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Daughters of Destiny
“Suppose the Persian fails, and you are absent?” suggested the Colonel.
“If the Persian fails, so much the better,” returned Kasam; “for then the monk-taught weakling son of Burah will not be acknowledged his successor, and the title of Khan reverts to me.”
“But if the son arrives before his father’s death?”
It was the doctor who asked this question.
“Then we revolt – I believe that is the plan – and drive every member of the tribe of Ugg from Mekran. But my cousin Ahmed cannot arrive before the seventh day, which is the day after tomorrow, and, according to my uncle Agahr, who is clever at intrigue, it will not be possible for Burah’s son to arrive at all.”
“Why not?” demanded the Colonel.
“Assassination, I suppose,” suggested the doctor.
Kasam shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not ask my Uncle Agahr to explain these things. Ahmed is not to be assassinated, however; he promised me that. Otherwise, it matters little what prevents him from reaching his father’s death-bed.”
“What a splendid man that barbarian is!” whispered Bessie to Janet. The latter turned slowly in her seat and gave a start of surprise, for Ahmed rode just behind her. The look in the calm grey eyes seemed to thrill the girl strangely, for she swayed in her saddle and might have fallen had not the “barbarian” thrust out a strong arm and steadied her.
“What are you doing here?” cried Kasam, angrily, in the native Baluch. “Back to the rear, my man, where you belong!”
Ahmed bowed gravely and retreated to where Dirrag rode. Nor did he again venture near the front.
“How cross you were to that handsome fellow,” said Bessie, pouting her pretty lips.
“Why, as for that, Miss Bessie,” returned the Prince, “I happened to remember that I was indulging rather freely in political gossip; and while it is impossible that he should understand English, your handsome fellow is of the tribe of Ugg – our hereditary foes.”
“If all the tribe of Ugg are like these two samples,” remarked the doctor, “it may not be so easy to thrust them from your capital.”
“They are not, I suppose. I do not remember to have seen so fine a specimen of manhood as the tall one among the natives before. What a pity that I know so little of my own country,” continued the young man regretfully. “Did you notice how reverent my Afghans are toward that little, battle-scarred warrior we rescued? He may be some man of note – some mighty hero – for all I know. But doubtless he is a mere quarrelsome tribesman, beneath my notice. When I am khan I shall make it a point to study my people thoroughly, that I may better understand how to manage them.”
At sundown they reached the edge of the desert and came to the fertile plains of Melin. Here camp was made and, wearied with the day’s journey, the travellers made their repast and retired early to rest.
“Tomorrow night we shall sleep in Mekran,” said Kasam. “I am sorry I cannot invite you directly to the palace; but until old Burah dies I am as much a stranger in my own country as any of you. However, my Uncle Agahr will see that you are provided with comfortable quarters.”
“Are there no inns in Mekran?” asked Allison.
“Inns are plentiful, but afford only the most primitive accommodations. We must house you in the dwelling of one of our adherents. There are many of these, I assure you, of rank and wealth. And now, I bid you good-night, ladies. May Allah guard your rest.”
At the door of their tent the doctor and Colonel Moore smoked a cigar before retiring.
“I am sorry,” said the latter, in a low voice, “that in my ignorance of Baluchistan I permitted the girls and Aunt Lucy to accompany us.”
“They’ve stood the trip pretty well, so far,” replied the doctor, carelessly.
“Yes; but consider what a mess the country is in, politically. There’s liable to be open warfare – perhaps a massacre – in a day or two, according to Kasam. And the girls may – ”
“Oh, we’ll keep the girls out of danger,” declared the doctor. “I’ve no doubt they are as safe here as at home. I will acknowledge the country is more wild and uncivilized than I had dreamed, but we’re on a matter of business, Colonel, and I flatter myself we have as good as accomplished our purpose already. Kasam is sure to grant us right of way for our railroad – when he is khan.”
The Colonel smoked a while in silence.
“This young man,” he remarked, at length, “seems to have little doubt of the success of his cause. Yet from all I have picked up since we drew near to Baluchistan, that terrible Burah Khan who is dying is absolute master of the situation. And his son-“
“His son is a priest-ridden devotee of Mahomet, who knows better how to pray than to rule a turbulent nation. Don’t worry about Kasam, my dear Colonel. He’s sure to win out. And if he doesn’t – ”
The doctor smiled cynically.
“What then?”
“Why, if he doesn’t,” retorted the doctor, tossing away his cigar and rising to retire, “the priest-bred weakling – is his name Ahmed? – will be just the sort of ruler the Metropolitan Construction Company loves to deal with. However the cat jumps we are sure to have the railway; so let’s go to bed.”
Just before daybreak the leader of the Afghans came to Kasam’s tent and awoke him.
“The men of Ugg are gone,” said he.
“Never mind,” returned the Prince, sitting up to yawn. “When did they go?”
“Early last evening; soon after we made camp. They stole away unobserved.”
“It doesn’t matter in the least,” said Kasam.
“Except that they have taken your Excellency’s black stallion, and left in its place the wounded bay, which is too stiff to travel.”
“Why, that was base ingratitude,” said the young man, with unconcern. “I must punish those fellows, if ever I see them again. But it is only a day’s journey to Mekran. I’ll ride a dromedary, good captain; and, by the way, let us make an early start.”
But at the same moment that Prince Kasam’s camp was awakening to activity Ahmed and Dirrag, after a night’s hard gallop, rode through the marble gates of Mekran.
It was the morning of the sixth day.
CHAPTER VIII
A WOMAN’S WAY
“And now,” the vizier had said to his daughter on the evening of the fourth day, “let us rest content. The sirdar of the tribe of Raab – our faithful ally Zarig – has sent a force to patrol the desert trails over which Dirrag must pass with Ahmed on his return to Mekran. Zarig has sworn that the son of Burah shall never reach here by the seventh day.”
“That is good,” answered Maie, thoughtfully. “But it is not enough.”
Agahr threw out his palms with an impulsive gesture.
“What would you have?” he asked, impatiently. “I have suborned every servant in the palace; I have followed every plan you have suggested; intrigue and cunning each moment battle for our great object.”
“Yet the Persian sits beside Burah Khan and baffles our every plot,” replied the girl. “I will go to him myself, my father.”
“You! Impossible.”
“No one shall ever know but yourself, and you will guard my secret. But see the Persian I must. Despite his pretended loyalty he is a mere man – and surely there is a way to influence any man that lives.”
An hour later Agahr secretly introduced Maie into the palace, and while he himself guarded the passage leading to the chamber of Burah the girl boldly pushed aside the draperies at the entrance and confronted the physician.
The Persian was standing beside the couch as she entered, and after a glance at his visitor he quietly drew a silken coverlet over the still form and advanced to where the girl stood awaiting him.
“I am the daughter of the vizier,” she said, softly.
“You are welcome,” declared the Persian; but he passed one hand over his forehead as he spoke, and his voice sounded weary and discouraged.
Maie threw back her veil and smiled, while the physician, leaning upon the low table that bore the shaded lamp, gazed wonderingly at the beautiful face revealed.
“May I rest myself?” she asked, in her sweet voice, and without awaiting permission she passed between the table and Burah’s couch and sank gracefully upon a low divan.
The Persian hesitated an instant, and cast an uneasy glance at his patient. Then he seated himself beside the table and bowed.
“It is the same old tale, I suppose?” he said, enquiringly. “You do not wish the Khan to live to acknowledge his son?”
The girl gave a little laugh.
“It is very pleasant to find you both frank and comprehensive,” she returned, “for now many useless words may be spared. Tell me, Persian, why you insist upon interfering with our plans to depose the sons of Ugg and restore the throne to the former rulers of Baluchistan? What is it to you, a stranger, whether Burah Khan dies tonight – this very moment – or lives to acknowledge his son two days hence?”
“Only this,” he answered quietly. “I have given my word.”
“Do you fear for your reputation as a skillful physician? Elai! You have already accomplished wonders enough to make you famous. Had you not arrived in Mekran, Burah Khan long since would have passed away.”
“It was a draught of my own invention,” said the man, musingly. “I am anxious to test its powers. If it will hold Death at bay for seven days I shall have solved an important problem in medical science.”
“But why is it necessary to test your draught on the Khan of Baluchistan? There may be thousands of similar cases wherein the matter of life and death is unimportant. Perhaps, in spite of your great fame, you lack money. See!”
With a quick gesture she arose and approached the table, emptying upon its spread the contents of a chamois bag. Before the physician’s eyes sparkled a score of exquisite gems – diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds of enormous value.
He gave them but a glance and looked into the girl’s eyes. They sparkled as brilliantly as the jewels, but were equally mystifying. What she read in his own eyes is uncertain, but a moment later she sank at his feet and clasped his knees in her rounded arms.
“For the cause of science,” she murmured, looking up into his face with a ravishing smile, “I will gladly promise the great physician ten gems, equally as flawless and pure, for every one now before him! It is a rare treasure, my Persian. All I ask in return is permission to attend the Khan until morning.”
His brow flushed, but he did not withdraw his gaze from her dark eyes.
“Ah, do not refuse me,” she pleaded, resting her head against him so that the fragrance of her hair saluted his nostrils like an enchanting perfume. “It is so little for you to do, when you may ask so much in return!” Her bosom heaved with emotion and pressed against his knee. “You shall have a palace of your own, my friend, here in Mekran, where you may woo Science at your will and command a thousand slaves to do your bidding. Are we not playing for a throne? And who shall have greater power than the man that enables the new khan to sit therein and rule a kingdom? I am the daughter of the vizier, my Persian, and hereafter no physician but you shall attend me.”
She nestled closer, with a little sigh of content that seemed to indicate the battle was won to their mutual satisfaction, and for a moment both maintained the pose, silent and motionless.
Suddenly the physician stood up, freeing himself from the girl’s embrace. With an abrupt motion he swept the glittering gems into the little bag and tossed it at the girl’s feet. Then, with folded arms, he stood looking down at where she still crouched by the empty chair, her lovely features convulsed with a passion terrible to witness.
But the mood quickly passed. Her face cleared. She raised her hand and rearranged the disordered masses of her hair, laughing the while in low tones and lifting her eyes unabashed to the man who had repulsed her.
The Persian shuddered.
Slowly rising to her feet she made him a mocking bow and said, jestingly:
“The chisel must indeed be dull that can carve no emblem on the marble. No man, believe me, is incorruptible; I have failed merely because I overestimated my own powers. Well, I will go.”
She looked around for her cloak. It lay over the divan, and she passed the Persian as if to get it. But in the act of picking it up she paused, straightened, and in two bounds stood beside the couch of the unconscious khan. A dagger flashed, and once – twice – thrice she plunged it deep into the bosom of the form hidden by the silken coverlet. Then she turned with a laugh of triumph toward the physician, the dagger still clasped in her jewelled fingers.
The Persian smiled.
Without a word he walked to the couch, and as she shrank aside he seized the coverlet and thrust it back, revealing nothing more than a mass of bolsters and cushions cleverly placed to outline the form of a man.
The girl, rigid and staring, turned her eyes from the couch to the physician.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
He took her wrist, fearless of the dagger she still held, and led her to an alcove. Throwing back the curtains he allowed her to gaze upon the still form of Burah Khan, lying peacefully beside a window through which the moon’s rays flooded the small apartment with mellow light.
Maie made no attempt to escape the grasp upon her wrist. She permitted the man to lead her back to the larger room, where he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and placed the bag of jewels in her hand.
A moment later she rejoined the vizier in the passage.
“Well?” he enquired, anxiously.
“We must pin our faith to the men of Raab,” she replied, between her set teeth. “The Persian is not human – he is a fiend!”
CHAPTER IX
THE SIXTH DAY
Dirrag led his master straight to the royal palace, reaching it just as the first rays of the sun fell upon the city. As he arrived unexpectedly, there was none to receive him except a few sleepy servants and the sirdars of the tribes of Mem and Agot, who shared the watch over the chamber of the khan. These, being loyal to the reigning house, were overjoyed at the speedy and safe return of the messenger, and cast curious glances at his tall companion.
But Dirrag knew where his duty lay and did not linger an instant. He pressed on to the khan’s own chamber, and entered without announcement, followed closely by Ahmed.
The Persian stood by an open window, engaged in rolling a cigarette. He paused, motionless, as he saw Dirrag. His eye lighted with satisfaction, and he drew a sigh of relief.
“Back already!” he said, pleasantly.
“As you see,” answered Dirrag, with pride. “It is the morning of the sixth day, and I have saved twelve hours from my allotted time. And here is Prince Ahmed, the son of Burah Khan, and heir to the Lion of Mekran – safe and sound, although nearly as weary as I am myself.”
A long speech for Dirrag, but warranted by the marvelous ride he had so successfully accomplished.
The Persian seemed not to hear it. He was staring fixedly at the tall form of the Prince.
“You!” he gasped, as if a great surprise overwhelmed him.
Ahmed, with wide eyes reading the other through and through, and seemingly filled with equal astonishment, answered steadily and briefly:
“I am the man.”
“I have searched for you throughout the East,” said the Physician, recovering in a degree his composure. “And now – ”
“Now you have found me,” returned Ahmed, smiling upon the other.
The two men clasped hands, and Dirrag, uneasily regarding the amazing thing, shifted his booted feet back and forth with a child’s nervousness.
“You the son of Burah Khan!” exclaimed one.
“You the famed physician of Persia!” said the other.
But Dirrag did not understand. They spoke a queer language unknown to him.
Presently, however, the physician noted his distress and drew away from the Prince, saying in the Baluch tongue:
“My lord the Prince Ahmed is welcome. It is fortunate for us all that he has arrived safely.”
“And in time, I hope?” enquired Ahmed, eagerly. “How is my – how is Burah Khan’s health?”
The Persian gave a little laugh, sat down, and proceeded to light his cigarette.
“Burah Khan is dead,” said he.
“Dead!”
The physician nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. Dirrag gave a groan and sank limply into a chair. Ahmed, with a swift glance into the Persian’s face, merely frowned and stood at attention, as if waiting to hear more.
“It is doubtless a great misfortune,” continued the physician, speaking in a leisurely tone, “and I have been in a desperate quandary, having no one in all the throng surrounding the late khan in whom I dared confide. The vizier is a traitor, and at the head of a formidable conspiracy. The sirdars, with one exception, are faithful; but they are warriors, and not fitted to counsel in so delicate a matter as this. So I have watched beside the khan’s dead body for two days and two nights, and none save myself knew he had ceased to breathe.”
“But, elai! did you not promise – ” began Dirrag, in a boisterous tone.
“I did,” interrupted the other, coolly. “I promised Burah Khan should live seven days – even while I saw the death-damp upon his brow. For I read the vizier clearly, and suspected there was a conspiracy to supplant the dying man’s son. It mattered nothing to me except that it gave me pleasure to try to defeat the plot old Burah was himself unable to foil. Moreover, I had faith in a peculiar powder that has been known to hold life within a body for many days. It seemed the game was worth the candle, did it not? And the old khan, to my great satisfaction, did manage to live for four days of the six required by Dirrag to make the journey to Takkatu and back. Then he died without awakening.”
“It is terrible,” said Dirrag, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Not so,” returned the physician, with an odd smile. “A man has ample time to think when he sits by a dead body. We three are the sole owners of the secret. Well? Shall we ring down the curtain, or go on with the play?”
“The play!” repeated Dirrag, vacantly.
“It is all a play, my friend,” said the Persian, reassuringly, “and we, living or dead, are expected to assume our characters to the end. So, if an honest man is sometimes called upon to enact the part of a villain, it is not greatly to his discredit.”
Ahmed stepped close to the physician and his grey eyes gazed full into the other’s brown ones.
“If I become khan,” said he, “it will be due to your friendly offices.”
“I acknowledge it,” the physician replied.
“If I become khan,” persisted Ahmed, in the same level tone, “no man on earth shall dictate my acts or cripple my power.”
The Persian smiled, indulgently.
“I will acknowledge that, also,” said he.
“Then,” continued the Prince, throwing himself upon a chair, “let the play go on!”
…
Great was the excitement in Mekran when the news flew from palace to town that Dirrag had returned, bringing with him the son of the dying khan. Maie heard it from the mouth of a slave, and after one reproachful glance at her father sat silent and still as a graven image, while the vizier, with pallid face and a great fear at his heart, hastened away to the palace.
The men of Mem and Agot guarded the gateway and jeered openly at Agahr as he hurried through. Within the courtyard were assembled the sirdars and chiefs of all the fighting tribes of Baluchi, waiting in grim silence for the drama about to be enacted. They saluted the vizier.
Agahr started to ascend the stairway leading to the gallery that gave entrance to the khan’s chamber; but a row of hard-featured men of Ugg forced him back. No one could be admitted until the Persian physician gave the order. He was preparing his patient for the ceremony.
“But I am the Khan’s vizier!” protested the old man, trembling despite his effort at command.
A rugged warrior faced him and bowed low.
“In all else, master, your word is law,” said he, courteously. “But in the chamber of death the physician rules supreme – by the grace of Allah and the will of His Highness the Khan.”
Agahr turned and waited with the others in silence.
It was not long. A tall Arab slave, known as a favorite attendant of the Lion of Mekran, appeared upon the stairs and called aloud:
“Burah Khan, son of Keedar the Great, Headsman of the Nine Tribes of Baluchi and Defender of the Faith, commands the Sirdars of the Nation and the officers of his household to attend him!”
They obeyed at once, fully conscious of the mighty import of the message. The sirdars came first, followed by Agahr and the civil officers and then a long train of household retainers of lesser rank – all proceeding with dignified steps up the marble stairway, along the gallery, and so into the spacious chamber of the Khan.
The Arab slave, acting as major-domo, ranged them in the order of their rank, facing the curtained alcove in which lay the body of their ruler.
Then, as silence fell upon the throng, the curtains were drawn and those assembled gazed upon an impressive scene.
Upon a couch covered with costly furs reclined the Khan, his sunken features dimly outlined in the soft light and the jewelled stars upon his breast glinting darkly as his bosom rose and fell. Over him bent the strange physician, administering from a golden cup the draught which it was understood would restore the sick man to intelligence for a brief period. But after a glance at this tableau all eyes were turned to the upright form of a young man standing with folded arms at the head of the couch. He was clad in a magnificent robe of purple satin richly embroidered with pearls, and by his side hung the famous cimeter known to every sirdar as the sword of Keedar Khan, and which had been entrusted by Burah to the priests of the monastery for safe keeping until Prince Ahmed should be called to Mekran.
There was something in the majestic presence of the heir, his haughty bearing and the look of pride in the calm grey eyes that wandered from one to another of the faces confronting him, that sent a thrill through all the assemblage. To some that thrill meant elation, to some fear; but to all it brought a subtle recognition of the fact that here was the heritage of power, that the son of Burah and grandson of Keedar was a man to be promptly obeyed.
The physician, passing an arm under the sick man’s head, supported him to a sitting position, and Burah Khan, after taking his son’s right hand in his own, began speaking to his people slowly and in low, halting accents.
“Here – is Prince – Ahmed, my son and rightful – heir. I, Burah Khan, standing – in the shadow of – death, do acknowledge him to be my – successor – to the throne of Mekran. Sirdars of the – Nine – Mighty Tribes of the – Baluchi, do ye, also, acknowledge him – to be your – Khan and Master – when I am gone?”
So still was the throng that every word of the faltering voice was distinctly heard. As it ceased the nine sirdars drew their swords and cast them at Ahmed’s feet, crying aloud:
“We acknowledge Ahmed to be our Khan, when Allah claims his sire, Burah Khan.”
Answering the shout was a sob and a sudden fall. The spectators drew aside with significant looks as slaves carried the fainting vizier from the chamber. Then all eyes turned again to the alcove.
Burah lay back upon his couch with closed eyes, and Ahmed knelt beside him.
The physician bent over and placed an ear above the old man’s heart. Then he stood erect and signed to the Arab to draw the curtain.
“Burah Khan is dead,” said he, solemnly. “May Allah and the Prophet grant him peace!”
The curtain fell, and very humbly and reverently the assembled people bowed their heads and crept from the chamber of death.
