She looked closely at Iskander. He too appeared to be uneasy with the Malik’s delivery and attempted to interrupt. He was at once called to order in very cold tones by Ramazad. Lily began to recognize that what she was witnessing was a power struggle within the tribe. She’d sat in on board meetings where her father had set out to fillet the opposition but this time she suspected she was rooting for the losing side. The old stag, heavy with antlers, was lowering them to ward off the challenge from the younger blood. And with the death of Zeman perhaps the way had become clear for Iskander. And perhaps this was resented by Ramazad?

The Malik began to gesture to the sky and his voice took on an edge of barely suppressed rage. ‘Ramazad say ferenghi have planes to bomb us. No soldier can take Mahdan Khotal – no soldier on the ground – but the soldiers who fly can destroy our fort. He say that Iskander bring the bombs on our heads. Rathmore who is Iskander’s hostage is big Khan in his country… ’ The Malik indicated Rathmore with a courteous gesture at which Rathmore rose and presented himself to the crowd with a small bow and the modest smile of an Englishman who has just hit a six.

Unconsciously, Lily seized Halima’s hand and the two women shared their anxiety and powerlessness in the clutch of cold, tense fingers. ‘Iskander wrong to bring death on the tribe. Ferenghi soldiers know hostages are here and attack from sky then, when walls are dust, attack from ground and finish us off. Remember what ferenghi do against Mahsud villages last year. And one of these hostages is a memsahib. This brings great shame on the tribe and great danger. Ferenghi fight more strong to get her back.’

A derisive shout went up from the crowd. ‘Our Malik is getting old! These are the fears of an old woman!’

‘Who’s afraid of the ferenghi? We’re not!’

‘How many sons must Ramazad lose before he takes badal?’

With a face of thunder Ramazad called for silence. ‘Whose sons are killed by ferenghi devil? Whose sons? Yours, Mahmood? Yours, Asnil? No! The sons of Ramazad!’ He beat his breast for emphasis. ‘My son Zeman is dead and I, Ramazad Khan, will avenge him. I know who kill him. Soldier with red hair who kill my two eldest sons now kill my third and last son. I will nail his… skin?… ’ Halima hesitated.

‘Hide,’ Lily whispered.

‘… to the gate of Mahdan Khotal. Red hair soldier and all ferenghi soldier from fort. But this is my badal and I do not bring it on the tribe. Leave Ramazad’s badal to Ramazad! Iskander does not think. He has done great wrong to the tribe. We are all now in danger.’

This last pronouncement of the Malik’s was accompanied by the casting upwards to the sky of a fearful eye. ‘Jeez!’ thought Lily. ‘Can this guy ever ham it up! And now he’s got them eating out of his hand. By promising to take the load of retribution on his own shoulders – spiking poor old James, I guess I mean – he leaves the tribe free to look after their own concerns without losing face and avoid a showdown with the British Army and Air Force. But this isn’t looking good for Iskander. The orphan with no close relation to speak up for him. No one but his sister and she can say nothing! He’s going to make him carry the can!’

Halima seemed to have come to the same conclusion. When Iskander attempted to speak he was hooted down and fists were shaken. Icily proud, he fell silent and shrugged a shoulder. An outbreak of shouting and argument followed and finally the Malik intervened, the respected chairman bringing the meeting to order. He appeared to propose a motion and Lily looked enquiringly at Halima.

‘Jirga decide,’ she said, hardly able to get the words out, ‘if Iskander be sent away.’

‘What? Sent away? Outlawed, you mean?’ Lily was incredulous.

She was never quite clear as to how the voting was conducted but after a very short time loud cries and yells broke out again and Iskander, with a face to freeze the blood, turned on his heel and stalked away. Lily didn’t quite like the congratulatory pat on the back Rathmore delivered to the Malik as he swaggered off.

Halima gasped, murmuring her brother’s name, and turned from the window to run from the room. As she turned she caught her foot in a pile of cushions abandoned by the children and fell with a crash to the floor. The women gathered round her at once, making sounds of concern and encouragement. They tried to raise her but she cried out in pain. At once the woman Lily had decided was the Malik’s sister took charge. Servants were summoned and Halima, moaning pitifully and gasping out terse orders, was carried from the room and placed in a smaller room next door.

For the rest of the day, Lily, unnoticed, could only sit anxiously in a corner of the common room watching the bustle as women hurried in and out with basins of hot and cold water, little chafing dishes in which burned strangely scented spices, piles of white linen cloths and trays of tea from which someone always remembered to hand her a cup. She tried once to sneak into the room where Halima was lying but was turned away in a polite but firm manner and she didn’t try again.

Her own situation was not looking very healthy either, she thought. In a surprisingly short time the only two people in the fort she felt any affinity with had both been put out of action. Iskander outlawed. Had he left already? Did the sentence have immediate effect and was there something she could do about that? And Halima in the throes of what exactly she wasn’t sure but it could be anything from sprained ankle to childbirth. So she was left to the mercies of that manipulative old Malik. ‘If I ever get out of this,’ she thought, ‘the first thing I’ll do is warn James Lindsay that the Malik has got his number. And that he’s gunning for any English soldier who puts his head above the parapet. And what was all that about the red-haired soldier killing the old brute’s two older sons? James? Does that sound likely? Well, that’s what soldiers do, I suppose. Bad luck though to lose three sons to the British.’

She flinched as Halima groaned again.

The cries and moans went on at intervals for the rest of the day and seemed to be growing in intensity. Lily watched as the Malik’s sister took a piece of paper from a pile on a table and wrote a note. This was handed to one of the children, the largest boy, and he ran off outside carrying it in his hand. ‘Notifying the boss,’ thought Lily. ‘So that’s their system.’ She was intrigued to see a few minutes later the lone figure of the Malik appear below the window. He began to pace about in the square and after one or two circuits he settled under the tree, looking up from time to time at the shadows that passed in front of the fretted window.

Lily eyed the pile of papers and the pencil on the table speculatively. It seemed this was the way the women communicated with the outside world. Not so very different from those little ‘chits’ the English women annoyed each other with in Simla. In the bustle no one noticed Lily sidle up to the table and help herself to a sheet of paper. She wrote a short note, folded it carefully and settled down to wait for the right moment. As two women attending Halima left – change of shift, Lily calculated – she went into Halima’s room. One girl still present and holding the hand of Halima who, eyes closed in agony, was sweating and writhing waved to her to go away. Lily played dumb for as long as she could and then slowly made her way back to the door. In the doorway she paused and called to the boy who was standing by and acting as messenger. She crooked a finger at him and, wide-eyed he approached.

‘Iskander,’ she said, tapping the folded letter. ‘Halima Begum… Iskander.’

The boy nodded in understanding, took the letter and scurried off. Lily settled by the window on watch.