The men rose as she entered, and waited for her to take her place. Her head still covered and bowed, solemn and aware that every eye was on her, she walked across to where Bazigh Khan was waiting. Her hand in his, he led her to her place at the front of the room. The men sat down again. The atmosphere was heavy with the work Bazigh Khan had done to pacify them; the residue of reined-in arrogance and the scent of testosterone still lingered. The room felt thick with resentment, their hostility thinly veiled. Like a pack of hungry wolves, they waited. She knew that these men could sense fear and twist it to their will. In that moment, she was glad of her father’s tutelage and his raising her not to fear men.

‘Jia jaan, you are the daughter of our Khan,’ Bazigh Khan said. ‘We would like to offer you our condolences. “Inna lillaahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’oon.” If you are in agreement, we would like to start with the Fatihah to pray for maghfirat for Akbar Khan.’ Jia nodded, joining the men as they placed their hands before their faces, shielding their eyes from the world to recite seven of the most powerful verses of the Quran, calling upon their God. Jia hoped He was listening.

With the word ‘ameen’, Bazigh Khan signalled the end of the prayer, the men’s voices chiming with his. Then, drawing from the Quran again, he said: ‘And give good tidings to the patient, who, when disaster strikes them, say, “Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return.”’

Jia wondered what her father would have to say about the situation in which she now found herself. She had considered his dispensation of justice to be ugly and misguided, feeding only his ego and having no place in the betterment of society. She had argued endlessly with him over this man’s value and that man’s virtue, but nothing had ever been resolved. And today, these dangerous men, these men whose reign she had long wished to see end, stood before her awaiting her guidance and instruction. She reminded herself of Benyamin and steeled herself for the onslaught.

Jaanan Khan spoke first; he was the eldest of the men. His tone was cold, his manner frosty, yet he began with kind words to her: ‘I would like to offer my condolences to you. Your father was a true Pathan and a king among our people. We will miss him and pray you find peace.’ A wry smile spread across his face, and he bared his teeth. ‘You are many things, Jia Khan, but you are not our Khan; you are a woman,’ he said.