Veils of Silk (54 page)

Still, though his opinion of his behavior had not miraculously improved, he did feel unexpected relief at having told his wife the worst. Subconsciously he had expected a stronger reaction from her: disgust or shock, or perhaps anger that her uncle had died in such an unworthy cause. But once again, she didn't look back. Pyotr was dead and would have died anyhow, and Laura clearly wasn't going to tie herself into knots worrying about what-might-have-beens.

Pity would not have surprised him, though he would have hated it, but he was glad that her response had been empathy. Pity was offered by those who were above the fray, and perhaps just a little contemptuous of the sufferer's weakness. Empathy was for equals who had both looked into the abyss and survived.

Yes, he was a fortunate man. His bitter regret over his self-betrayal had not vanished, but he had lived with it so far, and he would continue to live with it. In the meantime,devoting himself to making Laura happy was an endeavor that was almost as rewarding for him as it was for her.

Since neither of them had any special plans for the day, Ian was about to
suggest that they ride into the city of Manpur. Before he could, a messenger from the maharajah entered with an urgent summons for Falkirk Sahib. Ian frowned. "I wonder if something has happened." He got to his feet. "Well, only one way to find out."

He gave Laura a quick kiss, then followed the messenger outside and into an unfamiliar section of the gardens. The barking of hyenas showed that the royal menagerie was ahead.

Confident and regal, Rajiv Singh stood on a low bluff overlooking a rhinoceros wallow, a marshy area adjacent to a stream. Happily ensconced in the wallow were two of the single-horned Indian rhinos. As Ian approached, the maharajah turned. Without preamble, he said, "I just received a dispatch which will interest you, though it's not news you'll welcome. It will be simplest if you read it yourself."

The information in the lengthy dispatch was staggering. Ian read it once, then again, his blood congealing. Without any real hope, he said, "Is your source reliable? It's hard to believe that the whole British Army in Afghanistan —almost five thousand trained soldiers—has been destroyed except for one single man."

"My informant is very reliable." A hint of contempt entered Rajiv Singh's voice. "The details speak for themselves. Your British commander, General Elphinstone, was utterly incompetent and made mistakes that would shame a schoolboy. Once your forces left Kabul to retreat to Jallalabad, their fate was sealed. You know what that countryside is like."

Ian stared blindly at the dispatch and tried to control his expression. Though the message was couched in flat, unemotional language, his mind supplied vivid details of the carnage that had taken place. The withdrawing troops, some British, more of them native, would have been accompanied by thousands of camp followers. Many were women and children, and the column would have moved with hideous slowness. It was full winter on the high plateau of Afghanistan, and bitter winds and snow would have lashed at the struggling multitude.

The Afghans were some of the finest riders and marksmen in the world. They would have harried the column every step of the way, darting in to slash and kill, then racing away before the British troops could retaliate. Ian had traveled through those mountains and knew exactly how treacherous they were. Once the demoralized column reached the mountain passes, they were doomed. The Afghans would have held the heights, and the soldiers and camp followers below would have been easy prey.

According to the dispatch, a single officer, a surgeon called Brydon, had reached the British fort at Jallalabad to tell of the massacre. Ian glanced at the date and saw that the sole survivor had stumbled into sanctuary only two days before. The maharajah's source was excellent; Ian probably had the dubious privilege of being the first Briton in India to hear the news.

"I'm sorry, Falkirk," Rajiv Singh said. "Did you have friends among the Kabul
garrison?" Though the sympathy was real, the maharajah had an air of suppressed
excitement about him.

Tersely, trying to keep the pain from his voice, Ian said, "Yes, I had friends there. I wish to God that one of them had had the sense to shoot Elphinstone. This never should have happened. Never!"

"Though only one man reached Jallalabad, it's likely that other survivors will eventually turn up," the Rajput said. "Some of the Indian soldiers will have gone to ground among the hill people, and the Afghans might have taken prisoners."

"I hope so. But a few more survivors won't alter the fact that this is one of the greatest disasters ever to befall a British army, and it's one that shouldn't have happened." Ian's lips twisted bitterly. "Perhaps this is a judgment on my countrymen for their arrogance. It was the height of stupidity to remove a capable ruler like Dost Mohammad from the throne simply because he had received Russians at his court. I see that it was his son Akbar who led the forces that drove the British out. There's justice in that."

"You're admirably objective about your nation's failings." The Rajput looked down at the rhinos. One heaved itself from the wallow, then began scratching against a tree trunk with a force that made the tree quiver. "The British went into Afghanistan like that rhino, heavy and stupid. They were able to shake the country briefly, but they forgot that even a rhinoceros can be brought down by an angry tiger."

Ian handed the dispatch back to the other man. "You don't regret this, do you?"

"It's a pity when brave men die because of inept leadership, but apart from that, I'm not sorry." The Rajput began walking along the path with a gesture for Ian to accompany him. "I have been an ally to the British because it is good policy, and there are individuals such as yourself and your lovely wife whom I like and respect. But I do not love the conquerors of my country, nor do I weep when they reap the rewards of their arrogance."

Obviously the time had come for honesty. They walked in silence for several minutes. Abruptly the maharajah said, "There is talk that in the future, the Sirkar will annex any independent state whose ruler dies without leaving an heir of his body." Rajiv Singh gave his companion a fierce glance. "I have no such heir. If I adopt one, according to the custom of my people, will the Sirkar take Dharjistan from him when I die? And if that happens, is that your British justice?"

Ian was rocked by the other man's intensity. "I didn't know that such a policy is being considered." He grimaced. "But if it is enacted, I would not call that justice."

"Nor would I."

They rounded a bend and came upon a huge enclosure containing several white tigers. The area included trees, grass, and a waterhole. A ditch surrounded it, with a high, pointed fence on the outside edge to keep the beasts from escaping. Ian had heard of white tigers, but never seen any. They were magnificent and a little unreal, like powerful ghosts of their golden cousins. Wanting to ease the tension, he remarked, "Splendid creatures. They appear comfortable with their lot in life."

"But they would rather be free," Rajiv Singh retorted. "Just as India would. Someday India
will
be free, not held in thrall by European invaders with superior guns."

"Undoubtedly that will happen, but not in our lifetimes."

"Don't be too sure of that, Falkirk. Who would have thought the British could be pushed out of Afghanistan as they have been?"

Warning signals went off in Ian's brain. The maharajah was not talking in the abstract, but like a man with something very specific in mind. "The situations are very different," Ian said in a deliberately neutral tone. "To most Indians, one set of foreign rulers is much like another. The British are no more alien than the Mughals were when they came. Men serve the Sirkar with pride. The Company army has more volunteers than it can accept. But in Afghanistan, the British presence was resented right from the start. It's not surprising that they rebelled."

Rajiv Singh's head swung around and he said in a low, dangerous voice, "If the Sirkar isn't gone from India in my lifetime, Falkirk, I will come back again and again until it is. I swear that I shall be one of the men who helps put an end to it." His tone lightened. "That's how reincarnation works, you know. We must keep trying until we get it right."

"I hope Hindu beliefs are correct," Ian said with wry humor. "There are a number of things I don't think I'm going to get right in this lifetime."

The atmosphere eased, and when one of the tigers stood up they both turned to look at it. The beast stretched its powerful body and yawned, showing an enormous mouth with amazingly long teeth. Then it strolled lazily across the grass to the water hole and went for a swim, as peaceful as a house cat.

"That particular tiger killed at least thirteen villagers before it was captured and brought here," the Rajput said thoughtfully. "Given how the situation has changed, no doubt it is fortunate that you refused my offer and are leaving India. Like that tiger, you might prove more dangerous than you look."

The implications of that were distinctly unsettling. Ian wished he knew what the maharajah had in mind; certainly it was nothing that would benefit the Sirkar. Wanting to keep the conversation light, Ian said, "Like the tiger, I would rather lie in the sun with my mate than fight."

Perhaps thinking that he had said enough about political matters, Rajiv Singh began walking again. "The next enclosure contains some very rare Chinese bears called pandas, which will eat nothing but bamboo shoots. I had hoped they would breed, but they seem reluctant."

Ian made a humorous comment and they continued on. But as they did, his thoughts returned again and again to the question of what was on the maharajah's clever, Sirkar-hating mind.

After Ian left to see Rajiv Singh, Laura wrote a note to Kamala to say that the effort to achieve a more intimate relationship with her husband had been smashingly successful. Then, after a longing glance at her copy of the
Kama Sutra
, which the maharani had said she could keep, Laura returned to her uncle's papers. Surveying the material had been fascinating and she looked forward to the time when she could translate it in detail. However, she had found nothing relating to the work he had done in India. As Ian had said, perhaps there was nothing to be found. Nevertheless, Laura dutifully kept looking.

It was almost an accident that she found the paper at all. Pyotr's Indian journal had been the first item she had skimmed, but it contained only innocent travelogue, with no information about his secret work. Hoping that she would find something she had missed before, she decided to go through it more carefully.

A quarter of the way through she came to a dog-eared paper that had been folded and used as a bookmark. She was setting it aside when she noticed faint traces of ink that showed through from writing on the inside. More from a desire for thoroughness than hope of finding anything, she opened it.

Eureka
. If she hadn't had the experience of reading Pyotr's cramped, abbreviated prison account, she might not have been able to decipher the cryptic notes which he had probably scrawled to himself when he was working out his ideas. Perhaps he had intended to destroy the paper, then had absentmindedly tucked it into his travel journal. Whatever the reason, as she read, her lips tightened. In her hands she held the outline of her uncle's plan to drive the British from India.

After they finished viewing the royal menagerie, Rajiv Singh said, "I will not have time to see you again before you leave, Falkirk, so I will say good-bye now. I hope you and your lady have a safe journey home." As a mark of favor, he offered his hand, as a European would.

Ian shook it firmly, then returned the Hindu "Namaste." which meant farewell as well as greeting. "I'm sure we will. Many thanks for your hospitality."

Then the two men separated, the maharajah to his audience chamber and Ian to his rooms. To the end, there had been that intriguing mixture of affinity and challenge that made them not quite friends, though not yet enemies.

As he made his way through the labyrinthine palace, Ian's thoughts obsessively returned to the massacre in Afghanistan. He could not stop himself from trying to total up the number of men he knew who must have died during the retreat. At one point, the road from Kabul to Jallalabad led through a gorge that was less than twenty feet wide. With snipers above, it would have become a slaughterhouse. How many had died? How many women and children had been taken into slavery? His stomach knotted with misery and irrational guilt that he had been safe and comfortable while friends were dying only a few hundred miles away.

Ian wanted nothing more than to get back to Laura and her warm understanding. Yet as soon as he stepped into their drawing room and she looked up, he knew something had happened.

"I found it, Ian," she said in a hushed voice, speaking in English. "And it's worse—much worse—than we suspected."

He caught his breath. "Have you written out a translation?"

She shook her head. "I thought it better not to write it in a language that someone here might understand."

"Good thinking." Raising his voice, he said, "Shall we adjourn to the bedroom? After two hours away, I find that I'm missing you fearfully."

She smiled, but her eyes were still grave. They went into her bedroom, which maids had cleaned that morning. There was not a single rose petal left, though the scent lingered wistfully.

Ian sat on the sofa and pulled his wife down beside him. "Incidentally, I really have missed you." He kissed her, and duty was almost forgotten. She was so warm, so soft, so giving. He pulled away with great reluctance. Keeping one arm around her shoulders, he said, "What have you found?"

She opened a paper covered with chaotic Russian scribbles. "Essentially Pyotr was organizing a coalition offerees that would attack the Sirkar when conditions were ripe, which he defined as a combination of two things. First, it would have to be after Ranjit Singh died, because he held the Punjab together and was our best ally in the north. Second, the Sirkar would have to be weakened by something such as fighting in eastern or southern India, or a European war that would require troops to be withdrawn from India."