Daughters of Destiny. L. Frank Baum

      “To the monastery of Takkatu is three days’ journey—three days, at least,” he said, hesitatingly. “And for Prince Ahmed to return will require three more. Seven days—a week—with fast riding.”

      “Then,” said the Khan, calmly, “they must ride fast.” He turned to the Persian. “Can you fight Death so long?”

      The Persian nodded. The pluck of Burah Khan aroused his admiration.

      “I will fight Death so long,” said he, gravely.

      “And the sirdars?” asked the sick man, once more turning to his vizier.

      “They can be assembled in five days,” answered Agahr, after a moment’s reflection. “Three are already here.”

      “Good!” declared the Khan. “Let Dirrag ride within the hour.”

      “For the sirdars?”

      “For Ahmed.”

      He fell back again, and a man rose from the group behind Agahr and with an obeisance toward the divan glided swiftly from the courtyard.

      The physician, noting the action, turned to the vizier.

      “Dirrag?” he enquired.

      “Dirrag,” responded the other, mechanically.

      The Persian gave his patient a sharp scrutiny, and drawing a phial from his bosom placed it to the now colorless lips of the Khan.

      “Clear the place,” he commanded Agahr, and without awaiting a response himself stepped quickly through the outer arch.

      Outside Dirrag was mounting a strong Arabian mare. The Persian arrested him with a gesture.

      “The Prince must be here in six days,” he said, in a low but commanding voice. “Six days, or—”

      “I understand,” said Dirrag, and put spurs to the mare.

CHAPTER IV

       THE DAUGHTER OF THE VIZIER

       Table of Contents

      Upon a stone gallery overlooking the courtyard of a handsome dwelling not far from the palace of the khan reclined a girl, beautiful with that mysterious Eastern beauty that has been for ages the despair of poets and artists and which attains its full charm only in the Orient. She was scarcely seventeen years of age, yet her rounded outlines, her graceful poise, her sedate demeanor, all proclaimed her a maiden on the verge of womanhood. Her eyes, round and soft as those of a fawn, were absolutely inscrutable; her features in repose held the immutable expression of the Sphynx. When she smiled sunbeams danced in her eyes and a girlish dimple showed in her chin. But she rarely smiled. The composed, serious, languorous expression dominated her exquisite face.

      The girl was richly dressed. Her silken gown was of finest texture; pearls of rare size were twined in her dark hair; a golden serpent whose every scale was a lustrous diamond spanned her waist; upon her breast glittered a solitary blood-red ruby of historic fame, known in song and story for generations.

      For this maiden was Maie, only daughter of Agahr, Grand Vizier to the Lion of Mekran and to his father before him—the terrible Keedar Khan.

      Next to Burah himself in rank, virtually directing all the civic affairs of the nation, responsible to none save his stern master, Agahr was indeed a personage of vast importance in the realm. The sirdars of the nine fighting tribes of Baluchi, the main support of the Khan, might look upon the vizier scornfully; but they obeyed his laws and avoided any interference with his civic functions.

      Maie was the daughter of Agahr’s old age, his only companion and his constant delight. To her he confided many of the problems that from time to time confronted him, and often a quiet word from the girl’s lips showed him the matter in a new light and guided him in his actions. The old man had discovered a store of common sense in the dainty head of his daughter; the inscrutable velvet eyes were wells of wisdom from which he drew solace and counsel in all difficulties.

      On the evening of this eventful day came Agahr to the gallery where his daughter reclined. And as he sat beside her she turned her eyes upon his face and seemed to read it clearly.

      “The Khan is worse,” said she, quietly.

      “He is dying,” answered the vizier. “The Persian physician has come from Kelat, and he says there is no hope.”

      “We shall be making history soon,” remarked the girl, in soft tones. “The Khan will pass away, and Kasam is here.”

      The vizier moved uneasily on his seat.

      “Kasam is here; yes,” said he. “But no one knows the secret save us. No one knows who our Kasam is.”

      “They will know soon,” returned the girl in a calm, expressionless voice. “Our cousin Kasam is rightful heir to the throne—when the Lion’s eyes are closed in death.”

      “You forget that Burah Khan has also a son,” said the old man, harshly. “Even now Dirrag is riding full speed to the Sunnite monastery at Takkatu to bring hither the Prince Ahmed.”

      “That he may be acknowledged successor to the throne by the assembled sirdars of the Nine Tribes?”

      “Yes.”

      “But the Khan is dying. The Prince cannot arrive in time.”

      “Perhaps not. Yet that accursed Persian has promised to prolong the Khan’s life for seven days. If he succeeds—”

      The girl bent forward suddenly.

      “He must not succeed!” she exclaimed, in a clear voice.

      Agahr shrank from the intentness of her gaze.

      “Hear me!” she continued. “Kasam is our kinsman; the throne is his by right. Most of our citizens and many of the members of the Nine Tribes secretly favor his claim. A crisis approaches, and we must take advantage of it. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days. If his son Ahmed, who has been secluded for twenty years in a monastery, and is said to be devoted to Allah, is not here to be recognized as the successor to the throne, the people will acclaim Kasam their khan. It is all very simple, my father. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days!”

      “What, plotting again, cousin?” cried a cheery voice behind them. Agahr gave a sudden start and wheeled around with a frown, meeting the smiling face of Prince Kasam, but the girl moved not even an eyelid.

      “Pardon me, uncle, for startling you,” said the young man, coming forward and taking a seat beside the vizier. “I arrived in time to hear cousin Maie doom Burah Kahn to an early death, as if the dark angel fought on our side. What a wonderful little conspirator you are, my Maie!”

      She looked into his face thoughtfully not caring to acknowledge the compliment of his words or the ardor of his gaze. But Agahr said, gruffly:

      “The conspiracies of women cost many men their heads.”

      “Very true, uncle,” replied Kasam, becoming grave. “But we are in sore straights, and a little plotting may not come amiss. If the son of the old Lion—who, by the way, is also my cousin—is acknowledged by the sirdars, he is liable to make a change in his officers. We may lose our vizier, and with the office more than half our power with the people. In that event I can never become kahn.”

      “The son of Burah must be a weakling and a dreamer,” said the girl, thoughtfully. “What can be expected of one who for twenty years has associated with monks and priests?”

      “Twenty years?” exclaimed Kasam; “then my cousin Ahmed must be nearly thirty years of age.”

      “And a recluse,” added Maie, quietly. “You, Prince, are not yet twenty-five, and you