Mariam was certainly in desperate need of training, but she had courage and a good heart. And although Safiya herself gave little importance to outward appearances, it was clear that with her creamy skin, soft brown curls, and broad, transforming smile, the foreign girl was as beautiful as any young woman in Lahore, or would be if she paid more attention to herself.
Safiya sighed. There was no more to be said. She craned her neck, searching for a helpful child among the whispering groups in the sitting room. "Mehereen," she called, "go and tell them to bring the food."
An olive, she said to herself, remembering the verse inscribed on Hassan's gold medallion, neither of the East, nor of the West... neither of the East, nor of the West...
April 15, 1841 As a horse and rider approached, Nur Rahman Khan sprang up from his vantage point beside the Residence's guarded entrance gate, and narrowed his eyes. To his relief, it was the foreign lady, returning at last from her outing. Sitting sideways in her saddle, dressed in heavy black with a veiled riding hat, she walked her fine mare unhurriedly toward him, ignoring the misty rain that had turned the Kohistan Road to mud. Behind her strode the same pair of Indian servants who had accompanied her when she left: one man tall and long-legged, the other burly and pale-skinned beneath his turban, with a beard the color of corn silk.
Nur Rahman stepped into the horse's path on his quick, dancer's feet, his slender body taut with tension. He must time his move exactly. If he approached the lady too early, while she was too far from the gate, he would risk being set upon by the servants before he could get inside. If he waited too long, she might ride through the entrance without him, leaving him outside to be manhandled by the pair of aggressive-looking sentries who stood by the gate, smart in their red woolen coats and white cross belts.
Later, friendless and without shelter or safety, he would be hunted down From the day of her arrival in Kabul, Nur Rahman had included the lady in his plan. The polite greeting she had offered to Painda Gul on that first morning had caught the young dancer's attention, for only an extremely courteous person would have addressed such a man at all. Later, Nur Rahman had learned in the bazaar that the woman and her uncle were two of only a handful of English people in Kabul who spoke any local language.
One of the foreign women, they had said, speaks both Farsi and Pushto. speaks both Farsi and Pushto.
What a pity, they had added, that of the few foreigners who can speak to us, one should be a woman! that of the few foreigners who can speak to us, one should be a woman!
Her uncle, the gossip ran, was an intelligence agent. Nur Rahman knew this to be the truth, for on his very first day in Kabul, the old man had gone straight to the bazaar, where he had questioned several shopkeepers in rusty, accented Farsi.
Wherever he went, he had inquired about Wazir Akbar Khan.
Only this newly arrived Englishman, people said over their glasses of tea in the chaikhanas chaikhanas of the city, of the city, asks about the son of our true Amir, who even now waits to wrest his father's throne from the hands of the unbelievers. Only this man knows what is in our hearts. asks about the son of our true Amir, who even now waits to wrest his father's throne from the hands of the unbelievers. Only this man knows what is in our hearts.
Only he, agreed others, understands the danger to his people. understands the danger to his people.
In the crowd at the horse races, Nur Rahman had seen the English lady getting into her palanquin. Calling out to her in the Pushto of his people, he had rushed to her side. She had not dismissed him then, although she had not understood him. He had realized too late that the bazaar gossip had been wrong, that she understood only Farsi. Her bearers had carried her away by that time, but he had known then what he must do.
It was she, he realized, and no other person in all of Kabul, who might, in the proper circumstances, save his life.
It was a gamble, of course, but he was Afghan, and used to gambling, and the odds were not entirely against him. Perhaps, if she were as kind as she appeared, and if Allah Most Gracious willed, she would accept his request for panah panah, the hospitable asylum that must be given to those who ask properly, even those who have committed unspeakable offenses.
She, of course, was not Pashtun. She might fail to understand this ancient duty, but he had no better hope at this terrible moment than a young, black-clad Englishwoman and her newly built, well-guarded fort.
As her horse approached the gate, Nur Rahman kept his distance from the guards. He knew what they thought of him. Somehow, what he had become was written plainly on his face. But it was not his fault. He no longer remembered clearly how Painda Gul had enticed him away from the safety of his family when he was very young. Perhaps the older man had offered him sweets, perhaps a new kite. It no longer mattered. What had mattered was the desperate grief he had suffered, torn from the love of his mother and small sisters and the protection of his father and brothers. Now, even if he knew the way back to his ancestral village, he could never return there. How would his family, even his mother, receive him after the terrible shame Painda Gul had forced upon him night after night, until he no longer recognized himself?
He was a dancing boy now. Trained with beatings and curses, he whirled and stamped, dressed as a woman, at weddings and the births of other men's sons. He himself would never have a son, although his beard was starting to grow. Who would give his daughter to a grown-up child-slave of Painda Gul?
At last, after all his years of rage and waiting, Nur Rahman was armed and free. His patron's cruel knife with its ten-inch blade lay hidden in his clothes, still streaked with the blood of its former owner. With that same knife, Nur Rahman would defend himself from further harm, perhaps even from the insults he endured wherever he went. He might be a dancing boy, but he had his pride.
But now he needed help, for at this moment Painda Gul lay, eyes staring, his throat slit, in the same city hovel where he had first brought Nur Rahman as a child of six. When his body was discovered, no one in Kabul would doubt the boy's guilt. After all, who had not known the story of the wolf-faced Painda Gul and his bacha?. bacha?.
"Ya Hafiz. Ya Hafiz," the boy whispered. "O Protector, come to my aid." the boy whispered. "O Protector, come to my aid."
The lady had nearly reached the entrance. Her servants trailed behind her, relaxing their vigilance as she approached the sentries.
"Khanum, oh, Khanum!" Forcing himself to breathe, Nur Rahman flitted to her side.
She started in her saddle, her eyes wide behind the veil that hung from her stiff black headdress.
He reached out and gripped her stirrup. "Panah," "Panah," he murmured. he murmured.
Her eyes widening, she kicked out at him. "Let me go!" she cried.
Ignoring her dismay, he took the hem of her heavy skirt in his other hand and raised beseeching eyes to her face. "Panah," "Panah," he begged again, tightening his grip as the mare jerked sideways. She he begged again, tightening his grip as the mare jerked sideways. She must must know what the word meant. know what the word meant.
Her servants were already sprinting toward him, shouting unintelligibly, their heavy sandals slapping the wet mud. The sentries stared from the gate.
"Only three days." He held on, gasping with pain as she brought her riding crop down upon his wrist. "Three days, Khanum, I swear it."
The pale-bearded servant arrived first at Nur Rahman's side. Seizing the boy's fingers, he began to pry them from the leather strap. When their hands touched the lady's boot, she cried out again, her voice filled with outrage.
The tall servant arrived. "Rokho "Rokho, Ghulam Ali," he said. When the first man moved aside, he stepped behind Nur Rahman and seized him in a long-armed grip, dragging him away from the woman and her mare, forcing him to loosen his hold on the stirrup.
"Wait," Nur Rahman gasped, "I mean no harm, Khanum-Jan! I ask only for protection from my enemies!"
Fearing he had lost his chance, he reached out to her, tears welling in his eyes.
She frowned behind her veil. "If you wanted protection, why did you not say so?"
"But I did," he protested. "I-"
Silencing him with a wave of her riding crop, she spoke sharply to her two servants. The tall one released Nur Rahman. The pale one set off toward the gate, signaling outrage with every movement of his stocky body.
"You are fortunate," she added, returning to Farsi and glaring at Nur Rahman, "that we did not turn you over to the guards."
Hope flickered in the boy's heart. For all her obvious annoyance, the lady's face was full of curiosity.
But her expression held something else as well. She wrinkled her nose. "Do not touch me again," she ordered, turning her mare aside.
"We will remain here," she added, her eyes averted, "until someone comes who can tell me what all this is about."
Nur Rahman stood motionless, his eyes lowered, afraid to breathe. Surely if the lady had intended to send him away, she would have done so at once. But who were they all waiting for, the lady sideways on the mare in her strange-looking saddle, the tall groom watchful beneath his untidy turban, the red-coated sentries glowering from beneath the brims of their tall, black uniform hats?
After a long interval, during which Nur Rahman glanced fearfully several times up and down the road, the lady's servant reappeared, followed by an elderly Indian gentleman in a golden qaraquli hat and a pair of woolen shawls.
As he stepped unhurriedly through the gateway, the old man brought with him a wave of peace so powerful that it seemed to perfume the air around him. Nur Rahman filled his lungs with it. "May peace be upon thee, Father," he offered giddily, a hand over his heart.
"And upon thee," the old man replied kindly. "What is your name, child?"
"Nur Rahman," the boy breathed.
The lady bent over her mare's neck. "I am sorry to disturb you, Munshi Sahib," she said in Farsi, her voice soft with respect. "This boy has been clutching at me, begging, I think, for asylum. I need your advice."
"Ah." The old gentleman turned to Nur Rahman. As he did so, the dancing boy's heart came near to breaking, for there was no disgust in that gentle gaze, no turning away. If Nur Rahman had had the courage, he would have thrown himself right then at the old man's feet.
"And is it panah that you want?" the old man inquired.
"Yes, dear Father, for I have killed a man." Nur Rahman swallowed. "I slit his throat this morning. But Father," he added desperately, putting his stained hands out of sight behind his back, "by my head and eyes, it was necessary. He was evil. He had, he had-"
Nur Rahman turned away, his throat closing. It was no good. For all that he seemed to know the meaning of panah, it was clear that the old gentleman was no Pashtun. Why, then, should he honor the code, especially for a murder whose cause was too shameful to relate?
Without the truth, Nur Rahman could expect no asylum, no mercy, but how could he reveal his agony in front of this female foreigner? How could he describe the events of the past month, when the hair had lengthened on his face, and the city barbers had called out to him that it was time for the dancing boy to shave his beard? His patron had become more brutal than ever during that month, swearing he would throw Nur Rahman out, threatening him with that terrible knife, telling him he had grown too old, too old Sweat trickled down the dancing boy's spine.
He had made up his mind only two days before, in Istalif, where he and Painda Gul had gone to entertain at a wedding. As Nur Rahman danced for the men in his shiny woman's clothes, his arms moving sinuously over his head, he had seen his patron talking to a little boy, a lovely child of five or six years, who gazed, wide-eyed, into Painda Gul's grinning face. Turning from the child, Painda Gul had glanced at Nur Rahman.
At that instant, the dancing boy had understood. That sweet little boy was to be his replacement. Soon, perhaps tomorrow, Painda Gul would return, stealthily, to Istalif. Soon, abducted from his confused and grieving family, the child would lose his innocence in Painda Gul's bed. Like Nur Rahman, he would spend his childhood weeping for his lost family.
And what of Nur Rahman, who had been Painda Gul's boy for the past eleven years? How would he survive, thrown out of Painda Gul's hovel, alone on the cold streets of the city?
After his dance, Nur Rahman had slipped outside and vomited.
They had returned from Istalif the following night. After the older man fell asleep, Nur Rahman had crept through the darkness to the hook where Painda Gul's long-bladed Khyber knife hung in its scabbard. He had never killed before, but his Pashtun blood had told him what to do. Grasping a handful of greased hair in one hand, Nur Rahman had jerked Painda Gul's head back, then drawn the fierce Khyber blade across his knobby throat, slicing through the great blood vessels connecting head and body. Painda Gul had opened his eyes too late.
Now, Nur Rahman shuffled his feet. "I cannot say more," he murmured.
"There is nothing more to say," the old gentleman replied.
"What is he talking about, Munshi Sahib?" inquired the lady from her saddle. "What does he want?"
"This boy," the old gentleman replied, glancing at Nur Rahman to make sure he understood, "is a Pashtun. Pashtuns live by a code of honor. A provision of their code is that protective asylum must be offered for three days to someone who asks for it, even if that person has committed a crime, provided that the person tells the truth about his circumstances. The boy has told us enough."
Enough. Relief flooded over Nur Rahman. Relief flooded over Nur Rahman.
"Now he wants us to keep him safe from his pursuers for three days."
Three days. What a princely time that would be... What a princely time that would be...
When he had arrived at the gate, Nur Rahman's sole concern had been the saving of his skin. But now that his dancing boy's heart had gone out to this peaceful old stranger, a new need thrust itself upon him, blocking out even his desire to survive.
Oh, Allah, he prayed, do not take this old man from me! do not take this old man from me!
"And what," the lady replied, also in Farsi, "do you recommend that we do?"
The old gentleman joined his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. "I leave the decision to you, Bibi," he said gently. "My only duty is to explain what he wants."
The lady's mare pawed impatiently at the dust. The tall groom spoke quietly to her. A cold breeze blew through Nur Rahman's thin clothes. He waited, holding his breath, refusing to shiver.
"He may come inside, but only for three days."
The lady addressed herself not to Nur Rahman but to the old man, but the dancing boy did not mind. He lowered his head to conceal his joy, imagining himself sitting at the feet of the old man, serving him "He may stay for three days," she repeated, "and not a moment longer. He will sleep in the storeroom at the end of the servants' quarters, but he is not not to mix with the servants. He should understand that if my aunt discovers he is here, he will have to leave immediately." to mix with the servants. He should understand that if my aunt discovers he is here, he will have to leave immediately."
The old gentleman turned to Nur Rahman. "You have understood the lady's instructions?"
Unsure of his voice, Nur Rahman cleared his throat. "I have, dear Father," he croaked, before following them inside.
As she rode into the cantonment, Mariana glanced behind her in time to see her odd new guest hurrying to join her munshi. They made a curious pair, walking through the rain together, her irreproachable elderly teacher and this young Afghan with his fluent Farsi, whose dissolute face she could scarcely bear to look upon.
The boy must have been beautiful once, with those great, soulful eyes and that perfectly carved mouth. What could have happened to him, she wondered. What poison had he absorbed to make him so curiously repellent?
And what would happen, now that he had been granted his three-day asylum? Would he make impossible demands of her, or somehow contaminate the other inhabitants of the servants' quarters?
Both her servants had stiffened visibly when she agreed to let the boy inside. As he walked behind her mare, Yar Mohammad kept his eyes averted from the boy, and Ghulam Ali scowled with disapproval.
Only Munshi Sahib had seemed unperturbed by his presence. Indeed, something about the old man's manner had encouraged her decision. Even now her teacher seemed to have no difficulty allowing the boy to take his arm and help him past a muddy hole in the road.
Since that was the case, she would leave the boy and his troubles, whatever they were, to Munshi Sahib.
A moment later, she passed through an opening in the thick rampart wall that divided the cantonment from the walled Residence compound.
As her mare splashed along a broad path leading past Sir William Macnaghten's walled garden, Mariana wondered for the hundredth time why the British civil officers had been housed outside the sheltering fortifications of the military area. In contrast to the cantonment, whose ramparts were surmounted by a stone parapet, the Residence compound was furnished with no more than a plain six-foot wall on its three exposed sides.
There must have been a good reason for such an optimistic plan, although Mariana could not fathom what it was.
A broad avenue ran parallel to the rampart wall, dividing the Residence compound into two parts. Sir William's grand house and spacious gardens with their concealing compound wall took up the area next to the cantonment, while the seventeen hastily built offices and houses of the civil staff, including Mariana's uncle, took up the other. Farthest away, against the useless outer wall, a series of shambling buildings housed the many hundreds of servants who staffed the Residence compound.
But it was not the geography of the compound that occupied her thoughts as she rode, followed by her two servants, past the offices and houses of various secretaries and doctors. Since their brief encounter at the race meeting, she had received no word from Harry Fitzgerald.
According to Aunt Claire, who had managed to keep track of his movements, he had left the next day with his horse artillery, to put down some fighting in the north.
He could have written from there, but he had clearly chosen not to. So much, therefore, for Aunt Claire's dream that he had been waiting, lovelorn, for the past two years.
But Fitzgerald had good reason to dislike Mariana.
Soon after gossip about him had forced their separation, she had snatched little Saboor to safety from Maharajah Ranjit Singh's neglectful grip, then become entangled with his mystical family. Later, believing she was aiding the British invasion of Afghanistan, she had announced in front of a large crowd, including Fitzgerald, that she was engaged to Saboor's father. That sensational disclosure had made Fitzgerald's humiliation even worse. Unsurprisingly, he had soon afterward sent her a bitter, reproachful letter.
In spite of Fitzgerald's anger then, and his failure to write to her now, he had seemed genuinely pleased to see her at the race meeting.
Unlike Lady Macnaghten's nephew, the groping, pallid Charles Mott, whose aunt would have fainted dead away at the thought of his marrying Mariana, Fitzgerald had been both attractive and intelligent. He had laughed with her, and told her of his dreams. Before their hopes of marriage were dashed, they had spent hours together, arguing happily over the great battles of history-Marathon, Tours, the defeat of the Athenians at Syracuse-as she and her father had done in his vicarage study from the time she was twelve. Those conversations, and Fitzgerald's hot, hasty kisses, had provided her with some of her best moments in India.
Harry Fitzgerald could explain the British defenses to her. He could give her vivid battle descriptions to send to her father.
She lifted the rain-dampened riding veil from her face, and turned her mare into the lane where her uncle's small bungalow stood in its garden.
If Hassan still loved her, nothing else would matter. If he had divorced her, she must find a way to love Fitzgerald again, and to make him love her.
If only Hassan would write...
The rain had stopped. An Indian dhobi dhobi saluted as he passed Mariana in the lane, bent over beneath a great bundle of washing, his bare feet covered to the ankles in mud. Someone coughed hollowly behind a mud wall. saluted as he passed Mariana in the lane, bent over beneath a great bundle of washing, his bare feet covered to the ankles in mud. Someone coughed hollowly behind a mud wall.
Uncle Adrian sat on a chair in the sun, deep in conversation with two ragged Afghans who stood in front of him. A pair of carved jezail jezail s had been propped against a verandah pillar. All three men glanced up as she approached. The Afghans turned their heads away immediately. s had been propped against a verandah pillar. All three men glanced up as she approached. The Afghans turned their heads away immediately.
As she handed her reins to Yar Mohammad, the drawing room shutters banged apart, and Aunt Claire appeared, red-faced, in the open window.