghar. Two horsemen rode him down and his weapon broke upon the sword-hilt of one. Then many seized him and he was bound. Allah the merciful laid the shadow of a swoon upon the youth—for he was struck heavily on the head with the flat of a blade—and he saw not the fate of Kera. Eh, it was a deed of shame—"
“They took Rao Singh?"
Bember Hakim's shrewd, dark eyes searched Khlit's face.
“Aye. Jaffar cried that Shaista Mirza would take pleasure in the sight of his foe."
Khlit said no more but walked heavily to the cavern, glancing within at the embers of the fire. Ahmad Rumi's prayer-carpet was in its place by the coals, and there also lay the sack of the conjurer. The Cossack stared at them meditatively. Then he flung up his head.
From down the valley came a mournful cry, rising and falling. It was like the cry of a madman. As it neared him Khlit could distinguish words:
“Wretched one, child of a thieving slave! O faithless and thrice accursed! O traitor to thy bread and salt! O snake that crawled from defiled flesh!"
It was a voice shrill, incoherent with rage. It panted as it cursed. And Khlit, striding from the cavern, swore in surprise.
Cheker Ghar was running up to the cavern, his puny fists clenched overhead. In the failing light his features showed distorted with anger. He was looking not at Khlit but at a form that climbed the opposite rock wall, where a cleft offered foothold.
Khlit peered doubtfully at the climber and recognized Bember Hakim, who passed from view behind boulders on the summit as he watched.
“O unutterable filth! O blood-guilty, and dog without a name!" Cheker Ghar shook his fists at the spot where the fugitive had vanished.
Abruptly he fell silent and sank on his knees by the body of Kera. He raised a twisted face to Khlit.
“Thus does one without honor reward the hand of mercy. I have seen what I have seen. The Turk and his men were led to this spot by Bember Hakim, accursed by the gods. Aye, for when the slaying was done he crept like a lizard from behind the warriors and smiled."
The conjurer moaned, touching the garment of his mistress.
“Bember Hakim set his foot upon the breast of the slain Flower of the Hills. For that I will follow the pursuit of blood. Aye, if the gods are kind I will tear open his breast and let his life run forth like water. Traitor to his salt—"
“Stay!" broke in Khlit gruffly. “Hide of the devil, how comes it that you live? With my eyes I saw you dead."
“A simple feat, lord, for one of my profession. When I saw the riders sweep up the valley I cried out. They would have seized me in their hands, but I slipped away. When they bore off Rao Singh I ran after, keeping to the forest, until my strength was spent.
“When I came hither again to bury my mistress I heard hoofs and lay like one dead. I saw not it was you until you had passed—"
“Then Bember Hakim was a man of Shaista Mirza?"
“Aye, yet we knew it not."
Khlit thought of the meeting at the ford when Bember Hakim had ridden after him. Seldom had Khlit been tricked by the art of another. But the physician was crafty and quick of wit and had told his lies readily.
Bember Hakim had guessed that the Cossack knew the hiding-place of Rao Singh. And his pretended search after herbs had afforded the opportunity to communicate with his master. Khlit had wondered when the other spoke the name how Bember Hakim had known it was Jaffar who led the riders.
Mechanically he seated himself by the fire and added fuel to the embers while Cheker Ghar labored at digging a grave with a Kashmiri tool.
Khlit had not eaten but he felt no desire for food. As was his habit when thinking deeply he drew his curved sword and laid it across his knees, stroking it absently. He felt no immediate fear that Jaffar and his party would return, for they must take Rao Singh to Jhilam. It was useless to follow Bember Hakim, who had gained a good start among the rocks, where there was little snow to reveal his course.
Several things puzzled Khlit. Why had Bember Hakim remained in the valley? Perhaps the Arab sought to trap him— believing all the others dead.
If so, why? Shaista Mirza would not want a living witness to the deed in the valley—one like Khlit who might bear the news to others.
Still Khlit was not satisfied with this reasoning. And it was not likely that Bember Hakim had remained to guard the bodies from the beasts.
Why had the Arab told Khlit the truth—in part—of what had happened? It seemed illogically cruel moreover that Kera should have been slain as she was. Why had she not been kept as a hostage? Surely by all accounts Kargan Khan was not lightly to be made an enemy of.
Khlit perceived that the Persian was a crafty foe. And his servants were like to him. In reasoning thus the Cossack came near to the truth. But he did not yet understand the masterly mind of Shaista Mirza.
He rose presently and aided Cheker Ghar in his toil. They worked in silence by the glow from the cavern mouth. Snow began to fall lightly. There was no moon.
When they had buried the two, they rolled rocks to the spot to protect it from the prying claws of jackals. This done, Khlit touched the shoulder of the conjurer, who squatted by the mound.
“We cannot stay," he pointed out. “By dawn Bember Hakim will bring others with him to search us out."
Cheker Ghar prostrated himself in the snow and clasped the boot of the Cossack.
“Lord," he whispered, “I heard it said in the Mogul's camp that you were crafty as the steppe fox and wise in war. Aid me to bear tidings of this thing to Kargan Khan over the Baramula trail. He will mount for vengeance, for Kera was his child."
“Nay," said Khlit.
Then, seeing the despair in the conjurer's dark face, he added: “Kargan Khan will not believe our tale. Shaista Mirza will send emissaries to the Kirghiz tribe. They would say that we lied." He withdrew his foot from the other's grasp.
“Come, Cheker Ghar. Gird on your pack."
“Aie, lord! Whither should I go, if not in the pursuit of blood? I have sworn an oath to the gods—"
“And I, too, swear an oath, Cheker Ghar, though to another God." Khlit's voice deepened with involuntary feeling.
“This thing I swear: I will not turn my horse's head from the Wular lake until Shaista Mirza be laid in death."
VI
In the end, a lion’s cub becomes a lion, although brought up a slave.
Hindu proverb
The floating island of the Wular lake had been built by human hands. The stalks of the rushes that lined its banks had been cut and fastened into bundles by withes. Rows of these bundles had been laid one upon the other, and over all earth. Under the reed bundles were the trunks of trees.
So it was that a grass carpet covered the floating island. And gardens bloomed with jasmine and wild rose in the Summer— gardens built upon the roofs of the arbors that surrounded the kiosk. This kiosk had been fashioned by artisans from Persia.
Slender pillars of marble—delicate, so that the foundation of the pleasure island should not be overbalanced—supported a cedar roof, the underside of which was enameled. Between the pillars were ranged gilded squares of wood upon which were blazoned certain words of the poets, and paintings from the Persian annals.
The porticoes were hung with brocaded silk. In the center chamber were placed brass braziers and incense pots that filled the air with a hot scent. Also they served to lessen the chill of the kiosk, for snow lay without on the bare rose-bushes; and
Shaista Mirza had chosen to visit the pleasure island alone with Nureddin.
“By slitting the tongue, O learned interpreter of the stars," he confided, “men may be made voiceles
s, and by piercing the inner ear, deaf. Yet it is well sometimes to go where there are none to hear or to speak."
Satisfied that the slaves had stocked the braziers well, Shaista Mirza lay back on his cushions, eyeing the vista of the lake through the open portal. The Persian was habitually watchful, for he did not fail to credit others with his own crafty nature. By virtue of this he was still alive.
Moreover he was well content this day. He scanned the kneeling astrologer through half-closed eyes, and Nureddin did not return his gaze. The astrologer had partaken of bhang to stimulate his brain.
Shaista Mirza however did not use opium, hashish or bhang. He was sparing of wine, for he would say that a man was witless to soften his brain with false pleasures.
“Verily, Nureddin," he mused, “my star is ascendant. Rao Singh lies in chains in the tower of Jhilam. Aye, the lion cub has dragged his limbs to the den of his sire. And his mate is where she will work us no harm."
“It was fated."
“Nay, I willed it. What is fate, Nureddin, but the whine of the low-born? When I placed my yoke on the neck of the Kashmiris, behold, they cried that it was fate. Believing this thing, they will not attempt to rise against me."
“Men do not rebel, my lord, without a leader. And you have the body of him they call master."
“A stripling, Nureddin; a broken pine that leans to the wind— aye, a weakling who found his happiness in the arms of a woman."
He stirred the coals of a brazier with his dagger and drew his cloak about his shoulders. He loved better the sun of Persia than the winds of Kashmir.
“Sattar Singh was a man, Nureddin," the high, soft voice went on, “a man of strength whose greatest foes were his own passions. Rao Singh is a child. I feared his mother more than the boy. So it happened that she partook of hashish from Rudbar in Persia—"
He broke off with a wave of the thin hand. The astrologer started. He had not thought until then that Shaista Mirza had conceived the death of the woman. He was not sure whether this was the case or not. The Persian, a master of intrigue, liked to be mentioned as the author of violence in which he had no hand, and likewise was silent about many deeds of which he was the author.
