The Temple Dancer

by John Speed

"Wasn't the bayadere bought as a gift for him?" Da Gama asked.

  "A bribe, you mean? Yes. Another of Carlos's schemes. He does not know the man. Did not, I mean. Wall Khan is subtle, and to influence him, we must be subtle also. I play Fives with him and lose. It's more effective than a bribe." Victorio's face grew dark. "But that bayadere cost us a fortune. We are stretched to our limits and beyond. Every hun that Carlos could borrow or beg."

  "What did she cost?" Da Gama asked.

  "Half a lakh of hun."

  Da Gama gave a low whistle. Fifty thousand hun! Da Gana was not poor by any means, and in a typical year he made two thousand hun. A servant might make fifty. Half a lakh was a fortune.

  Victorio continued. "News of Carlos's death has brought many creditors to our door. Now that you're a partner, you'll buy us some time. They don't know you. They'll guess about your resources. It will take time for them to sort things out. But when Wall Khan becomes regent ..."

  "If he becomes regent ..."

  A cloud covered Victorio's face at these words. Da Gama looked away.

  "In any case, that whore could be our salvation." Victorio brightened a little. "Someone wants to buy her from us."

  Mouse helped Victorio rise, gently holding his arm as he shuffled from the office through the crowded aisles of the factor. "You can see that I've been busy, Captain," Victorio said, nodding to the goods stacked against the walls in disordered confusion-great rolled carpets, bales of silks, baskets of spice, barrels marked in some strange tongue. Atoms of dust swirled in the sunbeams that leaked through minute holes in the tile roof. "If only we could trade them, only get these things to Lisbon, our troubles would be over. But we must hold everything here because we lack the funds."

  "Sell something," Da Gama said.

  Victorio's gurgling laugh became a cough, and he had to stop to catch his breath. "Never sell in weakness, son. First rule of trade. Once it's found that we need cash, then the vultures and jackals will rip out our insides. We'd be lucky to get a quarter of what our goods are worth." Worried by his agitation, Mouse patted Victorio's shoulder. "This factor holds all the Dasana fortune. As a trustee, I must act responsibly. And now so must you." He leaned forward and spoke softly. "What do you know of Whisper, the sultan's Khaswajara?"

  Mouse's ears perked at the word, and his large eyes glistened.

  "Not much," Da Gama replied.

  "He's the buyer I spoke of. It's he who wants the bayadere." Da Gama could not hide his surprise. "Yes, strange, isn't it? A gelding who wants to buy a whore?" Victorio continued his shuffle through the factor. "And he wants her delivered to some special place, not the palace. And in secret." Victorio turned his head and whispered, his hooded eyes glittering. "These conditions give me reason to hope."

  At the end of the factor, light poured through a single window. Da Gama could see that a part of the floor near the window had been cleared and swept, and covered with carpets and cushions and silks. A bony silhouette sat there in silence.

  "I'll do the talking. Just nod when I tell you," Victorio whispered.

  With the light behind him, Da Gama could scarcely see the Khaswajara, but could sense his dry, malignant presence. Mouse fell to his knees at Whisper's feet.

  "Up, up," the Khaswajara said to him, but only after waiting for a long time.

  Victorio merely nodded. "Senhor Whisper, this is my partner, Senhor Da Gama."

  Da Gama unfurled his arms in a sweeping farang bow, which elicited, as he expected, an amused smile from the Khaswajara. "My Hindi friends call me Deoga, senhor."

  "How happy I am to meet your partner, Senhor Victorio. We all need helpers, do we not? Helpers, and friends." Whisper's thin voice rattled like a dying man's fingers clutching at gravel. "Sit, sit. Let us talk."

  Mouse eased Victorio to a cushion to Whisper's right, then caught Da Gama's eye and gave a brusque nod to a place on Whisper's left.

  How about some respect for the new partner, bastard, Da Gama thought as he took his seat.

  Whisper tilted his head. "So much more friendly here, is it not? So much more private than the palace. No unwanted ears." Each time before he spoke, Da Gama noticed, Whisper slid his dry gray tongue across his yellowed teeth.

  With his good hand, Mouse carried a tray with pitcher and cups, all of bright silver. Whisper waved at the tray like a priest giving blessing, but he did not take a cup, so Victorio and Da Gama refused as well. The sun moved higher and the light from the window softened. Victorio and Whisper were just beginning the dance, discussing the health of one notable after another, and then smiling or shaking their heads before moving to the next.

  Da Gama's eyes drifted around the room. This part of the factor was crammed with odd lots. A row of life-size idols leaned against the near wall in a tangle of painted arms. Behind Victorio lay a wooden bird with the head of a man.

  Further back Da Gama saw a gilded arch. The arch framed Victorio so that he seemed to be sitting on a throne. On the floor nearby the arch, Da Gama saw a line of dolls propped up in special stands. Then he realized what he was seeing, and he was even more confused to find it here, in a factor in Bijapur.

  He was looking at a rich puppet theater, such as a nobleman from Lisbon might have in his palace. From the window, the sunbeams caught the silky orange fur of the fox prince, his puppet robe glittering with jewels, his toothy smile open but sly, his eyes black and empty as night. Beside the fox hung a delicately painted Colombina, hanging from her stand as if defeated, her serene face staring at the floor.

  The black eyes of the fox absorbed Da Gama's attention far more than the endless talk of Whisper and Victorio. After a night of little rest, his thoughts began to drift. The fox seemed to lift its head, about to speak. Da Gama jerked up, but neither Victorio nor Whisper had noticed him drowsing, though Mouse glared at him, full of disapproval.

  But while he'd drifted, the two had reached the heart of the matter. "Still, Senhor Whisper ... a nautch girl?" Victorio lifted his hands as if confused. "What would you need with a nautch girl?"

  Whisper's head wobbled on its reedy neck. "That is my business and none of yours."

  "But it is my business ... you seek not just the girl, but our silence also."

  Again the beardless gray-haired head wobbled. "Silence would be included in my price," the rasping voice replied. "Name a figure."

  Victorio frowned. Beneath his sagging eyebrows his little eyes moved to and fro. Mouse looked up at him with worry, for he seemed unable to speak.

  "Ten lakh hun." Da Gama said. Then he blinked and looked around as if someone else had spoken.

  All eyes stared at him. Whisper grew even paler. Victorio's mouth worked but no sound came. Mouse seemed about to burst.

  "Ten lakh?" Whisper turned to Victorio. "For a simple nautch girl? This is your price? Does your partner speak for you?" Victorio raised his hands helplessly, his voice gone. Whisper glared at Da Gama and then moved his unblinking eyes to Victorio. "Seven lakh hun. No more. That is my final offer."

  "Done!" Victorio managed to croak.

  "In gold," Da Gama said.

  Without a look, the Khaswajara rose gracefully to his feet. His bones were as fragile as a bird's. "When I have her, you shall have your gold." His rasping voice seemed more raw than ever.

  "She's in Belgaum," Victorio said as Mouse helped him rise. "I'll send for her at once."

  "Send him." Whisper's lizard eyes did not leave Da Gama's face. "Send him to fetch her. And not a word, farang. Not to Wall Khan, not to anyone. Is that clear?"

  "Of course, of course!"

  "Also, I may send one of my brothers with you. To look after the nautch girl's comfort. Of course you may refuse me this favor." A quiet fell on the room. Whisper did not move, but he held the floor. He had something to say. "There must be no mistakes. Forgive my rudeness if I emphasize this point, but we speak different languages and we come from different worlds. We must finally understand one another." Victorio lifted his hands as if to acknowledge the wisdom
of Whisper's concern. "Do not mistake me. No word of this shall be said, not ever. Silence means silence. It means the silence of the dead."

  Victorio seemed not to notice the threat beneath Whisper's words, but Da Gama's eyes narrowed as he listened.

  The eunuch's voice got softer than ever. "I may even put it about that she has died. Of course it will only be a story. Of course she will not have died. But that might be the story that I tell." Whisper turned from Victorio and his eyes bored into Da Gama's. "You will say nothing, however. Nothing."

  "Or we'd forfeit the price, I know." Victorio forced a chuckle.

  "Oh, you would forfeit more than that," the rasping voice replied. "Bring her soon. Keep me advised of your travel plans. Mouse, see me to my palanquin."

  With Mouse holding Whisper's arm, the Khaswajara disappeared amidst the shadows of the factor.

  As the bearers rose to help the men into their palanquins, Mouse drew close to Da Gama. "He will speak with you."

  "Who will?"

  "The Khaswajara." Mouse's face squeezed into an tight ball. "It's arranged." Glaring, he nodded to Da Gama's bearers, and stalked off, leaving Da Gama to stare after him bewildered. At last he climbed into his palki, and with grunts, the bearers hoisted him up.

  Not far from the factor, the other palkis went straight on, but Da Gama's peeled away north. Da Gama worried a little, and checked his pistolas, wondering about what Mouse had said. "It's arranged."

  Through the curtains he saw a huge white building, fifty feet high at the corners, and over all, a colossal dome. A temple or palace of some sort, Da Gama guessed. The bearers stopped near the arched entranceway and the fragile form of Whisper emerged at the door. The eunuch tilted his head for Da Gama to come. As Da Gama mounted the steps of the building's plinth, the clatter of his boots echoed from the towering walls.

  When he reached the door, Whisper frowned until Da Gama understood, and pulled off his boots. "What do you think of this rauza?" Whisper asked; but Da Gama, hopping on one foot while he tugged the heel of his boot, could not answer. "It is the Gol Gumbaz, the great tomb of our late, dear sultan Adil Shah. The largest dome in the world, they tell me, greater than any the Moguls have built, or the farangs, or even the Turks. So grand, so immense, and yet this is not the greatest of the sultan's follies. Still it makes a perfect place for us to speak, don't you agree, farang? Come in and I will show you."

  In his stocking feet, Da Gama followed Whisper. He was unprepared for the dreary letdown of the tomb's interior. The enormous vault of the dome could hardly be seen in the darkness-only shadows marked its loftiness, only echoes revealed its magnitude. The air, stale and still as in any sepulchre, pressed down upon them.

  Even the sultan's casket seemed insignificant, pitiful. Dwarfed by the oppressive emptiness around them, it rested on a low plinth under a humble wooden pavilion. "Is the sultan buried there?" Da Gama asked.

  Whisper frowned. "Are you really so ill-informed, or do you simply enjoy annoying me?" Da Gama did not know what to answer. "This is his cenotaph, of course. The real tomb is beneath our feet. None but the sultana goes there." Again his clawlike hand took Da Gama's arm and he led him further, to a dark, narrow staircase whose basalt steps could just be made out in the thin light of the hanging lamps. They climbed many flights, and the risers were high, so that by the end Da Gama was puffing. But Whisper seemed to float up the steps, looking back at him from time to time and shaking his head.

  At the top they came to a narrow gallery at the edge of the round dome. "They call this the Whisper Gallery," the eunuch said. The sibilant echo of his words raced around the dome, as though spoken by a hidden army of eunuchs. Whisper flashed his eyebrows at Da Gama. "I must say I find the name amusing. Don't you?"

  But he did not give Da Gama a chance to answer, though the question echoed a dozen times.

  Instead he led Da Gama to an outside door. They stepped out to a crenellated wall a dizzying height above the ground, in the tiny space at the corner of the roof. Like the walls and dome, the roof and floor were painted white, reflecting the sun so Da Gama had to squint. A constant breeze whipped past the enormous dome beside them. The air was hot and clear, and Da Gama could see the whole city shimmering in the sunlight. Below, one of the bearers stepped out from the shadow of a tree, caught sight of them, and waved.

  Whisper looked up at the dome and pursed his lips in disgust. "What an ill-favored design. Is it not a monstrosity? That dome. That dome. He must have that dome! It's just too big, you see? A smaller would have been so much more graceful. Yes, so much more poignant."

  Da Gama turned to consider this, but suddenly Whisper was beside him, close to his ear. "This is the most private place in Bijapur. No one can hear us." Da Gama shivered as Whisper's hand slid gently along his back. "Your partner is a fool," the Khaswajara continued, his lips so close they brushed the hairs of Da Gama's big ears. "You, it appears, are not. I don't mind. I enjoy the company of so many fools, I'm pleased to deal with an exception."

  Da Gama turned to speak, but Whisper hissed in his ear like a snake. "Be still," the eunuch said. "Already too many men have fallen to their deaths from here. Now look at me." Da Gama faced Whisper, surprised by his implied threat. In the sun the eunuch's skin looked bloodless, thin as parchment; even his eyes were pale. "So ... you knew the value of that whore. Well, good for you. If you had not been there, I might have had her for less, but you win this hand. If she is who we think, if she has what we think, then what's seven lakh hun more or less?"

  "Who are `we,' sir?"

  Whisper scowled at him. "Please don't bore me. I shall die too soon to waste time in foolishness. You know who we are." But Da Gama's face was blank. "One of our Brotherhood has been searching for that girl for years. He found her at last. Obviously you already knew this, or you guessed."

  Da Gama's face betrayed nothing. Slipper, he thought. But the whys and hows of the situation eluded him.

  Whisper shook his head. "That's good. Remind me not to gamble with you, Deoga. For a farang your face reveals little. I pray you, stop trifling with me. You'll get your gold, but I must have her intact, you understand? Complete and unmolested. Both her and her effects-entire. Do you understand my words?"

  Da Gama nodded, and the eunuch's lipless mouth spread to show his long, stained teeth. The wind gusted, tugging Da Gama's hair and coat. It seemed not to touch the eunuch. He was about to answer when Whisper shook his head. "Do not talk, farang, but listen. That old man gambles, farang. He loses often. He gambles now-on the succession. He has placed his stake on Wall Khan. He gambles with his life. And yours. You must consider if his bet is sure. Perhaps you wish to gamble differently."

  The eunuch stretched his lips as if affecting a smile. "I told you we will be sending a brother with you to fetch the nautch girl. I think you know him? Slipper?" Da Gama's eyes widened and Whisper struggled to contain his amusement. "Yes. Slipper has come up in the world, Deoga. Rings on his fingers now. You must treat him with respect."

  Raising his nearly hairless eyebrows significantly, Whisper then pointed his chin toward the open door. "You go down first, farang. Join your partner at the palace." As Da Gama slipped away, he heard the eunuch say, "Entire, remember!" As Da Gama stepped into the gallery, Whisper's words echoed inside the shadowed dome.

  When the bearers set him down at the entrance to the Gagan Mahal a few yards from Shahji's "cottage," Da Gama looked up with a start. His head was still reeling with Whisper's news of Slipper. How did that damned eunuch fit into this business?

  The citadel buzzed with activity. Peasants and merchants streamed toward Da Gama on foot, for the short public audience of the Sultana was complete, and they were no longer welcome. In their place came a stream of generals and jewel-draped lords on palanquins and feather-bedecked horses. Too fine, too great to grasp a rein, they rode with arms folded or reading the Koran, the horses of even the humblest lords led by tall grooms chosen for their imposing presence. The greater lords had a whole proc
ession: umbrella carriers, fan-wavers, liveries and valets, guards with long spears.

  When the bearers finally heaved his simple palanquin from their shoulders, Da Gama stepped out to find himself surrounded by buildings so high they blocked the morning sun. Tallest of all was the Gagan Mahal, where he was now to stay as Victorio's guest. A change had come over the bearers; he felt them staring at him with a palpable distaste. Why? wondered Da Gama. Do they now compare me to these rich lords? Or has my talk with Whisper given them some sign?

  When no one moved to help him, Da Gama took his saddlebags from the palanquin and set off. The elder bearer waved him toward the entrance of the palace, and told him that his room was on the seventh, the highest floor.

  Once again, Da Gama began to mount flight by flight of narrow stairs. When he reached the final flight, he came upon Victorio, slowly working his way up the staircase, grunting with each step. Mouse, holding the old man's arm, glared at Da Gama. "Let me help you, sir," Da Gama offered.

  "No, my boy, I'm nearly there," Victorio wheezed.

  Their rooms looked out over the courtyard, and from the balcony, Da Gama could see the old city. In the distance he saw the bloated dome of the Gol Gumbaz. Mouse was fanning Victorio, who had settled into a big wooden chair, the only farang element in the room. Exhausted, Victorio with a feeble wave of his hand motioned for Da Gama to take the cushion near his feet. His breath came in short bursts, and his face was pale.

  Da Gama sat where he was told. Without moving his head, Victorio turned his gaze on him. "You disobeyed me, sir. I told you not to speak." Da Gama merely stared back. "You wrecked my strategy."

  "Forgive me, sir."

  Victorio snorted. This interrupted the rhythm of his gasps, and his face grew pale before he found the strength to speak again. "I had planned to demand seventy thousand hun. I would have taken sixty thousand, but I had hopes of seventy. But you interfered. Now we will get seven hundred thousand hun for the nautch girl, thanks to you, ten times what I had hoped." He gasped at the effort of saying this long sentence. "What made you name such an outrageous figure?"