Daughters of Destiny

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.

CHAPTER X

AHMED KHAN

“Behold the walls of Mekran!” said Kasam proudly.

They had been riding all afternoon through a beautiful and fertile valley, rich with fields of waving grain, tracts of vegetables, vineyards and orchards, all tended by the Kendars, Brahoes and Melinos, for the warlike Baluchi were too dignified to till the soil. It was from this valley that the city of Mekran derived its main sustenance and support, and now, as they mounted a little eminence, the city itself came into view – a huge, whitewashed stone wall above which peeped the roofs of many dwellings, mosques and palaces.

“The palace of the khan,” said Kasam, “is near the center, beside the famous bubbling pools of Mekran. You may tell it by the high towers and minarets. It is all built of marble and its gardens are more beautiful than any in Europe.”

“You may well be proud of this great city, which you are so soon to rule,” observed Bessie, instantly connecting the prince with the place of his nativity. “It is one of the prettiest sights I have ever seen.”

“We must make this an important depot for the new railway,” said the Colonel, with something like enthusiasm. “The whole world will come to see Mekran when the journey can be made in Pullmans.”

But as they drew nearer and the sun sank toward the horizon Mekran lost much of its beauty. The whitewash of the great wall was seen to be grimy and stained in many places, and the roofs above it showed considerable discoloration by the weather. It was an old city, and had long since lost the freshness of youth. Indeed, Allison took occasion to denounce, with some contempt, a place which seemed “nearly as filthy as the people of this beastly country themselves,” and Kasam flushed slightly with a realization that neither Mekran nor his people could be counted quite immaculate.

Beneath the setting sun, however, the spires and domes glowed golden red, and even the young engineer ceased reviling the place they had come so far from civilization to visit.

At dusk the caravan entered at the North Gate, and Kasam called attention to the thickness of the wall as they rode through, and to the picturesque watch-tower perched above the gate. Then, coming into the light of the inner city he gave a start of surprise, for lining the sides of the narrow street were solid ranks of Baluchi warriors, both mounted and on foot, who stood so silently in their places that their presence was all unsuspected until the Prince came full upon them. Hesitating, he reigned in his horse, and at that moment the iron gates fell with a clang behind the last of his cavalcade.

“You are going to have a reception, Prince,” remarked Dr. Warner, who rode near the guide.

Kasam muttered a curse and urged forward his horse. The Baluchi instantly closed their ranks, surrounding him with a solid phalanx.

“Welcome to Mekran, my lord,” said a voice, and Kasam turned to find the warrior he had rescued in the desert riding at his stirrup. There was no mistaking Dirrag. The fresh scratch upon his brow marked his seared face with a streak of livid red.

“His Highness the Khan has requested your presence at the palace,” continued the warrior, in respectful tones.

“Me?” asked the young man, startled.

“You are Prince Kasam, I believe.”

“Ah, I begin to understand. You have betrayed me as a fitting return for having saved your life. It was to be expected in a man of Ugg. But why does old Burah demand my presence? Am I a prisoner?”

“Burah Khan is in Paradise,” said Dirrag, gravely.

“Dead!.. And his son?”

“Now rules as Ahmed Khan.”

Kasam’s bronzed features drew tense. He became silent.

As they turned a corner he noticed they had become detached from the others of his party and were now alone.

“Where are my companions?” he enquired, with anxiety. “I am guiding a party of foreigners, who are strange to Mekran.”

“They will be safely cared for,” answered Dirrag, reassuringly.

“And my Afghans?”

“They also. The Khan has provided for all.”

The answers were far from satisfactory, but Kasam had perils of his own to confront, and dismissed his American friends from his thoughts with the belief that the new khan would not care to interfere with their liberties.

His own case was far more embarrassing: for the moment, at least. The tidings of Burah’s death and his son’s succession to the sovereign office of Khan had struck him like a blow. It was only the evening of the sixth day, he reflected, and Agahr had not expected anything important to happen until the seventh day, at least. How in the world had Ahmed managed to reach Mekran from Takkatu so soon?

Then the truth flashed upon him, and he groaned aloud. The tall Baluch he had rescued from the men of Raab and escorted safely to the plains of Melin was none other than Prince Ahmed himself, and Kasam’s folly in interfering with his uncle Agahr’s plans had resulted in his own undoing!

They were at the palace now.

Dirrag held Kasam’s horse while he dismounted and then escorted the young man into the courtyard and through several winding passages. Soon they came to a small chamber, the entrance to which was guarded by the Arab slave Memendama, who allowed them to pass at a word from Dirrag. Here were more attendants and slaves, richly dressed in the crimson, white and purple of the House of Ugg. Kasam looked uneasily upon the expressionless faces, and cast himself upon a divan to await the summons to the Khan’s presence. It came in a few brief moments, and Dirrag led the Prince through still another passage to a marble balcony, where two men were seated at a small fable and a third stood at the carved rail looking into the gardens below.

Kasam glanced at the two who were seated and failed to recognize them. One was Merad, the Persian physician; the other the sirdar of the tribe of Ugg.

The man at the rail turned about, and Kasam knew him at once. He had been Dirrag’s companion in the desert.

“I am glad to welcome you, Prince Kasam,” said the khan, courteously. “Pray be seated.”

He motioned toward a chair, but Kasam stood erect.

“Tell me first,” said he, “whether I am to consider myself a guest or a prisoner.”

“Surely not a prisoner, my cousin. I may use that title, may I not, since we are related?”

“The relation is distant,” said the other, proudly. “I am of the Tribe of Raab, and for seven generations my ancestors ruled all Baluchistan.”

“So I understand,” returned the Khan, dryly. “They were also my ancestors, for the same royal blood flowed in the veins of Keedar Khan. But why should we speak of the past? Today, by the grace of Allah, I am myself ruler of Baluchistan.”

“By treachery and cunning, rather than Allah’s grace,” retorted the Prince, defiantly. “Should right and justice prevail I would myself be sitting upon the throne of my forefathers.”

“It is a matter of common knowledge,” answered Ahmed, quietly facing the other and looking calmly down from his superior height into the passionate face of the younger man, “that neither right nor justice entitled your forefathers to rule this land. It may comfort you, cousin, to look into the history of the Tribes, concerning which you seem to be somewhat misinformed. But it is not worth arguing at present. What interests us more keenly is the condition that confronts us. Through the sad ending of Burah Khan, whose body now lies in state in the Mosque of the Angels, I am suddenly called to the throne. Because of my inexperience in affairs of state I shall need, as councillors and advisors, the assistance of all those to whom the welfare of Baluchistan is dear. Doubtless you love your country, Prince Kasam, and your European education will have given you broad and intelligent ideas of modern government. Therefore I value your friendship. Will you become my vizier, and assist me to rule my people to their greatest good?”

Kasam was astounded. The proposition, coming from one whom he had reason to consider his greatest foe, was as unexpected as it was impossible. Moreover, it indicated a weakness of character and lack of sound judgment in the new ruler that both pleased and encouraged him. Ahmed was a big and burly fellow, it was true, but he seemed as gentle as a woman. Evidently a monastery training did not stimulate virility of mind.

Kasam thought rapidly during the few moments that he stood with downcast eyes before Ahmed Khan, and his conclusions determined him upon his course of action. Then, remembering they were not alone, he glanced toward the table and encountered the physician’s mocking gaze. If Ahmed was weak, here at least was a strong man. Indignant and alarmed at what he read in the dark eyes he turned to Abdul, the Sirdar of Ugg, for reassurance. That white-haired dignitary sat with composed and placid countenance quietly regarding the khan, whose words and actions alone seemed to afford him interest.

“What if I refuse?” asked Kasam, sharply, turning again to Ahmed.

“Then you will grieve me.”

The Prince smiled contemptuously.

“But you will put me in prison, or assassinate me?”

“Why should I?”

“Because, if you cannot induce me to serve you, it will be wise to get me out of your way.”

“I cannot believe that,” returned Ahmed, gently. “The conspiracy of your uncle, Agahr, to place you upon my throne is well known to me, yet I have not even reproached him for his apparent disloyalty. I can understand that the heir of former khans would strive to regain his lost heritage, and your ambition seems to me a natural one. But I am here, and shall remain. Your adherents are weak and impotent. You could not be khan unless they were stronger than my own. Because I appreciate your disappointment I offer you the highest office within my gift. Be my vizier; trust me as I trust you, and let us be friends.”

“I refuse!”

“Then you may go free, to act as you deem best.”

“Free! I may go free?”

“Assuredly. I owe you that courtesy, even did I fear you, for having assisted me in the desert. My act may not balance accounts, but it will be an earnest of my gratitude.”

“Let us cry quits,” said Kasam, eagerly, “and start a new score. For I warn you, Ahmed Khan, that from this day I will oppose you with all my might.”

Ahmed bowed. His face showed neither disappointment nor surprise, and as if he considered the interview at an end he turned again toward the railing, looking down into the flower beds and shrubbery.

Kasam hesitated, glancing at the other silent witness of the scene. The Persian was industriously rolling a cigarette. Dirrag stood with legs astride, evidently admiring his boots. But the sirdar, Abdul, seemed annoyed, and said to the Khan:

“The man openly threatens your Highness. We are not sure of his tribesmen of Raab. Would it not be well to take some action in this matter?”

“Let him go,” replied the Khan, without turning.

Kasam flushed at the tone of indifference. It seemed to him that he was being treated like a child.

“The sirdar is old and wise,” he exclaimed, angrily, “and the Khan of Mekran is young and foolish. Elai! the die is cast. I will go.”

With this he strode from the room, and none hindered. The slaves and attendants in the outer chamber made no interference with his retreat. Although he had a vague fear that the Khan’s words were insincere he traversed the halls, passed through the courtyard, and so left the palace.

A solitary attendant was leading his horse back and forth, as if awaiting him. Kasam was amused. The Khan needed a few lessons from his warlike sirdars if he wished to remain secure in his throne. The Prince mounted his horse and, filled with exultant thoughts, galloped away to the house of Agahr the Vizier.

Night had fallen by this time, and as Kasam approached he found Agahr’s house dark and silent. The lamp that usually swung in the archway was unlighted; there were no slaves at the door. Kasam was seized with sudden misgivings. What if, in spite of Ahmed’s assurances, the plotting vizier had fallen under the new khan’s displeasure? Much depended upon Agahr, for all of Kasam’s interests were in his keeping. Scarce a day had passed since Ahmed Khan had come into power; but much may happen in a day; indeed, much had happened, as he was soon to discover.