Authors: John Speed
Tiger Claws (2 page)
In time the eunuchs come to him and try to make him smile.
Night after night Basant goes to the soft bed of the rich tent. He has many visitors. He still remembers how they smelled.
But as Basant hides in the shadows his memory fades until once more he is himself: clumsy, scheming, fat, rich, and terrified. He gazes at the sky, at the sliver crescent moon, and wills himself to breathe. He has suffered much, but achieved much—now he is here, a person of substance, in the very heart of the empire.
So why then does Basant, Eunuch of the First Rank of the Private Palace of Mogul Emperor, now risk everything? Why risk his status, even his life, on this foolishness? Why?
If you asked him, of course, he would turn aside and say nothing. Such is his way, and the way of all the
mukhunni
. But if you could lift the tent flap of his heart and peer inside, you would understand: he does it for love; for the love of his mistress, for the love of the Princess Roshanara.
mukhunni
. But if you could lift the tent flap of his heart and peer inside, you would understand: he does it for love; for the love of his mistress, for the love of the Princess Roshanara.
Of course he would deny this. He would ask: How might a eunuch love any woman, let alone a princess? He might joke about the speed of his fingers, or the deftness of his tongue, and wink and leer as if to say: When they can’t get what they really want, then they want me. For isn’t it said the
mukhunni
also have no hearts? So Basant would have you believe.
mukhunni
also have no hearts? So Basant would have you believe.
But Basant has a heart, and he has made of it a shrine to Roshanara, the princess he has served for nineteen months and four days. So he hides, by her command, in the shadows, in the terrifying darkness.
Basant hears each sound that emerges from Roshanara’s apartments. And even though tonight at his command the drapes over the windows and breezeways all are lowered, and even though he has ordered drapes of the densest velvet, lined with quilted muslin, winter drapes though it now is
spring, despite it all, Basant hears through them every whisper, every grunt. With each noise his terror mounts; his pulse raises like a tabla at the end of a raga. Bad enough that he hears Roshanara, but Basant can also hear her partner: his growls, his filthy words. To explain such sounds would take time, and baksheesh: and he’s had no chance to make arrangements; for Roshanara had tossed this rendezvous together with unexpected haste.
spring, despite it all, Basant hears through them every whisper, every grunt. With each noise his terror mounts; his pulse raises like a tabla at the end of a raga. Bad enough that he hears Roshanara, but Basant can also hear her partner: his growls, his filthy words. To explain such sounds would take time, and baksheesh: and he’s had no chance to make arrangements; for Roshanara had tossed this rendezvous together with unexpected haste.
Basant wonders desperately whether these sounds are really so loud as they seem to his anxious ears; whether they echo through the palace; whether the emperor who snores in a nautch girl’s arms but twenty yards away can hear each groan. He wonders if guards will hear them and burst in, swords whistling.
He can barely keep from running away, particularly when he hears the frantic squealing of the princess in her frenzy, and the groaning of her partner like a bull; that ancient song that Basant can hear but never sing.
Then, as if Allah in his mercy had not yet piled enough worry on his servant, Basant hears a sound more frightening: he recognizes the voice of Muhedin, second captain of the palace guards, the smartest of all the captains and the most suspicious.
Basant curses his fate; that Muhedin should be keeper of the watch this night, of all guards the most attentive! He knows Muhedin’s habits, what things might catch his eyes and lead him to investigate. Maybe it will all work out—maybe Basant can keep himself and Roshanara’s lover in the shadows and out of sight. Maybe no alarm will be raised. It is not so far to the tunnels. Just act, he orders himself. Now!
But of course he can barely move.
Basant creeps to the edge of the shadows and glances toward the battlements. The only guards nearby are the two Tartar women who stand outside the emperor’s bedchamber—strange pink women from a place where it is always cold. And they will not care.
Hesitating in front of the entrance to the princess’s apartments, trying not to imagine what he will find within, Basant at last pushes aside the velvet entry drape, heavy with jewels and golden thread.
As the drape falls behind him, pleasure mingles with his fear. To be in her presence, in the heart of her home, amidst the flickering lamps, amidst the incense, amidst the flowers and leaves carved in the walls and burnished with gold! He feels such pleasure as a lover might.
Basant’s eyes grow accustomed to the dim light and he makes out the clothing strewn around the room; the bed in attractive disarray with cushions haphazard everywhere; the princess’s thick raven hair spread wild across her
pillow; the edge of her pretty ear peeping through the tresses; her arm with its silken skin poking from beneath a satin cover.
pillow; the edge of her pretty ear peeping through the tresses; her arm with its silken skin poking from beneath a satin cover.
And he sees the body of her lover: the man’s dark limbs sprawled on the bed and his bare ass, sagging in his sleep.
Maybe jealousy clouds Basant’s heart. Oh, he knows that he can never possess Roshanara, not as a man might possess her. But he can give her pleasure that a man cannot, for he has been trained to use his tongue and fingertips in ways that only eunuchs know. He can exhaust his sweet princess, thrilling her until she begs for mercy. What man can say that? He eyes her hairy lover with the envy that only eunuchs know.
His eyes fly open as if he can feel Basant’s stare, and he rolls from the cushions to crouch by the bed. Facing him with dark malevolent eyes, even naked, even with his fat old lingam hanging down for all to see, the man looks deadly. The flickering lamp traces the bright edges of an ugly knife, one meant for use, not for show. Basant nearly faints.
“I need more light,” the man growls. He speaks quietly, clearly used to being obeyed instantly. As Basant lifts a lamp, the man paws through the bedding, looking for his clothes. The musty smell of sex rises from the cushions. Roshanara sleeps through it all like one exhausted.
“Get dressed, uncle,” Basant whispers. “We must go quickly.” The man scowls at him; he has found his inner turban and he begins to wrap his long hair. Hurry, hurry, you old oaf, Basant thinks, the harem soon will wake. On the man’s chest Basant sees a patchwork of livid scars. One runs the length of his body, from his left shoulder to his right hip.
The man puts on his robe; it hangs down nearly to his ankles, Bijapuri-style. He gathers his underwear, turban, and belt and rolls them into a tight ball, then stands and pushes them roughly at Basant. He is used to having others care for him. Basant takes the bundle while the man searches for his cloak.
The princess stirs but doesn’t wake—her hair falls back from the fine features of her round face, and she hugs a pillow to her perfect breasts. Basant watches her, fascinated.
Suddenly he yelps at a sharpness in his side. The man has crept up beside him and now prods him with his knife—still sheathed, but to Basant the point of the sheath is as unpleasant as the point of a dagger.
“Let’s go.” The man pokes him again. “No, wait,” he says. He pivots Basant roughly by the arm, turning to face him. He is short, not much taller than Basant, and his black eyes are empty and terrifying, like a tiger’s eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight. You take me to the Delhi Gate. Understand? No tricks. And no tunnels!”
“No tunnels, uncle? How shall I keep you hidden?”
“I know all about the tunnels. And about the well. You get me? No tricks. No tunnels. No well. Understood?”
“But what well, uncle?” But even Basant can hear that this response is unconvincing.
The man lets out a long hiss. “The Delhi Gate. Now.”
Again the point probes Basant’s ribs. “But uncle, how shall I take you there safely?”
“I’ll tell you how,
hijra
.” The cruelty of the term is not lost on Basant. “We’ll go to your rooms. You have rooms nearby, don’t you? I’ll put on clothes like a eunuch and we’ll walk right out, our heads held high. Understood? Like men, except …” He chuckles at his own wit.
hijra
.” The cruelty of the term is not lost on Basant. “We’ll go to your rooms. You have rooms nearby, don’t you? I’ll put on clothes like a eunuch and we’ll walk right out, our heads held high. Understood? Like men, except …” He chuckles at his own wit.
Swiftly Basant considers his options and finds none. With a last glance at his princess, he draws back the drape and walks swiftly to a shadowy corner. The man follows him step for step.
Basant looks for the next shadow, and the next, tracing a zigzag path that leads to the eunuchs’ apartments. He becomes almost confident. There are no guards at the doorways; once the emperor has retired, only his Tartar women guard his bedroom; guards above suspicion and beyond attack. Sentries patrol only the perimeter, but they face outward, and are easy to avoid by sticking to the shadows and creeping silently along the walls.
They come to the mezzanine overlooking the enormous water tank at the foot of the stairs. Only the edge of the tank is in shadow; the walkway is lit by the lamps in niches along the walls of the Fish Building.
Basant is disgusted to have to live in a place called the Fish Building; he is sure it has been named that just to insult the eunuchs who live there. It is well known the nautch girls call the eunuchs “fish.”
They step swiftly along the edge of the mezzanine. Basant now sees his door and hurries toward it. Too quickly. His foot strikes a night bucket some fool has left at the tank’s edge. He stumbles. The bucket clatters as it rolls; it falls, clanging twice with a sound like a broken gong that fills the night. The echo takes forever to fade.
Basant fears he will die, and wants to. Then he feels a rough hand grab his robes; his collar bites his neck, strangling him so he gasps for air. The princess’s lover drags him along the edge of the tank. If there are any more buckets here, Basant thinks, this will be a good way to find them. But the man moves furiously, carelessly. “Where? Where?” he whispers through clenched teeth. Basant points miserably toward his door.
The man shuts the door, his teeth clenched so tightly that it’s clear he
restrains his fury only with enormous effort. “You were drunk and you stepped out to pee. Understand?” They hear the soft knock at the door.
restrains his fury only with enormous effort. “You were drunk and you stepped out to pee. Understand?” They hear the soft knock at the door.
Sharp steel whispers as the dark man draws his blade. Then he presses against the wall: when the door opens, he’ll be hidden behind it.
Basant cracks open one side of his double door. “Evening, Basant,” says Muhedin, the sentry captain. “Everything all right?”
“Certainly, captain.” Basant can scarcely believe his voice works. “I was a little drunk and went to pee, and …”
“Mind if I come in and have a look around?”
“Actually, it’s not too convenient, uncle. I’m afraid I had a bit of an accident. It happens to us
mukhunni
sometimes: just a splash of urine, but so unpleasant …” Basant tries to give a laugh.
mukhunni
sometimes: just a splash of urine, but so unpleasant …” Basant tries to give a laugh.
“Is anyone there with you, Basant?”
Of course there is, Basant wants to say. Can’t you hear him breathing? Can’t you smell the garlic? “No, uncle,” Basant replies.
“The thing is, someone thinks they saw two persons out there, Basant. Someone thinks they both came in here.”
Basant can’t breathe. Perhaps, if he played it right, he could manage to have Muhedin kill this awful smelly man. A thief, uncle! Sneaking into the palace, uncle! He made me bring him here! See his ugly dagger! And Basant was good at lying. But as he considers this, he feels a sharp jab beneath his arm; not blunt like before; the tip of that nasty, incessant dagger, now unsheathed and sharp as a needle. Basant wonders how long he has been silent … did it seem unnatural? “No, uncle, I’m fine, all by myself, just a fat old eunuch nobody cares for … .”
“But we must come in, Basant. Regulations.” Basant hears “we,” and peers through the crack until he sees a second guard behind Muhedin. Good, he thinks. “Oh, two of you,” he says pointedly, glancing at the man as if to say, You are finished now.
He opens one of the doors, the one that will hide the smelly man—Basant doesn’t wish to die too soon, after all. Outside, Muhedin is smiling pleasantly; but a skinny guard with a drawn sword stands behind him. Basant bows and steps aside, waving them through.
As Muhedin steps across the threshold, a rough hand thrusts out to push him across the room. He sprawls to the floor.
He looks up to see Muhedin’s startled face. Before the captain can even reach his sword, the dark man sweeps his knife. The blade glides through the captain’s neck, making a wet slapping noise, like a cleaver cutting cabbage. As Basant watches from the floor, a necklace appears around the front
of his neck, like a thin scarlet thread. Then the captain’s head flops backward, and a deep red river erupts from his exposed neck. The captain’s legs buckle, and he falls to his knees: it seems as though he is praying. A shudder runs through his body and he falls over, convulsing, his heart still pumping dark buckets of blood.
of his neck, like a thin scarlet thread. Then the captain’s head flops backward, and a deep red river erupts from his exposed neck. The captain’s legs buckle, and he falls to his knees: it seems as though he is praying. A shudder runs through his body and he falls over, convulsing, his heart still pumping dark buckets of blood.
From first step to shuddering death has taken less than a second.
His weapon still raised, the man now lunges through the door and lurches back, the hand of the other guard locked in his grasp.
The man yanks the hand so hard that the guard’s head heaves back, chin toward the ceiling. The man thrusts his knife through the soft spot under the guard’s chin and drives the point into his brain.
The guard’s head snaps forward, and Basant sees his astonished eyes, and his mouth still open, and his tongue pinioned on the blade, squirming on the blade like a pink slug on a skewer.
Then with vicious force the man wrenches the blade back. The body crumbles next to the captain’s. Other than the sigh of the knife and the soft thuds of bodies falling, there has been not a sound.
“I am Shaista Khan,” says the man, wiping his blade on the robes of the guard. “I must not be found here.”
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