"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. "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. Because the pass is 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. "There was something about his mood this morning that makes me think he's ready to move."
Laura's face paled when she heard the news. "You think the Afghans might follow up their victory by coming down onto the plains and joining Pyotr's jihad?"
"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 replied. "I'll ask Zafir if he's heard of it."
She shivered. "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 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." Ian frowned in thought. "Was your uncle only interested in getting rid of the British? I would have guessed 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 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. 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."
Chapter 30
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 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."
Zafir whooped. Catching her around the waist, he lifted her into the air and swung her around three times. By the time a laughing Meera was returned to the ground, she was convinced that her answer did matter.
"A pity I don't have my rifle," he said regretfully. "A proper Pathan celebrates by shooting into the air, but I shall do the happy fire another time. Perhaps when we are wed."
Trying without success to look severe, she straightened the scarf that covered her hair. "Speaking of wedding, I think we should wait until Falkirk Sahib and my lady reach Bombay."
He pulled her close and kissed her. "Must we wait so long?"
"Yes," she said rather breathlessly after surfacing from his kiss. "The sahib and memsahib have done much for me. To leave her now would be ungrateful."
He kissed her again and this time his hand covered her breast. "We can wait for the wedding, but do we have to wait?"
Catching his meaning, she cuffed his wandering hand. "Yes, we do, you wicked creature. Not until we're married."
Undisturbed by her refusal, he laughed and picked a crimson flower from a bed by the path. "A prudent woman—exactly what a man wants in his wife." He tucked the blossom over her ear.
"You are always so good-natured," she said curiously. "Isn't there anything I could say or do that would give you offense?"
He grinned. "I would have been offended if you had refused me. Come, let us walk in the royal section of the gardens."
Meera had not been paying attention to where they were walking, but now she saw how close they were to the restricted area. "This is only for the royal family and their chief courtiers. Won't we get in trouble if we're found here?"
"We are visitors in Dharjistan and could plead ignorance. At most, we would be scolded and told to leave the garden," the Pathan said carelessly. "The maharajah would not have the servants of his guests executed for such a trivial reason."
Though Meera was not entirely comforted by this speech, she couldn't resist the idea of seeing the private gardens. She glanced around uneasily as they walked, but they saw no one else. Soon they were deep in the royal preserve.
"Ah, that must be the famous banyan tree," Zafir said, gesturing ahead.
Banyan were the most distinctive trees in India, for the aerial roots that dropped from the branches turned into additional trunks where they touched the soil. Those in turn shot off more branches and aerial roots. The result was as complicated as a wooden spider's web, with trunks and roots going in all directions. The area under a banyan was often used as an open bazaar, and a large one could shelter hundreds of people.
"What's famous about this one?" Meera asked after careful study. "It looks like any other banyan to me."
"They say the maharajah had a throne built into the tree, and that he sometimes receives visitors here," the Pathan explained. He began circling around the massive perimeter of the banyan, Meera following nervously.
On the far side they found the throne, which had been carved from a root, then decorated into a seat fit for a king. Zafir promptly sat on it. "Not bad," he said. "Come, give me a kiss so we can tell our grandchildren that you were fancied by the man who sat on the throne of Dharjistan."
Part amused, more horrified, Meera hissed, "Idiot! If anyone finds us here, the maharajah might decide to slit your nose or remove your ears."
Grinning, the Pathan pulled her onto his lap. Even as her body melted in response to his embrace, Meera thought with exasperation that men were excited by the most alarming things.
He whispered in her ear, "Better yet, shall we see if we can conceive our first child on a throne?"
"No, you barbarian," she exclaimed, scrambling off his lap. "I want to leave right now!"
With a chuckle, he got to his feet. Then his amusement abruptly evaporated. "Too late," he said softly. "Someone's coming."
As Meera listened, she also heard the voices of approaching men. Zafir grabbed her around the waist and boosted her into the branches over their heads. A moment later he swung up beside her, then guided her higher yet to a place where the interwoven branches formed a crude platform. As birds squawked angrily at the humans who had invaded the tree, he settled down with his back against a trunk and drew her into his arms.
The branches and dark green leaves would prevent anyone below from seeing them, but as Meera lay still as a mouse in the arms of her beloved, she plotted hideous punishments on him for getting them into this. For one of the men below was the maharajah himself.
She recognized Rajiv Singh's voice speaking in the formal Persian used by the court. It was the same language that Mohan had had Meera learn so she could read to him.
Unsubdued, Zafir tugged Meera's scarf off and began nibbling her ear. She caught her breath to prevent herself from gasping out loud. As desire curled through her, she decided that she would definitely murder him some day. But not just yet.
Greatly daring, she slipped a hand through the folds of his clothing and stroked his bare chest, which she had been longing to do. The taut muscles rippled under her touch. Wondering how he would react to being sensually tortured under such conditions, her hand began to move lower.
Suddenly she stopped, shocked by what the men below her were saying, Zafir, who didn't understand court Persian, wanted to continue their game, so his hand moved toward her breast. She grabbed it and shook her head, her face deadly serious, when he looked at her questioningly.
Dislodged the vehemence of her head shake, the red flower behind her ear tumbled loose with mocking slowness. Zafir made a lightning grab that just missed.
The blossom dropped between two branches and continued falling, its progress marked by faint, almost inaudible rustling sounds. Though Meera prayed that the flower would be caught in the tree, it made its way all the way to the ground.
The men below stopped speaking for a moment. Then the maharajah barked a sharp question.
For a heartstopping instant there was silence. Meera was so frightened that she stopped breathing. Though trespassing in the gardens might be a minor crime, eavesdropping on a prince could be lethal.
Then a monkey shrieked directly over their heads. It was answered by another. A furious squabble broke out, which sent twigs and leaves tumbling to the ground. Since a monkey might have brought the flower into the banyan, the men, reassured that they were private, resumed their discussion.
Meera listened hard as the maharajah summarized his earlier instructions so there would be no mistake. "Remember to tell the Afghan chiefs that they must invade at once, for the Punjabi generals won't move without Afghan support and I haven't enough men to take on the British alone," he said, his voice taut. "I've sent another messenger to Nabil Khan and Tejut Singh in the Punjab to tell them to be ready to move as soon as the Afghans reach the plains. We must act together, or not at all, and we must do it quickly, before British reinforcements arrive from the east. We shall never have such an opportunity again."
"I shall emphasize that they must come at once, Excellency," the other man repeated, "and by the Shpola Pass."
The messenger took his leave and departed with a faint crunching of gravel. Several minutes passed. Then the maharajah said in a low, icy voice, "The ferengis shall not take my Dharjistan into their greedy hands. They shall not."
There was a long silence before Rajiv Singh's receding steps could be heard. Meera and Zafir waited patiently, all playfulness extinguished. Finally the Pathan descended the tree, checking carefully every step of the way.
He reached up and helped Meera to the ground. "What were they saying, little dove?"
Words tumbling like a torrent, she repeated the conversation as exactly as she could. Zafir's face darkened as he listened. When she was done, he said sharply, "We must tell Falkirk Sahib about this immediately."
* * *
"How does one go about preventing a war?" Laura asked, her fingers drumming nervously on her knee.
Ian took her hand, his calm flowing into her. "The best way would be to bring a large force of British troops to the frontier so that the rebel forces can't get together. Their weakness is that initially they will be uncoordinated and under a number of different chiefs. Given time, I think Rajiv Singh could overcome that and get the combined armies to unite under his leadership, so we must move quickly. If he wins a victory or two here in the north, uprisings will be triggered all over India."
She shivered. "If that happens, it will be hard to stop."
"Which is why our best hope is to prevent the rebellion from starting. With a large enough British presence in northern India, there's an excellent chance the disaffected groups will give up the thought of challenging the Sirkar."
"So the key is getting the Sirkar to move swiftly, before the news from Afghanistan becomes widely known."
"Exactly." Ian frowned, thinking. "The nearest large British force is at Cambay. That's fortunate, because it's the one place in India where I have the influence to get a quick response. Even more fortunate, the Cambay commander-in-chief, General Rawdon, is an officer who can be counted on to act on his own, without higher authority, in this sort of emergency. He can also move troops faster than any man I know."
"'Roaring' Rawdon? Even I've heard of him." Laura gave a sigh of relief. "So all that's necessary is to get to Cambay, tell our story, and let the army do the rest."
"Exactly. We'll leave here tomorrow as planned. Once we're out of sight of Manpur, we ride like hell, and within a week there will be Company regiments on the way to the Khyber Pass. And, of course, that Shpola Pass of Pyotr Andreyovich's."
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