The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  Hawksworth finally returned to his compound near midnight, carrying his empty flask of brandy. He had wandered the length of the chaotic tent city searching for Shirin. Over the past five hours he had combed the wide streets of the bazaar, searched through the half-empty elephant stables, and circled the high chintz border of the Imperial enclosure. The periphery of the camp swarmed with infantrymen and their wives gathering supplies for the march, and already there had been numerous fights in the bazaar, where prices had soared after the announcement the army would march.

  As he neared his tent, he looked up at the stars, brilliant even through the lingering evening smoke from the cooking fires, and mused about Jadar. The rebel prince would soon be facing Inayat Latif, just recalled to Agra two months earlier after a brutally successful campaign in Bengal extending the Imperial frontier against local Hindu chief­tains. Inayat Latif was a fifty-five-year-old veteran com­mander who revered the Moghul and would do anything in his power to protect him. Although he had made no secret of his dislike of the "Persian junta," he shared their common alarm at the threat of Jadar's rebellion. It was Arangbar he would be fighting to defend, not the queen.

  The Imperial army is invincible now, Hawksworth told himself, its cavalry outnumbers Jadar's easily three to one, and its officers are at full strength. There are at least a hundred and fifty thousand men ready to march. How many can Jadar have? Fifty thousand? Perhaps less. Jadar can never meet them. The most he can possibly do is skirmish and retreat.

  Perhaps, he thought ruefully, it was all just as well. A decisive defeat for Jadar would resolve the paralysis at court, and the indecision in Shirin's mind. She would realize finally that Jadar had attempted to move too fast.

  The mission might still be saved. With the Portuguese resistance neutralized—there were even rumors that Arang­bar had ordered Father Sarmento back to Goa—there would be no voices in Agra to poison Arangbar's mind daily against the firman for King James. After all, he asked himself, who else could Arangbar turn to? England alone has the naval strength to challenge Portugal, even if it might require years to break their monopoly completely. He would bargain for a firman in exchange for a vague promise of King James's help against the Portuguese. It was a bargain England surely could keep. Eventually.

  He slipped through the doorway of his tent and groped for the lamp, an open bronze dish of oil with a wick protruding through the spout. It rested where he had left it, on a stand near his sea chest, and he sparked a flint against the wick. Suddenly the striped cotton walls of the tent glowed around him. He removed the sword at his belt and slipped it onto the carpet. Then he removed his leather jerkin and dropped against a bolster, still puzzling about Shirin.

  Her status during the past few days had been ambiguous. As a divorced Muslim woman, she was free to move about as she chose. But everyone knew she was on very uncertain terms with the Moghul. After they had arrived outside the western wall of the old city of Fatehpur, Arangbar had been too preoccupied to remember his threat to move her into the zenana. She had remained free, able to move incon­spicuously about the camp, mingling with the other Muslim women. And each night, after the final watch was announced, Hawksworth had been able to slip unnoticed to her tent. Once, late one night, he had suggested they try to return to the old palace of Akman, inside the walls of Fatehpur, but they both finally decided the risk would be too great.

  He had hoped the days, and nights, at the camp would bring them closer together. And in a way they had, although Shirin still seemed to retreat at times into a special realm of mourning she had devised for herself. She could never stop remembering Samad and his brutal death.

  Something, he told himself, had to change. He had begun to wonder if he should gamble and tell her of the terms the Moghul had demanded for her release. Would she then understand she had no choice but to return to England with him?

  He rose and rummaged through his sea chest, finding another bottle of brandy, almost his last, and to fight his despondency he poured himself a cup. The liquor burned its way down, like a warm soothing salve, and he turned to begin assembling his few belongings for packing in the morning. He had reprimed and loaded his remaining pistol, and now he laid it on the table beside his chest. Then he drew his sword from its scabbard to check its edge and the polish on the metal. Holding it to the lamp, he spotted a few random flecks of rust, and he found a cloth and burnished them away.

  His few clothes were already piled haphazardly in the chest, now virtually empty save for his lute. He found his leather purse at the bottom and counted his remaining money. Five hundred rupees. He counted them twice, beginning to wonder if he might eventually have to walk all the way back to Surat.

  He searched the floor for any stray items, and came across Vasant Rao's katar caught between the folds of the carpet. It seemed years now since the Rajput aide of Jadar had slipped it into his hand in the square of the Diwan-i-Am, and he had almost forgotten he had it. With a smile of recollection he gingerly slipped it from its brocade sheath and held it in his hand, puzzling how such a curiously constructed weapon could be so lethal. The grip was diagonal to the blade, so that it could only be used to thrust, like a pike head growing out of your fist. Rajputs were said to kill tigers with only a katar and a leather shield, but he wasn't sure he believed the stories. He grasped it and made a few trial thrusts, its ten- inch blade shining in the lamplight like a mirror, then tossed it atop his sea chest. It would make a nice memento of the trip; every fighting man in India seemed to carry one. Who in London would ever believe such a weapon unless they saw it?

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flutter in the portiere of his tent, and he looked up to see Shirin standing silently in the doorway.

  "What . . . ?" He looked up to greet her, unsure whether to betray his relief by taking her immediately in his arms, or to scold and tease her a bit first.

  She silenced him with a wave of her hand.

  "Are you ready?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  "Ready for what? Where in Christ's name have you been? I've been . . ."

  Again she silenced him as she moved inside.

  "Are you ready to ride?" She glanced in dismay at the belongings he had scattered about the tent. "We have to leave now, before dawn."

  "Have you gone mad?" He stared at her. "We're returning to Agra day after tomorrow. The Moghul has . . ."

  "We have to leave now, tonight." She examined him in the lamplight, consternation growing in her eyes. "The prince . . ."

  "Jadar is finished." He cut her off. "Don't be a sentimental fool. He brought this on himself. You can't help him. Nobody can now."

  They stood, eyes locked together, for a moment that seemed as long as eternity. Hawksworth did not move from his place on the carpet. Gradually her eyes clouded with sorrow, and he thought he saw her begin to turn.

  He was on his feet, seizing her arm, pulling her toward him. "I'm not letting you die for Jadar. If he's meant to win, he'll do it without either of . . ."

  He sensed a movement in the portiere behind her, and looked up to see the glint of a sword thrust exactly where she had been standing. She caught his bewildered look and revolved in time to see the sword slash through the fringed cloth. An Imperial guard, wearing light chain mail and a red turban, moved through the doorway, weapon in hand.

  "You son of a whore!" Hawksworth reached back for the naked sword lying on the carpet behind him and grabbed his leather jerkin. Holding the leather as a shield, he lunged at the attacker.

  As Hawksworth's sword thrust reached him, the guard caught the blade with his own and instinctively parried it aside, throwing Hawksworth against a tent pole.

  As he tried to regain his footing, he heard Shirin cry out and turned to see a heavy sword cut through the side of the tent behind them, creating a second opening. A hand ripped away the striped chintz and another Imperial guard entered, weapon in hand.

  "Jesus! Shirin, get back!" Hawksworth shouted in English and s
hoved 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.

  BOOK FIVE

  PRINCE JADAR