"Your Majesty is perhaps not always fully informed as to the activities
of some of the more militant Rajput loyalists. I have ordered them
watched at all times."
"What are you suggesting then? That the Rajputs should be placed under
a separate top command? Some raja whose loyalty is unquestionable?"
"I'm suggesting precisely that. If there were extensive defections, it
would be demoralizing for the rest of the army, at the very least."
"Who do you propose?"
"There are any number of Rajput commanders I would trust. To a point.
But it's always difficult to know where their final loyalties lie."
Nadir Sharif paused, lost in thought. "Perhaps an alternate solution
might be to allow someone of unquestioned loyalty to monitor the Rajput
field commanders, someone experienced in handling Rajput concerns,
though not necessarily a general. Then the command could remain
unified, with orders passing through this other individual, who would
ensure compliance."
"Again, is there someone you would recommend?"
"There are several men near His Majesty who could serve. It is, of
course, essential their loyalty to you be beyond question. In a way
it's a pity Prince Allaudin is not . . . older. Blood is always best."
"That leaves only you, or Father, who is far too old."
"My responsibilities here would really make it impossible for me."
Nadir Sharif turned and walked again to the door of the tent, pulling
back the portiere. "Certainly I could not leave His Majesty for an
extended campaign."
"But if the campaign were short?"
"Perhaps for a few weeks."
Janahara studied him silently, her thoughts churning. At times even
Nadir Sharif's loyalty seemed problematical. But now there was a
perfect way to test it in advance . . .
"I will advise Inayat Latif you are now in charge of the Rajput
commanders."
"Your Majesty." Nadir Sharif bowed lightly. "I'm honored by your
confidence."
"I'm sure it's well placed." She did not smile. "But before I make the
arrangements, there's one other assignment for you. Totally
confidential."
"Anything within my power." Nadir Sharif bowed elegantly.
"Tonight I want you to order the Imperial guards stationed in your
compound to execute the Englishman and the woman Shirin. On your sole
authority."
"Of course." Nadir Sharifs smile did not flicker.
Hawksworth finally returned to his compound near midnight, carrying his
empty flask of brandy. He had wandered the length of the chaotic tent
city searching for Shirin. Over the past five hours he had combed the
wide streets of the bazaar, searched through the half-empty elephant
stables, and circled the high chintz border of the Imperial enclosure.
The periphery of the camp swarmed with infantrymen and their wives
gathering supplies for the march, and already there had been numerous
fights in the bazaar, where prices had soared after the announcement
the army would march.
As he neared his tent, he looked up at the stars, brilliant even
through the lingering evening smoke from the cooking fires, and mused
about Jadar. The rebel prince would soon be facing Inayat Latif, just
recalled to Agra two months earlier after a brutally successful
campaign in Bengal extending the Imperial frontier against local Hindu
chieftains. Inayat Latif was a fifty-five-year-old veteran commander
who revered the Moghul and would do anything in his power to protect
him. Although he had made no secret of his dislike of the "Persian
junta," he shared their common alarm at the threat of Jadar's
rebellion. It was Arangbar he would be fighting to defend, not the
queen.
The Imperial army is invincible now, Hawksworth told himself, its
cavalry outnumbers Jadar's easily three to one, and its officers are at
full strength. There are at least a hundred and fifty thousand men
ready to march. How many can Jadar have? Fifty thousand? Perhaps less.
Jadar can never meet them. The most he can possibly do is skirmish and
retreat.
Perhaps, he thought ruefully, it was all just as well. A decisive
defeat for Jadar would _Resolve_ the paralysis at court, and the
indecision in Shirin's mind. She would realize finally that Jadar had
attempted to move too fast.
The mission might still be saved. With the Portuguese resistance
neutralized--there were even rumors that Arangbar had ordered Father
Sarmento back to Goa--there would be no voices in Agra to poison
Arangbar's mind daily against the _firman _for King James. After all,
he asked himself, who else could Arangbar turn to? England alone has
the naval strength to challenge Portugal, even if it might require
years to break their monopoly completely. He would bargain for a
_firman _in exchange for a vague promise of King James's help against
the Portuguese. It was a bargain England surely could keep. Eventually.
He slipped through the doorway of his tent and groped for the lamp, an
open bronze dish of oil with a wick protruding through the spout. It
rested where he had left it, on a stand near his sea chest, and he
sparked a flint against the wick. Suddenly the striped cotton walls of
the tent glowed around him. He removed the sword at his belt and
slipped it onto the carpet. Then he removed his leather jerkin and
dropped against a bolster, still puzzling about Shirin.
Her status during the past few days had been ambiguous. As a divorced
Muslim woman, she was free to move about as she chose. But everyone
knew she was on very uncertain terms with the Moghul. After they had
arrived outside the western wall of the old city of Fatehpur, Arangbar
had been too preoccupied to remember his threat to move her into the
_zenana_. She had remained free, able to move inconspicuously about the
camp, mingling with the other Muslim women. And each night, after the
final watch was announced, Hawksworth had been able to slip unnoticed
to her tent. Once, late one night, he had suggested they try to return
to the old palace of Akman, inside the walls of Fatehpur, but they both
finally decided the risk would be too great.
He had hoped the days, and nights, at the camp would bring them closer
together. And in a way they had, although Shirin still seemed to
retreat at times into a special realm of mourning she had devised for
herself. She could never stop remembering Samad and his brutal death.
Something, he told himself, had to change. He had begun to wonder if he
should gamble and tell her of the terms the Moghul had demanded for her
release. Would she then understand she had no choice but to return to
England with him?
He rose and rummaged through his sea chest, finding another bottle of
brandy, almost his last, and to fight his despondency he poured himself
a cup. The liquor burned its way down, like a warm soothing salve, and
he turned to begin assembling his few belongings for packing in the
morning. He had reprimed and loaded his remaining pistol, and now he
laid it on the table beside his chest. Then he drew his sword from its
scabbard to check its edge and the polish on the metal. Holding it to
the lamp, he spotted a few random flecks of rust, and he found a cloth
and burnished them away.
His few clothes were already piled haphazardly in the chest, now
virtually empty save for his lute. He found his leather purse at the
bottom and counted his remaining money. Five hundred rupees. He counted
them twice, beginning to wonder if he might eventually have to walk all
the way back to Surat.
He searched the floor for any stray items, and came across Vasant Rao's
katar caught between the folds of the carpet. It seemed years now since
the Rajput aide of Jadar had slipped it into his hand in the square of
the Diwan-i-Am, and he had almost forgotten he had it. With a smile of
recollection he gingerly slipped it from its brocade sheath and held it
in his hand, puzzling how such a curiously constructed weapon could be
so lethal. The grip was diagonal to the blade, so that it could only be
used to thrust, like a pike head growing out of your fist. Rajputs were
said to kill tigers with only a katar and a leather shield, but he
wasn't sure he believed the stories. He grasped it and made a few trial
thrusts, its ten- inch blade shining in the lamplight like a mirror,
then tossed it atop his sea chest. It would make a nice memento of the
trip; every fighting man in India seemed to carry one. Who in London
would ever believe such a weapon unless they saw it?
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flutter in the portiere of his
tent, and he looked up to see Shirin standing silently in the doorway.
"What . . . ?" He looked up to greet her, unsure whether to betray his
relief by taking her immediately in his arms, or to scold and tease her
a bit first.
She silenced him with a wave of her hand.
"Are you ready?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Ready for what? Where in Christ's name have you been? I've been . . ."
Again she silenced him as she moved inside.
"Are you ready to ride?" She glanced in dismay at the belongings he had
scattered about the tent. "We have to leave now, before dawn."
"Have you gone mad?" He stared at her. "We're returning to Agra day
after tomorrow. The Moghul has . . ."
"We have to leave now, tonight." She examined him in the lamplight,
consternation growing in her eyes. "The prince . . ."
"Jadar is finished." He cut her off. "Don't be a sentimental fool. He
brought this on himself. You can't help him. Nobody can now."
They stood, eyes locked together, for a moment that seemed as long as
eternity. Hawksworth did not move from his place on the carpet.
Gradually her eyes clouded with sorrow, and he thought he saw her begin
to turn.
He was on his feet, seizing her arm, pulling her toward him. "I'm not
letting you die for Jadar. If he's meant to win, he'll do it without
either of . . ."
He sensed a movement in the portiere behind her, and looked up to see
the glint of a sword thrust exactly where she had been standing. She
caught his bewildered look and revolved in time to see the sword slash
through the fringed cloth. An Imperial guard, wearing light chain mail
and a red turban, moved through the doorway, weapon in hand.
"You son of a whore!" Hawksworth reached back for the naked sword lying
on the carpet behind him and grabbed his leather jerkin. Holding the
leather as a shield, he lunged at the attacker.
As Hawksworth's sword thrust reached him, the guard caught the blade
with his own and instinctively parried it aside, throwing Hawksworth
against a tent pole.
As he tried to regain his footing, he heard Shirin cry out and turned
to see a heavy sword cut through the side of the tent behind them,
creating a second opening. A hand ripped away the striped chintz and
another Imperial guard entered, weapon in hand.
"Jesus! Shirin, get back!" Hawksworth shouted in English and shoved her
across his sea chest, sending her tumbling away from the second
attacker. As she fell, he saw her grab the pocket pistol lying on the
table and turn to face the guard approaching her.
Hawksworth felt a blade rip through the jerkin in his hand and tangle
in the leather. He shoved the jerkin and sword aside and cut upward
with his own blade, miraculously imbedding it in the exposed neck of
the turbaned guard. The man yelled out and dropped his weapon, which
slid harmlessly onto the carpet. Then he stumbled and fell forward,
holding his neck. Still incredulous, Hawksworth looked up to see two
more Imperial guards standing in the doorway behind him, both with
drawn swords. As he moved to keep them at bay with his own weapon, he
turned and saw the guard who had entered through the side of the tent
advancing menacingly toward Shirin. Just as the guard raised his
weapon, Hawksworth heard a sharp report, followed by a moan, and
watched the man crumple and fall directly in front of her smoking
pistol.
As he fell, two more guards appeared at the opening behind him and
began pushing their way through.
"Shirin, the lamp!" Again he shouted in English before realizing she
could not understand. Without waiting, he grabbed the open oil lamp and
flung it against the uniforms of the guards, bathing them in burning
oil. Their turbans and hair ignited and they pulled back against the
side of the tent, slapping at the flames.