"The Viceroy, Miguel Vaijantes. I don't think I ever told you he
murdered my father in Goa, many years ago."
Jadar listened in silence. "I had no idea." Then his eyes grew grim. "I
know him all too well. You may or may not be aware he was once planning
to arm Malik Ambar against me. Unfortunately there's very little I can
do about him just now. But I have a long memory too, and someday, Allah
willing, I'll put an end to his trade. Will that be justice enough for
us both?"
"I'll drink to it."
"And I'll drink with you." Jadar took a deep swallow of _sharbat_. "To
England and India. And now, for the other reason I asked you both here
today. To see what you think about something. It's curious, but living
here in this little palace, I've found myself growing obsessed by an
idea. I'd like to know if you think it's mad." He drank again, then
signaled the waiting eunuch to refill their cups. "If I become Moghul
one day, I've decided to build something very special for Mumtaz, a
work of beauty unlike anything India has ever seen. Staying here on
Jagmandir Island has given me the idea. But first come inside and let
me show you something."
Jadar rose and strolled back through the columned doorway into the
domed room. "Did you happen to notice this when you came in?" He
pointed to one of the two-foot- high niches in the curved walls.
Hawksworth realized that each niche was decorated around its top and
sides with inlays of semi-precious stones set into the marble. Each
inlay was a painting of a different flower.
"Do you see what he's done here?" Jadar motioned Hawksworth and Shirin
closer. "This is far more than merely a design. It's actually a
painting in rare, colored stone--onyx, carnelian, jasper, agate." Jadar
paused. "Think carefully. Have either of you ever seen anything like
this in Agra?"
"I've never seen anything like it before, anywhere."
"Of course you haven't. This is unique. It's truly astonishing. Here on
Jagmandir Island, with the design of this room, Rana Karan Singh has
actually invented a new style of art. It's phenomenal. Now look up."
Jadar pointed to the cupola ceiling. "Notice the sensuous curve of the
dome. Like a bud just before it bursts into flower. And at the top you
see more inlays of precious stone. I think it's the most magnificent
thing I've ever seen. Its shape and color and purity move me almost to
tears." He paused and looked at Hawksworth mischievously. "So can you
guess what I've decided to do someday?"
"Build a room like this in Agra?"
Jadar exploded with laughter. "But this room is so small! What sort of
gift would that be for Mumtaz? No, Captain, if I should eventually find
myself ruling India, I've decided to build Mumtaz an entire palace like
this, a Mahal, all of white marble and inlay. I'll surround it with a
garden larger and more beautiful than anything India has ever seen. It
will be a place of love and of mystery, with the strength of a Rajput
warrior in the harsh sunshine, the warmth of a Persian woman in the
moonlight. The outside will be covered with verses from the Quran
carved in marble, and inside the walls will be a garden of jeweled
flowers. Minarets will rise at each corner, calling all India to
prayer, and its dome will be a cupola with the subtle, sensuous curve
of a ripening bud. It will be immense, the most magnificent Mahal in
the world. And it will be my gift to her." He paused, his eyes glowing.
"Is the idea completely insane?"
"It's beautiful." Shirin was beaming.
"I think it's magnificent." Jadar seemed not to need encouragement, as
he drank again from his _sharbat_. "So now you know the other reason I
invited you here this afternoon. To tell you what you may see when you
return to Agra. I haven't decided on the exact location yet, but it
will be on the bank of the Jamuna, placed so Mumtaz can watch the sun
set over the water, just as we do here. I wanted to tell you both, for
I sense you two are among the few who could really appreciate what a
bold idea this is." Jadar looked sharply at Shirin. "Now, you must
never, never tell Mumtaz, whatever else you two Persians may chatter on
about. For now let's keep it a secret among us. But someday, someday it
will tell all the world how much I love her." He sighed. "You know, at
times I worry I'm nothing more than a romantic Persian myself, deep
inside."
He looked about the glistening walls once more, then reluctantly turned
and walked out onto the balcony again.
"The peace I feel here overwhelms me sometimes. It quiets all the
unrest in my soul. Perhaps I'm a fool to ever think of Agra. But Agra
is my destiny. The Hindus would say it's my _dharma_."
He stopped to watch as Mumtaz and her women emerged from their quarters
and gathered around the fountain in the garden below. The evening air
was flooded with the women's rose attar and musk perfume. He inhaled
deeply, then turned to Hawksworth.
"By the way, I've had a small farewell gift made for you, Captain. It's
there beside you." He pointed to the sitar by the railing. "I
understand you've started learning to play it."
Hawksworth turned, startled, and picked up the instrument. Its
workmanship was fine art, with ivory inlays along both sides of the
body and a neck carved as the head of a swan. He found himself stunned.
"I've only just begun to learn, Highness. This is much finer than I
deserve. It's worthy of an Ustad."
"Then perhaps it will inspire you to become a Master yourself someday."
He laughed. "And now I want to hear how you play it. The Hindus believe
the sitar is a window to the soul. That the sound of the first note
tells everything there is to know about a man. I want to see if you've
actually understood anything since you've been here. What raga have you
been studying?"
"Malkauns."
"An ambitious choice. I seem to remember that's a devotional raga. For
late evening. But the sun's almost down. We'll pretend it's the moon,
just rising. Let's go inside, where you can sit."
Hawksworth carried the sitar and followed numbly as Jadar led the way
back into the tiny marble room. The apprehension he had momentarily
felt on the balcony seemed to dissolve among the bouquets of precious
stones in the inlaid walls. He slipped off his shoes and seated himself
in the middle of the room. Then he quickly tested the tuning on the
strings, both the upper and the lower. He could already tell the sound
it produced was magnificent, with the resonance of an organ. Jadar and
Shirin seated themselves opposite, speaking Persian in low voices as
they watched him cradle the round body of the sitar in the curved
instep of his left foot. Then they both fell expectantly silent.
He knew what they were waiting to hear. For the raga Malkauns, a master
would sound the first note powerfully, yet with a sense of great
subtlety--slipping his finger quickly down the string and into the note
just as it was struck, then instantly pulling the string across the
fret, almost in the same motion, again raising the pitch and giving the
feeling the note had merely been tasted, dipped down into and out again
as it quavered into existence. But it was much more than mere
technique. That was the easiest part. It was a sense. A feeling. It
came not from the hand, but from the heart. The note must be felt, not
merely sounded. When done with lightness, life seemed to be created, a
_prahna _in the music that the player and listener shared as one. But
if the player's heart was false, regardless of how skilled he might be,
then his music was hollow and dead.
He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind, then slipped the wire
plectrum over his finger and gently stroked the lower sympathetic
strings once, twice, to establish the mood. The cool air was crisp and
flower-scented, and the sound rose gently upward toward the marble
cupola above them. As he listened he found himself looking at Shirin
and Jadar, their dark eyes, delicate faces. Then his eyes moved beyond
them, to the garden of inlaid stones in the marble walls. And for a
moment he felt something he had never felt before. This was the India
he had, until that moment, only been in. But here, now, he was finally
part of it. He took another deep breath and struck.
The first note was perfect, encompassing. He felt it. He knew it. He
sensed his hand merge with the music, the music with his own life.
Shirin's eyes seemed to melt, and Jadar immediately swung his head from
side to side in approval. Then he began to alap, the virtuoso first
section of the raga, meant to be played solo and without drum
accompaniment. He felt the music slowly growing around him as he found
and explored note after note of the raga's structure. He found himself
wanting to taste and feel each note to its essence, reluctant to move
on to the next. But each time he was beckoned forward, until at last
nothing but the music mattered. He played on and on, the intensity of
the alap growing organically, almost of its own self, until it burst to
completion, like a flower that had gloriously escaped the entrapment of
its bud.
When the final note died into silence, Shirin slowly rose and slipped
her arms around his neck. Jadar sat motionless for a moment longer,
then reached out and put his hand on the strings of the sitar.
"You have earned it, Captain. I've heard what I'd hoped to hear. Your
music tells me all I want to know about you." He rose and led them back
out onto the balcony. "I know now you can understand why I also want to
create something of beauty someday. A Mahal that will last as long as
this music. If we cannot taste love and beauty, our hearts are dead."
He smiled at Hawksworth. "There is love in your music, Captain. Your
heart is as it should be. And in the end, nothing else really matters.
Nothing else."
He turned and stared pensively into the twilight. "My Mahal will have
it too. Because it is in my own heart."
Jadar stopped abruptly and gazed toward the darkening shore. Through
the dimming light a boat could be seen approaching, rowed furiously by
lines of red-cloaked oarsmen. Sitting in the center on a gilded
platform was Maharana Karan Singh, wearing full battle dress. His
powerful bow hung loosely from his leather quiver and his rhino-hide
shield rested at his side. Jadar studied the boat for a moment and
concern gathered in his eyes.
"He would never come here unannounced. Merciful
Allah, has the Imperial army moved against us already? How can it be so
soon? My preparations have scarcely begun."
Jadar watched as the maharana leaped from the boat almost before it
touched the marble dock. The women around Mumtaz fled the courtyard,
and now the eunuchs pressed forward to bow and welcome him. He brushed
them aside as he moved quickly through the garden and into the lower
arcade of the palace. Jadar stood listening expectantly to the quick
pad of his footsteps on the stone stairs, then walked inside to greet
him.
"Nimaste, my friend. You've already missed the best part of the sunset,
but I'll have more _sharbat _sent."
The maharana glanced in surprise at Hawksworth and Shirin for a second,
then turned and bowed quickly to Jadar.
"The news is very bad, Highness."
"Then we'll sweeten it with _sharbat_."
"There is no time, Highness."
"There's always time for _sharbat_. This has been a special afternoon
for me."
"Highness, I came to tell you Arangbar is dead. The Moghul of India
joined the immortals two days ago."
Jadar examined him a moment almost as though not comprehending. Then he
turned and stared out through the balcony doorway, past Hawksworth and
Shirin. "I would not have wished it. I sincerely would not have wished
it." He turned back to Karan Singh. "How did he die? Did Janahara
murder my father, as she's killed so many others?"
"No, Highness. It almost seems as though he deemed it his time to die.
Two weeks ago he was hunting and saw a beater stumble and fall over a
ledge, killing himself. His Majesty grew despondent, saying he had
caused the man's death. Next he began to declare it an omen of his own
death. He refused food and drink. Finally even the physicians
despaired. He died in his bed. Word was given out that he was still
hunting, so the news was carefully kept from all of Agra until the very
end."
"How did you learn?"
"Nadir Sharif sent runners. He dared not send a pigeon."
Jadar walked out onto the balcony and peered down into the darkened
garden. After a long moment he spoke. "Allah. Then it's finished." He
turned back to the Rajput. "Has Janahara declared Allaudin Moghul yet?"
"She has announced she will do so, Highness." Karan Singh moved out
onto the balcony next to Jadar, hesitant to interrupt his thoughts. The
cries of water birds flooded the evening air around them. Jadar studied
the garden again, as though lost in some distant reverie. When he spoke
his voice seemed to emanate from a bottomless void.
"Allaudin will be in the Red Fort. It can never be taken, not even with
a hundred thousand Rajputs. He will never come to face me. He will
never need to." He turned slowly to Karan Singh. "I've lost it all, my
friend. And I've brought ignominy to your lands by my presence as your
guest. For that I am truly sorry."
Karan Singh stared at Jadar. "But Highness, Allaudin may not yet be in
Agra. You know he wanted Queen Janahara to appoint him to command the
army sent against you. Naturally she refused and instead convinced
Arangbar to appoint him commander of the forces to be sent against the
Persian Safavis threatening the northwest fortress of Qandahar. It was
obvious to everyone except Allaudin that she meant it to be merely a
ceremonial appointment, an excuse to elevate his _mansab _rank to equal
yours. She had carefully arranged to have him detained in Agra. But he
decided on his own that he would actually go north, to prove himself a
commander. Just before the hunting accident, he persuaded Arangbar to
allow him to march. Arangbar was apparently drunk on wine and approved
the order before Janahara discovered it. Allaudin departed Agra a week
ago with twenty thousand men and a huge train of courtiers. Because of
their numbers, it's thought he has traveled very slowly. But Nadir
Sharif said as of the day before yesterday he still had not returned to
Agra. No one knows for sure how near he may actually be."
"And where are Inayat Latif and the Imperial army?" Jadar's voice
quickened.
"Of that we're not yet certain, Highness. They may be in
Agra by now, holding the Red Fort for Allaudin, but we have no way to
know."
Jadar turned and seized his arm. "Then I will ride. Tonight. Have you
told my men?"
"Two thousand of my men are now in their saddles waiting, Highness. By
sunup another twenty thousand will be ready to ride."
Jadar stared at him for a moment, then reached out and touched the
turban the Rajput was wearing. Hawksworth realized it was Jadar's gift.
"Then give me three of your best horses. Tonight. I will rotate as I
ride." Jadar turned and ordered a waiting eunuch to bring his riding
cloak, his sword, and his katar.
"I will be riding with you too, Highness." Karan Singh stepped forward.
This time Jadar embraced Karan Singh for a long moment. Then he pulled
back. "No. I will not allow it. If I am too late--and the odds are
strong against me--no one who rides with me will leave Agra alive. No,
my friend, this I forbid." Jadar silenced Karan Singh's gesture of
protest. "Your offer is enough. I want my good friends alive."
Jadar started for the stairs, then paused and turned back to look one
last time at Hawksworth and Shirin.
"So our farewell was more timely than we knew. I regret we did not have
longer." He paused to take his riding cloak from the eunuch. Then he
reached for Hawksworth's hand. "Remember me, my friend. And remember
the Mahal. I've told no one else. If I'm still alive when you come
again to Agra, I'll take you there. If I'm dead, remember what I
dreamed."
He turned and disappeared down the stairwell.
A tear stained Shirin's cheek as she watched him move across the
courtyard below. When he reached Mumtaz, anxiously waiting by the dock,
he paused and said something to her, then embraced her closely. As he
pulled away, she reached out to stop him. But he was already joining
the maharana in the boat. In moments they were swallowed in the dusk.
"None of us will ever see him again. You know it's true." Shirin's
voice was strangely quiet. "What does it matter where Allaudin is?
Prince Jadar can never challenge the troops Janahara will have holding
the Red Fort. Not with two thousand Rajputs, not with two hundred
thousand Rajputs. It's impregnable. He'll never see the inside of the
Red Fort again." She moved next to him and rested her head against his
chest. "Will you help me remember him from tonight. And the Mahal he
will never live to build?"
"I'll remember it all." He encircled her in his arms, wanting her
warmth, and together they watched the last shafts of sun die in the
dark waters below.
* * *