Metal Emissary (12 page)

“I know where Hari is,” Jamie stared at Bryullov.

Bryullov turned the pistol in his hand. Glancing in the direction of the city he fiddled with the flintlock hammer. “Do you know what a djinn pit is, lieutenant?”

“No,” Jamie readjusted his leg to a more comfortable position.

“A djinn pit is a deep hole in the ground. Most of the larger cities have one,” Bryullov looked up at Jamie. “Djinn pits are nasty places. Smooth, vertical walls you can’t climb.”

“This is interesting, but why are you telling me this?”

Bryullov rested the pistol on his thighs and pulled a thin, square tin from his pocket. Prising off the lid, Bryullov dipped two fingers into the tin and smeared a brown paste onto his cheeks and neck. Working the paste into his skin he grinned at Jamie. “To add to my disguise,” Bryullov dipped his fingers into the tin. “We Russians are not as pasty as you, but I would not like to be mistaken for an Englishman when we reach the walls of the city.”

“No?”

“Djinn pits,” Bryullov winked. He squashed the lid on the tin and slipped it back into his pocket. Rising to his feet he peered past Jamie and down toward the city. “I think we had better get within the walls before nightfall. Look there, something approaches.”

Jamie turned to look over the wall. Placing his hands on the rough-hewn stone, he scanned the road for signs of Hari, but saw only a wake of splintered carts and goods strewn along the road. Caravaneers and traders picked their way among the debris salvaging what they could. Jamie turned to the east. A large cloud of dust caught his eye and he stared at the massive shapes obscured within. The cloud drifted slowly along the road in the direction of the city.

“We must warn them,” Jamie turned to Bryullov. He stopped short as the Russian lifted the pistol by the barrel and swung the handle into the side of Jamie’s head. Jamie slumped to the ground.

“We will, my friend,” Bryullov turned Jamie onto his stomach and searched his body. Running his hands inside the Englishman’s collar, Bryullov found Jamie’s locket and removed it. Bryullov opened it and stared at the picture of Jamie’s mother for a moment before stuffing the locket into his trouser pocket.

“What have you done?” Najma stood at the entrance to the hill fort.

“Najma,” Bryullov stood. Securing the pistol, Bryullov gripped Jamie by the left arm. “Help me put him onto the back of one of the horses. We are taking him to the Shah.”

Pulling Jamie’s arm up and over his own shoulder, Bryullov lifted the lieutenant and dragged him over to the horses. Leaning Jamie’s body against the horse, Bryullov struggled to raise both the lieutenant’s arms over the saddle.

“Help me, Najma.”

Moving to the opposite side of the horse, Najma tugged on Jamie’s wrists as Bryullov gripped his thighs and pushed him up and onto the saddle.

“Tie his hands together,” Bryullov brushed dust from his coat with his palm. Walking around the horse, he fished a dirty rag from beneath the saddle and stuffed it into Jamie’s mouth. Bryullov watched as Najma finished tying Jamie’s hands.

“I do not like this,” she scowled at Bryullov. “This is not right.”

Bryullov shrugged and turned away from Najma. A shadow flitting between the rocks higher up the path they had come caught the Russian’s eye. Bryullov pulled out his pistol and checked the pan was full and the musket ball had not slid out of the barrel. He walked away from the horses along the path.

“Where are you going?” Najma put her hands on her hips. “You are leaving me with him? Pah,” she shook her head. “You are no better than the British.”

“I am going to catch us some supper,” Bryullov waved without looking back.

Najma tightened the straps on the saddlebags, grumbling her way from one horse to the other.

Bryullov slowed as the path steepened. Eyes fixed upon the boulder several yards to the left of the path, he stopped when the boulder was in range of the pistol. A scuff of gravel trickled out from beneath the boulder and a small head with dark hair peeked out over the top. Bryullov took aim and fired. Rushing up to the boulder, he watched as the head disappeared. Bryullov slipped on the gravel, picked himself up and walked around the boulder. Sprawled on the ground, a dark hole emblazoned in his forehead, Khan Daarmak lay still as blood seeped from the back of his head onto the ground. Bryullov rubbed his beard with his left hand, slipping the pistol into his belt with his right.

“What was it?” Najma took a step off the path, her father’s jezail resting in the crook of her arm.

“Nothing,” Bryullov whirled and started down the mountainside to join her. “I thought I saw something but I missed.”

“Missed what?” Najma peered around the Russian as he tried to steer her down to the path. “Is that blood?”

“No, nothing,” Bryullov glanced at the dark stain spreading from beneath the boulder. “I took a piss.”

“When?”

“Gods, Najma. Enough. There is nothing there,” Bryullov steered Najma back onto the path. “Let us be rid of the Englishman and then I can take you on to Cabool.”

“Cabool is full of British. Why must we go there?”

“You wanted to go to Cabool. You have never been.”

“Now maybe I want to go somewhere else. Somewhere far away from here,” Najma stopped to look Bryullov in the eye. “I want to go far away from here. From all this,” she swept her hand across the desert and the mountains.

“Where do you want to go, Najma?” Bryullov stepped in front of her, turning her attention from the path behind them. “Where should I take you?”

Najma smiled. “Take me to Russia. I can be the second of your ten wives.”

Bryullov laughed. “Ten wives?”

“You have only one, do you not?”

“Yes, Najma, only the one.”

“And now you can have two.”

The cry of a hawk circling above the path turned Najma’s head. Bryullov placed his hand around her neck and pulled her lips close to his. Najma pulled back with a start. She raised her hand to strike.

“I will take you to Russia, Najma.”

“Now?”

“After the city,” Bryullov glanced at path behind them. The hawk circled lower and lower until it settled upon the boulder concealing the body of Najma’s brother. “But we must move quickly to reach the city before them,” Bryullov pointed at the cloud of dust breathing down the road to Adina Pur.

Najma’s cheeks dimpled as she lowered her palm and shoved Bryullov on the chest. “We must hurry, then,” she laughed, “if I am to be your second wife.”

Bryullov took Najma’s hand as they walked down to the lookout post. The hawk keened on the mountainside as it stalked around its master’s body.

Chapter 8

Adina Pur

Afghanistan

December, 1850

Subedar Major Khaled Nazari stopped Hari as he lifted his foot to enter the minaret. He pulled at Hari’s robes, smoothing them against the mystic’s waist and tucking them within the belt Hari wore outside his robes.

“Shah Orbalaye Bal, he permits me to say, is slightly deaf,” Nazari took a step back to appraise Hari’s attire. “When you address him, it is required that you do so clearly, without drawing undue attention to his hearing.”

“I will speak clearly for the Shah,” Hari nodded.

“One more thing,” Nazari lifted a finger. “Do not look at the wives of the Shah, and certainly not the fourth. It is not done.” Nazari turned to enter the anteroom of the minaret.

“Wait,” Hari tugged at Nazari’s shirt sleeve. “How will I know who is the fourth of the Shah’s wives?”

Nazari smiled. “Didn’t I just say
not
to look?” He waved at the guard at the door of the anteroom and signalled for Hari to follow him.

Persian blue tiles lined the walls of the circular chamber beyond the anteroom in which the Shah presided. Light from the windows in the adjoining rooms gave Hari the feeling that the minaret was larger than it appeared from the outside. He stopped as Nazari held up his palm. Peering around the commander, Hari saw the Shah seated upon a simple wooden dais elevated but a foot from the smooth white-tiled floor. Sweetmeats and pastries heaped upon flat, metal dishes covered the surfaces of low wooden tables on either side of the Shah. Hari licked his lips and bit at the hairs of his beard. The Shah’s wives were seated around the old man; Hari focused his gaze upon the European slave pouring water into an ornate glass on a round table on the shah’s left. Beyond the dais and the table, the room was bare.

“Shah Orbalaye Bal,” Nazari bowed. “May I present Hari Singh, a traveller bearing information.” Nazari urged Hari forward with a wave of his hand.

“I never told you my name,” Hari whispered as he passed Nazari.

“You didn’t have to,” Nazari winked at Hari.

“Hari Singh,” the Shah took a sip of water from the glass. “What brings you over the pass and into my modest lands?”

“Shah Orbalaye Bal,” Hari bowed, “your hospitality, your generosity,” Hari remembered to project his voice. Behind the Shah, the lips of one of the Shah’s wives twitched, creasing the corners of her mouth. Hari stared at the ceiling high above his head.

“Yes, yes, Hari Singh,” the Shah set the glass goblet on the table with a clang. “Why are you here? Does it have something to do with that,” the Shah waved his hand in the air in the direction of the royal courtyard. “Even I can hear that infernal noise.”

“Yes, Shah,” Hari lifted his head, careful not to meet the eyes of the Shah’s wife tittering behind his back. “I have followed the emissary in your courtyard for several days now.”

“Emissary? An emissary is in my courtyard? Then what is that thing?”

“That thing, Shah,
is
the emissary,” Hari bowed his head.

“Subedar Major,” the Shah beckoned to Nazari. “I was not informed that an emissary had arrived.”

“No, Shah,” Nazari approached the dais. “We did not know what it was when I sent you here, for your protection, Shah.”

“And this man, this
Indian,
” the Shah sneered as he pointed at Hari. “What do we know of him?”

“Hari Singh is known to me and to many of your subjects in the mountains and valleys, Shah. Although he has avoided the royal courts.” Nazari nodded at Hari as he looked up. “Hari Singh is in the service of the British, Shah...”

“The British? Don’t speak to me of them,” the Shah reached for his glass and took a long gulp of water. Slamming the glass onto the table, he shook his fist at Hari. “The British have Cabool. I will not tolerate a British man on my lands, much less my court.”

“Shah,” Nazari soothed, “It is true this man is in the service of the British, but so too is he in the service of the Shah.” He leaned forward and whispered in the old man’s ear. Hari bowed his head further as he heard every word. “This is the Indian Nightjar.”

“
This
man?” the Shah pointed at Hari. “The Nightjar?”

“Yes, Shah,” Nazari stood.

“Come forward, Hari Singh,” the Shah beckoned. He watched as Hari walked across the tiled floor and knelt before the dais. “Intrigue and wonder has often preceded you, Nightjar,” the Shah smiled. “Would that I could roam the mountains as you do.”

Hari caught the light twinkling in the Shah’s eyes. The Shah lifted his hand and the young wife behind him placed her hand in his. Guiding his wife around the dais, he pulled her gently to his side.

“I have told many tales of your exploits to my wives, but only Safiya is young enough to enjoy them.” Safiya leaned into the Shah’s body and kissed the parched skin on his forehead.

“I am honoured, Shah,” Hari bowed.

“Stop all that bowing,” the Shah dismissed Safiya and his six other wives with a clap of his hands. “Tell me about the emissary.”

“It wants to treat with you, Shah.”

“Yes, but who sent it?”

“It is the Germans, Shah,” Nazari sat down on the tiles by the side of Hari. “Hari says they are from the same part of the world as the British. I confess to having never heard of them.”

“Do not concern yourself,” the Shah waved his hand. “Why do these Germans send a machine instead of a man?”

“They sent a machine, Shah,
because of
this man,” Nazari pointed at Hari. “Few emissaries can avoid the attentions of the Nightjar. The British have done well to employ Hari to run interference in the mountains.”

“What do they want, Hari Singh?”

“I do not know, exactly, Shah, but I guess they want the same as all countries with eyes on Afghanistan, a passage to India.”

“Yes, yes,” the Shah nodded. “And what will your British masters say to that, I wonder?”

“They will not stand for it, Shah.”

“No, I do not imagine so,” the Shah looked up as a young warrior appeared in the doorway. “See to your man, Nazari.”

Nazari stood and beckoned the man to enter. “What is it Hadi?”

Hadi, a thickly-bearded lieutenant, bowed smartly before the Shah before delivering his message. “We have closed the gates, but a European, and a woman of the Pashtoo wish to enter.” Hadi paused. “They have a prisoner with them.”