understand all this, why not just take the papers back to the palace
and work with them there?" She was in the room now, her olive cheeks
exquisitely shadowed by the partially open door, where flickering
shadows played lightly through the brilliant sunshine. "Today I'd
rather hear you play your English instrument."
"With pleasure. I've been trying to learn an Indian raga." He kept his
voice even and moved himself deftly between Shirin and the doorway,
blocking her exit. "But it sounds wrong on the lute. When I get to Agra
I'm thinking I'll have a sitar made . . ."
He reached as though for the lute, then swung his hand upward and
clapped it over Shirin's mouth. Before she could move he shoved her
against the wall beside the door and stretched with his other hand to
seize the heavy brass astrolabe that rested on a stand by the table. He
caught a look of pure terror in her eyes, and for a moment he thought
she might scream. He pressed her harder against the wall to seal her
mouth, and as the shaft of light from the doorway dimmed momentarily he
stepped forward and swung the brass astrolabe upward.
There was a soft sound of impact, followed by a choked groan and the
clatter of metal against the wooden door. He drew back the astrolabe,
now with a trace of blood along its sharp edge and the remains of a
tooth wedged between its discs. Then he looked out to see a dark-
skinned Indian man in a loincloth rolling himself across the top of the
garden wall. A faint splash followed, as he dropped into the moat.
When Hawksworth released Shirin and placed the astrolabe back on its
stand, he caught the glint of sunshine off a stiletto lying in the
doorway. He bent down to retrieve it and suddenly she was next to him,
holding his arm and staring at the place where the man had scaled the
wall.
"He was a Sudra, a low caste." She looked at the stiletto in
Hawksworth's hand, and her voice turned to scorn. "It's Portuguese.
Only the Portuguese would hire someone like that, instead of a Rajput."
Then she laughed nervously. "If they'd hired a Rajput, someone would be
dead now. Hire a Sudra and you get a Sudra's work."
"Who was it?"
"Who knows? The horse bazaar is full of men who would kill for ten
rupees." She pointed toward the wall. "Do you see that piece of cloth?
There on the old spike. I think it's a piece of his _dhoti_. Would you
get it for me?"
After Hawksworth had retrieved the shred of cotton loincloth, brown
from a hundred washings in the river, she had taken it from him without
a word.
"What will you do with it?"
"Don't." She touched a finger to his lips. "These are things it's best
not to ask." Then she tucked the brown scrap into the silken sash at
her waist and moved toward the door. "And it would be better if you
forgot about today."
Hawksworth watched her for a second, then seized her arm and turned her
facing him. "I may not know what's going on. But, by Jesus, I'll know
before you leave. And you can start by telling me why you come here."
She stared back at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. There was
something in them he had never seen before, almost admiration. Then she
caught herself and drew back, dropping into a chair. "Very well.
Perhaps you do deserve to know." She slipped the translucent scarf from
her hair and tossed it across the table. "Why don't you open the wine
you brought? I'll not tell you everything, because you shouldn't want
me to, but I'll tell you what's important for you."
Hawksworth remembered how he had slowly poured the wine for her, his
hand still trembling.
"Have you ever heard of Samad?" she had begun, taking a small sip.
"I think he's the poet Mukarrab Khan quoted once. He called him a Sufi
rascal."
"Is that what he said? Good. That only confirms once again what I think
of His Excellency." She laughed with contempt. "Samad is a great poet.
He's perhaps the last great Persian writer, in the tradition of Omar
Khayyam. He has favored me by allowing me to be one of his disciples."
"So you come here to write poems?"
"When I feel something I want to say."
"But I've also found lists of names here, and numbers."
"I told you I can't tell you everything." Shirin's look darkened
momentarily as she drank again lightly from the cup, then settled it on
the table. He found himself watching her face, drawn to her by
something he could not fully understand. "But I can tell you this.
There's someone in India who will one day rid us of the infidel
Portuguese. Do you know of Prince Jadar?"
"He's the son of the Moghul. I'm guessing he'll probably succeed one
day."
"He should. If he's not betrayed. Things are very unsettled in Agra. He
has many enemies there." She paused. "He has enemies here."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Then you should. Because what happens in Agra will affect everyone.
Even you."
"But what does Agra politics have to do with me? The knife was
Portuguese."
"To understand what's happening, you should first know about Akman, the
one we remember now as the Great Moghul. He was the father of Arangbar,
the Moghul now. I was only a small girl when Akman died, but I still
remember my sadness, my feeling the universe would collapse. We
worshiped him almost. It's not talked about now, but the truth is Akman
didn't really want Arangbar to succeed him, nobody did. But he had no
choice. In fact, when Akman died, Arangbar's eldest son started a
rebellion to deny him the throne, but that son's troops betrayed him,
and after they surrendered Arangbar blinded him in punishment. Khusrav,
his own son. Although Prince Jadar was still only a young boy then, we
all thought after that he would be Moghul himself one day. But that was
before the Persians came to power in Agra."
"But aren't you Persian yourself?"
"I was born in India, but yes, I have the great fortune to be of
Persian blood. There are many Persians in India. You know, Persians
still intimidate the Moghuls. Ours is a magnificent culture, an ancient
culture, and Persians never let the Moghuls forget it." Shirin had
dabbed at her brow and rose to peer out the door of the observatory
building, as though by instinct. "Did you know that the first Moghul
came to India less than a hundred years ago, actually after the
Portuguese? He was named Babur, a distant descendant of the Mongol
warrior Genghis Khan, and he was from Central Asia. Babur was the
grandfather of Akman. They say he had wanted to invade Persia but that
the ruling dynasty, the Safavis, was too strong. So he invaded India
instead, and the Moghuls have been trying to make it into Persia ever
since. That's why Persians can always find work in India. They teach
their language at court, and give lessons in fashion, and in painting
and garden design. Samad came here from Persia, and now he's the
national poet."
"What do these Persians have to do with whatever's happening in Agra?
Are you, or your family, somehow involved too?"
"My father was Shayhk Mirak." She hesitated a moment, as though
expecting a response. Then she continued evenly, "Of course, you'd not
know of him. He was a court painter. He came to India when Akman was
Moghul and took a position under the Persian Mir Sayyid Ali, who
directed the painting studio Akman founded. You know, I've always found
it amusing that Akman had to use Persian artists to create the Moghul
school of Indian painting. Anyway, my father was very skilled at Moghul
portraits, which everybody now says were invented by Akman. And when
Akman died, Arangbar named my father to head the school. It lasted
until she was brought to Agra."
"Who?"
"The queen, the one called Janahara."
"But why was your father sent away?"
"Because I was sent away."
Hawksworth thought he sensed a kind of nervous intensity quivering
behind Shirin's voice. It's your story, he told himself, that I'd
really like to hear. But he said nothing, and the silence swelled.
Finally she spoke again.
"To understand the trouble now, you must understand about the queen.
Her story is almost amazing, and already legends are growing around
her. It's said she was born the day her father, Zainul Beg, left Persia
as an adventurer bound for India. He ordered her abandoned in the sun
to die, but after the caravan traveled on his wife lamented for the
baby so much he decided to return for her. Although the sun was
intense, they found her still alive. It's said a cobra was shading her
with his hood." Shirin turned to Hawksworth, her dark eyes seeming to
snap. "Can you believe such a story?"
"No. It sounds like a fable."
"Neither can I. But half the people in India do. Her father finally
reached Lahore, the city in India where Akman was staying, and managed
to enter his service. Like any Persian he did very well, and before
long Akman gave him a _mansab _rank of three hundred _zat_. His wife
and daughter were allowed to come and go among the palace women. Then,
when she was seventeen, this little Persian girl of the cobra began her
plan. She repeatedly threw herself across the path of the Moghul's son
Arangbar, whom she rightly guessed would be next in line for the
throne. He was no match for her, and now people say she won his heart
before he knew it himself. My own belief is she cast a spell on him."
"And he married her?"
"Of course not. Akman was no fool. He knew she was a schemer, and when
he saw what she was doing he immediately had her married to a Persian
general named Sher Afgan, whom he then appointed governor of Bengal, a
province in the distant east of India. Akman died a few years after
that, still thinking he had saved Arangbar from her, but he hadn't
counted on the spell."
"So how did she get back to Agra, and become queen?"
"That part I know very well." Shirin laughed bitterly. "I was there.
You see, Arangbar never forgot his Persian cobra girl, even after he
became Moghul himself. And he found a way to get her back. One day he
announced he was receiving reports of unrest in Bengal, where Sher
Afgan was still governor, and he summoned the governor to Agra to
explain. When no answer came, he sent troops. Nobody knows what
happened, but the story was given out that Sher Afgan drew a sword on
Arangbar's men. Perhaps he did. They say he was impulsive. But the
Imperial troops cut him down. Then Arangbar ordered Sher Afgan's
Persian wife and her little daughter, Layla, back to Agra and put them
under the protection of his mother, the dowager queen. Then, just as
we'd all predicted, he married her. At first he was going to put her in
the _zenana_, the harem, but she refused. She demanded to be made his
queen, an equal. And that's what he did. Except now she's actually
more. She's the real ruler of India."
"And you were in the harem, the _zenana_, then?" Hawksworth decided to
gamble on the story he had heard.
Shirin stared at him, trying to hide what seemed to be surprise. "You
know." For a moment he thought she might reach out and touch his hand,
but then she drew back into herself. "Yes, I was still in the _zenana_
then, but not for long. The first thing Janahara did was find out which
women Arangbar favored, and she then had us all married off to
governors of provinces far from Agra. You know a Muslim man is allowed
four wives, so there's always room for one more. Mukarrab Khan got me."
"She seems very clever."
"You haven't heard even half her story yet. Next she arranged to have
her brother, Nadir Sharif, appointed prime minister, and her father,
Zainul Beg, made chief adviser to Arangbar. So now she and her family
control the Moghul and everyone around him." Shirin paused. "Not quite
everyone. Yet. Not Prince Jadar."
"But he'll be the next Moghul. When that happens, what becomes of her?"
"He _should _be the next Moghul. And if he is, her power will be gone.
That's why she wants to destroy him now."
"But how can she, if he's the rightful heir?" Hawksworth found himself
suddenly dismayed by the specter of Agra in turmoil.
"No one knows. But she'll think of a way. And then she'll find someone
she can control to be the next Moghul."''
'But why do you care so much who succeeds Arangbar?"
"One reason I care is because of Samad." Her eyes suddenly saddened.
"Now I really don't understand. He's a poet. Why should
it matter to him?"
"Because the queen would like to see him dead. He has too much
influence. You must understand that the queen and her family are
Shi'ites, a Persian sect of Islam. They believe all men should bow to
some dogmatic mullah, whom they call an _imam_. But this was never in
the teachings given to the Prophet."
A curse on all religions, Hawksworth had thought. Am I caught in the
middle of some Muslim holy war?
"But why do these Persians, or their _imams_, want to be rid of Samad?"
"Because he's a Sufi, a mystic, who teaches that we all should find God
within our own selves. Without the mullahs. That's why the Persian
Shi'ites despise him and want him dead."
"Then he's supporting Prince Jadar?"
"Samad does not concern himself with politics. But it's the duty of the
others of us, those who understand what is happening, to help Prince
Jadar. Because we know he will stop the Persians and their Shi'ites who
are now spreading their poison of hate in India, and he'll also rid
India of the Portuguese. I'm sure of it." She paused for a moment. "You
know, it's always seemed ironic that the Persians and the Portuguese
should actually work together. But in a way each needs the other. The
Portuguese have made the Persians, particularly the queen and her
brother, Nadir Sharif, very rich, and in return they're allowed to send
their Jesuits to preach. So both the Persians and the Portuguese want
to prevent Prince Jadar from becoming the next Moghul, since they know
he'd like nothing better than to rid India of them both."
"But what does this have to do with me? I just want a trading _firman_
from Arangbar. He's still alive and healthy, and he should know the
Portugals can't stop English trading ships from coming here. Why
shouldn't he give us a _firman_?"
"Can't you see? The English can never be allowed to trade here. It
would be the beginning of the end for the Portuguese. It would show all
the world they no longer can control India's ports. But what I'm really
trying to make you see is that it's not only the Portuguese who want to
stop you. It's also the people who support them. So no one can aid you
openly. The Persians are already too powerful. Still, there are those
here who would protect you."
"Who do you mean?"
"How could I possibly tell you?" She held him with her eyes. "I
scarcely know you. But you should listen to your intuition. Samad says
we all have an inner voice that tells us what is true."
This time she did reach and touch his hand, and her touch was strangely
warm in the chill of the room. "I can't tell you any more, really. So
now will you play for me? Something tender, perhaps. A song you would
play for the woman you left behind you in England."
"I didn't have all that much to leave behind." He picked up the lute.
"But I'll be happy to play for you."
"You have no one?"
"There was a woman in London. But she married while I was . . . gone."
"She wouldn't wait while you were away?" Shirin sipped again from her
cup and her eyes darkened. "That must have been very sad for you."
"It could be she didn't think I was worth waiting for." He hesitated.
"I've had some time to think about it since. In a way it was probably
my own fault. I think she wanted more than I was ready to give."
She looked at him and smiled. "Perhaps what she wanted was you. And you
wouldn't give yourself. Tell me what she was like."
"What was she like?" He looked away, remembering Maggie's face with a
strange mixture of longing and bitterness. "Well, she's like nobody
I've seen in India. Red hair, blue eyes . . . and a salty tongue." He
laughed. "If she was ever anybody's fourth wife, I'd pity the other
three." He felt his laugh fade. "I missed her a lot when I was away
before. But now . . ." He tried to shrug.
She looked at him as though she understood it all. "Then if you won't
play for her any more, will you play just for me? One of your English
ragas?"
"What if I played a suite by Dowland, one of our English composers?
It's one of my favorites." He found himself smiling again, the lute
comfortable and reassuring in his grasp. "I hope you won't think it
sounds too out of place."
"We're both out of place here now." She returned his smile wistfully
and glanced at the papers on the desk. "You and me."
Hawksworth saw George Elkington approaching and dropped the dagger
quickly into his boot.
"'Twill take a lifetime the rate these heathens dawdle." Elkington
wiped a sweaty arm across his brow. Deep bags sagged under his
bloodshot eyes. "An' we'll be months movin' the lead and ironwork with
these damn'd rickety carts. Not to mention the silver bullion for
buyin' commodity. We'll have to get a barge."
"How many more trips do you need to bring in the wool?"
"Can't say. But 'tis clear we'll need more of these damn'd carts, for
what little they're worth." As Elkington turned to spit, he spotted a
porter who had let a roll of woolen cloth dip into the river, and his
neck veins pulsed. "Hey, you heathen bastard, mind the water!" He
stumbled after the terrified man trailing a stream of oaths.
Hawksworth leaned against the wooden spokes of a bullock cart and
quickly passed the stiletto from his boot back to his belt. As he
watched, the bark tipped, beginning to list dangerously, and then he
heard Elkington command the porters to stop the loading and prepare to
get underway. Only five of the twenty-five bullock carts had been
emptied, and the sun was already approaching midafternoon. As
Hawksworth had watched the men at work, some corner of his mind had
become dimly aware of a curious anomaly. Whereas the Shahbandar's
porters were working at full speed, the drivers of the bullock carts
seemed actually to be hindering the unloading--moving the carts around
in a confused way that always kept the work disorganized. And a number
of answers began, just began, to fall into place.
"Captain-General Hawksworth, do you expect to be joinin' us?" George
Elkington stalked up and began to scrape his muddy boots on the spokes
of the bullock cart
"Elkington, I want you to dismiss these drivers." Hawksworth ignored
his sarcastic tone. "I want the Shahbandar to supply all our men from
now on."
"What the bloody hell for?" Elkington tightened his hat and hitched up
his belt.
"Something's wrong. Did you have any accidents coming in from Swalley?"
"Accidents? Nay, not a bleedin' one. Unless you'd call the axle of a
cart breakin' the first day and blockin' a narrow turn in the road,
with mud on both sides so we couldn't pass and had to unload the whole
bleedin' lot and look half the mornin' for another cart to hire. An'
then the drivers had a fight over who was responsible, and who'd pay
for what, and we couldn't start till after midday. And yesterday one of
their damn'd bullocks died, right in the road. Which is scarce wonder,
considerin' how worn out they are. Nay, we had no accidents. The whole
bleedin' trip was an accident."
"Then let's get rid of them all. Men, carts, bullocks, the lot. And
hire new. Let the Shahbandar hire them for us. We pay in silver, and
give him his commission, and I'm sure he'll provide us what we need."
"Think he can do any better?" Elkington's skeptical eyes squinted
against the sun. "These damn'd heathens all appear similar."
"I think he'll make a difference. They all seem terrified of him. We
have to try." Hawksworth started for the barge.
"You don't have much time left." Shirin had said. "Try to understand
what's happening."
The porters were loosening the lines on the pegs. The bark was ready to
get underway.
"Don't assume you know who'll aid you," she had said. "Help may come in
a way that surprises you. It can't be known who's helping you."