Path of the Eclipse (50 page)

A letter from Jalal-im-al Zakatim to the Sultan’s adviser in Delhi.

To Musfa Qiral from Jalal-im-al Zakatim. May Allah smile on you, give you his protection and blessings.

I have not long to write this, and so must use unseemly haste. First, I wish to report that the fears for Ab-she-lam Eidan are groundless. He has not in any way that I can discern compromised our position here in Natha Suryarathas. He has carried out his duties and instructions with care and tact and has won a degree of confidence from the Rajah Kare Dantinusha that is quite remarkable, given the circumstances here.

Second, I wish to say that it is not likely that Rajah Dantinusha will take arms to oppose us. There are those in his principality who are speaking in favor of such action, but he has resisted all such efforts and doubtless will continue to do so, for which Allah be thanked.

Third, it is quite true that the Rajah is completely serious about making his daughter, Tamasrajasi, his heir. He has presented her to his subjects and they have hailed her with great enthusiasm and pleasure, and as the Rajah has no living sons, his edict that her firstborn son will inherit from her has been acclaimed as wise and honorable. There has been no public mention of who it is who is to father this son on Tamasrajasi, but that, I suppose, will be taken care of before too much time has gone by. With so much support from the people, Dantinusha has much to offer any Prince who would wish to marry the girl, though I will add that it seems a poor accomplishment for the one who gets her. That woman is filled with poison or I have learned nothing in my life.

My superior Ab-she-lam Eidan, whom Allah reward, has given me instructions to become acquainted with the sister of the Rajah, the woman who lives apart from the court and is said to be a scholar. While I will do as I am ordered, I am not pleased with this. I have met Padmiri once and found her an admirable woman, of self-contained and reserved mien. To use her against her brother is contrary to everything I have believed is virtuous conduct. It is one thing to enlist her sympathies, but quite another to attempt to suborn her. The Prophet warned us of the deceit and wiles and untrustworthiness of women, but he has also lauded the honor of women. If women are given to vice by the nature of their sex, then when one is found without that vice, it is doubly reprehensible in any man who attempts to awaken it in a chaste woman’s soul. Understand that I will do as I have been told, but my heart is against it and I wish it had not been asked of me.

You have already received the report on the periyanadu, so I will not belabor the event. What was and was not accomplished has been described to you.

There have been reports that the Thuggi are active here again. I have seen no direct evidence of this, but I have spoken with a few of Rajah Dantinusha’s guards and they say that garroted bodies have been turning up on the more remote stretches of road. Those devils with their silken scarves and their wires are claiming victims for their demon again. I have no reason to doubt what the guards have told me, but I intend to ask of merchants what they know of this, for they will be even more reliable than the soldiers. If it should happen that the Thuggi are at work, I will send you word of it at once, and have the messenger travel under guard. I have already informed my superior of this rumor and he has others of the mission investigating the claims.

May Allah bless you and your seed and your endeavors. And may he guide my judgment here.

Jalal-im-al Zakatim

4

One of the musicians had lent Saint-Germain his bicitrabin and ivory plectrum, and though he had never played this odd zitherlike instrument, he had retired to a window embrasure to experiment. He had forgotten how much he missed music until he touched the unfamiliar strings and heard their slightly buzzy sound magnified by the large resonating gourds at either end of the fingerboard. Luckily the bicitrabin was fretless so that he could play in Western modes and scales as well as their Indian counterparts. Most of the other guests ignored him.

“That is a Western melody, isn’t it?” asked one of the Islamic delegation.

“Yes,” Saint-Germain said. “It comes from Rome.” He did not add that it was the Rome of the Caesars he remembered and the melody was a hymn to Jupiter.

“A disquieting sound,” the young Muslim persisted.

“If you’re not used to it, I suppose so.” He did not want to set the instrument aside, but he knew that he should not be unkind to the man beside him.

“You are the foreigner, are you not?” the man went on.

“I thought that much was obvious,” Saint-Germain said sardonically. He was wearing a long Frankish houppelande over chausses of embroidered cotton. As always, the garments were black. His wide-linked silver chain was around his neck, and his black eclipse pectoral depended from it.

“Oh, certainly,” the other man agreed. “But you will agree that it is more polite to ask than to announce such things.” He gathered his robes about him and sank onto the floor. “I was wishing to speak with you. I am Jalal-im-al Zakatim.”

“I am Saint-Germain,” he said, reluctantly setting the bicitrabin aside.

“I have been informed that you are an alchemist,” Jalal-im-al said with great cordiality.

“This is correct: who told you?”

Jalal-im-al chuckled. “The poet, Jaminya. He has been most informative. Not to the point of treason or dishonor, but he is an observant and talkative man.”

Privately, Saint-Germain thought that much the same thing could be said of Jalal-im-al Zakatim. “And he told you that I practice the Great Art.”

“Yes. I have also learned from the merchant Chol that some of your supplies come from the Sultanate. This is most interesting to me.” He touched his beautifully groomed beard, knowing that its lustrous chestnut brown was rarely seen and often attracted attention.

“And did Chol tell you what these supplies are? I fear that I should explain that I will not allow you or anyone to compromise me and will not be anyone’s spy.” His expression was one of goodwill and his voice was pleasantly modulated, but his resolution was steely.

“Oh, no, no, no, you misunderstand me completely. Let me assure you at once that I have no such intentions. If I wished a spy, I should be wiser to find one of the slaves to work for me. You, being foreign, would not be in a position to have the information I wanted. You see, I wish you to know that my curiosity does not include subverting you on behalf of the Sultanate.” He had a wide, brilliant smile which he turned on Saint-Germain.

“If you don’t want to make a spy of me, what
do
you want?” He had long ago learned to be wary of that too-open charm that Jalal-im-al displayed.

“Two things. First, I want to meet Padmiri. She is very hard to see casually, living as she does. I know that you have been given a wing of her house for your own use, and I hope that you will be my introduction to her.” He looked through the anteroom to the hall where a banquet was in progress.

“There are two things,” Saint-Germain reminded him, his voice quite emotionless.

“The second, yes. This is more difficult.” The young Muslim bent forward. “In my family it is considered tradition for all of us to put ourselves in the service of our rulers. Sadly, this is not where my true interests lie. Would you, being a foreigner, be willing to teach me the Great Art? I studied for a time in Aleppo, but my father was not willing to allow me to continue my studies.” There had been a change in him. His former practiced elegance had been replaced with unmistakable sincerity. “It would not be easy for me to have time away from Ab-she-lam Eidan, but I think he would give me some time for the work.”

“And of course, the fact that you would have to be at the house of Padmiri, whom you admit you wish to meet, is only coincidence,” Saint-Germain suggested.

“Not entirely, no,” Jalal-im-al said at once. “It would be helpful for me to know this woman. It would be better to learn alchemy. If I can do both, then my way is much easier.”

“And you will have greater access to the Rajah, perhaps.” He put his hands on the narrow fingerboard of the bicitrabin, feeling the almost imperceptible thrill of the strings as he touched them.

“It may occur,” Jalal-im-al said, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “She is not the one who is of great interest to Delhi, after all. It is Tamasrajasi who intrigues them.”

“Because she is the heir,” Saint-Germain said, and picked up the bicitrabin once more. Very softly he began to pick out a curious tune he had learned in Britain nearly seven hundred years before.

“You wish to be left alone,” Jalal-im-al declared, no hint of offense in his voice. “I perceive that you do not attend the banquet.”

“No.” He played the melody a little more loudly.

“There are restrictions on your people? I admit that I find it very strange to be dining with women, even royal women. It seems that Rajah Dantinusha has brought all his wives with him and they are seated around him on the dais. A most lax custom. It leads to most lascivious conduct, I am told.” His words were scandalized but his tone was richly appreciative. “The fruit juice they serve is fermented. These people are truly debauched.”

“And you smoke hashish, don’t you?” Saint-Germain inquired gently.

“That’s another matter entirely. You have smoked it, haven’t you?” He had known a great many foreigners who were both repelled and fascinated by the dream-inducing substance.

“No.” He knew that there was no euphoria for him in the acrid fumes, no visions.

“Then, being an infidel, you must drink wine,” Jalal-im-al said, with the unctuous rectitude of youth.

“No. I do not drink wine.”

Jalal-im-al knew that he had made an error with this foreigner, but was at a loss to know how to recover himself. He plunged on, fearing that his silence now would not be wise. “Are you amenable to teaching me? If it is a question of money…”

“It is not,” Saint-Germain murmured as he continued to touch the strings of the bicitrabin.

“Then you will consider instructing me?” He made a move as if to get to his feet.

“I did not say that.” He stopped playing and looked at the young man. “You admit that you wish to meet Padmiri. All right. This much I will do. If you will come to her house, I will see that you meet her. Beyond that, I don’t know what more you will want of me. If you have any interest in studying the Great Art”—his tone indicated that he doubted this was the case—“you may speak to me then. But I warn you, Jalal-im-al Zakatim: if there is the least hint that you are seeking to use or harm Padmiri, you will not be allowed near her again and you will regret your action. My word on it.” His very calm made his words more frightening. Saint-Germain studied the face of the young Muslim when he had finished speaking and was soberly glad that Jalal-im-al had taken his promise to heart.

“You will introduce me,” Jalal-im-al said, scrambling up. He had moved too hastily and his foot caught on the hem of his djellaba so that he nearly stumbled. “I will come within ten days.” That was as little a time as propriety required for such introductions.

“As you wish.” He began once more to play, and he did not look up when he heard the soft, retreating steps of the young man from Delhi.

He was still playing when the banquet was finished and a few of the guests came into the reception room. They were men of high rank and caste, most of them part of Rajah Dantinusha’s court, although there were a few representatives from other principalities in attendance. Everyone was gorgeously attired and the conduct was formal and as abstract as a dance. Saint-Germain glanced up occasionally, and the plaintive melody of a Norman love song came from the bicitrabin as he watched.

In a short while, Jaminya drifted over to the window embrasure and nodded down at Saint-Germain. “You are surprising,” he said with good humor.

“How?” He attempted to play a run of chords, but gave it up after a few jangling mistakes.

“You have admitted to knowing alchemy, and Padmiri has said that you have great erudition, but I did not know that included music.” The poet leaned on a nearby pillar, his lined face amused.

“I have always loved music,” Saint-Germain said rather remotely. He began to adjust the treble strings, which had been losing pitch.

“You play Western music on the bicitrabin,” Jaminya pointed out, as if Saint-Germain might not have noticed this.

“Yes.” He recalled an anthem he had heard in Lombardy fifty years before. “This may please you, though it is Western.”

When the notes died away, Jaminya cocked his head on one side. “Yes, it goes well enough. It is too simple for my tastes, but that is not necessarily detrimental.”

“If you prefer, I will play you music I learned in China.” He was curious about the poet, sensing that the man wanted more from him than simple diversion.

“No, I have heard that noise—nothing but plunk-plunk and wailing. Your Western music is more interesting.” He folded his arms and waited, not quite meeting Saint-Germain’s eyes.

So Saint-Germain played awhile longer, drawing melodies from his memory as well as letting the music invent itself as his hands roamed over the strings. When he had done a fair amount of this, he set the instrument aside. “You wish to say something to me.”

“No, nothing of import. There are a few minor matters you may wish to discuss, and I have a question about Western poetry. Nothing that can’t wait.” The intensity of his eyes said otherwise.

“Perhaps if you joined me. I was thinking of strolling in the garden.” Saint-Germain stood up as he spoke. Whatever it was that Jaminya wished to tell him, he would not do it here.

“The garden. Yes, the garden is quite pleasant.” He no longer lounged against the pillar. “The Rajah will not wish to hear any of my work declaimed for some time yet. Poetry is truly the breath of the gods, and for that reason should not be offered until the mind is free of the table.” He went to the nearest door and opened it. “This way is quickest.”