Daughters of Destiny
An hour later one of the prince’s Afghans, selected because he spoke the English language, returned from the caravan to warn Allison that he was in grave danger. The night before a plot had been overheard to murder and rob the young man as soon as his friends had departed.
“If you shoot well and are quick with the knife,” added the Afghan, coolly, “you may succeed in preserving your life till our return. His Highness the Prince sent me to advise you to fight to the last, for these scoundrels of Quettah have no mercy on foreigners.”
Then Allison stared again, rather blankly this time, and the next moment requested the Afghan to secure him a horse.
Kasam was assuring the Colonel for the twentieth time that his son would soon rejoin them when Allison and the Afghan rode up at a gallop and attached themselves without a word to the cavalcade. And the Colonel was undecided whether most to commend the guide’s cunning or his son’s cautiousness.
This portion of their journey was greatly enjoyed by all members of the party. The doctor declared he felt more than ever like an explorer, and the Colonel silently speculated on all that might be gained by opening this unknown territory to the world by means of the railway. The distinct novelty of their present mode of progression was delightful to the ladies, and Aunt Lucy decided she much preferred a camel to an automobile. Even Janet’s pale cheeks gathered a tint from the desert air, and despite the uncertainties of their pilgrimage the entire party retained to a wonderful degree their cheerfulness and good nature.
At the end of four days they halted in a small village where Kasam intended them to rest while he alone went forward to Mekran to obtain their passports. For they were now upon the edge of the Khan’s dominions, and without Burah’s protection the party was liable to interference by some wandering tribe of Baluchi.
The accommodations they were able to secure in this unfrequented village were none of the best, and Allison began to grumble anew, thereby bringing upon himself a stern rebuke from the guide, who frankly informed the young man that he was making his friends uncomfortable when nothing could be gained by protesting.
“You cannot go back, and you dare not go forward without passports,” said Kasam. “Therefore, if you possess any gentlemanly instincts at all, you will endeavor to encourage the ladies and your father, instead of adding to their annoyance. When one travels, one must be a philosopher.”
“You are impertinent,” returned Allison, scowling.
“If I yielded to my earnest desire,” said the prince, “I would ask my men to flog you into a decent frame of mind. If I find, when I return, that you have been disagreeable, perhaps I shall punish you in that way. It may be well for you to remember that we are no longer in Europe.”
The young man made no reply, but Kasam remembered the vengeful look that flashed from his eyes.
Heretofore the prince had worn the European frock coat; now he assumed the white burnous of his countrymen. When he came to bid adieu to his employers before starting for Mekran, Bessie declared that their guide looked more handsome and distinguished than ever – “just like that famous picture of the Son of the Desert, you know.”
Kasam was about to mount his horse – a splendid Arabian he had purchased in the village – when a tall Baluch who was riding by cast a shrewd glance into the young man’s face, sharply reined in his stallion, and placed a thumb against his forehead, bowing low.
Kasam’s brown face went ashen grey. He gazed steadily into the stranger’s eyes.
“You are bound for Mekran, my prince?” asked the tall Baluch, in the native tongue.
“I ride at once.”
“Make all haste possible. Burah Khan is dying.”
“Dying? Blessed Allah!” cried Kasam, striking his forehead in despair. “Burah Khan dying, and our plans still incomplete! I have waited too long.”
“Perhaps not,” retorted the other, significantly. “It is a lingering disease, and you may yet get to Mekran in time.”
“In time? In time for what?” asked Kasam.
“To strike!”
Kasam stared at him. The tall Baluch smiled and shook the rein over his horse’s ears.
“I am of the tribe of Raab, my prince. May Allah guide you to success.”
Kasam did not reply. His head rested against the arched neck of his horse, and his form shook with a slight nervous tremor. But next moment he stood erect. The dazed look inspired by the bitter news he had heard was giving way to his old eager, cheery expression.
“All is not lost!” he said, speaking aloud. “Fate knocks, and I will throw open the door. Allah grant that Burah Khan lives until I reach Mekran!”
He sprang to the saddle, put spurs to his steed and dashed away at full speed into the desert.
“I hope,” said the Colonel, looking after him anxiously, “that nothing has gone wrong.”
CHAPTER III
THE PERSIAN PHYSICIAN
Burah Khan, known as the Lion of Mekran, Headsman of the Nine Tribes of Baluchi and Defender of the Faith, was, without doubt, a very sick man.
He lay upon a divan in the courtyard of his palace, propped with silken cushions redolent of the odors of musk. The waters of the fountain that splashed at his side were also scented with musk, and the heavy and stifling perfume permeated the entire atmosphere of the court. At the head of the divan sat a girl, indolently waving a fan above the head of the Khan. Not far from his feet a white-bearded man squatted upon a rug and eyed the sick one with curious intentness. This was Agahr, the vizier. Behind him sat a group of officers and sirdars, silently watching the scene.
Burah Khan, despite his sad condition, was fully clothed in his customary regalia. He wore a waistcoat of dingy white plush upon which were sewn enough rubies to have ransomed a kingdom. His yellow satin trousers were soiled and crumpled. The long outer robe was of faded rose-color and had nine stars, formed of clustered diamonds, down the front. The deep collar was stiff with masses of the same precious gems. The entire dress seemed as tawdry as a circus costume at the end of the season; but it was of enormous value, and the Khan, with oriental love of magnificence, clung to it even as he lay upon his death-bed.
He was a notable character, this Burah Khan, son of the terrible Keedar Khan who had conquered all of Baluchistan and ruled it with a rod of iron. Burah had inherited with the throne the fierce hatred with which his father was ever regarded; yet he had not only held every province secure, but had won the respect and fear of all his people. The thirty years of his rule had not been void of wars and bloodshed, yet at the head of his nine Baluch tribes the Khan had swept aside all opposition and won for himself the title of “The Lion of Mekran,” Mekran being his dwelling-place when not in the saddle.
Today, gaunt and haggard, he lay gasping upon his divan. His fingers opened and closed convulsively in the meshes of his iron-gray beard; his drooping eyelids were sunk in deep sockets. The pallor of death showed through his swarthy skin. To Agahr and the silent group behind him it seemed that the Khan was conquered at last.
The sick one moved restlessly and raised his hand.
“Has – has – he come?” he asked, speaking the words with much difficulty.
Agahr leaned forward, without rising, and answered his master with composure:
“Not yet, lord.”
It was a question often repeated and as often answered with the same words.
A moan came from the Khan. The vizier noted the patient’s restlessness and made a sign with his hand. At once the curtains of the rear entrance were swept aside and a troop of girls entered. They were robed in white; vines of the mountain iral were twined in their hair; in their hands were bellalas. The girls danced. A tall Arab with immense hoops of gold in his ears beat a tambo to mark the time, and the bellalas chimed a tinkling chorus.
The eyes of the Khan never opened, but he made an impatient gesture and moaned again. The intent Agahr noted this and at his command the noise of the tambo ceased and the girls withdrew. Evidently the Khan could no longer be amused in this fashion.
For a brief space of time the courtyard again became silent. Then, so suddenly that a thrill crept over the watchers, a tall imposing figure glided to the side of the divan and cast a shadow over the face of the sick man.
Burah Khan moved, opened his eyes and fixed his gaze eagerly upon the new arrival. The vizier arose quickly and approached the couch, bowing low and looking into the calm countenance of the stranger with undisguised anxiety. The group of minor officials also looked their interest, and the girl forgot to wave her fan while she examined the person of the man so long awaited.
“The great physician is here, my master,” whispered the vizier. But Burah Khan did not heed him. An expression of relief had come to his pinched features, and his eyes were fixed earnestly upon the face bent above him, as if he would read his fate in the countenance of the famous Persian who had been brought all the way from Kelat to minister to his imperative needs.
The physician raised the sick man’s eyelids and glanced beneath them. He placed his right hand under the Khan’s head and at the same time pressed an ear to his chest. It seemed enough. He stood erect, with folded arms, bending a searching yet kindly gaze upon the face upturned to his.
“Tell me!” pleaded the Khan, feebly.
The Persian gave a quick glance around. Then he answered:
“They listen.”
“Let them hear,” said the Khan, raising himself with an effort upon his elbow. “They – are all – friends.”
A queer look came over the stranger’s face. But he said, in a calm voice:
“The sickness is fatal. You will die.”
For a moment the Lion of Mekran returned the other’s gaze steadily. Then he lay back upon his pillows and sighed.
Agahr, who eyed his master as if fascinated, heaved an echoing sigh, and the group of officials exchanged looks of consternation.
“When?” asked the Khan, his voice now strong and clear, his eyes on the impassive face before him.
“A day – an hour,” replied the Persian, slowly. “It is Death’s secret.”
For a few moments the silence was unbroken save for the splash of the fountain as its perfumed spray fell into the marble basin. Then the Khan again aroused himself.
“Can you hold Death at bay – for a time?” he asked.
“How long?”
“Speak, Agahr!” turning to his vizier. “How long to get my son here – to assemble the Sirdars of the Nine Tribes?”
Agahr was trembling visibly. He clasped and unclasped his thin hands nervously and glanced first at his master and then at the physician.
“Speak!” said the latter, sternly.
“To the monastery of Takkatu is three days’ journey – three days, at least,” he said, hesitatingly. “And for Prince Ahmed to return will require three more. Seven days – a week – with fast riding.”
“Then,” said the Khan, calmly, “they must ride fast.” He turned to the Persian. “Can you fight Death so long?”
The Persian nodded. The pluck of Burah Khan aroused his admiration.
“I will fight Death so long,” said he, gravely.
“And the sirdars?” asked the sick man, once more turning to his vizier.
“They can be assembled in five days,” answered Agahr, after a moment’s reflection. “Three are already here.”
“Good!” declared the Khan. “Let Dirrag ride within the hour.”
“For the sirdars?”
“For Ahmed.”
He fell back again, and a man rose from the group behind Agahr and with an obeisance toward the divan glided swiftly from the courtyard.
The physician, noting the action, turned to the vizier.
“Dirrag?” he enquired.
“Dirrag,” responded the other, mechanically.
The Persian gave his patient a sharp scrutiny, and drawing a phial from his bosom placed it to the now colorless lips of the Khan.
“Clear the place,” he commanded Agahr, and without awaiting a response himself stepped quickly through the outer arch.
Outside Dirrag was mounting a strong Arabian mare. The Persian arrested him with a gesture.
“The Prince must be here in six days,” he said, in a low but commanding voice. “Six days, or – ”
“I understand,” said Dirrag, and put spurs to the mare.
CHAPTER IV
THE DAUGHTER OF THE VIZIER
Upon a stone gallery overlooking the courtyard of a handsome dwelling not far from the palace of the khan reclined a girl, beautiful with that mysterious Eastern beauty that has been for ages the despair of poets and artists and which attains its full charm only in the Orient. She was scarcely seventeen years of age, yet her rounded outlines, her graceful poise, her sedate demeanor, all proclaimed her a maiden on the verge of womanhood. Her eyes, round and soft as those of a fawn, were absolutely inscrutable; her features in repose held the immutable expression of the Sphynx. When she smiled sunbeams danced in her eyes and a girlish dimple showed in her chin. But she rarely smiled. The composed, serious, languorous expression dominated her exquisite face.
The girl was richly dressed. Her silken gown was of finest texture; pearls of rare size were twined in her dark hair; a golden serpent whose every scale was a lustrous diamond spanned her waist; upon her breast glittered a solitary blood-red ruby of historic fame, known in song and story for generations.
For this maiden was Maie, only daughter of Agahr, Grand Vizier to the Lion of Mekran and to his father before him – the terrible Keedar Khan.
Next to Burah himself in rank, virtually directing all the civic affairs of the nation, responsible to none save his stern master, Agahr was indeed a personage of vast importance in the realm. The sirdars of the nine fighting tribes of Baluchi, the main support of the Khan, might look upon the vizier scornfully; but they obeyed his laws and avoided any interference with his civic functions.
Maie was the daughter of Agahr’s old age, his only companion and his constant delight. To her he confided many of the problems that from time to time confronted him, and often a quiet word from the girl’s lips showed him the matter in a new light and guided him in his actions. The old man had discovered a store of common sense in the dainty head of his daughter; the inscrutable velvet eyes were wells of wisdom from which he drew solace and counsel in all difficulties.
On the evening of this eventful day came Agahr to the gallery where his daughter reclined. And as he sat beside her she turned her eyes upon his face and seemed to read it clearly.
“The Khan is worse,” said she, quietly.
“He is dying,” answered the vizier. “The Persian physician has come from Kelat, and he says there is no hope.”
“We shall be making history soon,” remarked the girl, in soft tones. “The Khan will pass away, and Kasam is here.”
The vizier moved uneasily on his seat.
“Kasam is here; yes,” said he. “But no one knows the secret save us. No one knows who our Kasam is.”
“They will know soon,” returned the girl in a calm, expressionless voice. “Our cousin Kasam is rightful heir to the throne – when the Lion’s eyes are closed in death.”
“You forget that Burah Khan has also a son,” said the old man, harshly. “Even now Dirrag is riding full speed to the Sunnite monastery at Takkatu to bring hither the Prince Ahmed.”
“That he may be acknowledged successor to the throne by the assembled sirdars of the Nine Tribes?”
“Yes.”
“But the Khan is dying. The Prince cannot arrive in time.”
“Perhaps not. Yet that accursed Persian has promised to prolong the Khan’s life for seven days. If he succeeds – ”
The girl bent forward suddenly.
“He must not succeed!” she exclaimed, in a clear voice.
Agahr shrank from the intentness of her gaze.
“Hear me!” she continued. “Kasam is our kinsman; the throne is his by right. Most of our citizens and many of the members of the Nine Tribes secretly favor his claim. A crisis approaches, and we must take advantage of it. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days. If his son Ahmed, who has been secluded for twenty years in a monastery, and is said to be devoted to Allah, is not here to be recognized as the successor to the throne, the people will acclaim Kasam their khan. It is all very simple, my father. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days!”
“What, plotting again, cousin?” cried a cheery voice behind them. Agahr gave a sudden start and wheeled around with a frown, meeting the smiling face of Prince Kasam, but the girl moved not even an eyelid.
“Pardon me, uncle, for startling you,” said the young man, coming forward and taking a seat beside the vizier. “I arrived in time to hear cousin Maie doom Burah Kahn to an early death, as if the dark angel fought on our side. What a wonderful little conspirator you are, my Maie!”
She looked into his face thoughtfully not caring to acknowledge the compliment of his words or the ardor of his gaze. But Agahr said, gruffly:
“The conspiracies of women cost many men their heads.”
“Very true, uncle,” replied Kasam, becoming grave. “But we are in sore straights, and a little plotting may not come amiss. If the son of the old Lion – who, by the way, is also my cousin – is acknowledged by the sirdars, he is liable to make a change in his officers. We may lose our vizier, and with the office more than half our power with the people. In that event I can never become kahn.”
“The son of Burah must be a weakling and a dreamer,” said the girl, thoughtfully. “What can be expected of one who for twenty years has associated with monks and priests?”
“Twenty years?” exclaimed Kasam; “then my cousin Ahmed must be nearly thirty years of age.”
“And a recluse,” added Maie, quietly. “You, Prince, are not yet twenty-five, and you have lived in the world. We need not, I am sure, fear the gentle son of Burah – even though he be acknowledged by his father and the sirdars of the tribes.”
“Which will surely happen if the Khan lives seven days. Is it not so? But if Allah calls him sooner, and my friends are loyal – why, then, I may become khan myself, and much trouble spared. The English have an injunction to ‘strike while the iron is hot.’ We may safely apply it to ourselves.”
Maie glanced at her father, and there was a glint of triumph in the dark eyes.
“It is what I have said,” she murmured. “The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days.”
“Do you know, fair one,” remarked Kasam, lightly, “that only yesterday I bewailed the approaching fate of the usurper, and longed to have him live until we could secure England’s support?”
“England!” she cried, scornfully. “What is that far-away nation to our Baluchistan? It is here that history will be made.”
Kasam laughed merrily.
“What a logical little head you have, cousin!” he answered, laying his hand upon her own, caressingly. “To us, indeed, Baluchistan is the world. And England’s help is far away from us in this crisis. Tell me, Maie, what is your counsel?”
“It is your duty, Prince, to prevent Burah Khan from living until his son arrives to be acknowledged his successor.”
Kasam’s face became suddenly grave.
“My duty, cousin?” he replied. “It is no man’s duty to murder, even to become khan. But perhaps I misunderstood your words. I am practically a stranger in my own land, and can do little to further my own interests, which naturally include the interests of my friends. If Burah Khan fails to live until his son’s arrival it will be through the will of Allah, and by no act of mine.”
“You are a coward,” said the girl, scornfully.
“Yes,” he answered, coldly; “I am afraid to become a murderer.”
“Peace, both of you!” commanded the vizier, angrily. “You are like a pair of children. Do you think that I, who have been Burah’s faithful officer for thirty years, would countenance treachery or foul play while he lies upon his death-bed? I long to see Prince Kasam seated upon the throne, but it must be through honest diplomacy, and by no assassin’s stroke.”
“Right, my uncle!” cried Kasam, seizing the vizier’s hand in a hearty clasp. “Otherwise, were I khan, you should be no officer of mine.”
Agahr and his daughter exchanged a quick glance, and the girl said, languidly:
“I was doubtless wrong, urged on by the intensity of my feeling and my loyalty to the Tribe of Raab. But a woman’s way is, I think, more direct and effective than a man’s.”
“Even if less honest, cousin?” retorted the young man, playfully pinching her cheek. “Let us bide our time and trust to the will of Allah. This evening I must set out on my return to Quanam. What answer shall I take to my foreign friends who await me?”
“Tell me, Kasam; why do they wish to cross our territory – to visit our villages and spy upon our people?” asked Agahr suspiciously.
“It is as I told you, my uncle. They are people of great wealth, from the far western country of America, and it is their custom to penetrate to every part of the world and lay rails of iron over which chariots may swiftly speed. We have no such rails in Baluchistan.”
“Nor do we desire them,” returned the vizier, brusquely.
“But they would bring to us all the merchandise of that wonderful western world. They would bring us wealth in exchange for our own products,” said Kasam, eagerly.
“And they would bring hundreds of infidels to trick and rob us. I know of these railways,” declared the vizier.
“I also,” answered Kasam, lightly. “I have been educated in Europe, and know well the benefits of western civilization.”
“But the Baluchi do not. Our own high and advanced civilization is enough for us.”
The young man smiled.
“It is not worth an argument now,” he remarked. “The present mission of this party of infidels is to examine our country and consider whether a railway across it would be profitable. All that I now require is a passport and safe conduct for them. It will benefit our cause, as well, for only as the guide to these foreigners dared I return to my native land. If I am permitted to depart tonight with the passport I can easily return in time for the crisis that approaches. Then perhaps our American friends will be of service to us, for no one will suspect their guide of being the exiled heir to the throne.”
The vizier hesitated.
“But the railway – ”
“Bother the railway!” interrupted Kasam, impatiently. “That is a matter of the future, a matter for the new khan and his vizier to decide upon, whoever they may chance to be.”
“Here is the passport,” said Agahr, reluctantly drawing a parchment from his breast. “Burah Khan was too sick to be bothered with the request of the infidels, so I made out the paper and signed it by virtue of my office.”
“Ah, and affixed the great seal, I perceive,” added Kasam, taking the document. “I thank you, uncle Agahr. We shall get along famously together – when I am khan.”
He bade them adieu the next moment, embracing the vizier and kissing his cousin’s hand with a gallantry that brought a slight flush to the girl’s cheeks. And soon they heard the quick beat of his horse’s hoofs as he rode away.
Maie and her father looked into each other’s eyes. Presently the old man spoke, slowly and thoughtfully.
“You will share his throne, my child.”
The girl nodded and fanned herself.
“The life in Europe has made Kasam foolish,” said she. Then, leaning forward and regarding the vizier earnestly, she added in a whisper:
“Nevertheless, Burah Khan must not live seven days!”
CHAPTER V
THE PERIL OF BURAH KHAN
Three days had passed. The khan remained sunk in a stupor caused by the medicines administered by the Persian physician, who hovered constantly around the bedside of his patient. Burah now lay in a well aired, high vaulted chamber. The musk-scented cushions had been ostracised, the dancing girls dismissed. Quiet reigned throughout the vast palace.
Occasionally Agahr would thrust his head through the curtains draping the entrance, as if seeking to know that all was well; but the Persian merely gave him a reassuring nod and motioned him away.
This summary banishment did not please the vizier. His daughter had assisted him in forming several plans of great political import, and the conduct of the foreign physician prevented their being carried to a successful issue.
Thus Agahr, appearing again at the entrance, beckoned with imperative gesture the Persian to join him; and, after a careful inspection of his patient, lying peaceful and unconscious, the physician obeyed.