Veils of Silk (58 page)

Meera clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "It isn't proper for a memsahib to dress like an Indian boy."

"Let's hope that no one will suspect that a memsahib would even think of such a thing," Laura responded. Having already donned baggy pants and light boots, she layered two enormous shirts over each other and tied them around her waist with a sash. Even with her breasts flattened by a close-fitting undershirt, she was beginning to appreciate Ian's remark that she didn't have the sort of body that was easily disguised as a boy's. Luckily it was late autumn; by the time she added a couple of loose coats to her costume, she would be thoroughly sexless.

Shivering in the chilly air, Laura put on the last coat. They had left the royal palace before dawn that morning and ridden south toward Bombay. Five miles from the city, they had veered off the main road and ridden into this dense thicket, where she and Ian were to change their identities. Meera had helped her apply stain to every visible bit of skin, then had braided her hair and tucked it around her head in a coronet.

Tying the turban proved tricky; it required a knack that she didn't have. A good thing she also had an all-encompassing burqa to wear when passing through towns. It would be more prudent to wear it all the time, but a burqa was a suffocating garment, with only a small square of mesh to see through, so she intended to avoid it whenever possible.

Laura thrust a scabbarded knife in her sash, then slung her rifle over her shoulder. "How do I look, Meera?"

Meera clicked her tongue again, her head shaking back and forth. Laura thought that meant failure until the girl said, "I would not know you for a ferengi, memsahib, nor a woman. Here, look at yourself in the mirror."

Laura caught her breath when she saw her image in the hand mirror. With her slanting eyes and stained skin, she looked like a genuine Asiatic. The skin dye even had the effect of making her eyes look darker, more brown than amber. From what Mongol ancestor had she inherited her eyes? Probably a Tartar warrior who had casually raped a Slavic woman. Europe and Asia met in Russia, and in Laura. For the next fortnight or so, she must draw on that ancestry and think like an Asiatic.

"Time to see how the men are doing," Laura said. They made their way through the bushes to the clearing where the horses were, Laura trying to walk like a man. In the clearing, Zafir and a
badmash
, the local term for a ruffian, were in the process of changing the saddles and harness from European to Indian.

Laura blinked, not believing her eyes. Though she knew the second man had to be Ian, she wouldn't have recognized him if she had passed him on the street. He had changed not only his clothing and skin color, but his whole demeanor. He no longer carried himself like an officer; in fact, he didn't even move like a European, though she couldn't define the difference. He had also discarded his black eye-patch for a cruder version in tan leather that was almost the same shade as his skin. Even the color of his other eye seemed different, less blue, closer to the gray tone sometimes found among fair Asiatics.

Ian turned and examined Laura critically. "Not bad," he decided, "as long as you don't get too close to anyone. You look rather like a Gharhwali."

"What are Gharhwalis?"

"A tribe from the foothills near Nepal. They have a fair amount of Mongol blood, but tend to be a little taller and lighter in build than Ghurkas." He chuckled. "If anyone questions your appearance, I'll say that Gharhwalis are also noted for their pretty girlish faces. No one will be the wiser, since I doubt many Gharhwalis are seen in these parts."

Laura checked her baggage, hoping she wasn't forgetting something vital. Though she was used to traveling very lightly by British standards, now their supplies were pared to the bone. Most of their possessions were going with Zafir, to be left at Habibur's with Meera, while they carried only basic provisions and ammunition, with nothing to identify them as Europeans.

Then it was time for the two couples to separate. While the men shook hands and exchanged a few last words, Laura hugged Meera and wished her Godspeed, then swung onto her horse. As they cut through the trees to the road, she felt vulnerable, shorn of her identity. Uncannily reading her mind, Ian said, "It's not too late to change your mind, Larishka. If you're having second thoughts, don't let pride stand in the way."

She gave him her best duplicitious smile. "Wouldn't dream of missing this trip,
doushenka
. After a fortnight or so of sleeping rough in the Himalayas, that drafty castle of yours is going to seem as luxurious as Rajiv Singh's palace."

"More spunk than sense," he said in a resigned tone, but the respect in his glance warmed her. She was intensely glad that she had insisted upon coming on this trip. Whatever happened, at least they would face it together.

As Meera cleaned up after breakfast, she gave her placid pony a glance of distaste. Though she had become accustomed to riding, the pace they had set the last few days had been bruising. In one way, she'd be glad to reach Habibur's. But only in one way.

She glanced over at Zafir, who was loading the pack pony. There was an odd kind of intimacy on this hasty journey, for in many ways they were behaving like husband and wife, each taking care of their share of chores, relying on each other. But that was the only intimacy, for Zafir was withdrawn, not the teasing man she had fallen in love with.

She got to her feet and scanned the ground to make sure that nothing had been forgotten. It was a pleasant little campsite, private and protected in a grove of trees well off the road. It was the last privacy they would have. Walking over to Zafir, she said, "We'll be at Habibur's today?"

He nodded. "We should be there not much after noon."

"Will you stay the night?"

He shook his head. "No, little dove. I'd like to, but I can't afford the time. Matters are grave, and a half day might make a critical difference."

She made a wry face. "I knew the situation must be perilous, for you haven't tried to seduce me once since we left Manpur."

That caught his attention and his abstracted gaze sharpened. "It would not be honorable to try when you are under my protection. Besides, you have made it clear that you are waiting for our marriage bed."

She lifted her head, her face stark. "Then I was sure we would have a marriage bed. But there is danger now. You are a soldier. You might be killed."

"It's possible," he agreed. "Danger is my job, little dove. If war comes, I must return to my regiment immediately. But if anything happens to me, you will have a place with my uncle for as long as you wish. Or if you choose to return to your own people, my aunt and uncle will help you."

"It isn't my own people that I want," she said vehemently. "It's you."

She moved close and laid a hand on his wrist, soft and graceful. "Perhaps you cannot spare a half day, but surely you can spare an hour?"

He stared at her, realizing that his lovely little dove had something specific in mind. She made it clear exactly what with her next sentence. "Give me something to remember, beloved," she whispered, raising her arms and sliding them around his neck.

He didn't need a second invitation. All the playfulness and teasing of their relationship fell away, leaving only this, the urgent need of a man and woman to be together. And as he kissed her, he knew that this was the ultimate reason men went to war. Not just for glory, or greed, compelling as those things were, but because of this fierce tenderness, the need to protect his home and woman, with his own life if need be.

As he laid her down in the soft grass, he knew that as urgent as his message was, this was equally urgent. Falkirk Sahib would not begrudge a man an hour with his beloved if it might be the only hour they would ever have.

Laura shifted stiffly in her saddle, thinking ruefully that Ian had spoken the truth when he said she'd be doing a lot of riding. This sort was nowhere near as enjoyable as the gallop they had had their last afternoon in the palace.

Though less than a week had passed, Dharjistan seemed like another world.

Ian had also taken Laura at her word that she could ride as well as any man, and he set a hard pace. They crossed the flat, dusty plains of the Punjab without incident. On the occasions when they went through a sizable town, Laura donned the dark, all-encompassing burqa and attracted no notice at all.

Occasionally Ian struck up conversations with villagers or other travelers, expertly extracting information without seeming unduly inquisitive. Word had spread of the British loss in Afghanistan, and it was a frequent subject of discussion. The Punjab had never been under British rule so the natives did not feel directly affected, but most took a certain malicious satisfaction in the downfall of the ferengis.

They were also very curious about how the Sirkar would respond. Laura, who listened but never spoke, could see for herself how critical the situation was. Weakness on the part of the British now could trigger an avalanche of opposition.

After three days of hard riding, they had entered the stony hills. It was the most desolate country Laura had ever seen, so barren that it was hard to see how anyone could live in it. The mountain peaks were covered with snow and everything else seemed to be jumbled rock, with only the most tenacious plants clinging to a precarious existence. No wonder the Pathans needed banditry to survive; for centuries, their chief source of income had been charging travelers for the right to pass unmolested.

Following the sparse clues in Pyotr's notes, Ian and Laura had swung south from the main route, which ran through the Khyber Pass. Now they had run out of information and were on their own. Though they must be within a dozen miles of the eastern end of the Shpola Pass, it would take months or years for them to find it without help. They must find someone who could guide them to it.

The trick was to find a guide before the location of the pass was revealed by an avalanche of Afghans.

Zafir could hardly believe his eyes when the dusky evening light revealed an encampment of Company cavalry just off the road. He squinted at
the banners snapping in the dry Punjabi wind. Allah be praised, it was even a regiment headquartered at Cambay, the 39th Native Lancers. A pity Zafir had no personal friends in the 39th because the regiment had only recently been posted to Cambay. Still, it should be easy to establish his identity, and finding a cavalry regiment already on the march to the northwest meant that several priceless days had been saved.

Zafir turned into the camp. When guards stopped him, he identified himself as a sepoy of the 46th Native Infantry and asked to be taken to the commanding officer of the regiment. The guard in charge sneered, "You think we allow any badmash that wanders in to see the Colonel Sahib? Be off with you."

Zafir hadn't expected this, and for a furious moment he was tempted to raise his rifle and force his way past the guards. But military discipline paid off, and he managed to repress his Pathan instincts. Instead, he snarled, "You misbegotten spawn of a pig and a scorpion, I am the orderly of Major Ian Cameron and I carry the future of India in my hands. Summon an officer!"

The guards conferred and Zafir heard the name "Cameron" mentioned several times. One man left, and the other said, "We'll see if you're telling the truth. Wait right here and keep your hands away from your jezzail."

For ten interminable minutes, Zafir paced restlessly. Then an authoritative voice said, "You have a message from Major Cameron?"

Zafir recognized the voice with a burst of relief. Turning, he saw David Cameron striding toward him.

The captain recognized him at the same moment. "Zafir—it really is you. Has something happened to my brother?"

"He was in good health when we parted, huzar, and if Allah is merciful he continues to be." Zafir extracted the papers from under his shirt. "Here is the major's message. I was to take it first to you, then to General Rawdon."

The captain opened it and skimmed it by the light of the guardpost lamp, his face hardening as he read. When he was done, he said, "Come along, Zafir. We're in luck— General Rawdon is traveling with
the 39th."

"Yes, huzar." When they were out of earshot of the guards, Zafir said, "Why are you with the 39th rather than the 46th?"

"Because I've been in Afghanistan and know Pashto. None of the officers of the 39th have such experience, so I was temporarily seconded to the regiment," the captain explained. "Word of the massacre in Afghanistan reached Cambay several days ago, along with the news that the fort at Jallalabad is besieged. Rather than wait for orders from Bombay, General Rawdon decided to dispatch reinforcements immediately. Several infantry regiments, including the 46th, are also marching this way, but of course they're several days behind."

"May Allah preserve Rawdon Sahib," Zafir said reverently.

"I resented being taken from my own men, but it appears that this will work out for the best." The captain looked at the message that he still carried, then shook his head. "Trust Ian to go off on his honeymoon and find a hornet's nest instead."

General Rawdon lived up to his reputation for decisiveness by instantly grasping the significance of this new information, then issuing orders to deal with it. First thing in the morning, a detachment of cavalry would leave and ride to the frontier at top speed with instructions to locate and close the Shpola Pass. And at his own request, David Cameron was placed in command.

They rounded a bend in the road and came on another small, straggling Pathan village, no more than half a dozen houses. Laura considered putting on the burqa, then saw that it was too late, for a man had seen them. She slouched in her saddle, trying to look tired and nondescript. It wasn't difficult. For several days they had been looking for a guide to the Shpola Pass, but without success. Though all of the men Ian had questioned had heard of the pass and several had a vague idea of the location, precise information had been lacking, or deliberately withheld.