The Moghul

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.
    "Do you have a favorite, feringhi Sahib?" A brown-skinned man with a slightly soiled turban was tugging at Hawksworth's sleeve. "There is still time to wager."
    "No thanks." Hawksworth moved to brush him aside.
    "But it is our habit in India to wager on the elephants, Sahib. Perhaps the Sahib does not yet know Indian customs?" He pushed closer, directly in Hawksworth's face. His few remaining teeth were stained red with betel. "I myself am a poor judge of elephants, l can never guess which will win. Still I love to wager. May Allah forgive me."
    "I'm not here to bet."
    "Just this once, Sahib. For my weakness." He turned and pointed through the dust. "Although the dark elephant is smaller and already growing tired, I will even offer to bet on him to give you, a guest in India, a chance to win. So when you return to your feringhistan someday, you will say there is one honest man in India. I will wager you ten rupees the dark one will be declared the winner." The man backed away for an instant and discreetly assessed Hawksworth's worn jerkin with a quick glance. "If ten rupees are too much, I will wager you five."
    Hawksworth studied the two elephants again. The dark one was slightly smaller, and did seem to be growing tired. The other elephant, larger and brown, had a mahout less skilled but he also clearly was gaining the advantage.
    "All right. I'll take the brown." Hawksworth reached for his purse, feeling slightly relieved that it was still there. "And I'll lay twenty rupees."
    "As pleases the Sahib." The man smiled broadly. "The Sahib must be a very rich man in his feringhistan ."
    Even as he spoke, the large brown elephant wheeled and slammed its black adversary in the side with its tusks, barely missing the leg of the mahout. The black elephant staggered backward, against the side of the fort. It was now clearly on the defensive, as the larger elephant began slamming it repeatedly in the side.
    Hawksworth found himself caught up in the taste of imminent victory.
    "Charkhi! Charkhi!" A cry began to rise from the crowd. The man holding the burning taper looked up toward Arangbar, who signaled