The Moghul Part 48

The dark figure in the lead seized Hawksworth's right arm from behind and began to grapple for his sword. As he struggled to draw it away, the b.u.t.t end of a pike came down hard on his forearm. A shot of pain pierced through to his mind, clearing away the last haze of the brandy.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Hawksworth realized he was shouting in English. "Get ready to die."

He twisted forward and with his free hand stretched for the pistol in his boot. Slowly his grip closed about the cool horn of the handle, and with a single motion he drew it upward, still grasping the sword.

As he raised himself erect he caught the outline of a dark object swinging above him in the air. Then the lightning flashed again, glinting off the three large silver k.n.o.bs. They were being swung by the man who held his sword arm.

My G.o.d, it's a _gurz_, the three-headed club some of the Rajputs carry on their saddle. It's a killer.

He heard it arc above him, singing through the dark. Unlike the Rajputs, he had no leather helmet, no padded armor. There was no time to avoid the blow, but he had the pistol now, and he shoved it into the man's gut and squeezed.

There was a sudden blinding flash of light. It started at his hand, but then it seemed to explode inside his skull. The world had grown white, like the marble walls of Mukarrab Khan's music room, and for a moment he thought he heard again the echo of drumbeats. The cycle swelled sensuously, then suddenly reached its culmination, when all pent-up emotion dissolved. In the silence that followed, there was only the face of Mukarrab Khan, surrounded by his eunuchs, his smile slowly fading into black.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The light of a single flame tip burned through the haze of his vision, and then he heard words around him, in a terse language as ancient as time. He tried to move, and an aching soreness shot through his shoulders and into his groin. His head seemed afire.

I must be dead. Why is there still pain?

He forced his swollen eyelids wider, and a room slowly began to take form. It was a cell, with heavy bamboo slats over the windows and an ancient wooden latch on the door. The floor was earth and the walls gray mud with occasional inscriptions in red. Next to him was a silhouette, the outline of a man squatting before an oil lamp and slowly repeating a sharp, toneless verse. He puzzled at the words as he studied the figure.

It's the language of the priest at the wedding. It must be Sanskrit.

But who . . . ?

He pulled himself upward on an elbow and turned toward the figure, which seemed to flicker in the undulating shadows. Then he recognized the profile of Vasant Rao. The verses stopped abruptly and the Rajput turned to examine him.

"So you're not dead? That could be a mistake you'll regret." Vasant Rao's face sagged and his once-haughty moustache was an unkempt tangle.

He stared at Hawksworth a moment more, then turned back to the lamp.

The Sanskrit verses resumed.

"Where the h.e.l.l are we?"

Vasant Rao paused, and then slowly revolved toward Hawksworth.

"In the fortress village of Bhandu, ten _kos_ northwest of the

town of Chopda. It's the mountain stronghold of the Chandella dynasty of Rajputs."

"And who the h.e.l.l are they?"

"They claim direct descent from the ancient solar race of Rajputs described in the Puranas. Who knows, but that's what they believe. What we all do know is they've defended these hills for all of time."

"Did they take the caravan?"

A bolt of humiliation and pain swept through Vasant Rao's eyes for a moment and then his reserve returned. "Yes, it was taken."

"So your mighty 'solar race' is really a breed of G.o.d- cursed common bandits."

"Bandits, they are. They always have been. Common, no. They're professionals, honorable men of high caste."

"High-caste thieves. Like some of the merchants I've met."

Hawksworth paused and tried to find his tongue. His mouth was like cotton. "How long've we been here?"

"This is the morning of our second day. We arrived yesterday, after traveling all night."

"I feel like I've been keelhauled for a week." Hawksworth gingerly touched his forehead and there was a pulse of pain.

Vasant Rao listened with a puzzled expression. "You were tied over your horse. Some of the clan wanted to kill you and leave you there, but then they decided that would give you too much honor."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about? I remember I gave them a fight."

"You used a pistol. You killed a man, the head of this dynasty, with a pistol."

The words seemed to cut through the shadows of the room. The pain returned and ached through Hawksworth's body.

More deaths. The two men who died on the _Discovery_. I saw Nayka die with an arrow in his throat. And how many of the Rajput guards died?

Why am I always in the middle of fighting and death?

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds killed my driver."

"The driver was nothing. A low caste." He shrugged it away. "You are an important _feringhi_. You would not have been harmed. You should never have drawn a pistol. And then you allowed yourself to be captured. It was an act beneath honor. The women spat on you and your horse when you were brought through the streets. I have no doubt they'll kill us both now."

"Who's left alive?"

"No one. My men died like Rajputs." A trace of pride flashed through his eyes before they dimmed again with sadness. "When they knew they could not win, that they had failed the prince, they vowed to die fighting. And all did."

"But you're still alive."

The words seemed almost like a knife in the Rajput's heart.

"They would not kill me. Or let me die honorably." He paused and stared at Hawksworth. "There was a reason, but it doesn't concern you."

"So all the men died? But why did they kill the drivers?"

"The drivers weren't killed." Vasant Rao looked surprised. "I never said that."

I keep forgetting, Hawksworth told himself, that only high castes count as men in this G.o.d-forsaken land.

"This whole d.a.m.ned country is mad." The absurdity overwhelmed him. "Low castes, your own people, handled like slaves, and high castes who kill each other in the name of honor. A pox on Rajputs and their fornicating honor."

"Honor is very important. Without honor what is left? We may as well be without caste. The warrior caste lives by a code set down in the Laws of Manu many thousands of years ago." He saw Hawksworth's impatience and smiled sadly. "Do you understand what's meant by _dharma_?"

"It sounds like another d.a.m.ned Hindu invention. Another excuse to take life."

"_Dharma_ is something, Captain Hawksworth, without which life no longer matters. No Christian, or Muslim, has ever been able to understand _dharma_, since it is the order that defines our castes--and those born outside India are doomed to live forever without a caste.