The Mountain Shadow by Gregory David Roberts

he’d also seen me as a pawn in his great game.
    ‘I never expected to be mentioned.’
    ‘You did not expect to be remembered?’ he insisted, inclining his head to emphasise his doubt.
    It was exactly the same gesture that Khaderbhai had used when he was teasing me in philosophical discussions.
    ‘Even though you were so close to him? Even though he acknowledged you, more than once, as a favourite? Even though you, and Nazeer, were with him in the mission that cost him his life?’
    ‘Your English is getting damn good,’ I observed, trying to change the direction of the conversation. ‘This new tutor’s doing a great job.’
    ‘I like her,’ Tariq replied, but then his eyes flickered nervously, and he amended his hasty reply. ‘I mean, I respect my teacher. She is an excellent tutor. Rather better, I might say, than you were yourself, Lin.’
    There was a little pause. I put the palms of my hands on my knees, signalling that I was ready to leave.
    ‘Well –’
    ‘Wait!’ he said quickly.
    I frowned, looking hard at the boy, but relented when I saw the pleading crouched in his eyes. I sat back once more, and crossed my arms.
    ‘This . . . this week,’ he began again, ‘we discovered some new papers of my uncle. Those papers had been lost in his copy of the Koran. Or not lost , but simply not found, until this week. My uncle placed them there, just before he went to Afghanistan.’
    The boy paused, and I glanced back at the brawny bodyguard, my friend Nazeer.
    ‘He left you a gift,’ Tariq said suddenly. ‘It is a sword. His own sword, that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and that twice has been used in battle against the British.’
    ‘There must be some mistake.’
    ‘The papers are quite specific,’ Tariq said stiffly. ‘In the event of his death, the sword was to go to you. Not as a bequest, but as a gift, from my hands, directly to yours. You will honour me now, by accepting it.’
    Nazeer brought the sword. He unwrapped layers of silk cloth protection, and presented the sword to me in his upturned palms.
    The long sword was in a wide silver scabbard, chiselled to show a flight of hawks in relief. The apical portion of the scabbard showed an inscription from the Koran. The hilt was made of lapis, inlaid with turquoise to cover the fixing rivets. A hand guard of beaten silver swept in a graceful curve from the pommel to the cross guard.
    ‘It’s a mistake,’ I repeated, staring at the heirloom weapon. ‘It should be yours. It must be yours.’
    The boy smiled, grateful and wistful in equal measure.
    ‘You are quite right, it should be mine,’ he said. ‘But the papers, written in Khaderbhai’s own hand, are very specific. The sword is yours, Lin. And don’t think to refuse it. I know your heart. If you try to give it back to me, I will be offended.’
    ‘There’s another consideration,’ I said, still staring at the sword. ‘You know that I escaped from prison in my country. I could be arrested and sent back there at any time. If that happens, the sword could be lost.’
    ‘You will never have trouble with the police in Bombay,’ Tariq insisted. ‘You are with us. No harm can come to you here. And if you leave the city for some long time, you can give the sword to Nazeer, who will protect it until you return.’
    He nodded to Nazeer, who leaned in closer, urging me to take the weapon from his hands. I looked into his eyes. Nazeer’s mouth tightened in a willow-droop smile.
    ‘Take the sword,’ he said in Urdu. ‘And draw the sword.’
    The sword was lighter than I’d expected it to be. I let it rest on my knees for a time.
    In that silent minute in the neglected mansion I hesitated, thinking that if I drew the sword from its scabbard, memories would bleed out from the sheath of forgetfulness, where some of the time, enough of the time, they were hidden. But tradition demanded that I draw the sword, as a sign of accepting it.
    I drew the blade into the light and stood,