Garuda held up his head defiantly. "I am sorry it has come to this," he said. "But it would be unwise for me to remain here. I have spoken with my brothers and they agree that I must go."
Sanat Ji Mani inclined his head slightly. "I have no wish to compel you to serve me if you desire to leave my employ," he said in a neutral tone. "I will pay you your full wages and prepare a letter for your next employer." It was a courtesy expected of foreigners, as Sanat Ji Mani knew.
Looking abashed, Garuda shook his head. "No. I want no such letter. There are too many who would take it amiss."
"As you like," said Sanat Ji Mani. His study was filled with morning light, sufficient to be enervating to him; he longed for his austere bedchamber and the restoration of his native earth. That would not be possible today, he knew, and he put it out of his thoughts.
"I am grateful that you ... accommodate me thus," said Garuda, staring around the room. "I will depart after sundown, taking my things with me."
"As you wish," said Sanat Ji Mani. "You need not hurry on my account."
Garuda missed the ironic note in Sanat Ji Mani's tone. "You have been good to me, my master, and I am sorry to have to deal you such a blow as this. I would have stayed had there not been so much trouble. The Sultan's return, and his swift departure has put everything into disarray. Everyone knows the omens are dire."
"Yes: they did not need the Sultan to tell them that," said Sanat Ji Mani with an edge of impatience in his tone. "It were better he did not come here if he did not intend to remain. Ten days at the palace, throwing everything into confusion, and now he has gone again. Thanks to the Sultan, there is panic throughout the city." He looked toward the window, saying distantly, "I am a foreigner, and just now foreigners are not welcome in Delhi: and yes, I understand your burden. In your place I might well do the same thing." He went to his chest beneath the shuttered window and used his key to unlock it. "I will give you full wages until the next full moon, and then I will add a month's wages for good service, for you have given me excellent service." He began to count out the coins, taking his time so that Garuda could see he was giving the full amount.
"Thank you, my master," said Garuda awkwardly.
"You have no reason to thank me; it is I who ought to thank you. You have done the work you were hired to do, and I am obliged to recompense your service, which I am glad to do," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I would prefer both of us to be satisfied with the conclusion of our work together than either of us harbor suspicions and resentments."
"But many another would dismiss me without paying the balance of my wages, and not even the magistrates would reprimand him," said Garuda.
"Perhaps not, if they were natives of this city," Sanat Ji Mani said. "It matters little, in any case, for I would not want to deny you what you have earned."
"Well, you do not need so many servants now, in any case," said Garuda, feeling vaguely as if he owed a more comprehensive explanation to Sanat Ji Mani. "You can manage well enough with a smaller staff. You have not entertained, nor brought the injured into the house, nor taken on the guardianship of another man's wife for many days, and will probably not do so again, so you will not lack for service with a smaller staff."
Sanat Ji Mani gave a quick, ironic smile. "Very true. My household can be reduced without compromise of duties." He handed the money to Garuda. "There you are. Count it now, and satisfy yourself it is the whole amount."
Garuda began to be embarrassed. "I have no reason to question you, my master. You have never been ungenerous."
"But you might decide, at some later time, that I had not given as much as I assured you I would," Sanat Ji Mani said firmly. "This way we will both be certain you are adequately paid."
With a shrug, Garuda began to count, and finally said, "It is more than sufficient, my master. You did not need to pay me so much."
"You may not think so in a month," said Sanat Ji Mani. "This way, we understand one another, which avoids later unpleasantness." He locked his chest again. "How many other servants are considering leaving?"
"I ... I do not know ..." Garuda stared down at his feet, afraid to go on.
"Does that mean they have said nothing to you, or that you do not know the specific number who wish to go?" He asked the question kindly, but Garuda still winced.
"It means that some have said one thing one day and something else the next," said Garuda. "It is a most troubling situation."
"I agree," said Sanat Ji Mani. He stood still for a long moment, then said, "You will do me a service, Garuda, if you will tell the others that I will not hold it against them if they, too, wish to leave. Let them have a day to decide. I will speak to them at the evening meal, and they may tell me what they wish to do."
"I do not think I-" He stopped, his face darkening a couple of shades.
"I will hold it as a favor if you would do this; they will accept the offer more readily if it comes from you instead of me, and it would be easier to deal with a single departure of many servants rather than a straggling trickle of the same number over weeks," Sanat Ji Mani said, feeling a fatalistic certainty that he would not keep most of his staff once this opportunity was presented to them; too many of his servants were demoralized by the worsening crisis in the city and were eager to follow the Sultan's example and flee. "If you would add to the good care already given, do this for me, and with my thanks."
"If you like," said Garuda, sounding miserable. "You may lose a considerable number of your servants if you make such an offer."
"Then I lose them," said Sanat Ji Mani. "It does me no good to have men around me who do not wish to be there." He thought back to the years of his life he had been a slave, and how the subservience of his position had worked on him: even the centuries in Egypt had taken their toll. "I would make no such imposition on anyone."
"Is that why you have no concubines?" Garuda dared to ask.
"In part," said Sanat Ji Mani, surprised that Garuda would speak of such things. "That, and foreigners are under scrutiny that might bring misfortune to a concubine." He did not elaborate, but memories of Cyprus came back with a sudden intensity.
"Females are not to be trusted," said Garuda. "You are a wise man."
It was useless to protest this was not what he meant-it was also reckless: Sanat Ji Mani lowered his eyes. "You may go to the others, Garuda."
Knowing this dismissal for an order, Garuda bowed his head. "I hear and obey," he said, his hands pressed together as he bowed over them before withdrawing from Sanat Ji Mani's presence.
Left alone, Sanat Ji Mani began to calculate what he owed his servants in wages and to prepare to pay them. He had no worry about the amounts that would be required, for he had more than enough to cover any sum-in his laboratory he had prepared over three measures of gold, and would now augment the gold with a quantity of silver-enough to buy ten war elephants, if only Firuz Ihbal knew of it-which, fortunately, he did not. He took a sheet of vellum from his writing-table drawer and, choosing a trimmed pen, he began to write down the sums he owed his staff. It did not take long, and when he was done, he felt strangely at loose ends, not knowing to what he should next give his attention. He paced around the room, then went out of it abruptly, stifling the urge to call for Rojire. The stairs to his laboratory were lit with hanging lamps, still burning from their nighttime use, though they did little to increase the brightness; the sunlight was strong enough to penetrate into the stairwell, its intensity giving Sanat Ji Mani a mild degree of discomfort.
The athanor stood open, ready for the next crucible, and the equipment set out on the two trestle-tables was clean in preparation for the new wonders Sanat Ji Mani would perform. He walked quickly to the cabinet that contained his supplies and took out four earthenware jars sealed with wax. He stripped the wax from the jars with a practiced pass with a little knife, then began to measure out the various elements into a retort of Egyptian glass; he had done this often in the last two thousand years and could almost judge the amounts by weight as by measure. Satisfied, he added acid from a special glass vial, and sealed it again at once, using a glass stopper and wax before continuing on with his task. He placed the retort in the athanor, then gathered up the special fuel that gave the little oven its uncanny power, set it to heat, and busied himself adjusting the shutters to mute the impact of the sun.
By the time the sun was directly overhead, Sanat Ji Mani was removing silver nuggets from the retort, preparing to melt them and pour them into coin-molds of Byzantine design. He did his best to ignore the fatigue that slowed his body and his thoughts; that would be gone when the sun was past its zenith, and it no longer vitiated him; even with the year winding down to its close, the sun in this region was enough to be a burden while he worked at his self-appointed task. These coins would be used to pay the servants who wished to leave his employ: he was convinced there would be a good number of them, for now that Garuda was leaving, the others would take it as a sign that this household was no longer safe.
Mid-afternoon saw the first of the coins ready, the silversmithing equipment and coin-molds set out on the longer table for easy reach. It was demanding work, but not arduous, and Sanat Ji Mani was grateful to have something to occupy his attention as the day passed. The wealth these coins represented would have shocked many of the servants, who knew their master had money, but no notion of how much. Sanat Ji Mani continued to work, making more coins as quickly as he could until he had enough to fill a lentil-basket twice over. Satisfied, he put the rest of the nuggets away, cleaned and stored his equipment, then went down to the servants' dining room just as the Muslim call to sunset prayers faded from the air.
Garuda was at the head of the table, waiting for the cook to bring out their evening fare; he had clearly told all the servants about their master's offer, for all of them had an apprehensive expression on their eyes as they turned toward him. "My master," said Garuda, starting to rise.
"No longer," Sanat Ji Mani said with a hospitable smile. "I am pleased that you have stayed until now before leaving. I will miss your presence in my house."
This was gracious enough to reassure the others that this was not going to be a trial, nor was it to be as unpleasant as Hirsuma's departure had been. Many of the men visibly relaxed, and sat back, anticipating an interesting evening.
"I will not leave," Bohdil, the head groom, announced, breaking the anticipatory silence.
"Thank you for that," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I would not like to have to tend to all the horses and the goat by myself." His smile flashed again, and eased the men's minds further.
"I should like to leave," said the kitchen supervisor, who bought all the food and kept track of its use. "My family wishes to depart for Baran; my mother is from there, and we believe it may be safer there."
"I will see you have your pay at first light tomorrow. You may leave before the end of the day," said Sanat Ji Mani, adding carefully, "As your final task, I would like to have your kitchen inventory before you go, so the work may be taken up by another. I am certain you have kept excellent records, and that bringing them up-to-date will not be an onerous duty."
"Certainly," said the kitchen supervisor, relieved that this went so well. "I will present a catalogue of all supplies and foodstuffs in the kitchen before I leave. Is this to include the crock of moldy bread?"
"Yes, it is," said Sanat Ji Mani, who used the moldy bread to make his sovereign remedy for fevers and infections. "You need not do it this instant. So long as I have it before you go, I will be satisfied."
"I will stay," said the bedroom steward, a slim young man named Dapas. "I am glad to stay."
"Thank you," said Sanat Ji Mani, looking up in time to see the cook arrive with the evening meal.
"I will go," said the cook. "But my assistant, Shudra, will remain." He indicated this youth, coming behind him with a large basket filled with a variety of fried breads. "You will not need to find another to make your meals. He will do well enough." With that, he sat down and prepared to eat.
"As you wish," said Sanat Ji Mani, then looked at Mukhi, the carpenter.
"I will stay, at least until the dark of the year passes," he said. "I may go then, but not now."
"I appreciate your dedication to my house," Sanat Ji Mani told him carefully, and waited to hear what was said next.
In the end, Sanat Ji Mani was left with five servants to staff his house: a steward, a cook, a groom, a carpenter, and a messenger. He paid the rest, and provided each a bonus for his service, and allowed three days for those leaving to pack their belongings and depart.
Dapas, who at sixteen now found himself steward of the household, took Sanat Ji Mani aside the following morning after wages had been paid, saying, "I am told that this house is watched."
"I am not surprised," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I became aware of it some months ago, and given the current state of affairs in Delhi, I suppose it is to be expected."
Somewhat nonplussed by this response, Dapas did what he could to recover his dignity. "I thought you should know that I am aware of it, too."
"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani. "Very good. I am pleased that you are attentive."
Relieved to hear this, Dapas went on, "What would you like me to do about it?"
"Why, nothing," said Sanat Ji Mani. "That would only lead to more surveillance and increased suspicion, and in these times, such attention is dangerous. If you want to keep an eye on the man who watches this house, I would not object, providing it does not interfere with your other duties."
Dapas nodded a bit stiffly. "I will do. I will report what I see to you before the evening meal."
"Thank you," said Sanat Ji Mani, wondering how many of his departing servants would talk to the emaciated man who had been observing the house for many months.
"I will tell the other four to have nothing to do with him," Dapas said, as if sensing Sanat Ji Mani's concerns.
"That would be appreciated," said Sanat Ji Mani, deliberately obliquely. "I know you are prepared to do more, but in this case, it is not necessary."
"As you say," Dapas murmured, touching his hands together and bowing.
"I am going to my quarters to rest," Sanat Ji Mani said. "I will rise in the afternoon and bathe. Have the bath ready for mid-afternoon. I will call you when I am ready."
"Very good, my master," said Dapas, bowing again.
"And, if you will, send Nayakar to me," Sanat Ji Mani added. "I have a message for him to carry to the nephew of Rustam Iniattir."
"At once, my master," Dapas assured him as he left the study.
Nayakar appeared so promptly that Sanat Ji Mani supposed he must have been listening at the door. "What do you want me to do, my master?" he asked, bowing over his hands. He was aware of his advancement within the household and clearly intended to make the most of it; his self-satisfaction colored his whole demeanor.
"I am going to write a note. I would like you to carry it to the house of Rustam Iniattir and give it into the hands of his nephew-no one else." He took a sheet of vellum and a trimmed quill pen, pulled the ink-cake from its drawer, poured water on it, ground it until there was a pool of black in the shallow well, dipped the quill into it, and began to write.
"Am I to bring a reply?" Nayakar asked.
"No. Only see Zal and put the letter into his hands," said Sanat Ji Mani, sounding a bit remote as he continued to write.
"Shall I deliver any other message? Is there some additional news you wish me to impart?" Nayakar's eagerness reminded Sanat Ji Mani of an unridden colt.
"No; delivering the letter to him will be sufficient, thank you," said Sanat Ji Mani, hoping to curb some of Nayakar's enthusiasm. "It is a simple task."
"As you wish; I will take the message to Zal Iniattir, and no other," said Nayakar. "Am I to return directly, or are there other errands you wish me to perform for you?"
"Come back as soon as you are done," said Sanat Ji Mani, reading over the page, then sanding it before he rolled it and secured it with a band of silk.
"As you wish, my master," said Nayakar, taking the vellum into his hands.
"Nayakar," Sanat Ji Mani asked in an off-handed way, "Can you read?"
"A few words, my master, no more," he said. "Rice. Street. Cost. Delhi. Father. Truth. Caste." He ticked off his list with pride.
"Still, better than most," said Sanat Ji Mani. "Thank you for telling me."
"I know the banners of most of the shop-keepers," Nayakar added. "You may send me to any of them if you need goods purchased."
"Excellent," Sanat Ji Mani approved. "I will keep that in mind." He motioned Nayakar away. "You may leave now. I believe you will find Zal Iniattir at his uncle's home; he has moved his wives and children there since Rustam Iniattir departed. If he is not there, ask his steward where he has gone, seek him out wherever he may be, and give this to him."
"As you wish, my master," said Nayakar, and withdrew from the study. He went through the house holding the rolled vellum as conspicuously as possible, wishing that more of the few remaining servants could see him in his newly exalted role. At the side-door, he said to Dapas, "I am bidden to take this to Zal Iniattir, and to return at once."
"Then be off with you; use the clapper when you return," said Dapas, not willing to be impressed by Nayakar's boasting. He held the door open, and closed it as soon as the young man stepped out. "Do not be laggard in your work; do as you have been instructed-nothing more and nothing less." He peered out the slit in the door to see if Nayakar went the right direction on the Street of Brass Lanterns and was relieved as he watched the young messenger turn and go toward the shortest route to Rustam Iniattir's house. Satisfied, he stepped back from the door and went to report to Sanat Ji Mani that Nayakar was on his way. Had he continued to watch he might not have been so pleased, for as Nayakar reached the corner, a scrawny man in a loincloth and shawl stepped out of the shadows.
"So you are leaving, too," Josha Dar said in what he hoped was an encouraging tone.
"For a short while. I have this message to carry to the house of Iniattir," Nayakar declared, not quite bragging, but showing off nonetheless.
"You are not leaving the household?" Josha Dar asked in a tone of astonishment.
"Of course not. I am not afraid of Timur-i, or his ghost." Nayakar smoothed the front of his clothing, doing his best to present a good appearance.
"Very commendable," said Josha Dar. "Would more persons in Delhi were as brave as you."
"Only a fool would be frightened. Look at the Sultan's army. How can a pack of wild horsemen stand against archers and war elephants?" He grinned. "We shall see the end of Timur-i if he should be foolish enough to come here. Then the ones who have left the city will be chagrined, for they will see their cowardice for what it is. Even the Sultan will know he should have remained here. Those of us who are loyal to Delhi must stand by the city now, or be disgraced."
"Fine sentiments," said Josha Dar, falling into step beside Nayakar. "I do not mean to keep you from your duties, but you impress me with your convictions."
"You are good to say so," Nayakar told him, accepting this praise with an inner sense of vindication that made him smile a little.
"Most of your comrades in the foreigner's house did not have the same faith you do," Josha Dar prompted, hoping to learn more.
Nayakar did not need much encouragement. "I am ashamed of many of them. It is one thing when a family decides they all must go, but only a few had that excuse-most of them were just frightened, and they let themselves be ruled by their fright. It is not as if they were driven off by abuse, or want. They have been treated well by Sanat Ji Mani, who is a most generous and worthy man, for all he is a foreigner, and they still left without hesitation." He spat. "Cowards and unbelievers, all of them."
"But you have remained," Josha Dar said approvingly.
"And four others." Nayakar smiled. "Sanat Ji Mani has given each of us two pieces of gold for staying with him. That is something the others have forfeited." He reached the next corner and turned right. "Iniattir lives in this street."
"The Parsi?" said Josha Dar as if unfamiliar with the name.
"Yes. My master has done business with the uncle and now sends word to the nephew." He held up the vellum once again. "The Parsi are strange folk, but my foreign master is not troubled by them."
"Perhaps their foreign ways are similar," said Josha Dar, who knew this was not so. "They may find understanding, one with the other."
"I do not know," said Nayakar. "Sanat Ji Mani is not of the Parsi: he comes from a much more distant place, called the Land Across the Forest."
"An odd name," said Josha Dar, shrugging even as he rejoiced inwardly at this tidbit of information that should please Firuz Ihbal bin Tughluq.
"It is of the West," said Nayakar, as if that explained everything. "In their tongue, it is Transylvania."
"Transylvania," Josha Dar repeated, tasting the word.
"He is known as a great healer there," Nayakar went on as he approached the side-door of Rustam Iniattir's house.
"He has healed the sick here, I have heard," Josha Dar said, and realized he had gone too far, for Nayakar turned toward him, his eyes alive with misgiving. Hoping to repair the damage his remark had done, he added, "It was gossip in the market for many days when he healed the foreign pilgrim's foot." Looking at the young messenger, Josha Dar saw he had made matters worse, not better.
"You have been spying on my master," said Nayakar firmly. "You are one of those who seek to harm him."
"No," said Josha Dar. "Nothing of the sort. He is interesting. All foreigners are interesting." He could hear the desperation in his voice but was powerless to stop it.
"Tell me, how long have you been watching my master, and for whom?" Nayakar demanded, his skin darkening as indignation mounted in him.
"I have not watched him," Josha Dar protested, holding up his hands to show his innocence. "I have done nothing that deserves your scorn."
"Hah!" Nayakar exclaimed. "You may have fooled me at first, but I comprehend now what you are doing, and I am ready to hold you accountable. I will tell my master what I have seen, and what you asked, and then we will find out what will happen next." He tried to make this sound as threatening as possible, for he was beginning to be frightened.
"You misunderstand me, young man," said Josha Dar. "I mean nothing to your master's discredit. If you would only believe that."
"How can I, when you have-" He stopped talking, made a gesture of disgust, and approached the side-door of the Parsi's house. "Be off with you," he shouted over his shoulder, and could not help but look to see if Josha Dar obeyed him.
The steward who opened the door looked harried; he heard Nayakar's errand and informed him that Zal Iniattir was at the storehouse on the Street of Foreign Merchants. "You will know it by the white crane on the banner. My master will receive you there."
"I will attend to this at once," Nayakar said, and vowed inwardly to speak to no one but Zal Iniattir and his servants until he was once again inside Sanat Ji Mani's house. He went off through the crowded streets, looking about as he went, searching for Josha Dar and any of the other spies he was certain were following him.
Zal Iniattir came promptly to receive the message, gave Nayakar a silver coin and sent him away, saying he would call upon Sanat Ji Mani himself after evening prayers.
"I will tell him," said Nayakar, bowing over his joined hands. "He will receive you whenever it suits you." He was not quite certain this was so, but good manners encouraged such an assurance. He left the storehouse and made his way back toward the Street of Brass Lanterns, sure his progress was observed by myriad eyes. And as he walked, he became increasingly convinced that he had made a terrible mistake in not leaving Sanat Ji Mani's service while he had the chance.
Military report from Lahore, carried by special couriers, delivered in Delhi to Firuz Ihbal bin Tughluq on 2nd November, 1398 by the Roman calendar.
In the Name of Allah, the All-Compassionate, may my eyes be blinded and my tongue cut from my mouth if I report inaccurately or fabricate any events or details with the intention of misleading the officers and deputies of the Sultan-may Allah give him worthy sons and many victories-in regard to the dangers present in Lahore.
We did not take the brunt of his army, but we have been badly damaged by the efforts of his men, which I am bound to report to you, as the Sultan's men; for Timur-i is bound to the south-east, directly toward you, and it is not unlikely that you will have to fight him soon. For all the rumors that Timur-i has been cast out by his own army, or he has died, we at Lahore have no reason to think this is true. The soldiers we fought called themselves the men of Timur-i, and those few we were able to capture screamed his name before they died.
Timur-i may say he is the follower of the Prophet, and keeps true to the Laws of Islam, but he does not conduct himself as if this is true. For one thing, when he or his men fight, they take almost no slaves: they kill all they capture unless there is some very persuasive and immediately useful reason to keep a captive alive. Many rich men of Lahore paid high sums to keep Timur-i from our city, and to the extent that the whole of his forces did not attack us, I would have to say that their efforts were successful.
Four companies of mounted men came to Lahore, each company arrayed in its own color: we could look out and see ranks of yellow, white, red, and green. So great was their discipline that the companies did not scatter in battle, but remained intact, as if they were invisibly yoked together for the assault. Were it not for the fact that these troops are our deadliest enemies, I could find it in my heart to admire their skills as soldiers. As it is, I can only condemn their dedication to war.
Their camps were impressive to see-hundreds of tents, many of them large and splendid, and a number of carts and wagons carrying such things as a farrier's smithy, a saddler's shop, and a bath-house. I have been told that the full army has much more of the same, and that it becomes a city in itself every time it stops. Yet, cumbersome as it is, this army is said to travel as far in a day as a merchant-train does, except when rough terrain slows it down.
We were able to watch their work from our walls, and hideous it was to see: they began with the people living beyond the city walls: they rounded up the farmers and camp-keepers and their families and slaves, brought them near to our Northern Gate and hacked them all to bloody scraps, which they left near the Gate, while they rode around the walls firing their arrows up at our defenses, occasionally wounding or killing one of our men. Some of the arrows dropped into the streets, and a few struck persons unlucky enough to be abroad at that time. The soldiers of Timur-i have a cry they give when fighting, and it is more terrible than the baying of wolves in the winter.
Eventually the Western Gate was set on fire with flaming arrows fired by Timur-i's soldiers, and when the fire was put out, a great many of the mounted men poured through the opening, killing as they went. The people of the city were appalled, and many tried to flee, only to be cut down and their dismembered bodies flung onto the pile of slaughtered farmers, which was now beginning to putrefy.
The soldiers of Timur-i attacked the Southern Gate next, and very nearly had the same success as they had had on the Northern Gate, when they were summoned to their thrice-damned master's side, and abandoned their assault on the city. They took all the livestock from the farms around the city, most of it butchered before they left, and they set fire to the largest buildings.
If this was only a small part of Timur-i's army, I pray to Allah-may He Will favor to all who serve Him-that I never have to face the whole of it. May he fall in battle and be in Shaitan's talons before he can do more harm to the Sultanate. You must prepare to face the demons of perdition, for Timur-i's army is no less than that. Your army must be ready to fight off these soldiers without hope of mercy from them. Timur-i knows nothing of clemency, and cannot be bribed. Do not think that money will ransom your city: it will not. It may persuade Timur-i that you have more treasure than you have admitted, and he will sack Delhi, and pillage it, to be sure he has got the most from it before he kills your people.
This scourge is worse than any plague, for plague only kills men and animals-Timur-i Lenkh destroys all in his path, and rejoices in the ruin. If you are going to stand against him, you must use all the might of your army at its full strength, or be prepared to die under Timur-i's arrows and shimtares. Do not underestimate his ferocity, or assume that because he is an old man, he has lost his cunning or his ruthlessness.
May Allah bear witness to what I say, for on my life it is a faithful account of what I saw.
Jahsi Madur
Chief scribe to the Army of Lahore