Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Time to see how the men are doing," Laura said. They made their way through the bushes to the clearing where the horses were, Laura trying to walk like a man. In the clearing, Zafir and a badmash, the local term for a ruffian, were in the process of changing the saddles and harness from European to Indian.

  Laura blinked, not believing her eyes. Though she knew the second man had to be Ian, she wouldn't have recognized him if she passed him on the street. He had changed not only his clothing and skin color, but his whole demeanor. He no longer carried himself like an officer. He didn't even move like a European, though she couldn't define the difference.

  He'd also discarded his black eye patch for a cruder version in tan leather that was almost the same shade as his skin. Even the color of his other eye seemed different, less blue, closer to the gray tone sometimes found among fair Asiatics.

  Ian turned and examined Laura critically. "Not bad," he decided, "as long as you don't get too close to anyone. You look rather like a Gharhwali."

  "What are Gharhwalis?"

  "A tribe from the foothills near Nepal. They have a fair amount of Mongol blood, but tend to be a little taller and lighter in build than Ghurkas." He chuckled. "If anyone questions your appearance, I'll say that Gharhwalis are also noted for their pretty girlish faces. No one will be the wiser, since I doubt many Gharhwalis are seen in these parts."

  Laura checked her baggage, hoping she wasn't forgetting something vital. Though she was used to traveling very lightly by British standards, now their supplies were pared to the bone. Most of their possessions were going with Zafir, to be left at Habibur's with Meera, while they carried only basic provisions and ammunition, with nothing to identify them as Europeans.

  Then it was time for the two couples to separate. While the men shook hands and exchanged a few last words, Laura hugged Meera and wished her Godspeed, then swung onto her horse.

  As they cut through the trees to the road, she felt vulnerable, shorn of her identity. Uncannily reading her mind, Ian said, "It's not too late to change your mind, Larishka. If you're having second thoughts, don't let pride stand in the way."

  She gave him her best duplicitous smile. "Wouldn't dream of missing this trip, doushenka. After a fortnight or so of sleeping rough in the Himalayas, that drafty castle of yours is going to seem as luxurious as Rajiv Singh's palace."

  "More spunk than sense," he said in a resigned tone, but the respect in his glance warmed her.

  She was intensely glad that she had insisted upon coming on this trip. Whatever happened, at least they would face it together.

  * * *

  As Meera cleaned up after breakfast, she gave her placid pony a glance of distaste. Though she had become accustomed to riding, the pace they had set the last few days had been bruising. In one way, she'd be glad to reach Habibur's. But only in one way.

  She glanced over at Zafir, who was loading the pack pony. There was an odd kind of intimacy on this hasty journey, for in many ways they were behaving like husband and wife, each taking care of their share of chores, relying on each other. But that was the only intimacy, for Zafir was withdrawn, not the teasing man she had fallen in love with.

  She got to her feet and scanned the ground to make sure that nothing had been forgotten. It was a pleasant little campsite, private and protected in a grove of trees well off the road. It was the last privacy they would have. Walking over to Zafir, she said, "We'll be at Habibur's today?"

  He nodded. "We should be there not much after noon."

  "Will you stay the night?"

  He shook his head. "No, little dove. I'd like to, but I can't afford the time. Matters are grave, and a half day might make a critical difference."

  She made a wry face. "I knew the situation must be perilous, for you haven't tried to seduce me once since we left Manpur."

  That caught his attention. His abstracted gaze sharpened. "It would not be honorable to try when you are under my protection. You have made it clear you are waiting for our marriage bed."

  She lifted her head, her face stark. "Then I was sure we would have a marriage bed. But there is danger now. You are a soldier. You might be killed."

  "It's possible," he agreed. "Danger is my job, little dove. If war comes, I must return to my regiment immediately. But if anything happens to me, you will have a place with my uncle for as long as you wish. Or if you choose to return to your own people, my aunt and uncle will help you."

  "It isn't my own people that I want," she said vehemently. "It's you."

  She moved close and laid a hand on his wrist, soft and graceful. "Perhaps you cannot spare a half day, but surely you can spare an hour?"

  He stared at her, realizing that his lovely little dove had something specific in mind. She made it clear exactly what with her next sentence. "Give me something to remember, beloved," she whispered, raising her arms and sliding them around his neck.

  He didn't need a second invitation. All the playfulness and teasing of their relationship fell away, leaving only this, the urgent need of a man and woman to be together. And as he kissed her, he knew that this was the ultimate reason men went to war. Not just for glory, or greed, compelling as those things were, but because of this fierce tenderness, the need to protect his home and woman, with his own life if need be.

  As he laid her down in the soft grass, he knew that as urgent as his message was, this was equally urgent. Falkirk Sahib would not begrudge a man an hour with his beloved if it might be the only hour they would ever have.

  * * *

  Though less than a week had passed, Dharjistan seemed like another world. Laura shifted stiffly in her saddle, thinking ruefully that Ian had spoken the truth when he said she'd be doing a lot of riding. This sort was nowhere near as enjoyable as the gallop they'd had their last afternoon in the palace.

  Ian had taken Laura at her word that she could ride as well as any man, and he set a hard pace. They crossed the flat, dusty plains of the Punjab without incident. On the occasions when they went through a sizable town, Laura donned the dark, all-encompassing burqa and attracted no notice at all.

  Occasionally Ian struck up conversations with villagers or other travelers, expertly extracting information without seeming unduly inquisitive. Word had spread of the British loss in Afghanistan, and it was a frequent subject of discussion. The Punjab had never been under British rule so the natives did not feel directly affected, but most took a certain malicious satisfaction in the downfall of the ferengis.

  They were also very curious about how the Sirkar would respond. Laura, who listened but never spoke, could see for herself how critical the situation was. Weakness on the part of the British now could trigger an avalanche of opposition.

  After three days of hard riding, they had entered the stony hills. It was the most desolate country Laura had ever seen, so barren that it was hard to see how anyone could live in it. The mountain peaks were covered with snow and everything else seemed to be jumbled rock, with only the most tenacious plants clinging to a precarious existence.

  No wonder the Pathans needed banditry to survive. For centuries, their chief source of income had been charging travelers for the right to pass unmolested.

  Following the sparse clues in Pyotr's notes, Ian and Laura had swung south from the main route, which ran through the Khyber Pass. Now they had run out of information and were on their own. Though they must be within a dozen miles of the eastern end of the Shpola Pass, it would take months or years for them to find it without help. They must find someone who could guide them to it.

  The trick was to find a guide before the location of the pass was revealed by an avalanche of Afghans.

  * * *

  Zafir could hardly believe his eyes when the dusky evening light revealed an encampment of Company cavalry just off the road. He squinted at the banners snapping in the dry Punjabi wind. Allah be praised, it was even a regiment headquartered at Cambay, the 39th Native Lancers.

  A pity Zafir had no personal friends in the 39th
because the regiment had only recently been posted to Cambay. But it should be easy to establish his identity, and finding a cavalry regiment already on the march to the northwest meant that several priceless days had been saved.

  Zafir turned into the camp. When guards stopped him, he identified himself as a sepoy of the 46th Native Infantry and asked to be taken to the commanding officer of the regiment.

  The guard in charge sneered, "You think we allow any badmash that wanders in to see the Colonel Sahib? Be off with you!"

  Zafir hadn't expected this. For a furious moment he was tempted to raise his rifle and force his way past the guards. But military discipline paid off and he managed to repress his Pathan instincts.

  He snarled, "You misbegotten spawn of a pig and a scorpion, I am the orderly of Major Ian Cameron and I carry the future of India in my hands. Summon an officer!"

  The guards conferred and Zafir heard the name "Cameron" mentioned several times. One man left, and the other said, "We'll see if you're telling the truth. Wait right here and keep your hands away from your jezzail."

  For ten interminable minutes, Zafir paced restlessly. Then an authoritative voice said, "You have a message from Major Cameron?"

  Zafir recognized the voice with a burst of relief. Turing, he saw David Cameron striding toward him.

  The captain recognized him at the same moment. "Zafir—it really is you. Has something happened to my brother?"

  "He was in good health when we parted, huzar, and if Allah is merciful he continues to be." Zafir extracted the papers from under his shirt. "Here is the major's message. I was to take it first to you, then to General Rawdon."

  The captain opened it and skimmed it by the light of the guardpost lamp, his face hardening as he read. When he was done, he said, "Come along, Zafir. We're in luck—General Rawdon is traveling with the 39th."

  "Yes, huzar." When they were out of earshot of the guards, Zafir said, "Why are you with the 39th rather than the 46th?"

  "Because I've been in Afghanistan and know Pashto. None of the officers of the 39th have such experience, so I was temporarily seconded to the regiment," the captain explained. "Word of the massacre in Afghanistan reached Cambay several days ago, along with news that the fort at Jallalabad is besieged.

  "Rather than wait for orders from Bombay, General Rawdon decided to dispatch reinforcements immediately. Several infantry regiments, including the 46th, are also marching this way, but of course they're several days behind."

  "May Allah preserve Rawdon Sahib," Zafir said reverently.

  "I resented being taken from my own men, but it appears this will work out for the best." The captain looked at the message that he still carried. "Trust Ian to go off on his honeymoon and find a hornet's nest instead."

  General Rawdon lived up to his reputation for decisiveness by instantly grasping the significance of this new information, then issuing orders to deal with it. First thing in the morning, a detachment of cavalry would leave and ride to the frontier at top speed with instructions to locate and close the Shpola Pass. And at his own request, David Cameron was placed in command.

  * * *

  They rounded a bend in the road and came on another small, straggling Pathan village, no more than half a dozen houses. Laura considered putting on the burqa, then saw that it was too late, for a man had seen them. She slouched in her saddle, trying to look tired and nondescript. It wasn't difficult. For several days they had been looking for a guide to the Shpola Pass, but without success. Though all of the men Ian had questioned had heard of the pass and several had a vague idea of the location, precise information had been lacking, or deliberately withheld.

  The Pathan who had spotted them was sitting on the ground, leaning lazily back against a mud wall as he sharpened a wicked-looking knife. When the strangers halted their horses, he got to his feet and ambled into the road, his expression not unfriendly but his long-barreled rifle lying over his arm. Laura would sooner expect to see a Pathan naked than without his jezzail.

  Ian nodded politely and gave the Pathan greeting, "May you never tire." His beard grew quickly, and after a week without shaving, he looked like a genuine hillman, with only the details of his costume to mark him as a Punjabi rather than a Pathan. Wanting to appear as a man of peace rather than one searching for trouble, his own rifle was bolstered on his saddle rather than slung over his shoulder.

  "May you never see poverty," the villager returned.

  Knowing better than to ask immediately for what he wanted, Ian began a rambling discussion. Fortunately the Pathan spoke a form of Urdu. Though Ian himself was fluent in Pashto, the Pathan language, whenever possible he made his inquiries in Urdu so that Laura could understand.

  After touching on mankind's favorite topics, politics and weather, and agreeing that both weren't what they used to be, Ian said, "Tell me, brother, do you know a small pass through the mountains near here? I know of it as the Shpola Pass, though it may have other names."

  The Pathan's eyes narrowed. "It's scarcely a pass. More like a path for marmots, which is why it's almost never used. If you want to go through the mountains, take the Khyber. It's not worth risking the Shpola to save a few coins."

  "Only the Shpola will do." Ian touched his eye patch and launched into the story he had been using. "A hakim, a doctor, told me he could make a salve that would restore sight to my eye, but he needed an herb that grows only in the Shpola Pass. A winter herb, tiny and bitter."

  "And you believed him?" The Pathan snorted. "Precious little grows in the Shpola, and I've never heard that it included magical herbs."

  Ian looked shamefaced. "No doubt you're right, but, well, there's this woman I would wed. She favors me, but for the eye. Says she'll only marry a man with two good eyes. No other hakim holds out any hope. The trip has been long and likely a waste of time—but the lady is very beautiful."

  The Pathan gave a coarse guffaw. "If you're mad enough with love to go up there, I might be able to find the way."

  Recognizing his cue, Ian dug a coin from his pocket and tossed it over. "Allah's blessings on you, brother."

  For the first time, the Pathan glanced at Laura. "Good-looking boy. Where's he from?"

  "A Gharhwali, from the eastern hills. Not very bright, but a good servant. He claims he'll know the herb when he sees it."

  Curiosity satisfied, the Pathan said, "Follow me." Turning, he trotted through the village, then took them up a track so steep that Laura and Ian had to dismount and lead the horses. In keeping with his role as master, Ian didn't spare Laura a glance.

  The Pathan moved with amazing speed and stamina. After two hours of following him deeper into the mountains, Laura was exhausted. The snow-capped peaks were still sunlit but the lower reaches were in shadow when the Pathan finally halted at the foot of a narrow track.

  "Follow this path around the mountain and it will take you into the pass," he said. "Once you're there, you can't get lost, for there's no place to turn. Unless there has been a recent rockslide you'll be able to get your horses through, but it will be slow going. When you descend on the other side, you'll be about an hour east of the village of Shpola."

  "I don't intend to go that far. Allah willing, I'll find what I'm looking for and soon be on my way home." Ian gave him another coin. "Wish me luck, brother."

  "You'll need it." The Pathan gave a crack of laughter. "If you fail, remember that there are other beautiful women in the world." He turned and bounded down the mountain like a goat.

  Closing up behind Ian, Laura muttered, "Not very bright, but a good servant?"

  He grinned. "I got that reversed. Should have put it the other way around."

  After a few minutes of riding, they came to a relatively level and protected patch of ground. Ian pulled in his horse. "Water, fuel, and forage. We won't find a better place to camp, so we might as well stop here. It's getting late and the path is only going to get worse ahead."

  Laura dismounted, creaking in every joint, then surveyed her surrou
ndings. Though it was the best campsite they were likely to find, it was still incredibly bleak, consisting mostly of cold, gray, tumbled rock. "This looks like the scraps God had left after creating the rest of the world."

  "It's hard country, which is why it produces hard men." Ian dismounted and tethered his horse in a spot between two boulders that offered some protection from the abrasive wind. "I hope our guide has brought us to the right place. I have the itchy feeling that we're running out of time."

  As she tethered her horse, she said, "Will we go all the way through the pass?"

  "No. The Khyber is something like thirty-three miles long, and I suspect that the Shpola may be longer. Going the whole length and then back would take two or three days if the path is bad, and we can't afford that much time. We'll go into the pass far enough to make sure that it's what we're looking for, and to get an idea what conditions are like."

  He unlashed his saddlebags and swung them from his horse. "If we're really lucky the pass will be closed by snow, but it's likely that the elevation is low enough so that it stays open through all but the worst winter storms. The Khyber is like that."

  "Then what?" Laura asked as she unloaded her own horse.

  "We head back into the Punjab and hope that soon we'll run into Company troops marching to relieve the fort at Jallalabad." He unhitched his saddle and removed it from the weary horse's back. "I'll identify myself, guide a company or so up here to insure that no Afghans will use this as the royal road to India, then you and I head to Bombay. As I said, a simple, not very dangerous mission. My favorite kind."

  Laura shivered and hoped it was from cold, not a premonition that they wouldn't get through this so easily. After settling her horse for the night, she made a fire with the fuel Ian gathered, then prepared a simple supper of tea and chapatis wrapped around fried onions and melted goat cheese.

  It wasn't half bad, she decided. Nothing like hunger to sharpen the appetite.

  Night fell quickly, and so did the temperature. As they split the last of the tea between them, she began shivering in earnest. "After this, Falkirk is going to seem tropical."