Part 11 (2/2)
Yar Mohammad turned back to the avenue in time to see Ha.s.san reach the tethered elephants and begin speaking, his hands moving, to someone squatting in the shade.
Ha.s.san was still breathing hard when Yar Mohammad arrived at his side. The former looked less ill than he had at his father's house, but shadows still marked his eyes. He was glowering at the squatting man, who scrambled to his feet.
”You are saying that the child came here on your elephant, but now he is gone?”
”As I have told you, Huzoor,” replied the mahout, ”the servant must have taken the baby with him. I did not see which direction he took. If I had known ...” He shrugged.
Ha.s.san glanced at Yar Mohammad without recognition, then turned back to the mahout. ”Describe the servant,” he ordered.
”He walks with long strides,” said the man, ”and he stands like this.” He bent his shoulders forward to hollow his chest. ”His name,” he added helpfully, ”is Ahmad.”
Yar Mohammad s.h.i.+fted his feet. ”Peace, Sahib,” he offered.
Ha.s.san turned. At close quarters he was nearly as tall as Yar Mohammad himself. ”Speak,” he ordered carelessly, his impatient gaze wandering past Yar Mohammad's shoulder to the men on the avenue.
Yar Mohammad pointed to where the gift elephant and horses stood waiting. ”If what this man says is true, Saboor Baba was not carried past the horses. If he had been, I would have seen him.”
Before Yar Mohammad could add anything more, Yusuf Bhatti joined them, red-faced from hurrying, and took hold of Ha.s.san's arm.
”I have waited by the guns since the processions arrived,” he said without preamble. ”I have not seen Saboor. He must not have come with the procession.”
”He came.” Ha.s.san waved irritably at the kneeling animal whose ladder still stood against its side. ”He was on this elephant, and now he has gone, no one knows where.”
Yusuf Bhatti blinked. ”What is to be done now?”
”Saboor is not lost.”
All four men turned toward the gentle voice beside them. Shafi Sahib, friend of Shaikh Waliullah and interpreter of dreams, gestured toward the guarded entrance in the red canvas wall. ”I, too, waited,” he told them. ”Although he is not to be seen, I can a.s.sure you that Saboor is not lost. Have patience, my dear Ha.s.san. G.o.d is kind.”
”Shafi Sahib,” Ha.s.san said, opening his hands, ”the Chief Minister has ordered me to go to Kasur this afternoon. If I do not see Saboor now, when will I see him?” He closed his eyes. ”Pray, Shafi Sahib, that I will see my son alive.”
Poor man. Yar Mohammad thought of Nusrat, his solemn little daughter, the light of his eyes, who waited for him in his mountain village. How would he endure her absence if she, too, were to vanish?
Shafi Sahib nodded. ”Your father and everyone at Qamar Haveli are praying for you. Inshallah Inshallah, if G.o.d wills, we will all see Saboor soon.”
”Look.” Yusuf pointed across the avenue.
At one side of the durbar tent, a score of coolies with ropes over their shoulders dragged a pair of howitzers toward a pyramid of gunpowder sh.e.l.ls.
Sikh n.o.bles and British officers began to pour from the durbar tent and move toward the guns.
”ARE you quite well, Mariana?” The dry voice startled Mariana as she slumped, pus.h.i.+ng loose hair into her bonnet, in one of the visitors' chairs.
”I am astonished at your behavior,” Miss Emily added as Mariana got, waveringly, to her feet. ”Why did you rush out of the tent just when we were presenting the Queen's picture? Everyone saw you do it.”
”I suddenly felt very unwell. I am sorry, Miss Emily, Miss f.a.n.n.y.” Mariana patted her upper lip with her crumpled handkerchief.
Miss Emily sniffed. ”I do not care how you felt. You must never behave that way again.” She held out an armful of shawls. ”And take these. I cannot carry them a moment longer.”
The air had done Mariana some good. Clutching the shawls, she followed the two sisters to the side of the tent, where they watched the presentation of the animals. But it was the guns she really needed to see, brand-new and gleaming, each barrel emblazoned with the Maharajah's crest. It was often the heavy guns that decided a battle. She could name several important- She gasped. In front of her, at attention before the two howitzers, stood a double row of men in the dress uniform of the Bengal Horse Artillery. At one end of the first row, his saber at his side, stood Lieutenant Harry Fitzgerald, his eyes fixed on the air above her head.
”Oh, dear,” murmured Miss f.a.n.n.y.
”There is no no need for us to notice the honor guard.” Miss Emily gripped Mariana firmly above the elbow and marched her toward the pile of artillery sh.e.l.ls. ”The view is perfectly good from here,” she declared as she stopped. ”Look, here come my brother and the Maharajah!” need for us to notice the honor guard.” Miss Emily gripped Mariana firmly above the elbow and marched her toward the pile of artillery sh.e.l.ls. ”The view is perfectly good from here,” she declared as she stopped. ”Look, here come my brother and the Maharajah!”
A sound beside Mariana caused her to turn her head. The tall bearded courtier who had preceded her from the tent now stood beside her. He raked the crowd with weary eyes, as if searching for something he had lost.
Sadness seemed to pour from him. When he moved, his beautiful coat gave off the scent of sandalwood.
Muns.h.i.+ Sahib had once brought her vials of scented oil: rose, amber, musk. Her favorite had been the warm, inviting, complicated scent of sandalwood.
Fitzgerald might have worn sandalwood, if she had asked him to.
The crowd s.h.i.+fted to let Lord Auckland and the Maharajah approach the waiting howitzers. Both men looked exhausted after so much ceremony, Lord Auckland clammy faced in his wilted finery, the little Maharajah tottering weakly beside him.
Major Byrne and Sotheby had stationed themselves behind the pyramid of sh.e.l.ls, the major red-faced and smug, Sotheby blinking anxiously.
As the Maharajah approached to inspect the guns, the crowd pushed forward. A voice shouted a warning as someone knocked into the carefully arranged sh.e.l.l pyramid. As Mariana watched, still holding Miss Emily's shawls, the top sh.e.l.l slowly disengaged itself from the others and rolled down one side of the pyramid into the Maharajah's path.
He saw it too late. Gaining speed, it caught him at his ankles, knocking him off balance. Before anyone could catch him, Ranjit Singh, Maharajah of the Punjab, lay flat in the dust before the British guns.
Miss Emily's hand closed on Mariana's wrist as, aroused, the Sikh bodyguards reached once again for their weapons. The sad man beside Mariana launched himself forward, his fine coat fiapping, but before he could reach the Maharajah, Major Byrne and the White Rabbit had dragged the old man to his feet, while Lord Auckland stared into the distance, pretending not to have seen.
”A bad omen, very bad,” someone muttered in Punjabi. ”These British will bring nothing but evil to this country.”
Mariana looked to see who had spoken, but could only make out the back of the clever-looking Chief Minister's coa.r.s.e robe as he led his Maharajah away.
We need not have worried so about the Maharajah's camp,” Miss f.a.n.n.y remarked two evenings later, over the drumming of the Maharajah's musicians, as her eyes studied the embroidered canopy above their heads. ”His tents are very fine, to be sure, but they are quite as dusty as ours. And have you noticed the plants? No one could have watered them for days.”
Hundreds of small oil lamps fiickered in the outdoor enclosure where they sat wrapped against the evening chill, the Maharajah with his feet under him on his golden, bowl-shaped throne, his egg-sized Koh-i-noor diamond refracting the fiames of the lamps from a heavy bracelet upon his upper arm.
Behind Lord Auckland's silver chair, Harry Fitzgerald looked over Mariana's head, unbearably handsome in gold braid. Moments ago, he had caught her eye and given her the faintest of nods.
The Maharajah was now talking to Lord Auckland through his black-bearded Chief Minister, his hands rising and falling. Earlier in the evening he, too, had caught Mariana's eye, but the old ruler's look had held no warmth, only appraisal, as he leaned from his throne to speak to his minister. Now she felt his single eye on her again, and saw to her discomfort that it had fastened upon her bare chest and shoulders, both exposed by the pretty neckline of her borrowed gown. Before she could look away, he had treated her to an openfaced leer.
”If consulted,” said Miss Emily in an undertone as the seated musicians began to play faster, ”I should say we have had a sufficient number of dancing girls for one evening. I believe I have seen all the undulating and stamping I can endure. Look, here is a fresh one, just when I had hoped it was all over. And Mariana,” she added, raising her eyebrows, ”why have you wrapped yourself like a mummy in that shawl? I thought you looked quite nice in your blue-and-white.”
A girl with a dozen gold bangles on each arm stepped forward to stand before Lord Auckland. While he gazed over her head, she began a delicate, soaring song, accompanied by the tw.a.n.ging of the instruments. Her voice was fine and supple and so filled with longing that Mariana s.h.i.+vered.
”In pursuit of your imageMy distracted thoughtHas wandered everywhere,Like a pauper's lamp.”
”What is that fat girl shrieking about?” Miss Emily asked. ”She seems to have fallen in love with George at first sight.”
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