The Moghul Part 101

"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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.signment 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 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 a.s.sembling 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. n.o.body 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.