by Harold Lamb
He knew the way up the valley to the trail that led to the Shyr Pass. He pushed ahead steadily, the exertion warming his limbs, which had been chilled by the swim. He tied the bag of gold to his girdle and wiped his blade dry on a tuft of grass.
As his messenger had done, Sir Ralph caught sight of the Uzbek outpost in the ravine and circled it, cursing the watchfulness of Jani Beg. He made more noise than the slain hillman, but—as he had guessed—the sentries had heard of the unsuccessful sortie and were lax in their watch. Nor were the mounted patrols alert in the Shyr Pass.
Crossing a cleared space, Sir Ralph sighted a form prone in the lush grass. Dawn was revealing his surroundings, and he identified the figure by sight and smell as that of a dead man. The head, he saw, had been cut off.
Thus it was that the Englishman came unwittingly on the body of the Afghan who had failed to get his message through the Uzbek lines.
Noting the rusted helmet that lay beside the body, he paused thoughtfully, then stooped and undid the throat-lacings of the mail. He forced himself to the disagreeable task.
Doffing his own surcoat and boots, he drew the mail over his shirt with a shiver of disgust. The cotton wrappings from the legs of the dead man he twisted about his own limbs. Putting on the helmet, he found that it effectively hid under its loose curtain of steel links his own yellow curls.
The peak of the helmet came far down over his eyes. He bound his own girdle about the mail, attaching to it the bags and his sword.
At first glance he would now pass for an Uzbek in Kallmark armor. The skin of his face had been deeply tanned; his brown mustache was little lighter than those of the Uzbek Mongols.
His knowledge of Turki would serve him well, although he could not hope to deceive an Uzbek or a Turk. Only the light hue of his hands, his gray eyes and his European weapon would be likely to stir the curiosity of the casual passerby.
He rolled his well-worn clothes into a bundle which he thrust into a thicket. This done, he struck off through the pines on a course parallel to the Shyr Pass, knowing that he would meet before long with shepherds or wandering hill tribes.
As a matter of fact it was a settlement of nomad Hazaras that he first came upon. These Muslim tribesmen were encamped in a clearing overlooking the southern slope of the Koh-i-Baba. They were a ragged crew, preying on stragglers from caravans and the camp followers of the army before Khanjut.
The young warriors of the tribe were absent on a raid, so there were few but women and old men to guard the ponies grazing by the tents and the camels kneeling in the sun.
They looked up curiously as Sir Ralph approached—their curiosity tinged with well-founded fear that the newcomer might be bearer of punishment from the Uzbeks.
He knew better than to accept their volubly proffered hospitality, contenting himself with purchase of some uninviting-looking rice, dates and dried horseflesh. Then he announced that he would barter a mount.
A graybeard, torn between evil curiosity as to the strange appearance and speech of the newcomer and fear of the Uzbeks, answered.
“We be men of the desert, valiant Mongol,” he muttered righteously. “Our horses are our dearest possession; their flesh our food. Would you rob a long-suffering tribe on which Allah has laid the heavy hand of sorrow—”
“Nay, I will buy for gold—a camel.”
Sir Ralph was no horseman; he had decided that he would fare better between the humps of a long-haired camel, besides journeying more swiftly. The graybeard whined and bargained for a heavy price.
“Yield me the camel, fool,” growled Sir Ralph, “or I will summon the nearest Uzbek outpost—”
“AieV muttered the other. “That would bring a blight upon our women, and we should be all borne off as slaves to work at carrying earth for the siege. Nay—” a shrewd gleam came into his bleared eyes—“you be a strange Uzbek. And they do not ride south—”
“Perhaps I have taken gold from the ameers and ride to save my skin.” Sir Ralph tapped his sword hilt meaningfully. “Peace! And be content that you have gold and not a broken skull.”
Nevertheless, when he left the camp he felt that the suspicions of the Hazaras had been aroused. When he mounted his protesting beast and struck south through the rock ravine of the Koh-i-Baba, he was not sure that boys from the tribe did not follow him for the space of a day's journey.
He found the camel uncomfortable but swift. Once they had descended the hills and gained the comparatively level valleys that ran past Kabul, the clumsy animal stretched into a long stride that ate up the miles.
This was to the liking of Sir Ralph, who was anxious to make all speed to the Indus. He allowed the camel to choose its path, so long as they kept to the South. He had only a hazy idea of that region, but knew that if he stuck to his present course he must come out on the river.
He avoided the larger villages, stopping only at shepherd hamlets for food and resting for the night in thickets beside the caravan trails. Once or twice he sighted strings of camels and horses forming merchants' caravans. These he skirted carefully, being content to meet only unwarlike people to whom the double argument of money and a weapon was sufficient to gain him food readily.
The cold of the hills diminished under the strong sun of the plains, and Sir Ralph knew that he must be near the Indus. Questions put to passersby assured him that this was the fact.
So far fortune smiled upon him. He was skirting the Mogul kingdom where few soldiers were to be met with. And his course was across rather than along the main caravan routes from Herat or Kandahar.
At the Indus he was equally fortunate. He came out upon a village whence native fishermen journeyed south in their small craft. Here he sold his camel and bargained with the natives for a place in one of their boats.
A week after his departure from Khanjut he was seated in the stern of a barge headed down the broad current of the Indus. To the best of his knowledge his course to the river had not been observed by his enemies. But he had not reckoned with the speed with which rumors spread in the congested plains of Hindustan, nor with the curiosity which his advent had aroused.
All seemed well. There were only two men in the boat, miserable and half-naked fishermen who barely understood his Turki. He had made them build him a shelter of bamboo in the stern, for the double purpose of shielding him from observation and protecting him from the unpleasant intrusion of the sun.
But he had not stilled the tongues that were wagging behind him; nor had he guessed that his person was sought by others than the Uzbeks.
It was a relief to change from the camel to the boat. The dirty mat sail propelled them downstream at fair speed. The mud villages along the banks became more frequent, as did the sight of boys watering buffalo.
Sir Ralph's character was shaped for action. The idleness irked him. Time was passing, and he knew that the citadel of Khanjut could not hold out much longer.
Many things worried him. The time was drawing near when he would have to leave the boat and strike south, where the Indus swept to the West. Here travel would be more difficult.
He reasoned that he would then need to traverse the Rajput province of Marwar not far from Chitore. It would be hard to avoid questions; likewise, few Hindus would understand Turki.
He wondered if his messenger had reached Hawkins. How had the English fleet fared at the hands of the Portuguese? He longed for sight of an English face and the grip of a countryman's hand.
He became restive and uncomfortable in the heat. Long since he had been forced to discard the helmet with its shielding curtain, and the sight of his yellow hair had clearly startled the worthy boatmen. They talked together frequently.
Sir Ralph, ill-tempered from gnawing anxiety and confinement, kept careful watch on them. He prevented them from talking with those on shore. Plainly they had come to fear his presence on the boat.
“This will be a thing of evil omen for us, master,” muttered one. “The gods will not smile on us if we serve one of strange oaths
who does not bend his head at the waterside shrines.”
“Evil omens will bear fruit if you complain or turn back, dolt!” snarled the Englishman. “Pray to the gods if you like, but keep to your oars.”
The two fell silent. But that day a party of horsemen watered their mounts at the bank while the fishing craft was passing. Sir Ralph recognized them as Rajputs of the warrior caste.
A rider challenged the men in the boat sharply. One of the fishermen replied. Whereupon the Rajputs wheeled their mounts up the bank and disappeared into the jungle.
“What said the horseman?” demanded Sir Ralph.
“He bade us beware of polluting the water where the horses of nobles drank, master,” evasively responded the man who had spoken.
The Englishman guessed that he lied.
“Where be we now?” he asked shortly.
“I know not.”
“O one of small wit, answer not thus when I speak. What kingdom lies along this bank?”
His tone was ominous, and the man cringed.
“Jesselmir, lord. The great city of Chitore lies not a week's ride beyond.”
“See to it that I am not molested. If harm comes to me both your carcasses will descend into the maw of Father Indus to be food for the fish you catch.”
The men bent over their oars in sullen silence. That night a crescent moon tinged the riverbank with an eerie light.
The Englishman, suspecting treachery, kept awake. He resolved to leave the boat after the next night. Any course of
action was better than lying helpless in the boat at the mercy of the fishermen.
The next night the moon was fuller. He could see the cypress jungle that lined the river and listen to the cries that floated over the water from the villages. The odor of dried mud, decaying fish and human dirt was overpowering.
Under influence of the heat Sir Ralph slumbered. He woke abruptly, feeling that something unfamiliar had changed the motion of the boat.
His two rogues told him that they were stuck upon a mud bank. Overhead was the tangle of trees, through which glimmered the moon.
Then came the swift splash of feet in the water. Sir Ralph struggled to his knees, cramped by his sleep, and felt for his sword. It was gone.
With a crash the bamboo shelter tumbled in on him under the weight of a heavy body. Dark figures sprang into the boat. He struck out, cursing and pushing erect through the wreckage. Wiry arms seized him, dragged him down. He was pinned to the bottom of the craft, among the odorous fish.
He felt his arms drawn behind his back and bound. Then the arms released their grasp. He was pulled to his feet and pushed from the boat to the shore.
Horses were tethered under the cypresses. These his captors mounted, assisting him to do likewise. Bound as he was and unskilled in horsemanship, it was no easy matter to clamber into the high-peaked saddle.
A glance back at the river, illumined by the faint moonlight, showed him that the boat had pushed off and was heading away from shore with all speed. He reflected grimly that the two rogues had probably known of the ambush.
“My sword?” he demanded in Turki.
One of the warriors exhibited the weapon. Sir Ralph reasoned that one of the fishermen had removed the blade while he slept and given it to his captors.
Further speech was checked by the man who held his sword. This individual signed for the riders to move into the jungle.
They struck into a trail through the brush at a brisk trot that jarred the Englishman to the teeth. The trees closed in upon them. Hot scent of the jungle mesh struck his nostrils.
From either side came the subdued cries of bush life. Somewhere far off the deep diapason of a lion rumbled. The heat brought sweat to his forehead. In the half light he could not make out the features of his escort, but they presently came to a clearing where a half dozen torch-bearers were waiting.
The horsemen did not slacken their pace. The native linkmen trotted beside them, their torches serving the double purpose of lighting the way and guarding against possible assault from beasts of the bush.
The light showed Sir Ralph what he had suspected—that his captors were Rajputs of the military caste. He turned awkwardly in the saddle and addressed the one who understood Turki, the rider that held his sword and seemed to be the leader of the group.
“What master do you serve?”
The man's lip curled scornfully.
“Since when have the men of the raj owned a master? Nay, for three times ten times a life my fathers have been free warriors.”
“By whose order do you seize me?”
“By the word of one whose speech is law in Marwar.”
Sir Ralph reflected that they were probably in the Marwar land, near Oudh. He knew nothing of the rajas. Krishna Taya had said that the Rana of Oudh was with the Mogul's army newly returned from the Dekkan. He wondered fleetingly if the Rajput girl had known of his capture.
“The order is that of Raja Man Singh,” said his informant complacently.
More than this the man would not say. The Englishman fell into moody silence.
Weariness settled upon him heavily. His long journey had taken toll of his strength.
Little comfort was to be extracted from his present situation as prisoner of the Marwar general. With a shrug he let the matter slip from his mind, accepting his bad fortune with what philosophy he could muster.
The trail widened again into a glade, and water glinted ahead. The link men turned aside to go around a pool. This Sir Ralph noted vaguely. It seemed built in a rough garden. The scent of jasmine hung in the hot air. Torches ahead revealed a pavilion facing the tank.
Here the horsemen halted and dismounted. They lifted him down and led him stumbling forward. He was very weak from lack of food and from the nauseous sickness bred of the days on the boat. Through the opening in the latticework of the pavilion he went and looked up wearily.
Candles lighted the interior of the tent, which was hung with flimsy silks, redolent of sandalwood. On the carpet in front of him a woman was seated. She sat very straight, a slim figure with white robe thrown back over one shapely shoulder, and black hair bare of ornament. Lustrous eyes looked up at him from a grave, childlike face.
“Krishna Taya!” he exclaimed.
She did not answer. Her glance held his steadily, while his dulled wits groped for the meaning of her presence here. The men left the tent to attend to their horses, with the exception of the leader, who stood at his side impassively.
“Krishna Taya!”
Relief crept into his voice, mingled with bewilderment.
“So I am your prisoner?”
“Nay.”
The girl spoke quietly.
“You are prisoner to Raja Man Singh, whom I serve.”
“Wherefore?”
“You drew sword against the Mogul.”
Her eyes wavered and sought her hands, which played with silk bracelets.
“Did you think you could march through half the Mogul's land unseen, Sir Ralph?” She laughed softly, even sadly. “That might not be. A tribe of Hazaras reported your escape, and a search was ordered by the raja. They found the body you had despoiled of its mail and also your garments. Villagers at the Indus had seen you bartering with the fisherman.
“The boat was recognized several day ago,” she added in explanation. “The raja's order had been brought hither by riders. My men are his followers. They have brought you to me as I bade them.”
Sir Ralph smiled grimly, thinking of the false security he had felt on the journey down the Indus. Krishna Taya had changed. She was no longer the hand maiden of the Uzbek chief. She had slain the man who had taken her from the Marwar clan of the Rajputs, and the act had restored her to the protection of Raja Man Singh.
It was not strange that the Rajput had availed himself of the services of the girl after she had been restored to caste in her own land. Krishna Taya knew much of the secrets of the Uzbek camp and of the citadel of Khanjut.
The Englishman had once guarded her life at risk of his own. And Krishna Taya had looked long on the Ferang and kissed him farewell.
Yet he knew the implacable pride of the Rajputs and their devotion to the Mogul. Now that Krishna Taya served another master he would ask no leniency from her.
He confronted the girl calmly, standing erect with difficulty against the weakness that gripped him.
“What does the raja plan to do with me?” he asked bluntly.
“When the time comes you shall know.”
“Am I to be held a prisoner here?”
“Nay. Those who command in the raj have planned otherwise.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Whither were you going?” Krishna Taya glanced up with quick curiosity.
“Why should I tell?”
A flash of annoyance passed over the girl's delicate face. “It were best to answer, Sir Ralph. Here you are not among friends. I must know.”
“Know then that I journeyed to Surat.”
“To the Portuguese?”
“Where else?”
He smiled at the unbelief mirrored in her dark eyes.
“Then you fled from Khanjut to seek safety on the Portuguese ships?”
“Aye, I fled.”
“Fool!” An angry flush mounted in her smooth cheeks. “Do you seek to deceive the servants of the raj? Your life hangs on the word of Raja Man Singh. Oh, you are a dullard of the sea, mingling in matters which concern you not. You fashion a lie clumsily—”
She broke off, eyeing his gaunt face with sudden understanding. The man at his side spoke to her in their native Urdu. Her glance softened.
“Udai Singh says that you lacked food and are beset by a fever. He will take you to his tent, where you must rest this night and the next day. Come then to my pavilion.
“But you must say what is true. I cannot send an answer of lies to Raja Man Singh, and there are certain things he must know.”
Sir Ralph suffered himself to be led away. Udai Singh loosened his bonds and drew off the tormenting mail shirt. At his bidding the Englishman went to the far corner of the tank.
