The Moghul Part 63

Nadir Sharif gave Hawksworth a quick, troubled glance. "I see. Yes, lead would require a guard. But Prince Jadar's Rajputs virtually scorn to use muskets, so I a.s.sume it was rather a small number of carts."

Hawksworth straightened his doublet, shifting the location of Vasant Rao's katar. "I don't recall the precise number."

"Naturally. I'm confused by numbers myself. Probably something like twenty, I suppose. Certainly, I would presume, no more than fifty?"

"I didn't count the exact number."

"Too many to count? I see." Nadir Sharif seemed to be only half attentive to the conversation, as he swung his head from side to side in appreciation of the accelerating tempo of the drummer. "Doubtless it was some of the very lead I'm told you brought for trade."

"It wasn't English."

"Ah, then I suppose it was Portuguese. I a.s.sume you must have noticed."

"Not actually." Hawksworth paused. "It wasn't really my concern."

"Yes, quite so." Nadir Sharif walked again to the gallery and stood silent, still swinging his head absently to the time of the music. The pieces of the puzzle had already dropped into place.

So that's how Jadar did it. And only one man in Surat could have provided the prince the silver he needed, that contemptible son of a moneylender Mirza Nuruddin. He's uncontrollable. But even if the prince survives the Deccan, what can he do? The Imperial army . . .

Allah, it's obvious! There's only one way he can ever march north with enough men to meet Janahara's army. By the Merciful Prophet, he's mad!

Nadir Sharif coughed lightly and turned back toward the

room. "Amba.s.sador Hawksworth, would you care for some wine? You need not be squeamish, His Majesty has always admired men who drink. I would join you, but regrettably I cannot. While His Majesty retires, the rest of us must labor on."

"A gla.s.s would be welcome."

"A gla.s.s, Amba.s.sador? Did you say 'a gla.s.s'?" Nadir Sharif laughed.

"You'll need more than a gla.s.s if you drink with His Majesty. I'll send the servants." He bowed again at the doorway of the vestibule. "I'll rejoin you when I can. In the meantime, summon the eunuchs if you require anything."

He turned and was gone. In what seemed only moments, two turbaned servants appeared, smiling as they placed a large chalice of wine on the carpet next to Hawksworth's bolster.

"It's all too incredible." Queen Janahara slumped onto a velvet divan and distractedly took a rolled betel leaf from the silver tray offered by a hovering eunuch. Behind her a female _zenana _slave fanned a plume of peac.o.c.k feathers against the afternoon heat. As she spoke she brushed back her gold-threaded scarf, revealing gleaming dark hair--the few gray strands had been perfectly dyed--pulled back tightly against her head and secured with a golden band. Her only jewels were in a necklace, diamonds with a ma.s.sive blue sapphire that complemented her dark eyes. She was nearing fifty, but still possessed of a beauty that had, with the years, evolved to magnificent dignity. Her face was statuesque and her Persian was both elegant and mellifluous. "He's still marching south. I think he actually enjoys living in the field, surrounded by mud and Rajputs. How much longer can he continue?"

"Be a.s.sured this time the prince will bring his own undoing." Nadir Sharif accepted a betel leaf from the tray, a gesture, and absently rolled it between his thumb and finger. He wondered nervously why she had summoned him to the Jasmine Tower the minute he left the English _feringhi_. He normally enjoyed meeting her there, amid the marble screens, where they could recline on the carpeted terrace and admire the broad Jamuna. As her brother and prime minister, it was not unseemly for him to visit her in her quarters. "The campaign in the Deccan will change everything, Your Majesty. It cannot end as did the last one, with Malik Ambar surrendering out of fright. The Abyssinian surely suspects by now that Jadar is isolated."

Queen Janahara was no longer listening. Her thoughts were seething over the two surprises of the day. The first was Nadir Sharif's absence from her historic appearance at the _darshan _balcony. She had already been informed of his absence by four separate eunuchs. All a.s.sumed it was deliberate.

Nadir Sharif. My own brother. Can he be wavering? Or merely bargaining?

Why? Has something happened with Jadar? The march south should have been the end of him. The _mansabdars _and their troops south of the Narbada were in shambles. But somehow Jadar has managed to recall enough cavalry to continue his campaign. What is he planning?

That question called to mind the second problem of the day.

The Englishman.

She knew, as Arangbar did not, that the Englishman had already met with Jadar. Why had Jadar contrived such a meeting? The prince must know that both she and Nadir Sharif had full support of the Viceroy of Goa.

Did he also know that the Viceroy had even offered secretly to help arm the Deccanis against him, an arrangement she was now negotiating?

What of the English _feringhi_, his letter, his meeting with Jadar? She had studied him carefully through her screen when he appeared at the afternoon _durbar _and she had ordered a Persian translation of his letter prepared immediately. And what she read was disturbing. The English king had, it was true, asked merely for a trading _firman_. But who knew what sea power waited behind the English appearance at Surat?

She knew Jadar despised Christians, but he would not scruple to use them one against the other. Where would it lead, if Jadar could enlist English sea power in the struggle that loomed ahead, and somehow neutralize the influence of the Portuguese? Maddeningly, the Moghul seemed amused by the Englishman, by his rude manner.

"Why did His Majesty invite the _feringhi _to the _Diwan-i- Khas _tonight?"

"My esteemed sister, you were at today's durbar. You know His Majesty's whims far better than I. Perhaps he was fascinated by finding a _feringhi _who speaks his barbarous Turki. For His Majesty the new _feringhi _cannot be anything more than merely a new toy, like a new dog or horse. He will amuse himself with the _feringhi_, dangle promises before him, and wait to see if more gifts are forthcoming. You know he is the same with all amba.s.sadors."

"This one I think is different. Did you see him refuse to _teslim_? I think His Majesty is already awed by him. I fear for India if the English ever gain influence here. Do you really believe the English king wants nothing more than trade?" Janahara found herself searching for the key to Nadir Sharifs thoughts. "What do you suppose would happen if these English defy the Portuguese and one day decide to blockade Surat? To allow trade only to those who have supported them at court." She paused as she studied him. "Could there be some here already who are fearful enough to pretend friendship to the Englishman?"

"Who could know these things?" Nadir Sharif walked to the white marble railing and gazed along the side of the fort, where the Jamuna lapped gently against the thick red walls. He remembered his pigeons, and then he remembered the morning _darshan_ and Janahara's unprecedented appearance.

The Englishman is hardly a problem, my dear sister. He is already tamed. You are the problem now. You and your newfound power. But if you fear this harmless _feringhi_ more than you fear me, then I have at last found a way to manage you as well. At long last.

"Tonight I will drink with the English _feringhi_, and then we may learn something useful. A man lounging with a wine cup in his hands says things he would never utter standing at _durbar_. I think His Majesty may also be wondering about the intentions of his king."

Janahara chewed silently on the betel leaf and eyed him, knowing he had met that morning with the Rajput who brought the English _feringhi _to Agra and wondering why. Whatever the reason, she told herself, Nadir Sharif would never be so foolish as to side with Jadar. Not so long as the prince was isolated and weak. Nadir Sharif did not gamble.

"The _feringhi _must be watched closely. Find a way. We need to know what he is doing, what he is thinking. Do you understand?"

"To hear is to obey." Nadir Sharif bowed lightly.

"And you will be at _darshan _tomorrow morning. Even if you were not there today."

"Naturally had I but known, Majesty . . ."

"Father made you prime minister. You can be just as easily removed."

"Your Majesty." Nadir Sharif bowed, and with an unseen flick sent the rolled betel leaf spinning past the railing, toward the dark waters of the Jamuna below.

Hawksworth sipped from the new cup of wine, his third, and watched the musicians begin to retune. Around him the members of Arangbar's inner circle were a.s.sembling in the _Diwan-i-Khas_. This must be evening dress in Agra, he marveled: silk turbans studded with rubies and sapphires, diamond earrings, swords trimmed in gold and silver, pearl necklaces, cloaks of rich brocade, velvet slippers. The faces around him all betrayed the indolent eyes and pasty cheeks of men long indulged in rich food, hard spirits, sensuality.

It was, he now realized, the fairyland that Symmes had described that freezing day so long ago in the offices of the Levant Company. What man not a Papist monk could resist the worldly seductions of the Moghul's court?

Then he remembered the brave Pathan who had been torn apart by a lion that very afternoon, while all Arangbar's n.o.bles watched unprotesting.

On the signal of a eunuch standing by the doorway the

drummer suddenly pounded out a loud, rhythmic fanfare, and then the sitarist took up a martial motif. The brocade drapery hanging inside a marble archway at the back of the room was drawn aside by a guard and a moment later Arangbar swept into the room. The courtiers all bowed in the _teslim_, rising with their hands on their forehead.

Arangbar had changed to evening dress. He wore a dark velvet turban encrusted with jewels, tight-fitting patterned trousers beneath a transparent muslin skirt, and a gold brocade cinch at his waist. He clapped his hands in delight when he saw Hawksworth holding a wine cup.

"The amba.s.sador has already tasted our Persian wine. How do you find it, Amba.s.sador . . . Khaw . . . ?" He stumbled over the name. "Wait.

The first thing we must do is rename you. Henceforth we will call you 'Inglish.' Now, have we p.r.o.nounced that properly?"