Shayista’s dream was fitful. He saw the mighty treasury of Bengal emptied of its magnificence, one hundred English ships laden with loot. He saw mullahs armed with guns and orthodoxy killing liberty and knowledge. He saw veiled girls dancing behind burning manuscripts. He felt his soul being rattled by a djinn then realized it was Dhand shaking him awake.
He was lying in his garden. The pain in his burnt hand throbbed. Champa was gone, only her shawl on his bench.
‘Sire, you have a visitor,’ said Dhand. ‘It’s that Dutch friend of yours. Says it is urgent.’
Shayista rubbed his eyes. His arms and legs ached, his back was sore. His stomach grumbled as he stumbled to the hall.
Van Diemen was waiting, dressed in silk pyjamas and a pink turban with a peacock feather. ‘My Lord, I have disturbing news,’ he said. ‘An English flotilla arrived in Chatgaon today. They intend to form an alliance with the Magh Raja.’
Shayistan could not believe his ears. Was Kalinoor behind this ludicrous reality? He beckoned Dhand. ‘I leave the fortress in your capable hands,’ he said. ‘I am going on a sea excursion.’
‘Shall I ready the navy?’ asked Dhand.
‘No need,’ said Shayista. There wasn’t time to prepare for war. He would have to outwit the English rather than outfight them. He grabbed Van Diemen’s arm. ‘Vroomen, we’re going on a trip.’ Cursed or not, no diamond was going to destroy Bengal. Come what may.