The Far Pavilions (46 page)

Mulraj had not intended to broach the subject until Ash was feeling stronger and better able to deal with such matters, but his hand had been forced, since despite all his efforts to change the conversation, Ash had persisted in discussing the accident and speculating upon its causes.

‘I still can't make out,’ said Ash, frowning at the tent pole, ‘how that saddle came to fall off. I suppose it was Jhoti's fault for not fastening the girth properly. Unless Biju Ram or one of the syces did it for him. Who did? Do you know?’

Mulraj had not answered immediately, and Ash became aware that the older man had tried to avoid the whole subject. But he was tired of being treated as a feeble-minded invalid, so he scowled at Mulraj and repeated his question with a certain tartness, and Mulraj shrugged his shoulders, and bowing to the inevitable said: ‘The child says that he alone saddled the horse, because Biju Ram refused to help him and went away, thinking that he could not do it single-handed and would therefore be prevented from going off alone, or be compelled to wake one of the syces, who would in turn rouse some servant who could not be prevented from following him.’

‘Young idiot,’ observed Ash. ‘That'll teach him.’

‘Teach him what?’ inquired Mulraj dryly. ‘To see that the straps on the girth are properly fastened? Or to look first – and very carefully – at the underside of a saddle?’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Ash, startled by something in Mulraj's face and voice rather than by the words themselves.

‘I mean that the straps were securely fastened, but the girth itself broke. It had worn thin… and in a mere matter of hours, too. For by pure chance I examined the saddle earlier in the day. Do you remember how the boy flew his hawk at a pigeon that you had not even seen, your mind being elsewhere, and how I, watching him gallop away, thought that his saddle looked a trifle loose and rode after him?’

‘Yes, now you mention it. You said something about not liking the look of it. But… Go on.’

‘By the time we recovered his hawk and the pigeon,’ continued Mulraj, ‘we had outdistanced the rest of you and were alone, so I myself adjusted the girth; and I tell you, Sahib, that save for the fact that it could with advantage have been tighter, there was nothing wrong with it then. Yet only a few hours later it had become so worn that it broke when the horse began to gallop.’

‘But that's impossible.’

‘You are right,’ agreed Mulraj grimly, ‘it is not possible. Yet it happened. And there can be only two explanations: either that it was not the same girth, but an old and rotten one that had been substituted for the other, or – which I myself think more likely – that while we ate and rested, someone had worked on it with a sharp knife, scraping it almost through, and so cunningly that it could be fastened without breaking or attracting notice, yet must part if too much strain were placed upon it… the strain, let us say, that would be occasioned by a bolting horse.’

Ash stared at him under frowning brows, and observed with some tartness that if it had broken while the boy was in the company of half-a-dozen others there wouldn't have been very much danger, and no one was to know that he would go off alone like that. Only Biju Ram, who for once was on the side of the angels and tried to stop him.

Mulraj shrugged in agreement, but added that there were certain things that the Sahib was not aware of: among them, that it was Jhoti's habit to gallop after his hawk, and that when he did so he hated to have someone riding at his heels. Therefore it would not have mattered how many people were out with him, because as soon as his hawk was away he would have spurred after it while everyone else would have waited and watched, and when his horse bolted, the extra strain on the girth would have made it part quickly; and as the speed of a run-away horse carrying little weight was likely to be greater, for a time, than one still under control and bearing a full-grown man, the chances were that the boy would have fallen before anyone could reach him. ‘And to be thrown from a bolting horse in such country as this can kill a man, let alone a child. But those who planned it failed to make allowance for the boy's courage and quick thinking, nor did they foresee that his very size would enable him to cling on where a grown man could not.’

Ash made an impatient noise and inquired irritably how Mulraj imagined that ‘they’, whoever ‘they’ were, could possibly have foreseen that the horse would bolt? The whole thing hinged on that, and it was impossible.

Mulraj sighed and rising to his feet, stood looking down at Ash, his hands thrust through his belt and his face suddenly grim. He said very softly: ‘You are wrong; that too was arranged. I could not understand why the horse should have bolted in that fashion, for Jhoti has always risen in his stirrups and cried aloud as he throws his hawk into the air, and Bulbul was as accustomed to that action as the child himself. Yet on this occasion we both saw the horse leap forward as though it had been shot. You recall?’

Ash nodded, and the pain of that incautious movement made him reply with more asperity than he had intended: ‘Yes I do. And I also happen to remember that there was no one else within sight of us and no sound of a shot either. If you ask me, you've got a bee in your –’

He stopped suddenly, checked by a memory: the same that had sent him in search of his horse after seeing Jhoti ride off alone. Mahdoo's story of how the old Rajah had met his death while out hawking, and the old man's sly, sideways glance as he said: ‘They think that perchance it may have been stung by a bee?’

Mulraj appeared to have followed this train of thought, for he said dryly: ‘I see that you too have heard that tale. Well, it may even be true – who knows? But this time I meant to make sure, and therefore when I had dragged you from under your horse and found that you were not dead, I did not go to fetch help myself, but sent Jhoti instead. A risk, I own; though only a small one, for he would be riding Dulhan, who as you know is a horse in ten thousand and even a babe would be safe with her. When he was gone I went in search of his fallen saddle –’

‘Go on,’ said Ash tersely, for Mulraj had paused to look over his shoulder and appeared to be listening. ‘It's only Mahdoo who is not near enough to hear and will cough if anyone else approaches.’

Mulraj nodded as though satisfied. But when he took up the tale it was in a voice that would not have carried beyond the walls of the tent: ‘It was no bee this time, but the double thorn of a
kikar
tree which the boy drove home when he plumped back into the saddle after throwing up his hawk. It had been cunningly hidden in the padding in such a way that the movement of a rider would work it down, little by little, until in the end it must be driven into the horse's flesh. One day, when you are up and about again, I will show you how it is done. It is an old trick – and a very evil one, because no one can swear that such a thorn might not get there by chance. Have we not all, at some time or another, plucked such thorns out of our clothes and blankets and saddle cloths? Yet I will wager you my mare against a dhobi's donkey that this one did not find its way there by chance. The thorn alone – or the broken girth. But not both.’

There was a long silence in the tent, broken only by the buzz of flies, and when at last Ash spoke his voice was no longer sceptical:

‘What have you done about it?’

‘Nothing,’ said Mulraj curtly. ‘Except to try and keep a watch on the boy, which is no easy task, for he has his own people about him, and I am not one of them. I left the saddle where I found it and made no mention of the thorn – it being a thing I might well have missed seeing. As to the girth, which both you and I had seen break, I raised a great tumult about it when we returned to camp, berating the prince's syces for carelessness and saying that ‘they’ must be dismissed. Had I not done this there are those who would have wondered why I kept silent; and that is something I do not desire.’

‘But do you mean to say that you haven't told
anyone
?’ demanded Ash incredulously.

‘Whom should I tell? How do I know how many people, or how few, are involved in this matter? – or even the reason for it? Sahib, you have no knowledge of Karidkote, and you know nothing of the intrigues that infest the palace like a plague of flying-ants in the monsoon. Even here in the camp we are not free of it. I had not intended to speak of this matter to you until you were stronger, as worry is not good for a sick man; but now that I have done so I am glad, because two heads are better than one and together we may devise some way of protecting the child from his enemies.’

They had been able to talk no more about it that day, for the arrival of Gobind and Kaka-ji had put an end to the conversation. Gobind, declaring that his patient was looking feverish, had banned any further visitor for the remainder of that day, and Ash spent the rest of the afternoon and evening, and a good many hours of the following night, in worrying over the problem of Jhoti. Which was at least a change from worrying about Juli – though it did nothing towards improving his health or sweetening his temper. He found it intolerable to be tied to his bed at such a time, and it was then that he decided to encourage Jhoti to visit him as often and for as long as possible. A decision that he carried out in face of considerable opposition from Gobind, Mahdoo and Kaka-ji.

18

‘You have been causing us all a great deal of trouble, you know,’ remarked Jhoti chattily.

‘
Afsos
, Highness,’ murmured Ash; and placing his hands together in a mock gesture of abasement, added meekly that he was doing his best to get well as quickly as possible and should with luck be up and about in a few days.

‘Oh, I didn't mean
that
,’ said Jhoti. ‘I meant with the priests.’

‘TThe
priests
…?’ Ash looked blank.

‘Yes. They have been very cross with my sisters. And with me and Mulraj too, and with my uncle most of all. And do you know why? Because they have been told that when you came to visit us in the durbar tent you sometimes sat on the same carpet as we did, and that when we offered you things to eat – fruit and sweets and things – we ate with you instead of just pretending to eat. They don't like that, because they are very strict, you know, so that they have been making a great fuss about it.’

‘Have they, indeed?’ said Ash, frowning. ‘Yes… I suppose I ought to have thought of that. Does this mean that I am not to be asked to the durbar tent in future?’

‘Oh no,’ said Jhoti blithely, ‘for when they complained to my uncle he got much crosser than they were, and told them to remember that you had saved us all from great shame and disaster – for of course it would have been terrible for everyone if Shu-shu had been drowned – and that, anyway, he took all responsibility for this. So after that there wasn't anything else they could say, because they know very well how devout he is, and how he spends hours every day at his
pujah
' (devotions), ‘and gives alms to the poor and money and rich gifts to the temples. Besides, he
is
our father's brother. I was very cross too – with Biju Ram.’

‘Why with Biju Ram?’

‘Because he had asked me a lot of questions about what we did when you came to the durbar tent, and I told him; and then he went straight off and told the priests. He said he had only done it to protect me, because he was afraid that if it came to Nandu's ears, Nandu would spread it about to discredit me, and everyone would be angry with me for allowing it. As if I cared what Nandu or the bazaar-log think! Biju Ram interferes too much. He behaves as if he were my nurse, and I won't have it… Oh, here is my uncle coming to visit you.
Salaam
, Kaka-ji.’

‘I might have known that I should find you here, tiring the Sahib with your chatter,’ said Kaka-ji reprovingly. ‘Run away now child, for Mulraj is waiting to take you out riding.’

He shooed his nephew away, and as Jhoti ran off, turned to shake an admonitory finger at the invalid. ‘You are far too patient with that boy,’ said Kaka-ji severely. ‘How many times have I not told you so?’

‘I have lost count,’ admitted Ash with a grin. ‘Have you only come here to scold me, Rao-Sahib?’

‘You deserve to be scolded.’

‘So it seems, for your nephew has been telling me that I have caused trouble for you with your priests.’

‘
Chut
!’ said Kaka-ji, annoyed. ‘The child talks too much. There was no need to worry you with that matter. I have taken it on my own head, and it is now settled.’

‘Are you sure? I would not wish to be the cause of any trouble between you and -’

‘I have said that the matter is settled,’ interrupted Kaka-ji firmly. ‘If you wish to please me you will forget it; and also cease from allowing Jhoti to pester you. It is folly to permit him to tire you. You are letting that child worry you and giving your mind no rest.’

This was certainly true, though not in the sense that Kaka-ji meant. But Ash was not prepared to argue the point. His mind was very far from being at rest, and, as it happened, his worries on Jhoti's account had been greatly increased of late by certain things that Kaka-ji himself had let slip in the course of his frequent visits.

The old gentleman's intentions were admirable, and he would have been shocked to realize that his well-meant efforts to alleviate the invalid's boredom had proved far more disturbing than all Jhoti's questions put together. But there was no denying that Jhoti's uncle loved to talk, and Pelham-Sahib, immobilized by splints and bandages, proved an ideal audience. Kaka-ji had seldom found so good a listener – or Ash acquired so much valuable information by the simple expedient of keeping his mouth shut and looking interested. On the subject of Nandu, Maharajah of Karidkote, for instance, Ash had learned a great deal – far more, in all probability, than Kaka-ji had intended, for the old gentleman's tongue was apt to run away with him, and even when he was being discreet it was not difficult to read between the lines.

Janoo-Rani had undoubtedly been a clever woman, but as a mother she appeared to have been singularly unintelligent. Doting upon her sons, she had allowed no one to correct or punish them, and her first-born, Nandu, had been indulged to the point of foolishness, his easy-going father being too idle to take a hand in disciplining the boy. ‘ I do not think,’ said Kaka-ji, ‘that my brother really liked children, even when they were his own. He would tolerate their presence while they behaved well, but the moment they cried or were in any way troublesome he would send them from his presence and often refuse to see them again for many days, which he chose to believe was a punishment; though I do not think it was regarded as such by any save Lalji, who was his first-born and died many years ago. Lalji, I think, loved him greatly and would have given much for his father's favour; but the younger ones saw too little of him to love him, and though Jhoti might in time have taken his dead brother's place in his father's affections, Nandu was no horseman…’

This, it seemed, was once again Janoo-Rani's fault – one could hardly blame the boy, who was barely three years old when he took his first toss off a pony's back. Unaccustomed to being hurt, Nandu had screamed from fright and the pain of a few small scratches, and Janoo-Rani would not let the child ride again, insisting that he had suffered great injury and might easily have been killed. Even now he would not ride one if it could possibly be avoided. ‘He uses elephants instead,’ explained his uncle. ‘Or drives out in a carriage – like a woman.’

Janoo would undoubtedly have done the same to his youngest brother had he not been made of different stuff, for the first time Jhoti took a fall he too screamed aloud. But when he had finished howling he insisted on mounting again and would not let the syce put him back on a leading rein, which delighted his father who had been watching – though Nandu, said Kaka-ji, was not so pleased. ‘I think there has always been a certain jealousy there. It is not so unusual between brothers, when one has talents that the other lacks.’

Fortune had evidently favoured Nandu in many ways. Firstly, he was his mother's darling, her first-born and the favourite child. Then the death of his half-brother, Lalji, had made him heir to the throne, and now he was Maharajah of Karidkote. But it seemed that he could still be jealous, and that he was wholly the
Nautch
-girl's child both in character and physique. Like her he possessed a violent and ungovernable temper: and no one had ever made any attempt to control his rages, for his mother thought them royal and high-spirited and the servants were afraid of them, while his father, seeing little of him, was unaware of them. He had never excelled in any sport, and had not the build for it, being short and stout, like his mother; though, unlike her, he had few claims to beauty and was strangely dark-skinned for a northerner: A
‘Kala-admi,’
said the citizens of Karidkote scornfully, a ‘black man’. And they would cheer when Jhoti rode past, and keep silent when it was Nandu who drove through the city or the countryside.

‘Jealousy is an ugly thing,’ mused Kaka-ji, ‘but alas, few if any of us can claim to be free of it. I myself was often afflicted by it in my youth, and though I am now old and should by rights have outgrown such unprofitable emotions, there are still times when I can feel its claws. Therefore I am afraid for Jhoti, whose brother is both jealous and powerful…’

The old man broke off to select another sugared plum from a box of candied fruit that he had brought as a present to the invalid, and the invalid inquired in a deceptively casual tone: ‘And not above doing away with him, you think?’

‘No, no,
no
! You must not think – I did not mean…’ Kaka-ji swallowed the plum in his agitation and had to be restored with a drink of water, and Ash realized that he had made a grave mistake in trying to rush the old gentleman and put words into his mouth. There was nothing to be gained by such methods, and much by letting him ramble on unprompted. But if Kaka–ji was indeed afraid for Jhoti, what exactly was he afraid of? To what lengths did he think his nephew the Maharajah would go to injure a young brother of whom he was jealous, and who had had the temerity to flout him?

Ash was well aware that Jhoti had joined the bridal camp without permission and against his elder brother's expressed wishes. But the very fact that Jhoti had found it possible to ride after the camp, accompanied by at least eight persons and a not inconsiderable amount of baggage, proved that there could not have been any serious restriction of his liberty, and there was something about the whole affair that Ash did not understand; something that did not quite agree with his mental portrait of a jealous and tyrannical young ruler, who, for the pleasure of spiting his young brother, had banned him from accompanying his sisters to their wedding, and on hearing that the ban had been defied, flew into a fury and planned his assassination. There was, for instance, the question of time…

The Maharajah would not have heard of Jhoti's escapade (it could hardly be termed an ‘escape’) for several days. In fact it was probably much longer, because according to Kaka-ji, Nandu's reason for accompanying his sisters to the border of his state had been less a brotherly gesture than because it suited him to do so, it being on his route to the hunting grounds in the foothills to the north-east where he had planned a fortnight's sport, taking only a small party with him so that they could keep on the move, camping in a different spot each night and following the game by day. He did not often indulge in such expeditions, but when he did, he preferred to forget the affairs of state and shelve all such matters until he returned from the forest. Runners with messages were therefore discouraged, and as the hunting party was continually on the move, news of his little brother's behaviour was unlikely to catch up with him for some time. This fact was probably well known to Jhoti – and certainly known, thought Ash, to the men who had accompanied the boy on his flight from Karidkote, for however faithful and devoted to his interests they might be, they would hardly have agreed to take the risk of being stopped at the border or overtaken within a few miles of it, and ignominiously brought back to face the Maharajah while his anger was at white heat.

In Ash's opinion they would have been wiser not to have come at all, but Kaka-ji took a different view: they were all, said Kaka-ji, loyal members of Jhoti's household who had been appointed to his service by his mother the late Maharani, and it was not only their duty to obey him, but to their interest also; their fortunes being bound up with his.

‘Besides,’ admitted Kaka-ji, ‘Jhoti too can be very obstinate, and I understand that when they attempted to dissuade him he threatened to go off alone, which of course they could not permit. The boy being in their care, it would have brought great shame on them had they allowed him to go alone and unattended; though I do not think that they would have dared accompany him had they not known that his brother would hear of his flight too late to stop him before he reached this camp. But once here, they can feel safe for a time, since they are no longer in the territory of the Maharajah but in that of the Raj. They are also under your protection, Sahib, and they reason that His Highness cannot know how you might regard an attempt to drag an unwilling child away from his sisters and return him to Karidkote to be punished – for all must know that Jhoti would never go willingly. Therefore his servants hope that His Highness will realize that there is nothing to be gained by sending men to arrest the child, particularly when he has only to wait until this wedding is over, as after that Jhoti will of course return. But by then we must all hope that the Maharajah's rage will have had time to cool, and he will be less inclined to deal harshly with something that is, let us admit it, only a boy's prank.’

Kaka-ji's words were optimistic, but the tone of his voice was less so, and he had changed the subject a little abruptly and begun to talk of other matters. However, he had already provided Ash with plenty of food for thought in the long night watches when the discomfort of splints and bandages kept sleep at bay.

The difficulties that he had foreseen, or been warned of in the prosaic, official atmosphere of Rawalpindi, had all had to do with such matters as provisioning or protocol and the possibility (considered to be negligible) of the camp being attacked by raiders in the remoter parts of the country through which it must pass. But neither he nor his military superiors had visualized the far more complicated and dangerous problems that now confronted him, and which, for the present at least, he had no idea how to deal with.