There was no reply. The door hanging fell back into place with a slap as he entered. She was there, sitting silently on the edge of her bed, her back to him, bent over as if in pain. The lamp threw a long trembling shadow across the bed.

Was she ill?

She sniffed convulsively. Wondering if she had summoned him to help her bear some tragedy, he crossed the fioor with his uneven gait, the woolen socks she had given him silent on the striped rug. Reaching the end of the bed, he leaned cautiously forward.

She sat bent over a bundle on her lap, rocking it as if it were a child. He blinked. It was was a child, wrapped in her shawl, its small brown hand resting on her bosom. How had Memsahib come to have a native baby in her tent? Babies and talk of babies seemed to be everywhere tonight. a child, wrapped in her shawl, its small brown hand resting on her bosom. How had Memsahib come to have a native baby in her tent? Babies and talk of babies seemed to be everywhere tonight.

"Ji, Memsahib?" It was better to pretend he had not seen. He tore his eyes from the bundle on her lap.

She looked up at him, a protective hand on the baby's chest. "You must help me, Dittoo," she said urgently. Her eyes were red, but her face held a fierce resolution. "This little one needs food, and warm water for his bath, and plain, ordinary clothes. He cannot be seen in these."

She pulled the shawl aside. Under it was a native boy child, just old enough to be walking. His red satin costume was stiff with silver embroidery; a rope of pearls and emeralds lay heavily on his chest. The child, too, had been weeping.

Dittoo's chest rose and fell under his thin shawl as if he had run all the way from the cooking fire. He glanced uncertainly toward the doorway.

Memsahib's voice sharpened. "Bring him food, your sort of food, from one of the native fires. I doubt if he has ever eaten European food. And hurry. He is very hungry."

"Zaroor, most certainly." Dittoo nodded as if he were dreaming.

"And, Dittoo," she continued, startling him with her sudden ferocity, "if you speak one word of this, I shall dismiss you from my service and you will find yourself walking all the way from here to Simla. Do you understand me?"

"Ji, Memsahib." He backed out of the tent and set off toward the red wall, looking back at her once or twice to make sure he had not dreamed that his own memsahib stood in her doorway, shivering in the evening chill, the Maharajah's vanished hostage in her arms.

Dittoo hurried past the large tent of the Governor Sahib's chef and the greasy cooking tents, his mind in turmoil. How great was the reward? Was it enough to allow him to return to his village and build a proper house for his family?

He thought of Memsahib's sharp words. Once she discovered he had betrayed her secret, she would dismiss him from her service instantly; but how could he miss this opportunity to gain a princely reward? How, for that matter, could he keep such thrilling news from his friends? The baby, the very hostage whose story they had just heard, was in his memsahib's tent in his memsahib's tent! He could scarcely believe it himself. Not only was this a good story, it was one in which he actually had a part!

Over the past month, these men at the fire had become like brothers. He hurried on, imagining their reaction to his story. Should he tell them yet, or should he savor his news?

He arrived out of breath. "Is the food finished?" he asked quickly. His story crouched in his throat, ready to spring out. He swallowed.

His friends regarded him with surprise.

"Yes," said Mohan, "it is finished. Why do you want more food?"

"Someone has asked for it. It does not matter. I will be back soon." There was no time to stop. He must find food for the child, and warm water. Then, his work done, he would return to the fire and, at his ease, tell them his news in each delicious detail. He hurried away, feeling his friends' eyes on his back.

The other fires in the Governor-General's compound were also cold. Clutching his arms against the chill, Dittoo tramped out onto the avenue, looking for a fire where men were still eating. He grunted with irritation as he stepped out of a misshapen shoe in the darkness. It was late. Wherever he went, men sat talking of the vanished child; but for the child himself there was no food.

Dittoo was a long distance from the red-walled compound when he found what he sought, a cl.u.s.ter of Muslim men still eating, talking carelessly amongst themselves. He lifted his chin. He must not give his secret away. It would not do for another man to report the child's whereabouts and gain all the credit and the reward.

He went straight to the man whom he took to be the senior person at the fire.

"I have need," he said, after exchanging greetings, "of food."

"Food?" A hill-man, whom Dittoo remembered to be a senior groom, looked up, interested, from where he squatted, chewing.

Dittoo looked away. "Yes," he replied, refusing to elaborate.

Feeling the man's eyes study him, Dittoo shifted nervously under the weight of his secret. His fingers twitched. He thrust his hands behind his back.

"Are you not the serving man of the young memsahib?" The man held a piece of bread partway to his mouth as if arrested in midthought.

Dittoo's hands clutched at each other behind his back. "I must hurry," he said. "If you have food, please give it to me."

The groom stretched his long body and stood. He bent and rummaged among the pots until he found a circular lid, and began without comment to sc.r.a.pe the leavings of the evening meal onto its flat surface. He laid a folded chapatti over the mounds of rice and lentils, then nodded and handed the lid to Dittoo.

Hurrying from the fire, Dittoo paused to look back. The groom once again squatted there, staring pensively into the fire. Dittoo walked on, relieved. The man had not suspected.

Were Dittoo a first-cla.s.s serving man, his shoes would fit properly. His livery would be spotless, unlike the semiclean dhoti dhoti and shirt he wore, for his sahib would buy him many uniforms. A first-cla.s.s man would have himself shaved every day, and his turban would be starched like those of the Governor Sahib's servants. But Dittoo had been born a second-cla.s.s servant, attending to junior people like his memsahib, and he and his two surviving sons would forever remain second-cla.s.s servants. He pa.s.sed four soldiers on their way to their tents from their evening meal. They were Brahmins, high-caste men from Oudh or Bihar who looked down on him and his friends. He kicked a stone out of his way, careful not to spill the food. and shirt he wore, for his sahib would buy him many uniforms. A first-cla.s.s man would have himself shaved every day, and his turban would be starched like those of the Governor Sahib's servants. But Dittoo had been born a second-cla.s.s servant, attending to junior people like his memsahib, and he and his two surviving sons would forever remain second-cla.s.s servants. He pa.s.sed four soldiers on their way to their tents from their evening meal. They were Brahmins, high-caste men from Oudh or Bihar who looked down on him and his friends. He kicked a stone out of his way, careful not to spill the food.

He thought of his family. His wife had given birth to eleven children. Of the eleven, eight had died, most of them lost to want and illness in times when crop failures had wiped out the food supply in his small village. For Dittoo, it was not difficult to recognize need on a child's face.

He turned onto the avenue. The richly dressed child in his memsahib's tent had certainly been ill-cared-for. There was even more to this story than the water carrier had told.

His step quickened. That the boy had vanished from his servant's arms in front of witnesses did not surprise him. He had heard of such things before. What he found difficult to believe was that the child had been transported by magic to the tent of his own memsahib his own memsahib.

She, an ignorant foreigner, had taken part in a great supernatural feat. Her powers must be enormous to have been recognized by the child's magician grandfather who had to be miles away in the city of Lah.o.r.e.

As he pa.s.sed the uniformed sentry at the entrance, he forced his mind back over the previous months but could remember no event that even hinted at her being a sorceress. One never knew to whom such powers might be granted, but to one of them them? Even odder, to one of their women women?

The English were ugly, with their odd clothes and odder hair. They were often rude, demanding, difficult to fathom, and furious when misunderstood. They had yellowing skin and dirty habits and their music was agony to the senses. Once, when he served at Government House, hearing loud noises and rhythmic thumping coming from the main salon, he had stolen across the garden and peered inside. Through a window, he had seen Europeans, men and women, dancing together in clumsy groups, running into one another as they moved, laughing loudly, heads thrown back, when their horrible music stopped.

They controlled most of India, these foreigners; yet for all their great power, most of them knew as little about life as they did about dancing. Once when Memsahib had been ill and Dittoo had served her for hours with no time for his midday meal, she had actually offered him her uneaten supper-meat, possibly even the fiesh of a cow, drenched with brown liquid, other things, vegetables, equally repulsive.

Had she not known what pollution she offered him?

Memsahib spent her day rushing from place to place, fearing to be late, her toilet incomplete, her curly hair escaping its pins. She seemed to have time only for the munshi who had taught her many languages, but who was not Hindu like himself, and was therefore as ignorant as the British.

She waited for him now in her small, pointed tent, whose walls glowed faintly with the light of her lamp. If she were were a sorceress and he were to tell his friends, report the child's whereabouts, and collect the reward, she would know it at once. Dittoo would then lose both his position and an opportunity to observe this curious being-a foreign female magician-at close quarters. a sorceress and he were to tell his friends, report the child's whereabouts, and collect the reward, she would know it at once. Dittoo would then lose both his position and an opportunity to observe this curious being-a foreign female magician-at close quarters.

He frowned. Her weeping over the child had been unexpected. Being a sorceress, she must have known the baby's condition before he arrived in her tent. Why then had she been so pained at his misery? Could her tears, like the offer of her uneaten food, be signs of a generous heart? It was certainly unusual to see an Englishwoman cradling a child of India as if he were her own.

Perhaps the instinct that had led Dittoo to talk instructively to her had been correct. Perhaps it had been her heart that he had recognized when he had first seen her on that rainy morning in Simla.

At her door, he shuffied out of his shoes. It was difficult to trust the English, very difficult indeed, but who knew? Perhaps, reward or no reward, he could do worse than to serve this curious person and keep her secrets. Perhaps, Englishwoman or no, she deserved the finest gift he could offer, his loyalty.

HE sat on the fioor, the baby's legs dangling across his lap, squeezing rice and boiled lentils into bite-sized b.a.l.l.s with his fingers. The little fellow's head was dirty and scabby. When had he last been bathed?

"Good boy," he said, thinking of his youngest son as he pushed a ball of food into the baby's open mouth.

There was something powerful about this child. Even in his weak condition, he seemed to give off a light that drew Dittoo, making him think of shrines and offerings. Had not Krishna-Ji himself appeared as a baby, a powerful force for good, able to perform magic? Perhaps it was this same sweet strength that gave the child such value in the Maharajah's eyes.

"Dittoo," Memsahib said from the chair, "there is no sign of rain, and so I will not be traveling in my palanquin tomorrow. I certainly cannot take this baba in the carriage with the Governor-General Sahib and his ladies. You must bring him with you on the march. Pretend he is your nephew, or your own child."

Dittoo sat quite still. How little she knew of things! How could he suddenly produce a baby and make the absurd claim that the child was his relation? And what if his lie were discovered? At the very least, he would be sent away with no pay. He might even be subjected to some horrible torture at the hands of the Maharajah's men. Why did she not simply perform some feat of sorcery?

"It will be difficult for me to bring him with the baggage," he replied, using the begging singsong he reserved for refusal. He grinned, hunching his shoulders. "Everyone in camp is looking for him. Everyone knows his story."

The baby pushed Dittoo's hand away. His curled fingers rested on Dittoo's knee. Dittoo wiped the small mouth with a rag. Regarding him gravely, the baby reached up and patted his face, then turned away, his thumb in his mouth.

Memsahib was staring. "Story? What story?"

Dittoo avoided her gaze. "His story-that he is a lucky talisman for Maharajah Ranjit Singh, that he has vanished into the air from the arms of his servant in front of everyone." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "All the camp knows that his disappearance is the work of his grandfather who is a famous magician of Lah.o.r.e, and that an enormous reward has been offered for his return."

Her mouth fell open, then shut smartly. "What nonsense." She pushed back her hair and pointed to the baby. "He was-" She stopped, let out a little puff of air, and raised her chin. "Well," she snapped, "it does not matter how he came here, does it? In any event, I shall travel in the morning with the other English ladies. You will please bring the child. I do not care what you say to the others in camp. Now, it is getting late. Bring me hot water for his bath."

Yar Mohammad squatted silently in the shadows outside the young memsahib's doorway, his head and upper body wrapped in a length of cotton, his nose protruding sharply from its folds. Memsahib's voice came from the tent, speaking softly and kindly. No one answered, no shadow moved on the wall. Her servant must have gone out.

The man's appearance at his fire had mystified Yar Mohammad at first. Hindu dietary laws would never have allowed such a man to approach a Muslim cooking fire to feed himself. His memsahib could not have desired Yar Mohammad's dal roti dal roti, the plain bread and lentils of the people. Only a stranger in need would be fed from a random cooking pot. Then it had come to him-there could be only one stranger at the camp whose need was great enough to send an Englishwoman's servant searching for food like a beggar.

Yar Mohammad closed his eyes at the soothing sound of the woman's voice. Yes, Shaikh Waliullah's little grandson was within. AlHamdulillah AlHamdulillah, praise be to Allah.

An hour earlier at his fire, he had waited until the memsahib's servant had scurried away with the food before making his own way to Shafi Sahib's tent.

The old man's beads had clicked quietly as Yar Mohammad told his story. "I believe you have guessed correctly, Yar Mohammad," Shafi Sahib agreed, nodding, when the groom finished speaking. "Go now," he added, "and give Memsahib a message."

Yar Mohammad had gone directly from Shafi Sahib, entering the red compound through a narrow servants' entrance in its high back wall, greeting the uniformed Punjabi sentry in his own tongue as he pa.s.sed, gaining the compound without difficulty. He had skirted sleeping servants and banked fires, then crossed the open s.p.a.ce toward the great tents of the Governor-General and his sisters. Moving silently from shadow to shadow, he had approached the young memsahib's tent un.o.bserved.

His instructions were to deliver this new message at once, but when he arrived, he had not called out, for fear of startling her. Instead, he pulled his shawl over his head and around his knees. He would wait.

He did not wait long. Footsteps approached, then the young lady's servant appeared at the tent, his eyes on the ground, muttering to himself, a bra.s.s pail in each hand. Steam rose from one pail. A bath for the child.

The servant had not seen Yar Mohammad. Without looking up, he set one pail down, then reached to lift the reed curtain covering the doorway. Lamplight streamed through the entrance. In one swift motion, Yar Mohammad got to his feet and stepped from the shadows.

"Hai-ai-ai!" Startled, the servant shouted with sudden terror. The pail of hot water jerked in his hand, swinging sideways, splashing scalding water into the dust.

While the servant, breathing hard, grasped for the reed curtain, Yar Mohammad stepped forward and looked past him into the tent.

He drew in a long breath. The young memsahib sat facing the doorway, satin skirts the color of a lion's coat spread about her, brown curls framing her pale face as she bent protectively over a fair and broad-faced baby. Behind her, shadows leaped on the tent wall. For an instant, she returned Yar Mohammad's gaze, her eyes wide and fearless.

The servant forced the hanging shut and stepped hastily in front of Yar Mohammad, his buckets before him on the ground. "Why have you come?" he croaked.

"I have a message for Memsahib."

"It's too late to be bringing messages." The man was trying to sound forceful. Through the curtain Yar Mohammad could hear a rustling sound. Perhaps Memsahib was trying to conceal the baby.

"This message is important." Yar Mohammad's own voice was tight with excitement. "It is to be delivered at once. Tell her that I, Yar Mohammad, must deliver this message in person."

He could see that the man wanted to chase him away with shouts and curses, but was afraid to raise his voice again, fearing, most likely, that interested people might come from the servants' quarters and ask questions. Yar Mohammad stood still, towering over the servant, and waited.

The servant looked as if he were about to weep. He raised a trembling hand and pushed aside the door hanging, then, clearing his throat, entered the tent. "A man named Yar Mohammad is outside," he said, his frightened voice m.u.f.fied by the hanging. "He says he has a message for you."

There was more rustling. Memsahib put her head around the entrance, then emerged and stood in front of Yar Mohammad, her face ivory pale in the moonlight.

"Yes, what is it?" White fingers gripping the doorway, she shifted her weight to block his view of the interior.

"Peace be upon you, Memsahib," Yar Mohammad began. "I bring a message. It is this: You have done well. Tell no one what you have done. Wait for your instructions."

She remained motionless, her skin white and luminous, then gave a high little laugh and wiped her hand on her skirt. "Thank you, Yar Mohammad, although I have no idea what your message means."

"Wait." Yar Mohammad put up a hand as she moved to withdraw. "I have something for you."

Whimpering came from within. Memsahib glanced over her shoulder, then back to Yar Mohammad. "Go away," she commanded, her eyes darkening. "Go away."

Without answering, he squatted down and took from his clothes the muslin-wrapped packet of coa.r.s.e brown sugar that he always carried for his horses. As she watched him, her slender body erect, he took out his small, crooked knife and cut off a square of muslin, wrapped two lumps of the raw sugar in it, and held it out to her.

"Children like to eat this," he said. "The horses will not miss it."

She took the sugar and turned away, her glistening skirts swishing in the darkness.

As he strode away, he pondered how afraid the young woman had been when he handed her his gift. And yet, he had seen clearly that if he had tried to force his way into the tent, it would have been she, not her servant, who would have fought him.

He looked back over his shoulder at the small tent whose walls glowed faintly from the lamplight within. What had the two old men said to him at Shaikh Waliullah's haveli?

"Your work is about to begin," Shafi Sahib had told him.

"Only you will know when the time has come to act," the Shaikh had said.

MARIANA opened the fiap and turned back to the tent, the little packet of sugar dangling from her fingers. "You told Yar Mohammad," she said accusingly. "Dittoo, what have you done?"

Ditto stood still in the center of the fioor, the baby in his arms. When Mariana looked at him, her face drained of color, he bent double over the child. "I swear," he burbled, tears spurting from his eyes, "I swear I did not tell. The groom is an odd man. I do not know how he could have guessed. Oh, I beg of you, Memsahib, I am telling the truth! Please, oh, please, Memsahib, do not send me away!"

"What does this mean, Dittoo? Does everyone in camp know the baby is here in my tent? Does the Maharajah know?"

The baby reached for her. She took him from Dittoo and sat down at the table. "I thought we were safe, but we are not." She untied the packet, broke off a piece of the sugar, and put it into the baby's mouth.

"And do stop weeping, Dittoo," she added sharply. "Of course you must stay." She sighed as he mopped his eyes with his rag. "I cannot be left all alone with a native baby."

"The groom brought a message, did he not?" Dittoo asked. "What was his message?"

"It was nothing, Dittoo," she replied. "His message was nothing."

It was not nothing. She feared it, this third message. No longer vague and dismissible, this warning proved that someone was indeed watching her. "Tell no one," Yar Mohammad had said. "Wait for your instructions." She wrapped the baby in her arms and held him tightly.

She must not give in to fear. Along with his message, Yar Mohammad had brought a gift. However afraid she was of the message, he had not threatened her.

"Dittoo," she said, "if Yar Mohammad had meant to betray us, he would not have given Baba the sugar. He would have told us that he knew, and then he would have tried to s.n.a.t.c.h Baba away. I think no one knows about Baba but Yar Mohammad, and perhaps one or two others. But I do not think they mean us harm."

Relief rushed over her. "And, oh Dittoo," she added, her face alight, "did you not fear, when he came, that he would take Baba away from us?"

She patted the baby's face. "Did you not think at first that Yar Mohammad was bent upon carrying away our baby and claiming theMaharajah's reward?"

She laughed, and then Dittoo laughed, and seeing them, the baby brightened and he smiled, his eyes becoming two half moons in his broad face, and she got to her feet and spun his little body in a circle, her tawny skirts swinging about her, in the middle of the lamplit tent.