Free Companions of Paradise by Thalassa Ali Page B

entertain at a wedding. As Nur Rahman danced for the men in his shiny woman's clothes, his arms moving sinuously over his head, he had seen his patron talking to a little boy, a lovely child of five or six years, who gazed, wide-eyed, into Painda Gul's grinning face. Turning from the child, Painda Gul had glanced at Nur Rahman.
    At that instant, the dancing boy had understood. That sweet little boy was to be his replacement. Soon, perhaps tomorrow, Painda Gul would return, stealthily, to Istalif. Soon, abducted from his confused and grieving family, the child would lose his innocence in Painda Gul's bed. Like Nur Rahman, he would spend his childhood weeping for his lost family.
    And what of Nur Rahman, who had been Painda Gul's boy for the past eleven years? How would he survive, thrown out of Painda Gul's hovel, alone on the cold streets of the city?
    After his dance, Nur Rahman had slipped outside and vomited.
    They had returned from Istalif the following night. After the older man fell asleep, Nur Rahman had crept through the darkness to the hook where Painda Gul's long-bladed Khyber knife hung in its scabbard. He had never killed before, but his Pashtun blood had told him what to do. Grasping a handful of greased hair in one hand, Nur Rahman had jerked Painda Gul's head back, then drawn the fierce Khyber blade across his knobby throat, slicing through the great blood vessels connecting head and body. Painda Gul had opened his eyes too late.
    Now, Nur Rahman shuffled his feet. “I cannot say more,” he murmured.
    “There is nothing more to say,” the old gentleman replied.
    “What is he talking about, Munshi Sahib?” inquired the lady from her saddle. “What does he want?”
    “This boy,” the old gentleman replied, glancing at Nur Rahman to make sure he understood, “is a Pashtun. Pashtuns live by a code of honor. A provision of their code is that protective asylum must be offered for three days to someone who asks for it, even if that person has committed a crime, provided that the person tells the truth about his circumstances. The boy has told us enough.”
    Enough. Relief flooded over Nur Rahman.
    “Now he wants us to keep him safe from his pursuers for three days.”
    Three days. What a princely time that would be…
    When he had arrived at the gate, Nur Rahman's sole concern had been the saving of his skin. But now that his dancing boy's heart had gone out to this peaceful old stranger, a new need thrust itself upon him, blocking out even his desire to survive.
    Oh, Allah , he prayed, do not take this old man from me!
    “And what,” the lady replied, also in Farsi, “do you recommend that we do?”
    The old gentleman joined his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “I leave the decision to you, Bibi,” he said gently. “My only duty is to explain what he wants.”
    The lady's mare pawed impatiently at the dust. The tall groom spoke quietly to her. A cold breeze blew through Nur Rahman's thin clothes. He waited, holding his breath, refusing to shiver.
    “He may come inside, but only for three days.”
    The lady addressed herself not to Nur Rahman but to the old man, but the dancing boy did not mind. He lowered his head to conceal his joy, imagining himself sitting at the feet of the old man, serving him
    “He may stay for three days,” she repeated, “and not a moment longer. He will sleep in the storeroom at the end of the servants’ quarters, but he is not to mix with the servants. He should understand that if my aunt discovers he is here, he will have to leave immediately.”
    The old gentleman turned to Nur Rahman. “You have understood the lady's instructions?”
    Unsure of his voice, Nur Rahman cleared his throat. “I have, dear Father,” he croaked, before following them inside.

A s she rode into the cantonment, Mariana glanced behind her in time to see her odd new guest hurrying to join her munshi. They made a curious pair, walking through the rain together, her