Daughter of Nomads (3 page)

‘Probably. I wasn't there when you were born.' Hafeezah sounded miserable.

‘But who would want to hurt me?'

‘I do not know who is a danger to you, only that you were in danger when you were little and now you are again. I have wondered lately if you were being watched.'

Jahani remembered the feeling of being observed recently, but whenever she'd turned no one had been there. But when she remembered the man staring at her in the tonga she knew Hafeezah was right: someone wanted to hurt her.

‘But how did they find me?'

Hafeezah gathered Jahani's hands in her own again. ‘It is possible a visitor saw you at Sameela's house. There have been more people there of late because of the wedding. Sameela's betrothed comes from an influential family. His uncle serves at the emperor's court in Agra.'

‘Does Sami's father know that you are not my true mother?'

‘Bey ya, no, unless he suspects – you do look like a girl from the Qurraqoram Mountains. And that is what is frightening. If he does suspect, someone else could also.'

‘Perhaps he could help us.'

Hafeezah shrugged. ‘We cannot take that chance. Baqir said to tell no one. Not even you, unless you accidently gave the secret away.' She smiled sadly at Jahani. ‘What we have to do now is find a safer place to live.'

Hafeezah pushed herself up from the cushions and, in the other room, pulled her wooden clothes box out from under the charpai. She rummaged for a while and brought a child's dress to Jahani. ‘See this?'

Jahani did not recognise it. She ran her fingers over the patterns and silver decorations. A peacock feather was embroidered in blue and silver threads on the bodice of the tiny dress. A small square silver ornament, another taveez, was sewn onto the sleeve. ‘Zarah dressed me in this?' The taveez was pure silver, with intricate patterns similar to the one Jahani wore around her neck.

Hafeezah frowned. ‘Jahani, Zarah believed you were in grave danger. There was much trouble and fighting in the mountains at the time. I have kept you with me these past nine summers, hoping no one would know where we were. But it seems it was all for naught. Whoever it is, they have found you after all.'

3

Sherwan Kingdom of Hazara

J
ahani took the embroidered dress and slipped into the other room to think. In only one day her whole world had crumbled and now she had no idea who she was. A few summers ago she had pestered Hafeezah to tell her about her father, and Hafeezah had told her he'd died. So she had lied. About everything to do with her parents. Jahani frowned. And all for safety.

‘Zarah and Baqir.' She said their names aloud. Was she now Jahani Baqir?

Her fingers found the raised edge of the stitches on the little dress. Nothing about the dress brought memories of her parents to the fore. The squares of material were made of different pieces of fabric, some velvet, others light cotton. It was like the quilt she had made for Sameela, except the embroidery was unlike any Jahani had seen before. If only she could ask Sameela her opinion. But she was no longer here.

To stop herself from crying, Jahani took up a board with paper and dipped a reed pen in ink. She would finish the poem for Sameela.

She and Sameela had been like sisters, telling each other everything. They even acted out the stories they told. Most of Jahani's tales came from Hafeezah. Like the ones about the mountains, the giant bird called the Simurgh and the paries – fairies – who married princes and had pari horses.

Sameela's stories were different – hers were of the Persian kings.

Jahani murmured as she wrote:

‘Don't weep for me, my Sameela dear,
wear your gold bangles the whole year.

Don't cry for me, for you shall see
fate did not mean that you should weep for me.

For the day will come, I know it will
a bright new sun, my dreams fulfil.

Across that plain you will see me then;
remember when we did pretend?

I wore Rostam's helmet, my hair it hid
just like the lion, blessed Gordafarid.

So, no more fear, my Sameela dear,
wear your gold bangles the whole year.'

They'd had disagreements, but never for long. Like the time they rode horses with Sameela's brother Arif. One afternoon Arif let Jahani ride the feistiest gelding when Sameela wished to ride him. ‘Only Jahani can ride this horse,' he had said. ‘It is the one time all day he is quiet, Shehzadi.' He had used his pet name for Sameela, which meant princess, to calm her, but she had scowled at Jahani with jealousy. Luckily Sameela was only cross with her for a week. After that, Arif decided to teach them both to use a sword. He was an only son and Jahani understood they wouldn't have received this treatment if he hadn't been so bored.

In truth, Jahani had often felt at odds with Sameela and not just because she had no pedigree to list at times of introduction. There was also her hair. She wondered if Zarah and Baqir had red hair. If she went there would she feel as if she belonged?

The image of Sameela in her arms rose again in her mind. It was like one of her recurring nightmares. She frowned. Sameela's murder couldn't be because of her, surely? If she travelled to see her parents would she find some answers?

Jahani stood and paced around the room. If she sat here mourning and doing nothing, she would go mad. She couldn't let Sameela die in vain.

By the next morning, Jahani's mind was made up. She loved Hafeezah, but she would tell her what she planned.

While they ate their chapatti crumble, she began: ‘Ammi, I want to travel north. Perhaps Zarah and Baqir can tell me why I am in danger.'

Hafeezah stared at her, stunned. ‘Bey ya, I forbid it.'

‘Ammi, you lied to me all these summers.' Jahani pursed her lips. ‘I will go by myself if you won't come.'

Hafeezah slumped onto a cushion and wept. Then she looked up at Jahani as if she didn't know her. ‘Won't you reconsider? It isn't safe.'

Jahani knelt beside her. ‘Ammi, I love you, but I must do this. I can't explain why.'

Hafeezah took in a shuddering breath. ‘I suppose you will not be happy until you meet your parents.'

Jahani's eyes brightened.

‘But we must have an escort,' Hafeezah said.

Jahani paused, uncertain. ‘What kind of escort?'

‘An armed one.'

Later that day, Hafeezah answered a knock on the door. Jahani quickly covered her head with her dupatta as a man stepped inside. He kissed Hafeezah's hand to greet her in the northern way. He was tall and wore a leather vest over his qameez, soft leather boots – not sandals – and his forearms were encased in the wide leather bands that swordsmen and archers wore. His turban was wrapped as a mountain man's with a simple cloth, but he made it look like a nobleman's. Few men had been in their home, but this man was faintly familiar to Jahani.

It was obvious that Hafeezah knew the man because she smiled at him. She even spoke in Burushaski, and he understood. Jahani listened in shock. All these summers their language was such a secret and now Hafeezah was speaking it with a stranger.

She turned to Jahani. ‘This is the young man who brought you and Sameela home from the bazaar.'

There was a silence while all three remembered.

After a pause, Jahani recalled her manners. She rose, inclined her head and said, ‘Ju na, thank you.'

The man laid his right hand across his chest and said, ‘It was nothing.' He raised his head to look at her. His face was fair and clean shaven; he was young, perhaps only four summers older than her.

Jahani grew still: the image of being carried in his arms came unbidden to her mind. She blinked her eyes to disperse it and hoped she wasn't blushing.

‘How did you know where I lived?' she burst out.

His glance switched to Hafeezah who inclined her head before he faced Jahani again.

‘Missahiba, I have been guarding you for a while. My name is Azhar Sekandar and I am at your service.' He bowed his head slightly, but he did not kiss her hand in greeting.

Jahani was at a loss what to say. She felt even more like a person who had woken up and discovered she were someone else entirely.
A guard
. She had a personal protector and had never known? All those times she had been with Sameela in the bazaar or at her house, had this young man followed her and watched her? Was he the man she caught watching them before Sameela died? She narrowed her eyes at him. Men who guarded princesses and concubines in palaces were eunuchs, but Azhar was definitely not such a man. No doubt he knew much more about her than was fitting. Yet Jahani noticed he made an effort not to show this in his face and that alone appeased her.

‘I trust you have recovered, missahiba.'

She inclined her head to the side. ‘Ju na, thank you.' Her arm was healing, but she'd never recover from losing Sameela.

Hafeezah addressed Jahani. ‘If you are still intent on journeying north to the mountains, all plans must be laid before Azhar. He will decide who else should come, when we go and how. Since he is your protector he will also accompany us.' Hafeezah's voice was firmer than Jahani had ever heard it.

Jahani switched her gaze to Azhar and noted the sword at his side, and the dagger tucked into his kamarband, his waistband. For a moment all she could do was stare at the embroidery on his belt. She'd only seen one worn by Sameela's father before. Jahani lifted her head and caught Azhar openly appraising her. She didn't say a word, but excused herself politely and retreated to the other room. What was the point of covering herself in his presence? He had already seen her face and for how long? Yet Hafeezah didn't seem to find Azhar's forwardness amiss. Had everything they believed in turned upside down as well?

If only she had Sameela to talk to. Should she still go north if Azhar was in charge? But now Hafeezah made it seem like a fait accompli and everything was probably being arranged while she sat there in shock.

Jahani rearranged her dupatta and walked back to the main room. Hafeezah seemed relieved to see her return and Jahani's spirits rose a little. Perhaps not everything had changed. She knew Hafeezah still loved her even if she had lied about being her true mother.

Azhar rested against a carpeted cushion, sipping chai from a cup that looked too small in his hand. He barely glanced up as Jahani accepted a cup from Hafeezah and sat opposite him.

‘Azhar is saying we need to leave as soon as possible to reach Naran in the Kingdom of Kaghan.'

‘Why?' Jahani asked.

‘The weather, missahiba,' Azhar said. ‘It is a long journey of perhaps a moon and I do not want us to be caught in the wet season.'

‘Oh.' Jahani took a mouthful of chai.

‘He also feels that we shouldn't travel with a caravan,' Hafeezah said.

‘Would we travel quicker by ourselves?' Jahani asked.

Azhar put down his cup. ‘It is because of the danger. Not only has there been an attack on you but there is renewed unrest in the northern kingdoms. A caravan will be a target. A few people travelling alone may not.' He looked up and Jahani felt the full force of his gaze. His eyes looked green from where she sat and they contrasted against his dark lashes. One thing was clear: Azhar was used to being in charge and it infuriated her.

Perhaps she had been too hasty about going north. ‘Ammi, I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn before. If you feel we should not go—'

‘Do not worry, Jahani,' Hafeezah interrupted. ‘Azhar would have suggested it himself if you hadn't.'

Jahani frowned. ‘Because I'm in danger?'

He inclined his head. ‘Awa, yes, missahiba.'

‘Why do you address me in that high-handed way? Please, just call me Jahani.'

‘As you wish, miss—' Azhar stopped himself in time and regarded her calmly.

Was that a glint of humour she detected in his eyes? She turned away. No doubt he thought her a child. What was he? Just a guard and not a very polite one either.

Azhar turned to Hafeezah. ‘We leave before sunrise, kaka. After the early prayers. I will return in an hour to secure your belongings.'

‘Why so early?' Jahani asked, her frown deepening.

Azhar smiled faintly. ‘Our leaving needs to be a secret.' He stood in a fluid movement and the room seemed diminished. Then he bowed his head slightly to both of them with his hand over his heart.

Jahani watched him stride to the door and saw Hafeezah touch his arm in thanks. She stared. How could he call Hafeezah kaka, his older sister? The right side of his mouth curved in a smile as Hafeezah spoke to him. He dipped his head to hear her just as if he were a loving brother. But his final glance was for Jahani. There was something unsettling about him, but Jahani couldn't put a name to it.

It wasn't until Jahani was packing her bag that she realised she would be leaving all that she had ever known. And for how long? If Zarah and Baqir decided she should live with them again, she may never return.

‘Zarah.' Jahani tested the sound of her mother's name, but she felt nothing in her heart. How could a mother give up her child? Jahani couldn't make sense of it, but she could tell Hafeezah had told her all she knew. The only way to discover more was to meet her birth parents.

Jahani picked up the little embroidered dress from her birth mother and Sameela's wedding quilt. Most of her memories had Sameela in them: Eid festivals, parties at Sameela's house, sketching outfits and explaining them to the red-headed tailor. Sameela couldn't stop giggling as she explained the intricacies of new fashion to the old man. ‘Nay nay, baba ji, like this, dekho, look.' And she drew it again for him to see. Jahani had even had her nose pierced at Sameela's house – one of Sameela's servants poured perfume on her nose and poked a needle through with thread attached. Jahani squealed from the pain, but worse than that was the embarrassment of walking home with thread in her nose. She couldn't wait until Hafeezah could buy her a nose-ring. But when her nose healed, Sameela had given Jahani one of her gold nose-rings. She still wore it.

Jahani buried her face in Sameela's wedding quilt.
Don't weep for me, my Sameela dear, wear your gold bangles the whole year.
She had written those lines less than a week ago; now Sameela was gone and she was the one crying. Jahani decided she would take the quilt to remember the love and memories that were stitched into it.

Before she packed her small red prayer rug, Jahani knelt on it in front of the unshuttered window and said, ‘Qhuda, I go north for you and for Sami, whatever the danger. Forgive me, for it is my fault she died. Help me discover why.'

When she finally stood and glanced out the window she saw Azhar. He had brought three horses. They were dark in colour and shifted restlessly in the evening mist. The darkest horse proudly tossed its head as its tail swished in the air. A bow and quiver of arrows were attached to its saddle and a rolled carpet was tied behind it. The horse stamped its feet until Azhar murmured in its ear. Jahani wondered how Hafeezah could afford them, but perhaps they were financed by Zarah and Baqir.

She draped a light shawl over her hair and defiantly carried out her packed carpet bag, without Hafeezah's help, to Azhar. She watched as he tied it with ropes onto a horse.