high cloth wall. Near the entrance to Jadar's enclosure was the camp
artillery, including the cannon, and the tents of the lead horses and
war elephants. Its entry was guarded by mounted horsemen, and next to
these were the tents for Jadar's leopards. Around the perimeter were
the striped tents of the nobles and officers, whose respective colors
flew above for easy identification. And spreading out from each
officer's tent were the tents of his men, their wives, and their
bazaar. The camp itself was laid out with such consistent precision
that a soldier might easily find his tent in total darkness, regardless
of where the army might be.
As Jadar dismounted at the entry to the gulal bar and strode toward his
tent, his mind sorted through the moves that lay ahead. He had notified
the Moghul of the envoy's secret report and asked for five million
rupees in silver coin. It was the price for the Deccan. Surely he could
not refuse. Arangbar's own administrators, who were supposed to monitor
the mansabdars, were to blame.
There were also other, new and disquieting, complexities. Word had come
through Surat only the day before that the Portuguese were secretly
planning to arm Malik Ambar. Why? It was common knowledge they feared
and hated Jadar, because he distrusted all Christians and said so. And
they certainly were aware that if he should someday unite the rebel-
infested province of Gujarat, where their ports of Daimon and Diu were
situated, he would undoubtedly try to regain these ports for India. But
they would not dare to openly, or even secretly, support rebels within
the Moghul empire unless they were sure there would be no reprisals
from Agra. Which meant they had powerful accomplices in court.
Accomplices who would venture to endanger the empire itself to ruin
Jadar.
Whose interests in Agra were served if the Deccan remained in turmoil?
If Jadar were kept occupied and harried in the south?
The question virtually answered itself.
If this were not perplexing enough, news had arrived two days before
telling of an incredible incident. Two merchant frigates of another
European nation, calling themselves English, had appeared off the bar
of Surat. And humiliated four Portuguese warships. Jadar had released
pigeons for Surat immediately, ordering that the English be protected
until he could determine their intentions.
The dispatch received the following morning, yesterday, reported that
his orders had been timely. A Portuguese ambush of the English as they
came up the Tapti River had been averted, by Rajputs using arrows
stolen from the governor's own guard. And this morning there had been
another message from Surat, with news that the governor had sent the
Moghul a dispatch claiming credit for the action--this only after he
discovered the English captain had gifts for Arangbar!
But who knew the intentions of the captain of this English fleet? Or
the content of a letter he had brought for the Moghul. Reports said
only that he was "quartered" in the governor's palace. Where he could
no longer be protected. . . .
His eunuchs bowed and relayed an urgent message from Mumtaz. His wife
begged to receive His Highness the moment he returned.
Without entering his own tent, Jadar proceeded through the circle of
guards protecting the women's quarters. Mumtaz was waiting, surrounded
by two of her women and the now-constant midwife. She was almost to
term with Jadar's third child. The first two had been daughters. His
first thought when he saw her was that this birth must be male.
Merciful Allah, make this a son.
Mumtaz's gleaming black hair had been tightly braided, and she wore a
shawl and trousers of gold-threaded silk. She had a pronounced fondness
for gold and silk: few other luxuries were to be found in the army
camps that had been her home for most of their marriage. Mumtaz's
features were delicate, with high Persian cheeks, and she was well over
thirty--the age at which most Muslim women ceased to interest their
mates. But she had found ways to remain the center of Jadar's life, if
not dominate it.
The flash of her eyes told Jadar she was in an extreme temper.
"Pigeons arrived just after you left. The report from Agra
is astonishing."
"What 'report' do you mean? Do you and your women receive my dispatches
now?"
"Which are rarely worth the bother. No, I receive my own. From Father."
Mumtaz was the daughter of Nadir Sharif, prime minister of the Moghul
empire and brother of Queen Janahara. "I had the sense to leave him
pigeons for here at Ujjain. And also for Burhanpur . . . which may
prove to be vital for you, assuming that city is not overrun by
Deccanis by the time you reach it."
"What message did Nadir Sharif ever send that wasn't dictated by our
noble queen?"
"You're a fool not to trust him. But you'd do well to begin. And soon."
Mumtaz's eyes snapped momentary fire, matching the hard red jewel on
her forehead, and she eased herself slowly onto a well-traveled velvet
bolster to lighten the weight of the child. "I think you'll discover
your many friends may be difficult to find if we ever return to the
capital."
"Come to the point. I want to see into their tent. They killed well
today." Jadar was always amused by Mumtaz's temper. He had long ago
despaired of receiving proper respect from her. She defied him exactly
the way Janahara defied the Moghul. And he delighted in it. Perhaps all
Persian wives were incorrigible. Perhaps it was a racial trait.
"Very well. You should be pleased to know that His Majesty has already
forgotten you exist. He has agreed to the queen's outrageous scheme. An
affront to sense, but it will be the end of you nonetheless."
"Agreed to what?"
"The very marriage I warned you about, but you wouldn't listen. You
were too clever. Yes, you were brilliant. You sent the wrong brother
away from Agra. You sent Khusrav, the competent one. You should have
sent Allaudin."
"I don't believe it."
"I do. And I told you it would happen. The queen has foisted her
scrawny offspring, the simpering Princess Layla, onto Allaudin. But
it's the perfect match. The Moghul's youngest son, the notorious 'good-
for-nothing,' betrothed to that fumbling little sparrow. Both weak and
useless."
"What could Allaudin possibly do? Even Arangbar realizes he's
incompetent."
"But Arangbar will soon be dead. So what he knows won't matter. It's
perfect for the queen. She'll rule them both. In the meantime, she'll
make sure you're nowhere near Agra. Your next appointment will probably
be the Punjab, or perhaps the Himalayas. Where you can chase yak with
your leopards." Mumtaz could scarcely contain her anger and
frustration. "The time will come, and soon, when the Moghul will chance
his twenty glasses of wine and his twelve grains of opium one night too
many. And the next day, while you're somewhere sporting with your
_chitahs_, she'll summon her lackey general Inayat Latif and his Bengal
_mansabdars _to Agra. And declare Allaudin the next Moghul."
Jadar was stunned. Allaudin was incapable of anything, except bowing to
the queen's orders like a hand puppet. Once Moghul, he certainly could
not rule. She would rule for him. Or probably eliminate him entirely
after a few months.
So Janahara had finally made her move. To challenge Prince Jadar, the
son who had earned the throne, for his rightful place. The battle had
been joined.
"So what do you propose to do? She waited just long enough to trap you
in the Deccan." Mumtaz's fury was turning to despair. "If you go back
now, you'll be accused of abandoning Burhanpur. If you march on south,
you'll be unable to return for months. And by that time Allaudin will
be married. Father said she has convinced the Moghul to give him a
personal mansab rank of eight thousand _zat _and a horse rank of four
thousand _suwar_. Allaudin, who scarcely knows a bow from a wine bowl,
will now have his own cavalry."
Jadar was looking at her, but he no longer heard.
This changes everything. There'll be no silver. The queen will see to
that.
And no silver means no troops can be recalled from the Deccan
_mansabdars_.