"Then I am grateful to my countryman," said Rustam Iniattir.
"I thank you for taking my meaning," said Sanat Ji Mani, then went on more briskly. "You are known to have contacts from here to Shiraz, to Trebizond, to Antioch."
"Not that that is anything to boast of," said Rustam Iniattir, not wanting to appear proud in this place where his God was worshiped.
Sanat Ji Mani nodded his comprehension. "Perhaps not, but there are many who are not so fortunate, or far-sighted. Nor do many merchants use the good sense you have shown in your dealings with these cities, which has led me to suppose you might be inclined to join in the venture I seek to propose. In these uncertain times, I would like to offer you the means to expand those contacts, to broaden your trading, and your position. I am sure you would find such opportunity advantageous, as would I." He paused. "I have jewels and gold. I have horses and mules and camels. And I have ships at Cambay, Surat, and Chaul. You need not fear I would not offer to undertake my portion of the cost of such an enterprise. I can afford to sponsor the enlargement I propose without imposing upon you for a single sequin of yours. You may come to my house and see for yourself that this is true. I am in the Foreigners' Quarter of the city, as you are, in the Street of Brass Lanterns. Mine is the last house before the wall, and it bears my sigil above the door." He indicated the fibula at his neck.
"If you have so much, why do you come to me?" Rustam Iniattir asked, his suspicions aroused.
"Because I do not think the Sultan— or more precisely, the Sultan's deputies— would grant me the license to broaden my business on my own, being that I am a foreigner from the West and the only one of my… blood here in Delhi. They fear I would undertake to cheat them of the taxes and duties they impose, having nothing to lose but my own liberty. Firuz Ihbal has said that I cannot be trusted to follow the law since I have no one of my own kind who could be held as hostage. Of course, he did not put it quite so bluntly. He said I would have to ally myself with those whose families live here with them." He saw Rustam Iniattir nod knowingly and went on, "You are part of a community, and the Sultan's men believe that will keep you compliant with the law." Sanat Ji Mani paused. "I would rather spend my
wealth on business than on bribes. Surely you understand?"
"I will consider this," said Rustam Iniattir, admitting to himself that Sanat Ji Mani had made a very good point.
"How long will you want to make up your mind?" Sanat Ji Mani asked politely. "I will accommodate your request."
"I… I am not sure," said Rustam Iniattir, thinking this was much too abrupt. "I shall consider what you have told me, and then, if I have any questions, I will visit you in your house on the Street of Brass Lanterns, where you may expand on what you have said here. After such a conversation— if we have one— I will reach my decision."
"Of course. You will be welcome at any time," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I trust you will make inquiries about my dealings with others. I encourage you to do this, for I have done the same about you, and you should have as much information on me as you can acquire before you commit yourself and your fortune to any new proposition. There are merchants who can provide a report of me that is without undue bias. They will tell you what you want to know." He achieved another of his fleeting smiles. "I have a servant— Rojire he is called— who will admit you to my house at any hour you call."
"Then I will ask for him when I come. He will know that I am to see you?" Now that the worst of his fright had gone, Rustam Iniattir was beginning to be curious about this Sanat Ji Mani, who seemed so much more a foreigner than he, a Parsi, was.
"Yes. He is a prince among servants, and always knows what is wanted." Sanat Ji Mani shook his head. "If I do not hear from you in some fashion in six weeks, I will take it as a sign that you are not interested in any proposal I may have to make, and I will look elsewhere for a partner— reluctantly, I assure you."
"Six weeks is not very long," said Rustam Iniattir, somewhat alarmed at so stringent a limit.
"No, it is not," Sanat Ji Mani agreed. "But I know that Timur-i moves quickly and trade-routes that are safe today may be useless tomorrow."
"Of course," said Rustam Iniattir, shaken by the mention of Timur-i. "He is the very soul of darkness, that one."
"So he is," Sanat Ji Mani agreed. "But you would not deny that he is a danger to everyone who trades beyond the walls of Delhi."
"Yes. The more so now the Sultan is away, shoring up his fortresses, and leaving Delhi to his many deputies, most of whom are as rapacious as bandits, Firuz Ihbal being the first among many." There was a note of anger in his voice now, and a petulance that revealed the frustration the Persian merchant felt. "We Parsi must look to hired fighters to protect our caravans, and more often than not, those very fighters are also robbers, and steal what they were hired to protect."
"True enough," said Sanat Ji Mani, who had experience of such predation.
"So you will propose a way to protect a caravan from its guards?" He was being sarcastic now, but he made no apology for it.
"I will propose many things, if you are interested in what I might offer to you. And I will listen to any suggestions you may put to me," Sanat Ji Mani said this with a composure far more persuasive than enthusiasm would have been.
Rustam Iniattir stared at the foreigner. "I believe you will," he said at last, his reluctance to bargain with someone unknown to him finally giving way to a hope of opportunity. "Yes. I will give this proposition my first consideration, and I will send you word if I decide to pursue the matter. Six weeks is a short time, but it should be sufficient for me to make inquiries and to have answers." He looked up into the echoing dark. "You have what you have come for."
"That I do, and I will not tarry; you have been kindness itself to listen to me. May your God of Light show you favor for that." His face vanished as he stepped back into the gloom of the shrine, and turned away; there was the sharp report of his steps, which reverberated through the shrine and faded to the slough of the wind.
Rustam Iniattir stood still, trying to assess what had just happened to him; he was more baffled than alarmed, and that alone eased his concerns. He tried to resume his devotions, but he discovered more questions burgeoning in his mind, and they became a clamor beyond the reach of prayer. Annoyed, Rustam Iniattir finished his ritual abruptly and went out of the shrine into the blue of dusk, his thoughts buzzing with possibilities. As he made his way back to the Persian part of the Foreigners' Quarter of the city, he looked about him for any sign of Sanat Ji Mani, for he could not rid himself of the notion that the stranger might be following him, his dark garments blending with
the night. Although he reached his house without incident, the sensation of being watched remained with him for some time.
It was not Sanat Ji Mani who had followed Rustam Iniattir from the shrine, but Josha Dar, a creature of the Sultan's cousin Balban Ihbal, whose task it was to watch foreign merchants and to report anything they did that might have consequences for the Sultan and his many deputies. Josha Dar had been shadowing Rustam Iniattir for six days, as diligent and ruthless as a rat, and was hoping his vigilance had finally been rewarded. When he was satisfied that Rustam Iniattir was in for the night, he went along to the gorgeous sprawl of the Sultan's palace, made his way past those petitioners who waited in their patient lines night and day for the chance to address the deputies. He found the path through the maze of corridors to the inner court of the west wing, and sought out Balban Ihbal in his apartments.
"It's you," said Balban Ihbal as Josha Dar saluted him with a fine, subservient air.
"Yes, Great Lord, it is I," said Josha Dar. He tried to present himself well; his small, bony body was held straight as a soldier's, and his weathered face was set in proper lines.
"Do you have anything for me?" He put aside a cup of aromatic tea and regarded Josha Dar with the expression of one severely tested. In the glow of a hundred lamps, Balban Ihbal, and all his surroundings, were touched with gilded light that enhanced the opulence of the room and its occupant: he was wearing brocaded silk the color of persimmons, and the ornamental braid on the front of the kaftan was shining gold. His turban was white but ornamented with a spray of Chinese pheasant feathers, each as costly as pearls. There were rings on his fingers and a golden cuff on his wrist, all gleaming in the luster of the lamps.
"I have been following the Parsi merchant Rustam Iniattir—" Josha Dar began, only to be interrupted.
"For six days now," Balban Ihbal finished for him. "What have you learned?"
"That he had a secret meeting tonight," said Josha Dar as if revealing a monumental crime. He raised his scrawny arms as if to demonstrate the enormity of his discovery.
"Where?" asked Balban Ihbal, not quite interested.
"At the Parsi shrine. You know, the cave in the old walls?" Josha Dar took a deep breath. "You cannot know what this place is like. The sons of Islam do not bow to flames."
"No; we bow to Mecca," said Balban Ihbal; he was not eager to hear about the false religion of the Parsi. "Yes, I know the shrine you speak of."
"Well," said Josha Dar, trying to recover his dramatic thrust, "I did not enter the place, but I saw another who did."
"And who was that?" Balban Ihbal was rapidly becoming annoyed with his spy, and told him, "If you have nothing significant to report to me, say so and go."
"But I do," said Josha Dar, and hurried on, "The foreigner, Sanat Ji Mani, entered the shrine shortly after Rustam Iniattir did."
"Perhaps he, too, is a follower of Zarathustra," said Balban Ihbal, taking another sip of tea. "There are a number of such men in Delhi, and they are all foreigners."
"I think not." Josha Dar held up his hand. "Followers of Zarathustra wear white when they go into their shrine. Sanat Ji Mani was wearing black."
"Such is his custom," said Balban Ihbal, dismissing the revelation. "My cousin, Firuz Ihbal, has said that Sanat Ji Mani always dresses in black garments."
"Perhaps he does," said Josha Dar. "But he is not one of the Parsi. You and I know that he comes from mountains to the north and west of Persia, beyond Constantinople."
"So I am told," said Balban Ihbal. "Yet it is possible that he is one who worships with them. Many of those who follow the Prophet— may he receive joy forever— are unlike those of our family. The Tughluq clan is not the only clan to embrace the True Religion. There are many, from China to Spain, who praise Allah. It may be that Sanat Ji Mani is one of other followers of Zarathustra."
"I do not think so," said Josha Dar, seeing his opportunity evaporating as he spoke.
"Well, you may be right," Balban Ihbal allowed. "In which case, what was the reason that Sanat Ji Mani went to the shrine?"
"To talk with Rustam Iniattir," said Josha Dar, his exasperation revealed in the blunt tone he used.
"About what?" asked Balban Ihbal. "If you did not hear them, say so."
"I heard… part of it," Josha Dar said, not wanting to be contradicted. "It was a strange discussion, and the shrine echoes so."
Balban Ihbal pulled at his lower lip. "What did they say?"
"They spoke of trade-routes," said Josha Dar. "Sanat Ji Mani suggested they could share their work." He coughed. "At least, that is what it seemed he did."
"And you do not know what more was offered, or if anything else was offered." He scowled. "Josha Dar, you have not yet done as I hoped you would do."
"I have persisted," said Josha Dar, turning pale beneath his walnut-colored skin.
"Not sufficiently," said Balban Ihbal. "I begin to wonder if I was wise in entrusting so much to you."
"You will be satisfied with my efforts," said Josha Dar as belligerently as he dared. "I will strive to do all you have asked of me, and more. I have not yet finished with Rustam Iniattir, and I will not rest while you have work for me."
"Yes, yes," said Balban Ihbal, sounding slightly bored. "You have told me this on many occasions. Thus far you have done well enough, I suppose. I see no harm in your continuing your observations." He sighed. "Follow the Parsi for a while yet, to find out what he is undertaking, and with whom. We cannot have the foreigners of this city sending messages to Timur-i Lenkh, in the hope of reward for their treachery."
"Do you think that Rustam Iniattir would do such a thing?" Josha Dar asked, shocked at the suggestion.
"He is a Parsi. He follows Zarathustra. Who knows what he might do?" Balban Ihbal shook his head. "I cannot sit by and let foreigners bring disaster on this city."
"No, of course not," said Josha Dar, his voice dropping to a strangled whisper. "What do you require of me?"
"What you have been doing," said Balban Ihbal. "You have been useful to me." It was a grudging concession, but it brought a smile to Josha Dar's face. "If you continue to be, then I will reward you. If you do not, then I will dismiss you."
