There were signs everywhere of the effects of tremendous heat. He took the
winding track across the floor and his feet fell iii almost silence on a
thick carpet of charcoal and ashes. He discovered then why the track was not
straight; it avoided lumps of blackened wood, and other things. There was a
skull, for instance, as black as charcoal, grinning upward with blackened
teeth; It was a small skull and might be a woman’s. There were blackened
rib-bones. He detected about half of a human spine. In another place a
forearm and part of a hand, as black as ebony, lay on something that looked
like a half-burned stump of a sawn tree.
Stepping incautiously as he stared about him, he trod on a thigh-bone that
cracked and crumbled into dust. Acrid ash-dust rose from beneath his feet,
however carefully he walked. It nearly choked him. He was half blinded by it
before he reached the far side, but he could see that the discolored masonry
had cracked as— the result of fire;, enough of it had fallen to leave a
gap through which it was easy to pass without touching the sides. Until he
approached it closely the gap looked like a fluke of sunlight on the
blackened wall. Actually light shone through the gap. There was a sensation
as of someone lurking in wait on the far side. But by that time he would have
plunged through fire in the hope of finding water anywhere beyond it.
He had passed a whole night without sleep. He had killed a man in gruesome
circumstances and had suffered horrors of imagination. But his ravening
thirst was worse than all that. If he had known for a fact that ten men
lurked in ambush, and that they intended to tear him in pieces, he would
nevertheless have gone forward.
He stepped through and found himself in what was once a rock-hewn temple
naturally, formed of stalactite and stalagmite, some of which had been
fantastically carved into semi-human shapes. The place was quite small. At
the far end was a huge lingam on an altar of stalagmite. Beside that was a
wide doorway with remains of the decayed woodwork still wedged into slots in
the smooth rock wall. Almost staggeringly unexpected, stock-still in the
doorway, waiting for him, staring at him, stood Zaman Ali, in a thin cotton
shirt, with, a knife at his waist. His face was filthy with sweat-streaked
soot. He had a revolver in one hand, and in the other he carried an
engineer’s electric lantern that had an enormous lens. He flashed the light
on, full in Blair’s face.
“So you come alone!” he said in Pushtu, rather indistinctly. He, too, had
dust in a dry throat. “Mashallah, this world is full of wonders! Allah’s will
be done—but have you robbed me of the chance to be the agent of it?
Where is Taron Ling?”
Blair could not have forced himself to speak intelligibly. His throat was
burning. But he would not have answered in any event. He was actually less
conscious of thirst now that he had a concrete enemy to tackle. There was not
much risk of Zaman Ali using the revolver—not if Zaman Ali, as seemed
certain, wanted him there in the heart of a mountain alive, for some purpose
or other. He craved water. Undoubtedly Zaman Ali knew where water could be
found, and that was the first problem, but it might not be wise to let the
Afghan know how serious it was. He tried to close his lips, breathe calmly
and look like a man with information and resources in reserve as he strode
toward him.
Zaman Ali laughed. It was a snarl and a sneer combined, but there was
humor in it cruel humor that anticipated triumph. “There are streams of cool
water,” he said, “in paradise. So it is written. There is water of secret
springs in this grave of devils. Thirst is stronger than devils. It is
stronger than fear or wisdom.”
He stood aside. Through the wide doorway at his back came three of the men
whom Blair had seen at Wu Tu’s in Bombay. One was the owner of the
brown-and-white shoes and the blackjack, who had looked absurd in striped
socks. He was wearing the shoes now; they were filthy and so was his shirt.
He was wild-eyed with excitement.
“Have you a weapon?” he asked in. English, snapping the words out, peering
into Blair’s face. “No,” he said over his shoulder, “he has no weapon.” Then
he produced the little blackjack from inside his shirt. He slapped it on the
palm of his left hand. “I have this,” he said, showing his teeth. “You are
acquainted with its efficacy. Are you thirsty?” He slapped the weapon on his
hand a second time. “If you are already very thirsty, that is a
simplification. We had thought we might be forced to wait until tomorrow.
There is no water exactly here. Do you want any? I could get it.”
“Where is Taron Ling?” repeated Zaman Ali. Blair stood silent. The man
with the blackjack was of a perfectly familiar type. He was capable of any
cruelty; equally incapable of sympathy or real courage. There was nothing on
earth to be gained by arguing with him. He was within reach. It might have
been possible to knock him out with a sudden hook to the jaw, or to trip and
fall on him; but to attempt to do either, and fail, was to invite intelligent
but bestial revenge. Zaman Ali was the only real man,in sight. A rogue, yes.
A ruthless, sly, not improbably treacherous, and certainly shameless
scoundrel. But a man. Well hidden, but discoverable somewhere in his
character were principles for which Zaman Ali would be willing to die in his
boots. All the others were human jackals. Blair strode up to Zaman Ali and
the Afghan understood that perfectly. He nodded.
“Aye,” he said, “this is an issue between thee and me.” He turned fiercely
on the others and ordered them back whence they came, using scurrilous words
that, where he came from, would have set Death on tiptoe for the harvest. But
he had a revolver and they had none. They retreated grinning, as if it were a
good joke to hear their mothers’ memory reviled. Then Zaman Ali shrugged his
shoulders, with a sour look at the lingam on the ancient altar:
“Curses on such a religion!” he muttered. Then, more loudly, “But there is
a secret here worth plucking forth. I have sold drink dear in my day, but by
God, Blair Warrender, today’s price is the highest!”
Somewhere beyond the doorway, someone began pouring water from one vessel
into another. It splashed delightfully.
“And there is salt,” said Zaman Ali. “I have seen more than one man,
trussed within sight and sound of water, given salt to eat. If I remember
rightly, it was not too long before they chose between alternatives. There is
the other Salt, of the oath one man makes to another. Choose thou between
them, Blair Warrender!”
The Afghan kept well out of arm’s reach. The sight of knife and revolver
was unlikely to restrain a man whom thirst had maddened, but Blair was not
nearly maddened yet, and the Afghan knew it. He evidently did not wish to use
his weapons; he wished to bargain. The splashing of water implied that his
men were listening for a cue to rush in and very swiftly stop any fight that
Blair might offer. Whatever Zaman Ali’s motive might be, he evidently wanted
Blair alive and uninjured for some definite purpose. But Blair had a good
excuse for not trying to speak, and he made the most of it. He waited in
silence for Zaman Ali to unmask motive. Zaman Ali stared into his smouldering
eyes:
“Perhaps you have the heart to die of thirst,” he said after a long pause.
“But by my beard I see no sense in it.” He laughed curtly. “I have seen
obstinate men die of torture.”
The windy look came into his eyes, as if he stared at a hard horizon.
“Allah only knows what gain they won.of that. Die, if you like, Blair
Warrender. I have the giving of death; I will give without flinching. Thou
and I, it may be, are two of one wilfulness. But in the matter of a choice
between betrayals, only Allah, who knoweth all things, knows what a tortured
man will choose.”
He switched the light off. Dim daylight, through the openings at either
end of the little temple, created gloom amid which the carved stalactite
monsters on the walls grinned like gray ideas half-visioned in a waking
dream. The splashing of water increased perceptibly. The sooty sweat on Zaman
Ali’s face exaggerated the seams of savagery, and the pupils of his eyes
grew” large but lost no hardness.
“Do you understand,” he said, “that you were driven hither, as they drove
that tiger to your gun in the night? That was a long task and expensive. God
be my witness, I was against employing Taron Ling. But Wu Tu took the bit in
her teeth and was worse to manage than a mad mare.
I
would have put
the torture to you there in Bombay, but Wu Tu would have none of it: and by
Allah, having some experience of women, and of Wu Tu, I perceived there was
more than one blade to the knife of her argument. So I used your pass and
Chetusingh’s to draw the police off my trail; and I came hither.
“Your trail—Wu Tu was right about that— was as easy to
foretell as a colt’s when the mares are up-wind. seeing how Wu Tu had forced
an” issue by sending to the papers news that Frennisham is missing. There was
none except you likely to be sent to question Frennisham’s daughter. None
other can bridle that filly, unless—”
He paused. He appeared to wish to feel out prejudices and to find a
compromise between them. He was telling too much, for a man who felt he held
the whiphand. Blair gave him no
help—waited—watched—betrayed no curiosity. But he perfectly
understood that Zaman Ali meant to go the limit if argument failed. There was
a stiff proposition coming. The alternative to torture was likely to be
nothing easy. He began to see Wu Tu’s eyes again, and that worried him
because it might mean he was losing self-control. His only imaginable chance
was that delay might bring some of the commissioner’s or Howland’s men to the
rescue. But Zaman Ali guessed that thought was in his mind.
“The police hunt for me in Calcutta,” he said. “They who followed this
trail have been dealt with. They are dead. Die thou of thirst here, and none
will know it. But such a death will serve what purpose— Allah! I would
rather watch thee dying than see the woman in the same case! Be that on your
head! The sahiba’s torment shall begin where yours ends! Some men say that
women are less than dogs; but I am not of that number. I say women vary; and
it may be one of them now and again is worth a man’s life and everything else
that he has.”
The water splashed again. Zaman Ali strode to the doorway and someone put
a brass goblet of water into his outstretched hand. He swilled out his mouth,
drank deep, shook the remaining drops on the dry floor, returned the empty
goblet and again faced Blair.
“Henrietta Frennisham sahiba,” he said slowly, “is at your mercy—if
you have any. As for me, I have none, “excepting at a high price.”
Blair took a step backward and leaned against the ancient altar, partly
because his face was then in deeper shadow; but he also knew he needed
physical support if he was not to show how scared he felt. If it was true
that Henrietta was in danger of being tortured, he could not help her,
himself or anyone by choosing death first rather than yield to the Afghan’s
demands.—But it was not yet time to admit that. The thirst that he
already felt” was sufficiently fierce to tax will power, and he. knew from
previous experience that it was nothing compared to what was coming unless he
could get water soon. He might have the strength to endure it and die. But
could he leave her to that fate?
“There is a secret here,” said Zaman Ali. “and she has it. If she has not,
she can get it. If she will not, she will die. his thy task. Bee-lair
Warrender, to break that filly to the rein and get the secret. Do it. and
both of you have my leave to live. Fail, and you die. By Allah, that is the
whole story.”
He came closer and stood watching Blair’s face. Then he went to the
doorway, demanded water, spilled half of the contents of the little goblet on
the floor and offered the rest to Blair.
“Drink,” he said. “Then answer. That is your last drink, until you and I
agree together.”
Blair moistened his mouth. Then he drank and set the empty goblet on the
altar beside the lingam.
“Where is Taron Ling?” Zaman Ali demanded. It was the third time he had
asked that question. Blair decided not to answer it.
“Wait and see,” he said, testing his voice. It was very important to speak
calmly if he possibly could. Nothing tells in the East more strongly in a
man’s favor than a level voice in poignant circumstances. Nothing gives a man
better command of himself. His voice came hoarsely from his throat, but it
still had some quality.
Zaman Ali’s eyes glanced anxiously at the gap in the broken masonry. He
seemed afraid Taron Ling might enter. His hand closed tight on his revolver
butt. He even stepped to the gap, peered through and paused to listen. Then
he returned and stared at Blair’s eyes.
“Did you make a bargain with him?” he demanded.
Blair clung to his resolution not to answer. The Afghan’s fear was
probably more deadly than his greed, but there was a long chance, perhaps one
in a thousand, that fear of Taron Ling might make him easier to manage.
“You—and that dog of a devil—agreed on— what?” Zaman Ali
demanded.
“No matter what.”
That was Wu Tu’s voice—unmistakably hers. Something moved in the
gloom behind Zaman Ali and the voice continued, “Trust an Afghan to flinch
from a
dugpa
! Out of the way and let me handle him!” She was
half-invisible against the stalagmite behind her. She peered through the
folds of a sari that shrouded her head and shoulders, looking unexpectedly
small beside Zaman Ali’s bulk—small, frail, vital. Her eyes were a
determined devil’s. She kept out of Blair’s reach. “Who cares what Taron Ling
did? Watch what I do! If he disobeys me, tie him and bring the salt.” She
advanced a step closer. “Are you willing to obey me?”
Blair’s eyes smoldered and grew calm again. It was useless to defy her
openly: Zaman Ali and his men could overwhelm him in a moment, and Wu Tu
would have less compunction than a tigress. But could he deceive her? He
avoided her stare for a moment and then met it suddenly, as if trying to read
her mind. His own was made up.