The Temple Dancer (27 page)

The eunuch guardsman looked confused when a ball-shaped eunuch appeared amid a crowd of farmers and traders. "Let me through, you fool,"
Slipper shouted. "I must speak to the Khaswajara!"

"Get back with the others. Who do you think you are?" The guard's
voice was rough. He must be new, Slipper thought. He wondered if the eunuch master had done his job right when he made him.

"Who are you to treat me so. Take me to Brother Whisper at once!"

The guard startled. "Nobody calls him that, you lout-not in public,
anyway.

"I call him that, fool! He is my brother and my friend. In the name of the
Sultana, take me to him!" Slipper could now see the end of caravan drawing
closer. In desperation he hurled himself at the eunuch guard's feet. "Brother!"

To the fury of everyone at the crossroads, the caravan was halted. Runners hurried messages to the Flying Palace and back. The guards at the crossing had to brandish their lances as the crowd grew restless. At last a eunuch
dressed in robes as bright as the noonday sun came gracefully down the road,
along with two finely outfitted guardsmen. At the sight of him, patches of
color formed on Slipper's wide cheeks, and he began to tremble.

The eunuch, very fair and sophisticated, dripped with pearls: necklaces,
earrings so heavy they hooked over the tops of the eunuch's ears, strands of
pearls that looped through his gold embroidered turban, so large that they
clicked together with his every swaying step. He examined Slipper as if he
were a dead bird he'd found in the marble courtyard of the harem: something
unexpected and not very pleasant. "Oh, dear," he sighed.

"Brother!" Slipper's voice was choked, and he lowered his eyes as the
other eunuch approached. "My name. . ."

"You have no name. I do not know you." He turned the eunuch guards
and lifted his hands sadly. "We came in error. . ." He began to walk away.

Slipper gave a whimper that changed into a wail. He tried to leap forward, but the guards had anticipated this, and they blocked his path with
crossed lances. "No! Wait! Don't go! I have found it!" Slipper cried out.

At this the other turned slowly. "Found it? Where? Tell me."

"No." Slipper's voice was firm. "To Whisper, only to Whisper."

The other considered this. After a moment, he glanced at the guards.
As soon as they lowered their lances, Slipper lurched through. "And say
my name! Say it! "

The other eunuch, taller, younger maybe-but with eunuchs, who
could tell?-calmer, and certainly better dressed, looked at Slipper, with
his turban, as usual, unraveling, with his threadbare silks now travelworn
and stained. Slipper pulled himself up to all his small height, and lifted his
nose in a gesture so haughty that the guardsmen struggled not to laugh.
"Say it," Slipper said again.

"Nawas Sharif," the other said, after a long pause.

At the sound of his name, Slipper closed his eyes like one tasting an
old, delicious wine. "Ali Nawas Sharif," he demanded softly.

The other took now a longer time. The words seemed to pain him. "Ali
Nawas Sharif," he said at last.

With the guardsmen behind him, Slipper walked to the Flying Palace.
The hoisting ropes hung limp: the elephants had set the palace on the ground. Two footmen holding long horsehair whisks stood beside a set of silver
stairs, set down only when the caravan halted. At a glance from the bejeweled
eunuch, the guards bowed to Slipper as he mounted. Unseen hands pulled
the velvet entry curtains wide, and Slipper was swallowed up in shadow.

A moment later, the footmen took away the stairs. Hup, hup, the mahout captain called. The four matched elephants each took three steps outward; the hoisting ropes groaned, and the Flying Palace lurched into the air.

The elephants marched forward with slow steps. The caravan began to
move.

Slipper had come home.

Slipper did not mind the wariness of the brothers who attended him. He
understood-how could he not? But he snapped at them anyway, as demanding and fussy as any concubine, and why not? They bathed the road
dust from his face and hands with rose water and brought linens, and how
long had he been deprived of such necessities? They found silk jamas that
would fit him, and he snapped insults while they pulled his arms through
the sleeves and smoothed the thin stiff silk across his corpulent shoulders.

"I need jewels," Slipper fussed. "Bring me rings, good ones. And a
necklace. Where is Whisper?" he demanded. "Bring Whisper to me now.,,
Knowing all the time of course that these attendants would do no such thing
at all.

After washing and dressing and fussing, the elegant eunuch that had
met Slipper at the crossroads reappeared and shooed the lesser eunuchs
away. The two stared at one another; the only sounds the creaking of the
walls and the groaning of the ropes, and outside the occasional muffled
trumpet of an elephant. Though the room gave the impression of being a
room in a palace, the floor sometimes lurched, as though they stood in an
enormous boat with great waves rolling underneath.

"The Khaswajara will see you now." He waited for a moment, and then
added, "Brother." The word seemed to take much effort.

"I remember this room, these walls, those sounds," Slipper said softly.

"Nothing has changed much since you ... went away," the other replied.

"I have changed."

They mounted the narrow staircase that led to the upstairs breezeway. On
one side, Slipper's hips rubbed along the wall, on the other they hung out
over empty space. He leaned into the steps, pressed his hands on them, and
so came into Whisper's presence looking rather furtive and uncertain.

"Leave us," Whisper said to the other eunuch.

His voice, as always, sounded hollow, rasping-and as always, so soft
that Slipper had to strain to hear. For some reason, Whisper wore no turban, and his fine, colorless hair, dry as bleached straw, drooped to his narrow shoulders. He was as thin as Slipper was fat, brittle as an old reed, his
face a thin skull lined with skin dry as parchment. Finally he turned to
Slipper, and blinked like a bird.

"How many years has it been?" croaked Whisper. The floor lurched,
and Whisper nearly fell. He looked so frail, so old, thought Slipper, that he
might shatter if he landed hard.

"Nine, I think. How old is the heir? You had just been named Khaswajara... how many years is that?"

"Ten years, then." Whisper shook his head wistfully, and motioned for
Slipper to follow to a comfortable alcove. "How have you been, brother?"

"How do you expect, brother?" Slipper's words were soft, but his tone
was venomous. "You yourself gave the order."

"It was the Brotherhood council that decided, not I," Whisper murmured. "Blame them, not me."

"You were part of the council."

Whisper shrugged as he sat near the gauze-curtained window. His bones
creaked. "It was for your own good, brother, and the good of the Brotherhood. Surely you saw that? Surely you see that now?" Whisper motioned to
a cushion facing his. "You say you've found it." His rasping, shallow voice
could not disguise his eagerness.

Slipper sat heavily. No food, he noticed, no drink. "Not much welcome,
brother," he pouted. "I shall want a great deal better treatment than this."
Slipper laughed, like the laugh of a nasty boy. "I should tell you everything
now, I suppose, so you can take the Web, and thus cast me aside?"

"You should tell me so your exile may be ended. It was you that lost
the Web in the first place, brother."

"That's not true!"

"But that's what the council found, and so it is true, brother." Whisper's leathery lips parted to reveal his long teeth. "But now you've found
it again, so what difference is there?"

Slipper leaned back. "I'll want a post of power. Not in the harem,
either. A real one, this time. In the court."

"It can be done."

"A house of my own. Not just rooms."

"Yes."

"Jewelry. My old jewels back. That woman who brought me here, he
was wearing one of my rings! I want it returned, everything returned, and
a full accounting!"

"Yes, yes," came Whisper's answer. "All that and more." His big eyes
were bright. "You found it?"

"Yes," Slipper sighed, leaning back. He thought about demanding
something to drink, but in truth he was as eager as Whisper. And so, with
no more delay, he began to tell the story of Maya.

On the cold ground of the courtyard of the fort, Shahji's soldiers snored in
brown blankets, like great locusts in cocoons. Da Gama's eyes flew open at
first light, though the western sky was still filled with stars. He rose from
his borrowed bedroll and pulled on his heavy boots. The damp morning air
chilled his skin.

Da Gama took his bearings. He had been on the road with Shahji's
men for nearly a week. Now it seemed to him most foolish that he had decided to travel to Bijapur with Shahji. He should have gone alone.

General Shahji had been on tour of review when he and his men rescued
the caravan. That night, when Da Gama said he had to get to Bijapur, Shahji
suggested joining them. "Ride with my guard. Take a few extra days," Shahji
had said, "Visit a few forts with me, and arrive in Bijapur rested and safe."

He did not need to add, you'll arrive in the company of the commander general. That would give a certain cachet to Da Gama, and right
now Da Gama needed all the cachet he could get.

They were close to Bijapur now-a few hours' ride; they could get there today. Da Gama began to worry. He should not have delayed. But he
had enjoyed the delay, a fact that worried him even more. Instead of facing
the questions and anger of Senhor Victorio, Da Gama had enjoyed the
company of Shahji, and his life of rugged ease.

Da Gama had heard of Commander Shahji, of course; he knew that he
was a wily and ferocious soldier who'd once been a rebel, who had made
peace and become the general commander of Bijapur's armies. He hadn't
expected a man of Shahji's background to be so cynical and yet so friendly,
so strategic and yet so practical. It was clear why Shahji had been named
commander, despite being a Hindi.

When they'd reached the first fort Da Gama had asked permission to
sleep outside with Shahji and his men. After his initial surprise, Shahji
agreed. "Real soldiers hate a roof," Da Gama had told him. Shahji kept his
face impassive, but his eyes had the look of man who had found a friend.

On this morning Da Gama caught the scent of bread frying. He sniffed
a few times, guessed the direction, and walked away from the sleeping soldiers. A few yards behind the main barracks was a squat brick kitchen. As
Da Gama approached, a dozen gray crows flapped from the ground and
into the wide mango tree. A yellow dog snarled at him, but stopped when
Da Gama growled back.

When Da Gama ducked through the low kitchen door, he saw a few
women working near a small fire, peeling onions and grilling chapatis.
Sparrows flew through the window, fluttering onto the low rafters. One of
the women looked up and tossed Da Gama the flat bread she was cooking.
He snatched it from the air.