Yusuf stared into the fiames. It was now clear that the Englishwoman's bold action in taking Saboor from the Golden Temple had not been accidental. She might be shockingly behaved, but she had courage. Like a wild animal, this woman would kill to protect those she loved.

He called for another quilt. Still, he thought as he stretched out, his head on the bolster, it seemed impossible that the honor of guarding the child Saboor had fallen not to him, Ha.s.san's soldier friend, but to this uncivilized female.

"Foreigners," he said softly, shaking his head. "Foreigners."

"GET up!"

Something b.u.mped against the string bed, tugging Mariana from sleep. "You must get up." The voice above her was urgent. "Something has happened."

Except for the starlight that shone in through the open doorway, the tent was pitch-dark. "Go away," she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. "Leave me."

Ha.s.san sat down on the edge of the bed, pinning her beneath the quilt. "Listen," he said, his words almost too rapid to understand. "Two strangers from Lah.o.r.e have been asking for my camp. A villager overheard them talk of stealing a child. He says they are dangerous-looking men. He has come to ask for our protection for his own children, but it is not a village child they want. It is Saboor."

Awake now, Mariana stiffened under her quilt. "How can that be? No one knows he is here. Everyone thinks he's at Qamar Haveli, ill with smallpox."

"Not everyone," Ha.s.san said harshly. "Why else would child thieves be looking for this place?"

She pulled her arms from the covers, then crossed them hastily over her chest to avoid touching him. "But why worry when your camp is full of armed men?"

She felt his eyes on her in the dark. "Child stealers hide during the day and work at night. They are silent and dangerous. You must take Saboor tonight. To the British camp," he added after a pause.

"The British camp?" She felt a rush of hope. "To stay? For how long?"

He turned away from her, toward the starlit doorway. "I don't know. If these child thieves fail, more will come. As long as the Maharajah lives, they will come."

She remembered him weeping silently beside her near the howitzers on the first day of the durbar.

Ha.s.san leaned across her body. "My son," he said softly, "is more precious to me than my own life."

His face was near her breast. His tense weight and the burnt scent of his skin were making her dizzy. "Do not fear," she heard herself say, as she put a hand carefully on his embroidered sleeve. "I will take Saboor to the British camp."

He sat up and gripped her shoulders, his beautiful fingers tight on her bones. "Go now, before the child thieves come. Take Saboor across the Sutlej, to British territory. Hide him even there, especially when the camp is moving. Do you understand?"

His face was now very close to hers. She took a ragged breath, then nodded.

He stood, and started for the door. Mariana found her slippers and followed him in her tarnished silks, his tobacco-scented shawl over her shoulders. Outside, the ground was lit by a bright moon. Holding her back with an outstretched arm, Ha.s.san gave an order, then moved off to fetch Saboor.

Soldiers and servants stood at attention, their backs to her. Even the bearers squatting beside the Shaikh's palanquin had turned away. She recognized the silent, shadowy figure by the doorway as Yar Mohammad.

"I will try to visit you," Ha.s.san told her when he reappeared a moment later. "And," he added, as he put Saboor into her arms, "this time, you will have a proper escort, so there will be no need for you to be attacking highwaymen with sticks and branches."

He made a sound that could have been a laugh. She could not read his face. "Go," he said to the bearers.

THE fire outside Ha.s.san's tent had long been cold by the time Jagoo and the ruddy-faced boy arrived. It was nearly dawn. Motionless, the boy strained his eyes in the darkness, waiting for Jagoo to return from his work.

He winced as an icy hand clamped his neck. Jagoo pointed silently toward the clearing where they had set their own small fire.

Jagoo's hands shook from cold as he lit the fire. A rancid smell came from him. His clothes bore fresh grease stains. He raised his lifeless eyes to the boy's. "The child is not there. Nor is the woman."

For the boy, any failure was painful, no matter who was to blame. He tensed his shoulders against a blow.

But Jagoo moved closer to the fiames, instead. "When I did not find him with his father," he said, rubbing his arms, "I searched the tent." He drew back his lips and pointed through the scrub trees. "Go now, and see if the child sleeps with the servants."

Reluctantly, the boy stood, pulling his ragged shawl over his shoulders. "And if the child is not in the camp?"

The fire sputtered. "We will find him." Jagoo spoke without looking up. "Not tomorrow, but soon. We know where the father is. That is all we need to know."

"All we need to know? Why?"

Jagoo spat into the fiames. "You ask too many questions. Go. If the child is not here, I will leave in the morning. While I am gone, you will watch for anyone leaving this camp."

Without another word, he stretched out on the ground and closed his eyes.

What will you tell your friends now?" Mariana asked, an hour before dawn, as Dittoo, smiles wreathing his face, reached into the palanquin for Saboor. "You did say, after all, that you had sold him to Sirosh, the tailor."

"I will tell them, Begum Sahib, that Baba cried all the time and annoyed Sirosh's wife." Dittoo's grin broadened as Saboor reached up to pat his face. "I will say Sirosh forced me to take Baba back and return his money. My friends will not question me-they will only call me a fool."

"Be careful," Mariana cautioned as Dittoo set off toward the line of servants' cooking fires, Saboor under his arm.

She sat up and swung her feet out to the ground. Dittoo had called her Begum Sahib, a salutation reserved for married women. She had never seen him so happy. Was he happy for Saboor, or for her?

AT one o'clock that afternoon, she stood in the middle of her tent, fumbling her way into one of her gowns.

Having arrived well after midnight, she had then marched with the camp at 6:00 A.M., which had given her reason enough to sleep through breakfast. But now, as much as she dreaded it, she must go to lunch. She could no longer put off meeting the camp.

She bent stiffiy, her stays biting into her, to tie her boots. Last night, with Saboor beside her in the palanquin, she had dreamed that she had stolen him from the Maharajah only moments before. In her dream she had regarded her future with a fearless calm. If she could only bottle that feeling of calm, she would take a spoonful of it every morning.

Her skirts smoothed, her bonnet tied, she stepped from her doorway and started resolutely toward the dining tent. It would be all right. Whatever they might say in private, the Eden ladies would never be unpleasant to her in public. She, on her part, would be civil, even though she had vowed never to speak to them again, after they refused to rescue her from her wedding.

"Miss Givens, how delightful to see you!" The White Rabbit did not look as delighted as he tried to sound. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, as he straightened from his bow. "May I escort you to the dining tent?" He offered her his arm.

Government officers murmured and elbowed one another as Mariana approached the dining table. When the Rabbit pulled out her chair, Major Byrne stood abruptly and stalked out, his exit punctuated by a quiet but distinct honk.

Seated near one end of the table, Mariana surveyed the company with growing unease. Dr. Drummond was there, and Lord Auckland; but of Miss Emily and Miss f.a.n.n.y there was no sign.

A few empty seats from her, Dr. Drummond glanced in her direction without meeting her eyes. "It is a pity," he declared, "that the Eden ladies are both so unwell with coughs and fevers."

Unwell! So she, the pariah, was to be the only woman at table. Who knew how all these men would behave without the Eden sisters? Mariana searched the faces around her. Eyes moved rapidly away from hers.

A servant offered her a platter. Thankful for something to do, she helped herself to a mutton chop. What a pack of cowards these people were!

At the head of the table, Lord Auckland cleared his throat noisily. "Would you mind, Miss Givens," he said, addressing her at last, speaking through his nose, "wearing a pair of gloves the next time you come to a meal? I am finding it difficult to enjoy my lunch in the presence of such dirty hands."

Mariana looked down at her hands. The delicate tracery from her wedding was still there, now faded to an unpleasant yellow, incongruous against the lace edging on her sleeves. She had forgotten all about it.

Someone sn.i.g.g.e.red.

Her chop turned to poison, Mariana dabbed her mouth with a faded napkin. "Certainly, Lord Auckland," she said clearly, before pushing back her chair.

Fury made her strong. In one motion, she rose to her feet and swept from the tent, her chin high.

YUSUF stretched his legs on the carpet, careful to avoid knocking over the dishes from their afternoon meal. He raised a greasy hand. "Ha.s.san, your cook has been resourceful, as always. I have eaten too much." A compliment often solicited the truth.

His curiosity about the lady wanted satisfying. He took an orange. "At least Saboor is safe," he continued. "It seems," he added carefully, spitting orange seeds into his hand, "that some of these foreigners have good hearts."

Beside him, Ha.s.san stared southward, toward the Sutlej River. "Yes," he replied absently, "some of them have good hearts." He sat upright. "Yusuf, I must visit my son."

Ha.s.san had seen his son only last night. Yusuf swallowed a mouthful of orange. "Well, then," he answered, "go today. By tomorrow the English and their camp will have crossed the Sutlej. Twenty miles is already a long return when your negotiations with the Kasuris succeed. After all, you have those people in a tight noose."

Hands outstretched over a water basin, Ha.s.san nodded to his servant. "What do I care for the Kasuris and their treasure?" He shook water from his fingers. "Saboor may spend months in the British camp. He has already suffered at the hands of strangers. I must see for myself that he is comfortable and safe."

Yusuf nodded. He might be a soldier, but he was not stupid. Ha.s.san clearly wished to see his new wife again, although he would never say so. Safe the child would certainly be, with that wild woman for company. As far as his comfort, a child could grow accustomed to anything. He, Yusuf, certainly had, raised in the cold of Kashmir by two uncles and a grandfather, with his mother dead and his father away, serving in the Maharajah's army.

"I am leaving now," Ha.s.san was saying. "If Allah wills, I will enter the British camp by nightfall. If I find my baby comfortable and safe, I will bid him G.o.dspeed and return here."

Yusuf rubbed his face and repressed a sigh. "Be careful, my friend. Stay off the roads. If someone follows, you will lead him straight to your son."

"No one will follow me," Ha.s.san replied, glancing sideways at Yusuf, "if I'm wearing your clothes and riding your horse."

Yusuf gave a snorting laugh. "And if you wear my clothes and ride my horse, then whose clothes am I to wear, and which horse am I to ride when I accompany you?"

Smiling at last, Ha.s.san reached out and gripped Yusuf's outstretched hand.

AN hour later, the sun had dropped behind the branches of a dusty tree. Under the tree, Jagoo, the ruddy-faced boy, and a gaunt stranger with matted hair bent over a jumble of hoofand footprints in the cracked soil.

The stranger straightened and squinted into the distance. "And these are the tracks you want me to follow?"

Jagoo turned his dead gaze on the boy, who nodded. "Yes," the boy told the stranger. "This is where the two men mounted before they rode away." He pointed south, in the direction of the river.

"Well?" Jagoo turned to the stranger. "Can you track them?"

"Of course," replied the stranger. "I can track a stolen cow through the walled city of Lah.o.r.e. I told you that. There is no one in this area who can follow tracks as I can."

While Jagoo watched, the tracker squatted over the prints again. "I can tell you this," he said, looking up. "There are two riders. Both are gentlemen. Their shoes are not patched, and their footprints are regular. They are no low-caste people accustomed to carrying heavy loads. The first one has a slim foot. He is thinner than his friend, who is heavy. The heavy man's right foot turns in. As to the horses, one has a small cleft in its right rear hoof, and the other has a variation in its gait, tending to advance sideways from time to time."

Trailed by the ruddy-faced boy, Jagoo and the tracker walked rapidly away toward the southeast, their eyes on the ground, their unclean cotton garments fiowing smoothly around them.

Just before sunset, Ha.s.san and Yusuf reined in their horses. Ha.s.san stared ahead, a hand shading his eyes, then nudged his mare close to Yusuf's. "There," he said, pointing to a horizontal cloud of smoke and dust that lay over the flat line of the horizon.

Both men were armed. Ha.s.san's pistol was serviceable, but his sword was better for show than for fighting. Yusuf had his own pistol, his triangular-bladed dagger with the hunting hawk carved into its blade, and a heavy curved sword hanging at his side. If it came to a fight, he preferred hand to hand.

Ha.s.san breathed deeply as they kicked their horses and moved off again.

"First we will find Shafi Sahib," he said, "and then I will see my son."

"AND so," Ha.s.san said politely, after they had found Shafi Sahib's tent and been invited inside, "I have come to a.s.sure myself of Saboor's safety."

Ha.s.san, who had begun speaking as soon as he entered the tent, was still standing before the string bed with its elderly occupant. Behind him, Yusuf kept his eyes from the empty bed against one canvas wall.

Shafi Sahib read his thoughts. "Ahmad, Saboor's servant, has gone out," he said. "He is recovering very well from his wound."

For all his toughness, Yusuf could not help wincing at the thought of what the man had suffered.

When his servant boy entered, dragging a canvas chair, Shafi Sahib got up from his bed and sat in the chair. "It will be difficult," he told Ha.s.san gently, "for you to enter the compound openly. Unfortunately, you are not welcome there."

He crossed his legs and reached for his beads as his two visitors lowered themselves to the string bed.

Ha.s.san stiffened. "Why, Shafi Sahib?"

"I fear," answered the old man, "that the English people have been gravely displeased by your marriage." He pressed his lips together. "They do not look upon us as their equals.

"Your wife," he went on, ignoring Yusuf's snort, "may be suffering as a result, although her suffering will not affect Saboor. The English are unaware of his presence here." He raised his chin, warning Yusuf not to speak. "In any case, it is not anyone's feelings that would keep you from entering the Governor-General's compound by ordinary means. It is the two well-armed sentries who are forbidden to allow strangers past the gate."

"What then?" Ha.s.san's voice had flattened. "Must we kill both sentries before I may see my child again?"

"Oh, no, my boy, that will not be necessary." Shafi Sahib leaned back in his chair. His beads clicked softly. He turned to Yusuf. "If you will give us permission?" he said politely, his eyes straying to the door.

It took Yusuf a moment to understand that Shafi Sahib wanted to speak to Ha.s.san alone. Then, wondering whether Ha.s.san was about to learn one of the Shaikh's spiritual tricks, Yusuf pushed himself hurriedly to his feet and with apologies left the tent.

THE tracker stood, bent double, over the dust of the avenue. "It's too dark," he reported, straightening. "I cannot see the hoofprints any longer. As soon as it is light we will return and continue from here." He pointed to where smoke rose from a ramshackle bazaar, just visible beyond the avenue's end. "I am going to get food."

The ruddy-faced boy shrugged. "The child isn't in this camp. We have been here already. We-"

"Quiet!" barked Jagoo. "And what if the horses are there now?" He jerked his chin toward the horse lines. "Among so many other mounts, how will you find their tracks tomorrow?"

The tracker smiled, cracked teeth large in his gaunt face. "You do not know my skill." His tone held confidence, but his eyes had become wary.

The three men were crossing the avenue when two riders came into view, pa.s.sing among pack animals and groups of coolies, a tall groom on foot beside them.

The tracker started, then s.n.a.t.c.hed at Jagoo's shirt. "Look!" he hissed.

One of the hors.e.m.e.n turned in his saddle to glance at them, a hand on his sword. "One man is slim, the other heavy," the tracker murmured to his companions as the two riders continued down the avenue. "Both are gentlemen. One horse likes to move sideways from time to time. They are now with a groom, but that is the only difference."

Signaling the others to follow, he crossed the avenue.

The avenue was broad and crowded. The air held the scent of charcoal fires and cooking. A bullock cart heaped with firewood pa.s.sed, led by a boy singing at the top of his voice. Laughing groups of young men pushed one another. Englishmen strode past carrying carved wooden walking sticks, lips pursed, their black clothes smudged with dust.

The two hors.e.m.e.n and the groom continued along the avenue until they reached the same high, red canvas wall where Jagoo and his companion had waited fruitlessly only four days previously.

His eyes on the riders, the tracker strode along the margin of the avenue, followed by Jagoo and the boy. When the hors.e.m.e.n stopped at the guarded entrance, the three men faded into the blackness beside the wall.