by Harold Lamb
“Here is a pretty pearl, Nasir Beg. Her mouth too wide, perhaps. Ho, a shapely parrot, taken from the grip of the hawks.”
“A necklace-string stripped of jewels,” grunted the Arab. “The accursed women took even her earrings.”
Yasmi glanced at him gratefully and fell on her knees.
“May Allah reward you,” she cried in Turki, as they had spoken. “May you find honor and live forever in the sun of prosperity. Happy am I to be among true believers.”
She had spoken impulsively, but there was pride in her voice— and the tone of one more accustomed to command than to obey. The eunuch grinned the more while Nasir Beg scanned her in surprise.
“A Muslim wench, Mustafa,” he observed. “Verily, she is not the less handsome for that. And I heard those who said at the fire that she is a singer with a voice like to the Persian nightingale. Your name?”
“Yasmi Khanim, warrior.”
The girl flung back her dark hair, resentful at the Arab's tone.
“My father is Sheikh Ibrahim of Kuhistan, master of a hundred swords.”
“The sheikh has a fair daughter,” responded Mustafa.
“He has gold, and his hand is generous,” said Yasmi in sudden misgiving. “He will reward well one who brings his daughter to the hills of Kuhistan.”
The Arab yawned, and Mustafa shook his head.
“Kuhistan is many days' ride, little sparrow. Tune your voice to a sweeter note and Mustafa will find you a silken nest.” “Nay, I must ride to Kuhistan. A Persian merchant—may he be forever without honor—seized me at the border of my father's land.”
“Bismillah!” The eunuch spread out his plump hands. “He had an eye to a comely face, Yasmi. Aye, it is fate. And who can outrun the shadow of fate?” His expression hardened. “Do not weary Nasir Beg with your whine but join the others.”
He pointed to an alcove in the cellar. There Yasmi saw for the first time some four women seated on a ragged carpet. By their dress she knew them to be Hindus. All were young possibly, but haggard as if from sickness. They did not look at her.
“Nay—” Nasir Beg ceased yawning and stared at the girl speculatively—“I would hear her sing. If it is true that she is skilled it will increase her value. The wretched Faizuli Anim owns—besides his wine jars—a lute. She can come to the tavern safely.”
“Have a care, Nasir Beg,” warned the eunuch. “Pir Kasim would not thank you if you take the wench before the eyes of men. If our abiding-place be found—”
“There will be slit throats and molten silver poured into the eyes of the hallal khors, Mustafa!” amended Nasir Beg grimly. “Nay, cease your whine. Fain would I hear the voice of the songbird. In the tavern of Faizuli Anim none come but Muslims. Eh— is she not also a follower of the Prophet? Who will suspect?” Yasmi's pale cheeks burned. She made as if to protest, then, on second thought, followed the Arab passively. Nasir Beg motioned her to a flight of steps leading upward from the cellar.
The steps terminated in what seemed a small and odorous chamber. It was, actually, a huge empty wine vat. Nasir Beg kicked impatiently at the wooden side of the cask, and it opened. Mustafa accompanied the twain, muttering angrily.
III
Singing gently to himself, beating time complacently with a plump, bejeweled hand, Shir Mujir ibn Khojas of Baghdad, the hafiz—reciter of poems—wended his way importantly through the back alleys of Srinaggar.
His gait resembled that of a crab, inasmuch as when a belated group of Kashmir nobles passed down the streets intersecting the alleys, accompanied by armed guards and link-bearers, the hafiz scuttled sidewise into the shadows, but when he encountered a cortege of slaves he lifted the skirts of his tunic and placed a scarf, musk-scented, before his broad nostrils, crying loudly:
“Passage-way for the deputy of the Lion of Persia! Back, scour-ings of the offal-pot! Scrapings of the mud! Infinitely foul! Ditch-born, gully jackals!”
Luckily for the fat Khojas, Turki was not readily understood by the Kashmir slaves. In this manner did Mujir ibn Khojas, who was slightly the better—or the worse—for numerous potations, thread his way from the bazaar quarter to the riverfront at an hour so late that even the bazaar stalls of the Muslims, who were celebrating the feast of Bairam, were closed.
But the hafiz was in no mind for sleep since he had repeated lengthy versions of the Shah Namah at the board of wealthy merchants and was consequently the richer for silver and gold coins, both dinars and shekels.
“Nay, the night air is soft—soft as maidens' tresses and fragrant—fragrant as the essence of roses on the brow of a sultan's favorite,” he muttered uncertainly, lurching over a heap of refuse which was far from sweet, “and I, the golden-tongued Mujir, peer of reciters, bedfellow, nay, boon-fellow, of princes; I, the diamond in the tiara of Allah, the flower i' the mantle of the Shah—may he bellow, or is't mellow, i' his grave? I, the hafiz of the chosen of Allah, the Commander of the Faithful, the Caliph who is the very substance of blessedness, the essence of divine light, and the spotless robe of honor—I am also a gleam of radiance and a pearl of precious substance. Where lies that accursed hovel of Faizuli Anim?”
Pursuing the uneven tenor of his way, the hafiz halted to beat at a closed door only to be confronted by the emaciated figure of a Kashmiri child.
“Verily,” he cried, “by the beard of the Prophet! Faizuli Anim has shrunken most strangely in form, for he was once handsomely fat, even as I—although not quite so handsome or so fat. Ho—oho, Faizuli Anim! Nay, what is't?”
The boy had been snatched back and a hag, on whose wrists clinked the chains of bondage, faced him. In a trembling hand she held a knife and cursed fearfully from a mouth that was toothless and sore-ridden from disease,
“Nay,” meditated the worthy hafiz, “now is Faizuli Anim in the shape of a vixen, a toothless vixen. Here is the work of evil magic and no place for the high-born Mujir. Farewell, shade of Faizuli. Farewell, hag, whose tooth hangs from her hand like the fang of a wolf—”
He aimed an unsteady kick at the twain and passed on until he reached the carpet-hung entrance of the Muslim tavern which overhung the riverbank.
The light from a solitary candle showed him Faizuli Anim seated on a carpet within. Mujir jerked off his leather shoes and replaced them, not without difficulty, with a pair of slippers.
“By the mole on the face of Mohammed,” chanted the hafiz, “I have found you at last, worthy Faizuli Anim—after a struggle with an evil angel who was all but toothless, and that one tooth a thing of ill omen! Ho, good keeper of the blessed wines—a goblet of snow-chilled Shiraz!
“Verily I have a thirst that is a mighty thirst, wherein all the sands of Khorassan do itch in my throat. Aye, how runs the verse—
Leave’t to others to cant and to repine When You and I embrace our life—the vine.
“Nay, methinks the verse is mine. 'Tis excellently attuned. Ho—I will sit in the inner chamber—”
Despite the tavern keeper's remonstrance Mujir stepped gracefully over the prone forms of slumbering camelmen in the outer stall and pushed through the curtains that veiled a separate compartment of the inn.
Here he salaamed before a seated figure and slumped down heavily on the carpet. The other glanced at him once sharply, then looked away indifferently. Not so Mujir.
“Come, brother in wine and watcher of the night, let us tickle our throats with that which Mohammed scorns but I do not.”
The seated figure made no response. Struck by a new fancy, the hafiz unrolled his prayer-carpet from his waist and hung it with drunken seriousness over the opening in the curtain—after Faizuli Anim had brought him his jar of wine and left.
“Thus,” he explained, stroking his dyed beard, “do I veil the aspect of our delightful sin as a radiant damsel shrouds the beauty of her face. Come, brother! My eyes tell me you are a soldier, and your rich armor and jeweled ornaments bespeak rank and prowess.
“When did the wild ass keep his muzzle from the fresh gra
ss, or a warrior his lips from wine—or the wine of a woman's mouth for that matter?”
The stranger made no response. He was a straight-backed man, wearing travel-stained mail, nearly concealed by a cloak of rich texture. His cotton trousers were clean and his red morocco shoes costly. The hilt of his scimitar was a mass of jewels, and a blue diamond shone from his turban crest.
These things the hafiz had noticed. But he had not observed the dark face under the turban with the scar on one cheek from
chin to brow, the thin, hooked nose, and the hard eyes which moved slowly from object to object with a purposeful stare.
By face and form the stranger was an Afghan of a northern tribe, by dress a follower of the Mogul, and one of rank, who had prospered in war.
But the hafiz was in a mellow mood.
“Nay, have I not earned a kiss from the grape, O warrior?” he appealed. “'Twas a rare feat to thread the streets of the City of the Sun this night.
“Patrols of cursed unbelievers, godless Hindus and their like, search the bazaars and alleys for certain evil-doers. 'Tis said in the bazaars that a woman of the dead raja was snatched from the ghat, and the evil Brahmans are astir like a nest of angered bees.”
This time the soldier looked up.
“Eh—why do they search in Srinaggar?”
“Because—so 'tis said—the woman was carried hither. Nay, I would she had been burned to a crisp on the ghat for the trouble she has made me. When the shaven priests have anointed a woman for death what else is she fitted for? Ho—the wine is cool!”
Whereupon he quaffed deep and lay back upon the carpet with a watery sigh, his plump limbs lax, and the Afghan regarded him with disfavor.
“Would they had burned—shriven—her, for by Allah she was a dainty morsel; verily the fire would wrap her limbs, licking them with ardent tongues, and she would have cried out.”
So mumbled the hafiz, and the warrior's eyes narrowed while he bit at his beard.
“Methinks, aye, verily I think—sweet thought, choice as a pearl in a goblet of wine, red as blood—she would be reshriven, nay reshaped, into a houri fair as a blown rose, for she was Muslim. Aigh—”
Mujir groaned from the capacious depths of his stomach and would have sat up, but his palsied muscles refused their office. The flat of the warrior's scabbard had descended with no little force on the highest point of the wine-bibber's outstretched form—which was also his tenderest point.
“Toad, evil mouther, and worm!”
The Afghan spoke with slow decision.
“Stand!”
“Nay—akh, by Allah! I am death-smitten—”
“Verily, such will be your fate if you obey not. Stand!”
There was the sharp ring of anger in the soldier's abrupt command, and Mujir, who had scanned him with a rolling eye, clambered to his feet wide-eyed, holding his round belly tenderly in both hands.
“Now what mean you, warrior?” he panted. “Nay, are we not both servants of the pr—”
“My rank is mansabdar of Jahangir the Mogul. My title from the lips of such as you is lord.”
“Nay, you are graceless—”
Mujir's words ended in a squeal, for the Afghan's sword flashed in his face. Twice the weapon struck as the soldier gained his feet and the right and left edges of the hafiz’s cherished red-dyed beard fell to the floor. He stared at the wisps of hair blindly, then abruptly his stout knees began to shake.
“Harken, reader of poems and guzzler of forbidden wine.” The Afghan scowled at him and spat in disgust. “Shall one without honor claim mercy? Shall swine taken in sin be treated as men? Put down your prayer rug on the floor.”
In silence Mujir did so. In a moment he had become half-sober. “It is near the hour of dawn, Mujir. Can your evil lips frame a prayer?”
“Aye—lord. O excellent guardian of the faith—”
“Speak not of faith. Is there faith in a body such as yours? I think not. Pray!”
The hafiz choked, but could not take his blinking eyes from the harsh face of the mansabdar.
“Lord, and fountain of all the virtues, shield of the faithful, favored of Mohammed. Harken to your slave. 'Tis in truth the feast of Bairam. And I—”
“Perform your ablutions.”
With that the soldier snatched up the heavy wine-goblet and placed it gently at his feet.
“By your favor, Abdul Dost,” came the servile voice of Faizuli Anim from the door. “Here is one Nasir Beg with the slave Yasmi who would hear the music of her golden throat. Knowing that Mujir ibn Khojas was skilled in such things, I ventured to bring the twain here that the hafiz might render judgment on the voice of the maiden.
“The hafiz,” growled Abdul Dost, “is at his ablutions.”
Behind the stout form of the tavern keeper he caught sight of a slender woman, held firmly by a lean Arab. Mujir also had seen the newcomers and his jaw dropped.
Abdul Dost considered, then seated himself on his heels, nodding to Faizuli Anim.
“Let the girl enter,” he commanded. “And the hafiz render judgment.”
Yasmi stepped within the curtain wearily, a lute in her hand. Nasir Beg squatted down at her side, eyeing the kneeling teller of poems with some curiosity. At Abdul Dost also the Arab glanced twice, then turned moodily upon the girl.
The tavern keeper had left them. But a moment later the curtains parted slightly, and a black, round face peered through the aperture.
Mustafa was keeping watch over his charge.
“Sing!” growled Nasir Beg. “Must I lose sleep because of such as you? Yet it was the command of him who owns you that trial be made of your voice. Haste, for I am weary.”
By the faint light of the bronze lantern overhead Yasmi scanned the two beside her. She looked indifferently at Mujir over her veil, and long at Abdul Dost. She was worn with the hardships of the night, and tears trembled in her dark eyes. But Nasir Beg was impatient.
She bent her head over the lute, striking the strings feebly. Her slender shoulders shook with a brief sob.
“Haste, wanton,” growled the Arab. “Must I summon Mustafa with his lash?”
He clutched at her shoulder, but the girl drew away swiftly. She lifted her head in sudden decision and to Nasir Beg's surprise let fall her veil.
Mujir sucked in his breath with admiration at sight of the delicate face framed in dark hair and glanced apprehensively at Abdul Dost, who was watching the girl closely.
A quick flush came into the cheeks of Yasmi, and she looked up at the lamp, a half-smile at the edge of her lips.
Then she sang, striking the lute softly, the song of the hill-tribes of Khorassan, the song that begins:
Where is the falcon’s nest?
And the nest of his mate . . . Where, save in the wind! And the wind is the breath of the hill.
Mujir hardly listened. He marked the trembling of the girl's lips, the rise and fall of her breast under the veil, and her slight hands upon the cords of the instrument. And he sighed noisily.
Nasir Beg lent an attentive ear, for he had the Arab's natural love of melody. Yet the song was not to his liking, and—seeing the goblet—he drank.
Behind the curtain Faizuli Anim crept to Mustafa's side to hear the better. Only Abdul Dost seemed not to listen.
But the Afghan was strongly moved by the song. He had heard it formerly in the tents of the hillmen of Khorassan, in the camps of the riders of Badakshan. It brought before his memory the time, long past, when he had tended horses for the lords of Afghanistan, now dead or servants of the Mogul.
Yet, being what he was, Abdul Dost allowed nothing of this to show in his scarred face. Indeed he resolutely put from him the impulse of memory that had been born of the girl's song.
Yasmi did not reach the end of the song. Her voice quivered and she dropped the lute, throwing herself on the carpet before Abdul Dost.
“Pity, lord; have pity!” she cried quickly. “By your dress you are of the Afghan hills. Verily the heavy hand
of wrongdoing has taken me from the tent—”
“Peace, wench!” Nasir Beg struck her savagely across the shoulders. “Would you turn from those to whom you owe life?” “Aye.” The girl faced him resolutely. “For I am free born.” “No longer such,” responded the Arab grimly, his hand on her arm. “Have you not sold your body to us?”
Yasmi cast the lute from her.
“I knew not what I did,” she pleaded. “I thought you were— friends.”
She touched the foot of Abdul Dost. “Lord, will you believe? By Allah and the face of the Prophet, this is naught but the truth. I am no slave, yet would this man and his kind hold me—” “Faithless, and teller of lies!” snarled the Arab. “Come, hafiz, the song is ended. Speak—is her voice worth silver, gold, much?” Mujir glanced apprehensively at Abdul Dost, who seemed lost in thought. Then he waved his plump hand doubtfully.
“'Tis true I am a rare judge of such matters, excellent sir. The sound of the woman's song is like the nightingale.
“Yet it would be well to teach her what best pleases her masters. Now if it is your will to sell her in the Baghdad market she should trill naught save the soft and amorous Persian airs—” “Nay,” grunted Nasir Beg, “she is to be sold to the wealthy mandarins of China, the men of Han, at the Yarkand mart. They pay well—”
“Ai!” moaned Yasmi. “Shall a Muslim be sent to the worshipers of the lotus-eyed god?”
She had appealed to Abdul Dost. The Afghan bent forward, searching her face earnestly, then looked long at Nasir Beg.
“She is yours?” he questioned sharply.
“My master's. We have risked our throats that she should live. She has given her body to us. Bismillah! We will not yield her up.”
Nasir Beg spoke decisively. Abdul Dost frowned. If the girl was truly the property of the Arab it would be a delicate if not hazardous matter to interfere on her behalf. Moreover, Abdul Dost had no use for a slave, even such a one as Yasmi.
He had marked the movement of the curtains and suspected that Nasir Beg was not alone in his guardianship of the singer. Still—the song had touched his memory.
