Tiger Claws by John Speed

excessively long (and one even says “highness” very loudly, as if to give the sisters a hint), the two girls gape at her with their dark, blank eyes.
    Without raising her voice, Roshanara commands all the servants from the room; they scramble to their feet and dash for the door before she finishes speaking. Then she turns and orders Basant to bring Tambula the apothecary to her immediately.
    Basant is stunned, not only by the command, but by its unexpected tone—stately and demeaning. But he gathers his wits, and moves to obey. As he leaves, he looks back hopefully. Maybe she will call him back, say that she was only teasing her dear Spring Blossom—but as she turns with a scowl to the twins, Basant thinks she looks angry indeed.
     
     
    He hurries down the long hall to the red sandstone archway that separates the harem from the palace. Guards patrol this gateway: on Basant’s side of the gate stand eunuch guards who nod at him as he passes, on the other side stand a few of the now disfavored palace guard. Once he steps beneath the arch, a palace guard calls out “Hey! Hey you! Stop!” and drops his tasseled lance across Basant’s path.
    Basant toys with the idea of running. For a moment he remembers being five years old, with all his parts intact, and he wishes he had run then when he could run. Cursing silently, he halts.
    “Aren’t you Basant? Basant the eunuch?” the guard demands.
    “I have the honor to be a servant of the emperor, a eunuch of the first
rank, and personal attendant to Princess Roshanara Begum, second daughter of the emperor. By her am I called Basant, and by my friends.”
    “That’s enough,” the guard sneers, unimpressed. “Wait here, hijra .” The words thud in Basant’s ears, like rocks heaved into a shallow pool.
    Across the sunlit courtyard Basant sees a door open, and the guard who stopped him leads a familiar-looking man toward him: It is that same man, Ali Khalil—the friend of Hing, the cousin of the emperor, the pain in the ass. He looks just the same as earlier, and Basant hates him for it, hates that he should be smiling and friendly and impeccably groomed when Basant sweats in cold panic.
    “Good day, Basant,” Khalil says, stepping toward him.
    “He don’t like that name,” says the palace guard, pretending, as soldiers do everywhere, to be stupider than he really is. “That name be only for his friends, he says.” The guard sneers at Basant with smug amusement.
    Khalil thinks this over, and fixes the guard with his charming smile. “But you see, I am his friend.” And he beams at Basant. “Am I not your friend, Basant?”
    Basant beams back, thankful to have something to do besides perspire.
    Basant notices that the other palace guards have moved closer. They are watching Khalil—waiting for his subtlest sign before stepping into action.
    “Ali Khalil,” Basant says, giving the appearance, he hopes, of bored annoyance, “I come on an errand at the order of my mistress, the princess. Already she will be asking for me—I dare not delay.”
    “Do me a service, Basant?” Though he phrases it as a question, Khalil speaks it like an order. He draws the eunuch away from the arch. Khalil’s hand feels hot, like the hand of a man hot with desire. Surely that’s impossible! Basant thinks.
    Khalil puts his face close to Basant’s ear. Basant can feel his smiling breath. “What a lot of trouble you have made for me,” Khalil whispers, the words blowing warm and soft in his ear, like a caress. “And for yourself, Basant,” Khalil whispers. The sound curls in Basant’s ear like a snake.
    Basant wants to flee, but where can he go? “Could you look at something with me?” Khalil says, peering into Basant’s face with his plaster smile. “It may be something that concerns you.” Basant’s knees are shaking so much that he can feel his silken pant legs quivering.
    “This way, Basant,” Khalil says gently, and he motions to his palace guards. They step