BAGPIPES began to wail. Mariana searched the avenue with her eyes. Miss f.a.n.n.y reached for Miss Emily with one hand, and for her handkerchief with the other.

"Oh, Emily," she quavered, "I am so very proud of George, and of England!"

The music grew louder. Cheers erupted from the troops along the avenue as the two parties advanced toward each other, each one heralded by a great storm of dust.

"Something is wrong," declared Miss f.a.n.n.y, as two British cavalry officers rode, shouting, into the avenue, waving their swords. "I think they are coming too fast."

"Look!" Miss Emily pointed to their right as the first of the Maharajah's elephants appeared, as if from a dusty dream, two hundred yards away.

It came at surprising speed, its single pa.s.senger shielded from the sun by a great ta.s.seled parasol. More elephants and a swirling throng of outriders and standard bearers followed. Chain mail fiashed in the sun.

A moment later, Lord Auckland burst out of the swirling dust cloud to their left, leading his own running elephants and four companies of Bengal Lancers straight at the Maharajah's procession.

"They can never stop now," breathed Miss f.a.n.n.y. Miss f.a.n.n.y and Miss Emily sat rigidly upright in their pale silks, neither moving nor speaking. Mariana held her breath and looked from side to side at the two processions. How were they to escape crashing into each other? She looked behind her and found Dr. Drummond, the vicar, and an elderly visiting scholar wedged together behind her in the second row of chairs. All seemed mesmerized by the impending collision.

As the two trains closed rapidly on one another, the lead mahouts stood on their elephants' necks, iron prods waving, their shouted commands lost in the martial din of the bands. Deserting both processions, runners and outriders dropped their ta.s.seled standards and peac.o.c.k feathers and raced for the margins of the avenue. Soldiers and onlookers scattered as they ran.

"Get up, man, run for your life!" cried the doctor from behind Miss f.a.n.n.y's chair. As one, the three men behind Mariana bolted up and began to climb over their chairs. Mariana half stood, then realized that she could not get over her own high-backed chair while wearing six yards of blue-striped skirts. She had waited too long to run onto the avenue. She bent double on her seat, making herself as small as possible.

Abandoning language at last, the mahouts signaled wildly with their arms. The Maharajah's elephant veered left. With a great tearing sound, it crashed past Lord Auckland's elephant, carrying away with it a dozen yards of velvet housings and a corner of the British state howdah.

"Ahhhhh!" Abandoned by the doctor and the vicar, the poor old scholar let out a terrified scream.

Dust filled Mariana's nose and mouth. Waves of chaos washed over her as the remaining animals, still advancing at speed, sought a way out of certain disaster, their frightened trumpeting accompanied by the bellows of excited natives and the clamor of competing bands. Some were able to turn aside, but others could not help but collide while their mahouts clutched the harnesses for balance and the occupants of the howdahs were fiung about like rag dolls.

Had anyone been thrown out of the howdahs? If so, they had certainly been killed. Mariana gripped Miss f.a.n.n.y's hand as Lord Auckland's elephant, trembling with fright, its damaged howdah apparently now empty, stumbled toward their row of chairs.

"Shabash, well done!" its mahout shouted happily, slapping away at his elephant's head as Lord Auckland reappeared suddenly, miraculously upright on his seat, knocking dents from his tricorn hat. "Well done!"

Beside Mariana, Miss f.a.n.n.y remained immobile, her eyes straight ahead, a statue in dusty silk and ribbons.

The mahouts maneuvered the two lead elephants until the animals were side by side. Many hands dragged the Maharajah's small, redclad figure headfirst into the Governor-General's howdah. A swarm of grooms led Lord Auckland's nervous elephant to the specially constructed stairway where Lord Auckland and Ranjit Singh, one tall and pale, the other tiny and dark skinned, offered one another their embraces-the Maharajah with enthusiasm, Lord Auckland with solemnity.

Only then did Miss f.a.n.n.y turn, her face alight, to Mariana. "Is this not marvelous, my dear?" she cried. "Is this not a wonderful spectacle?" She pressed her hands together. "One can only wonder what will happen next!"

The child Saboor still in his arms, Ahmad the servant looked down from the kneeling elephant. The clash at the meeting had thrown them to the howdah's fioor injuring Ahmad's wrist, but the child seemed unhurt.

They were alone on the elephant. When the confusion waned, their fellow pa.s.sengers had all scrambled down the elephant ladder to the ground and followed the Maharajah into the durbar tent. Even the elephant's mahout had now vanished.

Men surged along the avenue, soldiers and onlookers swirling around the row of kneeling elephants. Ahmad rubbed his swelling wrist while the baby lay silent on his shoulder. "Baba is not well," he said aloud, his eyes on the durbar tent. "He should not be taken into that crowd."

He wiped his forehead with his uninjured hand. "Baba must have his food. Who knows when this meeting will finish?"

Holding Saboor, he climbed gingerly down the elephant ladder, then stood still, searching the torrent of soldiers and onlookers for someone useful.

"Oh, cook," he called to a man whose clothes smelled of wood smoke and spices, "will you make me food for this child?"

The cook, a round-faced man, came near. He peered at the baby who lay unmoving against Ahmad's shoulder. "I am a poor man," he replied seriously, "and this child is of rich birth. Surely you can pay for what I give him?"

When Ahmad did not answer, the man poked a thick finger at Saboor's fine clothes.

"Give me a gold b.u.t.ton from this baba's suit and I will make you both a dinner fit for the Maharajah himself."

MARIANA let herself be swept with everyone else toward the durbar tent. Dark-skinned men with silk turbans, earrings and necklaces, men with luxuriant beards and mustaches, seemed to be everywhere. Behind her, a horde of British officers pushed aside sentries and aidesde-camp in their own rush to gain admittance to the tent.

Inside, the crowd surged forward, carrying Mariana through the main tent and toward the inner tent with its sofa and dining chairs. Someone barked an order and, with a rush of canvas, the main door fiap unrolled to the ground, drenching the packed tents in near-perfect darkness.

The small tent's outer doorway had also been closed, cutting off air circulation. Murmuring arose around Mariana as she groped her way to the half circle of dining chairs and seated herself. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then blinked with relief when she made out Miss f.a.n.n.y beside her, struggling to get out of her shawls in the sudden stifiing heat, and Miss Emily, fanning herself on one end of the sofa.

Her chair rocked as someone pressed against it from behind. Where was the Maharajah? As Mariana strained to see, Lord Auckland appeared, one hand gripping the red silk elbow of a tiny, one-eyed, silver-bearded native, the other arm straight out before him as he battled their way toward the sofa. Arriving, he pushed the old Maharajah down without ceremony next to Miss Emily, then sat on his other side.

The hot air thickened. An English voice shouted an order and the crowd edged back as the blackness of the inner tent turned to gray. "Someone has opened the main entrance again, thank goodness," murmured Miss f.a.n.n.y, "but whatever is wrong with George?"

Turning to look, Mariana saw Lord Auckland sitting perfectly still at the Maharajah's side, his eyes starting from his head as he stared at someone behind her.

No-something was wrong with the little Maharajah. His redturbaned head had fallen forward onto his chest; his long silver beard rested against the row of fat pearls at his waist. He seemed unconscious of the handsome youth draped in emeralds who had appeared at his feet and now sat kneading his legs and gazing up anxiously into his face.

The perspiring throng shifted. A group of Sikhs forced their way toward the sofa, their eyes on their stricken king, their hands on the dagger handles protruding from their sashes.

Near Mariana, a pair of unarmed British officials watched nervously. Major Byrne caught hold of a young officer of the Thirteenth Foot, whispered to him, then pushed him toward the doorway.

A trickle of perspiration began at the crease behind Mariana's knee and ran down the back of her calf. Behind Mariana, the Sikhs muttered to each other. Every one of them carried at least two weapons. Lord Auckland edged away from the Maharajah and perched, his jowls quivering, on the edge of the sofa.

At last the air began to move. The outside door of the small tent was open.

The old Maharajah raised his head and looked straight at Mariana. Ignoring her sudden lightheadedness, she gazed back at him, avidly memorizing his appearance: his long, pointed silver beard, his closed blind eye, his luminous, intelligent seeing eye, the humor on his face.

As a wave of collective relief blew through the tent, a shrewdlooking man with a thick black beard and a coa.r.s.e woolen robe sat down at the Maharajah's knee, greeted Lord Auckland, and began, without irony, to deliver, in Urdu, a series of elaborate compliments involving perfumed gardens and the song of nightingales, while Mr. Macnaghten the political secretary translated rapidly from his chair beside the sofa.

The man on the fioor speaking with such ease, turning his hands for emphasis, must be Faqeer Azizuddin, the Maharajah's Chief Minister. His t.i.tle of Faqeer, Munshi Sahib had told her, denoted humility, although seed pearls gleamed on the loose shirt he wore under his cheap-looking robe. Mariana surrept.i.tiously mopped her face. It was astonishing that anyone could talk of gardens in this stifiing, noisy place.

As the crowd parted again to allow an officer to carry in Queen Victoria's portrait upon its plump velvet cushion, a new unpleasant feeling in Mariana's stomach joined the one in her head. She closed her eyes, measuring her discomfort. This was too unfair. It was Miss Emily Emily who had suffered all morning from spasms. And yet who had suffered all morning from spasms. And yet she she now sat, smiling composedly, on her end of the sofa. Mariana, who had waited months for this moment, realized that if she did not immediately leave the tent, she would either fall from her chair in a dead faint, or be sick onto the carpet, or both. now sat, smiling composedly, on her end of the sofa. Mariana, who had waited months for this moment, realized that if she did not immediately leave the tent, she would either fall from her chair in a dead faint, or be sick onto the carpet, or both.

As the Maharajah reached for the Queen's portrait, a deafening noise erupted outside, eclipsing the voices around Mariana. The pain sharpened in her head. She thrust herself to her feet, a hand to her mouth.

"I hope they are firing that salute away from the horses," she heard a British voice say as she clawed her way toward the doorway. Ahead of her, a tall bearded native was also leaving the tent, helping her unknowingly by opening a way for her, his long embroidered coat acting as a beacon guiding her through the half-dark. After reaching the entrance, he paused for a moment, as if searching for someone, then strode rapidly across the avenue.

YARMohammad's eyes roamed the avenue as he waited by the durbar tent with Major Byrne's gift horses. When Shafi Sahib had instructed him to locate the Shaikh's grandson among the members of the Maharajah's court, he had thought his task would be easy; but of a small male child there was no sign. Perhaps Saboor Baba was already inside the tent, having pa.s.sed invisibly by in the crowd.

Beside Yar Mohammad, a young groom smacked dust from his new clothes. "What riches, what jewels we have seen!" he marveled.

Yar Mohammad nodded. Even Qamar Haveli, the most important house he had ever visited, did not compare in wealth to this. For all his fame, not even Shaikh Waliullah owned an animal like the draped and painted elephants that stood tethered across the avenue, or even the horses like the one whose bridle he now held.

A sudden movement caught his eye. A familiar-looking man erupted from the durbar tent, glanced about him, then hurried onto the avenue toward the elephants.

Behind him, another figure staggered into the sunlight, a hand to her head. It was the young memsahib.

Yar Mohammad turned back to the avenue in time to see Ha.s.san reach the tethered elephants and begin speaking, his hands moving, to someone squatting in the shade.

Ha.s.san was still breathing hard when Yar Mohammad arrived at his side. The former looked less ill than he had at his father's house, but shadows still marked his eyes. He was glowering at the squatting man, who scrambled to his feet.

"You are saying that the child came here on your elephant, but now he is gone?"

"As I have told you, Huzoor," replied the mahout, "the servant must have taken the baby with him. I did not see which direction he took. If I had known ..." He shrugged.

Ha.s.san glanced at Yar Mohammad without recognition, then turned back to the mahout. "Describe the servant," he ordered.

"He walks with long strides," said the man, "and he stands like this." He bent his shoulders forward to hollow his chest. "His name," he added helpfully, "is Ahmad."

Yar Mohammad shifted his feet. "Peace, Sahib," he offered.

Ha.s.san turned. At close quarters he was nearly as tall as Yar Mohammad himself. "Speak," he ordered carelessly, his impatient gaze wandering past Yar Mohammad's shoulder to the men on the avenue.

Yar Mohammad pointed to where the gift elephant and horses stood waiting. "If what this man says is true, Saboor Baba was not carried past the horses. If he had been, I would have seen him."

Before Yar Mohammad could add anything more, Yusuf Bhatti joined them, red-faced from hurrying, and took hold of Ha.s.san's arm.

"I have waited by the guns since the processions arrived," he said without preamble. "I have not seen Saboor. He must not have come with the procession."

"He came." Ha.s.san waved irritably at the kneeling animal whose ladder still stood against its side. "He was on this elephant, and now he has gone, no one knows where."

Yusuf Bhatti blinked. "What is to be done now?"

"Saboor is not lost."

All four men turned toward the gentle voice beside them. Shafi Sahib, friend of Shaikh Waliullah and interpreter of dreams, gestured toward the guarded entrance in the red canvas wall. "I, too, waited," he told them. "Although he is not to be seen, I can a.s.sure you that Saboor is not lost. Have patience, my dear Ha.s.san. G.o.d is kind."

"Shafi Sahib," Ha.s.san said, opening his hands, "the Chief Minister has ordered me to go to Kasur this afternoon. If I do not see Saboor now, when will I see him?" He closed his eyes. "Pray, Shafi Sahib, that I will see my son alive."

Poor man. Yar Mohammad thought of Nusrat, his solemn little daughter, the light of his eyes, who waited for him in his mountain village. How would he endure her absence if she, too, were to vanish?

Shafi Sahib nodded. "Your father and everyone at Qamar Haveli are praying for you. Inshallah Inshallah, if G.o.d wills, we will all see Saboor soon."

"Look." Yusuf pointed across the avenue.

At one side of the durbar tent, a score of coolies with ropes over their shoulders dragged a pair of howitzers toward a pyramid of gunpowder sh.e.l.ls.

Sikh n.o.bles and British officers began to pour from the durbar tent and move toward the guns.

"ARE you quite well, Mariana?" The dry voice startled Mariana as she slumped, pushing loose hair into her bonnet, in one of the visitors' chairs.

"I am astonished at your behavior," Miss Emily added as Mariana got, waveringly, to her feet. "Why did you rush out of the tent just when we were presenting the Queen's picture? Everyone saw you do it."

"I suddenly felt very unwell. I am sorry, Miss Emily, Miss f.a.n.n.y." Mariana patted her upper lip with her crumpled handkerchief.

Miss Emily sniffed. "I do not care how you felt. You must never behave that way again." She held out an armful of shawls. "And take these. I cannot carry them a moment longer."

The air had done Mariana some good. Clutching the shawls, she followed the two sisters to the side of the tent, where they watched the presentation of the animals. But it was the guns she really needed to see, brand-new and gleaming, each barrel emblazoned with the Maharajah's crest. It was often the heavy guns that decided a battle. She could name several important- She gasped. In front of her, at attention before the two howitzers, stood a double row of men in the dress uniform of the Bengal Horse Artillery. At one end of the first row, his saber at his side, stood Lieutenant Harry Fitzgerald, his eyes fixed on the air above her head.

"Oh, dear," murmured Miss f.a.n.n.y.

"There is no no need for us to notice the honor guard." Miss Emily gripped Mariana firmly above the elbow and marched her toward the pile of artillery sh.e.l.ls. "The view is perfectly good from here," she declared as she stopped. "Look, here come my brother and the Maharajah!" need for us to notice the honor guard." Miss Emily gripped Mariana firmly above the elbow and marched her toward the pile of artillery sh.e.l.ls. "The view is perfectly good from here," she declared as she stopped. "Look, here come my brother and the Maharajah!"

A sound beside Mariana caused her to turn her head. The tall bearded courtier who had preceded her from the tent now stood beside her. He raked the crowd with weary eyes, as if searching for something he had lost.

Sadness seemed to pour from him. When he moved, his beautiful coat gave off the scent of sandalwood.

Munshi Sahib had once brought her vials of scented oil: rose, amber, musk. Her favorite had been the warm, inviting, complicated scent of sandalwood.

Fitzgerald might have worn sandalwood, if she had asked him to.

The crowd shifted to let Lord Auckland and the Maharajah approach the waiting howitzers. Both men looked exhausted after so much ceremony, Lord Auckland clammy faced in his wilted finery, the little Maharajah tottering weakly beside him.

Major Byrne and Sotheby had stationed themselves behind the pyramid of sh.e.l.ls, the major red-faced and smug, Sotheby blinking anxiously.

As the Maharajah approached to inspect the guns, the crowd pushed forward. A voice shouted a warning as someone knocked into the carefully arranged sh.e.l.l pyramid. As Mariana watched, still holding Miss Emily's shawls, the top sh.e.l.l slowly disengaged itself from the others and rolled down one side of the pyramid into the Maharajah's path.

He saw it too late. Gaining speed, it caught him at his ankles, knocking him off balance. Before anyone could catch him, Ranjit Singh, Maharajah of the Punjab, lay flat in the dust before the British guns.

Miss Emily's hand closed on Mariana's wrist as, aroused, the Sikh bodyguards reached once again for their weapons. The sad man beside Mariana launched himself forward, his fine coat fiapping, but before he could reach the Maharajah, Major Byrne and the White Rabbit had dragged the old man to his feet, while Lord Auckland stared into the distance, pretending not to have seen.

"A bad omen, very bad," someone muttered in Punjabi. "These British will bring nothing but evil to this country."

Mariana looked to see who had spoken, but could only make out the back of the clever-looking Chief Minister's coa.r.s.e robe as he led his Maharajah away.

We need not have worried so about the Maharajah's camp," Miss f.a.n.n.y remarked two evenings later, over the drumming of the Maharajah's musicians, as her eyes studied the embroidered canopy above their heads. "His tents are very fine, to be sure, but they are quite as dusty as ours. And have you noticed the plants? No one could have watered them for days."

Hundreds of small oil lamps fiickered in the outdoor enclosure where they sat wrapped against the evening chill, the Maharajah with his feet under him on his golden, bowl-shaped throne, his egg-sized Koh-i-noor diamond refracting the fiames of the lamps from a heavy bracelet upon his upper arm.

Behind Lord Auckland's silver chair, Harry Fitzgerald looked over Mariana's head, unbearably handsome in gold braid. Moments ago, he had caught her eye and given her the faintest of nods.

The Maharajah was now talking to Lord Auckland through his black-bearded Chief Minister, his hands rising and falling. Earlier in the evening he, too, had caught Mariana's eye, but the old ruler's look had held no warmth, only appraisal, as he leaned from his throne to speak to his minister. Now she felt his single eye on her again, and saw to her discomfort that it had fastened upon her bare chest and shoulders, both exposed by the pretty neckline of her borrowed gown. Before she could look away, he had treated her to an openfaced leer.

"If consulted," said Miss Emily in an undertone as the seated musicians began to play faster, "I should say we have had a sufficient number of dancing girls for one evening. I believe I have seen all the undulating and stamping I can endure. Look, here is a fresh one, just when I had hoped it was all over. And Mariana," she added, raising her eyebrows, "why have you wrapped yourself like a mummy in that shawl? I thought you looked quite nice in your blue-and-white."

A girl with a dozen gold bangles on each arm stepped forward to stand before Lord Auckland. While he gazed over her head, she began a delicate, soaring song, accompanied by the tw.a.n.ging of the instruments. Her voice was fine and supple and so filled with longing that Mariana shivered.

"In pursuit of your imageMy distracted thoughtHas wandered everywhere,Like a pauper's lamp."

"What is that fat girl shrieking about?" Miss Emily asked. "She seems to have fallen in love with George at first sight."