Part 18 (1/2)
Muns.h.i.+ Sahib would not approve of her keeping Saboor any longer, but Muns.h.i.+ 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, polis.h.i.+ng 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 wors.h.i.+pers 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ning. 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.”