The Far Pavilions (39 page)

Ash became aware that several people were beginning to look at him curiously, and also that there was no trace of recognition in Biju Ram's narrow-eyed gaze. That slyness was habitual; and so was the malice. As for the look of calculation, it probably only meant that Biju Ram was assessing the calibre of the new Sahib and wondering if it would be necessary to placate him, because in no circumstances could he have recognized this Sahib as the ‘horse-boy’ who had saved the life of the Yuveraj of Gulkote so many years ago.

Ash forced himself to look away and to reply to the polite questions of the little prince; and presently his pulse steadied and he was able to glance casually about the tent and assure himself that there was no one else there whom he knew. There were at least two. But even then he could surely not be in any danger of discovery, for apart from Koda Dad (and he would never have told), no one else in Gulkote could have learned that Sita's son was an
Angrezi
. There was nothing to connect the boy Ashok with a Captain Ashton Pelham-Martyn of the Guides, and little enough resemblance between the two. It was only Biju Ram who had not altered. True, he was much fatter and beginning to grow a little grey, and the lines that dissipation had already begun to draw on his face when he was a young man were deeper now; but that was all. He was still smooth and spruce and sly, and he still wore a large diamond drop in one ear. But why was he here, and what was the relationship between the Yuveraj of Gulkote and the ten-year-old Jhoti? And who, or what, was the child frightened of?

Ash had seen fear too often not to recognize it, and the signs were all there: the wide, over-bright eyes and the swift glances that flickered to left and right and back over the shoulder; the tensed muscles and jerking turn of the head, and the uncontrollable quiver and clench of the hands.

This was how Lalji too had looked; and with good reason. But then this child was not heir to a throne. He was merely a younger brother, so it seemed inconceivable that anyone should wish to harm him. A more likely explanation was that he had run away to join the wedding party against the wishes of his elders, and was only now beginning to assess the possible consequence of his escapade.

‘He's probably only a spoilt brat who has gone too far and is now scared of being spanked,’ thought Ash. ‘And if he is playing truant, I'll bet anything that Biju Ram put him up to it… I must find out about his family. About all of them. I should have done it before…’

The little prince had begun on introductions, and Ash found himself greeting Biju Ram and exchanging the few formal sentences suitable to the occasion before passing on to the next in line. Ten minutes later the interview was over and he was outside in the semi-darkness, and shivering a little, not only because the night air struck cool after the heat in the over-lighted tent. He drew a deep, shuddering breath of relief as though he had escaped from a trap, and was ashamed to discover that his palms were sore where his nails had pressed into them – though he had not even realized until this moment that he had been holding his hands tightly clenched.

That night his tent had been pitched under a banyan tree, some fifty yards beyond the perimeter of the camp and screened from it by the cluster of smaller tents that housed his personal servants. Passing these, he changed his mind about sending for one of the Karidkote clerks, because Mahdoo was sitting out in the open smoking his hookah, and it occurred to Ash that by this time the old man had probably picked up as much information about the royal family of Karidkote as any denizen of that state. Mahdoo enjoyed gossiping, and as he came into contact with many people whom Ash did not meet, he heard things that are not usually spoken of to Sahibs.

Ash paused beside the old man and said in an undertone: ‘Come and talk with me in my tent, Cha-cha (uncle), I need advice. There are also many things that it may be you can tell me. Give me your hand. I will carry the hookah.’

A hurricane lamp with the wick turned low had been left hanging in Ash's tent, but he preferred to sit outside under the narrow awning, from where he could look out past the dense shadows of the banyan tree to the wide plain that lay beyond it, dim in the starlight. Mahdoo squatted comfortably on his hunkers while Ash, impeded by mess dress, had to content himself with a camp chair.

‘What is it that you would know,
beta
(son) ?’ inquired the old man, using the familiar address of long ago, which was something that he did very rarely in these days.

Ash did not reply to the question immediately, but was silent for a space, listening to the soothing bubble of the hookah and arranging his thoughts. At last he said slowly: ‘Firstly, I would know what connection there is between this Maharajah of Karidkote, whose sisters we take to their wedding and whose brother travels with us, and a certain Rajah of Gulkote. There must be one, I am sure of that.’

‘But of course,’ said Mahdoo, surprised. ‘They are one and the same. The territories of His Highness of Karidarra adjoined those of his cousin the Rajah of Gulkote, and when His Highness died, leaving no heir, the Rajah left for Calcutta to lay claim before the
Lat
-Sahib himself to the lands and titles of his cousin. There being no one nearer in blood, it was granted to him, and the two states were merged into one and re-named Karidkote. How is it that you did not know this?’

‘Because I am blind – and a fool!’ Ash's voice was barely more than a whisper, but it held a concentrated bitterness that startled Mahdoo. ‘I was angry because I knew that the Generals in Rawalpindi were only using this appointment as a pretext to send me further away from my friends and the Frontier, so I would not even take the trouble to ask questions, or to find out anything. Anything at all!’

‘But why should it matter to you who these princely folk are? What difference does it make?’ asked the old man, troubled by Ash's vehemence. Mahdoo had never been told the story of Gulkote. Colonel Anderson had advised against it on the grounds that the fewer people who knew that tale the better, as the boy's life might depend on his trail being lost. It was the one thing that Ash had been forbidden to mention before Ala Yar or Mahdoo, and he did not wish to go into it now. He said instead:

‘One should know all that one can about those under one's charge, for fear of… of giving offence through ignorance. But tonight I have been made to realize that I know nothing at all. Not even… When did the old Rajah die, Mahdoo? And who is this old man whom they say is his brother?’

‘The Rao-Sahib? He is a half-brother only: the elder son by some two years, though being the son of a concubine he could not inherit the
gadi
(throne), which went to a younger son whose mother was the Rani. But all the family have always held him in great affection and respect. As for the Rajah – the Maharajah – he died some three years ago, I think. It is his son, the brother of the Rajkumaries, who now sits on the
gadi
in his place.’

‘Lalji,’ said Ash in a whisper.

‘Who?’

‘The eldest son. That was his milk-name. But he would have been –’ Ash stopped, remembering suddenly that the District Officer had spoken of the Maharajah of Karidkote as only a boy and ‘not yet seventeen’.

‘Nay, nay. This is not the son of the first wife, but a younger one: the second son. The first one died of a fall some years before his father. It is said that he was playing with a monkey on the walls of the palace and fell and was killed. It was an accident,’ said Mahdoo; and added softly: ‘– or so they say.’

‘
An accident
,’ thought Ash. The same kind of accident that had so nearly happened before. Had it been Biju Ram who pushed him over to his death? Or Panwa, or… Poor Lalji! Ash shuddered, visualizing that last hideous moment of terror and the long, long fall onto the rocks below. Poor Lalji poor little Yuveraj. So they had done for him at last and the
Nautch
-girl had won. It was her son, Nandu, the spoilt brat who had been banished, shrieking, on the occasion of Colonel Byng's visit to Gulkote, who was now Maharajah of the new State of Karidkote. And Lalji was dead…

‘It seems that the family has suffered many misfortunes of late years,’ said Mahdoo reflectively, and sucked again on his pipe: ‘The old Maharajah also met his death from a fall. I am told that he was out hawking when his horse bolted and fell into a nullah, breaking both their necks. They think the horse must have been stung by a bee. It was very sad for his new bride – did I tell you that he had recently taken another wife? – yes, indeed, his fourth, the first two being dead. They say she was young and very beautiful: the daughter of a rich
zemindar
…’ The hookah bubbled again and it seemed to Ash as though the sound was a malicious chuckle, laden with sly innuendo. ‘It is said,’ continued Mahdoo softly, ‘that the third Rani was greatly angered, and had threatened to kill herself. But there was no need, for her husband died and the new bride burned with him on his pyre.’

‘Suttee? But that has been forbidden,’ said Ash sharply. ‘It is against the law.’

‘Maybe, child. But the princes are still a law unto themselves, and in many states they do as they wish and no one hears until it is too late. The girl was in ashes long before anyone could interfere. It seems that the Senior Rani would have joined her on the pyre had her women not locked her in a room from which she could not escape, and sent a word to Political Sahib, who was on tour and could not be reached in time to prevent the Junior Rani from becoming a suttee.’

‘Very convenient for the Senior Rani – who I presume became the power behind the throne in Karidkote,’ observed Ash dryly.

‘I believe so,’ admitted Mahdoo. ‘Which is strange indeed, for they say she was once a dancing-girl from Kashmir. Yet for more than two years she was the true ruler of the state, and at least she died a Maharani.’

‘She is dead?’ exclaimed Ash, startled. Somehow it did not seem possible. He had never even seen Janoo-Rani, yet her presence had so dominated the Hawa Mahal that he found it difficult to believe that the violent, ruthless woman who had ruled the old Rajah and plotted Lalji's death – and his own – was no longer alive. It was as though the fortress-palace itself had fallen, for she had seemed indestructible… ‘Did they say how it happened, Cha-cha?’

Mahdoo's wise old eyes glinted in the faint glow from the hookah as he looked sideways at Ash, and he said softly: ‘She quarrelled with her eldest son, and soon afterwards she died – from eating poisoned grapes.’

Ash caught his breath in a harsh gasp: ‘You mean –? No. That I will not believe. Not his own mother!’

‘Have I said that he did it?
Nahin, nahin,
’ Mahdoo wagged a deprecatory hand. ‘There was of course a
tálash
(inquiry) and it was proved to be an accident; she herself had poisoned the grapes for the purpose of ridding the garden of a plague of crows, and she must in error have left a few of them on her own dish -’

The hookah chuckled slyly again, but Mahdoo had not finished: ‘Did I not tell you that the ruler of Karidkote has suffered much misfortune? First his elder brother and then his father; and two years later, his mother. And before that there were also one or two small brothers and another sister who died when they were babes in a year of sickness, when cholera killed many children – and not a few grown men and women too. The Maharajah now has only the one brother left – the little prince who is here in the camp. And only one full sister, the younger of the two Rajkumaries who are being sent far away to be wed, for the elder is only a half-sister, the child of his father's second wife, who they say was a foreigner.’

‘
Juli
!’ thought Ash: and was stunned by the thought. That tall, veiled woman whom he had seen in the brides' pavilion two nights ago was the
Feringhi
-Rani's neglected little daughter, Anjuli; the child whom the
Nautch
-girl had scornfully likened to an unripe mango, and who had been known thereafter to everyone in the Palace of the Winds as ‘Kairi-Bai’. It was Juli – and he had not known it.

He sat silent for a long time, staring into the starlight and re-living the past, while behind him the camp settled down to sleep. The voices of men and animals sank to a murmur that lost itself in the rustle of leaves as the night wind breathed through the branches of the banyan tree, and beside him Mahdoo's hookah bubbled a rhythmic accompaniment to the monotonous tunk-a-tunk of a distant tom-tom and the howl of a jackal-pack out on the plain. But Ash heard none of these sounds, for he was a long way away both in distance and in time, talking to a little girl in a balcony on a ruined tower that looked out upon the snows of the Dur Khaima…

How could he possibly have come to forget her almost completely, when she had been so much a part of his years in the Hawa Mahal? No – not forget her – he had forgotten nothing. He had merely pushed her into the back of his mind and not troubled to think of her: perhaps because he had always taken her for granted –

Later that night, after Mahdoo had gone, Ash unlocked the small tin cash-box that he had bought with his first pocket-money and in which he had kept his most treasured possessions ever since: a little silver ring that Sita had worn, his father's last and unfinished letter, the watch that Colonel Anderson had given him on the day they arrived at Pelham Abbas, his first pair of cuff-links and a dozen other trifles. He turned them over, looking for something, and finally emptied the contents of the box onto his camp bed. Yes, it was still there. A small flat square of yellowing paper.

He carried it over to the lamp, and unfolding it, stood looking at the thing it contained: a sliver of mother-of-pearl that was half of a Chinese counter shaped like a fish. Someone – the
Feringhi
-Rani, perhaps? - had bored a hole through the fish's eye and threaded a strand of twisted silk through it so that it could be worn as a medallion, as Juli had worn it. It had been Juli's most precious possession, yet she had given it to him for a keepsake and begged him not to forget her; and he had hardly ever thought of her again… there had been so many other and more urgent things to think of: and when Koda Dad had left Gulkote there had been no one to send him news of the palace, because no one else – not even Hira Lal – knew what had befallen him or where he had gone.