"I said you you would be safe." He wiped his face with a corner of his chaderi. "I will die horribly at the hands of the women of this house," he whispered, "when they discover that I, a man, have entered their quarters." would be safe." He wiped his face with a corner of his chaderi. "I will die horribly at the hands of the women of this house," he whispered, "when they discover that I, a man, have entered their quarters."

Attracted by their voices, the men on the roof now peered down into the courtyard, long-barreled jezails in their hands.

Of course the women would kill Nur Rahman. And G.o.d knew what the men would do. Mariana looked quickly about her. There was no way out now, but even if there were, the flat fields surrounding the fort would offer Nur Rahman no protective cover as he ran for his life.

She hurried to him. "Come," she urged. "Staying on that horse will only make things worse."

As he slid to the ground, two women in brown chaderis appeared in the doorway of a second building. They beckoned, two mud-colored ghosts, their thoughts impossible to divine.

Left with no choice, Mariana and Nur Rahman crossed the courtyard and followed the women into an inner building whose own courtyard boasted a tree and several tethered horses and goats.

Nur Rahman's whole body trembled. "Pashtun women have great power," he confided. "It is they who decide who should live and who should die."

Ahead of them, the women threw back their chaderis and pointed, smiling, to a corner room whose window overlooked the courtyard. The older of the two said something in Pushto.

Nur Rahman nodded for them both, then crept through the doorway behind Mariana.

The room was bare, save for a single string bed against one wall. They sat down on it together.

"I cannot bear to think of you dying to save my life," she said in a small voice.

"When I die," he whispered, "I hope to go to Paradise. It is my only dream, for in Paradise are all the things I have longed for in this life."

"What you have longed for?"

"Friends," he said simply. "I want to recline on beautiful carpets with loving companions, to eat the perfect fruits of the Garden and to drink from the fountain of Salsabil."

The perfect fruits of the Garden. No one had ever given Mariana such a vivid description of Heaven, not even her father, whom she had peppered with questions when she was twelve, after her little brother's sad death. No one had ever given Mariana such a vivid description of Heaven, not even her father, whom she had peppered with questions when she was twelve, after her little brother's sad death.

"Most of all," Nur Rahman added, "I long to see the face of the Beloved."

"The Beloved." Her G.o.d had always been the Heavenly Father. Saying Nur Rahman's words aloud, she found herself filled with longing.

Munshi Sahib had told her once that Christians and Muslims shared the same G.o.d. Of course her father would disagree.

From the wistfulness of his tone, the boy had never had a friend. What sort of life had he led?

"But I will never be accepted into the Garden," he added mournfully.

"What?" Mariana blinked. "Why?"

"I have committed many sins." His head lowered, he picked at his fingers. "My sins are numerous, and too grave to be forgiven."

No. This was too cruel. It was true that Nur Rahman looked distressingly unsavory, but what of his kindness toward Munshi Sahib? What of his efforts to save her family? What of his courage at this moment, as he sat uncomplaining in this room with its window onto the courtyard, waiting to die?

"I am certain," Mariana said decisively, "that G.o.d will forgive all your sins. Why would He not? You are young, almost a child. G.o.d always forgives children."

"He does?" The boy's voice brightened. "Do you think He will-"

He fell silent. A short, heavyset woman had entered, followed by a maidservant carrying two steaming cups of green tea on a tray. "Peace," she offered.

Before Mariana had time to digest the irony of that greeting, the woman said something else, and tipped her chin toward the door.

"Her name is Zahida. She is telling us to have tea in another room," translated Nur Rahman.

The second room was as cold as the first one, but it had thick carpets and bolsters on the floor. It smelled of burning charcoal. As Mariana sipped cardamom-flavored tea, the woman held out paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink.

"They are sending their men to escort your family here," Nur Rahman explained. "She wants you to write and tell them to be ready tomorrow morning."

The woman, who wore a silver nose ring, was old enough to be Mariana's mother. Mariana examined her through the peephole in her chaderi, wondering if she were friend or foe.

She spoke again.

"She wants us to take off our chaderis." Nur Rahman's eyes were wide behind his peephole.

"Tell her we will do it in a moment," Mariana replied.

Dear Uncle Adrian, she wrote, a local chief has granted panah to our household. You, Aunt Claire, and all the servants are to come immediately to his fort escorted by a body of his own hors.e.m.e.n who are waiting outside the cantonment gate. Please act upon this offer at once. a local chief has granted panah to our household. You, Aunt Claire, and all the servants are to come immediately to his fort escorted by a body of his own hors.e.m.e.n who are waiting outside the cantonment gate. Please act upon this offer at once.

He would understand the word panah panah, and its significance.

I have asked our host to send us on to India, she added. Please extend this offer to Lady Macnaghten, Lady Sale and her daughter, and anyone with small children. Please extend this offer to Lady Macnaghten, Lady Sale and her daughter, and anyone with small children.

It is our one chance of escape from Kabul. Do not be afraid. The chief will not break the Pashtun Code.

Hoping she was telling the truth, she paused to glance at the boy beside her.

I am sending this letter with Nur Rahman, she added, so you will know it is genuine. so you will know it is genuine.

She signed the paper with a flourish. "My servant here," she said, as she handed it to the waiting woman, "will carry this letter to my family.

"May I ask," she added over Nur Rahman's squeak of relief, "to whom this fort belongs?"

The woman named Zahida stared in surprise. "You do not know?"

Something in her voice made Mariana's jaw tighten.

"You are under the protection," Zahida announced, "of Aminullah Khan."

Palsied old creature trying to get up. Deaf as a post. Mariana shrank against her bolster, remembering the slight tremor in his left hand. No one, not even Macnaghten, had known what the man looked like. Mariana shrank against her bolster, remembering the slight tremor in his left hand. No one, not even Macnaghten, had known what the man looked like.

She had put her family at his mercy.

It was too late to escape, too late even to s.n.a.t.c.h her letter away from the woman who now signaled for Nur Rahman to follow her out.

"Do not worry, Khanum," he whispered before he left for the blessed, questionable safety of the cantonment. "Your family will be safe here."

A moment later, numb with fright, Mariana was alone.

Zahida returned moments after Nur Rahman's departure. Planted in front of Mariana, she pointed across the small courtyard and repeated the same unintelligible phrase until Mariana understood to her great relief that she was being given an opportunity to visit the family latrine.

After crunching her way back across the courtyard snow, Mariana watched from her bolster as Zahida came and went from the room with the string bed, bringing a lamp, a small carpet, and a jug of water.

The third time she came, a pillow stuffed with cotton wool under one arm, she was followed by three excited girls who rushed into the sitting room, then stood still, staring at Mariana's tangle of unwashed brown curls and her pale, uncovered face, their noses wrinkling with distaste.

Zahida spoke sharply. The girls hurried away.

It took Mariana a moment to understand what was wrong. It was herself. She had gone many weeks without a bath.

Ignoring her reddening face, Zahida made a gesture indicating she would return, then disappeared up a flight of stairs to an upper floor of the building, whose rooms, like Mariana's, overlooked the courtyard.

When she came back, it was already dark. She carried a towel and clean clothes-a folded shalwar kameez, a long shirt and baggy trousers of the same coa.r.s.e homespun as her own loose clothing, a long, broad veil of thin cotton to put over the head, and a brown woolen shawl. Motioning for Mariana to follow, she led her to a tiny windowless room where someone had left two bra.s.s pails of water, one steaming hot, the other cold. A teapot-shaped vessel stood between them. An oil lamp in the corner of the room sent a frail, shadowy light over the scene.

Zahida gestured eloquently, closed the door, and left a shivering Mariana to take her bath.

Later, when Mariana opened the door, well scrubbed and newly dressed, a girl led her to an upstairs room whose arched windows had been blocked with split bamboo blinds.

A pile of discarded shoes lay outside the door. Female voices came from inside. The smell of cooking meat from somewhere in the building brought water to Mariana's mouth.

"This is where we keep the sandali." sandali." The girl waited for Mariana to step nervously out of her shoes, then held aside the door curtain. The girl waited for Mariana to step nervously out of her shoes, then held aside the door curtain.

The middle-sized room was warm and thickly carpeted, its air close from the presence of a score of women and children who sat on mattresses around a large, square table, all of them craning to look at her. A great padded quilt, large enough to cover the table and all their legs, dominated the room.

Zahida came over and led Mariana toward an ancient lady with Aminullah Khan's fierce gray eyes.

As she had seen people do, Mariana laid a hand over her heart and wished the lady peace.

Obeying the old lady's commanding gesture, she sat down, her legs under the quilt, and was immediately greeted by delicious, comforting warmth. A brazier, or several of them, had been pushed beneath the table, their coals well burned and covered with ashes.

Sighing with pleasure, she forgot for a moment that she was among her enemies. She let a small boy pour water over her hands. She sipped green tea.

The old woman offered her a harsh smile.

As a small bowl of roasted almonds arrived in front of her, a bespectacled woman of indeterminate age approached, and signaled for the pregnant girl beside Mariana to move aside.

"I speak Dari," she said, as she sat down and leaned against the heavy bolster behind her. "I will translate for the others."

Mariana smiled. Happily, there would be nothing to translate but her thanks.

She was wrong.

"What is your story, Mairmuna?" the woman asked, pushing her spectacles up her nose. Her smile revealed perfect teeth. "Why have you asked us for asylum?"

Mariana swallowed, aware that all conversation in the room had ceased.

What should she tell these enemy women, whose menfolk had slaughtered Burnes and Macnaghten, and killed or wounded so many others? Had she not said more than enough to Aminullah Khan when she asked for panah? Did they expect her to admit to the desperate conditions in the cantonment? Were they looking for another apology?

Perspiration collected along her hairline. A nearby girl with fair skin gazed at her with enormous eyes.

If she said something wrong, if she mistakenly insulted them, would they kill her, or send her back to the cantonment?

"I am," she fumbled, buying time, "the only Englishwoman in Kabul who wears a chaderi. I have been into the city. There is no country," she added, remembering the Envoy's picnics in Babur Shah's garden, "as majestic in its beauty as Afghanistan. I have never known poetry more lovely than that of Rumi, of Sa'adi-"

The translator frowned. The women murmured.

Oh no! They were Pashtun! They would despise the cla.s.sical Persian poets, would think them unmanly compared to their own bards, whose proud verses were as ferocious as they were "Of course," Mariana added lamely, "I have yet to read the works of the great Ahmad Shah Durrani."

"Yes," pursued her translator, "but why have you asked for asylum? What is your story?"

So this was the price of asylum: the truth. The place of honor at the table, the tea, the almonds, were only the beginning.

The old woman was watching her.

"I pray," Mariana replied, her stomach churning, "that I have committed no crime terrible enough to require protection from enemies, but I admit that my people have made mistakes that have angered Akbar Khan and caused bitterness among the tribes. It is from the consequences of those mistakes that I seek your protection."

The ancient lady spoke sharply.

Zahida's nose ring bobbed as she nodded seriously. "You wish to avoid the just punishment that your people's actions have provoked."

Just punishment? Mariana recoiled at the calm brutality of those words, but as she looked about the table she saw no trace of triumphant vengeance, only curiosity. Mariana recoiled at the calm brutality of those words, but as she looked about the table she saw no trace of triumphant vengeance, only curiosity.

Could it be that these Ghilzai women only wanted information? Did they only seek the details of a story that would be told to their descendants for the next hundred years: of the British people who had tried to invade Afghanistan and betrayed their own honor, and of the Englishwoman who had come to their fort seeking protection from the just wrath of their tribe?

Could it be that they wanted no less than the full story of their victory?

Be honest or they will not help you.

Mariana began to speak. For the next five minutes, as the women leaned forward to catch every word, she described the British plan to protect their holdings in India by putting a king of their choice upon the throne of Afghanistan. She recognized the burden that the huge British force had imposed upon the region's food supply. Her eyes lowered, she acknowledged that taxing the tribal chiefs to pay Shah Shuja's expenses had insulted them, for they regarded themselves as the equals of their king.

When she was finished, the ladies nodded, but kept on looking at her, their faces expectant.

"All that is true," agreed the translator, "but what of the British fort? If you have come to us to escape the conditions there, you should tell us what they are."

Mariana's thoughts raced. Any information about the desperate state of the cantonment, the lack of water, the terrible food rationing, or the illnesses that raged among the men, would aid her enemies.

Every word she said would go straight to Aminullah Khan's ears.

She spoke instead of her own family: of her aunt's constant coughing and fevers, of her uncle's exhaustion, even of her munshi's illness. While insisting that they had plenty of food, she admitted her fear that her uncle and aunt, the only relatives she had in India, might not survive the winter.

She shrugged and shook her head when they asked her of Macnaghten's decision to halve the cash payment promised to the Eastern Ghilzais. She offered no hint of the collapse of the British command. She did not mention Alexander Burnes's shocking behavior with Afghan women.

She told them very little about herself. She did not even mention Ha.s.san Ali Khan.

At length, a cloth was spread over the quilt on the table, and a file of maidservants entered, carrying dishes of rice with chicken buried inside and covered with raisins and slivered carrots, lamb cooked with dried Bukhara plums, stewed beans, grilled pumpkin, strained yoghurt, and great, heaping piles of bread.