Veils of Silk (62 page)

Ian shouted back, "But we
are
enemies. I serve the Sirkar, and I tell you now, you shall not pass."

Silence. Then, as he expected, a group of them rushed around the corner and scattered, looking for cover from which to return fire. But there was no cover. Methodically he picked them off, one by one. Three managed wild shots before they fell, but they didn't have time to spot his position, and
the bullets didn't even come close.

It wasn't war, it was more like the slaughter of tame game birds that English gentlemen called hunting. But it was effective. Very, very effective.

There was another pause. Then a voice shouted, "In the name of Allah, will you allow us to collect our wounded?"

"In His name, I grant you permission," he called back.

The first man came around the curve cautiously, his empty hands in the air. When it became clear that their unseen assailant was honoring the truce, more appeared. Hastily they collected the fallen, then disappeared back around the bend.

A buzz of voices followed. The Afghans were conferring, trying to decide what to do next. Ian felt sorry for the poor bastards. So much courage and fighting skill, yet they were brought to a halt because they could only come at him one at a time. But even though all the advantages were on his side, he didn't hear sounds of retreat.

He settled down to wait for the next assault.

Not surprisingly, Laura was lost. If she weren't so tired and saddle-weary, she might have believed that she was wandering in the landscape of a nightmare, cold and stark and endless. But this was real, as was Gulab Khan, slumped over the pommel of Ian's horse. The night before, when they had made camp, he had had enough strength to dismount on his own, and he had eaten the humble supper she made with enthusiasm. But when morning dawned, he was feverish and barely able to get into the saddle again.

Unfortunately, while he could stay on his horse, he was too delirious to give her directions. She had tried to retrace their path back to the village of Nushki, where they had found the guide, but everything looked different when going in the opposite direction. Now they were well and truly lost. At the moment, she was following what seemed to be a goat track, hoping that it might lead to a settlement.

Then, quite abruptly, the situation changed. Three Pathans materialized from behind the rocks and surrounded her, eyes narrowed and jezzails pointed at her heart. One of them barked at her in Pashto. Very carefully Laura stopped her horse and raised her arms, asking, "Do any of you speak Urdu or Persian?"

No response. As the men drew closer, she tried several different dialects without striking any chords. But there was at least one word that they should recognize. She said "
Anglezi
."

That intrigued them, though they were obviously puzzled since she didn't look much like an Englishman. Slowly she raised her hand to her turban, repeating, "Anglezi." Then she yanked the turban off and her hair spilled over her shoulders.

The Pathans stared. Whatever their feelings about the English, she didn't think they would shoot a woman out of hand. She pointed at Gulab Khan, who was slouched over the neck of his horse, oblivious to what was happening. "Afridi."

One of the men went for a closer look. After looking in the havildar's face, he exclaimed, "Gulab Khan!"

A babble of comments broke out, and the three Pathans lowered their jezzails. Thank heaven that Laura and the havildar were close enough to the man's home that he was recognized. Her three captors, or whatever they were, had a brief discussion, then one said, "Kuram." The others nodded, so the first man went loping off one way while the other two took the reins of the horses and began leading them through the hills. Laura was content to let them do as they wished.

After an hour's travel, they reached a compound that was much like Habibur's. There were a number of friendly women who clucked over Laura, touching her hair and petting her. Unfortunately, no one spoke Urdu, and Laura couldn't understand more than a few words of Pashto even though the languages were closely related. It was frustrating, for she felt that comprehension was almost within reach.

Gulab Khan was also clucked over, then whisked away for treatment. Based on the solicitude of the Pathans, if this wasn't his own home, it was surely owned by near relations. She was confident that he would be well cared for.

Though the pampering was pleasant, after Laura had eaten and napped for a couple of hours she began to feel restless. When she tried to convey that she wanted to leave, her hostesses made it clear that leaving was not an option. "Ku-ram," was repeated over and over again. She hoped that it was the name of an Urdu speaker who had been summoned.

She was almost right. Eventually one of the older women indicated with gestures that Laura was to follow her. They went into the courtyard, then left the compound, the woman covering her face before she stepped outside. "Kuram," she said, gesturing at a tall young Pathan with an intelligent face.

Eagerly Laura said, "Do you speak Urdu?"

He smiled, then said in fluent English, "Yes, but wouldn't you prefer your own language?"

"Thank heaven!" she said fervently. "Are you a soldier of the Sirkar?"

"I once was, until a youthful indiscretion on my part," he said with a trace of wistfulness. "After that, I took salt with a mountain prince and went to England with him. I spent two years there." He gestured to a wooden bench set against the mud-brick wall. "Tell me what an Englishwoman is doing here. You are the amazement of all my kinfolk."

Hoping that Kuram's time in England meant that he had pro-British sympathies, she identified herself. Then she explained the situation, including the fact that she needed to go back through the Punjab to find British troops. At the end, she said, "Will you help me? I'll need an escort and guide."

He considered. "My tribesmen will not be pleased to have British troops cross our lands. Yet even less will they want Afghans to use our territory for an invasion. The Afghans are our cousins, you know, which makes them much easier to hate." He rose from the bench, "I will send word to my kin, suggesting they allow the British safe passage to the Shpola Pass. Most will likely agree that the British are the lesser evil, for they are more likely to leave."

After that, things happened quickly. Within half an hour, Laura and Kuram were riding toward the main Khyber Pass road. Now all she had to do was find an army.

Having found an army, Ian was now wishing that it would go away. The last hours had made him think of a Hindu prayer:
Oh, Lord, from the venom of the cobra, the teeth of the tiger, and the vengeance of the Afghan, deliver us
!

It was easy to see how the Afghans got their reputation. Why didn't these damned fearless idiots concede that they couldn't use the Shpola and leave? But they didn't. They tried rushing out, climbing up, down, and around the opposite cliff and gorge, anything they could think of to get at him.

His opponents had located his aerie. Occasionally one would pop out and take a quick shot, then try to dodge out of sight before he could retaliate. Sometimes they were successful. More often, Ian was. One clever fellow tried a decoy, sticking out a turban wrapped around some other object to draw Ian's fire and waste his ammunition.
Ian was fooled once. After that, he waited to see a torso before firing.

Still, no matter how sparing he was of ammunition, by the time dusk fell his supply was beginning to run low. With nightfall, activity on the other side ceased, but there were no sounds of withdrawal. He suspected that they were reluctant to retreat when they had already come most of the way through the Shpola. Turning back now and trying the Khyber would cost them days, and possibly be even more bloody.

He assumed that they would slip out under cover of darkness, with a few of them climbing up to his aerie to put an end to him once and for all. But the night was clear and the moon bright enough to illuminate the track. After he had picked off several men who ventured out, they stopped trying.

The worst time was after moonset, when the pass was lit only by the faint light of the stars. Ian stood on his ledge and listened. It wasn't long until he heard stealthy movements along the opposite track. He waited until they ran into the first of his stone barricades. There was an oath, hastily cut off, followed by the grating noises of rock being shifted.

In prison, his ears and eye had gown uncannily perceptive, and he was able to make a shrewd guess as to which dark shadows were human. He fired, and the sound of a shriek filled the gorge. Reloading by touch, he fired again, then again. He wasn't sure if he made any more hits but his first lucky shot had been enough. The footsteps retreated to safety and he heard a voice cursing him as a demon. But still they didn't withdraw.

Nothing more was tried that night, though he had to stay awake and alert to be sure. By dawn, fatigue was starting to affect him. It was an open question whether his ammuniton or his stamina would give out first.

As he ate cold chapatis and a handful of raisins, he waited and listened. There were still human sounds from the opposite side of the gorge, but no one appeared. They were planning something, he knew it in his bones. The question was, what?

Kuram proved an excellent guide. Laura gave silent thanks. More and more she felt that she and Ian were in divine hands—there had been too much amazing good luck for it to be coincidence. The way they had met; the perfect matching of their needs; Kamala's timely insight that had enabled Laura to free herself of the past. Pyotr's notes; Meera's banyan tree eavesdropping; Gulab Khan; now Kuram. Perhaps it was all what Ian had called iqbal, preordained good fortune. Laura wasn't particular about where help came from, as long as it could stop a war and, she prayed, save her husband's life.

Soon after setting out the next morning, they saw a cloud of dust in the distance. Kuram reined in his horse and peered at the dust, his hand shaded against the eastern sun.

Laura asked, "Is that the road to the Khyber?"

"Not yet." He lowered his hand. "It's a group of Company lancers. Your reinforcements are here, Lady Falkirk."

It was faster than she had dared dream. The troops must already have been on their way north when Zafir met them. Iqbal, indeed. Recklessly she spurred her horse toward the troops, Kuram following behind.

As they galloped up to the approaching lancers, the guide in the lead whooped and waved his hand. Laura was delighted to see that it was Zafir. But what really convinced her that iqbal was at work was the approaching British captain.

"Laura, thank heaven you're all right," David said when he pulled up beside her. "What about Ian?"

Right in front of the interested eyes of dozens of soldiers, Laura leaned from her horse and hugged her brother-in-law. "He was fine when I last saw him, but we'll need to move quickly to insure that he stays that way."

He hugged her back, though he said, chuckling, "Better behave, or I'll never live this down. Must uphold the dignity of the Sirkar, you know."

"I've given up on being an English lady, but I'll try to control myself for your sake," She gave him an unsteady smile. "Merciful heaven, I'm glad to see you!"

She introduced Kuram, explaining how much he had helped her. Since Zafir was Mohmand and Kuram an Afridi, at first the Pathans bristled at each other. Laura said. "For the purpose of this engagement, can I offer you both temporary British citizenship so you won't be at each other's throats?"

Both men laughed. "Very well, lady," Kuram said. "As long as this curly-tailed son of an unclean beast knows that he'd better not venture onto Afridi land alone in the future."

Equally good-natured, Zafir said something in Pashto, probably some version of, "Your mother's one, too."

But both Pathans had lived in a wider world beyond their tribal lands, and the hostility seemed more pro forma than real. With a truce declared, Laura filled David and Zafir in on what she and Ian had done.

At the end of her recital, David said, "Well done, Laura. Do you think the Pathans who helped you earlier will let you stay with them again while we go into the pass and retrieve Ian?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm going with you."

David studied her face for some time. "Mmm, so you are."

She smiled. "You learn much more quickly than Ian did."

He rolled his eyes. "God help my poor brother." Then he turned and lifted his arm as a signal for his men to move forward. Laura stayed at the head of the troops, riding be-tween David and Zafir while Kuram led the way back to the pass.

In a few hours, just a few more hours, she and Ian would be together again. And never again would she let them be separated, she swore, not even to save the British Empire.

Ian found out the hard way what the Afghans' next strategem was. After several hours of inactivity, something appeared at the bend. When he saw that it was a piece of light artillery, he swore. Then he raised his rifle and aimed at the gunner.

The cannon fired at the same moment he did. His shot was more accurate, clipping the gunner, but the cannon was enormously louder. It discharged with a deafening boom and a ball crashed into the cliff face fifty feet from Ian, setting off reverberations in the cave around him.

Bloody, bloody hell
! As cannon went, it was rather small, probably a nine-pounder. It must had been difficult to get even that up the pass. But the gun was plenty large enough to kill Ian if they targeted the cave mouth accurately. Worst of all, the artillery piece offered some protection to the men firing it, so he wouldn't always be able to take them out.

A grim duel began. The cannon would fire, then was dragged out of sight for reloading. Ian would move forward and wait for a good shot at the gunner until the fuse was ignited. Then he retreated into the cave, simultaneously ramming another cartridge into the breech so that he would be ready for the next round.

After half an hour, his ears were numb, and he was beginning to lose some of his accuracy from sheer fatigue. His rifle barrel was already too hot to touch, and there was a very real possibility that the gun might explode in his face. On top of everything else, the afternoon sun was glaring into his face and his eye was stinging from exhaustion and smoke. But if he stopped firing, the Afghans would pour around the bend. If enough managed to get onto the track, he would be unable to shoot fast enough to turn them all back.