The Baroque Cycle: Quicksilver, the Confusion, and the System of the World (217 page)

LATE
1696

A
LAKE OF YELLOW DUST
lapped at the foundations of some cobra-infested hills in the far west. Eastwards it ran to the horizon; if you went that way long enough, and survived the coastal marshes, you would reach the Bay of Bengal. To the north lay a country that was similar, except that it encompassed the richest diamond mines in the world; this was the King of Aurangzeb’s favorite nephew, Lord of Righteous Carnage. To the south lay some hills and mountains that, except for the scattered citadels of the Marathas, were not really controlled by anyone just now. Beyond, at the very tip of Hindoostan, lay Malabar.

A pair of bamboo tripods supported the ends of a timber cross-piece that spanned a tiny puncture wound in the sheet of dust. The timber had been polished by a rope that slid over it all day long. On one end of that rope was a bucket, which dangled in the well-shaft. On the other end was a yoke thrown over the cartilaginous hump of a bullock. A gaunt man, armed with a bamboo cane, stood behind the animal. The bullock trudged away from the well. Here and there it would insolently pause and prod the dust with its snout for a minute or two, pretending that there was something edible there. The man would begin talking to it. At first his tone was conversational, then whining, then pleading, then irked, then enraged. Finally he would go to work with the cane and the bullock would stomp forward another few steps.

From time to time the bullock would reach the end of his rope,
which signified that the bucket had emerged from the hole. The man with the bamboo cane would then shout at a couple of younger men who were dozing in the shade of the low dung rampart that surrounded the well’s opening, giving it the general appearance of a giant rugged nipple. These men would bestir themselves, scale the rampart, get a grip on the bucket, swing it off to one side, and dump a few gallons of water onto the ground. The water would embark on a senseless quest for the nearest ocean. The bullock would turn round and come back.

These people were all People (as they name themselves in their language). The bucket-emptiers belonged to a separate subcaste from the bullock-spanker, but both could trace their lineage back for a hundred generations to the same ur-Person. And even if Sword of Divine Fire had not already known as much, it could have been guessed from following a given bucket-load of water downhill, and observing the scenery on either hand. For thousands of years’ hourly bucket-emptyings had cut a meandering drainage channel into the dust. It careered and zigzagged for a mile, heading generally eastwards, until it petered out in a crazed salt-pan, which sported the locally renowned Large Hole in the Ground, and other improvements. In most places, a grown man could comfortably plant one foot on either side of the channel. In some parts one had to jump over it. In one stretch it spread out so wide that one needed a running start. Consequently the local children never wanted for sports and entertainment.

Each bank of the ditch was green from the water’s edge to the point, about an arm’s length away, where the desert took over again. Seen from the high ground at the well-mouth, it looked as if some Hindoo deity had dipped a quill in green ink and dragged it aimlessly across a blank parchment—which was not extremely far from what the People actually believed. Their king of the last two years and two hundred and forty-eight days scoffed at this creed, but since it had sustained them in adverse circumstances for a couple of thousand years, he had to admit it was no worse than any other religion.

The People furthermore believed that the same deity had divided the ditch’s length (some two thousand paces in all) into five zones, and portioned them out to the five daughters of the ur-Person, and laid down certain rules as to what should be cultivated where. These five zones had inevitably been divided and subdivided as the five subcastes spawned from the loins of the five daughters had ramified into diverse clans, which had distinguished themselves from other clans by intermarrying with groups that were viewed as higher or
lower, or, in some cases, destroyed themselves by not intermarrying
enough
. So each of those two thousand paces, on each side of the ditch, was now spoken for by
someone
.

Most of the someones were present and accounted for, dressed in brilliant fabrics, and squatting behind their tiny farms—therefore, packed shoulder-to-shoulder along the banks all the way from the well to the Large Hole in the Ground. Sword of Divine Fire had come to make his monthly inspection.

Sword of Divine Fire was mounted on a donkey. His aides, bodyguards, and attendants were on foot, except for two
rowzinders
on horseback and one
zamindar
in a palanquin.

“Very well,” said Sword of Divine Fire, “which is to say, it looks the same as last time, and the time before that.”

His words were translated into Marathi by the man in the palanquin, who then said, “Shall we have a look at the Large Hole in the Ground, then, and call it a day?”

“The Large Hole in the Ground can wait. First, we will inspect our potato,” said Sword of Divine Fire.

This pronouncement, once it had been translated, touched off the most urgent conspirings and shushings among the aides, hangers-on, courtiers, camp-followers, and the
khud-kashtas
or head-men of the Ditch’s various segments. Sword of Divine Fire gave his donkey a few smart heel-jabs and began steering for the Fourth Meander of the Third Part of the Ditch. His
zamindar
shortly caught up with him—the feet of his palanquin-bearers creating bursts of dust that flourished, paled, and dissolved in the still air.

“Your majesty’s potato can hardly have changed much since the last visit. On the other hand, I am informed by the most highly placed sources that the Large Hole in the Ground is not only deeper—but wider, too!”

“We would view our potato,” the king said doggedly. They were definitely getting close—the kids tear-assing around had the high noses and elongated skulls that set Fourth Meander folk apart from the less prestigious subcastes who cultivated the left bank of the Third Part. Only last week, one of them had been made an out-caste for Jumping the Ditch, i.e., having sex with one of the hillbilly girls on the Right Bank.

“Is one potato really so different from the next?” asked his
zamindar
philosophically.

“In general, no—but in our
jagir
,
there is no next
!”

“And yet—assuming that
some
potato materializes on your plate on the day specified, does the fate of a
specific
potato really amount
to so much?”

“You are a tax collector, not a philosopher—mind your place.”

“Excuse me, Your Royal Highness, but
we
were philosophizing when Aristotle’s grandparents were banging rocks together.”

“Where has it
gotten
you though?”

Ahead, Sword of Divine Fire could see the Flat Brown Rock, which—together with the Little Gray Rock, which stood about a hundred yards distant—accounted for most of the local topography. The Fourth Meander made a small excursion to go around it. The clan of the Flat Brown Rock Excursion were reputed to be the finest horticulturalists of the whole Ditch, and on cold nights were known to stay up sitting on their cabbages like hens warming their eggs. Normally, they would be turning round to smile proudly at their monarch. But today they squatted on the bank, hunched over with their backs turned to him, and refused to meet his gaze. Sword of Divine Fire could not fathom it until he noticed a gap forming in the line of persons. They were packed in nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, but still they were finding some way to shift sideways, creating an open space two yards across, which gradually expanded to three. In the center of that open space, a bony woman in a threadbare garment was hunched over a dead plant.

Sword of Divine Fire’s reaction was succinct: “Fuck!” The woman cringed as if he’d hit her with a bullwhip. Then: “What has happened to our potato?”

“Sire, I launched an investigation as soon as I was informed. The
khud-kashta
of the Fourth Meander has been sternly brought to account. Furthermore, I have made discreet inquiries with Lord of Righteous Carnage, as well as with Shambhaji, to ascertain whether it might be possible to buy a replacement potato…”

“Come off it! Where’s the money coming from? We can’t even feed the bullock.”

“If we put off purchasing a new rope…”

“The rope has been spliced so many times it’s naught but splices. Besides! Jesus Christ!
Shambhaji!?
You asked
him
? I was sent down here to make
war
on Shambhaji.”

“But you have not actually conducted an offensive operation against him in
years.
”

“What, I’m besieging his citadel.”

“You call it a Siege—others would describe it as a very long Picnic.”

“In any event—Shambhaji is the
enemy.
”

“In Hindoostan, all things are possible.”

“Then where is my fucking potato!?”

Silence. Then the woman flung herself on the ground and began
to beseech Sword of Divine Fire for mercy.

“Oh, splendid! Now she’s probably going to go set fire to herself or something,” the king muttered. Then he sighed. “What has your investigation turned up?”

“It may have been sabotage.”

“Those Right Bankers, y’think?”

“Retribution for many Ditch-Jumpings.”

“Well, I don’t want to start a war,” mused Sword of Divine Fire, “or my rutabaga will be next.”

“I would not put anything beneath the Right Bank Vhadriyas, they are scarcely above apes.”

“Tell ’em it’s my fault.”

“I beg your pardon, sire?”

“Karma. I looked crossways at a cow, or something…make some shit up. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

“Truly you are the wisest ruler this kingdom has ever had…”

“Yeah, too bad my term’s up in another four months.”

Half an hour later, Sword of Divine Fire alighted from his donkey, and his
zamindar
emerged from his palanquin, and they stood together at the brink of the Large Hole in the Ground. All of the water that struggled out to the end of the Ditch emptied into this Hole. Members of the local Koli caste brought wagon-loads of black dirt hither from their dirt-mines in other parts of the
jagir
and dumped it into the hole. Then they pounded it with timbers, mixing it with the ditch-water, and drew off the liquor that floated on top and put it into a motley collection of pots and pans. These they boiled over fires made with wood brought down out of the hills by the people of the wood-splitter caste. When the pots had nearly boiled dry, they dumped their contents out into flat shallow earthenware trays and left them out under the sun. After a while, those trays filled up with a whitish powder—

“Who the hell is that man in the robe, and why is he eating my saltpeter?” demanded Sword of Divine Fire, visoring his eyes with one hand and gazing over towards the tray-farm.

Everyone looked over to see that, indeed, a figure in a long off-white robe—a cross between a Frankish monk’s robe and an Arab
djellaba
—was nibbling at a handful of saltpeter-slush that he’d scooped up from one of the trays. His face was obscured by the hood of the robe, which he’d pulled over his head to shield himself from the sun.

A couple of
rowzinders
and three archers on foot—about half of Sword of Divine Fire’s body-guards—bestirred themselves, and began trotting over that way, unlimbering weapons as they went. But
the robed visitor turned out to have a sort of body-guard of his own: two men on horseback who rode forth and took up positions on the flanks, and let it be known that they had muskets.

“Sire, this would appear to be a better-organized-than-usual assassination attempt,” said the
zamindar
, stepping over to his palanquin and retrieving a musket of his own. “May I suggest you climb down into the Large Hole in the Ground?”

The king for his part pulled a pistol from his garment and checked the pan. “This fitteth not the profile of an assassination,” he observed. “Perhaps they are wandering potato-merchants.” He spurred his donkey forward, and rode past his body-guards, who had been stopped in their tracks by the appearance of those muskets.

As he drew closer to the robed man, he was surprised—but then again, not really—to observe a red beard. The visitor pulled his hood back to divulge a fountain of silver hair. He spat saltpeter on the ground and smacked his lips for a few moments, like a connoisseur of wine.

“I’m afraid it is contaminated with much that is not actually saltpeter,” he said. “It would work for ballasting ships, but not for making gunpowder.”

“Strange you should mention that, Enoch, as I may be needing some ballast soon.”

“I know,” said Enoch Root. “Unfortunately, many others in Christendom know it, too, Jack.”

“That is most annoying, for I went to vast expense to bring in a scribe who knew how to employ cyphers.”

“The cypher was broken.”

“How is Eliza?”

“She is a Duchess in two countries.”

“Does she know that I am a King in one?”

“She knows what I knew, before I left. Namely that there are tales of a Christian sorcerer who, some years ago, was traveling in a caravan to Delhi that was attacked by a Maratha army that came down out of the hills on elephants. The Marathas had the upper hand until nightfall, when they and their elephants alike were thrown into a panic by a cold fire that limned the warriors and the horses of the caravan without consuming them. This caravan reached Delhi without further incident, and Aurangzeb, the Great Mogul, according to his long-standing practice, elevated the victor to the rank of
omerah,
and rewarded him with a three-year
jagir.
”

“And so you decided to come out and see who was putting your alchemical knowledge to such ill uses.”

“I came for many reasons, Jack, but
that
was not one of them…I
knew who the sorcerer was.”