Veils of Silk (56 page)

Zafir whooped. Catching her around the waist, he lifted her into the air and swung her around three times. By the time a laughing Meera was returned to the ground, she was convinced that her answer did matter to him.

"A pity I don't have my rifle," he said regretfully. "A proper Pathan celebrates by shooting into the air, but I shall do the happy fire another time. Perhaps when we are wed."

Trying without success to look severe, she straightened the scarf that covered her hair. "Speaking of wedding, I think we should wait until Falkirk Sahib and my lady reach Bombay."

He pulled her close and kissed her. "Must we wait so long?"

"Yes," she said rather breathlessly after surfacing from his kiss. "The sahib and memsahib have done much for me. To leave her now would be ungrateful."

He kissed her again and this time his hand covered her breast. "We can wait for the wedding, but do we have to
wait
?"

Catching his meaning, she cuffed his wandering hand. "Yes, we do, you wicked creature. Not until we're married."

Undisturbed by her refusal, he laughed and picked a crimson flower from a bed by the path. "A prudent woman—exactly what a man wants in his wife." He tucked the blossom over her ear.

"You are always so good-natured," she said curiously. "Isn't there anything I could say or do that would give you offense? "-

He grinned. "I would have been offended if you had refused me. Come, let us walk in the royal section of the gardens."

Meera had not been paying attention to where they were walking, but now she
saw how close they were to the restricted area. "This is only for the royal family and their chief courtiers. Won't we get in trouble if we're found here?"

"We are visitors in Dharjistan and could plead ignorance. At most, we would be scolded and told to leave the garden," the Pathan said carelessly. "The maharajah would not have the servants of his guests executed for such a trivial reason."

Though Meera was not entirely comforted by this speech, she couldn't resist the idea of seeing the private gardens. She glanced around uneasily as they walked, but they saw no one else. Soon they were deep in the royal preserve.

"Ah, that must be the famous banyan tree," Zafir said, gesturing ahead.

Banyan were the most distinctive trees in India, for the aerial roots that dropped from the branches turned into additional trunks where they touched the soil. Those in turn shot off more branches and aerial roots. The result was as complicated as a wooden spider's web, with trunks and roots going in all directions. The area under a banyan was often used as an open bazaar, and a large one could shelter hundreds of people.

"What's famous about this one?" Meera asked after careful study. "It looks like any other banyan to me."

"They say the maharajah had a throne built into the tree, and that he sometimes receives visitors here," the Pathan explained. He began circling around the massive perimeter of the banyan, Meera following nervously.

On the far side they found the throne, which had been carved from a root, then decorated into a seat fit for a king. Zafir promptly sat on it. "Not bad," he said. "Come, give me a kiss so we can tell our grandchildren that you were fancied by the man who sat on the throne of Dharjistan."

Part amused, more horrified, Meera hissed, "Idiot! If anyone finds us here, the maharajah might decide to slit your nose or remove your ears."

Grinning, the Pathan pulled her onto his lap. Even as her body melted in response to his embrace, Meera thought with exasperation that men were excited by the most alarming things.

He whispered in her ear, "Better yet, shall we see if we can conceive our first child on a throne?"

"No, you barbarian," she exclaimed, scrambling off his lap. "I want to leave right now!"

With a chuckle, he got to his feet. Then his amusement abruptly evaporated. He cocked his head, listening. "Too late," he said softly. "Someone's coming."

As Meera listened, she also heard the voices of approaching men. Zafir grabbed her around the waist and boosted her into the branches over their heads. A moment later he swung up beside her, then guided her higher yet to a place where the interwoven branches formed a crude platform. As birds squawked angrily at the humans who had invaded the tree, he settled down with his back against a trunk and drew her into his arms.

The branches and dark green leaves would prevent anyone below from seeing them, but as Meera lay still as a mouse in the arms of her beloved, she plotted hideous punishments on him for getting them into this. For one of the men below was the maharajah himself. She recognized Rajiv Singh's voice speaking in the formal Persian used by the court. It was the same language that Mohan had had Meera learn so she could read to him.

Unsubdued, Zafir tugged Meera's scarf off and began nibbling her ear. She caught her breath to prevent herself from gasping out loud. As desire curled through her, she decided that she would definitely murder him some day. But not just yet.

Greatly daring, she slipped a hand through the folds of his clothing and stroked his bare chest, which she had been longing to do. The taut muscles rippled under her touch. Wondering how he would react to being sensually tortured under such conditions, her hand began to move lower.

Suddenly she stopped, shocked by what the men below her were saying. Zafir, who didn't understand court Persian, wanted to continue their game, so his hand moved toward her breast. She grabbed it and shook her head, her face deadly serious, when he looked at her questioningly.

Dislodged by the vehemence of her head shake, the red flower behind her ear tumbled loose with mocking slowness. Zafir made a lightning grab that just missed. The blossom dropped between two branches and continued falling, its progress marked by faint, almost inaudible rustling sounds. Though Meera prayed that the flower would be caught in the tree, it made its way all the way to the ground.

The men below stopped speaking for a moment. Then the maharajah barked a sharp question.

For a heartstopping instant there was silence. Meera was so frightened that she stopped breathing. Though trespassing in the gardens might be a minor crime, eavesdropping on a prince could be lethal. Then a monkey shrieked directly over their heads. It was answered by another. A furious squabble broke out, which sent twigs and leaves tumbling to the ground. Since a monkey might have brought the flower into the banyan, the men, reassured that they were private, resumed their discussion.

Meera listened hard as the maharajah summarized his earlier instructions so there would be no mistake. "Remember to tell the Afghan chiefs that they
must
invade at once, for the Punjabi generals won't move without Afghan support and I haven't enough men to take on the British alone," he said, his voice taut. "I've sent another messenger to Nabil Khan and Tejut Singh in the Punjab to tell them to be ready to move as soon as the Afghans reach the plains. We must act together, or not at all, and we must do it quickly, before British reinforcements arrive from the east. We shall never have such an opportunity again."

"I shall emphasize that they must come at once, Excellency," the other man repeated, "and by the Shpola Pass."

The messenger took his leave and departed with a faint crunching of gravel. Several minutes passed. Then the maharajah said in a low, icy voice, "The ferengis shall not take my Dharjistan into their greedy hands.
They shall not. "

There was a long silence before Rajiv Singh's receding steps could be heard. Meera and Zafir waited patiently, all playfulness extinguished. Finally the Pathan descended the tree, checking carefully every step of the way. Then he reached up and helped Meera to the ground. "What were they saying, little dove?"

Words tumbling like a torrent, she repeated the conversation as exactly as she could. Zafir's face darkened as he listened. When she was done, he said sharply, "Come, we must tell Falkirk Sahib about this immediately."

His words filled Meera with relief. Falkirk Sahib would know what to do. He had saved her; surely he could save India.

* * *

"How does one go about preventing a war?" Laura asked, her fingers drumming nervously on her knee.

Ian took her hand, his calm flowing into her. "The best way would be to bring a large force of British troops to the frontier so that the rebel forces can't get together. Their weakness is that initially they will be uncoordinated and under a number of different chiefs. Given time, I think Rajiv Singh could overcome that and get the combined armies to unite under his leadership, so we must move quickly. If he wins a victory or two here in the north, uprisings will be triggered all over India."

She shivered. "If that happens, it will be hard to stop."

"Which is why our best hope is to prevent the rebellion from starting. With a large enough British presence in northern India, there's an excellent chance the disaffected groups will give up the thought of challenging the Sirkar."

"So the key is getting the Sirkar to move swiftly, before the news from Afghanistan becomes widely known."

"Exactly." Ian frowned, thinking. "The nearest large British force is at Cambay. That's fortunate, because it's the one place in India where I have the influence to get a quick response. Even more fortunate, the Cambay commander-in-chief, General Rawdon, is an officer who can be counted on to act on his own, without higher authority, in this sort of emergency. He can also move troops faster than any man I know."

" 'Roaring' Rawdon? Even I've heard of him." Laura gave a sigh of relief. "So all that's necessary is to get to Cambay, tell our story, and let the army do the rest."

"Exactly. We'll leave here tomorrow as planned. Once we're out of sight of Manpur, we ride like hell, and within a week there will be Company regiments on the way to the Khyber Pass. And, of course, that Shpola Pass of Pyotr Andreyovich's." Ian gave her a half smile. "Be grateful that the powers that be still haven't adopted the new rifle that Pyotr was talking about. Sometimes official sluggishness is a real blessing. In this case, it means that the Sirkar won't have to worry about the sepoys rebelling because they think their faith is being compromised. All we have to do is make sure that the Afghans, Punjabis, and Dharjistanis can't come together."

"You make it sound so simple." Laura bit her lip. "Ian, what will happen to Rajiv Singh and Kamala?"

He shook his head, his expression grave. "I'm not sure. If the serpent's fangs can be drawn without bloodshed, Rajiv Singh may well be able to keep his throne, though I'm sure the Sirkar will set sharp limits on the size of his army and will use force to ensure that he doesn't exceed them."

"He's a warrior, a prince of the Rajputs," she said sadly. "Do you think he'll sit tamely by and let his fangs be drawn?"

Ian sighed. "I don't know. I hope so, not only for his sake but for Kamala and Dharjistan."

Laura was about to ask another question when they heard footsteps in the drawing room outside. For a second she tensed, wondering if they had been overheard. Then she heard Zafir call, "Major Sahib, are you here?"

There was a note in his voice that she had not heard before. Ian must have recognized it, because he immediately rose and threw open the bedroom door. "In here. What's wrong?"

Zafir stepped into the room, Meera beside him. "We must speak to you,
huzar
." The fact that the Pathan used "huzar," the formal equivalent of the English word "sir," was uncharacteristic and did not bode well. "On a matter of great significance."

"Then speak freely."

"We… happened to be in the royal banyan tree."

Ian's brows went up. "What on earth were you doing there? No, never mind, I can guess. Did you overhear something?"

Zafir nodded. "A conversation between the maharajah and an Afghan. They spoke in Persian, which Meera understands. She says they spoke of an invasion of India."

"Bloody hell!" Ian shared a look with Laura, both of them thinking the same thing: disaster was much closer than they realized. "Meera, tell me exactly what you heard."

Laura listened, her stomach tight. The girl's report brought Pyotr's scribbled notes from the realm of theory down to gritty reality. Within a matter of days, the Afghans would be invading, joining with tens of thousands of well-armed Dharjistani and Punjabi troops into a fire that would sear India. How many Europeans would survive such a holocaust? How many peaceful natives would die once the dogs of war were unleashed?

Unlike Laura, Ian was growing progressively calmer as the situation worsened.
She had never seen him look so dangerous. After telling Zafir and Meera what he and Laura had learned, he said, "Do you know where the Shpola Pass is?"

The Pathan shook his head. "I have heard the name, but I don't know exactly where it is, only that it lies somewhere in Afridi territory. That is why I have never been there."

Ian thought for a moment, his brows drawn together. "Very well. Tomorrow, we'll leave Manpur. Once we're away from the city, you and the women will ride south. For the sake of safety and speed, leave Laura and Meera with your Uncle Habibur. When you get to Cambay, find my brother and give him the report I'll write tonight, detailing what we've discovered. I'll go up to the frontier and try to find this Shpola Pass. Then, when troops arrive, I can guide them right to it. A pass that small can be closed by a single company of soldiers."

Zafir said, "Very good, huzar." His frivolity was gone and he had become a cold-eyed, deadly warrior.

Ian continued, "When you leave here, go to the city bazaar and buy tribal clothing for me, the ingredients to make skin stain, native harness for my horse. Go to a number of different shops so no suspicions will be aroused. You know the drill."

Before the Pathan could acknowledge the order, Laura said explosively, "No!"

Both men turned toward her, Zafir startled, Ian, who knew her better, looking distinctly wary.

Ignoring the Pathan, Laura fixed her husband with a steely eye. "If you're going to the frontier, Ian, I'm going with you."

Her words dropped into the room like stones. Voice calm but inexorable, Ian said, "That's out of the question."