The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [648]
This time it had taken him longer to recover his senses, and when at last he swam slowly up out of darkness it was to find that although he could still hear a clamour of voices from the direction of the Residency the firing had stopped, and except for the dead the part of the compound in which he lay appeared to be deserted.
Nevertheless he made no immediate attempt to move, but lay where he was, conscious only of pain and an enormous weariness, and only after a lapse of many minutes, of the need to think and to act. His brain felt as sluggish and unresponsive as his muscles, and the sheer effort of thinking at all, let alone thinking clearly, seemed too great to make. Yet he knew that he must force himself to it; and presently the cogs of his mind meshed once more and memory returned – and with it the age-old instinct of self-preservation.
At some time during that final massacre the bodies that had lain above him had been displaced, and after a cautious trial he discovered that he could still move, though only just. To stand upright was beyond him but he could crawl, and he did so – as slowly and uncertainly as a wounded beetle: creeping painfully on hands and knees between the sprawled corpses, and making automatically for the nearest shelter, which happened to be the stables.
Others had had the same idea, for the stables were full of dead and wounded Afghans: men from the city and the Bala Hissar as well as soldiers of the Ardal and Herati regiments, huddled together on the reeking straw; and Ash, suffering from a combination of mild concussion, multiple bruises and mental and physical exhaustion, collapsed among them and slept for the best part of an hour, to be aroused at last by a hand that grasped his bruised shoulders and shook him roughly.
The pain of that movement jerked him into consciousness as effectively as though a bucket of snow-water had been dashed onto his face, and he heard a voice say, ‘By Allah, here is another who lives. Heart up, friend; you are not dead yet, and soon you will be able to break your fast' – and opening his eyes, he found himself staring up at a burly Afghan whose features seemed vaguely familiar to him, though at the moment he could not place him.
‘I am attached to the household of the Chief Minister's first secretary,’ supplied the stranger helpfully, ‘and you I think are Syed Akbar in the service of Munshi Naim Shah: I have seen you in his office. Come now, up with you – it grows late. Take my arm…’ The nameless Samaritan helped Ash to his feet and guided him out of the compound and towards the Shah Shahie Gate, talking the while.
The sky ahead was softening to evening and the far snows were already rose-coloured from the sunset; but even here in the smoke-filled alleyways between the houses the corporate voice of the mob was still clearly audible, and Ash checked and said confusedly: ‘I must go back… I thank you for your help, but – but I must go back. I cannot leave…’
‘You are too late, my friend,’ said the man softly, ‘your friends are all dead. But as the mob are now looting the buildings and will be too busy stealing and destroying to trouble themselves with anything else, if we leave quickly we shall do so without being molested.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Ash in a hoarse whisper, pulling back against the arm that would have urged him forward. ‘What are you?’
‘I am known here as Sobhat Khan, though that is not my name. And like you I am a servant of the Sirkar, who gathers news for the Sahib-log.’
Ash opened his mouth to refute the charge and then shut it again without speaking; and seeing this the man grinned and said: ‘No, I would not have believed you, for an hour ago I spoke with the Sirdar-Bahadur Nakshband Khan in the house of Wali Mohammed. It was he who gave me a certain key