Veils of Silk(143)

Ian nodded politely and gave the Pathan greeting, "May you never tire." His beard grew quickly, and after a week without shaving, he looked like a genuine hillman, with only the details of his costume to mark him as a Punjabi rather than a Pathan. Wanting to appear as a man of peace rather than one searching for trouble, his own rifle was bolstered on his saddle rather than slung over his shoulder.

"May you never see poverty," the villager returned.

Knowing better than to ask immediately for what he wanted, Ian began a rambling discussion. Fortunately the Pathan spoke a form of Urdu. Though Ian himself was fluent in Pashto, the Pathan language, whenever possible he made his inquiries in Urdu so that Laura could understand.

After touching on mankind's favorite topics, politics and weather, and agreeing that both weren't what they used to be, Ian said, "Tell me, brother, do you know a small pass through the mountains near here? I know of it as the Shpola Pass, though it may have other names."

The Pathan's eyes narrowed. "It's scarcely a pass. More like a path for marmots, which is why it's almost never used. If you want to go through the mountains, take the Khyber. It's not worth risking the Shpola to save a few coins."

"Only the Shpola will do." Ian touched his eye patch and launched into the story he had been using. "A hakim, a doctor, told me he could make a salve that would restore sight to my eye, but he needed an herb that grows only in the Shpola Pass. A winter herb, tiny and bitter."

"And you believed him?" The Pathan snorted. "Precious little grows in the Shpola, and I've never heard that it included magical herbs."

Ian looked shamefaced. "No doubt you're right, but, well, there's this woman I would wed. She favors me, but for the eye. Says she'll only marry a man with two good eyes. No other hakim holds out any hope. The trip has been long and likely a waste of time—but the lady is very beautiful."

The Pathan gave a coarse guffaw. "If you're mad enough with love to go up there, I might be able to find the way."

Recognizing his cue, Ian dug a coin from his pocket and tossed it over. "Allah's blessings on you, brother."

For the first time, the Pathan glanced at Laura. "Good-looking boy. Where's he from?"

"A Gharhwali, from the eastern hills. Not very bright, but a good servant. He claims he'll know the herb when he sees it."

Curiosity satisfied, the Pathan said, "Follow me." Turning, he trotted through the village, then took them up a track so steep that Laura and Ian had to dismount and lead the horses. In keeping with his role as master, Ian didn't spare Laura a glance.

The Pathan moved with amazing speed and stamina. After two hours of following him deeper into the mountains, Laura was exhausted. The snow-capped peaks were still sunlit but the lower reaches were in shadow when the Pathan finally halted at the foot of a narrow track.

"Follow this path around the mountain and it will take you into the pass," he said. "Once you're there, you can't get lost, for there's no place to turn. Unless there has been a recent rockslide you'll be able to get your horses through, but it will be slow going. When you descend on the other side, you'll be about an hour east of the village of Shpola."

"I don't intend to go that far. Allah willing, I'll find what I'm looking for and soon be on my way home." Ian gave him another coin. "Wish me luck, brother."

"You'll need it." The Pathan gave a crack of laughter. "If you fail, remember that there are other beautiful women in the world." He turned and bounded down the mountain like a goat.

Closing up behind Ian, Laura muttered, "Not very bright, but a good servant?"

He grinned. "I got that reversed. Should have put it the other way around."

After a few minutes of riding, they came to a relatively level and protected patch of ground. Ian pulled in his horse. "Water, fuel, and forage. We won't find a better place to camp, so we might as well stop here. It's getting late and the path is only going to get worse ahead."

Laura dismounted, creaking in every joint, then surveyed her surroundings. Though it was the best campsite they were likely to find, it was still incredibly bleak, consisting mostly of cold, gray, tumbled rock. "This looks like the scraps God had left after creating the rest of the world."

"It's hard country, which is why it produces hard men." Ian dismounted and tethered his horse in a spot between two boulders that offered some protection from the abrasive wind. "I hope our guide has brought us to the right place. I have the itchy feeling that we're running out of time."

As she tethered her horse, she said, "Will we go all the way through the pass?"