"I want to die in peace. Just like your poet. And I want to be remembered, for the good I've done for India." Arangbar paused, seeming to search on the stone ledge for his cup. "I think Samad will be remembered too. Tomorrow I'll make him famous. Let him live on through his words. He knows, and I know, that he must die. We understand each other perfectly. I can't disappoint him now."
Arangbar suddenly recalled the high-ranking Rajput raja who had asked for an early audience in the Diwan-i-Khas, and he turned and moved unsteadily toward the door. When he reached it, he revolved and looked back sadly at Shirin.
"I found myself dreaming about you this afternoon. I don't know why. So I decided to come and see you, alone. I didn't come to talk about Samad. It's you I'm uncertain about. Her Majesty wants you hanged. But I cannot yet find the courage to sentence you." Arangbar continued on wearily toward the door. "Where will it all end?" He paused and, as though remembering something, turned again. "Jadar is plotting something against me, I sense it. But I don't know what he can do. Recently I've heard rumors you're part of it. Have you turned against me?"
"If you kill Samad, I will defy you with every power I have."
"Then perhaps I should execute you." He stared at her, trying to focus. "But you have no powers left. Unless you're plotting something with the Inglish. If you are, then I will kill you both." He turned to leave, tightening his cloak against the chill. The guards saw him emerge and hurried from the far end of the corridor. Arangbar watched them for a moment, then turned and looked one last time at Shirin. "Samad will die tomorrow. You will have to wait."
Brian Hawksworth's lean frame towered above the crowd, conspicuous in jerkin and seaboots. He had heard the rumor and he had come to the plaza to watch, mingling among the turbaned assembly of nobles, shopkeepers, mullahs, and assorted street touts. His presence was immediately noted by all, especially the crippled beggars in dirty brown dhotis, who dragged themselves through the crowd, their leprosy-withered hands upturned, calling for a pice in the name of Allah. They knew from experience that, however ragged a feringhi might appear, he was always more likely to be moved by their plight than a wealthy Indian merchant.
The plaza was a confined area between the steep eastern side of the Red Fort and the outer wall of the fortress. Beyond the fortress wall lay the wide Jamuna River, while high above, and with a commanding view of the plaza, sat Arangbar, watching from the black throne at the outer edge of the Diwan-i-Khas. Next to him sat Queen Janahara and Allaudin. The day was Tuesday and the sun was approaching midday. As Hawksworth pushed his way to the front of the crowd, the last elephant fight of the morning had just begun.
Two First-ranked bull elephants were locked head to head in the dusty square. Their blunted tusks were wreathed with brass rings, and the back of each was covered with a brocaded canvas on which sat two riders. Perched on each animal's neck and directing it was its mahout, and on its rump sat its Second-ranked keeper, whose assignment was to urge the animal to greater frenzy.
The dusty air was alive with a festive clanging from large bells attached to each elephant's harness. Hawksworth noticed that a long chain, called the lor langar, was secured to the left foreleg of each elephant and circled over its back, where it was attached to a heavy log held by the second rider. Both elephants also had other keepers who ran alongside holding long poles, at the end of which was crossed a foot- long piece of paper-covered bamboo. Nearby another keeper stood holding a smoldering taper.
Hawksworth watched in awe as the elephants backed away and lunged together again and again, tusk resounding against tusk, often rearing on their hind legs as each strained for advantage.