Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  “Anyone might have done the same, lord,” Jai Singh replies.

  Dara face is flushed. “Did you see that kill?” he asks, nodding toward the tiger. “Do you think Aurangzeb could have done such a thing?”

  “I doubt he would ever have done so,” Jai Singh answers truthfully.

  There he is, thinks Jai Singh, the next emperor: a man who will leap into the path of a tiger, who will risk his life and others’ for a kill. Reckless and brave and foolhardy. So unlike Aurangzeb. So much more exciting.

  Around him, the hakims have come to tend to the wounded. There are calls for water and stretchers. Dara waves for his servants to help.

  “And we must mount this bear, general!” Dara calls.

  “Yes, lord,” Jai Singh calls back.

  “We’ll have paintings made; you shooting that bear while I spear my tiger. We’ll have a poem written.”

  “Thank you, lord,” Jai Singh replies. Then he looks away, for in the midst of so much death, he suddenly remembers Shanti and his son.

  Dara senses his distraction. “You’re concerned about your wife, general.”

  Jai Singh is surprised by Dara’s insight. “Yes, lord.”

  “I received Captain Mohmoud’s dispatch. Terrible thing, treachery.”

  Jai Singh recognizes at once the two-edged thrust of an ambiguous remark. “It is indeed a terrible thing when a friend is revealed as an enemy, lord.”

  The prince has not yet wiped the tiger’s blood from his face. He lifts his hands toward Jai Singh. “General, you have lost a friend. Let me replace him. Let me be a better friend to you than that traitor.”

  “Then you would be a friend indeed, lord.”

  “When your own bodyguard betrays you, who can you trust, general?” Dara looks him square in the eye as he says this. Suddenly it seems to Jai Singh that much of Dara’s foppery could be an act, a ruse to appear weaker than he really is. Dara’s look now, in fact, reminds him of Aurangzeb, but with a worldliness that Aurangzeb will never have.

  “I tell you, lord, I know no longer whom to trust,” Jai Singh says.

  “Except Shanti. Your dear wife Shanti. And your son.”

  Is that a threat, Jai Singh wonders. With Dara, it’s so difficult to tell.

  “Be glad my guard is there. I myself will guarantee your family’s safety. Take this from this,” Dara says dramatically, pointing to his head and neck, “if there be any dishonorable act.”

  “Lord …,” Jai Singh protests, but Dara tut-tuts and stops him. In any case, Jai Singh knows that cutting off Dara’s head would be only the first of his reprisals in the case of treachery.

  But now is not the time for suspicion, for there is Jai Singh, facing Dara, his cousin and the heir presumptive; and there is Prince Dara offering Jai Singh his friendship. “What must I do, lord?” Jai Singh asks.

  “Why, cousin, I beg you, do nothing at all. Trouble yourself not at all. It is I who must do for you. Return to Amber. If I may offer some advice, take my men for your bodyguard. Send your Rajputs to the main army. Let them prove themselves in battle, and only then offer them reinstatement. For there will be battles soon enough, cousin.”

  “I like this advice,” Jai Singh replies.

  “But cousin, come back quickly. I shall have need of you soon.”

  But before Jai Singh leaves, he turns. “So you know this Captain Mohmoud? You trust him?”

  “Trust him? Yes, cousin, yes! Even though I have never met the man. Is he not Aurangzeb’s old playmate? My brother recommended him for that post. And whatever you may think of my dear brother, you must admit, he is a great judge of the character of men.”

  Again Jai Singh bows, now anxious to be home. Instead of calm, his heart is more turbulent than ever.

  Aurangzeb!

  That evening, after celebrating the hunt at a grand banquet, Shaista Khan—lover of a princess, killer of guards, favorite of Dara, secret ally of Aurangzeb—stands with a few of his fellow courtiers, watching the fading sunlight from a sandstone balcony of the lake pavillion. A half dozen cranes, white as ashes, sweep across the somber sky, ruffling the heavy air with the rush of wings. Fishermen in long rowboats bob gently on the barely flowing surface of the water, singing as they wind their lines and prepare to scull to shore. The men watch in silence.

  “It has been more than a month,” he says at last.

  “A month, Ibrahim?” the man in black beside him asks.

  While Ibrahim stares across the river, the other two men glance at the garden behind them. Their aides have been stationed at the stairways. There may be listeners hidden in the shadows, but at least the balcony is free of spies. Even so, they keep their voices hushed.

  “A month since that night. You know when I mean, Khurram. The night that eunuch drowned.”

  Odd, thinks Shaista Khan, that Ibrahim recalls it as the night the eunuch drowned. So much happened on that night Shaista Khan had nearly forgotten about that part. “A month, then, Ibrahim,” he says politely.

  General Ibrahim seems reluctant. “I’ve heard nothing. Have you?”

  “Nothing, Ibrahim,” Khurram says.

  “Nor I,” Shaista Khan says flatly.

  “How am I to believe you? Either of you?” Ibrahim asks.

  “What you believe is your look-to, general. If my word is not enough then the hell with you.” Shaista Khan turns on his heel.

  If he leaves, Khurram thinks, then he is lying. His fingers slip unconsciously to the jeweled dagger hanging from the belt of his black jama.

  But Shaista Khan turns back to the railing. Khurram’s fingers relax. “Do you think it’s off?” Khurram asks.

  “It’s not like Aurangzeb to make a plan and not execute it,” Ibrahim says.

  “How would you know?” Shaista Khan snaps. “How many coups have you plotted with him before this?”

  “Calm yourself, general,” Ibrahim says. “Let’s just say that I would have expected some communication from Aurangzeb.”

  “For that matter, general,” Khurram says, “why did Aurangzeb not take you with him when he went to Golconda?”

  “Because, general, I’m supposed to be Dara’s man,” Shaista Khan replies. “You know that.”

  “Maybe he left you here to spy on us, general?” Ibrahim suggests.

  Shaista Khan glares back. “You two are priceless,” he growls. “You focus on me like I’m your enemy, you focus on Aurangzeb the same way. Haven’t you noticed that we’ve got some real problems?” He struggles to keep his voice low. “So, we haven’t heard from Aurangzeb. Is that so difficult to understand? I think not. But what about those others, eh? The khaswajara, for example, that damned hijra, Hing. You can find him sucking Dara’s farts, two or three times a week. What’s that about, if he is supposed to be Aurangzeb’s man?”

  “Maybe he’s trying to lull Dara …”

  “I say never trust a hijra. Hing’s like every goddamned hijra, Khurram—they can none of them decide which hole they prefer. What if he’s using both of them?” Shaista Khan spits over the balcony. “Second point,” he continues. “Where’s damned Jai Singh?”

  “Shaista Khan, really, you must be calm. Jai Singh went to Amber. An assassination attempt—” Khurram looks annoyed at having to explain.

  But Shaista Khan interrupts. “Doesn’t that story seem a little … how shall I say it … contrived?”

  “But he told me that that captain of his bodyguard had attacked his wife!” Ibrahim protests.

  “And you believed him?”

  “Why should I doubt him? I’ve known him twenty years! Longer than I’ve known you, general.” Ibrahim straightens. “If not for the captain of the imperial honor guard, Jai Singh’s family might be dead.”

  “Oh, yes,” Shaista Khan drawls. “Captain Mohmoud. Isn’t it fortunate that the imperial guard was there just when it was needed?”

  “Mohmoud is Aurangzeb’s man,” Ibrahim says.

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” Shaista Khan replies. “D
ara sent that company to Amber, and Dara gave Captain Mohmoud command.”

  “I’m just a simple soldier, general,” Khurram says to Shaista Khan. “Perhaps you’d better explain this to me.”

  “I’m just pointing out the obvious, gentlemen. Don’t worry about Aurangzeb. That’s a distraction. What you should ask is: What’s Jai Singh’s game?” A boom of thunder throbs through the humid air. “This empire depends upon the Rajputs! Think about it—the great Akbar couldn’t beat them. That’s why he married a Rajput bitch. Since then every Mogul emperor has had a Rajput wife. Shah Jahan himself is three-quarters Rajput. Three quarters! And still he calls himself a Muslim and a Mogul. Ever wonder why the Moguls bow and scrape to the Rajputs so? Why they have so many Rajput brides?” Shaista Khan asks. “Can it be that Rajput women have such nimble yonis?”

  “Nimble my ass. They just lie there and make you do all the work,” Ibrahim says.

  But Shaista Khan’s eyes glint. “I’ll tell you why they love those Rajput wives: Rajput soldiers. But face it: they’re Rajputs first, soldiers second. They’d follow a Rajput general into the jaws of hell—but what about a Mogul? Would they obey one of us, for example? Depends on what they had for breakfast.” Shaista Khan looks at them. “Not clear enough yet? Try this: To control the empire you must control the Rajputs. And who controls them? Not a Muslim. Not a Mogul. So who?”

  “Jai Singh,” Khurram whispers.

  “Right. And who controls Jai Singh?”

  Khurram glances uncertainly at Ibrahim then back to Shaista Khan. “Well, Dara says that he does. But we know …” His voice trails off.

  “Aurangzeb?” Ibrahim says, somewhat doubtfully.

  “And why do you say that, general?” Shaista Khan says carefully.

  “Well, didn’t he tell us …,” Ibrahim replies, his face clouding with uncertainty at what had seemed to him a fact just a moment ago.

  “Yes, he told us. He sat there big as life with his sincere frown and told us.” Shaista Khan chews his lip. “So? Doesn’t Dara say the same?”

  “Then whose side are you on, Shaista Khan?” Ibrahim whispers.

  “I tell you, friends, I’m a fool. I lie, I pander, I conceal. Is it not so with you as well, my friends? Do you both dissemble as do I?” The other two hang their heads but do not answer. “This is how Jai Singh behaves as well,” Shaista Khan continues. “Now all we have is the word of Dara and the word of Aurangzeb. Of the two, I trust Aurangzeb—I’m sure he believes he has Jai Singh’s support. But what does Jai Singh really mean to do?”

  Khurram shrugs. “Are you saying he is Dara’s man?”

  “My friend, I’ve heard both those bastards claiming Jai Singh for an ally. Yet I haven’t heard a single word from Jai Singh. Have you?”

  “So you think this assassination attempt—” Ibrahim begins to say.

  “It could be Dara’s plot—just to let Jai Singh know who’s boss. That’d be like Dara. Maybe it’s Aurangzeb’s … Maybe Aurangzeb wants to cast suspicion on Dara; that’d be like Aurangzeb. Hell, maybe Jai Singh did it himself, just to get home for a few days.”

  Khurram frowns. “You fear your own shadow, general.”

  Shaista Khan’s eyes glitter. “We’ve pledged to support Dara and Aurangzeb—both of them, mind you—and join with them in taking down our living emperor. We are a fine bunch of loyal generals, are we not?”

  Shaista Khan lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Let me speak for myself: When the smoke clears, I want to be sitting on the winning side. Which side will that be? Whichever side has Jai Singh!”

  “What are you suggesting, Shaista Khan?” whispers Ibrahim.

  “I’m watching Jai Singh. My eyes are on him. Where he goes, I go. I suggest you do the same.” Shaista Khan looks at them severely, as though he truly believes what he has just said and now dares anyone to challenge him. Lightning snaps across the sky, and soon thunder shakes the still night air. The men look up; they’ve become so engrossed that they haven’t noticed the figures strolling toward them, dressed in silks pale as moonlight.

  “Hush,” whispers Khurram as the figures mount the steps. The men straighten and try to strike casual poses.

  It is Prince Dara walking toward them. Beside him, holding his arm, is a woman. The generals cannot help staring. For the woman wears no veil. Her face is naked for all to see. “Your mouth,” Shaista Khan whispers, for Ibrahim’s jaw has nearly reached his chest.

  The prince, resplendent in silks and lace, his turban decked with emerald peacock feathers, nods to the woman. She glances at the men for a moment, then looks away. “Gentlemen,” Dara says with his sophisticated smile, “I think you know my wife, the princess Ranadil.”

  One by one, the generals manage to steal their eyes from Ranadil’s pale, exquisite face, and bow, Ibrahim the deepest and longest of all. Shaista Khan sees that her fingers are curled so tight around Prince Dara’s arm that her nails are white. Dara nods, pats his wife’s anxious hand, and the two of them begin a slow stroll along the balcony.

  “By the Almighty, she is lovely. I had no idea!” Khurram whispers.

  “I can’t believe what I have seen,” Ibrahim gasps. “Do they have no shame?”

  “Women—” Khurram starts to say, but Ibrahim interrupts.

  “It wasn’t her idea! You could see that. He forced her! He put her on display! Naked! I have made up my mind, friends. I can’t bear the shame of having that depravity sitting on the Peacock Throne. Whatever may come, I will support Aurangzeb.”

  “I hope for your sake Jai Singh feels the same,” Shaista Khan replies.

  Ibrahim nods. “I agree, Shaista Khan. Jai Singh is key. But that makes me think: Why not Jai Singh for emperor? He at least has honor. He has dignity. And despite his religion, he is a moral man. His wives at least are covered. He understands such things. He has military power. And most important: as a politician he is a mere child. We would install him as a figurehead. The real power”—here Ibrahim glances to either side—“would be elsewhere.”

  “I don’t like the idea of a Hindu emperor,” Khurram replies.

  “What do you think Dara would be?” Shaista Khan snaps. “That whelp is more Hindu than Jai Singh.” He looks into Ibrahim’s dark face. “It’s time we generals did some thinking on our own.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Khurram says. “Jai Singh then … Or maybe … one of us?”

  “Not I,” Ibrahim says quickly.

  “Nor I,” agrees Shaista Khan.

  “I did not mean myself, my friends,” Khurram adds hurriedly, hoping that their memories are short.

  CHAPTER 12

  On ponies they ride across the mountains, drenched by the elephant rains, twenty-five riders in a broken line: Jyoti and Maya in the middle; Hanuman behind them; Lakshman, Tanaji with others in front. Jyoti turns in her saddle to see Shivaji far to the rear. Beside her rides the farang from the temple, the one with the copper hair and those strange, catlike eyes.

  Now as they reach the final pass, the rain subsides. The ponies, glad for the sudden break from the monsoon, shake their heads. Water droplets flip from their manes. The riders have packages wrapped in wax cloth tied to their saddles: flat, narrow, sharp at the ends. Bows, Jyoti realizes. Bows and arrows.

  Just then Hanuman rides up. “That’s Poona back there,” he says. “You can just see the place the river bends—not much else … In front of us, that’s Welhe: that’s where we’re going. Well, not you two, I suppose.”

  Jyoti notices that he is dripping from head to foot, and that there are tiny spots of mud on his nose, and she finds herself wondering how she must look to him. Frightful, she thinks. Her eyes linger on his face and she turns aside, embarrassed. Why hasn’t he married? she wonders, and finds herself looking at his profile instead of at the fort he is pointing to.

  “That’s Torna.” He points to a ragged piece of stone on the knifelike edge of a mountain nearby. “A little fort, very pretty inside. A good place for picnics. But I wouldn’t want to be t
here in the rains.”

  “Is it Shivaji’s fort?” Maya asks.

  “Shivaji’s fort?” Hanuman frowns. “Sort of … it was Shahji’s; his father’s I mean. And Shivaji is Shahji’s heir, so … it’s complicated … .”

  Maya asks, “How can everything about Shivaji be so complicated? Is it his fort? It’s a simple question.”

  “Well, it’s supposed to be. That’s the treaty: Shivaji is to get back the forts when he comes of age. But what’s Shivaji supposed to do? Walk up to Torna gate and knock? Hello, may I now have my fort back, please?”

  “What about Shahji? Can’t he do anything?”

  “He lives in Bijapur and he’s married to the sultana’s niece. He’s a big general now—ten thousand horse, I hear. What’s he going to do? Shahji made his deal. Now he just wants a nice life.” All too soon the rain returns. Raindrops large as marbles, pounding them like hammers. Jyoti pulls a waxcloth cape around her, but it does no good.

  Suddenly the road dives into the dense foliage of the mountain forest. The smell of wet ground and wet leaves hangs dense around them. Water pours down as if from buckets, collected into thick streams by the canopy of leaves above them. They ride in single file, and water sheets down the path so fast it looks like the rapids of a small river. Mud and pebbles mingle in the stream and rattle against the hooves of the ponies.

  God, I’d give anything for a map, thinks O’Neil. What had Da Gama told him? There’s not a map to be found in Hindustan unless a farang draws it. And never has O’Neil wanted a map more than today.

  O’Neil remembers him often these days: Da Gama, his mentor, now dead, that the Hindis called Deoga. Hindustan is paradise and Hindustan is hell, Da Gama had told him. O’Neil is still waiting to find paradise. He had always imagined hell as a place of fire and heat, but perhaps hell is a mud-slick mountainside beaten with rain, where you ride a feeble pony that seems ready to somersault down the side.