CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXThe dark sky had begun to show pale in the east, heralding the first traces of day. Hawksworth stood in the shadows of his tent, at the edge of the vast Imperial camp, and pulled his frayed leather jerkin tighter against the cold. He watched as the elephants filed past, bulky silhouettes against the dawn. They were being led from the temporary stables on the hill behind him toward the valley below, where cauldrons of water were being stoked for their morning bath. Heating the water for the elephant baths had become routine during the reign of Akman, who had noticed his elephants shivering from their baths on chilly mornings and decreed their bath water warmed henceforth.As he watched the line of giant animals winding their way through the camp, waving their trunks in the morning air, he realized they were not docile femalezenanaelephants, but male war elephants, first and second rank.First-ranked war elephants, called "full blood," were selected from young males who had demonstrated the endurance and even temper essential in battle; those granted Second Rank, called "tiger-seizing," were slightly smaller, but with the same temperament and strength. Each elephant had five keepers and was placed under the training of a special military superintendent—whose responsibility was to school the animal in boldness amid artillery fire. The keepers were monitored monthly by Imperial inspectors, who fined them a month's wages if their elephant had noticeably lost weight. Should an elephant lose a tusk through its keepers' inattention to an infection, they were fined one eighth the value of the animal, and if an elephant died in their care, they received a penalty of three months' wages and a year's suspension. But the position of elephant keeper was a coveted place of great responsibility. A well-trained war elephant could be valued at a hundred thousand rupees, a fulllakh, and experienced commanders had been known to declare one good elephant worth five hundred horses in a battle.Hawksworth studied the elephants, admiring their disciplined stride and easy footing, and wondered again why the army had stationed its stables so near the Imperial camp. Did Arangbar somehow feel he needed protection?"They're magnificent, don't you think?" Shirin emerged from her tent to join him, absently running her hand across the back of his jerkin. It had been six days since they had left Agra, and it seemed to Hawksworth she had grown more beautiful each day, more loving each night. The nightmare of the past weeks had already faded to a distant memory. She was fully dressed now, with a transparent scarf pinned to her dark hair by a band of pearls, thick gold bracelets, flowered trousers beneath a translucent skirt, and darkkohlhighlighting her eyes and eyebrows. He watched, enthralled as she pulled a light cloak over her shoulders. "Especially in the morning. They say Akman used to train his royal elephants to dance to music, and to shoot a bow.""I don't think I'll ever get used to elephants." Hawksworth admired her a moment longer in the dawn light, then looked back at the immense forms lumbering past, trying to push aside the uneasy feeling their presence gave him. "You'd be very amused to hear what people in London think they're like. Nobody there has ever seen an elephant, but there are lots of fables about them. It's said elephants won't ford a clear stream during the day, because they're afraid of their reflection, so they only cross streams at night."Shirin laughed out loud and reached to kiss him quickly on the cheek. "I never know whether to believe your stories of England.""I swear it.""And the horse-drawn coaches you told me about. Describe one again.""It has four wheels, instead of two like your carts have, and it really is pulled by horses, usually two but sometimes four. It's enclosed and inside there are seats and cushions . . . almost like a palanquin.""Does that mean your king'szenanawomen all ride in these strange coaches, instead of on elephants?""In the first place, King James has nozenana. I don't think he'd know what to do with that many women. And there are absolutely no elephants in England. Not even one.""Can you possibly understand how hard it is for me to imagine a place without elephants andzenanas?" She looked at him and smiled. "And no camels either?""No camels. But we have lots of stories about camels too. Tell me, is it true that if you're poisoned, you can be put inside a newly slain camel and it will draw out the poison?"Shirin laughed again and looked up the hill toward the stables, where pack camels were being fed and massaged with sesame oil. The bells on their chest ropes sounded lightly as their keepers began harnessing them, in strings of five. Hawksworth turned to watch as the men began fitting two of the camels to carry amihaffa, a wooden turret suspended between them by heavy wooden poles. All the camels were groaning pitifully and biting at their keepers, their customary response to the prospect of work."That sounds like some tale you'd hear in the bazaar. Why should a dead camel draw out poison?" She turned back to Hawksworth. "Sometimes you make the English sound awfully naive. Tell me what it's really like there.""It is truly beautiful. The fairest land there is, especially in the late spring and early summer, when it's green and cool." Hawksworth watched the sun emerge from behind a distant hill, beginning to blaze savagely against the parched winter landscape almost the moment it appeared. Thoughts of England suddenly made him long for shade, and he took Shirin's arm, leading her around the side of their rise and back into the morning cool. Ahead of them lay yet another bleak valley, rocky and sere. "I sometimes wonder how you can survive here in summer. It was already autumn when I made landfall and the heat was still unbearable.""Late spring is even worse than summer. At least in summer there's rain. But we're accustomed to the heat. We say noferinghiever gets used to it. I don't think anyone from your England could ever really love or understand India.""Don't give up hope yet. I'm starting to like it." He took her chin in his hand and carefully studied her face with a scrutinizing frown, his eyes playing critically from her eyes to her mouth to her vaguely aquiline Persian nose. "What part do I like best?" He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. "I think it's the diamond you wear in your left nostril.""All women wear those!" She bit at him. "So I have to also. But I've never liked it. You'd better think of something else."He slipped his arm around her and held her next to him, wondering if he should tell her of his bargain with Arangbar—that she had been released only because he had offered to take her from India forever. For a moment the temptation was powerful, but he resisted. Not yet. Don't give her a chance to turn headstrong and refuse."You know, I think you'd like England once you saw it. Even with no elephants, and no slaves to fan away the flies. We're not as primitive as you seem to imagine. We have music, and if you'd learn our language, you might discover England has many fine poets.""Like the one you once recited for me?" She turned to face him. "What was his name?""That was John Donne. I hear he's a cleric now, so I doubt he's writing his randy poems and songs any more. But thereare others. Like Sir Walter Raleigh, a staunch adventurer who writes passable verse, and there's also Ben Jonson, who writes poems, and plays also. In fact, lots of English plays are in verse.""What do you mean by plays?""English plays. They're like nothing else in the world." He stared wistfully into the parched valley spread out before them. "Sometimes I think they're what I miss most about London when I'm away.""Well, what are they?""They're stories that are acted out by players. In playhouses."She laughed. "Then perhaps you should begin by explaining a playhouse.""The best one is the Globe, which is just across the Thames from London, in the Bankside edge of Southwark, near the bridge. It was built by some merchants and by an actor from Stratford-up-on-Avon, who also writes their plays. It's three stories high and circular, with high balconies. And there's a covered stage at one side, where the players perform.""Do the women in these plays dance, like ourdevadasis?""Actually the players are all men. Sometimes they take the roles of women, but I've never seen them dance all that much. There are plays about famous English kings, and sometimes there are stories of thwarted love, usually set in Italy. Plays are a new thing in England, and there's nothing like them anywhere else."Shirin settled against a boulder and watched the shadows cast by the rising sun stretch out across the valley. She sat thoughtfully for a moment and then she laughed. "What would you say if I told you India had dramas about kings and thwarted love over a thousand years ago? They were in Sanskrit, and they were written by men named Bhavabhuti and Bhasa and Kalidasa, whose lives are legends now. A pandit, that's the title Hindus give their scholars, once told me about a play called The Clay Cart. It was about a poor king who fell in love with a rich courtesan. But there are no plays here now, unless you count the dance dramas they have in the south. Sanskrit is a dead language, and Muslims don't really care for plays.""I'll wager you'd like the plays in London. They're exciting, and sometimes the poetry can be very moving.""What's it like to go to see one?""First, on the day a play is performed they fly a big white banner of silk from a staff atop the Globe, and you can see it all over London. The admission is only a penny for old plays and two pence for new ones. That's all you ever have to pay if you're willing to stand in the pit. If you want to pay a little more, you can get a seat in the galleries around the side, up out of the dust and chips, and for a little extra you can get a cushion for the seat. Or for sixpence you can enter directly through the stage door and sit in a stall at the side of the stage. Just before the play begins there's a trumpet fanfare— like Arangbar has when he enters theDiwan-i-Am—and the doorkeepers pass through the galleries to collect the money.""What do they do with it?""They put it into a locked box," Hawksworth grinned, "which wags have taken to calling the box office, because they're so officious about it. But the money's perfectly safe. Plays are in the afternoon, while there's daylight.""But aren't they performed inside this building?" Shirin seemed to be only half listening."The Globe has an open roof except over the stage. But if it gets too dull on winter afternoons, they light the stage with torches of burning pitch or tar.""Who exactly goes to these playhouses?""Everyone. Except maybe the Puritans. Anybody can afford a penny. And the Globe is not that far from the Southwark bear gardens, so a lot of people come after they've been to see bearbaiting. The pit is usually full of rowdy tradesmen, who stand around the stage and turn the air blue with tobacco smoke.""So high-caste women and women from good families wouldn't go.""Of course women go." Hawksworth tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. "There are gallants in London who'll tell you the Globe is the perfect place to spot a comely wench, or even a woman of fashion looking for some sport while her husband's drunk at a gaming house.""I don't believe such things happen.""Well that's the way it is in England." Hawksworth settled against the boulder. "You have to understand women there don't let themselves be locked up and hidden behind veils. So if a cavalier spies a comely woman at the Globe, he'll find a way to praise her dress, or her figure, and then he'll offer to sit next to her, you know, just to make sure some rude fellow doesn't trod on the hem of her petticoats with muddy boots, and no chips fall in her lap. Then after the play begins, he'll buy her a bag of roasted chestnuts, or maybe some oranges from one of the orange-wenches walking through the galleries. And if she carries on with him a bit, he'll offer to squire her home.""I suppose you've done just that?" She examined him in dismay.Hawksworth shifted, avoiding her gaze. "I've mainly heard of it.""Well, I don't enjoy hearing about it. What about the honor of these women's families? They sound reprehensible, with less dignity thannautchgirls.""Oh no, they're very different." He turned with a wink and tweaked her ear. "They don't dance.""That's even worse. At least mostnautchgirls have some training.""You already think English women are wicked, and you've never even met one. That's not fair. But I think you'd come to love England. If we were in London now, right this minute, we could hire one of those coaches you don't believe exist . . . a coach with two horses and a coachman cost scarcely more than ten shillings a day, if prices haven't gone up . . . and ride out to a country inn. Just outside London the country is as green as Nadir Sharif’s palace garden, with fields and hedgerows that look like a great patchwork coverlet sewed by some sotted alewife." Hawksworth's chest tightened with homesickness. "If you want to look like an Englishwoman, you could powder your breasts with white lead, and rouge your nipples, and maybe paste some beauty stars on your cheeks. I'll dine you on goose and veal and capon and nappy English ale. And English mutton dripping with more fat than any lamb you'll taste in Agra."Shirin studied him silently for a moment. "You love to talk of England, don't you? But I'd rather you talked about India. I want you to stay. Why would you ever want to leave?""I'm trying to tell you you'd love England if you gave yourself a chance. I'll have thefirmansoon, and when I return the East India Company will . . .""Arangbar will never sign afirmanfor the English king to trade. Don't you realize Queen Janahara will never allow it?""Right now I'm less worried about the queen than about Jadar. I think he wants to stop thefirmantoo, why I don't know, but he's succeeded so far. He almost stopped it permanently with his false rumor about the fleet. He did it deliberately to raise Arangbar's hopes and then disappoint him, with the blame falling on me. Who knows what he'll think to do next?""You're so wrong about him. That had nothing to do with you. Don't you understand why he had to do that? You never once asked me."Hawksworth stared at her. "Tell me why.""To divert the Portuguese fleet. It's so obvious. He somehow discovered Queen Janahara had paid the Portuguese Viceroy to ship cannons to Malik Ambar. If the Marathas had gotten cannon, they could have defended Ahmadnagar forever. So he tricked the Portuguese into searching for the English fleet that wasn't there. The Portuguese are a lot more worried about their trade monopoly than about what happens to Prince Jadar. He knew they would be.""I know you support him, but for my money he's still a certified bastard." Hawksworth studied her for a moment, wondering whether to believe her words. If it were actually true it would all make sense, would fill out a bizarre tapestry of palace deception. But in the end his ruse had done Jadar no good. "And for all his scheming, he was still defeated in the south. I hear the rumors too." Hawksworth rose and took Shirin's arm. She started to reply, then stopped herself.  They began to walk slowly back toward his tent. "So he deceived everyone to no purpose."As they rounded the curve of the slope and emerged into the sunshine, Hawksworth noted that some of the war elephants had already been led back to their stables and were being harnessed. He looked across the valley toward the tents of the Imperial army and thought he sensed a growing urgency in the air, as though men and horse were being quietly mobilized to move out."But don't you realize? The prince is not retreating." Shirin finally seized his arm and stopped him. "No one here yet realizes that Malik Ambar has . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked ahead. A group of Rajput officers was loitering, aimlessly, near the entrance to her tent. "I wish I could tell you now what's happening." Her voice grew quieter. "Just be ready to ride."Hawksworth stared at her, uncomprehending. "Ride where?" He reached to touch her hand, but she glanced at the Rajputs and quickly pulled it away. "I don't want to ride anywhere. I want to tell you more about England. Don't you think you'd like to see it someday?""I don't know. Perhaps." She shifted her gaze away from the Rajputs. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw her make a quick movement with her hands urging them to leave. Or had she? They casually moved on down the hill, their rhino-hide shields swinging loosely from their shoulder straps. "After . . . after things are settled.""After what? After Arangbar signs thefirman?""I can't seem to make you understand." She turned to face him squarely. "About Prince Jadar. Even if you got afirmanit would soon be worthless.""I understand this much. If he's thinking to challenge Arangbar, and the queen, then he's God's own fool. Haven't you seen the army traveling with us? It's three times the size of Jadar's." He turned and continued to walk. "His Imperial Majesty may be a sot, but he's in no peril from young Prince Jadar."As they approached the entrance to his tent, she paused for a moment to look at him, her eyes a mixture of longing and apprehension."I can't stay now. Not today." She kissed him quickly and before he could speak she was moving rapidly down the hill, in the direction the Rajputs had gone.Queen Janahara studied Allaudin thoughtfully as he strode toward her tent. His floral turban was set rakishly to one side in the latest style, and his purple gauze cloak was too effeminate for anyone but a eunuch or a dandy. She caught a flash from the jewel-handled katar at his waist, too ornamental ever to be used, and suddenly realized that she had never seen him actually hold a knife, or a sword. She had never seen him respond to any crisis. And Princess Layla had hinted he was not quite the husband she had envisioned, whatever that might imply.Suddenly it all mattered. It had only been a week since Jadar's demands had been refused, and already he had taken the initiative. Now, she sighed, she would have to protect hernashudani, her "good-for-nothing" son-in-law. He could never protect himself, not from Jadar."Your Majesty." Allaudin salaamed formally as he dipped below the tapestried portiere of her tent, never forgetting that his new mother-in-law was also the queen. "The princess sends her wishes for your health this morning.""Sit down." Janahara continued to examine him with her brooding dark eyes. "Where is Nadir Sharif?""The eunuchs said he would be a few moments late.""He always tries to irritate me." Her voice trailed off as she watched Allaudin ensconce himself with a wide flourish against a velvet bolster. "Tell me, are you content with your bride?""She is very pleasing to me, Majesty.""Are you satisfying your obligations as a husband?""Majesty?" Allaudin looked up at her as though not comprehending the question."Your duties are not merely to her. Or to me. They're also to India. Jadar has a male heir now. Such things matter in Agra, or weren't you aware?"Allaudin giggled. "I visit her tent every night, Majesty.""But for what purpose? After you're drunk and you've spent yourself with anautchdancer. Don't deny it. I know it's true. Do you forget she has servants? There are no secrets in this camp. I think you'll sooner sire an heir on a slave girl than on my daughter. I will not have it.""Majesty." Allaudin twisted uncomfortably and glanced up with relief to see Nadir Sharif pushing aside the portiere of the tent. As he entered, Janahara motioned toward the servants and eunuchs waiting in attendance and in moments they had disappeared through the curtained doorways at the rear."You're late.""My sincerest apologies, Majesty. There are endless matters to attend. You know His Majesty still holds morningdarshanfrom his tent, and has twodurbaraudiences a day. The difficulties . . .""Your 'difficulties' are only beginning." She was extracting a dispatch from a gilded bamboo tube. "Read this."Nadir Sharif took the document and moved into the light at the entrance. He had always despised the red chintz tents of the Imperial family, whose doorways were forever sealed with Persian hangings that kept in all the smoke and lamp soot. As he studied the dispatch he moved even closer to the light, astonishment growing in his eyes. He read it through twice before turning back to Janahara."Has His Majesty seen this yet?""Of course not. But he will have to eventually.""Who is it from?" Allaudin stared up from the bolster, his voice uneasy."Your brother." Janahara studied him with eyes verging on contempt. "Jadar has declared he is no longer under the authority of the Moghul." She paused to make sure the news had reached Allaudin. "Do you understand what that means? Jadar has rebelled. He's probably marching on Agra right now with his army.""That's impossible! As long as His Majesty lives . . .""Jadar has declared His Majesty is no longer fit to reign. He has offered to assume the 'burden' himself. It's a preposterous affront to legitimate rule.""Then he must be brought to Agra for trial." Allaudin's voice swelled with determination."Obviously." Nadir Sharif moved toward the door of the tent and stared into the sunshine for a long moment. Then he turned to Janahara. "We have no choice now but to send the Imperial army. Your intuition about Jadar last week was all too correct.""And now you agree? After a week has been lost." Janahara had followed him with her eyes. "Now you concede that the army must move.""There's nothing else to be done." Nadir Sharif seemed to study the parched landscape of the valley below. "Although containing Jadar may well be more difficult than we first assumed.""Why should it be difficult?" Allaudin watched Nadir Sharif in bewilderment. "His forces were very small to begin with. And after his defeat by Malik Ambar, how many men and cavalry can he have left?""Perhaps you should read the dispatch." Nadir Sharif tossed the scrolled paper into Allaudin's lap. "Jadar never engaged Malik Ambar. Instead he forged an alliance. It would appear his 'retreat' north to Burhanpur was merely a ruse. He never met the Maratha armies in the first place, so he did not lose a single infantryman. Instead he intimidated Malik Ambar and struck a truce with him. There's no knowing how large his army is now, or even where he is. This dispatch came from Mandu, so he's already well on his way north. I think he'll probably lay siege to Agra within two weeks if he's not stopped.""Merciful Allah." Allaudin's voice was suddenly tremulous. "What do we do?" Then he looked imploringly at Janahara. "I'll lead the army myself if you want."Janahara seemed not to hear him as she rose and walked toward the door of the tent. Nadir Sharif stepped aside as she shoved back the tapestry and stared out into the valley."This morning I ordered Inayat Latif to mobilize and march.""Without telling His Majesty!" Nadir Sharif stared at her incredulously."I ordered it in his name. I suspected something like this might happen, so I had him sign and stamp the order four days ago.""Was His Majesty entirely sob . . ." Nadir Sharif hesitated. "Was he in full understanding of what he was authorizing?""That hardly matters now. But you must place the seal you keep on the order also before it's forwarded to thewazirto be officially recorded." She did not shift her gaze from the sunlit valley. "It's on the table behind you."Nadir Sharif turned and stared down at the gold-inlaid stand. The order was there, a single folded piece of paper inside a gilded leather cover. The string which would secure it had not yet been tied."You were wise to have taken this precaution, Majesty." Nadir Sharif glanced back at Janahara, his voice flowing with admiration. "There's no predicting His Majesty's mind these days. Only yesterday I discovered he had completely forgotten . . .""Have you stamped it?""My seal is not here, Majesty." He paused. "And I was wondering . . . would it be wise to review our strategy briefly with His Majesty, lest he become confused later and forget he authorized the order? Perhaps even countermand it?""Your seal will be sufficient. It's in the pocket of your cloak where you always carry it, the pocket on the left.""Your Majesty's memory is astonishing sometimes." Nadir Sharif quickly extracted the metal case, flipped off the cover, and with a flourish imprinted the black Seal of the Realm on the top of the order, beneath Arangbar's signature and the impression of his royal signet ring. "When will the army be able to move?""Tomorrow. Most of the elephants are moving out this morning." Janahara turned back and glanced at the paper with satisfaction. "And tomorrow we will all return to Agra. The plague is subsiding, and I think His Majesty should be in the fort.""I agree entirely. Has it been ordered?""I will order it later today. Jadar cannot move his army that rapidly.""I will begin preparations to go with the army." Allaudin rose and adjusted the jeweled katar at his belt."You will be returning to the Red Fort, with His Majesty and with me." Janahara did not look at him as she spoke."But 1 want to face Jadar. I insist." He tightened his gauze cloak. "I will demand an audience with His Majesty if you refuse."Janahara studied him silently for a moment. "I have an even better idea. Since Jadar has refused to lead the army to defend the fortress at Qandahar, how would you like to be appointed in his place?"Allaudin's eyes brightened. "What rank would I have?""I think we can persuade His Majesty to raise your personal rank to twelve thousandzatand your horse rank to eight thousandsuwar, twice what you have now.""Then I will go." Allaudin tightened his cloak, beaming. "I'll drive the Safavid king's Persian troops back into the desert.""You are as sensible as you are brave. I will speak to His Majesty tonight."Allaudin grinned a parting salaam, squared his shoulders, and pushed his way through the portiere and into the sunshine. Nadir Sharif watched without a word until he had disappeared into his own tent."Was that entirely wise, Majesty?""What else do you propose we do? It will keep him in Agra. I'll see to that. You don't really think I'd allow him to leave? Anyway, it's time his rank was elevated. Now all he needs is a son.""I'm sure he'll have one in time, Majesty. The Hindu astrologers all say Princess Layla's horoscope is favorable.""The Hindu astrologers may have to help him do a husband's work if they want to save their reputation.""Give him time, Majesty." Nadir Sharif smiled. "And he'll have more heirs than the Holy Prophet.""All the Prophet's children were daughters." She took the paper, inserted it into the gold case, and began tying the string. "There are times you do not entirely amuse me.""I'm always half distracted by worrying." Nadir Sharif followed her with his eyes. "Even now.""What in particular worries you at the moment?" Janahara paused as she was slipping the case into her sleeve."I'm thinking just now about the Imperial army. The loyalty of some of the men.""What do you mean? Inayat Latif is entirely beholden to His Majesty. He would gladly give his life for the Moghul. I've heard it from his own lips, and I know it's true.""I've never questioned your commander's loyalty. But now you . . . His Majesty will be ordering the men to march against Jadar. Are you aware that fully a third of the army is under Rajput field commanders, officers from the northwest. Some of the rajas there still bear ill feelings toward His Majesty, because of Inayat Latifs campaign there ten years ago. These Rajputs sometimes have long memories. And who knows what Jadar could be promising them? Remember his treachery with Malik Ambar.""What are you suggesting? That the Rajput commanders will not fight for His Majesty, the legitimate Moghul? That's absurd. No one respects authority more than the Rajput rajas.""I'm not suggesting it at all. But I do believe the Rajputs here should be monitored closely nonetheless. Any discontent should be addressed before it grows . . . unwieldy. Perhaps their commanders should be placed under a separate authority, someone who could reason with them in His Majesty's name if there are signs of unrest. Inayat Latif is an able general, but he's no diplomat."Janahara studied him closely. "Do you believe there would be unrest?""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 wouldResolvethe 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 thefirmanfor 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 afirmanin 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 thezenana. 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.He turned back to the doorway in time to see the other twoguards coming toward him. As he attempted to parry them away, he found his feet tangled in the leather jerkin on the carpet and he stumbled backward, losing his balance long enough for one of the attackers to bring his sword around with a heavy sweep and knock his own weapon spinning into the dark recesses of the tent.As he grabbed a tent pole for balance he suddenly noticed the dark outline of two more men approaching behind the guards at the door. In the shadows he could tell they were shirtless, wearing only dirty loincloths and the gray turbans of servants. They carried no weapons and had been attracted by the uproar.Looking quickly around the tent, he noticed the burning outline of his oil-soaked powder horn lying on the carpet near his feet. He kicked it toward the approaching guard and as it struck his leg, the cap jarred free, sending hissing powder flaming through the tent. The man stumbled backward in surprise and lowered his sword. Just as he did, Hawksworth saw one of the servants standing at the doorway slip a naked katar from his loincloth and seize the guard by the neck. He pulled the attacker around and with a flash of steel gutted him silently with a savage upward thrust. The other Imperial guard at the doorway turned just in time to watch the katar drawn by the second servant enter his own throat.Hawksworth stared in astonishment, realizing he had never before seen the two servants. Even now their faces were largely obscured by the loose ends of their turbans.He revolved to see the other two guards turning back toward the opening that had been cut through the side of the tent, still slapping at the burning oil on their uniforms. As they reached the opening, they seemed to hesitate momentarily, then stumbled backward. As they sprawled across the carpet in front of him, their throats cut, he saw two more grimy servants standing in the opening, holding bloody katars.The burning oil blazed across the fringe of a carpet and suddenly the interior of the tent was crisscrossed with fire.The four alien servants, all still holding katars, seemed to ignore the flames as they advanced on Shirin and Hawksworth without a word.He watched them for a moment in horror, then reached and groped blindly across the top of his sea chest. It was bare. Then he remembered Shirin's fall and he felt along the carpet behind the chest, next to where she stood.Just as the first man reached the edge of the chest, Hawksworth's hand closed around the handle of his katar.Jesus, what do they want? Did they kill the Imperial guards so they could have the pleasure of murdering us themselves?Bracing himself against the side of the chest, he swung the blade upward. He still could not see the attacker's face, masked behind the end of his turban.The man stepped deftly to the side and caught Hawksworth's wrist in a grip of iron, laughing out loud."Never try to kill a Rajput with his own katar, Captain Hawksworth. He knows its temperament too well."Vasant Rao flipped back the ragged end of his turban."What the bloody hell. . . !""We've been waiting for you by Shirin's tent. It would appear your welcome here has run out." He glanced mockingly at Shirin. "So much for your famous Muslim hospitality.""You know very well who's responsible." Her eyes snapped back at him."I can probably guess." Vasant Rao released Hawksworth's wrist and stared about the burning tent. "Are you ready to ride?""What the hell are you doing here?""This is hardly the spot for long explanations. The fact is I'm here tonight to lead some of our friends back to the camp of His Highness, the prince. And you, if you cared to join us." Vasant Rao signaled the men around him to move out through the doorway. The smoke was already growing dense. "I'm afraid your fire has made our departure that much more difficult. It wasn't a particularly good idea on your part. Now we have to ride quickly.""What about all this?" Hawksworth looked about the burning tent. "I have to . . .""Just roll what you need in a carpet. If you're going with us, you'll have to leave now. Before the entire Imperial army comes to see us off.""But who'd want to kill us?" Hawksworth still could not move as he stared through the smoke."Whoever it was, they'll probably succeed if we wait here talking much longer."Hawksworth turned on Shirin."You knew!""I couldn't tell you before. It would have been too dangerous." She quickly grabbed a carpet from the floor, stamping out the burning fringe, then flipped open Hawksworth's chest. She grabbed his lute, a handful of clothes, his boots, his books, and his depleted purse. As he watched in a daze, she rolled them in the carpet and shoved it into his hands. He looked around the burning tent one last time and caught the glint of his sword lying behind a tent pole. He grabbed it, scooped up his pistol and jerkin, and took Shirin by the arm as they pushed through the smoke toward the entrance, stepping over the bodies of the guards as they emerged into the night air.Ahead, beside Shirin's tent, waited saddled horses and a group of turbaned riders. As they ran toward the horses, Hawksworth recognized several Rajputs from Arangbar's private guard among the horsemen."We were ready to ride." Vasant Rao seized the rein of one of the horses and vaulted into the saddle. "You were out walking or we could have left sooner. Shirin demanded we wait. It was well we did. Lord Krishna still seems to be watching over you, Captain.""Which way are we headed?" Hawksworth helped Shirin into a saddle, watching as she uncertainly grabbed the horn for balance, then, still clasping the bundle, pulled himself onto a pawing Arabian mare."West. The rest of the men are already waiting at the end of the valley." Vasant Rao whipped his horse and led the way as they galloped toward the perimeter of the tent city. "This will be a long ride, my friend."As Hawksworth watched the last of the tents recede into the dark, he saw disappearing with them his final chance for a firman. He would never see Arangbar again. Probably he would never see London again.I've traded it all for a woman. And I still wonder if she's mine.God help me.BOOK FIVEPRINCE JADAR

The dark sky had begun to show pale in the east, heralding the first traces of day. Hawksworth stood in the shadows of his tent, at the edge of the vast Imperial camp, and pulled his frayed leather jerkin tighter against the cold. He watched as the elephants filed past, bulky silhouettes against the dawn. They were being led from the temporary stables on the hill behind him toward the valley below, where cauldrons of water were being stoked for their morning bath. Heating the water for the elephant baths had become routine during the reign of Akman, who had noticed his elephants shivering from their baths on chilly mornings and decreed their bath water warmed henceforth.

As he watched the line of giant animals winding their way through the camp, waving their trunks in the morning air, he realized they were not docile femalezenanaelephants, but male war elephants, first and second rank.

First-ranked war elephants, called "full blood," were selected from young males who had demonstrated the endurance and even temper essential in battle; those granted Second Rank, called "tiger-seizing," were slightly smaller, but with the same temperament and strength. Each elephant had five keepers and was placed under the training of a special military superintendent—whose responsibility was to school the animal in boldness amid artillery fire. The keepers were monitored monthly by Imperial inspectors, who fined them a month's wages if their elephant had noticeably lost weight. Should an elephant lose a tusk through its keepers' inattention to an infection, they were fined one eighth the value of the animal, and if an elephant died in their care, they received a penalty of three months' wages and a year's suspension. But the position of elephant keeper was a coveted place of great responsibility. A well-trained war elephant could be valued at a hundred thousand rupees, a fulllakh, and experienced commanders had been known to declare one good elephant worth five hundred horses in a battle.

Hawksworth studied the elephants, admiring their disciplined stride and easy footing, and wondered again why the army had stationed its stables so near the Imperial camp. Did Arangbar somehow feel he needed protection?

"They're magnificent, don't you think?" Shirin emerged from her tent to join him, absently running her hand across the back of his jerkin. It had been six days since they had left Agra, and it seemed to Hawksworth she had grown more beautiful each day, more loving each night. The nightmare of the past weeks had already faded to a distant memory. She was fully dressed now, with a transparent scarf pinned to her dark hair by a band of pearls, thick gold bracelets, flowered trousers beneath a translucent skirt, and darkkohlhighlighting her eyes and eyebrows. He watched, enthralled as she pulled a light cloak over her shoulders. "Especially in the morning. They say Akman used to train his royal elephants to dance to music, and to shoot a bow."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to elephants." Hawksworth admired her a moment longer in the dawn light, then looked back at the immense forms lumbering past, trying to push aside the uneasy feeling their presence gave him. "You'd be very amused to hear what people in London think they're like. Nobody there has ever seen an elephant, but there are lots of fables about them. It's said elephants won't ford a clear stream during the day, because they're afraid of their reflection, so they only cross streams at night."

Shirin laughed out loud and reached to kiss him quickly on the cheek. "I never know whether to believe your stories of England."

"I swear it."

"And the horse-drawn coaches you told me about. Describe one again."

"It has four wheels, instead of two like your carts have, and it really is pulled by horses, usually two but sometimes four. It's enclosed and inside there are seats and cushions . . . almost like a palanquin."

"Does that mean your king'szenanawomen all ride in these strange coaches, instead of on elephants?"

"In the first place, King James has nozenana. I don't think he'd know what to do with that many women. And there are absolutely no elephants in England. Not even one."

"Can you possibly understand how hard it is for me to imagine a place without elephants andzenanas?" She looked at him and smiled. "And no camels either?"

"No camels. But we have lots of stories about camels too. Tell me, is it true that if you're poisoned, you can be put inside a newly slain camel and it will draw out the poison?"

Shirin laughed again and looked up the hill toward the stables, where pack camels were being fed and massaged with sesame oil. The bells on their chest ropes sounded lightly as their keepers began harnessing them, in strings of five. Hawksworth turned to watch as the men began fitting two of the camels to carry amihaffa, a wooden turret suspended between them by heavy wooden poles. All the camels were groaning pitifully and biting at their keepers, their customary response to the prospect of work.

"That sounds like some tale you'd hear in the bazaar. Why should a dead camel draw out poison?" She turned back to Hawksworth. "Sometimes you make the English sound awfully naive. Tell me what it's really like there."

"It is truly beautiful. The fairest land there is, especially in the late spring and early summer, when it's green and cool." Hawksworth watched the sun emerge from behind a distant hill, beginning to blaze savagely against the parched winter landscape almost the moment it appeared. Thoughts of England suddenly made him long for shade, and he took Shirin's arm, leading her around the side of their rise and back into the morning cool. Ahead of them lay yet another bleak valley, rocky and sere. "I sometimes wonder how you can survive here in summer. It was already autumn when I made landfall and the heat was still unbearable."

"Late spring is even worse than summer. At least in summer there's rain. But we're accustomed to the heat. We say noferinghiever gets used to it. I don't think anyone from your England could ever really love or understand India."

"Don't give up hope yet. I'm starting to like it." He took her chin in his hand and carefully studied her face with a scrutinizing frown, his eyes playing critically from her eyes to her mouth to her vaguely aquiline Persian nose. "What part do I like best?" He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. "I think it's the diamond you wear in your left nostril."

"All women wear those!" She bit at him. "So I have to also. But I've never liked it. You'd better think of something else."

He slipped his arm around her and held her next to him, wondering if he should tell her of his bargain with Arangbar—that she had been released only because he had offered to take her from India forever. For a moment the temptation was powerful, but he resisted. Not yet. Don't give her a chance to turn headstrong and refuse.

"You know, I think you'd like England once you saw it. Even with no elephants, and no slaves to fan away the flies. We're not as primitive as you seem to imagine. We have music, and if you'd learn our language, you might discover England has many fine poets."

"Like the one you once recited for me?" She turned to face him. "What was his name?"

"That was John Donne. I hear he's a cleric now, so I doubt he's writing his randy poems and songs any more. But there

are others. Like Sir Walter Raleigh, a staunch adventurer who writes passable verse, and there's also Ben Jonson, who writes poems, and plays also. In fact, lots of English plays are in verse."

"What do you mean by plays?"

"English plays. They're like nothing else in the world." He stared wistfully into the parched valley spread out before them. "Sometimes I think they're what I miss most about London when I'm away."

"Well, what are they?"

"They're stories that are acted out by players. In playhouses."

She laughed. "Then perhaps you should begin by explaining a playhouse."

"The best one is the Globe, which is just across the Thames from London, in the Bankside edge of Southwark, near the bridge. It was built by some merchants and by an actor from Stratford-up-on-Avon, who also writes their plays. It's three stories high and circular, with high balconies. And there's a covered stage at one side, where the players perform."

"Do the women in these plays dance, like ourdevadasis?"

"Actually the players are all men. Sometimes they take the roles of women, but I've never seen them dance all that much. There are plays about famous English kings, and sometimes there are stories of thwarted love, usually set in Italy. Plays are a new thing in England, and there's nothing like them anywhere else."

Shirin settled against a boulder and watched the shadows cast by the rising sun stretch out across the valley. She sat thoughtfully for a moment and then she laughed. "What would you say if I told you India had dramas about kings and thwarted love over a thousand years ago? They were in Sanskrit, and they were written by men named Bhavabhuti and Bhasa and Kalidasa, whose lives are legends now. A pandit, that's the title Hindus give their scholars, once told me about a play called The Clay Cart. It was about a poor king who fell in love with a rich courtesan. But there are no plays here now, unless you count the dance dramas they have in the south. Sanskrit is a dead language, and Muslims don't really care for plays."

"I'll wager you'd like the plays in London. They're exciting, and sometimes the poetry can be very moving."

"What's it like to go to see one?"

"First, on the day a play is performed they fly a big white banner of silk from a staff atop the Globe, and you can see it all over London. The admission is only a penny for old plays and two pence for new ones. That's all you ever have to pay if you're willing to stand in the pit. If you want to pay a little more, you can get a seat in the galleries around the side, up out of the dust and chips, and for a little extra you can get a cushion for the seat. Or for sixpence you can enter directly through the stage door and sit in a stall at the side of the stage. Just before the play begins there's a trumpet fanfare— like Arangbar has when he enters theDiwan-i-Am—and the doorkeepers pass through the galleries to collect the money."

"What do they do with it?"

"They put it into a locked box," Hawksworth grinned, "which wags have taken to calling the box office, because they're so officious about it. But the money's perfectly safe. Plays are in the afternoon, while there's daylight."

"But aren't they performed inside this building?" Shirin seemed to be only half listening.

"The Globe has an open roof except over the stage. But if it gets too dull on winter afternoons, they light the stage with torches of burning pitch or tar."

"Who exactly goes to these playhouses?"

"Everyone. Except maybe the Puritans. Anybody can afford a penny. And the Globe is not that far from the Southwark bear gardens, so a lot of people come after they've been to see bearbaiting. The pit is usually full of rowdy tradesmen, who stand around the stage and turn the air blue with tobacco smoke."

"So high-caste women and women from good families wouldn't go."

"Of course women go." Hawksworth tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. "There are gallants in London who'll tell you the Globe is the perfect place to spot a comely wench, or even a woman of fashion looking for some sport while her husband's drunk at a gaming house."

"I don't believe such things happen."

"Well that's the way it is in England." Hawksworth settled against the boulder. "You have to understand women there don't let themselves be locked up and hidden behind veils. So if a cavalier spies a comely woman at the Globe, he'll find a way to praise her dress, or her figure, and then he'll offer to sit next to her, you know, just to make sure some rude fellow doesn't trod on the hem of her petticoats with muddy boots, and no chips fall in her lap. Then after the play begins, he'll buy her a bag of roasted chestnuts, or maybe some oranges from one of the orange-wenches walking through the galleries. And if she carries on with him a bit, he'll offer to squire her home."

"I suppose you've done just that?" She examined him in dismay.

Hawksworth shifted, avoiding her gaze. "I've mainly heard of it."

"Well, I don't enjoy hearing about it. What about the honor of these women's families? They sound reprehensible, with less dignity thannautchgirls."

"Oh no, they're very different." He turned with a wink and tweaked her ear. "They don't dance."

"That's even worse. At least mostnautchgirls have some training."

"You already think English women are wicked, and you've never even met one. That's not fair. But I think you'd come to love England. If we were in London now, right this minute, we could hire one of those coaches you don't believe exist . . . a coach with two horses and a coachman cost scarcely more than ten shillings a day, if prices haven't gone up . . . and ride out to a country inn. Just outside London the country is as green as Nadir Sharif’s palace garden, with fields and hedgerows that look like a great patchwork coverlet sewed by some sotted alewife." Hawksworth's chest tightened with homesickness. "If you want to look like an Englishwoman, you could powder your breasts with white lead, and rouge your nipples, and maybe paste some beauty stars on your cheeks. I'll dine you on goose and veal and capon and nappy English ale. And English mutton dripping with more fat than any lamb you'll taste in Agra."

Shirin studied him silently for a moment. "You love to talk of England, don't you? But I'd rather you talked about India. I want you to stay. Why would you ever want to leave?"

"I'm trying to tell you you'd love England if you gave yourself a chance. I'll have thefirmansoon, and when I return the East India Company will . . ."

"Arangbar will never sign afirmanfor the English king to trade. Don't you realize Queen Janahara will never allow it?"

"Right now I'm less worried about the queen than about Jadar. I think he wants to stop thefirmantoo, why I don't know, but he's succeeded so far. He almost stopped it permanently with his false rumor about the fleet. He did it deliberately to raise Arangbar's hopes and then disappoint him, with the blame falling on me. Who knows what he'll think to do next?"

"You're so wrong about him. That had nothing to do with you. Don't you understand why he had to do that? You never once asked me."

Hawksworth stared at her. "Tell me why."

"To divert the Portuguese fleet. It's so obvious. He somehow discovered Queen Janahara had paid the Portuguese Viceroy to ship cannons to Malik Ambar. If the Marathas had gotten cannon, they could have defended Ahmadnagar forever. So he tricked the Portuguese into searching for the English fleet that wasn't there. The Portuguese are a lot more worried about their trade monopoly than about what happens to Prince Jadar. He knew they would be."

"I know you support him, but for my money he's still a certified bastard." Hawksworth studied her for a moment, wondering whether to believe her words. If it were actually true it would all make sense, would fill out a bizarre tapestry of palace deception. But in the end his ruse had done Jadar no good. "And for all his scheming, he was still defeated in the south. I hear the rumors too." Hawksworth rose and took Shirin's arm. She started to reply, then stopped herself.  They began to walk slowly back toward his tent. "So he deceived everyone to no purpose."

As they rounded the curve of the slope and emerged into the sunshine, Hawksworth noted that some of the war elephants had already been led back to their stables and were being harnessed. He looked across the valley toward the tents of the Imperial army and thought he sensed a growing urgency in the air, as though men and horse were being quietly mobilized to move out.

"But don't you realize? The prince is not retreating." Shirin finally seized his arm and stopped him. "No one here yet realizes that Malik Ambar has . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked ahead. A group of Rajput officers was loitering, aimlessly, near the entrance to her tent. "I wish I could tell you now what's happening." Her voice grew quieter. "Just be ready to ride."

Hawksworth stared at her, uncomprehending. "Ride where?" He reached to touch her hand, but she glanced at the Rajputs and quickly pulled it away. "I don't want to ride anywhere. I want to tell you more about England. Don't you think you'd like to see it someday?"

"I don't know. Perhaps." She shifted her gaze away from the Rajputs. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw her make a quick movement with her hands urging them to leave. Or had she? They casually moved on down the hill, their rhino-hide shields swinging loosely from their shoulder straps. "After . . . after things are settled."

"After what? After Arangbar signs thefirman?"

"I can't seem to make you understand." She turned to face him squarely. "About Prince Jadar. Even if you got afirmanit would soon be worthless."

"I understand this much. If he's thinking to challenge Arangbar, and the queen, then he's God's own fool. Haven't you seen the army traveling with us? It's three times the size of Jadar's." He turned and continued to walk. "His Imperial Majesty may be a sot, but he's in no peril from young Prince Jadar."

As they approached the entrance to his tent, she paused for a moment to look at him, her eyes a mixture of longing and apprehension.

"I can't stay now. Not today." She kissed him quickly and before he could speak she was moving rapidly down the hill, in the direction the Rajputs had gone.

Queen Janahara studied Allaudin thoughtfully as he strode toward her tent. His floral turban was set rakishly to one side in the latest style, and his purple gauze cloak was too effeminate for anyone but a eunuch or a dandy. She caught a flash from the jewel-handled katar at his waist, too ornamental ever to be used, and suddenly realized that she had never seen him actually hold a knife, or a sword. She had never seen him respond to any crisis. And Princess Layla had hinted he was not quite the husband she had envisioned, whatever that might imply.

Suddenly it all mattered. It had only been a week since Jadar's demands had been refused, and already he had taken the initiative. Now, she sighed, she would have to protect hernashudani, her "good-for-nothing" son-in-law. He could never protect himself, not from Jadar.

"Your Majesty." Allaudin salaamed formally as he dipped below the tapestried portiere of her tent, never forgetting that his new mother-in-law was also the queen. "The princess sends her wishes for your health this morning."

"Sit down." Janahara continued to examine him with her brooding dark eyes. "Where is Nadir Sharif?"

"The eunuchs said he would be a few moments late."

"He always tries to irritate me." Her voice trailed off as she watched Allaudin ensconce himself with a wide flourish against a velvet bolster. "Tell me, are you content with your bride?"

"She is very pleasing to me, Majesty."

"Are you satisfying your obligations as a husband?"

"Majesty?" Allaudin looked up at her as though not comprehending the question.

"Your duties are not merely to her. Or to me. They're also to India. Jadar has a male heir now. Such things matter in Agra, or weren't you aware?"

Allaudin giggled. "I visit her tent every night, Majesty."

"But for what purpose? After you're drunk and you've spent yourself with anautchdancer. Don't deny it. I know it's true. Do you forget she has servants? There are no secrets in this camp. I think you'll sooner sire an heir on a slave girl than on my daughter. I will not have it."

"Majesty." Allaudin twisted uncomfortably and glanced up with relief to see Nadir Sharif pushing aside the portiere of the tent. As he entered, Janahara motioned toward the servants and eunuchs waiting in attendance and in moments they had disappeared through the curtained doorways at the rear.

"You're late."

"My sincerest apologies, Majesty. There are endless matters to attend. You know His Majesty still holds morningdarshanfrom his tent, and has twodurbaraudiences a day. The difficulties . . ."

"Your 'difficulties' are only beginning." She was extracting a dispatch from a gilded bamboo tube. "Read this."

Nadir Sharif took the document and moved into the light at the entrance. He had always despised the red chintz tents of the Imperial family, whose doorways were forever sealed with Persian hangings that kept in all the smoke and lamp soot. As he studied the dispatch he moved even closer to the light, astonishment growing in his eyes. He read it through twice before turning back to Janahara.

"Has His Majesty seen this yet?"

"Of course not. But he will have to eventually."

"Who is it from?" Allaudin stared up from the bolster, his voice uneasy.

"Your brother." Janahara studied him with eyes verging on contempt. "Jadar has declared he is no longer under the authority of the Moghul." She paused to make sure the news had reached Allaudin. "Do you understand what that means? Jadar has rebelled. He's probably marching on Agra right now with his army."

"That's impossible! As long as His Majesty lives . . ."

"Jadar has declared His Majesty is no longer fit to reign. He has offered to assume the 'burden' himself. It's a preposterous affront to legitimate rule."

"Then he must be brought to Agra for trial." Allaudin's voice swelled with determination.

"Obviously." Nadir Sharif moved toward the door of the tent and stared into the sunshine for a long moment. Then he turned to Janahara. "We have no choice now but to send the Imperial army. Your intuition about Jadar last week was all too correct."

"And now you agree? After a week has been lost." Janahara had followed him with her eyes. "Now you concede that the army must move."

"There's nothing else to be done." Nadir Sharif seemed to study the parched landscape of the valley below. "Although containing Jadar may well be more difficult than we first assumed."

"Why should it be difficult?" Allaudin watched Nadir Sharif in bewilderment. "His forces were very small to begin with. And after his defeat by Malik Ambar, how many men and cavalry can he have left?"

"Perhaps you should read the dispatch." Nadir Sharif tossed the scrolled paper into Allaudin's lap. "Jadar never engaged Malik Ambar. Instead he forged an alliance. It would appear his 'retreat' north to Burhanpur was merely a ruse. He never met the Maratha armies in the first place, so he did not lose a single infantryman. Instead he intimidated Malik Ambar and struck a truce with him. There's no knowing how large his army is now, or even where he is. This dispatch came from Mandu, so he's already well on his way north. I think he'll probably lay siege to Agra within two weeks if he's not stopped."

"Merciful Allah." Allaudin's voice was suddenly tremulous. "What do we do?" Then he looked imploringly at Janahara. "I'll lead the army myself if you want."

Janahara seemed not to hear him as she rose and walked toward the door of the tent. Nadir Sharif stepped aside as she shoved back the tapestry and stared out into the valley.

"This morning I ordered Inayat Latif to mobilize and march."

"Without telling His Majesty!" Nadir Sharif stared at her incredulously.

"I ordered it in his name. I suspected something like this might happen, so I had him sign and stamp the order four days ago."

"Was His Majesty entirely sob . . ." Nadir Sharif hesitated. "Was he in full understanding of what he was authorizing?"

"That hardly matters now. But you must place the seal you keep on the order also before it's forwarded to thewazirto be officially recorded." She did not shift her gaze from the sunlit valley. "It's on the table behind you."

Nadir Sharif turned and stared down at the gold-inlaid stand. The order was there, a single folded piece of paper inside a gilded leather cover. The string which would secure it had not yet been tied.

"You were wise to have taken this precaution, Majesty." Nadir Sharif glanced back at Janahara, his voice flowing with admiration. "There's no predicting His Majesty's mind these days. Only yesterday I discovered he had completely forgotten . . ."

"Have you stamped it?"

"My seal is not here, Majesty." He paused. "And I was wondering . . . would it be wise to review our strategy briefly with His Majesty, lest he become confused later and forget he authorized the order? Perhaps even countermand it?"

"Your seal will be sufficient. It's in the pocket of your cloak where you always carry it, the pocket on the left."

"Your Majesty's memory is astonishing sometimes." Nadir Sharif quickly extracted the metal case, flipped off the cover, and with a flourish imprinted the black Seal of the Realm on the top of the order, beneath Arangbar's signature and the impression of his royal signet ring. "When will the army be able to move?"

"Tomorrow. Most of the elephants are moving out this morning." Janahara turned back and glanced at the paper with satisfaction. "And tomorrow we will all return to Agra. The plague is subsiding, and I think His Majesty should be in the fort."

"I agree entirely. Has it been ordered?"

"I will order it later today. Jadar cannot move his army that rapidly."

"I will begin preparations to go with the army." Allaudin rose and adjusted the jeweled katar at his belt.

"You will be returning to the Red Fort, with His Majesty and with me." Janahara did not look at him as she spoke.

"But 1 want to face Jadar. I insist." He tightened his gauze cloak. "I will demand an audience with His Majesty if you refuse."

Janahara studied him silently for a moment. "I have an even better idea. Since Jadar has refused to lead the army to defend the fortress at Qandahar, how would you like to be appointed in his place?"

Allaudin's eyes brightened. "What rank would I have?"

"I think we can persuade His Majesty to raise your personal rank to twelve thousandzatand your horse rank to eight thousandsuwar, twice what you have now."

"Then I will go." Allaudin tightened his cloak, beaming. "I'll drive the Safavid king's Persian troops back into the desert."

"You are as sensible as you are brave. I will speak to His Majesty tonight."

Allaudin grinned a parting salaam, squared his shoulders, and pushed his way through the portiere and into the sunshine. Nadir Sharif watched without a word until he had disappeared into his own tent.

"Was that entirely wise, Majesty?"

"What else do you propose we do? It will keep him in Agra. I'll see to that. You don't really think I'd allow him to leave? Anyway, it's time his rank was elevated. Now all he needs is a son."

"I'm sure he'll have one in time, Majesty. The Hindu astrologers all say Princess Layla's horoscope is favorable."

"The Hindu astrologers may have to help him do a husband's work if they want to save their reputation."

"Give him time, Majesty." Nadir Sharif smiled. "And he'll have more heirs than the Holy Prophet."

"All the Prophet's children were daughters." She took the paper, inserted it into the gold case, and began tying the string. "There are times you do not entirely amuse me."

"I'm always half distracted by worrying." Nadir Sharif followed her with his eyes. "Even now."

"What in particular worries you at the moment?" Janahara paused as she was slipping the case into her sleeve.

"I'm thinking just now about the Imperial army. The loyalty of some of the men."

"What do you mean? Inayat Latif is entirely beholden to His Majesty. He would gladly give his life for the Moghul. I've heard it from his own lips, and I know it's true."

"I've never questioned your commander's loyalty. But now you . . . His Majesty will be ordering the men to march against Jadar. Are you aware that fully a third of the army is under Rajput field commanders, officers from the northwest. Some of the rajas there still bear ill feelings toward His Majesty, because of Inayat Latifs campaign there ten years ago. These Rajputs sometimes have long memories. And who knows what Jadar could be promising them? Remember his treachery with Malik Ambar."

"What are you suggesting? That the Rajput commanders will not fight for His Majesty, the legitimate Moghul? That's absurd. No one respects authority more than the Rajput rajas."

"I'm not suggesting it at all. But I do believe the Rajputs here should be monitored closely nonetheless. Any discontent should be addressed before it grows . . . unwieldy. Perhaps their commanders should be placed under a separate authority, someone who could reason with them in His Majesty's name if there are signs of unrest. Inayat Latif is an able general, but he's no diplomat."

Janahara studied him closely. "Do you believe there would be unrest?"

"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 wouldResolvethe 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 thefirmanfor 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 afirmanin 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 thezenana. 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.

He turned back to the doorway in time to see the other two

guards coming toward him. As he attempted to parry them away, he found his feet tangled in the leather jerkin on the carpet and he stumbled backward, losing his balance long enough for one of the attackers to bring his sword around with a heavy sweep and knock his own weapon spinning into the dark recesses of the tent.

As he grabbed a tent pole for balance he suddenly noticed the dark outline of two more men approaching behind the guards at the door. In the shadows he could tell they were shirtless, wearing only dirty loincloths and the gray turbans of servants. They carried no weapons and had been attracted by the uproar.

Looking quickly around the tent, he noticed the burning outline of his oil-soaked powder horn lying on the carpet near his feet. He kicked it toward the approaching guard and as it struck his leg, the cap jarred free, sending hissing powder flaming through the tent. The man stumbled backward in surprise and lowered his sword. Just as he did, Hawksworth saw one of the servants standing at the doorway slip a naked katar from his loincloth and seize the guard by the neck. He pulled the attacker around and with a flash of steel gutted him silently with a savage upward thrust. The other Imperial guard at the doorway turned just in time to watch the katar drawn by the second servant enter his own throat.

Hawksworth stared in astonishment, realizing he had never before seen the two servants. Even now their faces were largely obscured by the loose ends of their turbans.

He revolved to see the other two guards turning back toward the opening that had been cut through the side of the tent, still slapping at the burning oil on their uniforms. As they reached the opening, they seemed to hesitate momentarily, then stumbled backward. As they sprawled across the carpet in front of him, their throats cut, he saw two more grimy servants standing in the opening, holding bloody katars.

The burning oil blazed across the fringe of a carpet and suddenly the interior of the tent was crisscrossed with fire.

The four alien servants, all still holding katars, seemed to ignore the flames as they advanced on Shirin and Hawksworth without a word.

He watched them for a moment in horror, then reached and groped blindly across the top of his sea chest. It was bare. Then he remembered Shirin's fall and he felt along the carpet behind the chest, next to where she stood.

Just as the first man reached the edge of the chest, Hawksworth's hand closed around the handle of his katar.

Jesus, what do they want? Did they kill the Imperial guards so they could have the pleasure of murdering us themselves?

Bracing himself against the side of the chest, he swung the blade upward. He still could not see the attacker's face, masked behind the end of his turban.

The man stepped deftly to the side and caught Hawksworth's wrist in a grip of iron, laughing out loud.

"Never try to kill a Rajput with his own katar, Captain Hawksworth. He knows its temperament too well."

Vasant Rao flipped back the ragged end of his turban.

"What the bloody hell. . . !"

"We've been waiting for you by Shirin's tent. It would appear your welcome here has run out." He glanced mockingly at Shirin. "So much for your famous Muslim hospitality."

"You know very well who's responsible." Her eyes snapped back at him.

"I can probably guess." Vasant Rao released Hawksworth's wrist and stared about the burning tent. "Are you ready to ride?"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"This is hardly the spot for long explanations. The fact is I'm here tonight to lead some of our friends back to the camp of His Highness, the prince. And you, if you cared to join us." Vasant Rao signaled the men around him to move out through the doorway. The smoke was already growing dense. "I'm afraid your fire has made our departure that much more difficult. It wasn't a particularly good idea on your part. Now we have to ride quickly."

"What about all this?" Hawksworth looked about the burning tent. "I have to . . ."

"Just roll what you need in a carpet. If you're going with us, you'll have to leave now. Before the entire Imperial army comes to see us off."

"But who'd want to kill us?" Hawksworth still could not move as he stared through the smoke.

"Whoever it was, they'll probably succeed if we wait here talking much longer."

Hawksworth turned on Shirin.

"You knew!"

"I couldn't tell you before. It would have been too dangerous." She quickly grabbed a carpet from the floor, stamping out the burning fringe, then flipped open Hawksworth's chest. She grabbed his lute, a handful of clothes, his boots, his books, and his depleted purse. As he watched in a daze, she rolled them in the carpet and shoved it into his hands. He looked around the burning tent one last time and caught the glint of his sword lying behind a tent pole. He grabbed it, scooped up his pistol and jerkin, and took Shirin by the arm as they pushed through the smoke toward the entrance, stepping over the bodies of the guards as they emerged into the night air.

Ahead, beside Shirin's tent, waited saddled horses and a group of turbaned riders. As they ran toward the horses, Hawksworth recognized several Rajputs from Arangbar's private guard among the horsemen.

"We were ready to ride." Vasant Rao seized the rein of one of the horses and vaulted into the saddle. "You were out walking or we could have left sooner. Shirin demanded we wait. It was well we did. Lord Krishna still seems to be watching over you, Captain."

"Which way are we headed?" Hawksworth helped Shirin into a saddle, watching as she uncertainly grabbed the horn for balance, then, still clasping the bundle, pulled himself onto a pawing Arabian mare.

"West. The rest of the men are already waiting at the end of the valley." Vasant Rao whipped his horse and led the way as they galloped toward the perimeter of the tent city. "This will be a long ride, my friend."

As Hawksworth watched the last of the tents recede into the dark, he saw disappearing with them his final chance for a firman. He would never see Arangbar again. Probably he would never see London again.

I've traded it all for a woman. And I still wonder if she's mine.

God help me.

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