Dark Diamond

by Shazia Omar

  The concoction seemed to be working!

  ‘I travelled to Constantinople, Tokat, Erzerum, Erivan and Persia,’ he continued. ‘I made it as far as Isfahan before I returned by Baghdad, Aleppo, Alexandretta, Malta, Italy, back to Paris. Then Hindustan, a journey that changed me forever. Here sensuality and opulence are the lay of the land. Trade, commerce, grand parties, attractive women, gargantuan jewels. It has everything.’ He was sweating heavily and his face had taken a pinkish hue.

  ‘I visited the court of the Grand Emperor Shah Jahan,’ he continued. ‘It was then that I first visited the mines of Golconda, as his guest. I began trading and soon enough, my charm propelled me into success. I became a merchant, trading in costly jewels and precious wares with elite customers, princes of the East.

  ‘On one of my voyages, I came to acquire an immaculate diamond, the French Blue. I sold it to King Louis and with the money I purchased the Barony of Aubonne near Geneva and married the daughter of a Parisian jeweller, but alas, the tides turned.’

  Tavernier tugged at the collar of his kurta, visibly uncomfortable. His face was beet red, his neck swollen. She feared he might burst.

  ‘What happened?’ Madeline asked.

  ‘I was double crossed. Dutch East India Company sent agents to kill me.’ He displayed his missing ear. ‘Louis turned on me. Times are not favourable for Protestants in France. The Elector of Bradenburg is my only friend. He wants me as his ambassador to India for his own Company. He expects from me a hefty investment. He believes I am stupendously wealthy though really I am flat out bankrupt.’

  Such a confession from Tavernier? The potion was potent. Madeline wondered which other spells she should test.

  ‘And ... Kollur?’ she asked. ‘What about the mines?’ Would he spill his secrets?

  ‘I’m warning you, Mademoiselle,’ said Tavernier, suddeny apopleptic. He grabbed her elbow hard. ‘You have until tomorrow to get me Kalinoor. If you fail, you will go back to France penniless, with nothing but your ruined reputation.’

  With that, Tavernier began coughing and wheezing, tottering off balance, then collapsed on the floor, unconscious.

  Madeline shuddered. She and he whom she hated were not so different. They were both exiles trying to buy back their reputations. Kalinoor and Kollur could change everything for them, transform their destinies like alchemy.

  CHAPTER 50

  R

  eturning home after the Chatgaon jaunt, quelling the Magh-Company uprising, fighting off the Marathas and discovering that his daughter was still alive, Shayista felt dishevelled. He hoped to stretch out on a silk cushion with a pipe to reflect on the events but such luxury was not his. The fortress was bustling with guests. A cluster of elephants, saddled horses and turbaned soldiers idled by the gates. His guards explained there was a celebration underway.

  The courtyard was lavishly dressed for a party. An elegant pavilion had been constructed. The evening’s theme was red roses. A shamiana 0f brocaded silk canopied a structure of bamboo wrapped in golden thread. Along the edges, cane trellises supported vines of roses. Strands of rose buds fell from silk clutches pinned on top. Candles in clay bowls dotted the walkways. A zephyr carried the pleasing fragrance of hasna henas and incense.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Shayista asked.

  ‘Sire,’ said Dhand. ‘Her Ladyship has invited guests.’

  A mammoth eunuch dressed in a starched white kurta and red cummerbund offered Shayista and Dhand a drink. Shayista accepted. Dhand declined. A bearer with spiced kebabs and fried pakoras had his interest. A tray of figs and dried apricots made its way around. Shayista could smell mutton on the grill. The sharab quenched his thirst. He needed another glass to subdue the battled body aches.

  ‘There you are, Jahanapana,’ said Nasim, peeking out from behind a brocaded purdah. Her heavily embroidered golden churidaar murmured on the grass. Her ankle bells jingled. Her earrings tinkled. Her bangles jangled. Her nose ring glittered.

  ‘My Lord, please wear this,’ she said, thrusting a white turban into his hands. A huge heron feather secured with a sapphire jewel flapped in his face, its height symbolic of his status in the Mughal hierarchy.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Shayista.

  Nasim pouted. ‘You haven’t worn it in forty years. I gave it to you when Abul Fateh was born.’

  ‘How kind you are,’ said Shayista, compelled to don the headgear.

  ‘Try this.’ She shoved a halva towards him.

  He tried to say ‘no thanks’ but she took the parting of his lips as an opportunity to stuff the sweet into his mouth. It tasted sickeningly syrupy.

  After swanning about for a while, Nasim fluttered off.

  Shayista lifted his chin high and greeted his guests. Sycophantic noblemen scrambled to taslim when they saw him. After a round of obligatory mingling, Shayista asked the Mir-e-Tazuk to commence the festivities.

  The musicians climbed onto the dais and sat upon Persian carpets, each with an instrument mastered to perfection: a bashi, a tabla, a sitar and a voice. Behind them, the dancers came on stage. Shayista settled down to enjoy the performance when Dhand called him aside.

  ‘Sire, I must warn you,’ he said. ‘There is a traitor among us.’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘No, I mean, now. Right here, at this lively gathering. Zamindar Shobha Singh.’

  Shayista raised his eyebrow.

  ‘He sells saltpetre to the English.’

  Shayista glowered. Selling his gunpowder to arm his enemies? Rage fired through his veins.

  ‘Her Ladyship invited him,’ said Dhand.

  Shayista ground his teeth, ready to rip the zamindar apart.

  Dhand placed a restraining hand on his chest. ‘Sire, he has eaten your salt.’

  Shayista snarled but he could not disregard the rules of hospitality. He would not kill a guest in his own home. Instead, he marched over to the loathsome renegade and demanded, ‘Shobha Singh, why are you here?’

  The dirty double-crosser lay reclined on a cushion, sipping tamarind serbet. ‘Subedar, salaam. How lovely to see you,’ he said languidly, no intention to bow.

  ‘You are not welcome here,’ said Shayista. ‘Leave.’

  Nasim Banu fluttered to the scene to interfere but Shayista would have none of it.

  Shobha bristled. ‘Would you slight me twice?’

  ‘Leave!’ Shayista thundered.

  Shobha rose to his feat, a frosty coat of indignity wrapped around his anger, and walked out, much to Nasim Banu’s dismay. Outside, his retinue of mercenaries waited.

  As soon as they left, Shayista excused himself from the party. He donned chain mail, armed himself and summoned fifty of his elite guards. They gathered around a mound of earth next to the South Gate of the fortress.

  When the mound was shovelled aside, a rusty door was revealed. The guards gasped and cleared the entrance of debris. The door was pried open to unveil a deep tunnel.

  The tunnel was a carefully guarded secret that ran for nearly a mile below the Buriganga and emerged on the other side of the river. It was built as an escape route.

  With lanterns, walking single file, Shayista marched his men into the the gaping mouth of uncertainty. It was damp but well dug out. There was room to stand and walk. They could hear the mighty river above. They were grateful for the darkness which concealed the primordial creatures slithering in the subterranean earth around them.

  The soldiers reached the opening at the far end of the river an hour later and waited to waylay the zamindar.

  ‘Not before my signal!’ whispered Shayista. He was eager to attack. The warning was as much for his men as himself. A methodical exercise of draconian force was necessary to run an empire. Shobha had gone too far and Shayista was keen to make an example of him. ‘Leave the zamindar to me!’

  The mansabdars stilled their hearts in preparation for battle. Shobha and his men approached noisily in the distance, careless, unaware of the danger.

  Shayista w
aited, patiently manipulating his breath to prime his body. He felt the combustible energy escalating within him. When he could see Shobha’s eyes, he gave the command. ‘Attack!’

  Hacking, slicing, smashing like a madman, Shayista ploughed into the zamindar’s force. The insurgents were trained Afghani mercenaries, armed with spears, pikes, karuds and chaqus. They fought with ferocious desperation but they were caught by surprise. The charging demon that bore into them, caring little about whether they lived or died, had killed half of them before they even registered the trouble.

  Within minutes, the mercenaries’ ranks broke and the Mughals were among them, a solid phalanx of deadly soldiers disciplined with thousands of hours of battle training. The carnage that followed did not last long.

  The zamindar was left sprawled in the middle of the fallen mercenaries. His horse had bolted throwing him on the ground. He stood up groaning under the weight of the weapons he was armed with as Shayista approached.

  ‘Sire, don’t kill me! It is not my fault. I was born to this Destiny,’ he said. He watched Shayista to see his reaction.

  ‘Give me one reason why I should let you live?’ thundered Shayista.

  ‘Because you have a heart that is not made of steel?’ said Shobha. His lips stretched in cunning exultation.

  The words stung. Shayista recalled his promise to Champa. He set aside his urge to take the zamindar’s head off with one swing of Azdahar. ‘I will let you fight for your life,’ he said. ‘A duel to death.’

  A malicious grin lit Shobha’s face. He felt sure he could take his opponent. He had been training hard.

  Shobha launched his garhiya javelin for an early kill. It sliced through the air expertly but Shayista deflected it with his shield. Shobha yanked the gurz from his belt and swung it over his head in a circle three times before throwing the spiked-ball at Shayista. Launched with such force, if this struck it would be sure to kill.

  Shayista ducked the ball and entwined its chain around his katara. The gurz was heavy and though Shobha was strong, Shayista managed to use its impetus to fling him to the ground, wrenching it out of his grip.

  Two weapons down, Shobha did not waste a second. Slung over his back was a vicious battle axe. Double headed, on one side a broad blade, on the other, a lethal point: a classic Tabar Zaghnol. With a battle cry, Shobha swung it at Shayista.

  Shayista leapt out of the way and thrust his katara into Shobha’s arm. He screamed and dropped the zaghnol. He recoiled and drew a seven-bladed sword with a thick center blade, six jagged blades branching off it.

  Shayista deflected the savage potential of its first swipe and circled in towards Shobha. When close enough, Shayista lunged, thrusting Azdahar at Shobha’s midsection. The lunging foot landed on warm horse dung and Shayista slipped. He landed on his right knee to stop from losing balance. The zamindar stepped back with alacrity. Shayista’s blade grazed his chain mail without injuring him and arced away.

  This was an opportunity for the zamindar to deal a killing blow. Gripping the seven-bladed sword with both hands, he swung as far back as he could and lashed out. The extra second he took to gain momentum gave Shayista time to position himself.

  Shayista felt the clanging blow on his shield. His left arm went numb but the shield did not break in half. Held at an angle, balanced on his knee, the shield warded off the blow and sent the heavy sword sliding away across it.

  Shayista jumped to his feet and struck with Azdahar, a slashing blow that cut across the zamindar’s chest.

  ‘I surrender!’ the zamindar squealed, gripping his wound, falling to the ground.

  Shayista stepped close. ‘If I ever see you again, I will kill you. Now run.’

  CHAPTER 51

  L

  eaving the pile of dead assassins on the road, Shayista’s soldiers preferred to charter a ride across the river to return to the fortress. By the time they arrived at the South Gate of Lal Bagh Fort, it was near dawn. No sooner did they enter the gates, a dreadful thunder storm attacked.

  Sheets of rain plummeted down, wrecking the shamiana. White muslin and red silk lay in tatters on the ground. Guards rushed to take shelter as bolts of lightning struck at them. One bolt hit a soldier, killing him instantly.

  Shayista saw a shadow lurking in his garden. It was the old pir beneath the bougainvilleas, his hair stretched out to its ends, fiery filaments of hellish fury. Olive light radiated from his eyes. The lightning appeared to emanate from his fingers.

  ‘Where is Kalinoor?’ the pir demanded as Shayista approached.

  ‘Stop this destruction at once!’ shouted Shayista.

  ‘People are polluting Earth, wounding the majestic kingdom of God, destroying beloved Bengal. Join me, Subedar. Together we can put an end to the mindless snivelling of human beings. Come, let us eradicate mankind once and for all!’

  ‘Never!’ shouted Shayista. ‘Guards, seize him!’

  Soldiers rushed to the pir but he was encircled by a ball of energy that prevented them from getting close. From his protected sphere, Pir Zulfiqar hurled one bolt after another, striking down soldiers like they were toys.

  ‘Stop!’ Shayista shouted. He ran towards the pir, when something came crashing into him and brought him hurtling to the ground. It was Bhopal.

  ‘I’ve been hit,’ gasped the dwarf, thunderstruck. He had jumped in front, taking a bolt meant for Shayista. Bhopal squinted in pain, lips pursed, hands gripping a ghastly wound. Blood oozed through his charred flesh.

  Shayista scooped Bhopal into his arms. ‘What kind of fool are you?’ he scolded, gulping his tears. ‘Why did you have to be so brave?’

  Bhopal coughed feebly, eyes full of love.

  ‘Farewell my giant friend,’ said Shayista. He whispered a prayer and laid Bhopal on the ground.

  A shadow loomed above Shayista. Its cold fingers gripped his throat. He felt a tightening then he could no longer breathe.

  The magician smiled diabolically, hands poised like a vice, asphyxiating him from a distance with mind tricks.

  ‘Where is Kalinoor?’ Pir Zulfiqar demanded.

  Shayista gasped for air and fell to the ground. The shadow lifted him and banged his head against the trunk of a tree, once, twice, three times. Pain seared through his body. Blood dripped into his eyes. The world was afloat a sea of crimson.

  Nasim ran into the garden. She had seen this kind of magic before. It left her eunuch dead. ‘Stop!’ she screamed at the pir.

  Shayista fell from the stranglehold to the ground. In the haze, he saw Dhand trying to break into the pir sphere with his zaghnol. The invisible wall repelled his attempts. The Imperial Tir-Andaz who rarely missed their target shot a chain of barbed arrows at the sorcerer but deflected by the forcefield, these fell to the ground like discarded matchsticks.

  Desperate to save Shayista, Dhand yelled, ‘Here is the diamond!’ He kicked over the floral tile under the bougainvilleas. There within the ground was the silver jewellery box he had hidden one year ago when Pari died. ‘Forgive me, Sire,’ said Dhand, kneeling by him. ‘It’s just a stone.’

  In a rush of magic, the box flew out of the mortar and into the pir’s hands. With a snap of his finger, the pir cracked the lock and opened the box. Inside, the diamond sat like a final judgment, irreversibly determining the sorry fate of those who loved it. The pir cupped the diamond in his palms, cackling. ‘At last!’ he said. ‘At long last!’

  A buzzing sound, a faint hum of rising pitch, emenated from the depths of the stone: a baby crying, a mother weeping, a wounded soldier, a wailing widow, a malignant muezzin, the whip of injustice, the breath of treachery, the crescendo of commerce, the groan of an Empire staggering to its death. The pir lifted the diamond up to the sky and began chanting.

  Shayista could not hold up his injured head but he saw from the corner of his eyes, Champa tugging at her grandfather’s sleeve.

  ‘Restrain yourself!’ thundered the pir, shoving her to the ground.

  Champa waved her hand to stir
the wind but the pir stopped it with a fist in the air.

  ‘You cannot use my wisdom against me,’ he bellowed. ‘Don’t try to stop me or you will die!’

  Shayista floudered to his feet. ‘I will fight you, whatever you are,’ he shouted. ‘Leave her out of this. Just you and I.’

  The necromancer said, ‘I accept.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Champa to Shayista. ‘Don’t hurt him! He is all I have!’

  ‘What is your weapon of choice?’ shouted Shayista.

  Zulfiqar tapped his temple.

  Shayista sheathed his talwar and sat cross-legged in front of the pir, head pounding. ‘I accept.’

  ‘Very well.’ The wizard waved his hand and the world around Shayista disappeared. The fortress, the garden, Champa, Dhand, Costa, all vanished.

  ‘You won’t need those,’ said the pir.

  Shayista’s sword and shield fell out of his hands.

  The magician brought the diamond to his third eye.

  Next thing Shayista knew, he was shackled to a brick wall. Violet mind-altering smoke rose from the ground like steam, enveloping him, sapping him of energy. His muscles slackened, his vision blurred. A dullness weighed his senses. The magician was toying with him.

  He was dizzy, spinning, twisting. His soul, wrung out of his flesh, drifted upwards to the sky. An icy breeze chilled him. An acrid smell of sulphur permeated the air.

  ‘Salaam,’ boomed a woman’s voice inside his head. It was raspy, deep and anguished, as if struggling out of a forgotten tomb, from the shadows behind the manifestation of Now, from the moment before God said ‘Let there be light’, from the cusp of existence, she emerged. She was old: one hundred, two hundred, perhaps a thousand years old.

  ‘Walaikum assalam,’ said Shayista at last, goosebumps on his arms. He couldn’t see her but he could feel her presence. Where are you? he thought.

  ‘You see this green field?’ she replied.

  Suddenly Shayista was in a vibrant field of pistachio green. The sun warmed his back and parakeets twittered.