Ahmed Khan arrived at the district headquarters with dust still clinging to the hem of his trousers and the smell of the road in his clothes. He did not sit in the waiting room; he did not allow himself the softness of delay. He walked straight past the clerk with the inkwell, past the constables who had begun to stand a little straighter since Sandalbar's flag had started snapping in the canal wind, and knocked once on the Commissioner's door.
"Send him in," Harrington called, before the clerk could even announce him.
The Commissioner was at his desk, spectacles low on his nose, a folder of reports open like a wound. The room smelled of paper, tobacco, and boiled tea. A ceiling fan turned with the slow, resigned rhythm of colonial administration. Harrington looked up and studied Ahmed the way a man studies an instrument he isn't sure he trusts—useful, sharp, and capable of cutting its owner if mishandled.
"Well?" Harrington asked. "You look like you've been running a railway timetable in your head."
Ahmed stepped forward and placed a leather-bound ledger on the desk with deliberate care, as if it were evidence in court.
"We concluded the joint operation," Ahmed said, voice steady. "Three strongholds located. Three neutralized."
Harrington's eyes flicked to the ledger. "Neutralized how?"
"Arrests," Ahmed replied. "No theatrics. The Farabis served as guides and beaters as planned. The Army sealed the perimeter. Surrenders were secured."
Harrington's jaw tightened slightly. The phrasing pleased him. It was the language of procedure, not vengeance. Procedure was something the Raj could defend.
"How many?" Harrington asked.
Ahmed opened the ledger. His finger found the column.
"Forty-two taken into custody," he said. "Thirty-nine adult males, three older boys used as runners. All bound and delivered to the police station under Army escort."
Harrington exhaled as if he had been holding air in his lungs since the Zaildar fires started.
"And weapons?"
Ahmed turned the page.
"Recovered: nineteen muzzle-loaders in working condition. Fourteen not fit to fire. Six pistols—two British make, likely taken off someone who shouldn't have lost them. Ammunition stockpiles: mixed. Mostly crude, but enough to terrorize villagers."
He hesitated, then added the detail that mattered.
"And one crate of proper .303 rounds."
Harrington's eyes narrowed. "From where."
Ahmed did not guess. He never guessed in front of a man like Harrington.
"Unclear," he said. "But the stamp suggests it was diverted from a legitimate supply chain, not handmade."
Harrington sat back. A diversion meant a leak. A leak meant someone in the district—police, revenue, or transport—had been greasing palms for years. That was not merely criminal; it was embarrassment. Embarrassment was the only thing the Raj feared more than rebellion.
"I'll handle the paper trail," Harrington said quietly.
Ahmed nodded and continued, because he understood that what mattered to Harrington was not only force, but narrative—what could be written, what could be defended, what could be sent to the Governor without inviting more scrutiny.
"There is more," Ahmed said.
Harrington's gaze sharpened. "Go on."
Ahmed turned another page.
"Recovered assets: grain, livestock, and cash."
"Quantify," Harrington said immediately.
Ahmed appreciated that. It was the difference between a man who ruled and a man who merely reacted.
"Grain: one hundred and eighty-seven sacks," Ahmed said. "Mostly wheat. Some lentils. Two small stores of salt. Livestock: thirteen buffaloes, twenty-seven goats. Three carts. Two sewing looms."
Harrington blinked. "They were stealing looms?"
"During the chaos," Ahmed said. "Anything valuable that could be carried or broken down. The villages were stripped."
Harrington's face hardened.
"And cash?"
Ahmed looked down, ran his finger along the entry, and spoke the number like a sentence.
"Eight thousand and three hundred rupees," he said. "In mixed denominations. Plus small ornaments—silver bangles, two gold nose rings—likely taken from households."
Harrington whistled once, softly. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes the scale of rot that has been living under his paperwork.
"And…" Ahmed paused a fraction, not because he was afraid to speak, but because he knew this was the part that changed how the story would be told.
"And human recoveries," he said.
Harrington's hand stilled on the edge of the folder.
"How many?" the Commissioner asked, voice suddenly flat.
"Twenty-six," Ahmed replied. "Fourteen women. Twelve children. Some missing for weeks. Some for months."
Harrington's eyes did not move, but something in his posture tightened as if a moral weight had been placed on his shoulders without his consent.
"Alive?"
"All alive," Ahmed said. "Weak. Malnourished. Frightened. But alive."
He added, because procedure mattered:
"Dr. Evelyn received them at Chak 17-M. They are being treated. They are being documented."
"Documented how?"
"Names where possible," Ahmed said. "Home villages. Any identifiable relatives. Evelyn is keeping medical notes. I have assigned two clerks to cross-check the missing persons lists from the ten villages."
Harrington's gaze rose to Ahmed's face.
"That's… competent," he said, as if the concept still surprised him.
Ahmed didn't smile. He had learned at Sandalbar that praise was not a currency worth collecting.
Harrington took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The fan overhead continued its slow rotation, indifferent to the fact that a district had just shifted from fear to something else.
"Forty-two arrests," Harrington murmured, almost to himself. "Weapons recovered. Stolen assets recovered. Kidnapped persons recovered."
He looked up again, the bureaucrat returning, already calculating the structure of the report he would send.
"This will read well in Lahore," he said.
Ahmed allowed the smallest pause.
"Yes," he said. "It will."
Harrington's eyes narrowed. "That tone suggests there's a second half."
Ahmed turned the page again, but this time he did not read from it. This time he delivered an idea.
"Mr. Jinnah proposes an additional step," Ahmed said. "A distribution."
Harrington's expression changed. The relief faded into suspicion.
"Distribution of what," Harrington asked carefully, "and to whom?"
"The recovered assets," Ahmed said. "The grain. The livestock. The cash that can be traced. Restitution to the villages."
Harrington leaned back. His chair creaked.
"That," he said slowly, "is not a simple matter."
Ahmed kept his voice calm. "Mr. Jinnah believes it is essential."
Harrington stared at him. "Believes."
"Yes," Ahmed replied. "Because the operation solves the symptom. The distribution solves the memory."
Harrington's lips tightened. "Explain."
Ahmed did not preach. He reported. That was his strength.
"The bandits were not only feared," Ahmed said. "They were… normalized. People learned to accept loss as a condition of life. They learned that when something is taken, it is never returned. That creates a permanent posture of helplessness."
Harrington's eyes remained fixed on him.
"Mr. Jinnah wants the district to see the opposite," Ahmed continued. "That theft is not destiny. That the state—whether estate or Crown—can reverse harm, not merely punish it."
Harrington let out a short, humorless laugh.
"You speak like a pamphlet," he said. "And Mr. Jinnah speaks like a man who has forgotten he is not the government."
Ahmed did not flinch.
"He has not forgotten," Ahmed said. "He is using the only window available. The district is watching. If the recovered grain goes into a storehouse and vanishes into 'process,' people will assume the new order is simply a new mouth."
Harrington's gaze sharpened at that.
"A new mouth," he repeated.
"Yes," Ahmed said. "A different uniform, the same hunger."
The Commissioner's fingers tapped the desk once. Not anger—calculation.
"And how does Mr. Jinnah intend to do this 'distribution'?" Harrington asked. "Throw sacks of wheat into crowds? Hand rupees to anyone who claims to be a victim?"
"No," Ahmed said promptly. "He intends to do it by ledger."
That earned him a pause.
"By ledger?"
"Yes," Ahmed said. "Each village will submit a list of confirmed losses—grain, livestock, tools. The claims will be verified by two sources: the village headman and our clerks cross-checking the existing missing-livestock entries. Then a proportional restitution: grain returned first, livestock next, and cash only where identity can be reasonably confirmed."
Harrington stared at Ahmed as if he had just described a machine.
"And who signs these ledgers?" Harrington asked.
Ahmed did not hesitate.
"Mr. Jinnah," he said, "and myself. With your office's stamp, if you approve."
Silence settled in the room.
Behind Harrington's eyes, a war was happening—not the war of rifles, but of governance. He could already see the Governor's questions.
What authority does an estate owner have to redistribute seized assets?
Is this justice or politics?
Will it look like the Crown is funding a private fiefdom?