Metal Emissary (9 page)

The tent shook. Bryullov looked up and listened for the wind. The flaps of the entrance whipped against the canvas sides followed by a bedroll and blankets knocking the Russian’s aerial to one side. Bryullov reached beneath the blankets to pull the aerial behind his back. The box he slid beneath his thigh.

“Move over,” Najma stuck her head inside the tent. “There will be no need to tell my father as you will not touch me.” Najma crawled into the tent dragging the jezail behind her. “It is too cold to be sensible on the mountain.” Bryullov pulled the saddle bag behind his back and lay it flat on top of the aerial. He pushed the box behind his back. “What? You have nothing to say?”

Bryullov laughed. “Welcome, Najma, to my humble home.”

“
Your
home?” Najma sat back on her heels. “This is
my
tent.”

“And you are welcome inside it.”

Najma thrust her hands under her armpits and glared at the Russian. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

She frowned. “I will sleep now.”

“Yes,” Bryullov pointed at the jezail, the stock sticking out of the flaps of the tent door. “Is that going to stay there?”

“Yes,” dragging the barrel of the rifle with her, Najma rolled onto her side.

“Goodnight, Najma,” Bryullov lay down on his bedroll. Pulling his blanket over his body, he locked the box before slipping the key and its chain over his head and around his neck.

҉

Jamie opened one eye and peered into the nut-brown face of a small child pressing his nose against Jamie’s cheek. Opening his other eye Jamie glanced around the tent to see a woman adding more fuel to the fire. Jamie recognised the boy as the one he plucked from the debris in the road. “Is he yours?” Jamie asked the woman as the child tugged at Jamie’s ear.

“Mahdy,” the woman dumped the bundle of sticks in her arms. They clattered onto the ground as she crossed over to Jamie and lifted the child from the lieutenant’s chest. Jamie felt his cheeks flush warm at the sight of the woman.
So beautiful,
Jamie flicked his eyes away from the woman’s face.

Jamie listened as the woman spoke to the child. Setting Mahdy down on the ground she approached Jamie and pointed at his thigh. Making a scrubbing motion with her hands she pointed to a pot of water steaming over the fire. His throat too dry to talk, Jamie nodded.

Retrieving the pot, the woman fingered cloths into the water. The smell of citrus leaves drifted out of the pot, mingling with the musty smell of the canvas. Jamie propped himself up on his elbows and watched as the woman unwrapped the bandage around his thigh. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of Jamie’s wound and scolded him in a language of which Jamie understood little but the furrows in her brow.

Jamie stared at the woman, her almond skin framed within shiny black fronds of hair. The woman stared back at him, the flames of the fire dancing in the wide pupils of her brown eyes. Pressing a warm cloth upon the wound she tugged at the ragged hole in Jamie’s trousers and cleaned the blood and pus from the hole in his leg. Jamie flopped back onto the blanket and gritted his teeth. Three times she pressed the cloth into the wound before tapping Jamie’s leg for him to roll over. The woman cleaned the exit wound on the back of Jamie’s thigh. When she was finished she bound the wound tightly, pushed the bowl to one side and sat back on her heels. The boy rushed past Jamie and crawled onto his mother’s lap as Jamie sat up. She tousled the boy’s hair as she stared at Jamie.

“Thank you,” Jamie mumbled. It had been a long time since he had seen a young woman. Never before had he seen someone so thoroughly exotic. He swallowed. “Who are you?”

The woman kissed the top of the boy’s head and lifted him onto his feet. She smoothed her palm on his cheek as he protested, gave him the bowl of water to carry.

In the heat of the tent, Jamie tugged off his greatcoat. The woman froze at the sight of the lace wrapped around his bare forearm, just below the torn sleeve of his grubby shirt. She dropped to her knees at Jamie’s side and reached out to touch the bloody lace. Her fingers stopped short but a hand’s width from touching. The woman’s eyes misted. She stood, gripped the boy by the arm and rushed out of the tent without another glance at Jamie.

“Hey,” Jamie tried to stand. He slipped on the sheepskin and slumped onto his back.

“What are you doing, British?” Hari bustled into the tent, dumping Jamie’s pack and rifle case on the ground at the lieutenant’s feet. “Where are you going?”

“There was a young woman.”

Hari placed a hand on Jamie’s forehead. “Are you sick? What woman?”

“The one with the child.”

“There is no one here, British,” Hari took a step back and regarded Jamie, his eyes scanning Jamie’s face from beneath his wool cap. “Truly, you
are
sick.”

“I am not sick, Hari,” Jamie pushed himself into a standing position and wobbled upon his feet. “Hand me my rifle, man.”

“Your rifle?” Hari took another step back. “Why?”

“So I can lean on it. Damn it, Hari. What are you playing at?” Jamie lowered himself to the ground and sat on the blanket. “There
was
a woman,” he gesticulated with open palms. “She cleaned my wound, Hari. And now she is gone. She left the tent right before you came in.”

Hari stared at the clean bandage around Jamie’s thigh. “Yes. Okay, British.”

“Never mind,” Jamie nodded at his pack. “Did you have any trouble finding my stuff?” he pointed at the blanket beside him and Hari sat down.

“No problem. It was right where you said it would be.”

“Good,” Jamie sighed. “Thank you, Hari.”

“It is my pleasure, British.”

“So,” Jamie looked around the tent. “What do we do now?”

“We rest.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, we hunt.” Hari made himself comfortable on the blanket, helping himself to chunks of roasted goat meat and maast. He stopped chewing when Jamie tapped his leg. “Do you want some, British?”

“Did you bring it with you? Without offering me any?” Jamie shook his head. “Hari, after all we have been through together.”

“It was here, when I arrived. You did not see it?”

“No, I did not,” Jamie shrugged. “I had the soup.”

“The soup? Truly?” Hari shook his head and laughed. “You are brave, British.” Hari passed Jamie the plate of food. They ate until the plate was empty and the fire crackled low in the centre of the tent.

Wiping his hands on his shirttails, Jamie reached around his neck and removed a locket. “I want to show you my mother,” he opened the locket and handed it to Hari.

“She is pretty. Is she still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Jamie took back the locket. “She was sleeping when I stole this from her bedside table. I never saw her again. I had planned to sell it, but...”

“You stole from your own mother? Truly?”

“Yes, Hari,” Jamie lifted the locket and chain over his head and let it hang around his neck. “I blame my father, he taught me to drink,” he looked at Hari. “Do you drink, Hari?”

“Water? Of course, British.”

“Not water, Hari. Spirits. Alcohol. Rum.”

“Ah. I understand. No, British. I do not drink.”

“That’s good, Hari. It is evil stuff. It took my father, and it nearly took me. If it wasn’t for the Admiral...”

“Egmont?”

“Yes. He sorted me out. Although, I never did see my mother again.”

“And now, British? Do you still need a drink?”

“No, Hari. I don’t even drink the Queen’s rum,” Jamie paused. “But I can still taste it.”

Outside, the wind whipped at the tent tails and brushed the snow free of spices and all signs of the metal emissary as it continued along the banks of the
Cabool
River in the direction of the city of Adina Pur.

Chapter 6

The Cabool River

Afghanistan

December, 1850

Jamie woke to the sound of Hari rummaging in his pack. Wiping his eyes with his forefinger, Jamie saw the items Hari had laid out in front of him. Two powder horns, a leather pouch of musket balls and a bag of kindling. Hari found space for them all in Jamie’s pack, along with bundles of dried meats and pastries wrapped in thin leather wafers.

“Is that from our hosts?” Jamie rolled onto his side. He kneaded his left thigh with his palm. The bandage was still tight and showed only the smallest amount of blood that had seeped through the layers of cloth during the night.

“Yes,” Hari smiled. “Good morning, British.”

“Hari,” Jamie pushed himself into a sitting position, the course fibres of the blanket scratching at his palms. “How many times must I tell you that my name is Jamie?”

“Many times, British.”

“Why must you insist on calling me that?”

“British?” Hari weighed a sack of musket balls in his hand. “Because that is what you are.”

“But it does not define me, Hari.” Jamie reached for his rifle. Placing the butt of the stock firmly on the ground, he pulled himself onto his feet. Hari dropped the leather bag of lead and helped the lieutenant stand.

“Here, in the Khyber Pass and the plains before, after and surrounding the mountains, being British is who you are. The man within,” Hari prodded Jamie in the chest, “will never be reached. You can thank your queen for that.”

“She’s your queen too, Hari.”

“Truly, she is,” avoiding Jamie’s eyes, Hari steadied the lieutenant before taking a step back. Satisfied that he would keep his sea legs, Hari returned to finish packing Jamie’s pack.

“What about you, Hari? You are not really a mystic?”

“No,” Hari looked up at Jamie and winked. “It is a disguise.”

“You’re in disguise?” Jamie nodded. “Okay. I understand that. Can I ask you something else?”

“Yes, British.”

“You never told me how you knew I was coming through the pass. Not the whole story,” Jamie shifted his weight onto his left leg, pressing his foot flat on the ground.

“It is not important,” Hari fastened the lid on Jamie’s pack. He stood up and tested the weight. Rearranging his robes and the shirt he wore beneath, Hari cinched the straps tight under his arms. “I will carry this today.”

“Who is Smith, Hari?”

“My master,” Hari shrugged the pack onto the ground and searched for his satchel. Finding it close to the fire he emptied the contents onto a blanket and sorted through them.

“And does Smith answer to London?”

“London?” Hari laughed. “Calcutta is now the true seat of power in the British Empire.” Hari unscrewed the lid of a tin can and sniffed its contents. He replaced the lid and collected the few items together, stuffing them into his satchel. He looked up at Jamie. “You said yourself, British, when the Royal Navy were defeated at Trafalgar, they left a gap to be filled.” Hari shrugged. “The East India Company filled that gap with her fleet and saved Her Majesty’s Empire.”

“Not all of it, Hari,” Jamie said quietly. “We lost a lot of North America.”

“Pah, who needs the New World, British? The east is far more interesting and far richer.” Hari placed his palm flat on his chest and closed his eyes for a moment. Opening his eyes he picked up the tin can and held it before Jamie. “Was not the Empire built upon spices and such?”

Jamie walked a careful route around the inside of the tent. “What about Smith? Was he a good master?” The pain in Jamie’s thigh subsided as the muscles in his leg warmed with each circuit he walked around the fireplace.

“He is a good man,” Hari sat back on his heels. “He trained me and my fellow pundits. Of course, his first lesson was that of utmost secrecy. A good pundit might never reveal his true identity,” Hari sighed. “Mr. Smith would be most disappointed in me.”

“I find that hard to believe, Hari,” Jamie placed his hand on Hari’s shoulder as he passed him. “You are loyal and trustworthy and perhaps the first real friend I have made.”

“You are kind to say so, British,” Hari clasped Jamie’s hand, released it and stood up. “We must be leaving soon. The emissary will not stop. If it delivers its message before we can intervene, who knows what the Shah will decide to do,” Hari sighed. “I am sorry to say this, British, but there are many other, stronger suitors to Central Asia than your own countrymen. It may not go well for you.”

“I understand, Hari,” Jamie rubbed his thigh. “But my mission is not diplomacy. I am fact-finding. Egmont sent me to verify a rumour and perhaps explain what went wrong at Trafalgar.”

“I see,” Hari paused at the sound of the tent flaps opening. “Of course, if the Shah ignores the emissary, and if Corporal Mint is right...” Hari fell silent at the thought.

The light of the morning sun blinded both men as the young woman of the previous night entered the tent carrying a lantern in one hand and a bundle of firewood under her arm.

“You are not sick after all, British.” Hari bowed as the woman knelt by the fire.

The woman tumbled the sticks and branches onto the ground as she arranged the kindling in the coals and ashes inside the circle of blackened stones. She ignored Hari, only once did she glance at Jamie before making a tipi construction of small sticks. Jamie felt the rush of warm blood to his cheeks.