When Lily had calculated they must be just about there they rounded a bend and came across a herd of sheep crossing under the care of their shepherd. This was a lad, small and still unbearded. He was wearing a tattered tunic and trousers and a felt hat decorated with two pink roses. He carried slung over his shoulder a gun so ancient it looked desperately dangerous but his reaction to finding the track blocked by a troop of warriors was instant. In one smooth movement the child had swung his rifle forward, sunk to his knees in the middle of the path and covered the front riders with an unwavering barrel. He rapped out a challenge, a challenge incongruous in his unbroken voice. The troop halted at once and Iskander answered the challenge. The boy was not satisfied and asked, apparently, for further information. Patiently and seriously Iskander replied and, after a moment’s consideration, the boy stood and lowered his rifle. Lily noticed that not one of the men laughed or said anything patronizing or even complimentary. The boy had done his job – he had behaved as they expected he would behave. She began to wonder what other surprises awaited her at her destination amongst these surprising people.
The little convoy wound on and the way grew narrower and the enclosing hills higher until the sky appeared only as a ribbon of blue, a ribbon of blue in which eagles ceaselessly circled above them. Fancifully, Lily thought that however efficient Fred Moore-Simpson might be a flight of eagles would be a good deal more effective than his little biplane.
Sometimes trotting but more often picking their way over stones they rode on. Dizzy from her sleepless night and choked with dust, Lily began to appraise her situation. ‘Well, I know for sure how I got here but I do wonder what I’m doing here in this moon landscape. This is… er… Saturday morning. To think – I could be partnering Edward Dalrymple-Webster at badminton if I’d stayed in Simla! Past – imperfect, present very far from indicative and future not simple, whatever else! I wonder what lies round the next corner?’
What lay around the next corner was predictable: a further narrowing of the gorge until they could only ride in single file, the thunder of a waterfall crashing down, it seemed, from the sky, the perpetual rattle of falling stones and the click of advancing hooves. The creak of saddlery and jingle of bits blended into a symphony of sound which to Lily’s dulled senses acquired a quality that was almost soothing and she hardly noticed that their way grew abruptly steeper as it led towards a saddle amongst the rocks.
Iskander came riding back towards her. ‘Miss Coblenz! Lily!’ he said with concern. ‘You’re nearly asleep! I’m sorry you’ve had this arduous journey. I’ve said it before and now I’ll say it again – a few more paces and you will see our journey’s end.’
He shouted to the men ahead of them and at his command they separated, leaving the way clear for Lily to ride to the head of the convoy and over the saddle. Here he waited for her and with a smile and a proud gesture pointed towards the land below. ‘Behold,’ he said, ‘Mahdan Khotal! The fort and the lands of my people welcome you.’
Lily sat back in her saddle with her hands on her hips. ‘What’s this you’re showing me? El Dorado?’ she said but, in truth, she was impressed, she was allured, she was even charmed by the landscape before her which was of orchards and cornfields, of peacefully grazing sheep and hastening streams, terraced cultivation and the tinkle of water blending with the tinkle of sheep bells.
Iskander was eyeing her intently. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Yes indeed! It’s perfectly lovely!’ said Lily, anxious to give nothing away, but all the same she saw this as a land worth fighting for and if necessary worth dying for. The hillsides were dotted with houses large and small, many with watchtowers enclosed within defensive walls. Folded with such skill into the hills that Lily was not at first aware of it was a considerable village, itself within a defensive wall, surrounding an interior fortress, large and forbidding, the home of Iskander and the home of Zeman.
‘We will ride in,’ said Iskander. ‘You have to meet the tribal chieftain. His wife died last year so you will be received by his new wife, Halima Begum. Don’t be alarmed.’
‘Why should I be alarmed?’ said Lily automatically.
‘You would be forgiven if you were,’ said Iskander smiling. ‘It must be very strange to you.’
They rode through the guarded gates in the outer enceinte and across a stretch of open ground the size of a parade ground to reach the central fortress. Everywhere crowds of people stopped to smile and shout and wave at them. The business of a thriving village was being conducted here – market stalls lined the shaded part of the walls, animals were being led about, water jugs carried, and the enticing and unmistakable smell of a bakery wafted towards her. Metallic clashing and a blast of scorching air as they passed might have announced a blacksmith’s forge but the shining new rifles and gun parts stacked outside hinted at a more sinister activity. Small children, boys and girls, ran about barefoot in the dust dashing dangerously close to the horses’ hooves in their eagerness to get a close look at the visitors.
As they approached, the fortress itself presented a truly forbidding appearance. The encircling mud brick wall appeared to be about six feet thick and about thirty feet high. It was crenellated and without windows. Lily became aware of square watchtowers on the battlements and massive corner towers. The defences were manned and the sun picked up from time to time the reflection of a rifle barrel. The massive iron-studded gate was closed and Lily began to feel very small as they advanced towards it. It creaked gently open to reveal a courtyard where, flanked by armed tribesmen, a bearded man sat waiting for them, as one carved from the surrounding hills in silence and immobile, controlling with a sinewy hand a white-eyed black stallion.
‘That,’ said Iskander superfluously, ‘is our chief, Ramazad Khan.’
Without a word of command being spoken her horse and that of Rathmore were taken in hand and held back to the rear of the troop. The men dismounted. The Khan dismounted. Lily and Rathmore did the same and small boys ran forward to gather up the reins and lead the horses away. With his men formed up behind him Iskander Khan sank to his knees and kissed the hands of his chief. They spoke to each other in what Lily judged to be a formal greeting. She looked closely at the impressive figure who was Zeman’s father and wondered whether the news of his son’s death had reached him or whether it was going to be Iskander’s duty to reveal it now.
For the first time in her enforced flight Lily felt true fear. She realized that until this moment she had been placing faith in Iskander’s reassurances that women were not harmed by the Pathan. She had been cushioned from reality also by the sense of her own status. Her father was unimaginably rich. Rich enough to buy up this whole territory, she estimated. Rich enough to buy his daughter out of any scrape she got herself into. And suddenly, here, in the middle of this wild country which obeyed no laws that she had ever heard of, her fate depended on the whims of this chieftain. Iskander, she felt certain, would never harm her but here he was before her eyes making obeisance to this formidable man. And, quite clearly, Iskander’s continued protection must be dependent on the chief’s decisions. What had James said about him? She thought she had overheard him telling Joe that he was a malicious old brute who hated the British. Would he know the difference between British and American? Would he care? Lily thought that they were probably all ferenghi to him.
She looked at him again and decided that James was probably not exaggerating. The Khan was quite obviously the father of Zeman, the likeness was striking, but where Zeman had simply worn a moustache this man had a full and long black beard streaked with grey. The hook-nosed profile was as handsome but where Zeman’s eyes had been full of merriment and cynicism his father’s eye was cold. He was as tall as Iskander; his back was straight, his movements lithe. In fact, he was every last inch a chieftain, thought Lily. And when he found out who she was and, even more pertinently, who Rathmore was, she guessed there was going to be trouble. Lily began to wish Iskander had taken them off to Afghanistan. She thought they would have had a better chance of survival with the Amir who sounded really rather a jolly little feller if Grace was to be believed.