Barbara Cleverly - The Damascened Blade

He shouted down into the courtyard and at once horses were led out and mounted Scouts were forming up.

Twenty minutes later, Joe and James rode out through the main gate of the fort at the head of a small escorting group. ‘We won’t hurry,’ said James. ‘We’ll just amble out to greet them, looking at the view and chatting of this and that as we go. Don’t want to assume the character of an official delegation. This is just a private arrangement between Grace Holbrook and the Amir and we’re doing what we can to help them. No more than that.’

Squinting into the sun dipping behind the forbidding khaki bleakness of the Khyber, Joe took out a pair of binoculars and focused on the riders coming on towards them. They presented an alluring blend of banditry and military precision. They advanced under a haze of fluttering battle standards. They seemed to be a regular army force down to the waist but irregular frontier raiders below that. Chestnut silk turbans, loose khaki tunics, patch pockets, cross belts and aiguelettes with, below them, baggy trousers and tall boots. Many were armed with spears which, taken in conjunction with the fluttering flags, managed to give an air of a medieval force. All, Joe noticed, were equipped with bolt-action rifles as good as anything carried by the Scouts. Their air of efficiency and menace was not lost on Joe. This was no carnival army.

‘Friendly enemies, would you say? Or hostile allies?’ he murmured to James. ‘Are you sure we’re not still at war with these gentlemen?’

‘The third – but I suspect not the last – Afghan war was over three years ago and we signed a peace treaty with the Amir only last year.’ James paused for a moment and added, ‘But I’ll remind you of an old Pathan proverb shall I? “When the peace treaty’s signed – that’s when the war starts.” And I’ll tell you something else – they’re not coming into the fort! Plenty of them have got scores to settle with the Scouts and plenty of Scouts would welcome above all things an opportunity to have a go at them. They can camp on the football ground for tonight. We can board them but I’m damned if I’ll lodge them as well. Far too volatile! Hell’s bells! Shouldn’t have let this happen! But then what could I do? Could you get me a job in London, do you think, Joe? This is all getting a bit delicate for me!’

They threaded their way through the irrigated, crop-green land beyond the walls which served both as a clear field of fire, vegetable garden and orchard for the fort and ambled on. The two troops closed until they were a hundred yards apart. The leading Afghan raised a hand and his men came to a halt. Escorted by one man riding at his side and a little behind, the leader came on at walking pace, mounted on a tall grey Khabuli stallion. To Joe he seemed a very impressive figure. Young and handsome with dark eyes and a heavy black moustache, he turned a direct and enquiring gaze on them. Over one hip was slung a Mauser pistol and over the other a jewel-encrusted Persian dagger.

James surveyed the newcomer through narrowed eyes.

‘Who’s this, James?’ Joe whispered, curious and intrigued.

‘Zeman Khan!’ said James. ‘Very prominent local citizen. Nephew – or is it cousin? – of the Amir. About twenty sons and brothers between him and the throne but that’s not a formidable barrier in Afghanistan.’

‘What – you mean…?’

‘Oh, yes. The Afghan royal succession makes the last act of Richard the Third look like the Teddy Bears’ Picnic! The present Amir owes his position to the fact that someone shot the top off the head of the previous one, his father, while he was asleep. Some say Amanullah knows more about that than he lets on and others say it was a nephew who killed him. We only care in so far as the present incumbent is not unfavourable to the British and discourages any Russian incursion from the north. Not sure where Zeman Khan stands though.’

He halted the escort and rode forward with Joe. ‘Having said all that, I’ll add that I wouldn’t trust him one inch. He’ll be staying with us tonight – guest of honour, you might say – and he won’t have his eyes shut! He’ll be looking; he’ll be evaluating. He’ll see what we’re up to. He’ll note the number of men we have, the quantity and quality of our armament. He’ll count the pea-shooters and the catapults. Nothing I can do about it. I’ll just have to make it plain that we know what he’s up to and we’re so confident we don’t need to worry too much about a spy in the camp. I’d stick him down with the rest of his bandits on the football ground if I could but that would be a hideous social gaffe.’

He cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted in Pushtu and the oncoming horseman did likewise. Judging by the ribald laughter from both sides which greeted this exchange, it had been one of practised and amiable insult.

‘God!’ thought Joe. ‘I wish I could do that!’

With outstretched hands the men advanced to each other. James spoke again in Pushtu then in English. ‘Let me present Zeman Khan and this is my friend Joe Sandilands.’

The black eyes looked him up and down, resting briefly on Joe’s scarred forehead and the row of medal ribbons on his jacket. They took in the unfamiliar police uniform, showing slight surprise that Joe was unarmed. Zeman Khan smiled and extended a hand. ‘How do you do, Sandilands? I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I had heard that you were in Simla but never expected that I should have the pleasure of meeting you here. May I welcome you to this backward and flea-bitten annexe to the mighty British Empire?’

The voice was low and smooth, the accent pure British Public School. Joe mastered his astonishment and replied, ‘I am flattered that the distinguished Zeman Khan, so close to his Highness the Amir, would condescend to know the name of so humble an individual as myself.’

They looked at each other for a moment and then began to laugh. ‘Of course,’ said Zeman, ‘we should be speaking in Persian which is the language of elegant diplomacy but I will settle for the more comprehensible though less elegant language adopted from the conqueror.’

‘Conqueror?’ said James. ‘Rubbish! You’re wasting your time, Zeman! You won’t fool Joe!’

Zeman flashed a slim silver cigarette case from his pocket and held it open to them. ‘Russian cigarettes, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘but supplies have been rather interrupted of late.’

‘Relief is at hand, Zeman,’ said James easily. ‘I’ve arranged for two hundred Players Medium to be brought out for you. We are as aware of melmastia and the sacred ties of hospitality as you are.’

Joe had a clear impression that in these few brief exchanges between two practised duellists they had covered an agenda which politicians would have wrangled over for a week.

‘Your charge, Dr Holbrook, is not expected until tomorrow, Zeman, so this will give you time to rest and recover from your journey and for us to enjoy your company. We hope that you and your aide,’ he smiled towards the officer escorting Zeman, ‘will consent to be our guests in the fort for the next two nights at least. We are expecting other guests to arrive with Dr Holbrook’s party and I’m sure you will be happy to meet them.’

‘My aide,’ Zeman said, waving a hand at the young Pathan at his side, ‘Muhammed Iskander Khan, and I will be delighted.’

Joe looked again at Iskander Khan. Watchful but not unfriendly green eyes looked back at him. He was a pale-skinned Pathan, one of the tribesmen who claim that their colouring comes from the ancient line of Alexander the Great whose Macedonian army had passed through these hills two thousand years before. His brown hair was bobbed and curled, wind-blown around his turban, his nose, like Zeman’s, was magnificent, but he was cleanshaven and lacking the luxuriant moustache.