Free Companions of Paradise by Thalassa Ali

wrong, that she understood only Farsi. Her bearers had carried her away by that time, but he had known then what he must do.
    It was she, he realized, and no other person in all of Kabul, who might, in the proper circumstances, save his life.
    It was a gamble, of course, but he was Afghan, and used to gambling, and the odds were not entirely against him. Perhaps, if she were as kind as she appeared, and if Allah Most Gracious willed, she would accept his request for panah , the hospitable asylum that must be given to those who ask properly, even those who have committed unspeakable offenses.
    She, of course, was not Pashtun. She might fail to understand this ancient duty, but he had no better hope at this terrible moment than a young, black-clad Englishwoman and her newly built, well-guarded fort.
    As her horse approached the gate, Nur Rahman kept his distance from the guards. He knew what they thought of him. Somehow, what he had become was written plainly on his face. But it was not his fault. He no longer remembered clearly how Painda Gul had enticed him away from the safety of his family when he was very young. Perhaps the older man had offered him sweets, perhaps a new kite. It no longer mattered. What had mattered was the desperate grief he had suffered, torn from the love of his mother and small sisters and the protection of his father and brothers. Now, even if he knew the way back to his ancestral village, he could never return there. How would his family, even his mother, receive him after the terrible shame Painda Gul had forced upon him night after night, until he no longer recognized himself?
    He was a dancing boy now. Trained with beatings and curses, he whirled and stamped, dressed as a woman, at weddings and the births of other men's sons. He himself would never have a son, although his beard was starting to grow. Who would give his daughter to a grown-up child-slave of Painda Gul?
    At last, after all his years of rage and waiting, Nur Rahman was armed and free. His patron's cruel knife with its ten-inch blade lay hidden in his clothes, still streaked with the blood of its former owner. With that same knife, Nur Rahman would defend himself from further harm, perhaps even from the insults he endured wherever he went. He might be a dancing boy, but he had his pride.
    But now he needed help, for at this moment Painda Gul lay, eyes staring, his throat slit, in the same city hovel where he had first brought Nur Rahman as a child of six. When his body was discovered, no one in Kabul would doubt the boy's guilt. After all, who had not known the story of the wolf-faced Painda Gul and his bacha?.
    “Ya Hafiz. Ya Hafiz,” the boy whispered. “O Protector, come to my aid.”
    The lady had nearly reached the entrance. Her servants trailed behind her, relaxing their vigilance as she approached the sentries.
    “Khanum, oh, Khanum!” Forcing himself to breathe, Nur Rahman flitted to her side.
    She started in her saddle, her eyes wide behind the veil that hung from her stiff black headdress.
    He reached out and gripped her stirrup. “Panah,” he murmured.
    Her eyes widening, she kicked out at him. “Let me go!” she cried.
    Ignoring her dismay, he took the hem of her heavy skirt in his other hand and raised beseeching eyes to her face. “Panah,” he begged again, tightening his grip as the mare jerked sideways. She must know what the word meant.
    Her servants were already sprinting toward him, shouting unintelligibly, their heavy sandals slapping the wet mud. The sentries stared from the gate.
    “Only three days.” He held on, gasping with pain as she brought her riding crop down upon his wrist. “Three days, Khanum, I swear it.”
    The pale-bearded servant arrived first at Nur Rahman's side. Seizing the boy's fingers, he began to pry them from the leather strap. When their hands touched the lady's boot, she cried out again, her voice filled with outrage.
    The tall servant arrived. “Rokho , Ghulam Ali,” he