“So I understand,” returned the Khan, dryly. “They were also my ancestors, for the same royal blood flowed in the veins of Keedar Khan. But why should we speak of the past? Today, by the grace of Allah, I am myself ruler of Baluchistan.”
“By treachery and cunning, rather than Allah’s grace,” retorted the Prince, defiantly. “Should right and justice prevail I would myself be sitting upon the throne of my forefathers.”
“It is a matter of common knowledge,” answered Ahmed, quietly facing the other and looking calmly down from his superior height into the passionate face of the younger man, “that neither right nor justice entitled your forefathers to rule this land. It may comfort you, cousin, to look into the history of the Tribes, concerning which you seem to be somewhat misinformed. But it is not worth arguing at present. What interests us more keenly is the condition that confronts us. Through the sad ending of Burah Khan, whose body now lies in state in the Mosque of the Angels, I am suddenly called to the throne. Because of my inexperience in affairs of state I shall need, as councillors and advisors, the assistance of all those to whom the welfare of Baluchistan is dear. Doubtless you love your country, Prince Kasam, and your European education will have given you broad and intelligent ideas of modern government. Therefore I value your friendship. Will you become my vizier, and assist me to rule my people to their greatest good?”
Kasam was astounded. The proposition, coming from one whom he had reason to consider his greatest foe, was as unexpected as it was impossible. Moreover, it indicated a weakness of character and lack of sound judgment in the new ruler that both pleased and encouraged him. Ahmed was a big and burly fellow, it was true, but he seemed as gentle as a woman. Evidently a monastery training did not stimulate virility of mind.
Kasam thought rapidly during the few moments that he stood with downcast eyes before Ahmed Khan, and his conclusions determined him upon his course of action. Then, remembering they were not alone, he glanced toward the table and encountered the physician’s mocking gaze. If Ahmed was weak, here at least was a strong man. Indignant and alarmed at what he read in the dark eyes he turned to Abdul, the Sirdar of Ugg, for reassurance. That white-haired dignitary sat with composed and placid countenance quietly regarding the khan, whose words and actions alone seemed to afford him interest.
“What if I refuse?” asked Kasam, sharply, turning again to Ahmed.
“Then you will grieve me.”
The Prince smiled contemptuously.
“But you will put me in prison, or assassinate me?”
“Why should I?”