A Singular Hostage Part 16

The moon sent a faint silver light onto the Maharajah's yellow shawl tent and the tall palanquin of colored gla.s.s that stood empty before its entrance. Guards spoke quietly among themselves as Faqeer Azizuddin walked Maharajah Ranjit Singh up and down, an arm protectively about the old man's shoulders.

Yusuf glanced at Ha.s.san as their camel caravan approached. Something was indeed very wrong. It must be true, the frightening news they had heard upon reaching the Maharajah's camp.

"Yes, Saboor is is missing." Ha.s.san's voice sounded flat, as if all his feeling had been lost, along with his son. "But why, Yusuf? Who would steal my son from the Maharajah?" missing." Ha.s.san's voice sounded flat, as if all his feeling had been lost, along with his son. "But why, Yusuf? Who would steal my son from the Maharajah?"

"Do not fear, Ha.s.san." Yusuf reached out a steadying hand as they halted before the yellow tent. With news this bad, he must think for them both. "Saboor will be found. Remember your father's letter."

"Where is Saboor?" Even before they dismounted, the Maharajah pushed his Chief Minister aside and hurried toward them. "Where is my little pearl?" he cried. "What have you done with him, Ha.s.san, you and your magician father?"

Before Ha.s.san could reply, the Faqeer seized the old man by the elbow and guided him back toward the tent. "Come, Maharaj," he soothed, throwing Ha.s.san and Yusuf a warning glance. "Speak to Ha.s.san inside. You must rest now."

Once inside the tent, Yusuf watched Ha.s.san as he approached the Maharajah's bedside. "Maharaj," Ha.s.san began, standing beside his king, his eyes on the carpet, "I arrived from Kasur only this evening, while you were at the Golden Temple. I came to bring you the first part of-"

"What do I care for gold and riches?" The old voice trembled. "All that matters to me is my Saboor."

Yusuf sweated at his post near the door. At least the guard had not disarmed them; they were not under arrest. But all those days and nights in Kasur-the discussions, the warnings, the flattery, all Ha.s.san's patient efforts to win the Maharajah's tax money, his prayers that the Maharajah would allow him to take Saboor home at last, his quiet anxiety on the journey here-all were for naught, or were they?

Had someone already rescued Saboor? If so, who had risked death and a king's anger to save his child? Where had this person taken Saboor?

"Maharaj," interposed the Faqeer caressingly, "Ha.s.san cannot have had a hand in this terrible business. He has been at Kasur on your work. He has come from there only this evening, carrying news and part of the tribute money. He is not to blame."

The Maharajah signaled for his quilt. "Bring me my Saboor," he said simply, reaching for the Faqeer's hand as a servant pulled the red satin quilt to his shoulders.

A faint motion of Faqeer Azizuddin's head told Ha.s.san and Yusuf to leave. As the two men backed from the yellow tent, Yusuf saw tears on his king's face.

IT was still dark when Mariana was startled awake by the sound of hoa.r.s.e, urgent whispering.

"Memsahib, Memsahib," Dittoo was saying, "I must take Baba outside."

Baba, who was Baba? Must Dittoo talk even at night? Moaning, she turned over, then found herself jerked into wakefulness by a small stirring at her side.

The stolen baby!

"But Dittoo," she whispered into the blackness, a hand on the little body beside her, "it's still the middle of the night!"

"No, Memsahib, it is nearly morning. Baba must come outside and do soo-soo soo-soo."

"Soo-soo?"

"Pishab."

Pishab? What important word had her muns.h.i.+ neglected to teach her?

"He will wet your bed," Dittoo hissed, arriving at her side and groping for the baby. "Babies must do their soo-soo at the proper time," he decreed, his voice reproving as he pushed open the blind, the child in his arms.

Mariana touched the warm place left by the sleeping baby and listened to Dittoo's m.u.f.fied wheedling through her tent wall. There was so much to do. Lah.o.r.e was still four marches away. However would she conceal a baby on a four-day march?

She thrust her covers aside and, without bothering to light the lamp, groped for her boots. There was no time to find fresh clothes; she would wear the same ones she had worn the evening before.

She had dreamed again of the s.h.i.+p. As she fumbled with hooks and b.u.t.tons she tried to recapture her dream, but was able to conjure up only a vague image of taut rigging above her head and wind-carried spray stinging her face.

The dream reminded her of yesterday's poem.

Grieve not, O heart,For Noah shall be thy guide:Thy pilot-master of the deluge.

She reached to light her lamp. If only Noah were guiding her her. Believing that, she could endure anything. But perhaps she had had been guided to steal the Maharajah's hostage. What other explanation could there be? been guided to steal the Maharajah's hostage. What other explanation could there be?

The baby had wanted her to steal him, of that she had no doubt. It was he who had reached out to her from his servant's arms, he who had worn that expectant look on his little face. But why?

"You have done well," the groom had told her last night.

Yar Mohammad. He was no simple groom, to be bringing her these mysterious messages. He denied it, but he, too, must be a soothsayer, like the madman on the road and the creature in the garden. Soothsayers seemed to be everywhere, giving her advice about courage and about the path she was said to have chosen....

At least Dittoo was no soothsayer, she decided, as he returned with the baby.

"It's far too cold," she said worriedly, a little while later, pacing the fioor. "How can you take him outside without any clothes? He will take ill-and what a pity to dirty him after his nice bath."

His round eyes fixed on Mariana, the baby stood s.h.i.+vering in the lamplight before Dittoo's squatting figure, one small arm in a firm brown grip as Dittoo smeared cold mud onto his naked body. Miserable sounds came from around the baby's thumb.

"They are searching for a rich child," Dittoo explained as he worked. "If Baba is naked and dirty I can say I found him on the road. These things happen all the time."

"I suppose you're right, but wait-" Mariana crossed to her dress trunk and dragged out her ruined tartan gown. She found the torn place, then with a grand gesture, tore the woolen skirt from seam to seam, filling the air with dust. "Wrap him in this. Tell them I saw the baby and took pity."

Moments later, a tartan-wrapped baby struggling under his arm, Dittoo tramped away toward the red wall while Mariana watched from the doorway, her heart thudding anxiously.

IT was cold, even at the fire. From Dittoo's lap, the child looked steadily from face to face, returning the curious gazes of Dittoo's three friends, while one tiny foot, free of the torn dress, swung rhythmically back and forth.

"How could I leave him alone on the road for the jackals and hyenas?" Dittoo demanded, pus.h.i.+ng a wad of bread into the baby's open mouth with a practiced hand.

"Of course you could have left him there. Why is he any concern of yours?" asked Sita from where he sat drawing circles in the dust with a stick of kindling wood. "And what of his caste? For all you know, you have an untouchable child on your lap and are putting your fingers into his mouth."

With an apologetic grunt, young Mohan edged away, leaving a meaningful s.p.a.ce between himself and the baby.

Guggan chewed thoughtfully on a neem neem twig. "The children one finds here and there on the roads are nothing but trouble. Of course," he added, changing his tone, "if he were the Maharajah's hostage-" twig. "The children one finds here and there on the roads are nothing but trouble. Of course," he added, changing his tone, "if he were the Maharajah's hostage-"

"I know he will be trouble," Dittoo interrupted hastily, wiping the baby's mouth. "But what could I do?" His fingers shook as he wrapped the baby more securely in his tartan rag.

"You are too softhearted, Dittoo." Sita reached over his head to scratch his back with his stick. "Of course you can always sell him. You might get a good price from Sirosh the tailor or what's-hisname, the blacksmith-"

"No, do not do that." Guggan peered into the baby's attentive face. "After all, he is here now. We can look after him. A blacksmith-pah! Who can entrust a child to a blacksmith?

"He's different, you know," he added thoughtfully. "He is not like most babies." He spat a bit of bark into the fire and poked a pudgy finger at the tartan rag. "He should have clothes. A man from my village does tailoring for the army. I'll ask him."

Nodding, Dittoo held a cup to the child's lips. As he did so, the baby's body went rigid. Then, in one startling motion, he reached a small hand up and dashed the cup from Dittoo's fingers. The four men watched as it tumbled to the ground and rolled away, spilling drops of milk into the hissing fire.

"GOOD gracious, Mariana, this is the second time you've asked," Miss Emily remarked after breakfast, shading her eyes with a gloved hand. "It's never any use wondering where our things are. I, for one, expect to be reunited with my parasol precisely at sunset. But I must say, I never saw anybody so feverish for the sight of a muddy tent and an incompetent servant."

"I quite understand," put in Miss f.a.n.n.y kindly. She s.h.i.+fted in her folding chair. "I like to know where all all my things are after every march, especially the spotted deer. I always worry until everything is just as it should be." my things are after every march, especially the spotted deer. I always worry until everything is just as it should be."

"Not that in India anything is ever as it should be," added Lord Auckland. He yawned as he consulted his timepiece. "Thank goodness we need not entertain a single native until four o'clock." He leaned back in his basket chair with a sigh.

"Why not go out for a nice ride later, my dear?" said Miss Emily, studying Mariana with a shrewd blue eye. "It will do you good to exercise. You are probably a little overwrought after all the excitement of yesterday."

Excitement. Mariana felt her throat go dry.

"It was was exciting, was it not?" Miss f.a.n.n.y said animatedly. "I thought the fireworks made the temple and water tank seem like a fairy palace!" exciting, was it not?" Miss f.a.n.n.y said animatedly. "I thought the fireworks made the temple and water tank seem like a fairy palace!"

Miss Emily's eyes had not left Mariana. "You really do look pale, my child. I shall arrange for you to ride one of the nicer horses. I have seen the poor little nag they've given you. No wonder you have not been riding."

HOT in her tawny silks, Mariana stood an hour later before her collapsed tent, watching a group of coolies lay out ropes and tent pegs. Where in the chaos of the rising camp was her small charge?

As soon as her tent was standing and its furniture arranged, she rushed inside and stood impatiently in the center of the striped fioor, antic.i.p.ating the familiar but now thrilling sound of Dittoo blundering into her tent.

At last he stood before her, his face creased in a smile, the child wriggling under his arm.

"Oh, thank goodness you have returned," she breathed, burying her face in the baby's neck. She laid him down on the bed and cooed delightedly at his slow, lovely smile. "He should have another bath. Were you seen?"

"No, Memsahib." Mud streaked the gray stubble on Dittoo's chin, making him look even shabbier than usual. "We were-"

"Hus.h.!.+" she warned at the sound of two men talking outside accompanied by the clopping of a horse's hooves. Her grooms had arrived with one of Miss Emily's horses.

"Go," she urged Dittoo, waving a hand toward the entrance, "and send them away. Tell them I do not wish to ride today."

As Dittoo put his head out through the entrance, she let the baby down and watched as he trotted across the fioor. He stopped, balancing carefully, then squatted down, reaching out with delicate fingers to pick something up from the fioor.

"No, darling, not Mariana's hairpin," she whispered, s.n.a.t.c.hing him up and opening his small fist.

The diminis.h.i.+ng sound of hooves was replaced almost at once by the sound of someone clearing his throat outside. Dittoo jerked his head back inside. "Memsahib," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "we have forgotten your muns.h.i.+!"

Mariana thrust the baby at Dittoo and pulled open a canvas curtain on the inside wall of her tent, but as she motioned Dittoo to step into her tiny bathing s.p.a.ce, a clanking of pails from outside told her that the sweeper was about to enter. Was everyone converging on her tent at once? Swiftly, she secured the curtain, shutting the sweeper out, then turned back, her finger to her lips, searching desperately for another hiding place.

Outside the entrance, a second throat-clearing held mild impatience.

"What can I say to make Muns.h.i.+ Sahib leave?" she whispered urgently to Dittoo.

Her servant shrugged, the baby in his arms.

It was too late to hide the baby now. Mariana held out her arms for the child. "Come in," she called, her voice cracking.

Her teacher stepped carefully inside, stooped as usual, blinking in the dusky light. At the sight of the baby in Mariana's arms, he took a step backward.

Muns.h.i.+ was not a man to be lied to. Before he could speak, she crossed the fioor to him. "Muns.h.i.+ Sahib," she whispered, as the sweeper banged pails together behind the curtain, "this child is the son of a great man from the walled city of Lah.o.r.e. No one must know he is here."

"Ah," replied the muns.h.i.+.

One arm curled tight around Mariana's neck, the baby gazed bright-eyed at their elderly visitor.

She drew herself up. "I have stolen him from the Maharajah. People had been unkind to him. Look."

"He's been hurt." She clasped the baby's hand and held it against her cheek.

"How did you come to steal him?" asked the old man, his expression unreadable.

"His servant came to me in the Golden Temple and showed me all his poor little ribs and his bruises. I could not help him then."

She s.h.i.+vered, remembering. "But at the end of the evening, the same man rushed up and simply handed him to me. I put him into my palanquin and brought him here."

"Did anyone see you?" The muns.h.i.+'s face was grave.

"No. It was quite curious," she answered slowly. "I felt almost invisible. Everyone walked past as if I weren't there. No one, not even the Indians, looked my way."

She stroked the baby's cheek. "It was all so simple and happened so quickly-I could have stolen several children and no one would have cared."

"There you are mistaken, Bibi." Putting his hands behind him, the muns.h.i.+ straightened his back. "Very much mistaken. There are those who care very much about this child. To help anyone to escape the Maharajah's household, especially if that person is one of the Maharajah's hostages, is a serious crime. Had your action been discovered," he added, narrowing his eyes, "the alliance between your people and the Maharajah would have been most severely tested. The child would have been returned to the Maharajah and you would have been sent back to Calcutta in disgrace."

She tightened her grip on the baby.

Seeing her response, his face softened. "But you were not not seen." seen."

Approaching, he bent formally and peered into the baby's face. "What is your name, son?"

The baby took a breath, then spoke his first word in Mariana's hearing. "Thaboor," he said, wriggling in her arms.

The old man smiled. "Saboor, is it? Well, well."

"What should I do now, Muns.h.i.+ Sahib?" Mariana asked. Tingles of fear ran down her spine. Whatever had she done? "What should I do?"

"It is clear that to save an ill-treated child is a good and charitable act. It is also clear that what has happened thus far has been the work of Allah Most Gracious, who inspired the servant to give you the child and who protected you from discovery once you had taken him. You ask me what to do. I suggest that you pray."

"Pray?" Mariana watched Saboor totter to where Dittoo held out his arms.

"You offer your prayers to G.o.d the All-Powerful, do you not, Bibi?" the muns.h.i.+ asked mildly.

"Yes," she returned, "but surely there is-"

"I must have time to think," her teacher interrupted, raising an admonitory finger. "And you, Bibi, must put this whole affair into the hands of Allah Most Merciful."

At Mariana's forlorn sigh, Muns.h.i.+ Sahib made an indefinable gesture indicating the subject was closed.

"As to our lesson," he added, smiling at Saboor, "this is a most unusual day, not the proper day for a lesson. Today shall be a holiday. If I may have your permission, Memsahib," he said, inclining his head, "I will leave you. If you should need my help, Dittoo knows where to find me."

Without looking back, he stepped from the tent. Mariana sat down on the edge of her bed, a little giddy, a hand to her breast.