"She certainly did not look like the sort of girl who would throw herself at native men," Byrne said to Macnaghten under his breath, "but she must have been doing it all along. What an astounding thing, to announce to all of us and a hundred natives that she had secretly agreed to marry one of them!"

"To allow this 'marriage' to go forward would be indecency of the most virulent sort." Lord Auckland looked about him with reddened eyes. "And the worst of it is how helpless she has left us, after that brazen speech." He sighed bleakly. "And now that dirty, winking old Maharajah has invited us to the ceremony. Think how he is enjoying the prospect of our seeing her off to the consummation of her socalled 'marriage.'"

Byrne mopped his brow again. "But she has laid herself open to this," he pointed out.

Lord Auckland breathed deeply. "She has," he replied. "And now Ranjit Singh intends to celebrate her ruin, while we stand uselessly by. But he must not must not."

"Of course not, my lord." Gathering himself, Macnaghten spoke soothingly. "This whole display has already been in shocking taste. It must go no further."

Someone hiccuped. Macnaghten frowned. "The girl's behavior has been most unfortunate. Now we know her for what she is. She must, of course, pay for what she has done. But there is a way out. We will play for time. Tomorrow morning, I shall send word to Ranjit Singh that the girl has been taken ill in the night, and that the wedding must be put off until she has recovered. As soon as the treaty has been signed, we shall simply break the engagement and send her back to Calcutta. After all," he concluded, "the old man hasn't long to live. When he dies, all of this will be forgotten."

"And what," Lord Auckland inquired, glaring at the men around the table, "was that business about a letter? The Maharajah said he had sent us a letter three years ago three years ago, asking for a wife. No one told me anything about it. What happened to the letter?" His voice rose peevishly. "Why wasn't I told?"

Macnaghten shook his head. "I saw no such letter, my lord. Perhaps it never existed."

"Never existed? What do you mean, William? It is just the sort of thing that wretched old goat would do. Can't you see the opening we gave him? We might have lost everything over this business of an English wife. It is incompetence of this sort that causes the worst kind of trouble."

"If such a letter did come three years ago, whoever read it probably believed it was a joke," said a secretary thickly, "and threw it into the wastepaper basket."

In a corner of the tent, someone had doubled over.

"For G.o.d's sake, Fitzgerald," the Governor-General bellowed, turning in his seat, "get out of the dining tent if you're going to be sick. Think of breakfast, man."

"I can't think of breakfast, my lord," was all Harry Fitzgerald could manage before he stumbled away through the doorway.

Lord Auckland sighed. "It is time," he announced, "for us all to go to bed."

He rose from his seat and marched through the door, past the vomiting Fitzgerald, and with only a hint of unsteadiness, crossed the open s.p.a.ce to his tent.

Clattering sounds told Mariana that Dittoo had arrived with her morning coffee. Restive and awake until late in the night, she had finally slept, only to dream of endings and the loss of precious things.

"Memsahib," Dittoo asked as he dropped the tray noisily onto her bedside table, "when will you marry Saboor's father? When is the wedding to be?"

Mariana opened her eyes. Her brain felt like lead. "Don't talk nonsense, Dittoo." She groped beside the tray for her timepiece. "I cannot possibly marry Saboor's father. He's a native native."

Dittoo shrugged. "Memsahib, I have not wanted to say this before, but if Saboor's father wishes to marry you, then you should-"

"Dittoo, enough." It was six-fifteen. There was still time. She sat up and reached for her shawl. "Bring me my writing box," she said. "I have letters to write before breakfast. I shall write first to Miss Emily, explaining everything. Then I shall thank Shaikh Waliullah for his proposal, and tell him that I shall feign illness in order to avoid marrying his son-"

"But why avoid this good marriage, Memsahib? So many ladies would like to marry the son of Shaikh Waliullah." Dittoo shook his head as he put her inlaid writing box down on the table. "I am sorry to say this, but you are very old to be getting married. No Englishman has proposed for you yet, not even the tall one with fair hair who wears a blue coat."

Bent over to pull on her boots, Mariana winced. "I do not want your advice, Dittoo," she snapped.

When he had finally left, she sat at her table and took her pen and inkpot from the inlaid box. With a pang, she remembered the other officers avoiding Fitzgerald's eyes as the whispered translation of her speech fiew from mouth to mouth around the Maharajah's canopied enclosure.

Fitzgerald, too, believed she had ruined herself with a native man.

She reached for a sheet of paper. After writing to the Shaikh, she would explain everything to Miss Emily. To write the whole story of Saboor and his grandfather before breakfast would be difficult, but it must be done. Without Miss Emily's forgiveness, she could never show her face in the dining tent again. After that, if there were time, she would send a note to Fitzgerald. He loved her. He would understand.

As she dipped her pen into her inkpot, Dittoo reappeared. "Memsahib," he cried breathlessly, "the sentry is here. He says some ladies have come for you on an elephant. They say they want to prepare you for your marriage."

"Ladies? Elephant? Dittoo, how can that be? The wedding is not until the day after tomorrow. Someone has made a mistake. Besides, the Shaikh expects me to claim fever or some other illness, and to cancel the wedding. Why would he send an elephant for me today?"

Dittoo fiapped his hands toward the red wall. "I do not know, Memsahib, but an elephant is waiting on the avenue with ladies and an armed escort and many servants!"

As he went away to investigate, she shook her head, then bent again over her paper. "Dear Miss Emily, I fear that the events of last evening have given a most unfortunate impression-"

Dittoo returned almost instantly, more breathless than ever. "Memsahib," he puffed, "the sentry says the ladies are insisting you go with them at once. They say they have come a long distance and that already there is very little time to prepare you for the wedding. I have looked out through a tear in the wall, and what the sentry says is true. Are you sure you are not marrying Maharajah Ranjit Singh? The ladies' elephant is so-"

Mariana slammed down the lid of her writing box. "For heaven's sake, Dittoo," she shouted, "I am marrying no one!"

He looked so shocked that she changed her tone. "Please, Dittoo, go and find Mr. Macnaghten. Tell him that Shaikh Waliullah has sent an elephant for me. Say I must speak to him."

After Dittoo had shuffied hurriedly away, Mariana stepped outside. The compound was quiet, except for a few servants working near the kitchen tent. There was no sign of life at Lord Auckland's tent or at the tents of Miss Emily and Miss f.a.n.n.y.

Mariana crossed quickly to the red wall. After dinner, both Mr. Macnaghten and Major Byrne had looked at her as if she were the lowest form of dancing girl. But, surely, Mr. Macnaghten would respond, now, when she asked for his help.

She put one eye to her special tear in the wall. There they were, waiting on the avenue just as Dittoo had described them-the lavishly decorated elephant with a curtained howdah, the liveried servants, the fierce-looking escort.

Up and down the avenue, the tents of the government secretaries lay silent, shrouded in the cold mist of morning. She felt a stab of panic. "Please be awake, Mr. Macnaghten," she whispered as Dittoo appeared on the avenue, hastening toward the political secretary's tent. "Please."

But Mr. Macnaghten was not awake, and the little servant who sat shivering beside his door was, Dittoo reported moments later, under the strictest orders never to awaken him unless the Governor-General wanted to see him.

"The ladies," Dittoo announced, rubbing his hands together, "are saying you must hurry, Memsahib."

"Perhaps the Shaikh wishes only to speak to me about the wedding," she said as Dittoo followed her back to her tent. She pushed aside the blind and stood uncertainly inside the doorway. "After all, it must be canceled as gracefully as possible."

The Shaikh. For all her uneasiness at leaving camp on a strange elephant, Mariana looked forward to meeting Shaikh Waliullah again. She had seen him only once, by torchlight, and yet she could still feel his powerful gaze upon her.

Someone else was at the Shaikh's house, someone she would give anything to see. "You will meet Saboor again," the Shaikh had told her as the dawn light crept into his courtyard.

"Dittoo," she ordered, debating no longer. "hand me my blue-andwhite gown. I am leaving with those ladies for the house of Shaikh Waliullah. I shall return by ten o'clock. If anyone asks for me, tell them I am ill, and am having breakfast in my tent."

Instead of writing a long letter to Miss Emily now, she would simply send a note asking to call on her in the afternoon while the men were away signing the treaty. That was a far more sensible plan. Her explanations would surely sound better when given in person.

THE elephant knelt down to receive her, the velvet curtain of its enclosed howdah jerking and swaying. Like someone in a dream, Mariana watched herself scramble up the ladder, over the railing, and through the parted curtains.

Three ladies sat upright inside, facing one another on red velvet cushions. One, an attractive woman of indeterminate age with oddly black hair and many rings on her fingers, greeted Mariana kindly in Urdu and pointed to the empty seat opposite hers. The woman's neighbor, a plain female with pockmarks and large features, stared at Mariana without blinking. A slender, sullen-faced girl with an enormous pearl and ruby ta.s.sel hanging from her nose ring gazed out at the sliver of avenue visible between the curtains, without acknowledging Mariana's arrival.

Where was Safiya Sultana, the Shaikh's deep-voiced sister?

Mariana sat down, arranged her skirts about her feet, and put a hand to her hastily pinned-up hair. The woman with black hair had painted her eyes, perhaps even her lips. Between her rings, her fingers were stained with an intricate pattern that resembled brown lace.

"When," asked Mariana as the elephant lurched to its feet, "will we reach Shaikh Waliullah's house?"

"Shaikh Waliullah's house?" The three women stared.

"No, no, daughter." The black-haired woman leaned across and patted Mariana's knee. "We cannot take you to the Shaikh's house. His is the house of the bridegroom. We are taking you to the Citadel to prepare you for your marriage."

"No." Mariana shook her head. "I am going to call on Shaikh Waliullah in the walled city."

"You are not." The pockmarked woman spoke with finality. "This is the Maharajah's elephant, and you are going to his Citadel."

The Citadel? Mariana's hand fiew to her mouth. "No!"

"Yes, of course." The black-haired woman smiled and smoothed back her hair with a practiced gesture. "From now on, we are your family. It is we who will make you beautiful for your wedding."

Mariana jumped to her feet as the elephant started to move. "No," she cried, clutching a curtain for balance, "there has been a mistake. I cannot go to the Citadel. I want to get down! Please let me down-"

The three women leaned away from her, their arms raised in selfprotection. "Sit down," ordered the black-haired one. "You will fall."

"But you do not understand. You must stop the elephant. I must get down. There is to be no marriage. It is all a mistake!"

Gripping a handful of blue-and-white silk, the heavy-faced woman tugged sharply downward, bringing Mariana back to her velvet cushion with a thump.

The sullen-faced girl turned from the gap in the curtains, her nose ornament swinging like a pendulum. Her pretty lip curled. "There is no mistake. No mistake at all. The Maharajah has given his hukm hukm- his royal order-that you are to be prepared for your wedding tomorrow by his own ladies. What mistake can there be?" Her tone had an unpleasant edge.

"Quite right, Saat," nodded the black-haired woman.

"No!" Fright edging away conscious thought, Mariana shot to her feet again. "I demand demand to get down," she shouted in a high voice that sounded like someone else's. She reached for a handhold, missed, and staggered against an upright pole hidden among the curtains. Again she was tugged downward, but this time the black-haired woman swung her open hand at Mariana's face. to get down," she shouted in a high voice that sounded like someone else's. She reached for a handhold, missed, and staggered against an upright pole hidden among the curtains. Again she was tugged downward, but this time the black-haired woman swung her open hand at Mariana's face.

The woman's slap printed each of her beringed fingers on Mariana's cheek. "Sit down," she rasped, "before you injure one of us."

Mariana subsided in her seat, tears of shock wetting the burning place on her cheek. What a fool she was! How many times had she been warned of the dangers of her impulsive behavior? Even the soothsayers had told her to be careful. She should have known this was not Shaikh Waliullah's elephant. Only a queen would have such a heavily decorated animal, or such a large retinue of servants.

What a reckless fool she had been to get into the howdah!

But she must not panic now. Surely there would be a way for her to get out of the Citadel once they had arrived.

The Maharajah had given a royal order. What did that mean? Perhaps there was to be no wedding. Perhaps the old king knew the truth about Saboor's disappearance and intended to punish her in some even worse way for her involvement in it.

The howdah was stifiing. Perspiration trickled down her neck. Were these the same queens who had murdered Saboor's poor mother? Had they been ordered to punish her? If so, what would they do? Would they beat her, starve her, torment her as they had tormented Saboor?

She had told Dittoo to lie about her leaving. No one else knew where she was No one else knew where she was.

Swaying on her cushion in rhythm with the queens, Mariana raised her chin and hid her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt while the elephant, accompanied by the Maharajah's servants and his armed hors.e.m.e.n, moved ceremoniously down the avenue. Whatever happened, she would do as Uncle Adrian had instructed her-she would remember who she was.

Through the gap in the moving curtains, she caught glimpses of the red compound wall, of Major Byrne's silent tent, more tents along the avenue, the horse lines, and then the flat, dusty landscape.

I will willnottake off my gown." Mariana's voice seemed to come from somewhere else in the room. "I will not take off my gown, and I will not not wear those," she declared, drawing herself up and pointing to the mustard-colored satin clothes the black-haired queen held out to her. "And I demand to see Faqeer Azizuddin." wear those," she declared, drawing herself up and pointing to the mustard-colored satin clothes the black-haired queen held out to her. "And I demand to see Faqeer Azizuddin."

The queens stared. "Are you mad?" The black-haired queen's painted eyebrows rose. "Who are you you to be meeting the Chief Minister? Charan, Vijaya," she called, "she wants to meet Faqeer Azizuddin!" to be meeting the Chief Minister? Charan, Vijaya," she called, "she wants to meet Faqeer Azizuddin!"

Mariana stiffened as the heavy-faced woman from the elephant and a thin one with frizzy hair nudged each other.

"Where do you wish to meet him?" The frizzy one moved forward, derision in her eyes. "Will it be here at the Jasmine Tower, where no outsider comes? Or will you sit among his male visitors at his own house in the city?"

"She will do as she is told." The first queen turned to the heavyfaced woman. "Hai, Charan," she complained, "why must I I be in charge of this foreigner? Why do these things always fall to me, while the others enjoy themselves, having their hair oiled and their legs ma.s.saged?" be in charge of this foreigner? Why do these things always fall to me, while the others enjoy themselves, having their hair oiled and their legs ma.s.saged?"

Charan plucked a small green triangular packet from a tray. "I tell you, Moran, I never believed that story of the Maharajah wanting to marry her." She stuffed the packet into her mouth and chewed noisily on something that spilled red dye over her teeth. "He would never," she said with her mouth full, "marry one of these unclean women."

"Nonsense," snapped the black-haired queen. "Everyone knows he has been trying for years to get a European wife." She turned to Mariana. "Take that blue-and-white thing off."

"And if I refuse?" Mariana's cheek still burned where the queen called Moran had slapped her. Why did they want her to take off her clothes? Where exactly was she in this warren of tower rooms? Surely the low door by which she had entered was not the only way out of this sinister place?

The women looked at one another.

Moran gave a noisy sigh. "We will send for the eunuchs and have them undress you. We will enjoy that." Her smile showed a row of perfectly white teeth.

Mariana swallowed. "And if I do put these clothes on, what will you do then?"

"Then we will turn you into a beautiful bride."

"Who is she to marry? Who is the boy?" demanded a harsh-faced woman.

"The son of Shaikh Waliullah," Moran replied curtly.

"Oh, yes, of course," said the woman, "the one whose wife was poi-"

Mariana watched the woman redden and subside into silence under Moran's terrible stare. A part of her fear had subsided. If the queens knew she had stolen Saboor, they would have said so by now. So they had not brought her here to be tortured, only to be married.

The heavy-faced Charan turned humorless eyes on Mariana. "She will never make a beautiful bride," she declared. "She is too old. Her hair is a mess."

"She will be good enough." Moran turned to Mariana once more. "And now, will you take those things off, or shall I call the eunuchs?"

"WE should not do it now, Moran. It is too late."

Dressed in the long mustard trousers and shirt Moran had given her, Mariana sat on a bed while the black-haired queen and a stranger in red stood gazing down at her, their voices echoing in the little room. Her stays and chemise, her stockings and gown, her boots and her bonnet had all vanished, whisked off by a servant to some unknown place. She tried to read the women's faces.

An hour ago, compared to torture and death, marriage to a stranger had seemed a small price to pay for her impulsiveness. Now, as she watched the two women, unsure what they wanted of her, Mariana wondered whether the price was as small as she had thought.

"It will not heal in time. Her nose will be red and swollen tomorrow. It will look ugly." The woman in red was tall. Her eyebrows had been reduced to two thin, arched lines.

"Do not be foolish, Vijaya," replied Moran. "Where are we to put the n'hut n'hut if she is not pierced?" She snorted delicately. "How can she be a bride without a nose ring? There will be no swelling. I am putting a neem twig in the wound." if she is not pierced?" She snorted delicately. "How can she be a bride without a nose ring? There will be no swelling. I am putting a neem twig in the wound."

"Wound? Nose ring?" Mariana started up from the bed, but was immediately pushed down again. As she struggled, other women appeared, and more hands held her down. She fought an arm free and struck out blindly, catching someone's breast. She heard a grunt of pain above the tangle of restraining arms.

Moran gave a sharp order, and in an instant, two men appeared. "Do you want me to hold her head?" asked one in a high, smoky voice.

A pair of hands near Mariana's face worked on the end of a length of gold wire, filing it to a point. She shut her eyes against a sudden light. A powerful hand pressed down on her forehead. Someone had taken a threatening grip on her neck.