Veils of Silk (59 page)

The Pathan who had spotted them was sitting on the ground, leaning lazily back against a mud wall as he sharpened a wicked-looking knife. When the strangers halted their horses, he got to his feet and ambled into the road, his expression not unfriendly but his long-barreled rifle lying over his arm. Laura would sooner expect to see a Pathan naked than without his jezzail.

Ian nodded politely and gave the Pathan greeting, "May you never tire." His beard grew quickly, and after a week without shaving, he looked like a genuine hillman, with only the details of his costume to mark him as a Punjabi rather than a Pathan. Wanting to appear as a man of peace rather than one searching for trouble, his own rifle was holstered on his saddle rather than slung over his shoulder.

"May you never see poverty," the villager returned.

Knowing better than to ask immediately for what he wanted, Ian began a rambling discussion. Fortunately the Pathan spoke a form of Urdu. Though Ian himself was fluent in Pashto, the Pathan language, whenever possible he made his inquiries in Urdu so that Laura could understand. After touching on mankind's favorite topics, politics and weather, and agreeing that both weren't what they used to be, Ian said, "Tell me, brother, do you know a small pass through the mountains near here? I know of it as the Shpola Pass, though it may have other names."

The Pathan's eyes narrowed. "It's scarcely a pass—more like a path for marmots, which is why it's almost never used. If you want to go through the mountains, take the Khyber. It's not worth risking the Shpola to save a few coins."

"Only the Shpola will do." Ian touched his eyepatch and launched into the story he had been using. "A
hakim
, a doctor, told me that he could make a salve that would restore sight to my eye, but he needed an herb that grows only in the Shpola Pass. A winter herb, tiny and bitter."

"And you believed him?" The Pathan snorted. "Precious little grows in the Shpola, and I've never heard that it included magical herbs."

Ian looked shamefaced. "No doubt you're right, but, well, there's this woman I would wed. She favors me, but for the eye. Says she'll only marry a man with two good eyes. No other hakim holds out any hope. The trip has been long and likely a waste of time—but the lady is very beautiful."

The Pathan gave a coarse guffaw. "If you're mad enough with love to go up there, I might be able to find the way."

Recognizing his cue, Ian dug a coin from his pocket and tossed it over. "Allah's blessings on you, brother."

For the first time, the Pathan glanced at Laura. "Good-looking boy. Where's he from?"

"A Gharhwali, from the eastern hills. Not very bright, but a good servant. He claims he'll know the herb when he sees it."

Curiosity satisfied, the Pathan said, "Follow me." Turning, he trotted through the village, then took them up a track so steep that Laura and Ian had to dismount and lead the horses. In keeping with his role as master, Ian didn't spare Laura a glance.

The Pathan moved with amazing speed and stamina. After two hours of following him deeper into the mountains, Laura was exhausted. The snow-capped peaks were still sunlit but the lower reaches were in shadow when the Pathan finally halted at the foot of a narrow track. "Follow this path around the mountain, and it will take you into the pass. Once you're there, you can't get lost, for there's no place to turn. Unless there has been a recent rockslide you'll be able to get your horses through, but it will be slow going. When you descend on the other side, you'll be about an hour east of the village of Shpola."

"I don't intend to go that far. Allah willing, I'll find what I'm looking for and soon be on my way home." Ian gave him another coin. "Wish me luck, brother."

"You'll need it." The Pathan gave a crack of laughter. "If you fail, remember that there are other beautiful women in the world." He turned and bounded down the mountain like a goat.

Closing up behind Ian, Laura muttered, "Not very bright, but a good servant?"

He grinned. "I got that reversed. Should have put it the other way around."

After a few minutes of riding, they came to a relatively level and protected patch of ground. Ian pulled in his horse. "Water, fuel, and forage. We won't find a better place to camp, so we might as well stop here. It's getting late and the path is only going to get worse ahead."

Laura dismounted, creaking in every joint, then surveyed her surroundings. Though it was the best campsite they were likely to find, it was still incredibly bleak, consisting mostly of cold, gray, tumbled rock. "This looks like the scraps God had left after creating the rest of the world."

"It's hard country, which is why it produces hard men." Ian dismounted and tethered his horse in a spot between two boulders that offered some protection from the abrasive wind. "I hope our guide has brought us to the right place. I have the itchy feeling that we're running out of time."

As she tethered her horse, she said, "Will we go all the way through the pass?"

"No. The Khyber is something like thirty-three miles long, and I suspect that the Shpola may be longer. Going the whole length and then back would take two or three days if the path is bad, and we can't afford that much time. We'll go into the pass far enough to make sure that it's what we're looking for, and to get an idea what conditions are like." He unlashed his saddlebags and swung them from his horse. "If we're really lucky the pass will be closed by snow, but there's a good chance that the elevation is low enough so that it stays open through all but the worst winter storms. The Khyber is like that."

"Then what?" Laura asked as she unloaded her own horse.

"We head back into the Punjab and hope that soon we'll run into Company troops marching to relieve the fort at Jallalabad." He unhitched his saddle and removed it from the weary horse's back. "I'll identify myself, guide a company or so up here to insure that no Afghans will use this as the royal road to India, then you and I head to Bombay. As I said, a simple, not very dangerous mission. My favorite kind."

Laura shivered and hoped it was from cold, not a premonition that they
wouldn't get through this so easily. After settling her horse for the night, she
made a fire with the fuel Ian gathered, then prepared a simple supper of tea and
chapatis wrapped around fried onions and melted goat cheese. It wasn't half bad, she decided. Nothing like hunger to sharpen the appetite.

Night fell quickly, and so did the temperature. As they split the last of the tea between them, she began shivering in earnest. "After this, Falkirk is going to seem tropical."

"Come over here and I'll warm you up," Ian said.

She looked at him doubtfully. "Now? Here?"

He chuckled. "What a lewd mind you have. I was speaking literally, not euphemistically."

Laura circled the fire to where he was perched on a low rock. When she joined him, he turned her around so that she was sitting on the ground between his legs with her back tucked cosily against him. "Mmm, much more comfortable than the rock I was on." With a sigh of pleasure, she relaxed against his warm body. "You mentioned in Manpur that you had worked as a political officer. Exactly what does that mean?"

He finished his tea and set the tin cup down, then wrapped his arms around her waist. "Political officers work directly with the natives, both for liaison and to gather information on what people are thinking and doing. They're often drawn from the army. The best can pass for natives."

Laura gave a nod of understanding. "So with your Persian childhood and language skills, you were a natural for such work."

"In skills but not temperament," Ian said ruefully. "A lot of the work is essentially spying. Though I was rather good at it, I didn't fancy a life of full-time subterfuge. Whenever the head of the political service asked me to join permanently, I refused. On the other hand, sometimes I found the life of an army officer—a few hours of drill and a lot of hours of sports, hunting, and gossip—a little tedious. That's why so many officers overindulge in drink or drugs. Not good—India tends to kill the overindulgent rather quickly. So, whenever I became too restless, I would volunteer for some political work, which is how I ended up in the Black Well." His voice lightened. "Next time I feel restless, I'll go for a swim."

Intrigued by this new facet of her husband, she said, "I can't decide whether you're a naturally direct man with a devious bent, or a devious man with a streak of compulsive honesty."

He chuckled. "Some of both."

They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the small fire. As it subsided into embers, Laura rested her head back against Ian's shoulder. "This is the warmest I've been all day."

"It will go below freezing tonight," he said. "There's enough fuel to keep a small fire going, but even so, we'd better sleep together for safety's sake."

When she stiffened a little, he said, "Just sleep." He tightened his arms around her but the embrace was protective rather than passionate. "You feel it, too, don't you? That under these conditions, with the threat of war hanging over India like the sword of Damocles, too much joy would be out of place."

"That's it exactly," she said, startled at how well he understood. "If I were personally threatened with death, I'd probably want to make love with you as often as possible in the time remaining. But this is different. With India on the verge of going up in flames around us, private passion seems selfish."

" 'To everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven,' " he quoted softly. " 'A time to kill, and a time to heal.' I forget the exact order, but 'a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing' are on the list."

Reaching back to her childhood Bible study, Laura went to the last lines of the famous passage. " 'A time to love, and a time to hate. A time of war, and a time of peace.' " After a pause, she said, "The dancing Siva means the same thing, doesn't it? Life's eternal cycle." After Ian agreed, she continued, "I'll be glad when the 'time for peace' returns, not to mention the 'time for embracing,' but I'm rather enjoying this opportunity to see you in action. Not many women have the chance to see their husbands like this."

"Most women wouldn't want it," he said dryly. "This is quite a honeymoon I've brought you on. Ever since we met, your standard of living has been declining, until now you're living like a hill bandit. Wouldn't you have preferred Paris?"

She laughed. "Wherever you are is the right place,
doushenka
."

He rested his chin on the top of her head. "While I'd prefer knowing that you were safe in Bombay, I must admit that I've rather enjoying this trek, too. I was only about five years old when my sister Juliet taught me never to underestimate the strength and determination of a female, but I'm still impressed by your stamina and good nature. Pyotr
Andreyovich would be proud of you." He kissed her temple. "And so am I."

Laura was sure that his words were making her glow brighter than the fire. Perhaps it was not the time to make love, but that didn't mean there was no love present, for every day she loved Ian more, even if he could not love her back in the same way. Perhaps Srinivasa had been right to say that there was no accidents and that she and Ian had been born to be together. He felt like the other half of her soul, and in a surge of optimism she saw their lives intertwined for decades to come.

The shiver she felt then
must
have been from cold.