Mahesh Das did not wish to accept, for who knew where the killer was hiding in this palace. But what choice did he have?
Of one thing he was certain though; that he did not wish to go back to his village. There was no comparison between life at the palace and back home.
No, he thought to himself as he stood to take his leave, he was going to stay at the palace. He had to find a way.
Twenty Three
MAHESH DAS HAD woken up earlier than usual, and had thrown open the eastward window to watch the rising sun.
The leaves of the Gulmohar outside the window looked fresh, and its fruit appeared a fleshier pink. On its branches hopped four or five crows, now and then opening their beaks and cawing.
One of them swooped down to the ground and caught a worm. The others took no notice.
Until Akbar had asked the question last night, Mahesh Das had not even noticed the crows. One did not think of crows when one thought of birds. One thought of nightingales and pigeons, of peacocks and eagles. But crows—they had a way of blending in against the bark, of not appearing unless one looked for them.
Beyond the Gulmohar tree, across the courtyard, Mahesh Das could see the entrance to the harem and directly facing it Bairam Khan’s living quarters.
It did not have the same beauty in architecture that the harem possessed; no intricate carvings on the arches, no rustling water fountains and lotus-filled lakes in the front yard, no white Kabuli marble to balance out the red sandstone that abounded in the western states of Hindustan. It was a drab, melancholy structure, built for function rather than form. It suited a man of the trenches, who would be at ease in a freezing tent by a roaring fire as much as inside a palace, attended upon by scores of servants. But it did not suit the image of Bairam Khan as a man who hungered for power. Even Atgah Khan’s chambers—bare and sober as they were—had more charm to them than Bairam Khan’s did.
Why would a man who wanted to be emperor insist on living out of the way, in a house by the harem, with two or three servants? Was it possible that everyone had been wrong about him? Could it be that in spite of everyone suspecting Bairam Khan of being a usurper, he had been driven by nothing but loyalty for Akbar?
On the other hand, perhaps he had just wished not to draw attention. If he had been plotting to usurp the throne, the seclusion would have helped.
In the cool morning light, he saw a shiny speck move from the harem toward Bairam Khan’s rooms. Quickly, he reached for his shawl and slid into his slippers. He had not cleaned his mouth yet, nor had he had a wash; his dhoti was ragged, but it had to do. Someone from the harem was going to Bairam Khan’s room, and if he hurried, he could catch them at it.
He waved away the approaching servant and walked as fast as his legs could carry him. He hoped the guards at Bairam Khan’s door would have enough good sense to stop the person from entering.
* * *
The heavy oak door was already ajar when Mahesh Das got there. . When the guard saw him approaching, he bowed and said, ‘I told Her Majesty that I was not to allow anyone to enter the room, my lord, but she would not listen to me.’
‘Who is Her Majesty?’ asked Mahesh Das, more out of disbelief.
‘Empress Ruqaiya Begum, my lord.’
Mahesh Das brushed past the guard and went into the room.
He found Ruqaiya Begum next to the weapons cabinet. Mahesh Das felt that she had been just about to reach for something as he walked in, but he could not be sure.
She turned to look at him, composed, with no trace of alarm in her kind blue eyes. He wished he had entered the room more quietly.
Mahesh Das looked around the room in frantic desperation, trying to take it all in and compare the image to what he had seen last night. But everything seemed to be in place.
‘My lady,’ he said, bowing.
‘You have the eyes of a hawk, Mahesh Das ji,’ said Ruqaiya Begum, smiling, ‘if you saw me all the way from your chamber. Or did you employ someone to spy on me?’
‘I wished to seek your audience this morning, Your Majesty, and I was about to visit you anyway.’ Why did you find the need to come back here, Your Highness?’
‘I have lost my ring. I could not find it anywhere in my chambers so I thought perhaps I had accidently dropped it here. And how right I was,’ she said, holding up her right hand so that he could see the bright yellow ring on her finger. ‘Indeed.’ Mahesh Das went over to her, and ushered her away from the cabinet with an extended arm. ‘Step this way please, Begum.’ He looked at the row of brown metal helmets that lay on the cabinet. He had not noticed them the night before. The one nearest to him appeared slightly out of file. He reached out and adjusted its position. ‘This helmet,’ he said. ‘It was on the floor last night, was it not?’
‘I…I do not know,’ said Ruqaiya Begum. ‘I did not notice. I just came for my ring, and I found it here, just where I had stood last night.’ She forced a smile. ‘I become very absent-minded, sir, when I am woken up from sleep. I…I should not have brought the jewel with me here in the first place.’
Mahesh Das returned her smile. ‘And so it is with us all. Perhaps I am being absent-minded myself. Perhaps this helmet had been here on the cabinet all along.’
‘Yes,’ said Ruqaiya.
Mahesh Das looked up at the broken candle stands, and then at the row of four armoured soldiers that lined the wall next to the cabinet.
‘Now that you have found your ring, madam,’ he said, turning to her, ‘perhaps it is best that you return to your chambers. A murder has been committed here no more than a few hours ago. It is no place for a lady.’ He gestured to the guard at the door. ‘Go and find a servant to escort Her Highness to her chambers.’
‘Oh, no, no. That shall not be necessary. I can go back to the harem myself.’ But before she could protest further, the guard returned with a young maid. She bowed to Ruqaiya and said, ‘Come, Your Highness.’
Ruqaiya Begum started to leave, but then stopped and looked up at Mahesh Das. It was as if she was about to tell him something. But the moment passed, and the next second Ruqaiya Begum followed the girl out of the room.
He called for the guard, who came running and stood at attention before him.
‘I am not going to get you punished,’ he said. Many of these servants knew no better than to say ‘yes, my lady’ or ‘yes, my lord’ to whoever passed them orders. What were they to do when they got conflicting commands, one from the king and one from the queen? They were mere dolls, running around to the whims of the lords, ladies, generals, ministers, and other members of the royal family.
He placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder. It was tough, like the hide of a trained horse. ‘What is your name?’
‘Govindram, sahib.’
‘Govindram, my man,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘you have nothing to fear. You have been given an order by the emperor, but the empress is no less a royal than an emperor, is she?’
‘No, sahib, she is not.’
‘I want to ask you something. When lady Ruqaiya came and asked you to open the door for her, did you happen to look at her right hand?’
‘Sahib?’
‘Did you notice whether or not she was wearing a rather large ring on her right hand?’ Mahesh Das held up his hand. ‘It is this big, round, and yellow.’
‘Yes, sahib,’ said Govindram immediately. ‘It was around her finger.’
‘Are you certain? Could it be that you are mistaken?’
‘It was so big, sahib, that I couldn’t help but notice it.’
‘Thank you, my man,’ he said, handing him a coin
.Mahesh Das returned to the room, this time closing the door behind him.
Ruqaiya Begum had obviously lied to him about the ring. If she had come into the room wearing her ring, then she could not have been looking for it. So what did she come back for?
He looked around the room. At the two broken candle stands mounted near the corners of the wall. One had been broken in half, the other c
hipped at the bottom. A careless servant, possibly.
His gaze came to rest on the four tin soldiers.
You would know what happened here last night, he thought. Why do you not speak?
Ruqaiya Begum had not gone towards where the body had lain, but to the opposite wall, where the weapons had been mounted. The sheath of the knife sat next to the helmet that Mahesh Das had adjusted a few minutes ago. He picked it up to examine it.
Golden thread had been woven into the hard leather. Looking closer, Mahesh Das saw that the stitching was actually words in Urdu. Two large rubies had been stitched at the sheath’s mouth. Mahesh Das picked it up and tested it against the palm of his hand; it fit snugly.
He turned, holding it at shoulder height in his right hand, and faced the window. The killer would have had to remove the knife from the wall, slide it out of the sheath, walk all the way —fifteen feet, at the least—to the other end of the room, where Bairam Khan stood. And he would have had to do all of this without making a sound so as to not alert Bairam Khan to his presence. And then he would have had to stab him.
Or Bairam Khan was locked in an embrace with the killer, who then stabbed him in the back. For this, the killer would have had the knife in his hand, fully drawn, before embracing the regent. Even a normal man— let alone a general—would think twice about hugging a person with a knife in hand.
Unless, of course, the person was someone you would never suspect.
Or, thought Mahesh Das, standing in the middle of the room, Bairam Khan and his guest had a conversation—perhaps an argument or a discussion—that involved the use of this knife, and therefore not arousing the general’s suspicion when his guest removed the knife from its sheath. And then when Bairam Khan turned away toward the window, the killer pounced.
That could only mean one of two things: either Bairam Khan was expecting his guest or he was surprised by the arrival of the person to his chambers.
But he did not object to it.
He felt comfortable enough in his guest’s presence to turn his back.
Then, too, he had asked his servants to leave that evening. Was it the act of a man ready to set out to Mecca, having renounced all material things, or was it the act of a man who was eager to have a private meeting with someone who he hoped would change the course of his destiny?
He stepped into the bedroom and quickly examined the bed. The brown and blue velvet sheets had not been disturbed at all.
Back in the outer room, on the wall to his right, Mahesh Das saw a portrait of the man, no larger than a hand mirror, where he sat on a carpet with a hookah next to him. He had the eyes of a killer—glassy, vacant, unrepentant. But he also had an air of kindness about him. Perhaps, it was the way he held the pipe, almost feminine that made him feel this way.
Mahesh Das returned to the cabinet and placed the sheath where he had found it.
Did Ruqaiya Begum hate Bairam Khan enough to wish to kill him?
He was not sure.
He cast another look around it. There was something in the room that was out of place, he could sense it. Yet…
And then he saw it. A tiny heap of black dust at the base of the cabinet.
The grey granite floor looked spotless. The windows and the front door had been shut. And yet…
He got on his knees and picked up a pinch of the black dust between his forefinger and thumb. It had no smell.
Dusting his hands, he got up to leave.
Govindram was leaning lazily on his spear when Mahesh Das stepped out into the bright morning.
‘Well done, my man. You have a keen eye about you,’ he said, patting him on the shoulder. Then lowering his voice, he continued, ‘These royals are all the same. They cannot agree among themselves what to do and what not to do, can they?’
A look of caution appeared on Govindram’s face, but Mahesh Das could tell that he was dying to agree with him.
‘I am from the village myself,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘These kings and queens…they make me laugh.’
‘Which village?’ asked Govindram.
‘Tikawanpur. Near the northern end of the city. You would not know it. I was a priest there.’
‘Indeed?’
Mahesh Das looked around them. ‘My friend,’ he said, after a pause, ‘I would like to ask you for some help.’
‘Nothing against the emperor’s orders, sir,’ said Govindram.
‘Just so. Just so. If anyone else were to come here, asking to be let in–’
‘Yes, I know, I should tell you.’
Mahesh Das smiled broadly at him. ‘No. Let them in. But keep an eye on them and tell me everything they do. Do you understand? And if you do it well, I shall see to it that you get a bag of gold coins for your trouble when it is all finished.’
‘A bag of gold…’ said Govindram. ‘You, a priest, will give me a bag of gold?’
‘I am going to be a courtier at the emperor’s hall soon. I shall put in a kind word for you to the emperor, perhaps have you moved to the Imperial palace gates.’
Govindram’s eyes widened. ‘You could do that?’
‘I could do a lot, my man,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘But you must first show me what you can do. I intend to find out who killed Bairam Khan. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mahesh Das then proceeded to give the guard directions to his chamber. Just as he was walking down the hallway, he heard the guard call out.
‘Already?’ said Mahesh Das, looking back at the guard scratching his head.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘since you said that anything that I hear–’
‘Yes?’
‘I hear quite a few things from the servants, sir. Quite a bit of nonsense, one thinks.’
‘What is this nonsense, Govindram?’
‘I…I dare not repeat, sir. Perhaps you should ask her yourself.’
‘Ask whom?’
‘Nazneen. The maid serving at Gulbadan Begum’s chambers.’
Mahesh Das remembered the sprightly brown-eyed girl in Gulbadan Begum’s room.
‘Bring her to my chambers first thing tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Twenty Four
MAHESH DAS STOOD in front of the mirror, a white towel tied around his waist. As always, his eyes first went to the pink marks that had begun to form on his cheeks, just above the bone. He had never mastered the art of scraping away the hair around his acne and leaving the boils alone. With his cheeks lathered up, invariably he missed the spot, and ended up cutting himself and leaving a scar.
In time he had learnt to leave them alone, even if hair stuck out from his cheekbones. He had begun to trim the strands with a pair of small scissors, but even then he had once or twice poked a pus-filled pimple. These scars had darkened. Some disappeared with time, but new ones emerged almost every morning.
He did not have steady hands. As a child of twelve, when he held his first sword, it had trembled so much that he had to give it away to an older boy and settle for a staff instead. Even with a staff he found that his blows were not hard enough, his positions were not strategic enough, his combat acumen not crafty enough. In the fights organized in the village for the entertainment of the elders and other important people, Mahesh Das had never moved past the first round with any weapon.
His handwriting was just scrawls. No one understood his words. At the temple, not a day passed without him smacking a devotee accidentally on the head with the bell. He had never come away from an hour of cooking without a burnt finger.
If it had not been for his quickness of mind, Mahesh Das would never have survived in the group of bandits either. Early in life, it had been driven deep into his mind that if he was going to make a living for himself, if would be on the strength of his mind, not of his limb. The head priest of the temple used to say, ‘Mahesh, you are not handsome, strong, or rich. Who will marry you when you grow up?’
But then the same man, on his deathbed, had taken Mahesh Das’s hands in his and said, ‘Mahesh, you h
ave the mind of a fox. I pity the girl who is going to marry you.’
The mind of a fox.
To this day he did not know if it had been a compliment or a rebuke.
He ran the towel over his fuzzy scalp. He remembered Gulbadan Begum’s words. Perhaps he would be better off getting rid of his plait. Grow a full head of hair, perhaps even a beard and a moustache, like the Sikhs of Punjab. Perhaps he should change his name too—something like Mansur—to blend in with these people. All of that, though, would come only if he could solve this riddle that Akbar had set him.
How many crows are there in Agra? How many crows are there in the Imperial Palace? Which one of these crows killed Bairam Khan?
And more importantly, why?
As if on cue, the crows on the Gulmohar outside cawed in unison.
Why would anyone wish to kill a man who was about to set out on his final journey the night before his departure?
Was it as Maham Anga had said? Did Bairam Khan have no plans of going to Mecca? Was he using the night as cover to engineer yet another coup? If it were true, then he would have turned not to Adham Khan but to his old, trusted aide, Atgah Khan. But he wished to meet Adham, and Adham wished to kill him.
If Salima Sultan Begum’s story about hearing Maham Anga and Adham was true, then there seemed to be little doubt in their intentions. Killing Bairam would clear the path to the throne once and for all, leaving just Akbar. Did Adham keep his appointment with Bairam Khan and did he kill him on the way out?
Perhaps.
Then there was Gulbadan Begum, the ghost. The sister of Hindal Mirza, who had served Humayun as brother, friend, warrior. What had happened that day at the Ganges? Had Bairam Khan really drowned Hindal and usurped his role as general? Or had he been unable to save him?
Mahesh Das had not spoken to her about this, but he intended to, after he’d met with Nazneen. Could it be that the flame of revenge burned so bright within her heart that she could not let him slip out of her grasp, unharmed? Faced with the prospect of watching him walk, never to return, she took the last chance she had, and drove the knife into the old man’s back.
The Crows of Agra Page 14