Under the Jeweled Sky (3 page)

• • •

There are a thousand places to hide in a palace, if you know where to look. Jag knew every stone of it like the back of his hand, having been born within its confines and raised there since infancy, being mothered by all the womenfolk of its servants' quarters, who greeted him tenderly and spoiled him with sweets. He had never known his mother, never seen her likeness, although his father would sometimes compare her to a figure in a painting, or tell the stories of when they were young and happy in their faraway land, before he was born. Jag imagined it all, until every moment of it became as embedded in him as a true memory, gathered by his own
jiva
, from the days it had spent walking on this earthly plain.

Jag had been permitted to wander wherever he wanted as a boy and had even been encouraged to play with the Maharaja's children on occasion. But to play with them had proved impossible, as there was nothing even remotely normal about them. Of course, they had thought of themselves as perfectly normal in their fine clothes and gilded cockades, which made matters even worse. There was nothing normal about a child being saluted at every turn and having their every whim fulfilled since the moment of first breath, or stepping in and out of the palace gates just for fun, forcing the royal buglers to trumpet their arrival again and again. There was nothing normal about being given a pet leopard cub for your seventh birthday, or shooting your first tiger at twelve. There was nothing normal about any of it, unless you were a prince or a princess, and Jag was neither of these things. He was the son of a servant, an important servant he liked to think, but a servant nevertheless.

As Jag grew up and the Maharaja's children were sent off to study in the great schools and universities of Europe and America, he had missed them not one little bit, keeping to his own studies, diligently following his father's advice that he should take whatever education he could from this brief part of his life and grow up to be a good man, to honor the memory of his mother. When he was not studying, he would work, in some part of the palace, its outbuildings, or its sprawling grounds, doing whatever his father required of him. His was a busy life, his father cautious of the risks of idleness, allowing little time for his son to wander from the righteous road of useful purpose. It would be his passport to a good life, his father frequently reminded him, for he was soon to take his place in this world as every young man should.

• • •

Pinned against the wall, Sophie became aware of a small movement. A door she had not noticed, set into the marble behind her, opened the tiniest crack. She braced herself for her imminent discovery, her heart flying into her mouth. The door opened an inch further, and from the darkness, a pair of green eyes appeared, set into the smiling face of an Indian youth of about her own age. She looked at him in desperation. He lifted a finger and pressed it to his lips. Opening the door a little further, he stole a brief glance into the corridor, jerked back quickly, and beckoned Sophie inside. Silently, gratefully, she slipped into the gap. He pulled the slab of marble closed and slid open a hatch, revealing a delicately worked panel, a shaft of light flooding into their hidden chamber, patterning the wall behind them in a bright lattice of lace-thin lines. He stood back and gestured Sophie toward the small window, inviting her to enjoy the view. The voices grew louder as the women approached, the music of heavy jewelry jangling with each step, and then, like a painting floating into view, Sophie caught a glimpse of the first Her Highness and her entourage.

She had never seen such finery in all her life. Not even in books and picture magazines. Not even in the museums and galleries her father had taken her to as a child. They moved as one, like a bird of paradise, aflame with color, their movements as graceful as a company of dancers, wrists laden with thick golden bangles, fingers and toes adorned with jeweled rings. Their saris shimmered in the softened light, drifting cloudlike around painted faces, and through the ancient fretwork panel crept invisible tendrils of exotic perfume, rich and heavy. On they glided, this glorious sight, along the corridor of treasures and the miles of cashmere rugs, past the sculptures and the paintings, the music of their voices fading with their disappearing figures. Sophie stared out through the panel, mesmerized, and felt as though she had just witnessed a spectacle that no eyes before hers had ever seen. Soon the corridor became quiet again. She turned to the youth, who was now little more than a dark shadow behind her.

“
Aap
ki
merbani
,” she said awkwardly, tripping over the impossible words she had tried so hard to embed.

“You are welcome,” he replied.

“You speak English?” After struggling along with the servants for the last fortnight with nothing but a hopelessly inadequate phrase book to help her, a tiny and rather useless volume entitled
Hindustani
Without
A
Master
, giving instruction on phrases such as
the
boat
is
sinking
and
do
you
sell
socks
, Sophie didn't even attempt to mask her surprised delight at finding somebody she could actually talk to. She stared at him, astonished.

“Wait for a little while,” he said to her, his face opening into a big smile. “Your eyes will soon get used to the darkness.”

Sophie did as he said, the dimness around them slowly revealing itself as a series of uniform shadows along a walkway that ran as far as her eyes could make out. “Come,” he said. “We go along here.” He led the way carefully along the narrow passageway, checking for her constantly behind him.

“Where does it lead to?”

“Anywhere you want to go. The palace is full of hidden passages and secret chambers.”

“Who uses them?”

“No one. Not any more. They used to be used by the servants, who were supposed to remain invisible, but that was in the old days, maybe hundreds of years ago. Most of them have been forgotten now.”

Sophie followed tentatively behind him, barely able to see her feet, one hand trailing along the wall to orient herself. His footsteps slowed and halted.

“Stop here for a moment,” he said. “I want to show you something.” There came the sound of a match striking, bursting a sudden flare of yellow light into the darkness, illuminating his face. “Look.” He held the flame near the wall, revealing ancient marks scratched into it. “These are hundreds of years old.”

“Who made them?”

“I don't know.”

Sophie stared in wonder, reaching out a finger to trace over a faint line of script. “What does it say?”

“I don't know. It is written in dialect.”

The match burned down and went out, plunging them into darkness again.

“This way,” he said, making off once more. Sophie followed gingerly, her eyes readjusting to the gloom, through which she could just about decipher the vague shape of him before her. They came to a junction, two doors set into the walls, demarcated by the slender white outline of light that seeped through the tiny gaps. “We go this way,” he said.

By the time they reached their destination, a door at the end of another long passageway, Sophie was thoroughly muddled. The youth turned to her in the shadows, sliding back the panel behind another fretwork hatch. He peered through, listening intently for a while.

“There's no one here,” he said, and pushed the door open.

Together they emerged into a tranquil courtyard of black and white marble, where, in a flood of blinding sunshine, steps led down into a classic Italianate water garden, an oasis, lush with fragrant flowers, heavy blooms laden with perfumed petals, timid orchids clinging to the trunks of nimbu trees, peeping through. In the center of it all sat a lotus pond, the gentle sound of water trickling from pool to pool, surrounded by rising columns replicated from a leather-bound architectural volume in the Maharaja's library, garnished with Rajput designs. A heavenly scent hung unwavering on the still air. Sophie's mouth opened, speechless. She saw that he was looking at her. He seemed pleased.

“I'm Sophie,” she said, putting out her hand. He looked at it, but did not take it.

“My name is Jagaan Ramakrishnan.” He introduced himself with an unintelligible tangle of words and a small bow. “But you can call me Jag.”

“How do you do?” Sophie attempted a short curtsey, unsure of the correct mode of salutation for someone who refused to shake hands. “You live here in the palace?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “Well, not quite in the palace as such. We live in one of the staff quarters, behind the
pilkhana
, the elephant house. My father is one of the Maharaja's bearers.”

“Really? Have you ever met the Maharaja?”

“Oh yes. Many times.”

“What is he like?”

“Fat.” Jag ballooned his arms. “And very wealthy.”

“I can see that.” Sophie gazed around the water garden, the walls ornamented with pretty alcoves decorated with arabesques of different-colored stones. “I never quite believed that places like this really existed.”

“We have lots of palaces in India. This one is not so grand. There are many others that are far bigger.”

“Are we allowed to be in here?”

“No,” he said, laughing quietly. The water garden was not a place that one could enjoy often, being a favorite spot of the Second Maharani. Any area that she wished to visit would be evacuated well in advance and attended only by her ladies-in-waiting so that she should not be observed by anyone unauthorized or unworthy of her presence. “But I thought you might like to see it. It's very pretty, isn't it?” He detected a glimmer of concern in Sophie's expression and felt a pang of worry. “You won't tell anyone, will you?”

“No!” Sophie said. “Of course not.” She thought for a moment, unsure of what she should do, given these unexpected circumstances. “I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn't come along and rescued me like that. It's just that I…” She broke off. Her mother had been quite clear that she was to stay away from the Indians and she was not to speak to the servants unless she was asking for something. It was too ridiculous for words, yet Sophie did not disobey her mother lightly. She looked at Jag. “My father is the new doctor. Dr. Schofield. I was trying to find my way to the ADC's room, and the next thing I knew I was lost again. We've been here for a fortnight, but still I keep taking wrong turns or going round in circles.”

“It's not so complicated,” Jag said. “All you have to remember is that it is like a big square, with lots of other squares inside it and around it.”

“Right.” Sophie nodded as though she understood, because she didn't wish to appear stupid.

“It has been added to quite a lot over the years, with extensions being built and alterations being made by the various maharajas, but it all links up. You just have to keep your direction in mind and you will not get lost.”

“Thank you. I will try to remember that.”

“So, you are doing something important in the ADC's room?”

“Oh no, no, not really. Mr. Ripperton's wife, Mrs. Ripperton, she said I could pop in there whenever I wanted to, and I didn't really have anything else to do today, and I was…” She trailed off again, not wanting to say that she was feeling bored and lonely, or that her mother was not speaking to her, and that she didn't know what to do with herself. “I was hoping that there might be some other young people here that I might make friends with, but it seems that I'm the only one. My mother thinks I should be volunteering at the Baptist mission every day.” She frowned a little and chewed the corner of her lip. “It's been a little bit difficult, getting used to somewhere new, especially when there's no one to talk to.”

“You can talk to me if you want to,” Jag said with a half-hearted shrug. “I don't mind. I like speaking English.”

Sophie looked at him again. He had the most extraordinary eyes she had ever seen, deep green, like jewels. It was the first time she had ever really looked into an Indian face, seeing the sculpt of high cheekbones, the richness of the color of his skin, the whiteness of his teeth, the jet black of his shining hair. Tall and slender, with an easy, fluid grace to his movements and a gentle manner, this was not what she had expected at all, not after everything her mother had said about savagery and ignorance.

She wondered if she should say anything, if she should mention what her mother had told her, but it seemed so wrong. Anyway, why shouldn't she talk to him? He was nice, and he had saved her skin, and so what if he was Indian? They were in India, after all, so who else was she supposed to make friends with? Her mother would be furious, but that would be nothing new. Everything Sophie did was wrong anyway, and she had grown tired of the constant criticism of her endless misdeeds in her mother's eyes. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.

“My mother said that I'm not supposed to make friends with the servants.”

Sophie hoped that her term,
to
make
friends
, would sound less offensive than the outright declaration that she wasn't allowed to even speak to them unless she had to. Jag stepped back from her and looked at the ground. Sophie sensed immediately that her words had been hurtful, and she wished that she could snatch them back, saying quickly, “But she's been in a bad mood ever since we got here and we've never been to India before, or rather, my father has, but we haven't. She didn't even want to come, but my father said we had to.”

“It's all right,” Jag said quietly. “I do not want you to get into any trouble.”

“Don't be silly.” Sophie decided to brush her concerns aside. “Just this morning I was wondering how I was going to manage being stuck here for six whole months when there was nothing to do and no one to talk to, and now look. Here I am, in this lovely garden, standing here and talking to you. I have even seen one of the maharanis today!”