Josha Dar knew that dismissal meant exile as well, for he did not follow the Prophet, and was considered outside his caste because his father had sired him on an Untouchable woman. He lowered his eyes, trying to express his gratitude and dedication to Balban Ihbal. "Tell me what you want, Great Lord, and I will hasten to do it."
"I have told you what I want. If you can prove that the Parsi are aiding the agents of Timur-i, then bring it to me at once. If you cannot prove it, then let me know it so that I may look elsewhere for enemies of the Sultan." Balban Ihbal took another sip of tea.
"And Sanat Ji Mani? Should I watch him, too? He may be part of any scheme the Parsi is fomenting." Josha Dar did his best not to sound eager, but he envisioned more success in finding hidden enemies if he pursued more than Rustam Iniattir.
"If he and the Parsi meet again, perhaps. Until then, confine your work to Rustam Iniattir." Balban Ihbal finished his tea and made a flicking gesture with his right hand. "You need not linger."
"But, Great Lord," said Josha Dar, not quite whining, "I have not eaten today. Surely you will spare a handful of chickpeas or a cup of lentils for your servant?"
Balban Ihbal sighed again. "Very well. Stop at the kitchen and say that you may have two measures of lentils and a round of flat-bread." He cocked his head as he reached into the tooled leather wallet that hung from his sash. "Here is money. Make it last four days. I will not receive you again until then."
Josha Dar took the coins so hastily that they seemed to vanish by magic. "You are all magnanimity, Great Lord."
"I am a practical man," said Balban Ihbal, as if the two were the same thing. "I will do what I must to protect Delhi and the Sultan."
"And I will be pleased to serve you in that," said Josha Dar, bending over at the waist as he backed out of the presence of the Sultan's cousin. Once in the corridor, he raised his arm to send the slaves who had gathered near the door scattering; he had no intention of providing any of them with fuel for their fires of gossip. He went along to the kitchens and sought out a slave he knew named Maras. He relayed Balban Ihbal's orders, adding an onion and a cup of soup to the menu. "I will drink the soup here and take the rest with me."
"Balban Ihbal is a generous man," said Maras in a tone that made
it impossible to guess if he were sincere or sarcastic. He had been a slave all his life, and for most of those twenty-nine years confined to the kitchen, which had earned him a sizable girth and the belief he would not be sold as long as his skills were good.
"That he is, that he is," Josha Dar exclaimed, as if he might be overheard. "He is a most worthy deputy to the Sultan."
"As are they all," said Maras as he ladled out some cold soup; it was redolent of turmeric and cumin.
"Delicious," said Josha Dar, drinking eagerly and chewing the bits of lamb in the soup with gusto. "The Sultan keeps an excellent kitchen."
"He is Sultan," said Maras. "And whether he is here or elsewhere, he must maintain his household to his standard." Maras went to take a round of flat-bread from the shelf where breads were stored. He came back to Josha Dar with the bread in his hands. "Shall I put the lentils in this?"
"No; put them in this." He offered his drinking cup.
"As you wish," said Maras. "You will be able to carry it when you leave?"
"I will manage," said Josha Dar, anticipating his feast. "I will not take them far."
"Since it is night, I should think not," said Maras as he filled the drinking cup with stewed lentils. "This is no time to be abroad."
"I have a place of my own," said Josha Dar, volunteering no more than that.
"Then you are a fortunate man," said Maras in his usual flat tone.
"May the gods witness my gratitude." It was difficult not to feel satisfied with himself after such an evening as this.
Maras shook his head in warning. "In this palace there is only Allah."
"Then I will thank Allah," said Josha Dar. "Whatever is most suitable, and whichever god has favored me, I am thankful."
Maras smiled with lupine ferocity. "Do not let Balban Ihbal hear you say that, or you will not have so much as a grain of salt from him again."
"But he will not hear me, unless you tell him what I have said. If
you do, I will deny it, and in the end, Balban Ihbal will have to choose which of us to believe." He took his drinking cup and reached for the bread with his left hand.
Maras drew back in disgust. "You should not use that hand to touch food."
"I wash six times a day. I have no reason not to use both hands," Josha Dar countered, and kept his left hand extended.
Muttering something about casteless fools, Maras gave him the bread. "What of the onion?"
"Put it in my mouth. I will hold it with my teeth," said Josha Dar, and grinned.
Shrugging, Maras selected a large yellow onion, pulled the dry skins off it, and held it out for Josha Dar to bite. "There you are," he said as Josha Dar's teeth sank into the pungent bulb.
Josha Dar nodded and said something incoherent around the onion, then turned and left the kitchens, bound for the warren of streets around the rear of the palace. He went at a steady pace to his own niche in the old walls of the city, and slipped into the rocky alcove. He had a make-shift bed in the farthest corner of the place, and a single rush-lamp set on a ledge away from the entrance. It was a relatively safe place, one he had occupied for almost a year, and he regarded it as much his home as any place he had been in all his life. He sat down on his bed and began to eat, relishing his meal as a triumph over Balban Ihbal more than the savor of the food itself. As he ate, he decided he would watch Sanat Ji Mani as well as Rustam Iniattir, in the hope that one of them would do something that would bring him rewards and riches beyond his imagination.
* * *
Text of a letter from Firuz Ihbal bin Tughluq to Mahmud bin Ghurid.
* * *
In the name of Allah, the All-Merciful and All-Seeing, the peace be on you, Mahmud bin Ghurid, and upon your House from generation to generation.
As Deputy Procurer to the Army, I send you word to ask what is needed to reinforce our troops against any attack that may be made against the city of Delhi. In the absence of the Sultan— may Allah
show him favor forever— I must ask for your assessment of needs so that we may prepare to keep this city safe from all invaders.
It will be necessary for you to stipulate all requirements, from the greatest to the least, so that no part of the army will falter or fail due to lack of supplies or other essentials. Do not stint for fear of cost, as that may prove a false economy at best. Do not think to gain favor by claiming greater readiness than is actually the case, for such assurances will be hollow in the face of a prepared enemy.
You must also submit a count of soldiers, their arms and their skills, for my scrutiny. We have men who are past their best years of service, and we must now replace them or suffer the consequences. Again, do not hesitate to stipulate what you know to be accurate. Such prevarication in this context would be commensurate to speaking a lie with your hand on the
Qran.
No follower of the Prophet with hope of Paradise would do such a disgraceful thing; it would avail the Sultan nothing of worth to heed such deception.
I will expect your accounting in a month's time. Surely that is sufficient for the task I have set you. If you fail to do as I have ordered, you will be blinded and left to beg, and a more worthy successor shall complete what you failed to do. Acquit this labor well, and the Sultan shall hear praise of you from my lips. To this I set my hand and swear to uphold,
Firuz Ihbal bin Tughluq
Deputy Procurer for the Sultan's Army at Delhi
3
A glowing pink flush suffused the room on the top floor of the fine house of red granite in the Street of the Brass Lanterns. It was a splendid building, handsomely proportioned; its twenty-three rooms and two gardens were built to the highest standards and as lavishly appointed as the law allowed foreigners to adorn their homes; the smallest windows were of costly glass, the larger ones of thin-sliced
alabaster, slightly milky and diffusing the shine of first light; the furnishings were of fine woods and silks, the lamps were of brass, and the fragrant odor of incense perfumed the air. Now that dawn had arrived at Delhi again, the Muslims were at morning prayers, and the followers of Zarathustra hailed the returning light with song. A breeze came up, adding to the activity; the first odor of cooking fires blended with the aroma of flowers rising into the sky where birds greeted the rising sun, calling and fluttering. In the streets sudden industry erupted, people of all ranks and stations bustling to make the most of the morning before the heat became oppressive.
"In my homeland, the mountain passes are filled with snow," Sanat Ji Mani remarked in the Greek of Byzantium to Rojire as he put away the glass vessels with which he had worked all through the night; he was dressed in a black Egyptian kalasiris of fluted linen, his head uncovered, revealing short, wavy hair that was almost black but shot with auburn high-lights that were emphasized by the angular, brilliant luminance. "Yet here is an almost perpetual summer."
"True enough," said Rojire in the same language, his thoughts distracted by the task of separating the myriad small jewels spilled into the tray before him, like so much colored sand. He frowned with concentration, his faded-blue eyes narrowing in support of his effort.
"Not that I am complaining," Sanat Ji Mani went on, shutting the cabinet doors and putting a bar-lock in place to keep them closed.
"…sixteen, seventeen, eighteen— eighteen small rubies," Rojire said, maintaining his concentration. He put these stones into a carved wood box with others of similar size, then started in on the topazes.
"A pity I did not have time to grow them larger," said Sanat Ji Mani, then lifted one shoulder philosophically. "Well, next time."
"These are not paltry," said Rojire as he made a pile of the topazes and began to count.
"No, but they are not lavish, and the Sultan prefers large stones to small." He stretched his linked hands upward. "Sometimes my back is stiff after such a demanding night."
"Small wonder," said Rojire, then held up one finger as he began to count.
Sanat Ji Mani went to inspect the athanor, the bee-hive-shaped alchemical oven that stood in the center of the large chamber which
occupied most of the top of his grand house; the tile-like bricks were no longer glowing, but they were warm to the touch. Sanat Ji Mani walked around the chamber making sure all the windows remained closed, for an errant draft at this time could cause the athanor to crack, and it would take him several months to build another one. "I will open the windows before noon," he said to Rojire.
"Please," said Rojire. "The heat will be stifling if you do not." He swept the topazes into another small wooden box. "Twenty-nine."
"It will be stifling in any case." Sanat Ji Mani waved his arm as if to try to banish the increasing warmth. "Not too bad for a night's work," said Sanat Ji Mani.
"Yes." Rojire began to pick out emeralds, separating them from amethysts with great care. "Twenty-three peridots, thirty-one amethysts," he said as he prepared to sweep each group into its own box.
"Take out ten peridots for the Sultan; the largest ones," said Sanat Ji Mani, adding thoughtfully, "Or, more precisely, his deputies."
"Ten," Rojire agreed, and selected the best of the little jewels. "Where do you want them kept?"
"In the cedar box, with the dragon on the top; there are beryls and emeralds in it already," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I must see his kinsman tomorrow, and I will need to bring them both a suitable gift if he is to listen to me, and send my petition on to his nephew, along with a smattering of jewels to demonstrate my sincerity. A shame the Sultan has abandoned Delhi."
"It is," said Rojire. "But he must improve his fortifications throughout his territory."
"Um," said Sanat Ji Mani, skepticism giving his utterance a rising inflection. "And I must hope that he will see my petition in good time."
"You will need gifts for his ministers and secretaries as well as his deputies, if you want his attention," said Rojire, making no excuse for his cynicism as he retrieved the box Sanat Ji Mani had described.
"How many emeralds?" Sanat Ji Mani asked; the sun was intense, and he was beginning to feels its effects in spite of his native earth lining the soles of his shoes.
"Sixteen, I think," said Rojire. He placed the emeralds in one of the empty cubicles of the box.
"Give the Sultan seven of them; he likes emeralds."
Rojire nodded. "He likes anything costly and beautiful," he remarked. He straightened up. "Do you want something more in the box?"
"How many of the cubicles are empty?" Sanat Ji Mani inquired as if he did not know.
