He folded his own hands over his middle. "Not that it matters," he added with satisfaction, "now that the treaty is at last to be signed."

"I saw no palanquin," Mariana said decisively. "If such a palanquin pa.s.sed my tent, I knew nothing about it."

"I want to know," said Maharajah Ranjit Singh, peering down from his golden chair at his Chief Minister, "who caused the rice test to fail."

He tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne. "Who avoided my rice test and returned my Saboor to Qamar Haveli last night? Was it the same people who stole Saboor from the Golden Temple?"

He narrowed his eye. "And, Aziz, how do you know know Saboor is at his grandfather's house?" Saboor is at his grandfather's house?"

The carpet spread on the marble tiles of the marble pavilion kept the chill from Faqeer Azizuddin's bones, but it did nothing to slow the fresh breeze blowing through the fretted windows behind him. He drew his robe closer about his shoulders. The Maharajah had now recovered, but days and nights of tending him had given the Faqeer a fever.

"A goatherd saw Saboor in the Shaikh's courtyard this afternoon, Maharaj," he said for the second time. "That is how I know. A messenger came at all speed with the news. As to how his captors avoided the rice test, I do not know. Perhaps they had intended all along to leave for Lah.o.r.e last evening, and only escaped the Governor General's compound by chance."

The Maharajah made a snorting sound. He drew up a stockinged foot and rested it on the seat of his throne. "And you, Aziz," he inquired, studying his Chief Minister's face, "do not know who these captors are?"

An eloquent gesture, a tilt of the head, a rueful smile were all Faqeer Azizuddin would offer. "Do not worry, Maharaj," he said as he tucked his robe about his icy feet, "whoever stole the boy is certain to be found."

"I do not like it that they have evaded me twice." The Maharajah turned to the young man who crouched on his right side. "Who do you think they are, Heera?"

Heera Singh, court favorite, stopped stroking the old man's leg. His heavy emerald necklaces clicked as he raised his handsome head. "I think it was Saboor's family, Maharaj," he replied, peering nearsightedly at his king. "Real child thieves would never have returned Saboor to his own house. They would have kept him for themselves, for the reward. Had he disappeared entirely, I would have blamed criminals." He shrugged.

A corner of the Maharajah's simple turban had become unwrapped. It waved behind him as he bent toward the Faqeer again. "But why did the test fail? Saboor was living in the red compound. The servants there must have seen him. They all knew of the reward. Why did they not come forward for the money? Since they did not, how did the rice test fail to reveal their ident.i.ties?"

Azizuddin stified a sneeze. "The question was faulty, Maharaj," he replied. "The English officer in charge asked the servants only if they knew Saboor's whereabouts. Since the child had already been taken from the compound, the question was useless. None of them could have known exactly where he was. Had Major Byrne asked if anyone had seen seen the child, we would have had the child, we would have had real real results." results."

The Maharajah gave an unsatisfied grunt.

"We also know," the Faqeer added, "that Saboor was returned to Qamar Haveli last night after after the city gates were closed. The only gate to be opened during the night was the Delhi Gate, which is of course the gate nearest to the Shaikh's house. It was opened twice, once to admit a palki said to be carrying a dying cousin of Shaikh Waliullah-" the city gates were closed. The only gate to be opened during the night was the Delhi Gate, which is of course the gate nearest to the Shaikh's house. It was opened twice, once to admit a palki said to be carrying a dying cousin of Shaikh Waliullah-"

"But it was no dying cousin, it was Saboor," the Maharajah interrupted crossly. Scowling, he rested his chin on his knee.

"-and once, a little time later, to admit Rajah Suchayt Singh, who had made the error of relieving himself onto a coiled snake after an evening's entertainment outside the city."

"Yes." The Maharajah's voice sharpened. "After hearing that your friend the Shaikh had cured Suchayt, I sent gifts at once, to show my respect. Although it was the middle of the night I sent shawls, gold, even a horse." He jabbed the air with a forefinger. "Your friend Waliullah returned them all."

His voice rose and cracked. "I do not like such treatment, Aziz. What does he mean by refusing my gifts? Does he think he deserves better gifts than those I choose to send? My men said he did not even look at them."

He turned a burning eye on his Chief Minister. "I tell you, Aziz, I do not like this business. I should not be treated with such disrespect. The man is too sure of himself. I am sure he is behind the stealing of my child. He must return my Saboor today. I want the boy. I need him." The old voice had turned plaintive.

The Faqeer shifted his aching limbs. "Maharaj," he said, altering his tone to a conciliatory whine, "why not leave Saboor with his family for a short while? After that, you need only ask and he will be returned to you. Remember, Maharaj, how you sat up, fully recovered, upon hearing from the eunuch that Saboor was found?"

When the Maharajah did not reply, the Faqeer pressed on. "The child was becoming sickly from so much traveling and excitement. To be constantly in your presence is too great an honor for a child so small. A few days in his own house will do him good."

It was not often that the Faqeer resorted to begging. When the Maharajah's expression subtly changed, the Faqeer seized the advantage and changed the subject. "And now, Maharaj," he added in a normal voice, smiling encouragingly, "what of the British? What of their plan?"

The Maharajah's face lit up. "Ah, Aziz, you know how to amuse me. These British are going to invade Afghanistan; they are going to put their own king on the throne there, thinking they will control all of Central Asia-how little they know, how little they understand!"

His shoulders shook with silent laughter. "What a gift they gave us when they arrived with their army, already too late to make the journey north, with no treaty allowing them to cross my Punjab! They have conquered half of India, and yet we have made fools of them, making them wait for my permission, making the Governor-General dance like a black bear on a chain! What a tamasha tamasha, what a show this has been!"

The Faqeer nodded. "Maharaj, you are indeed a master of delay."

The Maharajah was beaming. "Winter is tightening its grip on the pa.s.ses, but why should we concern ourselves? Let the Governor General's English soldiers and his Maharattas and his Bengalis suffer on the way to Kabul. Let their army grow weak." His expression hardened. "That weakness can only benefit us, who wait for the moment when the English will turn that same army against us. These English dream of conquering Central Asia, but one day they will see that my Punjab is the greater prize."

The Faqeer laid a tender hand on the royal knee. "Come, Maharaj," he crooned. "It is cold here. We will go to your room, where it is warmer, and talk more about the British."

The old man rose obediently, took his Chief Minister's arm, and began to shuffie, wheezing a little, in the direction of his private quarters. As he did so, the Faqeer bent and spoke into his ear. "The girl," he said softly. "Let us plan what we will do about the British girl."

The Maharajah straightened. "Yes, Aziz," he whispered back, clapping his hands, his face suddenly younger. "Ah, yes, there is much to be planned."

He gripped the Faqeer's arm. "What do you suppose the English will do when I make my announcement about the girl? I will let them think it is a condition for my signing the treaty. That will be a great show, yes, a very great show!"

As they rounded the corner into his private courtyard, the Maharajah nodded happily into his Chief Minister's face, the loose end of his turban fiuttering behind him like a tiny battle fiag.

SERVANTS scuttled to and fro across Shaikh Waliullah's courtyard, careful not to disturb the Shaikh on his platform. In a corner, a piebald cat sniffed at a bush. Distant clattering and the sound of children's voices echoed from other parts of the haveli.

The Shaikh smiled at Ha.s.san. "I am glad, my dear son, that you were able to come so quickly last night. It must have been delicious to hold Saboor in your arms again, Allah be praised."

Sitting beside Ha.s.san, Yusuf was listening to the slow groan of the water wheel on the roof. He always felt clumsy in the presence of the Shaikh. This peaceful courtyard was not his place. The men who sat silently here, moving only their eyes, were not his people. How much happier he would be galloping with Ha.s.san across the ground outside the city, shouting aloud, celebrating Saboor's return!

Ha.s.san was, of course, in no hurry to leave his home. Moving from man to man, he had greeted each of his father's companions with respectful grace. Why not? He was Shaikh Waliullah's son, the grandson of the renowned Shaikh 'Abd Dhul Jalali Wal'Ikram. Descended from great men, Ha.s.san too would one day be great, for all his perfumes and expensive clothes. Yusuf was certain of that.

"Yusuf," the Shaikh said in his pleasant voice, as if reading Yusuf's mind, "wait a little. You will gallop your horse soon enough."

Yusuf lowered his eyes.

"I have called you here, Ha.s.san, to tell you something of great importance," the Shaikh said, then paused.

Yusuf realized that he had never seen the Shaikh look so tired, or perhaps so sad. The old man's embroidered skullcap lay askew on his head. His back, usually as straight as a staff, curved forward as he studied his son.

"In my letter to you," he continued carefully, "I wrote that events pointed to Saboor's rescue by an unknown outsider."

The other men's eyes fiickered. Although the Shaikh had not addressed him, Yusuf nodded. How could he forget that well-thumbed letter? "As Shafi Sahib is rarely wrong, I believe you may comfort yourself with this news."

"The first event occurred soon after Mumtaz Bano was poisoned," the Shaikh said. "A man named Yar Mohammad came to us from the British camp. He described a vision he had seen, in which a female lion rescued a child from grave danger. We believed the child to be Saboor, but we were unable to identify his rescuer until Shafi Sahib received a message indicating that the lioness was an Englishwoman, a translator attached to the British Governor-General's camp. Even then, we could not tell when the rescue would take place."

Visions, messages-Yusuf's knee began to jog.

"Yusuf," said the Shaikh without looking at him, "you should listen. You have much to learn." He pushed his cap farther aside and scratched his head. "For many days, Ha.s.san, we waited and prayed. We prayed when we heard the news that Saboor had disappeared from the Maharajah's camp. We prayed until last night when, as Yar Mohammad had foreseen and Shafi Sahib had predicted, the young English translator came, at much risk to herself, and delivered Saboor to us."

An Englishwoman-Yusuf twitched on his reed stool. After so many hopes and expectations, how was it that a woman, not he, had made this rescue?

"Now, my dear son," the Shaikh was saying, "we are faced with a serious problem for which there is only one solution."

No one moved. Perhaps it was the Shaikh's somber tone that brought silence to the courtyard. Except for the rattle and hum of the city outside the haveli walls, not a sound came from anywhere. Even the cat had vanished.

The Shaikh surveyed his audience. "Yar Mohammad's dream did not end after the lioness rescued the baby," he went on, speaking into the silence around his platform. "Having carried the child from danger, the lioness waited, standing over him, and when a second danger loomed, she lifted him in her jaws and moved away, out of Yar Mohammad's sight.

"According to Shafi Sahib and others," the Shaikh concluded gravely, "this signifies that the guardian is to remain with Saboor to protect him, perhaps for a long time, until he is grown."

The sky was white. Distant birds circled far above Yusuf's head. A woman woman to protect Saboor? Perhaps Shaikh Waliullah was so old and tired he had lost his reason. And why tell this long story? Why did he not come to the point, he who always told even the bitterest truth without hesitation? He glanced at Ha.s.san, who was staring at the tiles between his feet. to protect Saboor? Perhaps Shaikh Waliullah was so old and tired he had lost his reason. And why tell this long story? Why did he not come to the point, he who always told even the bitterest truth without hesitation? He glanced at Ha.s.san, who was staring at the tiles between his feet.

"Ha.s.san," the Shaikh said, finally, "I cannot know the depth of your grief over poor little Mumtaz Bano. But whatever your suffering, you must act to protect Saboor from further dangers. You must marry the foreign woman who has rescued him."

Mariana sat outside her tent, her back to the sun, her hair spread in a damp cascade over the back of her chair. Where, she wondered, was Saboor now?

Perhaps, at this moment, he was playing with his cousins in the upstairs room where she had spent the hours before yesterday's dawn, his high, chirping laugh echoing down into his grandfather's courtyard.

Did he miss her? He must.

She fiuffed out her curls. Newly washed, they would never remain in a smooth knot this evening at the Maharajah's dinner.

The whole story of Saboor was a tantalizing mystery. Why had he chosen her her to rescue him? Why did she love him so? He was a native baby, after all, one of thousands and thousands of native babies, and yet when he curled his little toes, or peered at her over his thumb, she could barely keep herself from s.n.a.t.c.hing him up and covering him with kisses from head to foot. to rescue him? Why did she love him so? He was a native baby, after all, one of thousands and thousands of native babies, and yet when he curled his little toes, or peered at her over his thumb, she could barely keep herself from s.n.a.t.c.hing him up and covering him with kisses from head to foot.

As she reached for her hairbrush, Dittoo approached. "Memsahib," he said, "a letter has been delivered to the main gate. It is for you." He held out a folded paper. "This letter," he declared, "is not from an English sahib."

He was right. The elegant script on the outside of the letter was not English.

She took it, frowning. "But who would write a letter to me in Urdu?"

The writing on the outside of the paper did not travel in neat lines across the page like an English letter, but in a curving diagonal that gave it a vaguely artistic appearance. She unfolded the page and bent over it, tucking her damp hair behind her ears.

"I pray that, G.o.d willing, your journey back to the British camp was safe and comfortable," it said. "Saboor's return has brought joy to us all, especially to his father and his maternal grandmother, who have suffered very much. You have shown a warm heart and great courage in undertaking Saboor's rescue, and we are most grateful."

How nice. It was a thank-you letter from Shaikh Waliullah.

In consideration of the fact that you are in India without your own family, it becomes difficult to arrange matters of importance concerning your future. However, the proposal we wish to make can most probably be brought to the senior sister of your Governor-General.We have seen the love you hold for our Saboor, and we recognize that it is in his best interest to remain near you, but in order to ensure your continued, kind presence, we must observe the proper formalities.Ladies of my family will therefore approach the elder of the Governor-General's sisters tomorrow, to propose your marriage to my son Ha.s.san.

The letter fioated from Mariana's fingers to the ground, its remaining lines unread.

Dittoo stared at the paper lying in the dust. "What is wrong, Memsahib? Have you had bad news? Is Saboor Baba ill?" Unable to reply, she rose and swept past him into her tent, imagining the son, a younger version of the Shaikh, his ears jutting like his father's from under a tall headdress, while behind him a caricature of the Shaikh gave a suggestive wink.

Lieutenant Marks's words echoed in her head. "The native in question has instantly overstepped the bounds of propriety and become unpleasantly familiar, even intimate-"

This was so damaging. What would everyone think when a troop of native ladies arrived to ask for her hand in marriage? What had she done What had she done?

Someone had come. As she turned, her teacher stepped into the tent, the Shaikh's letter in his hand. "Bibi," he said, after greeting her, "I found this lying on the ground."

"I know, Munshi Sahib." Refusing to look at the letter, she raised her chin. "Please read it."

While she waited, her heart thumping, he opened the page unhurriedly and ran his eyes over the words on the paper, then put it on her table and stepped backward, waiting.

She searched his face. Where was his sympathy? "Munshi Sahib, what am I to do? Shaikh Waliullah wants me to marry his son! He wants to send his ladies to Miss Emily with the proposal!" She pressed her hands to her cheeks. "I must stop him, Munshi Sahib. Please help me write a letter that will make him stop!"

The munshi was silent for a moment. "If you wish, Bibi," he said finally, "I will help you to answer the Shaikh's letter. But I cannot do so today. You shall write your letter when I return tomorrow morning for our lesson."

Before she could say anything more, he excused himself and departed.

"I must say," Miss f.a.n.n.y confided that evening, as their elephant turned, swaying, onto the road from Shalimar to the Citadel and the Maharajah's banquet, "that I am very glad our elephant has a blue blue face." face."

She gripped the railing of the silver howdah with gloved fingers. "Do you not agree, Emily, that blue is a becoming color for an elephant?"

"I do, indeed," replied Miss Emily from the corner where she sat, half-hidden under several shawls.

Ahead of them, preceded by the honor guard, the Governor General, his own officials, and a native amba.s.sador sent by the Maharajah, rode on other decorated elephants, surrounded by a swarm of liveried minions and servants and the inevitable crowd of local children braving clouds of dust to see the spectacle.

In her own corner of the howdah, Mariana prayed that the ladies would exempt her from their conversation. She needed to think about the past eight days, of all the things that had happened in that time.

Saboor had come to her and stolen her heart. Three days later, after reluctantly returning him to his grandfather's haveli in the walled city, she had seen a case of poisonous snakebite completely cured completely cured. She had met a great mystic Shaikh, and then, only that very morning, had received a proposal of marriage from that same Shaikh for his son. Even more extraordinary, no English person knew about these events no English person knew about these events.

At least she was over her panic about the Shaikh's proposal. Tomorrow, she and Munshi would write him a polite refusal, which would reach him by tomorrow afternoon. There would be no need to worry about native ladies calling upon Miss Emily.

She yawned. Yesterday she had tried to write to her father and also to Uncle Adrian and Aunt Claire in Calcutta, but, her head bursting with events she could not disclose, had been unable to think of anything to say. Dear Papa must wait, although her letters to him, when she did did write them, would be sure to make up entirely for the gap in time. write them, would be sure to make up entirely for the gap in time.

"I am sorry that Mr. Macnaghten and Major Byrne have been made to ride that nasty sulfur yellow one," Miss f.a.n.n.y observed, nodding toward the elephant ahead of them, "but since Major Byrne has told me that the treaty is to be signed at last, I doubt if they would mind riding a donkey."

"I think," Miss Emily frowned down at the dancing throng of village boys, "that Macnaghten and Byrne would mind a donkey very much indeed." think," Miss Emily frowned down at the dancing throng of village boys, "that Macnaghten and Byrne would mind a donkey very much indeed."

Mariana turned to gaze behind them toward their camp at the fabled gardens of Shalimar. At the sound of the call to prayer, whose last echoes still fioated around them, the western sky had fiooded the lacy buildings of the gardens with rosy light, turning cascades and pools of water into the stuff of dreams.

Dreams. Fitzgerald was not not a dream. She would find a way to persuade him not to give up. a dream. She would find a way to persuade him not to give up.

"Emily," Miss f.a.n.n.y said suddenly, "I had forgotten the elephant fight. Was it dreadful?"

"It was unspeakable." Miss Emily shrank a little inside her wrappings; she tucked a maroon shawl with orange swirls more closely about her. "One of the mahouts was killed. He lay on the ground like a smashed doll, with his elephant standing over him, trumpeting. I believe the poor animal's heart was broken. I cannot bear talking about it."

While Miss f.a.n.n.y made sympathetic noises, Mariana peered ahead, searching among the bodyguard for a familiar uniformed back. What an irony it was that her much antic.i.p.ated proposal of marriage had come not from Fitzgerald but from a native....

Miss Emily's voice broke into her thoughts. "Mariana, since the treaty is to be signed, I am certain your Lieutenant Marks will declare himself quite soon."

Mariana could think of no appropriate reply.

A brilliant ma.s.s of stars had appeared by the time the Governor-General's party arrived at the towering picture wall of the Citadel.

High on the wall, tile figures of animals, birds, and warriors seemed to dance in the torchlight, while below, accompanied by a cavalry detachment in chain mail and silks, a cl.u.s.ter of the Maharajah's dignitaries waited on elephant-back to receive them.

As Mr. Macnaghten moved forward to meet Faqeer Azizuddin, whose own elephant wore a pair of enormous orange ta.s.sels, Miss Emily turned to Mariana.

"As you can see, my dear," she said innocently, "it will be just as we described it, a simple dinner with our Sikh friends."

After the usual interval, during which elephants and horses milled about and Major Byrne and Mr. Macnaghten exchanged effusive greetings with a smiling Faqeer Azizuddin, the elephants fell into line and the gleaming procession with Lord Auckland at its head made its way through a high, guarded pa.s.sageway leading to the narrow, protected gate of the Citadel.

"Good gracious! Look!" Miss Emily clutched her sister's arm. To their left, a broad stone staircase led upward, turning as it climbed, toward bright light and the distant rhythms of Oriental music.

Instead of stopping, the elephants were making straight for the shallow stairway-Lord Auckland's animal first, followed by the amba.s.sador's silver elephant, and then, its hindquarters swaying, the yellow elephant of Mr. Macnaghten and Major Byrne.