Tiger Claws (12 page)
Authors: John Speed
“No,” Aurangzeb says quietly, and for the first time raises his head. “I did not ask him to come, nor did I tell him of our plans.” He nods to Alu. “You were there.”
“Yes, lord,” the eunuch answers, his voice a husky whisper. “You achieved your goal with him but never revealed your purpose. It was masterful.”
Alu describes the chess game, the end game where Aurangzeb turned the tables on Jai Singh, emerging victorious. “In your wisdom, lord,” Alu continues, “you wagered against him on this game: If you won, he must lend support for your cause. Your victory was deftly done, lord.”
“Then where is he? Why isn’t he here?” Shaista Khan demands. Jumla bristles, but at a motion from Aurangzeb’s hand he settles back.
“He is not here because there is no need for him to be here,” Aurangzeb says. “He lost the wager; he gave his word; all is settled.”
“His word? You expect a Hindu to keep his word?” Shaista Khan blurts out angrily.
For the first time, Aurangzeb turns to face him. “He is a gentleman.”
“Not like the rest of you,” Roshanara says, and she laughs, and the others, except Shaista Khan, laugh with her.
Even Aurangzeb chuckles. Then his face straightens, and he says quietly, “It isn’t necessary for him to know our plans, provided—”
“Provided that he is in your pocket, brother,” Roshanara says. Basant has noticed how much Roshanara likes to burst in to others’ conversations.
“As you say, sister,” Aurangzeb says, giving the impression of someone who has learned patience through much practice. “Tomorrow, at the order of my father, we return to the siege of Golconda; I and General Jumla.” He nods to the eunuch across the circle. “Alu, of course, will be with us.”
Aurangzeb looks from face to face. “This may be our last chance to speak together, friends. Sadly we must speak the unspeakable. We must lay our plans now, plans that by Allah’s grace will never be used.”
Hing stirs uncomfortably in his seat, like someone rousing himself from sleep. “So you say, highness, but forgive me, I must disagree. I am old now and soon I shall die. So forgive this old
hijra
if I speak those words you say are unspeakable.” He waits silently until they turn his way.
hijra
if I speak those words you say are unspeakable.” He waits silently until they turn his way.
“Suppose there were a ruler who was no longer fit to rule,” Hing says at last. “Suppose he once nurtured his empire, once built grand monuments across the land …” Hing waves his hand vaguely toward the looming domes of the Taj. “Suppose that he once was loved by all. Now suppose that man had changed, thinking now only of women, opium, and wine.
“Suppose that man were now so vile, so besotted, as to have congress with two women at once, in ways most sickening and contemptible.
“Suppose that man, that weak and foolish man, were now so mired in his debauchery that his own daughter could use his vile predilections against him. If his gentle daughter could extort him thus, to rescind his own military orders, I ask you—what might some other do?”
Jumla shifts in his seat. “Is that how the order of command was changed?” Aurangzeb says nothing, but Roshanara now turns to face the Persian general. “Changed by blackmail?”
“What does it matter how?” Roshanara spits back. “It only matters
that the order was changed. Or would you prefer it changed back? Is Alu the
hijra,
or you?”
that the order was changed. Or would you prefer it changed back? Is Alu the
hijra,
or you?”
“I must know why I was named commander instead of Aurangzeb,” Jumla demands. “Was that your idea or your father’s?”
“Neither mine nor my father’s,” she answers.
“Whose then?”
“His.” She tilts her head toward Aurangzeb.
All faces turn to the prince. He does not look up.
“I thought Shah Jahan had chosen me.” Jumla turns away.
“I changed his mind for him, with my sister’s help—is that not enough? Golconda is yours; the army is yours? What more could you want?”
“Respect,” Jumla whispers.
Hing glares at Jumla. “What sort of man are you, general? Would you seek the approval of a profligate?”
“Look upon my brother,” Roshanara says. “Isn’t his merest nod worth more than a dozen robes of honor from my father?”
“My lords, you see how it is?” Alu speaks now. “You are angry. Confused. You bark and growl at one another like ill-bred dogs. For your master has lost his way. Which is more foolhardy? To be ruled by an unworthy king, or to rise up against the might of his throne, uncertain of the outcome?”
“Look at our house,” Roshanara says, “look at our history. Time and again, it has only been through rebellion that our empire has been saved. Why, this is the very way my father came to power!”
“That doesn’t make it right,” a soft voice says. The speaker is Aurangzeb. “There is a great chasm between discussing this act and doing it, and I am not yet sure that the time is right to leap across it.”
“Then why the hell are we here?” Shaista Khan sputters. “If we are not here to act, then I was misled.”
“Then leave,” Jumla answers. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword.
“Leave with your life, Shaista Khan,” Aurangzeb adds gently. “No harm will come to you.”
“I meant no offense,” Shaista Khan says. “But my question remains. Why are we here, if not for action?”
“Why you are here, I cannot say,” Aurangzeb replies, with a hint of sadness. “I am here to consider a dreadful undertaking, to learn the counsel of wiser men than I. For when the moment comes, Shaista Khan, you will have your wish—there will be no time for thought, but only for action.”
Aurangzeb looks around the circle, as if to read each man’s heart. “Who will utter those terrible words, the words that I cannot say?”
Aurangzeb looks around the circle, as if to read each man’s heart. “Who will utter those terrible words, the words that I cannot say?”
But no one answers.
Finally, Jumla lifts his head. “Take it, lord. Take the throne. We’re behind you. Others will join us. Take it. Save the empire.” He looks firmly at Aurangzeb. “You know that this is Allah’s will.”
“No,” says Master Hing, his voice like ice water. “You cannot simply take the throne, highness. There must be a reason. Without a reason, your father and your brothers will come against you, and anyone with a conscience will join them. There must be a reason.”
“What reason can I have, Master Hing?” Aurangzeb asks.
“Well … there’s always God,” Hing replies.
“That is the perfect reason!” Shaista Khan says. “Let’s be rid of the Hindus! Your father coddles them, and worse. Make them the enemy! Who will stand against you if God is on your side?”
Aurangzeb turns to Alu. “What do you think?”
“It’s dicey, lord,” Alu answers. “What would you do to the Hindus? Kill them? We depend on them too much.”
“Force them to convert,” Shaista Khan bursts in. “Make them bow before Allah the All-Merciful.”
“And how would you do that?” Alu responds.
“Tax them,” suggests Jumla. “Tax them until they bleed. Restore the
jizya
. All who do not bow to Allah must pay the
jizya,
so it is written.”
jizya
. All who do not bow to Allah must pay the
jizya,
so it is written.”
“But Shah Jahan has been trying to collect the
jizya
for years,” Hing puts in. “He’s had no success.”
jizya
for years,” Hing puts in. “He’s had no success.”
“Then it must be done with emphasis,” Jumla asserts. “At the point of the sword. At the head of an army, tearing down temples as we go.”
“Dara won’t stand for it,” Shaista Khan says. “He’s too close to Jai Singh. He won’t levy the
jizya
tax on Rajputana. Dara depends on the Rajputs for his very life. He trusts them more than Muslims.”
jizya
tax on Rajputana. Dara depends on the Rajputs for his very life. He trusts them more than Muslims.”
“You mean only that Dara trusts Jai Singh more than you, general,” Roshanara says. “With good reason, apparently.”
Shaista Khan bristles. “Why shouldn’t I be trusted?” he shoots back. Bits of saliva spray as he talks. “Do you think Jai Singh can be trusted? Do you think Dara doesn’t have meetings like this himself?” Aurangzeb looks up, and Shaista Khan realizes that he has stepped into a trap.
“Well, general,” Aurangzeb says. “Tell us of Dara’s meetings.”
“He’s had one or two,” Shaista Khan allows; each word painful.
“So Dara plots as well,” Hing interrupts. “Is anyone surprised to hear it? Knowing this about him, what shall we do?”
Unexpectedly Aurangzeb answers. “I will move when Dara moves. Not before.” He looks steadily around the circle. “But when Dara moves, I will not attack the throne myself. I will support Murad, my brother.”
Those in the circle lean back as if shocked at these words—but the faces of the eunuchs brighten. “Excellent, lord,” Hing tells Aurangzeb.
“But Murad can’t lead!” Shaista Khan bursts out. “I won’t stand for him being king!”
“Of course not, general,” Hing says, his voice croaking cheerfully. “And neither will anyone else. That is the beauty of this plan. With Aurangzeb as an ally, Murad can crush Dara. Dara will be isolated.”
Shaista Khan laughs. “And no noble will bet his family’s ass on a potential loser. But I must protest—Murad is more fool than your father. He is not worthy.”
“That’s the beauty of this thought,” Alu explains. “Once Dara is clearly doomed, the nobility will beg Aurangzeb to lead.”
“And nothing is more honorable than agreeing reluctantly to a heartfelt plea,” Hing says, with a cackling chuckle. “But what of Jai Singh?”
“When the time comes, Jai Singh will turn. If you cannot trust Jai Singh, then trust me. If Jai Singh comes against us, I myself will present this neck to you. Take my head and feed my eyes to the crows. Or take it to Murad, or to Dara, and use it to buy your peace.” His face hardens—the first time Basant has seen him angry.
“I don’t like this,” Roshanara says. “Waiting for Dara to move? That could take forever. He’s undependable, damn it. You can’t even depend on his treachery!”
Aurangzeb and the others chuckle. “I think I know how it might be accomplished, lord,” Hing says softly. “If I might suggest a plan … .”
So much has happened to Basant since the moon rose last night that he might be forgiven for ignoring the obvious. As he sits leaning against the railing of the Taj’s marble plinth, peering out from the shadows and listening to treason, it doesn’t cross his mind to wonder why
he
has not been invited. Why isn’t he sitting in that circle, instead of watching uninvited from afar?
But Basant ignores such thoughts: he has begun to dream again as he watches that cluster of treachery plot and plan. He will tell of this conspiracy and make his fortune.
he
has not been invited. Why isn’t he sitting in that circle, instead of watching uninvited from afar?
But Basant ignores such thoughts: he has begun to dream again as he watches that cluster of treachery plot and plan. He will tell of this conspiracy and make his fortune.
For years he has drifted rudderless on the waves of Fate, enduring the tragedy and insult, as all slaves must, and never had the power to respond.
Until now.
Fate has favored him, for a change. She has placed under his hand so many great ones. He has only to lift his finger and all of them will die. For just a word, Shah Jahan would give him anything he can dream of. Dara would give him even more.
Every fault, every slight, every outrage will be requited. Justice will be done: on earth, not in heaven; and by him, not by Allah; and before his eyes.
He will make them all pay. For the castration, the molestations, the indignities, the servitude, the deaths—all will be repaid. No more will Basant walk in fear, but all shall fear him.
In the pride of his thought, Basant has failed to account for a missing piece. He can feel it—something nagging, something important. It is the feeling he gets when he plays cards: He looks at his cards and thinks, I have won! These cards can’t be beaten! Only to find out too late that he missed a trump, a little card held by someone else, and watches his victory bleed away.
What is it, what is it, what is it? he asks himself. But he cannot answer, he cannot name it, any more than he can remember to count the trump cards in his hand. It is not his nature to notice the obvious.
Instead, he makes plans.
The first thing, he decides, is to get back to the palace. With studied care he starts to tiptoe back to the stairs that lead to the river.
And then it happens: the glass vial must have shifted in his pocket. When he stands up, it falls out. He sees it drop, tracing an arc to the white marble tiles. He nearly screams.
But the vial does not shatter into a million noisy pieces after all. It bounces. Then it rolls, making the clinking, singing sound of blown glass rolling over marble. Dumbstruck, Basant watches. Suddenly his right arm stabs with pain. His chest is crushed. He doubles over as if pushed down by an enormous weight. He feels an enormous hand squeezing his shoulder so mightily that his arm grows numb, and he must gasp for breath.
This is the thing he has forgotten. That he is mortal. That he can be broken. Most of all he has forgotten the one who can break him. He is lifted off
his feet. He opens his eyes and sees: The giant is what he has forgotten. Karm. Aurangzeb, the eunuch, Alu, and the deaf-mute manservant were there. Basant should have realized that the giant would also be around. Since he was not in the circle, he should have guessed that the giant would be patrolling, watching for spies.
his feet. He opens his eyes and sees: The giant is what he has forgotten. Karm. Aurangzeb, the eunuch, Alu, and the deaf-mute manservant were there. Basant should have realized that the giant would also be around. Since he was not in the circle, he should have guessed that the giant would be patrolling, watching for spies.
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