The House of the Falcon

by Harold Lamb

  The curtained recess that had been Edith's was dark. He could make out vaguely the outlines of soft garments hanging in orderly array beside the bed. A very faint scent of rose leaves came to him. Pushing aside his untouched plate, Donovan buried his face in his hands.

  The room was chilly, in spite of the embers of the fire Aravang had kindled in the grate. When the curtains that screened Edith's quarters swayed, Donovan looked up with a start to see only the dressing shelf the girl had fashioned laboriously—the mirror fixed in a chink in the stone, the silk-covered board bearing comb and pins, sewing materials.

  Everything that had belonged to Edith was in its place. Could she have meant to leave him ? Had she fashioned her disguise of the morning for this purpose?

  "After all," he murmured, "my house wouldn't appeal to her. Perhaps she guessed that I meant to ask her to marry me. I wonder. Did you, Edith?"

  Swift, poignant loneliness smote him. And as quickly came the phantom of jealousy to mock at him.

  "She knew you had given your word to the Sayaks," gibed the imp in his brain. "Didn't she? Of course, she did!"

  "But she wouldn't leave without speaking to me," reasoned the hope that would not forsake Donovan in spite of Edith's disappearance.

  "Ha!" mocked the imp. "Wouldn't she? How do you know? Did the girl consult you before she ran away to the temple? And why did she go up the mountain, before that—just when one of the Vulture's Sarts sneaked through the lines? After all, my dear fellow, can you trust a woman? And the Vulture's handsome—Monsey, you know—he's devilishly handsome. Women trust him."

  "Edith wouldn't listen to a scoundrel," maintained Donovan's love.

  "That's just the point," reasoned the imp logically. "She doesn't know his record, nor that he is the Vulture. What did the Sayaks tell you in the council this afternoon? They had information from Kashgar. Monsey spread the news there that he is leading a party to rescue Miss Rand. And that she is engaged to marry him."

  "He lied!" cried Donovan, aloud. "I trust her."

  "But does she care for you?" The mocking voice became fainter. "Didn't she leave you, of her own accord——"

  "No!" cried the faith that was in Donovan. "She was carried off!"

  And now the voice was silenced.

  Iskander strode in, swaggering and fully armed. When the Arab saw that Donovan would not speak he glanced curiously at Edith's empty chair.

  Others of the Sayaks came, among them the chief, and finally Mahmoud. Each one looked at him fleetingly, then knelt on cushions or against the wall, adjusting striped silk robes, and thrusting their hands into the wide sleeves.

  "You have summoned us and we are here. The council of Sayak chieftains waits until you speak.''

  Donovan leaned back in his chair and his glance went from face to face along the wall—dark faces, keen of eye, that did not turn from his scrutiny. His lips moved wordlessly as he murmured to himself: "Isn't it just my bally luck? Every minute we lose before going after Edith is worth—well, there's no price high enough. But I can't act—I can't think of acting—until I've made a clean breast to these chaps who trust me now as they always have, but whose natures won't let them keep from suspecting me if I tell them Edith's gone. Iskander, of course, will back me up a certain extent—no farther. Won't do now to strain his friendship or to bank on my word alone, again."

  His lined face was grave, his clear eyes purposeful; but he was tired and his pulse throbbed heavily. Edith's departure jeopardized the fruits of years of work—of the mission that had taken him from the army. Laboriously he had won the faith of the Sayaks. And now——

  He had made a pledge to the Sayaks and the pledge had been broken, through no fault of his. Would they understand? If they did not——

  "Edith's gone," he repeated to himself, "to the Tower. After all, that's what matters."

  The certainty of his love returned fourfold and unsettled his reasoning. He could only think of one thing—Edith was gone and he must go after her, but was kept from doing that very thing. He straightened in his chair and spoke to Iskander.

  "Send a rider to the ravine behind the mosque to learn what is to be seen there, where the guard stood. Let the rider report here what he has seen."

  Before assenting or refusing, the Arab consulted the other Sayaks with a glance. One, a swaggering Afghan whose evil-smelling wool was belted with a priceless sword, rose and left the room.

  From the road outside came a clatter of hoofs. Donovan was gazing thoughtfully into the fire. "The white woman has left Yakka Arik," he said.

  The faces of the Sayaks remained impassive, but all eyes turned at once to him. Iskander, leaning against the wall, played with a gold necklace at his throat.

  "You made a pledge," he responded softly.

  "I have not broken it, Iskander——"

  "Speak not in English," warned the Arab, "or these others will suspect and grow angry."

  "Bear witness," Donovan slipped easily into Turki, "as to the truth of what I say——"

  "If it be truth," broke in one harshly. To interrupt a sahib was insolence.

  "A fool, out of an empty mind, questions wisdom, and a jackal yelps from a pack." Donovan fastened the surly speaker with his blue eyes. "Have you not given me the rank of manaps? Have you known me to lie, or to speak merely that I might hear the sound of my voice?" The Sayak who had interrupted him looked uncomfortable. "Bear witness, Sayaks," Donovan raised his low voice a little. "Was I not at the council since the shadows have changed (since noon)? After that, you know that I came here, and that I summoned you directly. Is this not so?"

  Silence answered him, and Donovan's lips tightened.

  "In that time," he pointed out, "I could not have taken the white woman through the guards and returned. Aravang knows that I was here."

  Mahmoud spoke mildly, without raising his eyes.

  "The kul is lowborn, Dono-van Khan: his word we will not hear. Because of our trust in you, because you have aided Yakka Arik, and because your word is the word of Dono-van Khan, we will listen. Tell now how the woman came to depart from Yakka Arik." He paused, weighing his words. "It is well that you have spoken thus. For we knew that the woman was free of our guards. A watcher on one of the cliffs saw her ride hence, with several men who were not sayaks."

  Donovan saw into the trap Mahmoud's subtle mind had set for him.

  "You ask, O healer of the sick," he observed slowly, "that I tell how the khanum escaped. Nay, when I saw it not, nor had a share in what came to pass, what can I tell that you do not know? Only this I know. By force was the woman taken, not by her own will."

  Having fought out his own battle and having kept his belief in Edith Rand, he could tell them this with assurance.

  Some one—the native who had first matched words with him—arose.

  "Dono-van Khan," he said slowly, "well are you named the Falcon, if yours is an all-seeing eye, if you can see what passes upon the mountain slope when your body is within the council hall." There was a challenge and mockery in his words. "Why should the khanum be loath to leave Yakka Arik? Does a caged dove struggle against freedom?"

  "I will explain that."

  A sneer touched the thin lips of the native. Mahmoud's beadlike eyes glittered.

  "Does your explaining alter the fact that the veil of secrecy, kept for ten generations, has been torn from Yakka Arik?" he demanded harshly.

  Donovan faced him frankly.

  "The secret has not been revealed. It was known before this—to the rider who carried off the khanum."

  Mahmoud looked up sharply. "Twice, Dono-van Khan, have you said she was carried off. Yet the talk of Kashgar has come to our ears, as such things do, through my servants; and we know that the white man who rode hither for the woman claims her as his bride."

  ."He lied."

  "How may we know it?"

  "The khanum loved no man. And soon you will see that this rider is a master of lies."

  The hakim looked grave.

 
"Dono-van Khan, another thing have I heard—a thing that is true beyond a doubt. On the heels of this wilayati sowar—foreign rider—who is named Monsey in Kashgar, there came two other effendis, one the father of this woman, the other an English officer. From Kashgar they turned their reins to the hills." Mahmoud spoke coldly. "Aye. In the bazaars it was said that Rand effendi sent this one who is called Monsey to seek the girl."

  At this Donovan rose, carefully concealing the fact that the news puzzled him. It was probably true. Mahmoud had an uncanny way of being aware of all that went on in the near-by hills. The tidings, coming at this point, dealt a blow to his hopes.

  Under the leadership of Mahmoud, the Sayaks were beginning to doubt him. Appearances were against him. How could he convince them of his own certainty that Edith Rand had met with foul play? Without the help of the Sayaks he was powerless to aid her.

  Any hesitation on his part would be fatal. Swiftly he surveyed the situation. Fraser-Carnie, he was sure, would not ally himself with a man of Monsey's stamp. The fact that the two rescue parties were separate seemed to prove this. But he—Donovan— could not leave Yakka Arik to get word to the Englishman, even if there were time and Fraser-Carnie could be located in the gorges. Nor would Fraser-Carnie be able to find Yakka Arik without a Sayak guide.

  Nor would the Sayaks think of joining forces with any outsiders. Moreover, they would hold him prisoner until certain he had kept faith with them. Meanwhile every minute was taking Monsey and Edith farther from Yakka Arik.

  Donovan had only one card to play. The knowledge—unguessed as yet even by Mahmoud-that Monsey and the Vulture were the same man. And he had one friend—Iskander.

  "Sayaks of the council!" He drew a long breath with a silent prayer for success. "I have said the khanum was taken by force from the valley. This thing I know because the rider who came hither is a stealer of women."

  He walked to Mahmoud and raised his hand.

  "Likewise, O hakim, the rider knew the paths into Yakka Arik because he had been here before."

  Swinging about, Donovan held Iskander's eyes with his own.

  "Scion of Tahir, you, like myself, have felt the evil of the slave dealer. Once a Vulture entered the valley, sinking his talons into the hearts of Sayak fathers and brothers——"

  "Aye," cried a Sayak. "He was a wilayti, base beyond words, such as Don——"

  "Peace!" barked Iskander. "Who should know the Vulture better than I—a father and a husband? Fools! Will you not heed the wisdom of Dono-van Khan who has shared our salt?"

  The murmurs subsided and the warriors settled back passively, only their dark eyes following every motion of the white man.

  At a single throw Donovan cast the weight of his influence against the uncertainty and suspicion of the Sayaks.

  "Three years ago during the Great War I came to you when the mullahs of the Turks and the Tartars urged the Sayaks to join the standard of war against the Sirdar (the English government). I asked you to keep the peace."

  "Aye," nodded Mahmoud, "the hadji of the temple added his voice to yours. Thus, the Sayaks kept the peace, and because of the fear of Yakka Arik, the tribes of Central Asia did likewise. Yet the agreement was——"

  "That I was not to leave the Hills until your enemy, the man you called the Vulture, was hunted down. And at Srinagar I learned his name."

  At this every Sayak straightened and complete silence fell.

  "The Vulture and the Alaman, Abbas Abad, were the leader of the slave caravans. And the Vulture was the real head of the slave merchants. He was once a Russian officer: stripped of his rank because of an intrigue with a Russian woman. Now, concealed behind this name, he directs the activities of his thousand servants, from Kashgar to Samarkand. Oh, he is powerful. When he despoiled the hill villages of our friends——"

  "We followed close upon the dust of his going." So spoke a Sayak, a Pathan chieftain, who had been silent until now.

  "Aye," assented Donovan,, from the Mustagh Ata to the Caucasus. Yet he escaped us. The mirs of the cities sold him their aid. Lawless Tartar and Russian detachments, leaderless after the end of the Great War, took his gold for their services. And he is the friend of Esad Pasha. When fear of the Sayaks came upon him, he fled to America."

  "But now he is once more in the hills," murmured Iskander. "And our vengeance——"

  "You stood within sword's reach of him in Srinagar, son of Tahir. The Vulture is Monsey, the Russian."

  "Ah!"

  The Arab started, and his hand went to his scimitar hilt. Fifty eyes turned to him. "Dares the dog return to the scene of his crime, to Yakka Arik?" he questioned harshly, probing the open countenance of the white man.

  "Desire for the white khanum brought him."

  A murmur that was like a sigh answered Donovan. "A-a-h!" Iskander drew his scimitar and threw away the scabbard. "It was written. Oh, it was written. Now the pursuit of blood will be ended and the mirror of my honor will be cleansed——"

  "Proof!" said Mahmoud abruptly. "Dono-van Khan, we must know beyond a doubt. Have you proof of this thing?"

  Donovan had played his card—had made his appeal to the Sayaks' longing for revenge. Yet Mahmoud and some others had not regained confidence in him. Glancing toward the door, he stilled the rising tumult with a quick command and pointed to the tall figure filling the entrance. Only a moment ago he had seen that for which he had been watching—the return of the Afghan messenger.

  "Speak," he nodded at the warrior. "What did you learn at the bridge below the mosque? Where went the riders who entered Yakka Arik?"

  "Dono-van Khan," the man growled, blinking at the light, "the Sayak guard at the bridge was slain when he opposed their flight. Yet the venerable hadji who was watching from the tower of the mosque saw the riders go, not across the bridge, but up the gorges toward——"

  "The Tower!" Donovan cut in crisply. "As I thought, the Vulture has taken flight to his empty nest Mahmoud, who but he would do that?"

  While the hakim meditated, the Afghan messenger spoke again.

  "Dono-yan Khan, the face of one of the riders was seen, by the light of the torches at the bridge. Abbas Abad was with the riders——"

  "Do you believe now?" Donovan swung savagely around to face Mahmoud "Have I spoken the truth?"

  As one man the Sayaks answered. "We believe. We have never doubted."

  He did not smile. Half an hour ago these same men would have killed first him and then Edith Rand—if they could have found her—had not their suspicions been dispelled. Now, as so often in the past, the personality of the white man had won them to him.

  Like children they were, jealous, arrogant, cruel, and yet, withal, open-hearted and faithful. As their multicolored robes crowded toward the door, his fist smote on the table.

  "Iskander, bahader!"

  At the familiar command, coupled with his noncommissioned rank in the Anglo-Indian army, the Arab halted and stiffened to attention. Others half paused, to listen.

  "Whither go you, son of Tahir?"

  "To tear out heart and bowels of the Vulture— Monsey: aye, to sew the arrow stitches of vengeance. The angel of God has opened the gate of justice—we will not turn back. I go to the Tower, and with me all men of the Sayaks who can bear swords. Donovan Khan, those swords will not be sheathed until——"

  "I know." The white man cut short the other's eloquence. Now, however, he spoke not as officer to native, but as man to man. "You are the chieftain of the Sayaks; you must follow the path of duty. Am I less than you?"

  Hereupon the Arab caught the other's hand and pressed it to his forehead. "Nay, Dono-van Khan," he said softly, "you are the sun of my world."

  "And the mem-sahib Rand, Iskander—she is to be my wife. If there is a fight at the Tower—and there will be—she will be in danger. I must reach her first. Give me time, Iskander, before you attack Monsey. A little time will be enough."

  The Arab's muscular hand plucked at his beard.

  "The woman beloved of Dono-
van Khan is dear to me as she who was the star of my life. What I may do, I will do. Yet the fury of the Sayaks is like to a torrent and who can stay the course of a torrent?" He lifted somber eyes to the tense face of the young Englishman. "Sahib, we are all under the hand of God."

  "It is enough." Donovan smiled, his tired eyes quizzical. He knew that he would need to ride a horse to death to be at the Tower before the Sayaks. "Then I will go alone, Iskander."

  "With God," said the Arab sententiously. They passed out together.

  In the path by the lake shore Iskander halted with a warning gesture. He could hear footsteps following them. A shadowy figure, bulky and clumsy, was outlined against the silvery-gray glimmer of the lake.

  "Aravang," said Donovan.

  Throughout the night the servant of Edith Rand dogged the heels of John Donovan, not letting the Englishman from his sight. His broad, good-natured face wore a harassed look, and from time to time he muttered to himself uneasily. When the white man mounted one of the Sayak horses, Aravang promptly laid hold of the stirrup, and trotted silently beside him.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE VULTURE'S NEST

  Tash-Kurgan, so called by the tribes of Central Asia, had been erected out of the mountain rock by an Imperial general of the Dragon Throne, to guard the gorge and the caravan track along the opposite cliff against the Tartar foes. This general and his staff, with his foes, were dust in the valleys and gray bones in forgotten tombs long before Tamerlane, the Lame Conqueror, led his armies across the mountains which had repelled so many invasions.

  So, the Kurgan resembled roughly a medieval stronghold. It was placed almost at the brink of the cliff that led down into the valley with its steaming riverlet. Its only entrance, consisting of a narrow flight of stone steps running diagonally up the wall, was on the western side, away from the ravine. Around it ran a ditch, once a moat but now half filled with pulverized sandstone and debris.

  The sandstone walls with their crenelated tops were much worn by rains and snows. In places the stones had cascaded into the moat. The wall itself was some dozen feet high and three feet in thickness. Within, appeared a courtyard of beaten, level clay. Rude stone shelters, roofless for the most part, were built against the inner ramparts.