Mollie Kaye . . . “You knew M. M. Kaye?” I yelped.
Mrs. Selwick-Alderly nodded, a gentle smile on her lips, as though she were hearing the echoes of conversations once spoken in places that no longer exist. “Yes. We all had a sense, in those days, that the world around us—British India as it had been—was vanishing, and that it was expedient to record as much as we could before it disappeared entirely. It lent a certain urgency to the exercise. And a good thing, too.” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly patted the side of the box fondly. “Not long after my stay in Karnatabad, the Residency was renovated for use as a school and the archives were lost. Someone told me that much of it was simply thrown out. They hadn’t the resources for keeping it,” she said with a sigh, before adding briskly, “Although, of course, primary education was a far more important concern.”
“Of course,” I agreed. And then, because I couldn’t resist, “What was your novel going to be about?”
“Dashing spies,” she said lightly, getting up off the bed. “What else?”
What else, indeed? I wondered if she knew that her great-nephew was currently engaged in writing a spy novel. Or, at least, that was what he claimed. There were still times when I couldn’t help but wonder whether his interest in spies was more than literary. Pretending to write a spy novel could make a very clever cover for other sorts of activities.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. If you have any trouble with the handwriting, don’t hesitate to find me. I have no doubt that the ink is rather faded by now.”
Thanking her, I divested myself of my boots and scrambled up onto the high old bed, tucking my stockinged feet up beneath me. I tentatively lifted the first notebook out of the box. Number Fifteen. Mrs. Selwick-Alderly certainly had been methodical. On the front leaf, she had listed the date she had transcribed it, the translator she had hired to transpose the non-English documents, and the dates and authors of the historical records. If I were half that organized, I would have my dissertation long since done already.
Digging through for a notebook labeled “1,” I found one without any number on it at all. Opening it at random, I saw, in Mrs. Selwick-Alderly’s slanted handwriting, “She waited, breathless, in the lee of Raymond’s Tomb as the dark line of conspirators rode past. To be found would be death.”
Hmm. She hadn’t been joking about that novel, then. I looked speculatively at the notebook. I wondered what would have happened if she had finished it. There were so many novels set around the Indian Mutiny of 1857, but it was hard to think of any set those fifty-odd years earlier, during the Mahratta Wars. It would make a good landscape for fiction.
It also made a good landscape for a dissertation chapter, I reminded myself, forcing myself to put aside the unfinished novel (working title: Shadow of the Tomb). Clicking on the bedside lamp, which sent a pleasant pool of light across the counterpane, I curled up against the pillows with Notebook 1, a compilation of various letters and dispatches sent by Henry Russell, the exceedingly prolific Chief Secretary to the Resident of Hyderabad.
According to Russell, the Resident had been tearing out his hair about the presentation of the new Special Envoy, Lord Frederick Staines, to the Nizam of Hyderabad at a durbar called for that purpose. No one knew quite what the unpredictable new Nizam might do. The same went for Lord Frederick, who spoke no Persian and had a worrying lack of knowledge about proper court protocol. Embassies had been banished for less.
And to make matters even worse, his wife had insisted on coming along.
Chapter Eight
“What is she doing here?” Alex demanded, as Lady Frederick climbed out of the Resident of Hyderabad’s state palanquin.
The state palanquin, in which James rode with the new Special Envoy, was a testament to what raw money and talented craftsmanship could provide. The tasseled silk curtains, however, hid as much as they concealed. In this case, the presence of an extra individual in the palanquin.
For the duration of the ceremonial procession from the Residency to the Nizam’s fortress, Alex had trotted blithely along beside the palanquin, entirely unaware that the tasseled curtains concealed an additional passenger. Only the Resident and the new Special Envoy had been bidden to the Nizam’s durbar. It had never occurred to Alex—or, he imagined, the Nizam—that the Special Envoy’s wife might take it upon herself to attend as well.
Alex gritted his teeth in a way that boded ill for his dental health. One did not just drop by on a supreme ruler unannounced. Especially not a supreme ruler with a penchant for extemporaneous executions.
All around them, armed guards in steel helmets and gauntlets stood at attention, their bearded faces impassive. There had been more guards than usual in the Nizam’s palace, Alex had noticed, stationed in all of the courtyards through which they had passed on their way to the durbar at which Wellesley’s new Special Envoy was to be formally presented to the Nizam.
They had guards enough of their own. The Resident and Lord Frederick had made their way from the Residency complex on the other side of the river accompanied by no fewer than ten companies of infantry, along with five brightly bedecked elephants, a troop of cavalry, and two dozen riderless horses whose sole purpose was to show off brightly colored pennants. After a lifetime in Indian courts, James Kirkpatrick knew how to put on a show.
Would a show be enough to secure their safety in this new and dangerous political climate?
Alex had thought he had addressed his question to the Resident sotto voce. Unfortunately, the acoustics in the courtyard were excellent.
Lady Frederick swept towards him in a whisper of white satin, like moonlight on marble and just as cold. “And a good evening to you, too, Captain Reid. I had thought I might have trouble recognizing you after all this time, but your charm is unmistakable.”
“I’ve been busy,” he said stiffly. And he had been. Since returning two weeks ago, he had taken half his meals in the saddle or at his desk.
There was no reason he should feel guilty about neglecting his former charge. It wasn’t as though she was likely to lack for entertainment. Since their arrival, nearly every family in the Residency had felt it incumbent on themselves to throw a dinner or a card party or a Venetian breakfast for the new arrivals. Alex had avoided all the entertainments with impartial firmness, pleading the very real pressures of work.
And since when had she become his, just because he had been saddled with the task of getting her husband from Calcutta to Hyderabad? His obligation to Lady Frederick Staines had ended at the Residency gates, and that was that.
Or that should have been that. Over the past two weeks, Alex had found that he couldn’t quite purge Lady Frederick from his thoughts. Without seeing or consulting her, he had arranged for an Urdu tutor to be sent to her, hoping that would quell his conscience. It hadn’t. He still felt, for some inexplicable reason, obscurely responsible for her, a sensation that even consistent avoidance hadn’t managed to expunge entirely.
It wasn’t as though that were unusual, Alex rationalized to himself. George might have carted home stray dogs, but he was the one who had been left caring for them. This was exactly the same. Lady Penelope was just another stray who had been dumped into his care, like George’s pariah dogs or that one-eared kitten Lizzy had dragged home.
The analogy was an unfortunately apt one. Like Lizzy’s kitten, Lady Frederick seemed determined to sharpen her claws. On him.
“I’m sure you have been,” Lady Frederick agreed with deceptive complaisance. “There are so many things to keep one busy, aren’t there?”
Alex had the feeling he was being accused of something more than neglect, but he couldn’t imagine what. “Look,” he said, with a nod towards the archway. “Someone’s come to fetch us.”
It should, for courtesy’s sake, have been the Nizam’s chief minister, Mir Alam. Instead, it was a palace functionary so minor that Alex didn’t even know his name. From the expression on James’s face, he didn’t either. The Resident was not best pleased, but there was littl
e he could do about. His own position was too precarious.
Fortunately, Lord Frederick didn’t know enough to realize that he had just been insulted. He strutted happily along behind their escort, slowing by the instinct of long practice in the light of those candles that made his gold watch fobs glitter to their best advantage. Like a peacock, decided Alex critically, brightly plumed from a distance, but inclined to peck when one got up close.
“Keep an eye on . . . ,” James murmured, tipping his head in Lady Frederick’s direction, before following along behind Lord Frederick into the durbar hall.
Typical, thought Alex. Simply bloody typical. Once again, he was the one left holding the leash.
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Alex extended an arm. “Shall we?”
Lady Frederick eyed his arm as she might a dead snake. “I don’t need a keeper.”
“That’s what you said before you jumped into the river.”
“I doubt there are any bodies of water in the durbar hall,” retorted Lady Frederick, marching along ahead of him. Alex was reminded more than ever of Lizzy’s cat. Had Lady Frederick had a tail, it would have been sticking straight up in the air.
“That doesn’t mean there aren’t treacherous depths.”
Lady Frederick looked up at him sideways. “Do you have treachery on the mind, Captain Reid?”
“I’m not the one I’m worried about,” he said frankly.
Lady Frederick regarded him scornfully. “I shouldn’t think you would be. After all, you know exactly what you’re planning.”
Exactly what did she think he was planning? Other than making sure she left the palace alive? Even without mysterious marigolds roaming about, there was Tajalli’s father, plumping for the restoration of the French force in Hyderabad; the new Nizam, providing a target for schemers and fortune hunters across the realm; and Mir Alam, rotten with old grudges and new leprosy. Or was that old leprosy and new grudges? Either way, the combination was about as conducive to civil peace as a Montague and Capulet reunion dinner.
“What do you think I’m planning?” Alex demanded, but he had lost his opportunity. The durbar hall opened up before them and he had the rare opportunity of seeing Lady Frederick well and truly speechless.
Even Alex, who had attended the durbar time and time again, had to admit it was an impressive sight. The Nizam preferred to hold his durbars by dark. It was a practical measure, avoiding the heat of the day, but the resultant forest of candles created an artificial wonder-land of the durbar hall, turning the proceedings into a page from a Deccani manuscript, too brilliant to be real. The hall was an architectural fantasy, the walls covered with trompe l’oeil scenes, so that parrots seemed suspended in flight above the heads of the courtiers and peacocks opened their mouth in eternal cry from beneath wide-leafed trees where the mango were perpetually in season.
Next to the lifelike guise of the paintings, the courtiers themselves seemed no more than an artist’s illusion, a piece of Eastern decadence for a European collector to marvel at. The light of the thousand candles in their tall silver stands oscillated off their rich silks and jewels, flirting with creamy shadows along the long ropes of pearls hanging around the necks of the nobles, shimmering along priceless lengths of gold brocade, cascading off diamond-set turban ornaments, and setting ruby armbands smoldering like the acquisitive glint in a merchant’s eye.
It wasn’t the jewels that held Lady Frederick’s attention, but the guards who stood sentry along the sides of the durbar hall, long, steel-tipped staffs propped against their soldiers. Their uniforms were similar to those worn by Madras sepoys, a long red coat over a pair of baggy trousers. They were all women.
“The Zuffir Plutun,” said Alex, with a nod towards the lady guards.
“The Victorious Brigade,” Lady Frederick translated, looking thoughtfully at the guards, as though she suspected them of being an optical illusion.
“Did you think I had made them up?”
Lady Frederick adopted her most inscrutable expression. Alex took that as a yes.
A cupbearer presented Alex with a small agate cup of coffee, tongue-scaldingly hot from the brazier that the Nizam kept burning in the center of the durbar. Slightly uncertainly, the cupbearer offered a twin of his cup to Lady Frederick. Looking as nonchalant as though she had been drinking at durbars all her life, Lady Frederick lifted the cup to her lips.
Alex curled his fingers around the polished surface, which was deceptively cool. “You might want to—”
Lady Frederick knocked back the contents.
“—sip that,” finished Alex, as Lady Frederick’s face turned an interesting color of puce.
Her throat worked convulsively as she swallowed the burning liquid, grounds and all.
“I’m fine,” she said hoarsely, giving him a look that dared him to contradict her.
Alex blew lightly at the surface of his own cup before taking a very small sip. “The Nizam likes his coffee hot,” he said helpfully.
Lady Frederick gave him a look of death. “I know.”
“Would you like another cup?” Alex made as though to summon the cupbearer. Never let it be said that he hadn’t behaved like a gentleman.
“Not to drink,” said Lady Frederick, in a tone that left no doubt as to where she would have liked to pour it.
The chuckle welled up in Alex’s throat before he had time to clamp it down again. He turned it into a cough, but not quite quickly enough.
A reluctant grin curled the corner of Lady Frederick’s lips. She had a coffee ground stuck between her two front teeth, giving her a charmingly gapped-tooth expression.
Alex held out his cup. “You can have mine, if you like,” he said. “It ought to be cool by now. At least, cooler,” he amended.
Lady Frederick started to reach for it, and then drew back her hand, as thought she had thought better of it. “No. Thank you.”
Alex glanced down at his cup, but he didn’t see anything suspect about it. There were no drowned flies floating on the surface, or even particularly large coffee grounds impersonating dead flies. It was a perfectly potable cup of Turkish coffee. More potable, Alex suspected, than the beverages pretending to that name being served in London. On the other hand, had he just bolted a cup of boiling coffee, he wouldn’t be too keen on the beverage either.
At the front of the diwan khaneh, the Nizam’s master of ceremonies, Mama Champa, was leading Lord Frederick up to the dais, her gilt-edged white robe and pink choli making Lord Frederick’s English evening dress seem even more drab in contrast. In addition to being the Nizam’s master of ceremonies, she was also a commanding officer of the Zuffir Plutun. The little push she gave Lord Frederick had enough force behind it to send him staggering to his knees before the ruler. Which, of course, was exactly where Mama Champa had wanted him.
Tall blue poles had been placed to either side of the Nizam, the blue lights lending an unhealthy tint to his already sallow complexion. Even the jewels and silks with which he had decked himself couldn’t hide the unhealthy hang of his jowls, the lines of dissipation in his face that made him look old beyond his years. Alex thought wistfully of the old Nizam, a dignified old warrior with a knack for political maneuvering and a taste for mechanical curiosities. The old Nizam had looked better at seventy than Sikunder Jah looked at thirty-five.
The old Nizam also hadn’t had Mir Alam hanging over his shoulder like death in a morality tale.
Mir Alam looked like hell, Alex thought dispassionately. He had always been slightly built, but now, besieged by disease, his narrow frame seemed to have caved in upon itself like a crone’s clawed hand. The fair complexion of which he had been so proud, token of his Persian ancestry, was blotched with open sores that turned his once-pleasant-featured face into something resembling a blob of raw meat, rendered even more hideous by the cavern in the center of his face where his nose used to be, collapsed in upon itself from the disease that was eating him from the inside out.
But even in those da
ys when his body had been whole, there had been something unsettling about him, a cold-blooded lack of fellow feeling so profound as to be somehow inhuman. All ambition and no heart, James’s assistant, Henry Russell, had said with a shudder, adding that he’d sooner be sewed into a sack with a cobra than rely on Mir Alam’s mercy. Jack, who had a sneaking fondness for literature, had come up with an even more apt epitaph for Mir Alam. The Deccani Iago, Jack had called him, back before—well, before.
No need to let himself be distracted by Jack. Alex forced himself to concentrate on Mir Alam, Mir Alam who sat like a serpent poised to strike, the pipe of a golden hookah coiling snakelike from his mouth.
Alex recognized that hookah. It had, until very recently, belonged to the former First Minister, Aristu Jah, who seldom went anywhere without it. It had been a source of endless speculation among the younger wags of the court whether he brought it to bed with him, and if so, what role it played.
The hookah ought, by rights, to have been with Aristu Jah’s widow, not dangling from Mir Alam’s lips.
That did not bode well.
Alex could hear Lord Frederick’s startled grunt as Mama Champa shoved him down into the proper prostrate position. A few courtiers snickered behind their hands. The snickers turned to snorts as Lord Frederick bumbled his way through the elegant Persian oration James had crafted for him, blithely butchering vowels and changing minor words. Not that it mattered, reflected Alex cynically. The Nizam wasn’t listening anyway. Alex saw his eyes wandering off to the cane screen that concealed his current concubines.
At James’s prompting, Lord Frederick proffered the ceremonial gift that James had so carefully chosen. Passing off the present to a waiting functionary, the Nizam handed him in return a jeweled turban ornament, a cluster of emeralds and sapphires in the shape of peacock feathers. Lord Frederick promptly tried to stick it in his cravat, clearly believing it to be a sort of outré stickpin. Another friendly push from Mama Champa bowled him into the proper salaam, and then, thank the stars, the interview was over.
The Betrayal of the Blood Lily Page 12