Lord Auckland's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair.

"Yes, yes, we will have a great show." The Maharajah beamed, his good eye alight. "After we have seen the Golden Temple, we will go to my treasury and armory at Gobindgarh."

A silken rustle ran through the crowd of Sikhs. Two tall men nudged each other.

The Maharajah leaned forward to peer into Lord Auckland's face. "The English are our dear brothers from whom we must never be parted. It is therefore our duty to share with them the innermost secrets of our kingdom. They must see Gobindgarh, and look with their own eyes upon my fort, my riches, and my weaponry." He laughed aloud, suddenly, clapping his hands, waking the baby on his lap.

"My lord, he keeps all his artillery at Gobindgarh," Macnaghten explained animatedly. "We will see not only Maharajah Ranjit Singh's treasure but also his guns. He must have brought only a small part of his artillery to the durbar. What a grand opportunity for the generals! This must mean something, my lord, it must!"

Lord Auckland smiled crookedly. "Now, then, Macnaghten," he murmured, "you must fiail your imagination back to life and compose a suitably splashy answer. Perhaps all this wasted time here at the Sutlej has been some mysterious native preliminary to the real real talks. Perhaps the real negotiations were never meant to take place until after we reached Amritsar." talks. Perhaps the real negotiations were never meant to take place until after we reached Amritsar."

"You will of course leave your army at Firozpur," the Maharajah was saying, "and bring the ladies, and an escort of your soldiers." He waved a hand in the direction of Lah.o.r.e. "When you cross my bridge of boats with your party and enter my territories, it will be a great show, a great show!"

The rustling among the sirdars sirdars had been replaced by murmuring. A hundred dark eyes moved from Maharajah Ranjit Singh to Macnaghten and Lord Auckland. had been replaced by murmuring. A hundred dark eyes moved from Maharajah Ranjit Singh to Macnaghten and Lord Auckland.

Macnaghten cleared his throat. "There is," he p.r.o.nounced, gesturing at the bright sky outside, "a canopy of stars covering our two nations, now bound together forevermore in loving brotherhood."

"Wah, wah," returned the Maharajah, clapping his hands. "Excellent! And they are never to be parted."

"There is a saying," Macnaghten remarked later to Lord Auckland as the Maharajah and his Chief Minister escorted them to their elephant, "that if no heir is chosen, whoever holds Gobindgarh after Ranjit Singh's death will rule the Punjab. His treasure and his guns are the cornerstone of his power."

"Indeed, Macnaghten," Lord Auckland replied, smiling with satisfaction as he began to mount the elephant ladder. "Indeed."

THE little servant stood inside the entrance of the elaborate reception tent, his bare toes pushed into the thick carpet. "Maharaj," he said, interrupting the Maharajah's conversation with Faqeer Azizuddin, "Baba must have his food." He pointed to the child.

Ranjit Singh looked up from the child on his lap, his expression blank. "Now?" He stroked the baby's face. "My little Saboor," he crooned, "my Pearl of Pearls! How dear he is to me!"

Ahmad did not budge from his post. "Maharaj, it is time for his food. I must take him now."

"Yes, yes, all right." The Maharajah lifted his hands. "You may take him to the kitchens," he said as Ahmad crossed the tent and took hold of the child, "but I must have him back the moment he has eaten."

From his place at the Maharajah's feet, Faqeer Azizuddin spoke softly. "Maharaj, do you remember that we decided to send Saboor back to his family after fifteen days?"

"Of course I remember." The Maharajah waved dismissive fingers. "But we are not going to Lah.o.r.e now; we are going to Amritsar. He can go to his family later."

"Why," the servant muttered as he carried Saboor toward the kitchen tents, "does Maharaj not see how unhealthy Baba has become?" He patted Saboor's back, his face creasing with worry.

At the royal kitchens, he stood outside the door of the first tent, watching a row of cooks slicing onions and crushing garlic, ginger, and spices on a great stone surface.

A shaven-headed cook looked up and saw Ahmad and the child. "Ah, there you are," he said. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and bent to smile into Saboor's solemn face. "We are ready for you, Baba. We have baked a quail for you today. Come, see what you will eat!" His eyes met Ahmad's. "Has he smiled yet?"

"No, not yet." Ahmad sighed. "He only stares, as if he is waiting for something. Perhaps he is waiting to die. Every day he grows weaker. He cares for nothing."

"He is missing his family." A second cook with a jutting belly had joined them. "He grieves for his own people."

"When will Baba see his father, his grandfather?" asked Ahmad as he squatted down in the shade, Saboor on his lap. "When will he see the ladies of the Shaikh's family? The Maharajah wants Baba beside him every moment. He has promised to return him soon, but I do not think he will keep his promise."

The shaven-headed cook strode off, then returned, balancing a round of bread and a tiny baked bird on a leaf plate. "Do not give him the quail yet," he cautioned, "it is still too hot."

"Can we not take him away ourselves and send him to his family?" As Ahmad tore off a piece of bread for the child, the second cook eased himself down with them by the sheltering wall of the kitchen tent. He pushed greased hair from his eyes. "So many merchants are going back and forth from here to Lah.o.r.e. Surely there is one goodhearted man among them."

The bald cook shrugged. "Who can tell a good heart from a bad one, Rana? Besides, who would take the chance of being caught with one of the Maharajah's hostages?"

The fat cook nodded. "But what of the foreigners who have come to meet the Maharajah? He wouldn't kill his guests, even if they were found with the child. I am told there is a woman among them who speaks Urdu. If we ask her, she might take Saboor Baba to his family."

"She might treat him badly." Ahmad put a sliver of the quail's breast into Saboor's mouth. "She might sell him."

"She will not sell Baba," put in the shaven-headed cook. "These English do not traffic in children. But as for kindness, who knows?" He shrugged again.

"She is a woman." The fat cook yawned. "A woman will know what to do with a child. Any life is better than the life he has now. The Maharajah loves Baba, but does not see his misery. If Baba remains here much longer, he will die."

Saboor refused to have yogurt, but he drank water from the battered tin cup they offered him. The cook shook his head. "Poor little thing. You should watch for an opportunity to give him to the Englishwoman. When you have done it, we will find a way to send a message to his family, telling them where Baba can be found. He won't have to stay with her for long."

After a moment, Ahmad nodded.

Leaving the army with all its guns and its animals behind at Firozpur, a much reduced British camp containing Lord Auckland and his party, senior government officials, a cavalry escort, and a military honor guard set off for Amritsar. The sixty-mile journey took six days. Ranjit Singh's own bright and noisy camp had gone first. At each halt, the British reviewed the Maharajah's troops and watched trick riding and artillery displays. In the evenings, they sat under his embroidered canopy and watched his entertainments.

On the sixth day, they were five miles from Amritsar, the city most holy to the Sikhs. At just after ten o'clock, breakfast was nearly over at the British camp.

William Macnaghten sat at one end of the dining table, stirring a rapidly cooling cup of coffee. He looked mournfully at his companion.

"Did you achieve anything last night?" asked Major Byrne.

"Nothing." Macnaghten drew a pattern on the tablecloth with one finger. "Everything is exactly as it has been. The Maharajah talks of infantry maneuvers, or G.o.d, or steeplechasing, any subject but the Afghan Campaign."

Major Byrne's nose looked even redder than usual. He sniffed and fumbled for a handkerchief. "It is odd to have the preliminary courtesies extend this long, but cheer up, William. His offer to show us his arms and treasure must mean something."

"G.o.d knows how much he is spending to feed us, never mind the bags of rupees for our escort and all those greasy sweetmeats. Why would he do all this if he didn't intend to sign the treaty? Why would he show us his treasure and his guns?" Macnaghten glanced over his shoulder and bent closer to Major Byrne. "I fear something is wrong, Byrne. I fear we may have blundered, that for all the Maharajah's courtesies, he is making fools of us. We have brought a ten-thousandman army all the way from Calcutta, believing that within days of our arrival, our army and Ranjit's would be on their way to Afghanistan together, but Ranjit Singh shows no interest in the campaign. He laughs when we try to discuss the treaty. Lord Auckland is beginning to blame me me for the Maharajah's behavior." His fingers trembled a little on the handle of his cup. for the Maharajah's behavior." His fingers trembled a little on the handle of his cup.

Major Byrne blew his nose vigorously. "True enough, but we have the upper hand. The old boy knows a real army when he sees one. His troops look smart enough on parade, but I'll wager they'd run away in a real fight. We have Europeans, the cream of our native infantry, and the best horse and foot artillery in India. Maharajah Ranjit Singh will never cross the Army of the Indus."

Macnaghten sighed as a servant took away his coffee cup. "Have you considered the possibility of a trap?"

Major Byrne frowned. "What are you saying, man?"

"Our party, including three ladies, is now sixty miles inside the Maharajah's territory. We have only an honor guard and a cavalry escort. We are surrounded by the Maharajah's huge army, as he reminds us daily with his endless reviews and artillery displays. The rest of our army and all our heavy guns are out of reach at Firozpur," Macnaghten said miserably. "If it came to a fight, Major, what chance would we have?"

THE postbreakfast elephant procession to the Golden Temple was to be informal, allowing the Governor-General to travel with his political secretary.

His eyes half closed against the sun, Lord Auckland winced as their elephant shifted his weight, rocking the howdah. Beside him, Macnaghten tugged at his collar. "My lord," he said, his eyes moving from Lord Auckland's hollow gaze to the mahout riding on the elephant's neck, "I have one or two suggestions regarding our afternoon conversation with the Maharajah. If, at this afternoon's meeting, the Maharajah still refuses to discuss committing his troops to the campaign, I think we must a.s.sume that he does not intend to do so. In that case, sir, I suggest we proceed into Afghanistan without him."

Lord Auckland looked silently down on his cavalry escort as they waited for the Maharajah's elephants to join the march. "I agree. We mustn't wait any longer for the old man." A sigh shook his large frame. "All this is most disappointing. I shall be very sorry to lose the Maharajah's army, although our own force is certainly strong enough to take Kabul without him. But we must must get written a.s.surance of a right-of-way up to the Khyber Pa.s.s. We get written a.s.surance of a right-of-way up to the Khyber Pa.s.s. We must must have a signed treaty before another week goes by." have a signed treaty before another week goes by."

Macnaghten wiped his face. "I believe we will, my lord."

"Then get it for us." Lord Auckland tugged his brocade coat over his midriff. "The Honorable East India Company cannot be held hostage by a petty Maharajah."

Macnaghten swallowed. "No, my lord, of course not."

THREE elephants behind Lord Auckland, the two Eden ladies perched on their seats like a pair of bonneted birds. Across from them, Mariana looked ahead for a sight of Fitzgerald riding with the honor guard. She had not seen much of him in the evenings recently, as the ladies had been excluded from Ranjit Singh's nightly drinking parties, orgies by all accounts, most unsuitable for gentlewomen.

That exclusion had been a relief. The old Maharajah's leering glances at Mariana had been unnerving enough in the daytime when he was sober. Heaven only knew how he would behave when tipsy.

As if he had read her thoughts, Ranjit Singh and his elephants materialized like a mirage on the plain, heralded by a great cloud of dust.

"Miss Emily," Mariana ventured, "I am sure there is an explanation for Lieutenant Fitzgerald's broken engagement. Can we not ask him him what happened? Perhaps the story has been exaggerated by gossip." what happened? Perhaps the story has been exaggerated by gossip."

If only they would speak to Peter Edwardes....

Miss Emily turned a stern blue eye on Mariana. "My dear child, we would all like to think well of the young man, but I do not believe in smoke without fire. While I agree that some details of the tale may have been exaggerated, I cannot allow you to risk your future on someone with his reputation. Deserving or not, Lieutenant Fitzgerald has been disqualified disqualified."

The Maharajah's procession had drawn closer. The discordant sounds of his music, the bellowing of his men, the circling of his n.o.bles' horses all came into focus through the dust. Mariana bit her lip. This should be one of the great moments of her life. She would never see a durbar like this one again. She turned her bonneted head away from the advancing native train and wiped away her tears of frustration with the back of her hand.

India was ruined for her.

VILLAGERS squabbled over the Maharajah's shower of coins. Pet.i.tioners ran, shouting and gesturing, beside his elephant. His band played "G.o.d Save the Queen," leaving out several parts of the melody. Slowly, noisily, the Sikh and British elephants merged into one procession.

"Poor George," sighed Miss Emily as they watched Lord Auckland climb into the royal howdah and embrace Ranjit Singh. "I do believe he could almost bear this durbar if he did not have to keep hugging the Maharajah."

Peac.o.c.k feather fans, yak tails, and silk standards were raised. At a signal, the official drummers began their steady pulse and the band took up the marching song. One by one, the elephants shifted their weight. The ponderous, gaudy, noisy procession began to move. The march to the Golden Temple began at last.

As they set off toward the city and the temple whose dome gleamed in the distance, Mariana caught sight of one of the honor guard riding ahead of the elephants. He wore the blue dress uniform of the Bengal Native Artillery and a shiny dragoon helmet whose red horsehair plume rippled in the sun. He looked back briefiy, a hand shading his eyes, then turned and rode on toward Amritsar.

TEN miles behind the marching elephants, a small caravan of hors.e.m.e.n and loaded camels followed the same road.

Yusuf Bhatti turned to Ha.s.san, his saddle creaking. "If we do not stop for food, we should reach Amritsar by early evening. In that case, we may see the Maharajah tonight."

"No, Yusuf, we must eat," said Ha.s.san beside him. "G.o.d willing, my Saboor will be waiting for me whenever we arrive."

Yusuf nodded silently. He did not have Ha.s.san's patience. Even in his agony, the man had done his duty. Days and nights spent arguing with the leaders of Kasur had gained him half the tribute money he had been ordered to collect. Now, with a line of laden camels roped together behind them, he and Yusuf had hope. Saboor's fifteen days had now pa.s.sed. Surely the Maharajah would keep his word and return the child, especially when he saw the camel-loads of treasure they had brought him. But, Yusuf asked himself, if all were well, why had Ha.s.san's father sent that mysterious letter, delivered three days ago by an exhausted courier from Lah.o.r.e to their camp at Kasur?

"My son," the Shaikh had written, "I have not told you this before, but according to Shafi Sahib, Saboor is to be rescued by an outsider whose ident.i.ty is yet to be determined. As Shafi Sahib is rarely wrong, I believe you may comfort yourself with this news."

Yusuf had seen the letter himself. He knew that it now lay in the pocket over Ha.s.san's heart.

Rescue. The Shaikh used no word lightly. He must mean that the Maharajah would refuse to return Saboor. He might also mean, although Yusuf had not said this aloud, that Saboor's condition was worse than they had imagined. Who, then, would intervene, and return the child, alive, to his family?

"Ha.s.san," Yusuf said carefully, "if, G.o.d forbid, all does not go as planned, there is the letter."

The air had grown cold. "Yes," Ha.s.san said, as he drew his shawl about his shoulders. "There is the letter."

The interior of the Golden Temple, spiritual center of the Sikh religion, was airy and cool, but it lacked chairs. The three Englishwomen lowered themselves as decorously as they could to the expanse of carpet covering the fioor.

Mariana crossed her legs under her skirts and looked over the men who sat facing each other at the center of the vast s.p.a.ce. Lord Auckland looked most uncomfortable on his backless cushion. Fitzgerald must be there, too, but she could not see him.

"I do not know how much longer I can bear sitting like this," Miss f.a.n.n.y murmured, wincing as she shifted her limbs beneath rosefigured skirts. "My knees are aching horribly."

Miss Emily, her face set into grim lines, said nothing.

"I see a lovely, comfortable-looking wall," added Miss f.a.n.n.y mournfully, "but it's miles from here."

Above their heads, perfumed smoke from hundreds of incense sticks hung in the air, catching the light from the temple's high windows. From the direction of the altar, stringed instruments took up a minor melody, joined by nasal voices. Along the walls, the Maharajah's turbaned chiefs stood in elegant, whispering groups.

Mariana absorbed the scene avidly. The Eden ladies had ruined her happiness with Fitzgerald, but, she realized, they had not spoiled India for her. India, with all its peculiarities, would always belong to her, and she must always share it with her father. That much, at least, they could not take from her.

On his own cushion, the old Maharajah talked steadily, weaving pictures with his hands. Facing him, Lord Auckland, his face a mask of strained politeness, nodded at intervals while Mr. Macnaghten translated, his brow knit in concentration. From time to time, Lord Auckland detached his attention from the Maharajah and gazed toward the entrance.

"He looks," whispered Miss f.a.n.n.y, "as if he hopes someone will come through the door and rescue him."

"Shhh," replied Miss Emily without moving her lips.

The Maharajah looked across, noticing the Eden ladies' expressions. "Your ladies are becoming bored," he announced, and caught the eye of a white-bearded priest, who nodded. "Let them see the Granth Sahib," he ordered, then turned his attention back to Lord Auckland.

On the marble altar, beneath a golden canopy supported by silver poles, the holy book of the Sikhs lay under its many fine coverings. The priest motioned for the ladies to approach.

Miss Emily and Miss f.a.n.n.y rose gratefully and, supporting each other, rustled unsteadily toward the altar and its row of elderly priests. Mariana trailed in their wake.

As she pa.s.sed a shadowed corner, a small, bearded man stepped suddenly from the shadows. On his shoulder lay a baby in a round, stiffiy embroidered cap, whose mouth hung open as he slept. She gasped.

The man addressed her softly in Urdu. "Memsahib," he said, his eyes not meeting hers, looking at the ground, at the ceiling, over her shoulder, "Memsahib, you speak our language."

The baby had drooled, leaving a stain on the man's shirt. He shook the child gently against him. "This little one is a hostage of the Maharajah. His condition is bad."

This was the exhausted child she had glimpsed with the Maharajah at Firozpur. "Hostage?" she asked, not certain she'd understood.

"Yes. To be sure of the loyalty of his courtiers, the Maharajah sometimes keeps their children in his Citadel. Baba has spent much of his life there with his mother. Now the mother has died, and poor Baba is all alone with the Maharajah. He cannot see his father or his grandfather, or any of those who love him."

The Eden sisters had reached the altar. They leaned over it, cooing in mannerly appreciation. The priest spoke beside them, his voice a deep rumble. They turned, uncomprehending, looking for Mariana to translate for them.

"There are those at the Citadel who are jealous of the favor the Maharajah bestows on Baba." The servant pushed up the child's scarlet sleeve. In the half-light of the temple, Mariana could see fading bruises on the small forearm. She felt her heart contract.

"Where is his family?" Her sharp whisper echoed back from the stone walls.

"They are in Lah.o.r.e, except for his father, who has been sent away."

What a peculiar, cruel country this was, but what could she do? She spread her hands. "I am sorry."

The ladies beckoned. Mariana moved to pa.s.s, but the servant stepped sideways again, blocking her way. "The Maharajah loves Baba," he insisted, his voice trembling, "but he knows nothing of children. He does not see how sad Baba is, how much Baba longs for his dead mother, and for his father who loves him. Baba never smiles. I fear he will die of grief."

Music, tender and insistent, rose from the altar, surrounding Mariana. The first covering of the Granth Sahib, a fringe of enormous pearls and emeralds, hissed and clicked as the eldest of the priests lifted it from the book. The ladies beckoned again.