The Damascened Blade (25 page)

Her companions looked her up and down doubtfully and suggested alternatives and improvements. They brushed her hair for her and turned with great seriousness to make up her face with sticks of kohl and little palettes of this and that, ignoring her protests and holding up a silver mirror for her to admire herself, which – after a moment of shock to see herself transformed – she duly and sincerely did.

‘Goodbye Chicago!’ said Lily. ‘What
have
I become?’ An errant thought came to her. ‘I suppose these guys don’t
sell
people? But if they do – why! – I’d make a good price!’

She was escorted back to the durbar room where she found assembled a much larger group of women and several small children all preparing to eat a midday meal which had been laid out on a cloth in the centre of the room. Halima beckoned her to join her at the head of the table and all sank down on cushions to eat. For the first time Lily noticed as Halima lowered herself with a slight awkwardness on to her cushion that under her flowing tunic the chief’s wife was heavily pregnant.

‘Good Lord!’ Lily thought. ‘How could I have missed
that
! Under all that drapery she’s enormous!’ Lily tried to remember the few details Iskander had given her about the set-up at the fort. This Halima who really couldn’t be much older than herself – quite possibly younger – was, improbable though it might seem, married to the fearsome old Malik whose first wife, Zeman’s mother, the Afghan princess, had died last year. Had she got that right? There was no way she could find out. Lily had a hundred questions she wanted to ask Halima Begum but, apart from the barrier of Halima’s uncertain hold on the English language, the customary meal-time silence had descended. As she worked her way through a sequence of dishes Lily began to think the lack of conversation was in fact quite relaxing and certainly had the edge on exchanging mindless chit-chat with Nick Carstairs and Edward Dalrymple-Webster.

She eyed Halima Begum covertly from time to time, wondering how it had come about that such a young person had not been married off to a young man of the tribe – Zeman, Iskander or any one of the handsome faces that had risen up from behind rocks to shout a greeting to them as they drew near the fort. Surely her preference must have been for such a one? Lily had tried to engage Zeman in a conversation about arranged marriages but, smooth and courteous, he had neatly avoided being drawn by her questions so she could only speculate as to their customs. But Halima, smiling and confident, giving out brisk orders to the servants, playing happily with the children, didn’t seem to call for any romantic Western sympathy. ‘Now suppose President Harding did me the honour of making me the First Lady,’ Lily considered, ‘how would I feel?’ She decided her fantasy was getting somewhat out of hand.

From the other women’s manner towards the Malik’s wife, Lily judged that Halima was, regardless of age, top of the pile, reflecting her husband’s status in the tribe. Even a middle-aged, dark-haired woman with the same hatchet features as the Malik and whom Lily assumed to be his sister appeared to defer to her. But all, judging by the smiles and laughter which abounded, liked her. As Halima stopped in mid-sentence to lay a protective hand on her stomach, women scurried to fetch water and extra cushions, hands were extended in support and, judging by the giggles, racy remarks were made. Lily knew nothing about pregnancy but, having once got Halima’s bulge in focus, she decided two things: firstly that the birth must be imminent and secondly that it was a physical impossibility. She compared the ante-natal treatment Halima was enjoying – the jokes and the cosseting – with what she speculated would have been the hand-out in Chicago: a stiff doctor in morning coat, striped trousers and a butterfly collar dispensing calomel. Lily had shaken hands with a gynaecologist once and the memory of his bony fingers still made her shudder.

A swift calculation told her that, following his first wife’s death, the Malik must have made Halima the hap-piest of women with indecent speed. ‘In American culture, anyway. Keep a hold on that, Lily Coblenz,’ she told herself. Perhaps the Malik had always had an eye on this girl and had deliberately neglected to arrange a marriage for her, putting her in cold storage so to speak until his elderly princess dropped off the twig. A seriously cold thought pushed the more frivolous ones from her mind. Zeman! The Malik’s last remaining son was now dead. Oh, Lord! There was more riding on this than they knew.

Once the meal was cleared away and hands – and faces in the case of the children – had been washed, excited chattering broke out again. Lily knew most of it had to do with her but she sensed also from the women’s gestures and the way they hurried at the slightest sound from the courtyard below to stand by the window looking down that there were more earth-shaking events to be witnessed and discussed than the arrival among them of an ‘American princess’. Something was about to happen. Was, indeed, happening.

Left to herself in Halima’s company Lily shyly began to congratulate her on her forthcoming child. Halima’s initial broad smile and returned thanks faded and turned to a look of anxiety. Afraid that she might have broken some unknown convention Lily could only grasp her hands and begin to stammer out an apology.

‘No. No,’ said Halima hurriedly. ‘I am pleased that child come. But now since news this morning . . . since Zeman dead . . . most important that son – another son come!’

‘You know that Zeman is dead?’ said Lily in surprise. ‘Did Iskander tell you? I didn’t hear him mention Zeman’s name?’

‘Letter come from fort. Gor Khatri. Since three hours. Letter for Iskander. Ramazad read it. He tell me but no one else. It say Zeman his son is dead. Ramazad say fort commander with red hair kill Zeman. Ramazad say he put head of soldier with red hair on gate of Mahdan Khotal!’ Halima gave a vivid mime of the impaling of a head on a spike.

Lily was silent for a moment working out the significance of the information. If James had sent a letter to Iskander care of the fort that meant he knew where she was, didn’t it? Clever old James! Or was it clever old Joe? They’d thought their way around all Iskander’s meanderings in the hills! A spurt of hope was soon extinguished as she recalled the impregnable position and defences of Mahdan Khotal. No, the only way out of here was by diplomacy or trickery, she decided. Either way she was going to need help.

‘The red-haired soldier,’ she said, ‘is called James Lindsay and he didn’t kill Zeman. I’ll tell you what happened . . .’

Lily stuck closely to the official Grace Holbrook version of the death and to her relief Halima seemed to follow what she was saying with ease. ‘. . . so you see, if Iskander hadn’t taken it into his head to run off into the wilderness with Lord Rathmore – and me incidentally – there wouldn’t be a problem.’

She had obviously said the wrong thing. Halima frowned and stuck her chin out in disagreement. ‘Iskander very clever man! Very good man. He always Zeman’s friend. He take badal for Zeman. If he take this Rathmore, then this Rathmore kill Zeman! Rathmore die,’ said Halima flatly.

Lily remembered the warmth of the greeting between these two and wondered if she had stumbled on a Queen Guinevere-Sir Lancelot situation. ‘I think you are very fond of Iskander?’ she asked tentatively.

The reply was decisive. ‘Of course! My brother is the best man of the tribe after Ramazad. He teach me English. He learn English at school in Peshawar. Strong man. Never tell lies.’

A fluttering and an intensification of noise at the fretted window above the courtyard drew their attention. ‘Jirga start,’ Halima announced. ‘Jirga is village meeting.’ Women made way at the window for them and they stood to look down at the men gathering below. With excited squeals the older children pulled cushions to the window, piling them up to stand on for a better view.

Lily saw about two hundred men, talking and gesticulating, arrive and settle themselves on the ground around the spreading tree in the centre of the square. Iskander approached and stationed himself, standing, arms folded, on one side of the gathering. With a pang, Lily saw Rathmore escorted on to the scene and told to sit, exhibit A, at centre stage. Someone seemed to have tidied him up a bit. His clothes were brushed, his hair likewise and he walked with his usual jaunty step. ‘Good old Rathmore!’ she couldn’t help thinking. ‘He’s keeping his pecker up at least!’ She found herself admiring the way he settled to scan the assembly as though he were taking a board meeting, nodding and smiling and confident. ‘That’s the style, Dermot old boy! You show ’em!’ she muttered.

The Malik then entered to a roar of greeting and stood opposite Iskander. Imposing and noble, he dominated the crowd merely by his presence. He held his hand up and, taking a letter from his bosom, began slowly to read. All listened with breathless and unwavering attention, Halima amongst them.

‘What’s he saying?’ said Lily but she was waved to silence and the account wore on accompanied by sharp exclamations and intakes of breath from the listeners until at last Ramazad closed the letter, folded it and put it away. At once there was a howl of dismay, of horror, of anger. He had obviously just announced the death of Zeman to the crowd and Halima confirmed this. The howls from below turned to raucous and angry shouts. Men stood up and waved their fists, some brandished their rifles. Lily needed no translation. This was a call for revenge, for badal.

Iskander waved his arms to silence the crowd but it was not until the Malik had intervened that he could make himself heard. In a voice free of emotion Iskander appeared to be telling it as it was, Lily thought, and again Halima’s translation bore this out. ‘He is saying that soldier from fort kill Zeman. Red-haired soldier. Iskander has demanded this man’s death and if this is not granted then the hostage Rathmore die instead. In five days’ time.’

There were mutterings from the floor and one or two men stood up, pointing at Rathmore and calling out with savage gestures what appeared to be suggestions for making his death more interesting. As Halima did not translate these, Lily assumed her guess was right. The Malik began to speak again and all fell silent. He spoke for a very long time. The children standing around them began to get bored and drifted away but the women were riveted by the speech. Halima’s face was tense and she began to bite her lip, her gaze running constantly from Ramazad to her brother. Her commentary had dried up and Lily was going mad with suspense. The old devil, she was convinced, was up to something. His tone conveyed a blend of blatant honesty, charm and conviction. Lily had heard much the same delivery from a snake-oil salesman in Sioux City.

She looked closely at Iskander. He too appeared to be uneasy with the Malik’s delivery and attempted to interrupt. He was at once called to order in very cold tones by Ramazad. Lily began to recognize that what she was witnessing was a power struggle within the tribe. She’d sat in on board meetings where her father had set out to fillet the opposition but this time she suspected she was rooting for the losing side. The old stag, heavy with antlers, was lowering them to ward off the challenge from the younger blood. And with the death of Zeman perhaps the way had become clear for Iskander. And perhaps this was resented by Ramazad?

The Malik began to gesture to the sky and his voice took on an edge of barely suppressed rage. ‘Ramazad say ferenghi have planes to bomb us. No soldier can take Mahdan Khotal – no soldier on the ground – but the soldiers who fly can destroy our fort. He say that Iskander bring the bombs on our heads. Rathmore who is Iskander’s hostage is big Khan in his country . . .’ The Malik indicated Rathmore with a courteous gesture at which Rathmore rose and presented himself to the crowd with a small bow and the modest smile of an Englishman who has just hit a six.

Unconsciously, Lily seized Halima’s hand and the two women shared their anxiety and powerlessness in the clutch of cold, tense fingers. ‘Iskander wrong to bring death on the tribe. Ferenghi soldiers know hostages are here and attack from sky then, when walls are dust, attack from ground and finish us off. Remember what ferenghi do against Mahsud villages last year. And one of these hostages is a memsahib. This brings great shame on the tribe and great danger. Ferenghi fight more strong to get her back.’

A derisive shout went up from the crowd. ‘Our Malik is getting old! These are the fears of an old woman!’

‘Who’s afraid of the ferenghi? We’re not!’

‘How many sons must Ramazad lose before he takes badal?’

With a face of thunder Ramazad called for silence. ‘Whose sons are killed by ferenghi devil? Whose sons? Yours, Mahmood? Yours, Asnil? No! The sons of Ramazad!’ He beat his breast for emphasis. ‘My son Zeman is dead and I, Ramazad Khan, will avenge him. I know who kill him. Soldier with red hair who kill my two eldest sons now kill my third and last son. I will nail his . . . skin? . . .’ Halima hesitated.

‘Hide,’ Lily whispered.

‘. . . to the gate of Mahdan Khotal. Red hair soldier and all ferenghi soldier from fort. But this is
my
badal and I do not bring it on the tribe. Leave Ramazad’s badal to Ramazad! Iskander does not think. He has done great wrong to the tribe. We are all now in danger.’

This last pronouncement of the Malik’s was accompanied by the casting upwards to the sky of a fearful eye. ‘Jeez!’ thought Lily. ‘Can this guy ever ham it up! And now he’s got them eating out of his hand. By promising to take the load of retribution on his own shoulders – spiking poor old James, I guess I mean – he leaves the tribe free to look after their own concerns without losing face and avoid a showdown with the British Army and Air Force. But this isn’t looking good for Iskander. The orphan with no close relation to speak up for him. No one but his sister and she can say nothing! He’s going to make
him
carry the can!’

Halima seemed to have come to the same conclusion. When Iskander attempted to speak he was hooted down and fists were shaken. Icily proud, he fell silent and shrugged a shoulder. An outbreak of shouting and argument followed and finally the Malik intervened, the respected chairman bringing the meeting to order. He appeared to propose a motion and Lily looked enquiringly at Halima.