Veils of Silk (55 page)

Ian sucked his breath in. "The first condition was met when Ranjit Singh died two years ago, and the second happened two days ago." When Laura glanced at him inquiringly, he said, "I'll explain when you've finished. Continue."

"Pyotr spent months talking to chieftains in the Punjab and Afghanistan," she said. "He found many who would be happy to join in a
jihad
, a holy war, to push the British out. He also talked to princes in some of the central Indian states who would rise if there were a chance that the Sirkar could be overthrown."

Ian frowned. "If all those groups would fight together, they would be a formidable force."

"Exactly what Pyotr thought," she agreed. "And the key to the plan is Rajiv Singh—a natural leader, an experienced general who has expanded his own domains considerably, and a prince who resents British rule. He is the one man who might be able to hold the rebel forces together."

"And in doing so, he would light a fire that would burn across India." Ian gazed sightlessly at the wall as the pieces fell into place. "This is what Pyotr tried to explain before he was executed. His plan was to create a situation where the right spark would set off a whole series of disturbances. The Sirkar could handle one or two, but not outbreaks on all sides."

"It gets worse," Laura said tersely. "He had some diabolical ideas for arousing people against the British, including ways to persuade our native troops to mutiny."

Shocked, Ian said, "How the devil could that be done?"

"Rumor warfare, I suppose you'd call it." Laura consulted the list. "I don't quite understand this, but he said there was talk that a new rifle would soon be issued to the army. It would use a paper cartridge that contains both powder and a ball?"

"The cartridge is bitten to release the powder," Ian explained. "Then the powder is poured into the barrel and the ball rammed in on top of it."

Her eyes widened. "Now I understand. Pyotr said that the cartridge is covered with grease. His idea was to spread a rumor that the coating contained both beef and pig fat."

"Damnation!" More quietly, Ian said, "So when a soldier bit the cartridge, he would be defiled—by the beef fat if he was Hindu, the pig fat if he was Muslim."

"Exactly." She scowled. "And he planted the idea with both Hindu and Muslim holy men that if such a gun was issued, it would be a deliberate attempt by the British to break caste so that soldiers could then be converted to Christianity."

Ian frowned. "Twenty years ago a rumor like that wouldn't have done much damage, but the number of missionaries and zealous Christian administrators is increasing all the time. Many of them would like to abandon the policy of religious tolerance and try to turn this into a Christian nation."

"That will never happen," Laura said flatly. "Hinduism is too much a part of the fabric of Indian life and culture."

"You and I know that, as does any European in India who pays attention to the society around him, but there are enough zealots to make Pyotr's rumors devastating. Is there anything else?"

She looked at the notes again. "Apparently Pyotr heard that British officials are considering a law that a princely state could not pass to an adopted son, only an heir of
the body. If there isn't one, the Sirkar will annex the state. Pyotr mentioned the possibility to every native prince he met."

"So that's where Rajiv Singh got the idea. Just today he told me that such a policy is in the wind. Fear that Dharjistan will be annexed increases his resentment of the Sirkar. Pyotr did his work well." Ian shook his head ruefully. "I wish your uncle hadn't been so damned clever. Is there anything else?"

"I'm afraid so," Laura said. "In Afghanistan, he learned of a minor pass through the mountains near the Khyber Pass. It's very narrow, scarcely more than a goat track, so it's used only by local Pathan tribesmen. However, because the pass is so little known, it's not guarded like the Khyber. Pyotr speculated that when
the time came, the Afghans could invade through that pass and be in India before the British knew they were coming."

"Bloody, bloody hell," Ian swore. "New rifles and cartridges haven't been issued, but the other conditions have been met. If Rajiv Singh wants to strike at the Sirkar, now is the perfect time." Briefly he outlined the news from Afghanistan that he had learned that morning. "And there was something about his mood this morning that makes me think he is ready to move."

Laura's face paled when she heard the news. "So you think the Afghans might follow up their victory by coming down onto the plains and joining Pyotr's jihad?"

"I think it's very likely—they'll never have a better chance." Ian analyzed the plan, looking for the weak link that might head off the enterprise before it could begin. "Is there any hint of where that mysterious pass might be?"

"There's a rough set of directions that could probably be followed by someone actually in the mountains. And a name—Shpola. Does that mean anything to you?"

"There's a village by that name between the Khyber Pass and Jallalabad, so one end of Pyotr's pass is probably near there," he said slowly. "I'll ask Zafir if he's heard of it."

She shivered. "And the time is ripe. The Afghans victorious and angry. Turbulence in the Punjab, so the leaders there might be happy to turn the attention of the army outward."

"And Rajiv Singh ready, willing, and able to serve as the spearhead," Ian finished. "The slaughter of a British army has proved that the Sirkar isn't impregnable, and that becomes another important factor. In the East, there's a belief in
iqbal
. If that belief falters, the jackals will close in."

"What exactly is iqbal?"

"Preordained good fortune. One's luck, one's fate," he explained. "If it looks like the British star is faltering, everyone who has ever had a grievance—every landlord who was ever stopped from squeezing murderous rents, every prince who has ever lost power, every man who has ever suffered from the Sirkar's greed, or felt that his religion was being threatened—they'll join together in a hunting pack that could slaughter every European in India."

Laura's face went white. "You think it could come to that?"

"I'm afraid so. There are only a few thousand Europeans compared to tens of millions of Indians. We survive here only because our rule is acceptable to most of the people we govern. But that could change, especially if someone as clever as Rajiv Singh acts on the plan that Pyotr developed." Thinking hard, Ian ran his hand through his hair. "Was your uncle only interested in getting rid of the British? I would have thought that his ultimate goal would be Russian domination."

"I'm sure it was," she answered. "There's a hint that he had a double game in mind—persuade Rajiv Singh to lead a rebellion and hope that the coalition fell apart after victory. Then the Russians could move in."

"That could easily happen, given the tension that exists among Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs," Ian said. "Without a common enemy to fight, the leaders could end up at each other's throats after destroying the Sirkar. I think your uncle underestimated Rajiv Singh's ability to hold the different groups together, but I would rather not find out for sure."

Laura refolded her uncle's notes and smoothed the creases with her thumbnail. "I see why Pyotr wrote in his prison journal that he had come to regret his cleverness at devising this scheme. Tens of thousands of people will die if the Afghans invade and the other states rise up to join them. How could a kindly man like my uncle think this up in the first place?"

"The simple answer is that it was his job to protect and extend Russian influence." Ian sighed. "But the true reason is that it's dangerously easy for a man to get caught up in the excitement of the work. As you know, the British call this secret warfare the Great Game. Pyotr said the Russian term is 'the tournament of shadows.' In both cases, the metaphor is sport. Be the quickest, the cleverest, the most dangerous, and win the game."

"And God only knows how many innocent people might die as a result," she said bitterly, thinking of all of the Indian villagers she had known who wanted only to be left in peace to live their lives. "What do we do now, Ian?"

"That's simple," he said. "We obey Pyotr's last wish, and make sure that this is one fire that is never kindled."

When Meera went to her mistress that morning, there had been no need to ask if the attempt to establish a more intimate relationship with her husband had been successful; one look at the memsahib's glowing face gave her the answer. After arranging for the rose petals to be removed and delivering a note from the memsahib to the maharani, Meera was at liberty, so she decided to walk a bit. It was pure coincidence that she chose to do so near the section of the palace where male servants were quartered.

She was a little piqued that Zafir, the great scoundrel, had not yet sought her out after returning to Manpur. Considering how much thought she had put into the question of whether or not to accept his proposal, it was disagreeable to think that the Pathan might not be terribly interested in her answer.

She had prepared a number of sharp comments for use in the event that she happened to see him. Yet when their paths did cross, the dazzling smile he gave her drove all criticism from her mind. "Little dove, you are a sight for weary eyes."

Rallying, she retorted, "Your eyes don't look weary. You look like a bright-eyed fox that is eyeing a fowl for dinner."

"Exactly! The fowl in this case being a dove." He looked hopeful. "Shall I have you for dinner?"

Heat rose in Meera's face. She had certainly opened herself up for that. "I shall be nobody's dinner. I was going for a walk since the memsahib will not need me for several hours."

"Then I shall accompany you and guard against foxes."

Which of course was exactly what Meera had hoped for. It wasn't until they were well away from the palace that Zafir said, "Have you considered what I asked you, Meera?"

She glanced up, surprised. "I think that is the first time you have ever used my name."

"Rather than Meera or even little dove," he said gravely, "I would prefer to call you wife."

Mesmerized by the intensity of feeling that she saw in his clear gray eyes, Meera said, "Then I shall call you husband."