A Singular Hostage Part 18

Munshi Sahib would not approve of her keeping Saboor any longer, but Munshi Sahib did not understand how much she needed her tiny companion.

A little while after the sun had begun its decline, the muezzin of Sohani Kot arrived at his mosque. He climbed the narrow stair of its single minaret slowly, pausing several times on the way to catch his breath. Arriving at the parapet, he wiped his face before leaning out, his hands cupping his mouth, to chant the azan azan as he had chanted it five times a day for twenty years, reminding all those within the sound of his voice to offer their prayers. as he had chanted it five times a day for twenty years, reminding all those within the sound of his voice to offer their prayers.

His voice was still melodious and strong. It carried past the wall of the little town to the horse lines of the British camp where Yar Mohammad sat deep in thought, polishing a harness.

The groom raised his head, then set down his work, got to his feet, and strode toward the mosque.

Inside the courtyard, he rolled up his sleeves and plunged his arms into the cool water of the fountain. His lips moved in recitation as he washed for his prayers.

When he had finished, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He did not turn to see who was there, but waited, without speaking, while beside him, Shafi Sahib, too, made himself ready for his prayers.

Together, they studied the arriving men as they washed and formed rows facing toward Mecca. Yar Mohammad pointed toward a stocky man who stood nearby, his feet apart, his eyes closed, his hands clasped before him. Shafi Sahib shook his head.

Yar Mohammad subtly pointed out a second man. This time Shafi Sahib nodded.

Shaking their hands dry, Shafi Sahib and Yar Mohammad joined the worshipers as they stood, bent and bowed with the rhythm of their prayers.

By the time they left the mosque, they had chosen twenty-four men.

We have no information yet." Faqeer Azizuddin motioned his a.s.sistant toward a pair of reed stools that waited in the shade. "If I knew your son's whereabouts, I would already have sent someone to bring him here." He tipped his head toward the Maharajah's silent yellow tent, twenty yards away, the saddled horse tethered beside it.

"You would have sent someone to bring him here here?" Ha.s.san sat down wearily. "Why, Faqeer Sahib? Saboor is ill. He must be allowed to come home to us."

The Faqeer drew his robe over his knees. "I know, my boy, I know your son should be with you. I have tried many times to persuade the Maharajah to send him home, but this is not the time to do it." He patted Ha.s.san's arm. "Do not fear. We will find Saboor, we will look after him, and we will return him after the durbar. That I have promised you."

Ha.s.san's eyes did not leave the Faqeer's face. "People say he was too weak to stand when he arrived at this camp."

The Faqeer nodded. "Saboor was weak when he came, yes," he agreed, "but he has recently become stronger. He has a reliable servant. The cooks have been ordered to make fresh food for him." He leaned forward. "Ha.s.san, you know how I love you and your father. I am desperate at your pain and at Saboor's loneliness, but the Maharajah, too, deserves our affection. Who else has his energy, his curiosity, his courage? Who else could have forged the Punjab, beaten and impoverished after a hundred years of plunder and destruction, into this great kingdom?"

He opened his hands. "Like all men, he has failings. He drinks too much wine, he eats and sleeps too little. These failings are killing him. There are times when he cannot move his limbs, when he cannot speak. He will not take his medicine of ground pearls. All he wants is Saboor. I know it is desperation and not reason that leads him to believe in Saboor's power to heal him, but I cannot stand by and see my king die without trying to give him what he wants. If, at this moment, I could bring Saboor to him, I would do it."

"Will the Maharajah die because he is without my Saboor, or will Saboor die because he is with the Maharajah?" Ha.s.san's tone was soft, but his face remained hard.

Faqeer Azizuddin did not reply. Both men looked up as a servant boy stepped from the parade ground and approached them. "Are you, sir, the Maharajah's Chief Minister?" the boy asked in a clear voice, after planting himself in front of the Faqeer.

"I am," answered the Faqeer.

"Then this letter is for you." The child held out a folded paper.

As the boy departed, Faqeer Azizuddin turned the letter over. "My old friend Shafiuddin," he said warmly. "How well I remember his hand! I was so sorry to have missed him when he was at your father's house." He smiled at Ha.s.san. "Our friendship is as old as our childhood. Shafi was the best at kite fiying. How daring he was then, leaning far out from the rooftops to swoop his kite with its colorful, gla.s.s-embedded string, cutting other kites from the air! Ah, those were wonderful days, running on the rooftops of Lah.o.r.e with Shafi and Waliullah!"

He unfolded the paper, read it, then gave Ha.s.san an appraising look. "Do you know," he asked, "the contents of this letter?"

"Sir, I do not."

"Then I will read it to you. 'Waliullah's grandson is at the British camp. You should know that we intend to return him to Qamar Haveli tomorrow evening. If you can arrange for the child to remain there undisturbed, we will be most grateful.'"

The Faqeer folded the paper. He looked up. "Who are 'we'?" he asked, his voice turning silken. "Who joins in Shafi's request besides you and my friend Waliullah?"

Ha.s.san's face had relaxed. His eyes were shining. He did not reply.

The Faqeer stared into the distance. "So," he said at last, "I find myself alone with my king. My two oldest friends have taken the side of your son. Poor Saboor, poor Maharajah." He shook his head. "Take it," he said brusquely, holding out the letter.

Ha.s.san slipped the folded paper into the pocket over his heart where it rustled against another, older letter.

Someone else had come. Near the yellow tent, a showily dressed eunuch attended by a trio of servants began to argue in a loud whisper with an armed guard. The guard signaled to the Faqeer with a raised arm.

Faqeer Azizuddin sighed. "What does that fool want? How I dislike these household eunuchs!"

The eunuch performed an elaborate salute as the two men approached. "My name is Gurbashan," he said grandly. "I have come to tell you that I know the whereabouts of the child Saboor."

He thrust his head back and beamed at the Faqeer, who blinked, but did not respond. Beside the Faqeer, Ha.s.san stared at the man, his body tensing.

"I would know the boy anywhere," the eunuch added, waving an arm. "It was I who escorted him to-"

"Indeed," the Faqeer interrupted smoothly. "And how did you find him?"

The eunuch's smile broadened, displaying unfortunate teeth. "Faqeer Sahib, it is kind of you to ask, but, if you will forgive me, I have come to give this news only to the Maharajah himself."

The Maharajah's guards had heard. Two of them hurried into the tent, talking as they went. A high, cracked voice issued from inside.

"Come in," it commanded. "Come here at once, Aziz!"

A servant held the door hanging aside and gestured for them all to enter.

The air inside the little tent was cold. The Faqeer pulled his cloak about his shoulders as he lowered himself to the carpet beside the Maharajah's pillow. The eunuch edged up to stand beside the bed. Ha.s.san watched from the shadows.

The wadded satin quilt had been thrown aside, leaving the Maharajah's fully clothed body to sweat on the thin mattress. Uncut since his birth, his hair stood twisted into a tight, iron gray knot on his crown. His beard lay unfurled and tangled on his chest. His seeing eye was open and bright with fever. A figured silver cup stood on a carved table behind his head.

"Yes, yes, of course I remember Gurbashan," he croaked impatiently, as the Faqeer began his introduction. He turned to the eunuch. "Speak, man, speak."

The eunuch gave another elaborate salute. "The baby is at the English camp, Maharaj," he announced in his dusky voice. "When I was visiting one of my friends there, I saw him myself."

"And how did you recognize him?" The Faqeer laced his fingers together.

"It was I, Faqeer Sahib, who personally escorted the child to this very camp from the Citadel. I would know him anywhere."

"Yes, yes, I know." The old Maharajah glared up from his pillow. "You are the one who made us wait all morning for Saboor before the procession. Go on, tell us which Englishman is keeping my Saboor." Color was already returning to his face. "Hah, Aziz," he added, "and you were telling me only this morning that there was no news!"

The eunuch paused dramatically. "The child," he declared, "is in the red compound where the British Governor and his ladies are quartered."

The Maharajah's sharp intake of breath induced such a fit of coughing that two servants were obliged to step forward, sit him up, and thump him on the back.

When the Maharajah was quiet again, the eunuch pulled a small silver knife from his c.u.mmerbund. Bending over beside the bed he drew a large rectangle in the pile of the carpet with the point of his blade.

"This," he said, pointing to its center, "is the compound where the Governor and the ladies keep their tents. It is surrounded by a high red wall and has three entrances."

The Maharajah propped himself on one elbow and breathed noisily, studying the marks on the carpet. "Ha.s.san," he cried, looking up, "your son has been found! How did you discover him, Gurbashan?"

The eunuch showed his teeth again. "A man from the Citadel has recently been hired as one of the Governor-General's cooks."

The Faqeer shifted on the fioor. "We know, Gurbashan," he said, a little wearily.

"The guarded main entrance is here, on the avenue." The eunuch stabbed the middle of one long side of his rectangle. "And the two service entrances are here, and here." He pointed to the ends of the other long side. "The tents of Lord Auckland and his ladies are arranged so, so, and so, and here is their dining tent." He drew three rectangles in the center of the s.p.a.ce, then with a fiourish, drew a fourth rectangle to form a square.

The Maharajah pointed eagerly to the carpet. "And my little Saboor is in one of these tents?"

"No, Maharaj." Bending, the eunuch put a finger on the left corner fronting the avenue. "The child is here, in the tent of a young woman who translates for the Governor-General's sisters."

Ha.s.san drew an audible breath.

The eunuch stood straight, his silks rustling. "My friend said he has seen the same child being carried to and from that tent three times in the past two days."

"How could Saboor be in the Governor-General's compound?" the Maharajah demanded shrilly. "Has he been stolen by the British?"

The eunuch shrugged. "I do not know, Maharaj, but I can tell you this much." He drew a line of crosses along the back wall. "The child has been seen here, among the servants' cooking fires, and here, entering the translator's tent." He pointed, once more, to the corner.

"The girl? He was stolen by the girl girl? The girl they brought-" Wheezing, the Maharajah sank back into his pillow. "Aziz, tell me what this means!"

Ha.s.san retreated to the shadows, a hand to the pocket over his heart.

Faqeer Azizuddin cleared his throat. "Whatever may be the truth of this matter," the minister said slowly, "we must think carefully before proceeding."

"Think carefully?" the Maharajah cried. "Why think carefully? I must have the boy in my arms by nightfall!"

"That can easily be done." The eunuch waved manicured fingers. "There are men in the city skilled in the stealing of children. We will pay one of them to do it," he added, as Faqeer Azizuddin stiffened. "I will go now and-"

"A child stealer!" Ha.s.san lunged from the shadows and caught the eunuch by his shirt. He grasped a handful of satin at the man's neck. "Snake," he hissed, twisting the shiny fabric, his face distorted. "Son of shame!"

The eunuch squeaked with fright and clawed at his throat. His eye wide, the Maharajah wheezed on his bed. Without taking his eyes from the Maharajah, the Faqeer reached out, grasped the hem of Ha.s.san's coat, and gave it a sharp tug.

"Maharaj," the Chief Minister said smoothly, letting go of the embroidered cloth as Ha.s.san dropped his hands, "Gurbashan has been most clever to discover the whereabouts of young Saboor, but I must counsel against against any plan to steal the child back." any plan to steal the child back."

"But why, Aziz, when stealing him is so simple?" The Maharajah attempted to raise himself again, but could not. He lay back on the pillow, his breathing strained. Pockmarks of past illness stood out against graying skin.

"It is my duty, Maharaj," the Faqeer said softly, "to remind you of the British, of their greed and their cleverness, and of our need to be most wary of them and their intentions. If they have, indeed, stolen the child, they have taken an unusual and uncharacteristic step. Consequently, we must expect a trap."

Ha.s.san made a small sound.

The eunuch opened his mouth, but the Maharajah lifted a silencing hand. "Speak, Aziz," he said.

"It is possible," continued the Faqeer, "that by taking Saboor, the British hope to provoke us into doing what Gurbashan has suggested- sending thieves into their camp. If we do so, they will be waiting, and the thieves will be quickly discovered. The British will then have an excuse to break off the treaty negotiations, thus saving themselves from their mad attack on Afghanistan."

The Maharajah blinked.

The Faqeer tilted his head. "Without a treaty, their great army will not go to Afghanistan. It will instead remain on our border, aimed at us. After all, which is the greater prize-barren Afghanistan, with only dry fruit and camels, or this fertile plain with all its riches, including your priceless Koh-i-noor diamond?"

The eunuch fairly danced up and down in his place by the bed. "But Maharaj, I-"

The Faqeer raised his voice over the eunuch's. "As much as I dread the prospect, it is my duty to ride to the British camp with senior members of our court and request an open search of the red-walled compound."

"An open search?" The eunuch's voice cracked. "If the child has been stolen, he will never be found in a search! Tents have nooks and crannies. A baby as small as that one could survive for hours, drugged and hidden in a trunk, or carried in a sack!"

A rustling outside the tent told them the guards had heard their raised voices and moved closer to the door.

"Very well," replied the Faqeer equably, "in that case we can arrange a surprise visit to the compound, and an ordeal of some sort to identify the child thief: the rice test, perhaps."

"Give me my medicine, Aziz." The Maharajah took the figured cup from the Faqeer's hand, drained it noisily, then wiped his mouth and lay back against his pillow.

Gurbashan's face was dotted with perspiration. "But why should the rice test-"

Without looking in the eunuch's direction, the Maharajah pointed to the door. A servant rose and held open the hanging.

"The rice test," the Maharajah said thoughtfully, as the eunuch, his shoulders sagging, backed out of the tent. "How will you do it?"

"I will approach one of the senior British officers," replied the Faqeer promptly. "If they have indeed stolen Saboor, they will return him at once by some subterfuge, fearing the test. If they have not stolen him, they will protest but will submit to the test to prove their innocence. They will also work to find the child, in order to prove their good faith to us. In either case, we will win."

The Maharajah nodded. "Yes," he said, smiling at the yellow ceiling as Ha.s.san and the Faqeer prepared to leave him, "the rice test. We will do it tonight."

"Tomorrow night, Maharaj, at midnight," the Faqeer said gently, from the doorway. "It is too late for me to speak to the British today. See," he added as the servant raised the door hanging again, revealing a rapidly darkening sky, "it is already evening. Sleep, Maharaj. We will have the test tomorrow night."

As Ha.s.san and the Faqeer crossed the Maharajah's parade ground together, Ha.s.san cleared his throat. "Faqeer Sahib," he began, "I am sorry that I was so-"

"Do not speak, Ha.s.san." The Faqeer put a finger to his lips as they left the yellow tent behind them. "Walk me to my tent, but do not speak."

They walked in silence all the way to the main camp, the Faqeer striding purposefully along, his hands clasped behind his back, Ha.s.san moving silently beside him, his eyes on the ground.

At his tent door, the Faqeer raised his arms to allow two of his servants to remove his coa.r.s.e brown coat. "There is much for me to do," he said. "You will not see me for some time. Meanwhile," he cautioned, his eyes fiicking to Ha.s.san's breast pocket, "you would be wise to burn Shafi's letter."

The rice test," Faqeer Azizuddin repeated the next morning from his basket chair at the British camp. He nodded gravely to his two companions, then glanced past them to the political secretary's s.p.a.cious tent, whose doorway stood propped open with bamboo poles.

A bullock cart creaked by on the wide avenue, unnoticed. "The Maharajah does not require that I conduct the test myself," added the Faqeer. He returned his gaze to William Macnaghten's face and crinkled his eyes. "The Maharajah's other ministers and I will merely observe."

Beside Macnaghten, Major Byrne frowned with incomprehension. Macnaghten turned to him. "They think someone has brought that wretched little hostage here," he murmured. "They wish to perform some sort of test to identify the culprit."

Macnaghten breathed in, challenging the b.u.t.tons of his frock coat, and shifted from English to Urdu. "And when, Faqeer Sahib, do you propose we perform this test?"

Faqeer Azizuddin smiled encouragingly. "At midnight tonight. The rice test is only successful if it comes as a surprise to those who are to be tested."

The sun had not yet reached its full height. It shone, colorless and painful to the eye, on the curving rise of the tent roof, and glanced upon the red wall whose left front corner, thirty feet away, ab.u.t.ted Macnaghten's allotted s.p.a.ce.