Companions of Paradise by Thalassa Ali

Author:Thalassa Ali
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Afghanistan, Historical fiction, British - India, India, British, Fiction, Historical, Punjab (India)
ISBN: 9780553381788
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2007-03-27T20:49:21.515606+00:00

November 7, 1841

Maharajah Sher Singh's mercenary Governor of Peshawar smiled charmingly at the man who sat before him on the carpeted floor.

“I understand, Hassan Ali Khan,” he said in accented Urdu, “that your small son now sits each afternoon in the courtyard of your house in Lahore, receiving his grandfather's followers who come to call. Such hospitality; such opening of your family gates to strangers!”

He drew deeply on the pipe, producing a satisfying bubbling sound from its base. “You must be very proud of the child. How old is he now?”

“He is nearly four, Governor Sahib.” Hassan inclined his head toward the curious figure in front of him.

Paolo Avitabile the Neapolitan blew out a plume of tobacco smoke and smiled again, offering a glimpse of graying teeth beneath his waxed mustachios. A heavily embroidered shirt peeped from beneath the lace-covered artillery jacket he had secured with a gold brocade sash. The egret feathers in his makeshift turban waved as he nodded his satisfaction.

“And your Turkmen mare that everyone is talking about—what a magnificent animal! Such a high, proud neck, such a sure, delicate step! If old Maharajah Ranjit Singh were still alive, she would be gracing his stable by now.

“I have called you here,” the governor went on, “because I need a hundred shawls, fifty robes of state, and three dozen reasonably good horses, and you, my dear Hassan Ali Khan, are the perfect man to get them for me.”

Hassan raised his chin. “And for what purpose are these things required?”

“Let us just say that I want them for political purposes.”

“And how good are these khelats to be?”

“Very good. We are paying for them from the Maharajah's treasury.”

Hassan waved apologetic fingers. “Governor Sahib,” he said, “I have come to placate the British about the five thousand Punjabi soldiers we have never sent to help them, and to deal with their complaints about the Afridis who rob their caravans. That is all I have come to do. When I have finished this work, I will leave for Kabul, where I have family business.”

“Family business, you say? In Kabul, where the Englishwoman you married so hastily has gone?” Avitabile raised his eyebrows. “But they say you have divorced her.”

He shrugged at Hassan's silence. “In any case, there is nothing to the work I am giving you. Everyone knows you are acquainted with good Afghan traders. Peshawar is full of horses. They are not as good as your Akhal Tekke, but they are good enough. Freshly made shawls pour into the city from Kashmir at this time of year. The whole business will take you less than three weeks.”

“The horses and the shawls,” Hassan replied patiently, “I can provide, but the khelats are a different matter. Proper robes of honor will take time—months, perhaps—to prepare. The cloth must be woven, the embroidery designs decided upon and executed. This is work for an experienced wardrobe master, not a diplomat.”

Behind the governor's damask-covered platform, an array of Sikh officials stood listening, their fine jewels and Kashmir shawls scarcely less elaborate than those of the royal courtiers at the Lahore Citadel.

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