Tiger Claws (5 page)
Authors: John Speed
Basant stares back, uncertain how to respond. “Ah, yes,” Hing continues, “you don’t know what I mean. That’s a good plan, not to know what I
mean. I’m old and will be dead soon anyway.” Hing shakes his head wearily and whispers to Rampfel, “Here’s a brother you should cultivate, my dear. He has so many friends.”
mean. I’m old and will be dead soon anyway.” Hing shakes his head wearily and whispers to Rampfel, “Here’s a brother you should cultivate, my dear. He has so many friends.”
Then Hing turns to Basant, and asks, as if offhand, “Tell me, Spring Blossom. Have you been to the tunnels lately?” The question surprises Basant. Hing bares his yellow teeth. “Well? Have you?”
“No, sir.” His answer sounds hollow. “I nearly went last night, but …” He breaks off, uncertain. “But … I didn’t. I didn’t need to.”
“No, of course … no need. Still you felt the need to kick a night bucket down the corridor. Hopeless fool! Did you think no one saw?”
Basant stares at Hing helplessly. “I wouldn’t know …” he stammers.
“Rampfel, you see that you learn from this brother,” Hing coos. “What does it take to succeed in the palace these days? Just quick fingers, I suppose, and an agile tongue.”
Hing draws so close that Basant sees each flaw in his lined and spotted face. “There’s a body in the well.” Hing’s old eyeballs are magnified to the size of duck eggs by his thick spectacles. “Yes, a body! A new body. Ask him,” Hing nods at Rampfel. “He found it. Found it this morning.” Hing’s breath wheezes, the only sound in the room. “Well? Rampfel didn’t put it there. Know anything about it? Ring any bells for you?”
Basant shakes his head.
“Well, what about your precious princess? Think she knows anything? Think she even speculates? In between her climaxes, I mean?”
Basant knows better than to answer.
“Never mind,” says Hing. “It’s no one’s fault. It’s a clerical error—a number entered in the wrong column that spoiled all the sums. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know who he is.” He gives a long sigh; it smells musty, like air from a cave. “But who knows about the well, eh? No secret is more secret. You two, myself, and perhaps one or two others. So how can there be a body in that secret well if none of us knows how it got there?”
Basant shakes his head, but of course he notices the exquisite dark eunuch boy who holds Hing’s hand. How much has he heard? How many other boys have stood in that same place, their turbans dripping with Hing’s borrowed jewels? How many others have heard Hing’s secrets, long after Hing has forgotten them? Until this moment, Basant has hated Master Hing, but trusted him. Suddenly he realizes that Hing is dangerous in many, many ways. He finds himself thinking of Hing’s cryptic remarks, and wonders who his real friends are.
Hing shakes his head. “Go now. Surely you have better things to do
than to listen to a pathetic old eunuch.” He turns away, holding the eunuch boy. “All my friends will not desert me.” Leaning on the eunuch boy, he walks away with slow and painful steps.
than to listen to a pathetic old eunuch.” He turns away, holding the eunuch boy. “All my friends will not desert me.” Leaning on the eunuch boy, he walks away with slow and painful steps.
“What was that about?” whispers Rampfel when Hing is out of earshot. “Such nonsense! Did you understand a single thing he said?”
Basant shrugs. “I must join the princess at the audience,” he says.
Rampfel chatters on, hardly noticing that Basant has moved away. “I doubt that we will join you. The Princess Jahanara goes less and less. I think it saddens her to see what her father is becoming. Odd that Roshanara doesn’t mind, eh? They are sisters, yet so different.”
But by now Basant has slipped through the doorway to the chowk, leaving Rampfel by himself.
“Basant, what luck. May I walk with you, sir?”
Basant, somewhat blinded by the sunlight, takes a moment to find the owner of that honey-smooth voice.
A tall man, exquisitely groomed, steps beside him. Basant sees the deep dark eyes, the trimmed beard, the silver turban. He sees the sweeping dark gray cloak that swirls majestically as the man matches Basant’s padding footsteps with his smooth and flowing tread. “My name is Ali Khalil and I have the honor of being a distant relative of the Lord of Light himself, may he live forever. Perhaps you have heard of me?”
Basant nods silently. His voice has suddenly fled.
Ali Khan’s smooth lips pull back to reveal pearl-white, even teeth. “As chance would have it, I attended the rising of the lord my cousin this morning. At that time I was asked to look into certain discrepancies that have caused our dear lord some concern. It seems that two guards disappeared last night while on duty, and no one knows where they have got to. Our lord is worried some treachery may be afoot. Unworthy as I am to receive the honor, it is my task to know what may be known.”
“Whatever help I can give is yours, uncle. You need only ask.” Basant bows calmly, but his heart races. So this is the face of my death, he thinks. I’ll be arrested, carted off, and executed. To his own surprise, Basant finds that he is calm. Perhaps he is too tired to care. All he feels is hunger. All he hopes is that he’ll get a last meal before the end.
“I knew I could count on you, Basant,” the man replies, all courtesy. With a beautifully manicured fingertip, he smoothes one of his mustaches. “Perhaps you know that there was a disturbance last night in the Machi
Bahwan?” Basant is amused to hear the Fish Building called by its proper name. “The guards thought it might have come from near your rooms.”
Bahwan?” Basant is amused to hear the Fish Building called by its proper name. “The guards thought it might have come from near your rooms.”
Basant tries his best to look noncommittal. “What then?” he asks.
“What then, indeed?” Ali Khalil now stops completely, facing Basant. “There’s a disturbance. The captain and another guard investigate. Then the captain and the guard disappear.”
Ali Khalil’s dark eyes stare calmly into Basant’s round face. This is a contest, Basant thinks, and the first to speak will be the loser. He wills himself to hold his tongue, that tongue which is the source of all his troubles and his triumphs. He stares back, silent.
In the end, it is Ali Khalil who speaks. “But then what could you know? You were with the Princess Roshanara for much of the night. And, if your servant is to be believed, you joined him at his tent near dawn.” Basant says nothing: silence, so far, has been his friend. “I thought that part odd,” Khalil says. “To sleep in an old tent instead of the palace.”
Basant says nothing. “It is as I thought,” Khalil continues, satisfying himself with his own answers. “You had some business, but you are discreet. A eunuch of the first rank, I told myself, will keep his own counsel.” Khalil inclines his head, inviting Basant to agree with this compliment.
“I can have no secrets from such a one as you, Ali Khalil.”
“You flatter me,” Khalil says, bowing. “By the way, Basant, do you know anything about tunnels?”
Basant’s heart stops, but he tries as best he can to keep his face serene. “Tunnels, uncle? For what purpose, sir?”
“I can’t imagine. The guards tell me that the eunuchs use secret tunnels to bring visitors—men—to the harem without being seen. Sounds like a lonely soldier’s fantasy to me.” Khalil laughs and with an inclination of his head invites Basant to laugh with him. Of course Basant joins in.
Still chuckling, Khalil bows deeply to Basant, more deeply, strictly speaking, than Basant deserves, and swirls away majestically, his dark gray cloak sweeping behind him, leaving Basant squinting in the sunlight.
After watching him go, Basant hurries to the Diwan-i-Khas, staggering like a deer dazed by a hunter’s near miss: not wounded, but confused. Basant hopes to see no more people today; he has had enough of people. His heart yearns for the safety and the quiet of the purdah chamber, for the gentle voice and hands of Roshanara. He hurries on.
The Diwan-i-Khas is like a jeweled miniature of the public audience hall. Only the greatest noblemen, those most dear to the emperor, may enter this pavilion, and see the King of the World seated on his Peacock
Throne. The golden peacock’s tail that spreads over the emperor’s head is so studded with jewels and gems that it seems about to collapse from its own weight. Within a silver railing stand those who have permission to speak; inside a golden railing those closest to Shah Jahan, his sons: Dara (who sits) and Aurangzeb (who stands), also his ministers and secretaries, and kneeling at the foot of the throne, his vizier, Assaf Khan, who truly controls the empire in Shah Jahan’s name.
Throne. The golden peacock’s tail that spreads over the emperor’s head is so studded with jewels and gems that it seems about to collapse from its own weight. Within a silver railing stand those who have permission to speak; inside a golden railing those closest to Shah Jahan, his sons: Dara (who sits) and Aurangzeb (who stands), also his ministers and secretaries, and kneeling at the foot of the throne, his vizier, Assaf Khan, who truly controls the empire in Shah Jahan’s name.
At this very moment a battle is raging in front of the Peacock Throne that will shape the nature of the empire for the next fifty years. Basant, however, walks past without a second glance; he hasn’t even noticed.
Perhaps if the warriors wielded swords, Basant would better see the battle in its fury. But these two warriors use only words as weapons—Prince Dara, and Aurangzeb’s general, Mir Jumla.
The heart of the matter is this: Each of Shah Jahan’s four sons controls a quarter of the kingdom. That at least is the theory. In practice, Dara owns the lion’s share, and now has Aurangzeb’s quarter, the Deccan, firmly in his sights. Aurangzeb knows this, and now joins the battle here.
Aurangzeb’s commander Mir Jumla has the floor. Ten years ago, he explains, the Deccan belonged to Dara. Within five years, Dara had all but lost it. The local kings first reduced their tribute, then stopped paying altogether, then openly rebelled. Dara retreated, Jumla explains with flowery words, and became viceroy of Bengal instead—a docile and agreeable place that gives little distress.
Aurangzeb was then made viceroy of the Deccan. For five years he has set about winning back the lands that Dara lost. One by one the rebel kings have fallen, one by one, their tributes have returned. “The wealth of the Deccan,” Jumla continues, “has been underestimated. The wealth of some of those small kingdoms rivals all the rest of the empire combined.”
Shah Jahan, hearing this, lifts an eyebrow skeptically.
It is time for Jumla to make his point. He calls for his servant to bring a box covered in black velvet. He takes the box, and with a sweeping bow, places it in Shah Jahan’s quivering, outstretched hand. “From Aurangzeb and all your faithful servants,” Jumla intones.
Shah Jahan fiddles with the small box, unfastening its clasps, and finally lifting the lid. His eyes grow wide. “It’s not real,” Shah Jahan whispers. He is too fascinated by the contents to notice Jumla’s assurances that it is, indeed, real. At last, Shah Jahan lifts from its velvet casket a
stone clear as glass, a diamond bigger than an egg, faceted and brilliant. Except for the startled gasps of some of the courtiers, the hall is silent, as they marvel at the stone’s size, its clarity, its fire.
stone clear as glass, a diamond bigger than an egg, faceted and brilliant. Except for the startled gasps of some of the courtiers, the hall is silent, as they marvel at the stone’s size, its clarity, its fire.
“This jewel beyond price,” Jumla says, “this diamond beyond compare, was captured by your son, Aurangzeb from the Golcondan king. And this gem is but a fraction of their treasure, a mere hint of the wealth of that kingdom.” Shah Jahan seems lost in fascination (for he has already taken much opium that morning), but Assaf Khan is listening hard, as is Dara.
“Aurangzeb is now breaking down the very door of Golconda. Our armies have laid siege for months. Wealth such as you see is within inches of your fingertips.”
Now Dara speaks, again pretending that the audience is Shah Jahan, but stealing glances at Assaf Khan all the while. “But general, our dear friend the king of Golconda has written us. He begs to know why our brother Aurangzeb storms his gates. He has promised tribute and sued for peace. And what, we would know, should we tell that poor man? We are at a loss why our brother should attack a man so ready to yield. Unless my brother’s purpose is at odds with our dear father’s?”
Aurangzeb stands silent on the other side of Shah Jahan, his head bowed slightly, his eyes half-closed, as if praying. Mir Jumla responds, “The Golcondan king thinks that he can get a better deal from you than from Aurangzeb.” His eyes narrow. “I think he’s right.”
The courtiers nearby are shocked by this exchange, and expect that Shah Jahan will intervene, but the emperor seems too intrigued by the brilliance of his new plaything.
“It is our father’s will that all his dominions be at peace. Lift the siege at once,” Dara replies, recovering.
“When I hear it from your father’s lips.”
“I have spoken. That is enough.”
Maybe Jumla expects the court to be shocked at this statement, but as he looks around the assembled nobles, he discovers that Dara’s assertion is not news.
Jumla glances at Aurangzeb for guidance. Perhaps he finds it in Aurangzeb’s impassive face. He wheels on Dara angrily. “This is your will, Dara, not your father’s. You are fearful of Aurangzeb and wish to spoil his victory. You fear that his radiance will outshine yours.”
Dara looks at Jumla, pleasantly, but slightly irritated, like a man tiring of the games of a favorite nephew. “General, you have been in the company of one who cares little for ceremony, and, in truth one who cares little
for our father. He has proven this a hundred ways. But here in Agra, sir, you would be wise to think before you speak.”
for our father. He has proven this a hundred ways. But here in Agra, sir, you would be wise to think before you speak.”
At that moment, all the hall again grows quiet, anticipating some great outburst, some outpouring of emotion. Even Shah Jahan grows still; placing the diamond in his lap, he looks up, as if dazed.
Jumla is about to reply, but when Aurangzeb raises his hand, he stops. The courtiers shift their glances, from brother to brother, taking each man’s measure. They look at Dara in his silks and jewels, the eldest, the favorite, and at Aurangzeb in his simple robe, the plainest of men.
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