At once Iskander took charge of Lily. ‘Follow me, Miss Coblenz. I will take you to your quarters.’
He strode off across the central square and Lily trotted after him.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.
‘Over there.’
He pointed to the far side of the square to a long two-storeyed building with a series of tall narrow windows running along it. Made of baked mud like the rest of the fort, it would have been ugly had its starkness not been relieved by a pretty balcony which ran the length of it and by the delicate tracery of the wooden screens which filled each window. Iskander waited at the closed door and very soon it was opened to them by a veiled woman. She greeted Iskander with great warmth, taking his hands in hers and drawing him inside. She slipped the gauzy rose-coloured veil from her face and looked at him with affection. A tall, light-skinned Pathan with green eyes and rich brown hair, she was beautiful and young and Lily, feeling travel-stained, small and awkward, wondered who she could possibly be.
The girl listened to Iskander explaining the appearance of the dusty little sparrow at his side, looking from one to the other in astonishment. Finally, ‘This is Halima Begum, the wife of our chief,’ he said. ‘Go with her, she will see to your needs.’ He turned on his heel and walked away, closing the heavy door behind him.
Halima Begum took Lily’s hand and spoke to her in a low, sweet voice and, to Lily’s surprise, in English. ‘How do you do, Lily? Please enter.’
Lily was relieved to be out of the sun and the dust but uneasy at the abrupt disappearance of Iskander who had been her lifeline for the past hours. Nervously she greeted Halima Begum and asked, ‘Is this the chief’s house?’
Halima hesitated for a moment and replied slowly, ‘All house here is chief’s house. This is harem house. You are in harem.’
Chapter Thirteen
James Lindsay set his binoculars down on the wall beside him and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ he grumbled. ‘Blasted Powindah! Always glad to see them of course but I’d rather they hadn’t chosen this moment to build an impenetrable dust screen across the Khyber! God knows what’s happening behind it!’
‘What might be happening behind it?’ said Joe, staring northward.
‘Anything!’ said James. ‘Anything in the world. Anything or nothing. Let’s go out and meet them, Joe. Whatever else they operate – and sometimes it’s better not to enquire too closely – they operate a damn good news service. Not much happens,’ he pointed, ‘not much happens over there without their knowing about it. If Iskander and his mates are on the caravan road to Afghanistan – and that’s the only road to Afghanistan – they’ll know where they are and what they’re up to. Care to come? I’m turning out a Mounted Infantry detachment anyway and they can escort us. Probably quite unnecessary but, as I say, you never know what’s happening behind the dust. Come on, Joe! A breath of far from fresh air won’t do us any harm. I’ll just tell Eddy what we’re up to. Betty too. Not feeling too good, poor old thing. This bloody country! Knocks you to bits in the end, even the stoutest.’
At the head of an MI detachment of thirty Scouts James and Joe clattered out of the fort together and made their way into the gut of the Khyber Pass and here they drew aside, halted amongst the rocks and settled down to watch. As the haze of dust blowing ahead of the caravan grew thicker, the noises also began to reach them: a weird dissonance of shouting men, braying donkeys, tinkling camel bells, the whole pierced by an occasional peal of wild girlish laughter and all underpinned by the dull, ear-numbing, earth-drumming pounding of thousands of hooves and hundreds of feet. Overwhelmed, Joe stared and stared again.
‘Not quite what you were expecting?’ said James.
‘I’ll say not! I was expecting – oh, a single file of camels and a few gypsy tribesmen. Not this . . .’ His voice trailed away as his eyes took in the ancient and barbaric splendour of the advancing caravan.
‘It’s a whole people on the move. They’re thousands strong and they’ve been nomadic since history began. They’re tough too. They follow the Silk Route, coming down from Samarkand and Bokhara and Kabul, trading all the way. Everyone they pass knows the caravan is full of goods they want for themselves. Some try to take them by force not by haggling in the prescribed manner and usually they end up dead. The Powindah men are hard bargainers but they’re harder on anyone who tries to steal from them or defraud them. You never know quite who you’re going to meet as you emerge from that mountain hellhole – could be Alexander the Great and a squad of Macedonians in a bad temper, a band of Moghul warriors on the rampage or – like today – just a couple of admiring chaps bringing gifts.’ He held up a gilt-wrapped package of Gold Flake cigarettes. ‘The mounted fighting men come first, you’ll see, followed by the young men of the tribe, all armed to the teeth, on foot, then the main caravan with protective outriders and a final rearguard. Oh, and you’ll see dogs. They roam everywhere and are trained to tear bits off anyone who so much as looks at them, so don’t engage their attention. Ah – here they come!’