Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  Sayaji Rao paused, gathering a breath. “As you know, Fateh here is boycotting the Durbar publicly. Sadly, my seniority means the English will not let me do the same, and I am being forced to attend, much as it irks me. However, I will not let this moment go to waste. I intend to make a statement, to strike a blow, as it were, for our cause.

  “I cannot divulge more, but let it suffice to say, there are things in play here, my boy, plans unfolding behind the scene that are much more complicated than you can imagine. And your investigation, Sikander, will put our scheme in grave jeopardy, which is why I ask again, will you oblige me? Will you let sleeping dogs lie?”

  Sikander’s mind reeled. Could this mean that Sayaji Rao and Fateh Singh had hatched some sort of plan to sabotage the Durbar, to undermine the King’s grand entry? But how was Zahra involved in all this? That was what he could not peg out—unless, of course, she had been working for the two of them. Could that be it?

  “I cannot help you, sir,” Sikander said, his voice thick with regret. “Much as I wish I could, I gave the Viceroy my word.”

  Sayaji Rao held his gaze for a long time, before nodding curtly. “So be it. I cannot say I am not disappointed. But I understand your decision, Sikander.”

  “Is that it?” Fateh Singh’s face burned a bright crimson, like he was about to combust spontaneously. “What if he goes straight to the blasted English and blabs everything?”

  “No, he will not. If there is one thing Sikander cares about even more than his damned curiosity, it is his honor.” Sayaji Rao sighed. “It always comes down to a man’s honor, and that is one quality this boy possesses in excess. Come on, Fateh, let us leave before someone sees you. Sikander, I trust you will manage to find your way back to your hotel on your own.”

  As the Gaekwad turned and returned toward the car, Sikander could not resist the urge to call after him. “This is a dangerous path you are treading, sir. Be careful.”

  “Someone has to make a stand, my boy. Sometimes, a man does not have the luxury to choose his duty. Sometimes, his duty chooses him.”

  With that, he clambered into the passenger seat of the Packard. Fateh Singh followed, but not before pausing long enough to offer Sikander a disdainful scowl.

  “If you dare breathe a word to anyone, I will track you down, I swear it on my honor.”

  “I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Fateh Singh-ji, but I would be lying.”

  The Rajput snorted and slammed the door. A moment later, the car growled into life, but before it could move away, the Gaekwad leaned out of the rear window to peer at Sikander one last time.

  “I will leave you with this warning, my boy. Sooner or later, you will have to pick a side.”

  “What if I choose not to? What if I wish to remain neutral?”

  “You cannot,” Sayaji Rao said mournfully. “We have no choice, Sikander. Our time is ending. A new world awaits, a new order, and there is no place for gilded peacocks in that age. Either you are for India, or the English. You cannot hope for both, or you shall belong to neither.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shadows.

  He is drowning in shadows.

  They surround him, viscous, eddying like smoke. He tries to move, but his limbs are frozen. He cannot move, his flesh has petrified to stone.

  His eyes widen with horror as he realizes the shadows are alive. They writhe, and creep toward him, sharp tendrils, reaching out for him. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound emerges, only a dull chattering of his teeth. The shadows are as frigid as ice, and wherever they touch his skin, it burns, and he weeps, bleeding not droplets, but frozen shards, of blood.

  And then the smoke coalesces, hardening, lips first, then the vague shape of a nose and a sinuous neck, the suggestion of matted strands of hair, undulating like eager fingers, and then, last of all, those dreadful eyes, as black and opaque as tar. It is her, the dead girl. That wreck of a mouth opens, her swollen tongue emerging to lick his lips, tasting him.

  “It is your fault,” she whispers. He can smell the grave on her, as bitter as spoiled meat.

  “You killed me.”

  “You let me die.”

  She smiles. He sees that her teeth are impossibly sharp, curved, gleaming like scimitars. She leans forward and grazes his mouth with her own, delicate, a lover’s first kiss. It is surprisingly erotic, and his heartbeat quickens. But then, there is a rending, a tearing, as she bites him, ripping a gobbet from his mouth and swallowing it, his blood smearing her mouth like a nightmarish rouge.

  Gasping, Sikander sat up, to find Charan Singh’s shaggy face looming over him, wearing its characteristic expression of one part amusement and two parts disapproval.

  “Are you having a heart attack, huzoor? Shall I fetch the doctor?”

  “Oh, do go away, you oversized baboon!”

  “It would be best if you arose, Sahib. There is a message from Malik Umar Hayat Khan. He has arranged an appointment for you to meet with the Nizam in an hour. If you do not hurry, you will be late.”

  Biting back a curse, Sikander forced himself to sit up as hastily as he could manage. A familiar ennui brushed against the edges of his consciousness. It was never far, a despondence that ebbed and rose like a tide. On most mornings, it was easily quelled, but on some days, like this one, it assailed him as relentlessly as a sickness, an ache in his bones that made every movement, however minor, an ordeal.

  “What time is it?” he asked, staggering to his feet.

  “Just after eight, huzoor. I have taken the liberty of laying out an appropriate suit.” The big Sikh gave Sikander a stern frown. “You must look the part if you are visiting someone as important as the Nizam. And, for once, try to be on your best behavior, will you? Whatever you say or do, it will have a bearing on your reputation, and on Rajpore’s.”

  That imprecation was precisely what Sikander found himself contemplating as he bathed and dressed. Of all the proverbial jewels in England’s Imperial crown, the Nizam-ul-Mulk of Hyderabad was undoubtedly the most resplendent. To milk the metaphor for all it was worth, he was a flawless diamond, a veritable Kohinoor. In comparison, Sikander was a garnet, perhaps, or a topaz, semi-precious in value at best, and rather undistinguished in quality.

  Interestingly, the origins of the Asaf Jahis were exceedingly humble. The founder of the dynasty, Mir Qamar-ud-din Khan , had been a minor Turcomani general who had been elevated to the position of Governor of the Deccan by Aurangzeb’s successor Farrukh-siyar, only to usurp power in the wake of Nadir Shah’s sack of Delhi, thus starting the decline of the Mughal domination of India. His sons and grandsons had proven to be even more politically adroit, allying first with the French against the English, and then switching sides to support the English against the French. As a result, even as the embers of Seringapatam smoldered, Hyderabad had eclipsed Mysore to emerge as the preeminent power in Southern India, encompassing an area roughly the size of France.

  A century later there was no prince more exalted than the Nizam, nor any wealthier. The current holder of the title, Osman Ali Jah, had assumed the throne just some months previously, when his father had succumbed to an unexpected stroke of paralysis at the youthful age of forty-six—caused, no doubt, by the excess of good living for which he had been renowned. If rumor was correct, he was said to be the richest man in the world, with a fortune exceeding a billion pounds, a sum so monumental that even Sikander, who was a very prosperous man himself, simply could not envision it without shuddering involuntarily.

  Naturally, this immense disparity in status left Sikander, who was ordinarily as intrepid as a Jason, feeling rather nervous. How was he to proceed? If it had been Jind or Nabha or one of the Sisodia lads, someone who was at roughly the same level as himself, he would not have spared a second thought about showing up unannounced under the pretext of making a social call. But one did not just drop by to see the Nizam of
Hyderabad without an invitation. Not only was that tantamount to social suicide, but Sikander doubted if Osman Ali Khan even had any inkling who he was, or even exactly where Rajpore was located.

  It was a peculiar sense of helplessness for Sikander, indeed. Ordinarily, he was accustomed to using his rank and power to intimidate potential suspects into cooperating with his investigations. But, this once, it seemed he was the littlest fish in the pond. Much as he would have love to resort to his favorite tactic and try to bully the Nizam into submission, Sikander was wise enough to realize that there was no way a prince with a mere eleven-gun salute could push a twenty-one-gun nawab around, not without causing a serious diplomatic incident.

  With this realization weighing heavily on his mind, just as he was putting the finishing touches to his dressage, the door creaked open, and Captain Campbell strode in, whistling merrily.

  “Ah, excellent!” he exclaimed. “I feared I was late, but, thank heavens, I am just on time. I stopped for breakfast, you see. Have you had breakfast yet, sir? No? Then you shall have to interview the Nizam on an empty stomach, for we have no time to waste.”

  Sikander bit back a groan. To his chagrin, he had managed to forget all about the Captain. Unfortunately, the man was even more persistent than a missionary, it seemed, and was absolutely determined to stay attached to Sikander’s side, quite as cumbersome as a limpet.

  “There is no need for you to accompany me, Captain. I am more than capable of managing this interview by myself.”

  “I have no doubt of that, sir. Unfortunately, sir, my orders are unequivocal.” He offered Sikander a beaming grin. “Besides, I am quite looking forward to seeing you in action. How are you going to do it, if I might ask? What approach are you planning to take?”

  Sikander gave him a withering look. The man’s incessant cheerfulness was beginning to grate at his nerves. Not only was it much too early in the morning to be quite so upbeat, but unknowingly, the Captain had managed to remind Sikander of how nervous he really was at the prospect of interviewing the Nizam. How on earth was he expected to interrogate the most powerful of India’s princes, without giving irrevocable offense? And how was he supposed to carry out an effective investigation without mentioning the crime that had been committed?

  It was a trepidation that grew and grew. Mixing in his stomach with the sour acid of half-digested alcohol and the pangs of barely suppressed hunger, it rapidly mounted toward nausea as they took a seat in the vehicle that Charan Singh had prepared for the occasion—a green Silver Ghost with carriage-work by Barker’s of Mayfair. Thankfully, the journey from the Majestic to the Hyderabad encampment did not take too long. Given the Nizam’s exalted status, quite naturally, only the finest of locations had been granted to him. It was situated at the very forefront of the Native Chiefs quarter, bordered on one side by the Najafgarh Canal, and on the other by the Coronation Road, a stone throw’s away from the Commander-in-Chief’s camp and the cul-de-sac that housed the Royal Enclosure.

  Unlike the other Maharajas, the Nizam had chosen to eschew ostentation in favor of muted simplicity. Instead of a grand archway, a simple pebbled path flanked by potted shrubs led to an elegant gateway flanked by four minarets, in the style of what was known in India as a Chaumakha darwaza, not unlike the famous Charminar. As Sikander’s vehicle drew up before it, he noted with bemusement that there were no soldiers on guard dressed in regimental finery, no regimental band waiting to break into salutation each time any dignitary chose to make a visit.

  He gave his driver a quick instruction to remain with the Rolls before turning to saunter through the archway, followed closely by the ever-obtrusive Captain Campbell. A quick glance at his gold Breguet told him he was exactly one half hour early, an observation which managed to elicit a tight smile. Punctuality was very nearly a mania with Sikander, and in his opinion, there was no worse way to offend someone than by showing up late for an appointment.

  Beyond the arch, to his right, he saw that eight whitewashed buckram tents were arranged in a lopsided U. Opposite them, on his left, a large, resplendent open-sided shamiana had been erected in Imperial purple silk embroidered with gold braid, about the size of a circus marquee. Next to it stood a small reception pavilion, a gazebo with a peaked roof surrounded by finely carved ivory jalis, each about seven feet high.

  Outside this enclosure, a servant waited, an elderly khidmutgar clad in spotless white silk who was watching them with a rather assertive half-smile.

  “What do you want?” The man asked rather too pointedly, making no effort to bow or genuflect as Sikander approached him.

  “I am here to see the Nizam sahib.”

  “The Nizam sahib is not in residence here. He is staying in the Old City,” the man said rather too self-assuredly for Sikander’s taste.

  “I am well aware of that. However, he made an appointment to see me here, at half past nine.”

  “Is that so?” With one raised eyebrow, he held up a silver hunter. “According to my watch, you are much too early.”

  “I will be happy to wait,” Sikander snapped, annoyed by the man’s’ impertinence. He had never admired impudence, particularly from other people’s servants.

  The man pursed his lips, looking Sikander up and down with a sneer, as if to suggest this was an entirely unreasonable suggestion.

  “I shall check,” he said, and vanished into the pavilion without offering another word of explanation. A good fifteen minutes drifted by, time Sikander spent trying not to lose his temper, clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails left raw red crescents in the skin of his palms, before the man returned, popping his head back out to say, “Well, are you coming? Or would you prefer to stay out here?”

  Holding open the entrance to the tent, he beckoned Sikander to enter. Giving the servant an exasperated scowl—which was completely wasted, for his supercilious grin did not waver—Sikander moved forward. In his wake, the Captain began to follow, but the servant forbade him with a brisk wave of a hand. “You will remain here!” he said.

  He pointed at Sikander. “The Nizam wishes to see only him, not you.”

  The Captain hesitated, looking to Sikander for affirmation.

  “I don’t see what choice we have,” the Maharaja said with a shrug, trying not to let his exultation show, secretly delighted to be rid of the albatross around his neck.

  “Very well,” Campbell said reluctantly, “I shall wait by the car.” He spun on one heel and marched away.

  Sikander followed the cocky servant into the pavilion. Inside, he found himself in a sitting room so opulent it was very nearly garish, all silk tapestries and Charles X antiquities. The khidmutgar barely gave barely him time to spare one glance at his surroundings before hurriedly ushering Sikander onward as if he were a recalcitrant chicken, shooing him through a nearby doorway into a private meeting room.

  Unlike the previous parlor, this room’s décor was spartan. Just a single Louis XVI gilt armchair flanked a rather handsome French rosewood bijouterie table. Behind the chair, an Art Nouveau four-panel screen bisected the room, its façade painted to depict a naked nymph rising from an ocean of pearls. No refreshments awaited atop the table, as was customary. Instead, its sole occupant was an Ormulu clock, featuring Athena as Winged Victory.

  “Sit over there,” the impertinent servant commanded, pointing at the solitary chair. “His Eminence will be with you when he is ready.”

  With that, he held out one hand, to indicate he had the gall to expect a tip for such completely impolite behavior. All Sikander gave him was a very frosty glance, before settling into the chair with stiff hauteur, leaving the man to retreat with an insultingly noisome sniff.

  The minutes dragged by. Five, then fifteen, then half an hour. The appointed time came and passed, but still the Nizam did not appear. Sikander closed his eyes and tried to slow his breath, like a yogi, trying to quell his impatience. Unfortunately, eve
n this old technique, which normally did the trick, failed him miserably on this occasion. Not only was he coming perilously close to the boiling point at being kept waiting like a common supplicant, but the ticking of the clock was beginning to grate on his nerves. Amidst the still silence of the room, it seemed much too loud, a steady tick-tocking that only accentuated the passage of every second, so tiresome it made his teeth grind.

  Added to that, his irritation was intensified by his mode of dress. The outfit chosen by Charan Singh was entirely the antithesis of his customary black sherwani. It was the military uniform of a Colonel of the Rajpore Cavalry, a navy-blue worsted wool tunic with red piping, paired with pale-blue breeches and buff Hussar boots, topped by a pugree in red silk. While it made him look quite resplendent, the outfit was made for parading on horseback, not sitting in a chair, and it was only a matter of time before the high collar began to chafe at his neck and he found himself sweating rather too much, a condition intensified by the mugginess of his surroundings, which were sadly bereft of any ventilation whatsoever.

  Finally, he could endure it no longer. Sikander sprang to his feet, and impatiently, began to pace back and forth. Five short steps and then a spin on his boot-heel, and then five more, to repeat the whole thing over and again. He lost track of how long this went on, a steady circuit that had very nearly begun to wear a groove in the expensive Hereke carpet underfoot, before the servant returned.

  “Where is the Nizam?” Sikander snapped. “I have been waiting over an hour.”

  Ignoring his complaints, the servant proceeded to fold the screen back, to reveal that there was another chair on the other side, a twin to the one Sikander had so recently occupied. In it sat a rather nondescript man, enjoying what seemed to be a cup of tea while perusing a copy of The Times of London, which he folded and put away before leaning back to offer Sikander a sardonic smile.