The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [655]
‘Nor I you, Sahib,’ said Gul Baz. ‘And were it not that I have a wife and children in Hoti Mardan, and many relatives in the Yusufzai country, I would come with you to look for your kingdom – and maybe live there also. But as it is, I cannot. Nevertheless, we do not part tonight; this is no time for such as the Memsahib to travel through Afghanistan with only one sword to protect her. Two are better and therefore I will go with you as far as Kashmir, and having set you on your way, return from there to Mardan by way of the Murree road to Rawalpindi.’
Ash had not argued with him, for apart from the fact that he knew it would be a waste of breath, Gul Baz would be of invaluable help, particularly on the first part of the journey. They talked together for a little while longer before Ash joined his wife in the small inner room, where presently both had fallen asleep, worn out by the terrible strain of that long, agonizing day, and, on Anjuli's part, relieved beyond measure at the prospect of quitting the violent, blood-stained city of Kabul to set out at last for the familiar scenes of her childhood. Those vast forests of fir and deodar, chestnut and rhododendron, where the air smelled sweetly of pine-needles, wild Himalayan roses and maiden-hair fern, and one could hear the sough of the wind in the tree-tops and the sound of running water, and see, high and far away, the serene rampart of the snows and the white wonder of the Dur Khaima.
Thinking of these things she had fallen asleep, happier than she had been for very many days; and Ash too had slept soundly, and woken refreshed.
He left the house half-an-hour earlier than his wife and Gul Baz, for he had an errand to perform that did not call for the presence of any other person. Not even Juli's. He said goodbye to the Sirdar and went away on foot, armed only with the revolver that he carried carefully hidden from sight.
The streets were empty except for the rats that scurried along the gutters and a few lean, prowling cats, and Ash met no one: not even a night watchman. All Kabul seemed to be asleep – and behind barred shutters, for though the night was warm it was noticeable that few if any citizens had cared to leave a single window open, and every house had the appearance of a fortress. Only the gates of the citadel still stood wide and unguarded, the sentries who had been on duty when the Ardal Regiment mutinied having left their posts to join in the attack on the Residency and not returned, and when later ones had followed their example, no one, in the aftermath of the massacre, had thought to post fresh sentries or order the gates to be closed.
There was a lurid glow in the sky above the Bala Hissar, but the houses there, like those in the city, were barred and shuttered; and in darkness – save only for a few lamps in the palace, where the sleepless Amir consulted with his ministers, and the Residency compound where the Mess House still burned with a red glare that rose and fell and flared up again, giving the staring faces of the dead a curious illusion of being alive and aware.
The compound was as silent and deserted as the streets had been, and here too nothing moved except the night wind and the wavering shadows, while the only sound was the steady purr and crackle of the flames, and from somewhere beyond the wall of the citadel, a night-bird crying.
The victorious Afghans had been so occupied with ransacking the buildings and mutilating the bodies of their enemies, that sunset had come upon them before they were aware of it and they had not had time to remove all their own dead. There were still a large number of these lying around the stables and near the entrance to the compound, and it was not too easy to differentiate between them and those jawans who having been Mohammedans, and in many cases Pathans, wore similar clothing. But Wally had been in uniform, and even by that lurid, flickering light it had been easy to pick him out.
He was lying face downward near the gun that he had hoped to capture, his broken