The Golden Leopard (2 page)

It was a long walk to wherever they were going. The guards led him onto a wide street lined with dhoti-clad men, past large buildings he hadn’t sufficient interest to look at, toward a flamboyant palace glittering with mirrored tiles.

He couldn’t help but notice a score of women perched like butterflies on the fretted balconies, staring down at him from behind fluttering veils. He only wished he made a better appearance. Sticky, overlong hair reached past his frayed collar. A ragged growth of beard and mustache itched on his face. What would they think if his precariously suspended trousers dropped to his ankles?

He raised his manacled hands and waved at them, grinning when they gasped in chorus and fled into the zenana.

There was no time to enjoy the moment. Quickening their pace, the guards steered him up a long flight of marble stairs. More people, better-dressed people, lined the wide entrance hall. Like the others, they went silent as he drew closer and whispered to one another when he’d gone past.

He wondered when the fear would strike him. So far he felt mostly bemused, separated from what was transpiring as if it were happening to a man he did not know. But this, surely, was his last day of life. These, the last few minutes he would draw breath. He ought to be paying attention.

At the least, he could make a good show of it. He assembled in his mind the snatches of information he had gleaned from the guards. The nizam of this backwater principality had once admired the English and gone out of his way to attract them to Alanabad for tiger hunts and excessive displays of hospitality. But not long ago, one of the guests had eaten of his salt, sampled his concubines, and repaid him by making off with something of great value.

The reverent voices outside Duran’s cell had used many honorifics to describe it. The Star of the Firmament. The Heart of Alanabad. The Key to the Throne. Or perhaps they were referring to the ruler himself. In any case, whatever the stolen item might be, the nizam wanted it back. Meantime, he was taking revenge on any Englishman unlucky enough to get caught in his web, and right now, that Englishman was Hugo Duran.

They had come to the end of the public reception hall. Two carved doors swung open, and Duran was thrust into a massive room with high ceilings and pink marble walls. Smoke, sweet and heady, curled from strips of sandalwood hung over the copper braziers that lined the aisle. Solemn-faced men were a dozen deep on both sides of him. Soft female voices murmured from behind silk-embroidered screens.

Directly ahead, the local potentate lolled on a gilt throne shaped like the open mouth of a large cat. Ivory fangs descended from the backrest to curve above his narrow shoulders, and the armrests were supported by what looked like sharp, elongated teeth.

Beside the throne, between two tall, unlit candles, stood a marble pedestal encrusted with bright jewels. Nothing lay atop it but a crumpled cloth of gold.

Odd, that.

As a guard propelled him forward, Duran focused his attention on the nizam. The little man was wrinkled and thin, except for a prominent belly left bare to expose a diamond set in his navel. A great beak of a nose arched down to meet an upturned chin, and between them, his narrow lips were set in a rigid line. His black-eyed gaze was directed at a bowl of fruit offered him by a servant.

Duran’s sunken stomach rumbled at the sight of ripe peaches, purple grapes, and fuzzy apricots. One especially plump mango seemed to whisper his name.

They had reached the stairs leading to the carpeted stage where the nizam was enthroned in full durbar, his courtiers and attendants scattered about him like ornamental statues. One of the guards grabbed Duran’s shoulders and drove him to his knees. Another pressed his head to the floor and planted a sandaled foot on his neck.

The tiled floor felt cool against his cheek. He heard the nizam speak to someone who replied in a quiet voice, but his thoughts kept drifting to the mango. He imagined peeling back its skin, slowly and seductively, the way he would remove the clothes from a woman’s body. He would lick it all over before biting in and letting the sweet juices and soft flesh surge into his mouth. For that mango, and for the time to savor it, he would go to his death with a song on his lips.

The guards levered him upright again, grasping his arms when his knees buckled. He cast around for Jessie, for some awareness of her, but the witch had deserted him. Feminine pique, he supposed, and singularly poor timing. She would have enjoyed watching her treacherous lover brought low.

Licking his cracked lips, he managed a teetering bow to the nizam. “Lofty Eminence,” he said, his dry throat producing a frog-like croak. “I am Lord Duran, honored to be your faithful servant and confused at the manner of my welcome.”

The nizam turned to the straight-backed, slender man standing beside him.

Duran, who had pretended from the moment of his capture to speak no other language but English, listened with interest as the translator rendered his words into Hindi and added several of his own. “Star of the Firmament,” he said, bowing to the nizam with uncommon grace. “Heart of Alanabad.”

Politely, Duran kept his attention focused on the nizam, who appeared unimpressed with the proceedings. He spoke briefly, impatience clipping his words.

After a moment the translator took a step forward. “I am Shivaji,” he said in a level voice. “The Powerful One has pronounced you a spy, a thief, and a cur.”

Duran remembered to put a humble expression on his face. “I am sorry to hear it. Dare I suggest that the Powerful One has been misinformed by his enemies?”

Shivaji, one brow lifted, glanced across the dais to a harsh-featured man who separated himself from a group of courtiers robed, as was he, in severest black. Unlike the others, his fingers were studded with rings. His coned turban, starched and tightly wound, was embellished above his forehead with two entwined silver serpents.

One hand over his heart, he bowed to the nizam, who beckoned him closer. But when he spoke, it was directly to Shivaji. “It is known from Bombay to Calcutta that English devils may not cross the borders of Alanabad. How does he account for his presence here?”

While Shivaji translated, Duran, mordantly amused, cast about for a credible tale. For once in his life he was innocent as a babe, but no one here would believe the truth. What he required was a great thumping lie, a story that could not be verified. And at its heart must be the promise of something the nizam wanted even more than the pleasure of killing an Englishman.

“You see!” The black-clad man jabbed a finger in his direction. “He cannot reply. Lies burn in his throat, but he dare not release them. It is well. Send him to his fate, Excellency. He already stands condemned.”

Duran gave him a bright, befuddled smile and turned to Shivaji for a translation, his mind working furiously. The empty pedestal. He was willing to bet that whatever the Englishman—the one who started all this trouble—had stolen, it used to be enshrined on that pedestal, and that its value was not confined to rupees. But what the blazes had it been?

“Condemned?” he inquired of the nizam when Shivaji had finished. “For what crime, Magnificence? It was not my will that brought me here. Indeed, knowing of your prohibition, I tried again and again to escape my destiny. But every road, by twist and turn, led me to where I would not go.” Lifting his head, he willed confidence into his faltering voice. “I am but a humble instrument of the gods. They have put me like an oiled blade into your hands. How you use me is in your wisdom to decide.”

Shivaji waited, saying nothing.

Duran, feeling the translator’s sharp gaze probe him, concentrated on the nizam’s unreadable face. “I have been sent, O Heart of Alanabad, to serve you. I am charged to return that which has been foully taken from you by one of my miserable countrymen.”

Shivaji paused for a breathless few moments before rendering Duran’s exact words into Hindi.

The nizam, looking bored, reached for a handful of grapes and popped one into his mouth. “Does he think me a fool?” he said, chewing noisily. “This insect has come in search of more plunder. I shall have him flayed alive and fed to the crocodiles.”

Shivaji’s translation was solemn and inaccurate, omitting the threat in favor of a question. “How were you told of your mission?”

A diplomat, this cool-eyed man with the expressionless face and calm voice, and perhaps the brains behind the little fellow who huddled like a toad on his absurdly carved throne. How the bearded chap fit into the equation remained unclear. The nizam paid him no attention, but neither did he order him back to his place.

Duran, sensing rivalries and concealed agendas all around him, was having difficulty focusing on his own thready scheme. “This unworthy one cannot say precisely who it is who sent me, Your Loftiness. The message was given me in a dream.”

Shivaji translated. The nizam made a guttural noise. The black-robed man, his nose scarlet, opened his mouth to speak.

“Naturally, I paid it no heed,” Duran continued in a rush. “A man of traditional European education, I place no credit in signs and visions. And yet, as I made my way on the road from Poona to Mysore, the dream returned each night for seven nights, carried . . .”

Pausing, he wiped his damp forehead with his sleeve and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was time, past time, for a desperate gamble. He looked at the nizam, pinned on his throne between two rows of powerful teeth, and tossed the dice. “The dream was carried,” he said forcefully, “in the mouth of a great jungle cat.”

Shivaji, translating simultaneously now, raised a hand when the black-clad man tried to interrupt.

Duran, who’d have been glad of time to scratch up his next load of moonshine, would rather Shivaji had not interfered. But they were all looking expectantly at him, so he blundered ahead. “I know not how, O Star of the Firmament, I was able to stumble upon a place I had never been before. Alanabad is a far distance, I believe, from the road I had been on. So I must ask myself this question. How else could I have found you, had I not been sent?”

Shivaji’s tone sharpened when he completed the translation and turned again to Duran. “What has been stolen, Englishman?” The question was his own, because the nizam had not spoken. “And where is it to be found?”

An old hand at lying, Duran knew his bluff was being called.

Chains rattling, he lifted one arm in the direction of the marble pedestal. The nizam and all the courtiers followed his gesture, their gazes focused on the gauzy golden cloth.

So far so good, but time was running out. Big cat. What kind? Images sprang to his mind. Tiger. Cheetah. Leopard. Lion. A one-in-four chance. Closing his eyes, Duran tossed the dice for his life.

“The leopard,” he said in a transcendent voice. “I have been sent for the leopard.”

Without translating this declaration for the onlookers, Shivaji crouched beside the throne and conversed softly with the nizam.

Duran had run out of guesses and theatrical gestures. Muzzy-headed and wildly hungry, he lowered his aching arm and let his gaze wander around the durbar hall.

This one was not so very different from other courts where he had spent more pleasurable time. Two attendants flicked fly whisks made of yaks’ tails to drive away evil spirits, while others fluttered peacock-feather fans for the same purpose. A brawny fellow stood like a monolith, holding the princeling’s golden mace and silver stick, the emblems of his power. Two boys sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling the ropes that waved a damask punkah over the throne.

Incense and silks and spices and the languor of a hot India afternoon swept over him. Black spots danced before his eyes. Fragments of the muttered conversation drifted to his ears, but he could scarcely attend them.

“He lies. Who does not know of the leopard?”

“. . . all else has failed.”

“. . . draw out his nails and sever parts of his body one by one . . .”

“The people have lost faith . . . insurrection.”

“. . . secure . . . centuries.”

“. . . put him into my hands.”

More blather. Duran grew weary of it. Clearly the nizam rated his tale a crock, which it most certainly was, but Shivaji continued to press his cause. Why the devil would he set himself to spare an obscure aristocrat’s hide? Duran hoped that he’d succeed, but he wasn’t counting on it.

He wanted to go home, though. God but he wanted it. He had unfinished business in England. Unfinished business with Jessie, who would not be at all pleased to see him again. It would be her bad luck if this gamble paid off.

One of the guards pushed him to his knees again. He raised his clouded gaze to the nizam, who was regarding him from a pair of wily brown eyes.

“Where is the leopard?”

Duran barely remembered to wait for the translation before replying. “It is in England, Powerful One.”

“Why not in France or Portugal or Egypt?” the nizam shot back.

“In such a case, a Frenchman or a Portuguese or an Egyptian would be kneeling before you now. I know only that I must seek the leopard in my own country and return it to yours.” He put his hands together in the traditional gesture of respect. “Can a dream reveal the truth, Eminence? Was I sent to you?”

There was a soft rustling from the crowd behind him as Shivaji translated his speech. When the nizam’s eyes narrowed with displeasure, Duran felt a moment’s triumph. His Rotund Majesty’s plan to make a public spectacle of the Englishman’s death had come unraveled. A challenge had been laid at his feet.

The nizam stood, and all the courtiers dropped to their knees. “Hear your fate, wretch.”

Shivaji’s translation followed swiftly.

“You will be put to the Trial of a Thousand Screams. If indeed the gods have chosen you, they will grant you the strength to endure it. No man has done so before.”

Duran wished he had kept his mouth shut and settled for a straightforward execution.

The nizam pointed a long-nailed forefinger in his direction. “The will of the gods is ever disclosing itself in unfathomable ways. I accept the possibility that you have been sent to do their bidding.”