The Twentieth Wife (41 page)

He helped them out of the trunk. As Mehrunnisa climbed out, Ladli whimpered, and she realized that she still had her hand clamped over the child’s mouth. When she removed her hand, it left a red imprint across her daughter’s face, blood streaking across her lips where her teeth had cut into skin.

“Who are you? Why did you help us?” Mehrunnisa asked, still shaking from shock.

“My name is Haidar Malik,
Sahiba.
I am a servant in the house of Qutubuddin Khan Koka. It would not have been right for the soldiers to harm you. Besides . . .” He hesitated. “The Emperor would never have forgiven me if anything had happened to you.”

Mehrunnisa stared at him, a jolt running through her body. Was Jahangir responsible for the attack on Ali Quli? Surely not even the Emperor had the right to order the execution of an innocent man. But Jahangir could not have had anything to do with the mayhem; she had seen the events progress with her own eyes. Koka had barely started to talk when Ali Quli had plunged his sword into his stomach, seemingly without provocation. She shivered and clutched her daughter tight.

“I shall take you to the camp.”

Mehrunnisa nodded and allowed him to lead her out of the house and through the deserted courtyard. She would have gone anywhere he wanted to take her. Thought was impossible now; too much had happened, too quickly, even before it registered fully in her mind. She followed Malik’s tall figure through the deserted streets of Bardwan. He was carrying Ladli as though she were a sack of feathers, slung easily into his arms. Mehrunnisa looked around her at the shut bazaar fronts, the street lamps wavering in the humid night air. She heard the scramble of pariah dogs in the shadows and recognized no sight, no sound. All her effort went into walking behind Malik, one foot placed in front of the other in a mindless fashion.

When the sun rose in the eastern sky, she was sitting wide-eyed in Malik’s tent, stunned and terrified. Her
choli
and veil were
smeared with caked, dried blood where Haidar Malik had clutched at her. The odor brought bile rising from her stomach. A cock crowed in a neighboring house, and Mehrunnisa flinched. She started to tremble violently as she remembered how Ali Quli had died—like an animal brought to slaughter. There was little left of him now, little to show of the man who had once been her husband. Only Ladli. The child, with the resilience of youth, slept at her side, holding fast to her mother’s hand. Malik had returned to the house after posting guards around his tent.

Physicians were summoned to tend to the fallen governor’s wounds. A makeshift camp was erected in the courtyard, and the injured man was laid on a bed. Malik watched while the physicians sewed up Koka’s stomach. If only Koka survived, he thought, turning away from his master’s body, the lady in his tent would be safe. But the damage had been done, and though Malik kept vigil at Koka’s bedside, the governor never recovered consciousness. Before his family could come to him he died, twelve hours after the battle.

•   •   •

A
SMAT AND
G
HIAS
B
EG
were in their courtyard garden; he seated on a stone bench, she standing beside him. Night had closed around them a long time before; yet, they waited in the dark with their thoughts, the letter still in Ghias’s hands. It had arrived only that afternoon, but each word of the short message was imprinted on his brain. Someone named Haidar Malik had written the letter. Ghias looked down at the bright white sheet in his hands, not seeing the words. Mehrunnisa was with him, and Ladli too. Ali Quli was dead. Ghias shook his head in disbelief, the shock from three hours earlier not yet worn off. Why had Ali Quli attacked Koka? Why had he killed him?

His wife’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Will she be safe?”

Ghias sighed. “I don’t know,
jaan.
Her fate lies in Allah’s hands.”

Asmat Begam sat down by her husband and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Can you ask the Emperor to bring her here?”

Ghias put an arm around her and kissed her gently, wishing he could wipe away the worry lines from her forehead. “The Emperor is distraught at Koka’s death. And Koka was killed by our son-in-law.”

Why?
The thought smote him again.
Why?
Never had he imagined this end when Jahangir had seen Mehrunnisa at Arjumand’s betrothal.

Asmat raised tearful eyes. “Mehrunnisa was not responsible for Koka’s death. She must come to us. Her life is in danger.”

“I know,” Ghias said. “I also know that Koka’s family has sworn vengeance on Mehrunnisa and Ladli. But until the Emperor summons her to us,” he spread his hands out helplessly, “we can do nothing.”

Asmat buried her face in her hands and wept. Ghias watched her in silence, forcing back his own tears. What good would crying do? Ease the heartache for a few hours, perhaps, but the worry would always be there. And Mehrunnisa was at Bengal, alone except for the protection of this Haidar Malik, a man they did not know.
Allah, please, please look after my child.
As he had said to Asmat, he could do nothing, only pray for his daughter’s safety.

He turned away from his wife. Another matter was troubling him. True, it paled to insignificance next to Ali Quli’s death, but it was important nonetheless. He did not have the courage to ask the Emperor to provide Mehrunnisa with an imperial escort to Agra because of Ali Quli and because of this other matter. But that too would soon come to light. Then he could well have no standing in the empire. Why Allah, why did trouble come to ambush when one was already down?

•   •   •

I
N HIS CHAMBER,
Emperor Jahangir sat staring at the flickering shadows on the wall. Around him the palace slept, peaceful and serene. He was thinking about Koka. There were many memories of his foster brother, almost from the time he had memories. Koka’s
mother had been his wet nurse; they had both drunk her milk, both had lain against her breast sated and content. As children they had slept in the same bed, fought ferociously over the same slingshot, forgetting—as children always forget—that one was a royal prince, heir to an empire, and the other a commoner. Jahangir’s own brothers, Princes Murad and Daniyal, had grown up in other apartments, and he had not seen much of them as a child. When he was older, he had known them only as threats to his claim on the throne. But Koka: from Koka there had been no such danger, only a deep devotion. And now he was dead. The message from Bengal said he had died in great agony, calling out his Emperor’s name with his last breath.

Jahangir looked down as tears blurred his vision. There was no time even to grieve for him. Kings never had time to grieve. The empire demanded his attention. A sudden wave of anger washed over him. The army should have brought Ali Quli back to him alive, so that he could have had him pulled apart by elephants. But Ali Quli was dead. And Mehrunnisa was at Bengal.

He wiped the tears from his face. Was his love for her worth so many other lives?

Even in this sorrow he could not stop thinking and worrying about her. Now she should be safe; now she must come to him. He would summon her when some time had passed. But . . . so much had changed. The manner of Ali Quli’s death had changed everything. He had been killed by Koka’s men, by the Emperor himself in some sense. Would Mehrunnisa think he had ordered Ali Quli’s death? Would she forgive him if she thought so?

Itimad-ud-Din, Diwan or Chancellor of Amir-ul-Umra, had a heathen in his service named Uttam Chand, who told Dinayat Khan, that Itimad-ud-Daulah had misappropriated 50,000 ropia. Dinayat Khan told the King whereupon Itimad-ud-Daulah was placed in the custody of this Khan.

—B. Narain, trans., and S. Sharma, ed.,
A Dutch Chronicle of Mughal India

A
SLIGHT BREEZE WHISPERED THROUGH
the still room, catching the lantern. The light flickered uncertainly, darting shadows around the room. The man at the desk put his quill down, rose from the divan, and went to the window. He shut the panes and leaned against the sill, resting his head on the glass.

Now the lantern spread its warm, comforting glow around the room, lighting up the low desk and the account books on it, smudged with figures and numbers. Ghias Beg drew a deep breath and went back to his place. Quill in hand, he started adding the rows and columns again, looking for a discrepancy, a fault.

A shadow fell across the doorway, and he stiffened, motionless but listening. Asmat Begam stood there, lines creasing her forehead above anxious eyes. After a few minutes she turned and left, the long skirts of her
ghagara
swishing on the stone floor. Ghias hunched over his books again, the numbers blurring in front of his tired eyes.

In a vase next to the desk stood a sprig of spring jasmine blossoms, lily white and pearl pink. Their gentle aroma filled the room around him. Mehrunnisa liked to wear these flowers in her hair, threaded
into a garland, Ghias thought suddenly. Then he put his head down on the desk. It had been six months, and still there was no direct news from her, only another brief letter from Haidar Malik. She was well, he said, as was Ladli, but a price was still on their lives. It was unsafe to travel just yet from Bengal. Six months of waiting. Ghias raised his head and looked over the account books again. Six months of waiting. Now this burden, too.

A few hours later the lamp sputtered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. Outside, the sky lightened, and the night watchman called out the hour. There was something comforting in the sound of his voice; it was a normal, everyday event. Ghias listened until the sound of the watchman’s tapping stick faded into the distance. In a few hours it would be day . . . for him the day of reckoning.

•   •   •

“I
NSHAH
A
LLAH,
G
HIAS
Beg.”

“Inshah Allah,
Dinayat Khan.”

Dinayat Khan put out a hand. “Stay a minute, old friend. I have something to tell you.”

The
diwan
looked at his friend with a sinking heart. The courtier’s face was grave.

“Uttam Chand came to me last night,” Dinayat said quietly. “I think you know what he had to say.”

Ghias nodded. He turned blindly toward the window, leaned out, and breathed in the cool morning air. Was this the end of his brilliant career as
diwan
of the empire? Things were happening too fast, without warning. Whatever had possessed him to embezzle money from the royal treasury?

He thought back to the day the money had lain so invitingly in front of him—money he had thought would be lost in the enormous accounting system of the court. One of the court contractors had sent in an estimate for an additional wing to the fort at Lahore. The royal treasury had sent the money to the
diwan.
And then,
inexplicably, the costs had fallen by fifty thousand rupees. It came at a time when Ghias was especially in need; Arjumand’s betrothal had exceeded his income. He had taken the money, leaving the treasurer under the impression that it had gone to the contractor.

A month ago, the contractor had sent in his bill, now filed in the royal treasury. Today was the day the annual budget was accounted for, and try as he might, Ghias had not been able to return the money to the royal treasury or fix the account books so that the discrepancy would be overlooked. Only one other person had known: Uttam Chand, his clerk. He had been present the day the contractor sent in his bill.

“How could you do it?” Dinayat Khan’s voice broke into his thoughts.

Ghias turned wearily from the window. “I don’t know. It was a momentary weakness.”

“I will have to inform the Emperor. You know that, don’t you?” Dinayat said gravely.

Shame washed over him. He was mortified that he had let the need for pomp and show get to his head. At least, Ghias thought, his father was not alive to see this. But his wife was. His children were. What he had done would reflect on all of them. Now he must take his punishment. It was only right that he do so. He could no longer preach a code to his children and not follow it himself.

“Yes.” Ghias Beg looked Dinayat Khan full in the face. “It is your duty to do so.”

“I’m sorry.” Dinayat put a hand on Ghias’s arm. “I will do my best to plead your case, Ghias. You have been kind to me, recommending me for the position of accountant in the treasury. Now I want to pay back that debt. I hope the Emperor will be forgiving.”

I hope so too.
Ghias bent his head and followed his friend into the
Diwan-i-am,
where the Emperor was holding court.

•   •   •

J
AHANGIR FROWNED IN
irritation as he entered the
zenana
reception hall. He was tired; the morning audience at court had been interminable. And just as he retired, Dinayat Khan had requested another audience. Why couldn’t he have come forward earlier?

“What is it?” Jahangir said curtly, cutting short Dinayat Khan’s salutation.

“Your Majesty, I beg forgiveness for interrupting your rest. But this matter was too delicate to bring up in open court.”