Swords From the Desert (44 page)

They knew me and suffered me to pass through a clump of cypresses to the edge of the trampled jasmine bed. The Pathan's tent was no richer than mine and he sat motionless on a carpet in front of it. Two soldiers standing beside him peered at me, but he knew me and cried out-

"0 hakim, pleasant be thy coming!"

Yet his voice lacked the hearty ring of a month ago, and he seemed weary. He ordered me to sit and sent a man for a tray of sherbet and fruit, listening while I told him Jami's story.

"Aye," he said at last, "many of the emirs have come from Asaf Khan's following to mine. They were at the durbar this evening."

He folded his arms, twisting his strong fingers in his beard, frowning. I saw then that he wore the long signet ring of the Mogul, and even in the faint glow of the night sky the diamonds and sapphires gleamed against his dark hair.

"They urged that an army be mounted and sent to seize the treasure before Asaf Khan might carry it into Persia. At the same time came Hindus of the Multan plain to render fealty and ask that the collection of the revenues from the Panjab be allotted them. By God, the spittle of wrangling fouled the carpet of our council! And lo, even at this hour another comes!"

A palanquin with four bearers had passed the outer guard post, and our two swordsmen went forward to learn what it might be. I rose to ask leave to depart, but the warrior-lord bade me stay.

"Happiest of men art thou, 0 hakim, who wanderest at will, guiding with thy hand the reins of one horse. For those who hold the reins of government, there is neither rest nor ease of spirit."

Drawing in his breath suddenly, he sprang to his feet. Out of the palanquin stepped a pateran, moving gracefully toward us, veiled, her mantle cast about her shoulders.

"Protector of the poor," said the soldier who had accompanied her to us, "this one swears she is here at thy will."

"Get thee gone!" cried the khan harshly. "And thy fellow, and suffer no other to come in to us."

Verily, in the starlight and veiled as she was, he had recognized the Light of the Palace, as I had known her by the proud carriage of her head and shoulders. Hours without number his eyes had dwelt upon her in the past, from afar.

"What madness is this!" he whispered fiercely the instant the guards had passed obediently beyond hearing, taking with them the litter and its bearers.

Perhaps we both doubted that this was really Nur-Mahal, or perhaps our hopes made us doubt, because the firm an of her death had been signed these seven days.

"At thy summons, 0 Well-Beloved Lord,*
am I here!"

When she spoke, we no longer doubted, for the voice of the Light of the Palace was like the chime of golden bells.

"The order for thy-" he blundered upon the word.

"For my execution hath been signed. That is known to me, Mahabat Khan."

Even defeated and forsaken by half of the nobles, she had had the tidings from spies in bazaar and household. Nay, she quoted to us the next of the decree: "Because she bath displeased us by her ambition, causing coins to be minted with her likeness, and firmans signed with her name, and the conduct of the empire discussed and decided in her presence, she, the daughter of a Persian singing woman, a child abandoned on the caravan track, hath presumed too greatly, and is to be given to the sword of judgment."

"And is not this true?" demanded Mahabat Khan.

"True. And so am I here at thy summons." She had seen the signet ring and she laughed a little under her breath, turning toward me. "Wert in the right, Ibn Athir; my place is with Iny lord husband."

The tall Pathan, hands thrust into his girdle, made answer without mercy.

"Hearken."

Beyond the brush of the garden stood the pavilion of the Mogul, and little bursts of laughter could be clearly heard, and the voice of a singing girl.

"Others are in thy place, beside thy lord husband," he said.

Nur-Mahal fingered the dancing girl's scarf that had helped to disguise her within the palanquin.

"Not so, Mahabat Khan! Many days bath Jahangir spent with his idlers and slaves, but I alone know his weakness, his failing health. For years I have ministered to him, and none can stand in that place."

"Thou art clever," he growled.

"As I have need to be."

"And faithless."

"But not to him."

The Pathan bent, to look full into her dark eyes, and she did not flinch.

"God alone knows whether that be true. Jahangir bath set his feet in the wrong path. He tortures his nobles, or buys them. He lacks heart and is not fit to command an army in the field. In the last days I have seen this."

"And not before now?"

"Nay, how was I to know?"

"Nor did the other emirs know." The Light of the Palace flung back her head, pressing both hands to her forehead. "I-I have kept them from knowing. How often have I sat at Jahangir's side at durbars when his wits were muddied? Aye, thy flrman spoke the truth; I have tried to rule his subjects, so that his weakness should not be known."

Mahabat Khan uttered an exclamation and turned, to stride back and forth between us. And I thought of the morning and evening audiences in which Jahangir had barely shown himself to his court-a glittering and remote form, to be greeted and gifted. I thought of the chain of mercy, the gold bells that announced a supplicant, bells that the Light of the Palace could hear.

"What matter now?" he cried under his breath. "Between us the sword has been drawn."

"Aye, now." The Light of the Palace bent her head, rousing to look about the garden. "Rememberest thou, 0 my khan, a garden like to this and three children, thou and Jahangir and I, when he was prince and thou his playmate, and I a foundling of the caravan paths? We had two doves, and Jahangir gave them to me to hold and one escaped; the other I tossed into the air. Jahangir was angered, because he had been tormenting the doves, and that was why I freed them."

The Pathan checked his stride at a sudden thought.

"And by whom was Man Singh put to shame?"

"Tell me this, 0 my khan, is thy mind firm? Am Ito die?"

He caught his breath at that, devouring her with his eyes, his hand closing and unclosing upon the hilt of his sword. Then he nodded.

"If so," responded Nur-Mahal after a moment, "I can say that I had no part in thy cousin's torment. It was a whim of my husband's when he was in his cups. For he feared thee, as I did."

"With good reason. For now is our strife ended."

"And the decree written."

Defeated in the field of battle, she had come alone and without defenders, to play another part. I wondered whether she meant to throw herself at the feet of the Pathan, or whether she was in reality resigned to death.

"By the Resurrection and by the hour when our deeds shall be weighed against our naked souls," cried Mahabat Khan, "I swear that Jahangir has not been threatened. Of his own will he signed the firman! "

Just for an instant she caught her breath and swayed upon her feet. Then she closed her eyes and responded quietly-

"Wilt thou suffer me to speak with Jahangir alone-now?"

I looked at Mahabat Khan. If he allowed her to talk with Jahangir, nothing was more certain than that the idle and capricious Mogul would change his mind and cling to Nur-Mahal as in the past. And if Jahangir publicly countermanded the firm an and shielded her, Mahabat Khan might not put her to death without blame.

"Why come to me?" he said, musing.

"Nay, art ruler of India!"

"I? God knows I seek no throne!"

"Who puts foot in the stirrup must mount to the saddle." She looked at him gravely and stretched forth her hands. "Suffer me to go to my husband."

The Pathan began again to pace to and fro between us, with bent head. And this I took for a sign that he would not grant her request. But then the silence of the garden was broken by the twanging of a dulcimer, yonder where lay the Mogul and his companions. A voice shrilled out a snatch of song, without sweetness or melody:

Again the lute twanged, and laughter resounded. Mahabat Khan ceased his pacing and stood, grimly silent. A dozen voices of young girls seized on the refrain-

My heart is like a rosebud-ai-ai-ai!

Mahabat Khan raised his head, as if goaded into speech.

"It is time to make an end. Our strife has come to this point; it is thy death or mine. I will summon my men."

He raised his hands to strike them together, when Nur-Mahal seized his wrists, and cried softly:

"Nay, I will not have their hands upon me. Let it be by thy swordhere-now."

Indeed she knew that if he gave her to the keeping of his guards, he did not mean her to see another sun. At her touch he shivered, looking down upon her dark head, and now she spoke without hope or cunning, but with the fierce eagerness of one who casts off old bonds.

"That firman lied! 0 blind that thou art! Have I struggled during these years for myself? Thou hast no child, Mahabat Khan, but I have a daughter, who-" she ceased and raised her head proudly, lest we think she begged for mercy.

But in that moment of silence I thought of Nur-Mahal in the howdah of the wounded elephant, shielding the young girl with her body from the flying arrows, intent on binding up the scratch that had pained the child. Surely Nur-Mahal was fearless and surely she loved her daughter. These few words of hers were naught but truth.

Then she sighed and smiled up at the tall Pathan.

"Does my face trouble thee? I will veil it-thus may thy stroke be swift and sure!"

Drawing a fold of the light mantle from her left shoulder, she held it over her head, her slender arm gleaming in the starlight. Motionless she stood, that faint scent of dried rose leaves clinging to the air about her.

Mahabat Khan laid his hand upon his sword hilt and half drew the blade. The muscles of his face twitched and his eyes glowed like embers beneath black brows.

And lo, my eyes beheld a strange thing. The woman, standing erect and tranquil, seemed at peace and joyous, while the man, his hand clenched upon the steel, his face tormented, was in an agony of spirit.

Only for an instant. Then his arm thrust down-the sword was rammed back into its scabbard, and he folded his arms.

"Go to the Mogul. I give thee life, Nur-Mahal."

We sat together, the Pathan and I, until the seventh hour of the night. The men at the garden entrance changed post with other guards, but the two at the tent had been sent to escort the Light of the Palace. It was quiet among the jasmine beds, and a slight breeze stirred the cypresses. The revelry in the imperial pavilion had ceased.

Mahabat Khan was sunk in reverie, and by degrees his brow cleared. When the cymbals struck for the seventh hour he reached out his hand and ate some of the dates that had remained untasted upon the tray.

"Eh, Ibn Athir," he said. "Mount thy horse and go."

The glitter of the precious stones in the signet ring caught his eye, and he drew it from his finger, weighing it in the palm of his strong hand.

"Come," I said then, "with me."

"Whither?" he smiled.

"To a ship. A little voyage and we can reach the land of Athir that is my land. There the horses are excellent, and the folk of the desert are hospitable. Thou canst draw thy reins at will, to north or south."

Verily in that moment something came into my spirit-a longing to see my people again and wander with the sheep and the herds.

"Why?" he asked again.

I made bold to voice my thought. Mahabat Khan was an upright man, a daring man, and a companion to be desired.

"It will happen in this place that Jahangir will forgive Nur-Mahal and she will regain her influence over him and his nobles. She will contrive to set him free from thy restraint, and the influence will be lost. What then of thee?"

He swept his arm toward the silent camp.

"I cannot leave my followers." And after a moment he smiled. "Thou art a true prophet, Ibn Athir, and-having made enemies in this court-'tis best for thee to depart while the way is open." He thrust the ring into his girdle and rose. "I serve the salt. And they have need of me. They may send me to the frontier with my cavalry."

And this thought pleased him, for he stretched forth his arms and breathed deep, as if casting a burden from his shoulders. To the guard post he walked with me, and lifted his hand in farewell. I watched his tall figure moving with its long, noiseless stride toward his tent in the deserted garden, among the shadows.

The warriors, newly arrived at this post, were looking at the palanquin that stood where it had been left by its bearers.

"Eh, hakim," said one, "what was the woman who went in to the lord bahadur in the last hour?"

"Some say," whispered another, "that she was the empress, but this is the litter of a dancing girl, a shameless one."

I considered this in my mind, wondering what would be best to say.

"She was the mother of a child," I made response, "come to beg of the lord bahadur."