The Temple Dancer (41 page)

He had arrayed his pistolas in a neat line before his bare feet, and now
rubbed them one by one with coconut oil and lampblack, and thought. He
faced his future as one faces a wall about to crumble. He liked to think of
himself as a man of action, a soldier. But he had not counted on his present
situation. This plan of Victorio's would be difficult to manage, maybe impossible. One by one he considered the tasks that he was undertaking:
Double-dealing with Wall Khan. Selling that young girl Maya to godknows-what fate at the hands of eunuchs. Victorio wedding Lucinda. A
failure was hard enough, but the results of success made his stomach churn.

What is a soldier's duty?

You pledged your service to the Dasanas, he reminded himself. You
gave your word.

Then why do I feel sick?

Because they are all a bad lot, and Victorio the worst. How was I to
know I'd end up here, a partner in his scheming?

Da Gama tried to ease his mind by polishing his pistolas. He tried
imagining himself a wealthy man. But his thoughts kept drifting back to
Lucy, and the nautch girl. Their faces blended in his mind until he could
not recall precisely what either looked like.

Even when the last pistola had been cleaned and oiled, he still felt too
upset to sleep. He pushed some more wood chips into the fire, and took
from his shoulder bag a little kit: a knife, a casting mold, a small pig of lead,
and a cup of scorched copper with a screw-on handle. While the flames
blazed up, he whittled chips of lead into the cup. He blew on the flames
until the embers glowed bright orange, then thrust in the cup. As he
waited, he unlatched the iron mold-it hinged opened to reveal a pattern
like a cluster of grapes-and picked out some stray bits of lead with the tip
of his knife.

Da Gama liked casting shot: the smell of the hot metal melting, the swift
motions of the hands, the concentration to keep from being burned. Involved with his task, he did not notice Mouse approach. "What are you doing, master?" Mouse whispered, wide eyes flickering in the reflected
firelight.

"Ever seen anyone cast shot before?"

Mouse shook his head, and Da Gama motioned for him to sit. The eunuch lowered himself with silent grace, unconsciously moving his good
right hand to shield the crippled left hand from Da Gama's eyes. Boiling up
from his loneliness and uncertainty, and in truth, from too much wine, Da
Gama felt an unexpected tenderness for the eunuch, and he smiled at him
as one might smile at a favorite nephew. The gratitude in Mouse's eyes
when he saw this nearly broke Da Gama's heart.

Da Gama showed him everything; all his tools; how to pour the molten
lead over the lip of the red-hot copper cup into the iron mold, taking care to
pour slowly, taking care not to spill too much; how the mold could be
opened nearly at once, and the lead, shaped like a flat cluster of grapes,
dropped into the hand warm but not hot enough to burn; how one could
break the balls from the cluster as one plucks fruit; and then how one shaved
the shot with the knife to smooth any roughness. Mouse watched in fascination, and asked a dozen whispered questions. Da Gama let him fill the mold
a couple of times, but he could not use the knife with his bad hand.

Da Gama saw that this saddened the eunuch. "Never mind, Senhor
Mouse. There is a different way to cast shot that does not require two hands."
So he told Mouse about dropping hot lead from towers; the best way to make
shot, Da Gama assured him. Mouse wanted to know more, and Da Gama
told him of men with tongs who held red-hot iron crucibles over the balconies of high towers; the clever mechanisms for measuring out the drops of
lead poured from the crucible into the air; the round shot that formed as the
lead fell to earth. Mouse seemed eager to learn, and soon Da Gama found
himself describing the drumming of the shot as it rained on the taut canvas
sheet at the bottom of the tower, and the young boys who swept the warm
rounds into boxes, watching the tower for fear more shot would fall on them.

"But how does the shot get round?"

"It's just round, that's all. Just from falling through the air. They add a
metal to the lead . . . arsenico we call it-I don't know its Hindi name ...
The arsenico hardens the shot and makes it rounder."

Mouse asked more questions about arsenico, trying to guess from Da
Gama's description what its name might be in Hindi. His eyes brightened
when Da Gama told him the metal smelled like garlic. "Ahcha," Mouse
smiled. "Haratala!" Without another word, Mouse moved to his small
trunk in Victorio's room. He returned to Da Gama with a shy, happy smile,
holding in his hand a small wooden box. "Here, master."

Da Gama lifted the lid, saw the shiny, delicate red paste, and smelled
the hint of garlic. "Haratala," said Mouse happily.

"Why do you have this?"

"It is a medicine, master. Some of the brothers use it."

"For what?"

"I should not say," Mouse said, his face suddenly clouding. "Our
health is not so good, you know. The making of a brother causes problems
all his life. Also. . ." Mouse seemed embarrassed. "Also old men use it. It
gives them back their ... vigor."

"Old men like Victorio?"

Mouse nodded.

Da Gama scowled. "It's poison."

Mouse chuckled. "I've seen a pitcher from China, carved from the raw
red stone. Exquisite. One of the brothers used it to pour wine for his enemies. He stored it in darkness ... light, he said, would make it crumble to
dust. But haratala is not always poison. Not if you are careful, master.
Even farang women use it."

"But even a little too much . . ." Da Gama shrugged.

"Too much of that ... ," Mouse lifted his chin to indicate the shot,
"also can kill. Senhor Victorio says they call you the master of death."

Hearing those hard words come from Mouse's tender mouth, Da
Gama felt tears welling. You must be drunk, he scolded himself. You know
they've called you that for years. Da Gama looked at his hands, no longer
sure he could control his face. "It's true. I've seen too much death. At my
age a man discovers regret, Senhor Mouse. I pursued blood instead of
beauty. My memories are all of killing. I've forgotten the rest. Sometimes
I cannot sleep."

"Ah ..." Mouse sighed. "You wish for peace." His eyes flickered as he
watched the melting lead begin to bubble in the fire. "But to bring
death ... Surely that must bring peace, master? Is not death the greatest
peace of all?" Mouse slid closer. Da Gama shifted uncomfortably, but then he realized that Mouse was in many ways no more than a child. Suddenly
the eunuch held out his wooden box of arsenico. "Let's try it, master!"

Da Gama looked up startled. "What? Eat some?"

Mouse laughed. "No, master. Let's make shot!"

Though by now Da Gama was exhausted, to please Mouse he melted
more lead, this time with the arsenico. They cast a few more dozen rounds.
Mouse was so happy, he clutched Da Gama's arm and laid his head on the
farang's big shoulder. Da Gama made sure he kept his thoughts focused on
making shot.

"Enough, senhor," Da Gama said at last. "I must try to sleep." He took
a few of the newly cast balls of shot and placed them in Mouse's hand.
"Here. You made these. Keep them." Da Gama looked away so he would
not be troubled by Mouse's reaction. The eunuch's hand was very soft.

After a moment, Mouse placed the shot into his pocket, and then scurried to help Da Gama pick up his tools. But when Da Gama tried to give
him back his arsenico, the eunuch refused. "Keep it, master, and when you
use it, think of me. Find peace in your memories of our time together."
Mouse bowed so low his good hand swept the floor, and without looking
back, he stepped into the darkness and curled up on the threshold of Victorio's door.

Da Gama slipped the box of arsenico into the bag with his pistolas, then
lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling until the first dim light of
morning.

Of course they were to leave at dawn, but the muezzin had called the second prayer of the morning before Victorio lumbered down the stair, holding Mouse's arm for steadiness.

Da Gama tried to curb his frustration at the endless delays. The only
place large enough for the caravan to assemble was in the street outside the
Gagan Mahal, and it was a disaster. A farmer led a long line of donkeys
right through Da Gama's group; a skinny cow with a dripping nose nearly
tipped over one of the palanquins; dusty dogs chased a pig through a
nearby sewer. To this confusion the gods of chaos added jalabeewallahs and
panwallahs crying out for men to buy their wares; a line of pretty nobody women carrying patties of cow dung in great baskets balanced on their
heads; little boys herding goats with long blades of sword grass.

Tired of the delay, Da Gama's palki bearers were already demanding
extra pay. A number of his guards had drifted away to the Mosque of the
Hairs to say prayers.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Victorio grunted as he reached the
bottom stair. "Let's be on our way. My bride awaits!"

"We're waiting for that damned hijra," Da Gama said. At a look from
Mouse, he regretted his word. "We're waiting for Slipper. I have sent messengers. Three or four of them. He can't be found."

"Then the hell with him. We leave without him."

Da Gama blinked. "You can't be serious!"

Victorio drew himself up, pulling in his belly and puffing his chest.
"This soldier is very rude, don't you think?" he said to Mouse in Hindi. "I
have half a mind not to make him a partner."

Mouse agreed emphatically, then glanced at Da Gama and blushed.

"I won't tolerate insubordination, sir," Victorio said in Portuguese,
turning to Da Gama.

"We're partners, though, so I'm your equal, not your subordinate," Da
Gama replied softly.

An exasperated sigh puffed out Victorio's cheeks. "We're partners
when I say we are partners!" Da Gama was about to answer, when from
around a corner, a row of soldiers wearing formal turbans of palace green
trooped directly toward them. They carried ebony maces bossed with silver.

The leader glared at the farangs. "Are you Victorio Souza and Jebtha
Da Gama?" His tone was impolite and his pronunciation intentionally terrible.

"What business of it is yours?" Da Gama bristled.

"You're to come with us, of your own will. The grand vizier wishes to
speak with you."

"He's in Golconda!" Mouse piped up, clutching Victorio's hand.

"He returned last night." The guard's eyes narrowed. "If you cannot
come on your own, we are to assist you."

Victorio wanted to take a palki, but the guards wouldn't allow it. Furious, he trudged along a slowly as he could. "You created this problem, Da
Gama," Victorio hissed. "I expect you to solve it."

"I merely offered a price! You decided to sell the nautch girl to the eunuchs, not I," Da Gama protested. "Did you think the vizier would do
nothing?"

"You are the settlement man. So settle this! If you sincerely wish to be
a partner, then you'll handle this."

They entered the vizier's residence through a rude-looking side door
clearly meant for servants. A sentry told them to leave their swords. He
then carefully removed each of Da Gama's pistolas, placing them gently on
a table as one might handle a sleeping snake. Da Gama considered protesting but held his tongue. The sentry found fourteen guns, but missed the
small one Da Gama strapped to his thigh next to his fonte.

The lead guard walked swiftly through the dark palace corridors. Da
Gama worried that Victorio would collapse with the effort of keeping up.

At last the narrow corridor opened into a grand room. The walls
sparkled in the sunlight that streamed from a pair of high windows, for
they were covered in a bright mosaic of colored stones and pieces of mirror.
At the far wall of the room, steps led to a platform, like a huge block of
mirrored stone, its canopy closed in with red velvet drapes.

"Come forward," came a deep, tired voice. The guard nodded toward
the dais, but hung back to let the farangs approach on their own. When Da
Gama glanced back, he had already left the room.