The Far Pavilions (66 page)

Remembering all the evil that this man had done it was difficult to feel anything except that his fate was richly earned. And it was one that he had brought on himself, for Ash had not spoken idly when he had told him that he could go free provided he left the camp and kept away from Bhithor and Karidkote. Had he gone then he might have lived to wreak more harm and plan other murders for many years to come; but he had chosen instead to fire that shot, and it was this last act of treachery that had killed him. He had lived like a mad dog and it was only right that he should die like one, thought Ash. But he wished that it could have been over sooner, for it was not pleasant to watch, and had there been a second bullet in that ingenious pistol he would have used it unhesitatingly to put Biju Ram out of his misery. As he could not do so, he stayed, resisting the urge to turn and walk away, because it appalled him to think that anyone should have to die in this manner alone. At least he was another human being; and perhaps the fact that he was – or had been – an enemy did not matter any more.

He stayed until it was over. It did not in fact take long. Afterwards he stooped and closed the staring, sightless eyes, and retrieving the knife, cleaned it very thoroughly in the earth to remove any trace of poison. The pistol had fallen into a clump of grass and he had some difficulty in finding it, but having done so he fitted it back into place and laid the walking-stick down within reach of one of the dead man's hands.

Biju Ram would not be missed for some hours yet; and long before there was any chance of his body being found, the dawn wind would have swept the dust clear of footprints. There was therefore no point in leaving evidence that might suggest a quarrel and lead to questions being asked, and as it would be obvious that the cause of death was poison, it would be better, from every point of view, if it were put down to snake-bite.

Ash picked up the knife and having stained it with the fast-congealing blood, dropped it again and went off to search for one of the long double-pronged thorns that grow on
kikar
trees. Returning with this, he jabbed it into the dead man's flesh just below the wound. The two small punctures were almost exactly the marks that a striking snake would have made, and he cut above it would be taken for a fruitless attempt by the victim to stop the venom from spreading upwards. The only mystery would be why Biju Ram should have left the camp alone and at night, and strayed so far. But he heat would probably be blamed for that. They would decide that he could not sleep and so had gone out to walk in the moonlight, and that feeling tired he must have sat down to rest, and been bitten by a snake, which, remembering that Hira Lal's death had been arranged to look like the work of a tiger, was singularly apt. ‘The gods, after all, are just,’ thought Ash, ‘for if it had been left to me, I would have been fool enough to let him go.’

There remained only Hira Lal's earring.

Ash took it out of his pocket and looked at it, and saw the black pearl gather and reflect the moonlight as it had done on that last, long-ago night in the Queen's balcony. And as he looked, the words that Hira Lal had spoken then came back to him, and it was almost as though the man himself was speaking to him again, very softly, and from very far away: ‘
Make haste, boy. It grows late and you have no time to waste. Go now – and may the gods go with you. Namaste
!’

Well, he – or perhaps the black pearl – had avenged Hira Lal. But the pearl held too many memories, and remembering how Biju Ram had come by it, it seemed to Ash a thing of ill-omen. Its possession could have brought little satisfaction to the thief, since to own it was proof of murder, so it had to be kept hidden away, with an ever-present risk of discovery, for as long as anyone remembered Hira Lal; and in the end it had brought only death. The pearl had done its work, and now Ash could not wait to be rid of it.

There was a rat hole near the clump of pampas grass in which he had lain in wait for Biju Ram, and judging from the lack of tracks about it, one that was no longer tenanted. Ash went back to it, and having dropped in the earring, filled it in with earth and small stones that he stamped hard down; and when he had scattered a handful of dust over the spot there was no longer any trace of the hole, or any indication that there had ever been one.

He stood for a moment or two looking down at the spot and thinking that perhaps, one day, someone as yet unborn would unearth the earring and wonder how it came there. But they would never know, and anyway, by then the thing would be almost valueless, for pearls too can die.

The dawn wind had begun to stir the grasses when Ash turned on his heel and started back to the camp. But the sun had been well above the horizon by the time that one of Biju Ram's servants (that same Karam who had been allotted the role of scapegoat) reported that his master was missing.

He would, explained Karam, have disclosed this much sooner had he not imagined that his master must have gone out unexpectedly early and would soon return. It was not his business to question his master's comings and goings, but he had become increasingly anxious when tent after tent came down and still his master had not returned to eat his morning meal or give any orders for the day. Tentative inquiries among the servants and the other members of the young prince's entourage having proved fruitless, Karam had finally reported the matter to an officer of the guard, who had raised the alarm.

The search for the missing man was complicated by the enormous size of the camp and the fact that it was by then on the move, and it is more than likely that Biju Ram's body would never have been found had it not been for the kites and the vultures. But the sun had not yet risen when the first winged scavenger dropped out of the skies, to be followed by another and another; and presently one of the searchers had seen them and ridden out to investigate.

The discovery had been made only just in time, for half an hour later there would have been nothing to show how Biju Ram had died, and there would have been talk of foul play and, inevitably, exhaustive inquiries. As it was, in spite of a good deal of damage from beak and claw it was still possible to see that his death was due to poison and that his body bore the mark of a snake's fangs – two small punctures near the collar bone. How or why he had come to be in that spot was less easy to explain, but as Ash had surmised, this was eventually put down to a combination of heat and insomnia, and this solution seemed to satisfy everyone.

Mulraj had sent word that the camp would halt until further orders, and later that day Biju Ram's remains were cremated with due ceremony on a pyre of
kikar
wood and dry grass, hastily collected from the surrounding country and drenched with
ghee
. Next morning, when the night wind had dispersed the ashes and the charred earth had cooled, the fragments of bone that remained were carefully collected in order that they could be taken to the Ganges and thrown into that sacred river. ‘And as there are none of his relatives here, it is only right that his friends should take it upon themselves to perform this pious duty,’ said Mulraj, straight-faced. ‘Therefore I have arranged that Pran and Mohan, and Sen Gupta, with their servants and those of Biju Ram's, shall leave at once for Benares. For saving only Allahabad, there is no more sacred spot at which a man's ashes may be consigned to the waters of Mother Gunga.’

Ash received this Machiavellian announcement with a respect that verged on awe, for with Biju Ram dead, there was still the problem of how to rid the camp of those who had been his closest associates, and Ash could see no way out of it that would not involve argument and uproar and a good deal of dangerous speculation. Mulraj's solution was an admirably simple one, though there could be a flaw in it –

‘ What will Jhoti say to this?’ inquired Ash. ‘These men are of his party – or so he thinks – and he may not agree to let them go.’

‘He has agreed already,’ said Mulraj blandly. ‘The prince sees clearly that it would not be fitting for the ashes of one of his entourage, a man of standing who served his late mother faithfully and for many years, should be thrown into any river and at any spot. Therefore he gives them leave to go.’

‘But will they do so?’

‘Assuredly. For how could they refuse?’

‘Oh,
shabash,
Bahadur-Sahib,’ murmured Ash in an under-voice. ‘It is indeed well done. I salute you.’

He suited the action to the word, and Mulraj permitted himself a faint smile, and returning the salute said equally softly: ‘And I you, Sahib.’

Ash looked a question and Mulraj held out his hand. In the palm lay a small shirt button made from pearl-shell – a common enough object, except that it was of European manufacture and had a metal shank.

‘I found this by chance, within ten paces of the body,’ said Mulraj quietly, ‘my foot having struck against it where it lay hidden in the dust. Later I showed it to your bearer, saying that I had found it in my tent, and he claimed it as one of yours and said that he had noticed yesterday that one was missing from a shirt that you had worn the evening before. I told him I would return it to you myself – making a jest of it.’

Ash was silent for a moment or two, realizing that he must have jerked the button off when he pulled open his shirt to show the scar on his chest, and thinking that it was lucky that Mulraj and not one of Biju Ram's associates had found it – except that no one else would have seen anything in the least interesting in it. He reached out, and taking it said lightly: ‘I must have lost it when we rode into camp.’

‘Mayhap,’ said Mulraj with a shrug. ‘Though had I been asked I would have said that you wore a khaki shirt with horn buttons that morning. But no matter – it is better that I should know nothing. We will not speak of this again.’

They had not done so. Neither then nor later had Mulraj asked any questions, or Ash volunteered any information. Pran, Mohan and Sen Gupta, with their servants, had left before dawn on the following day, presumably for Benares, and the camp moved on again. But though it was too much to hope that it was now free of spies and plotters, those who remained were unlikely to do any serious harm, largely because they were now leaderless, but also, in part, because they would not be certain that the death of their leader and the sudden departure of his closest colleagues was merely a coincidence, and if it were not, how much had become known of their doings. Being unsure, they would lie very low and take no action, which meant that, for the time being at least, Jhoti was safe. Or as safe as he ever could be, decided Ash.

Anjuli remained invisible, and he knew that there was little the chance of seeing her again save as a sari-shrouded figure on the occasion of her marriage; for with the Rana's territory only a few marches away the casual easy-going conditions that had prevailed for so long were abandoned, and rules that had been allowed to lapse were once again strictly enforced. He could not even send her a message, because the brides were now kept closely secluded. Additional guards surrounded their
ruth
on the march and kept watch on their tents at the stopping places, and there was nothing that he could do except wear the luck-charm openly at her wedding in the hope that she might see it, and knowing that he had found it, know too that he understood why she had sent it back to him.

The half of that little mother-of-pearl fish was not only a token of her forgiveness, but a reminder that the other half was still in her possession; and that perhaps some day – one day – they might come together again.

Ash took what comfort he could from that thought. It was not a great deal, yet it would have to do, for he had nothing else. But for the most part he tried not to think of Juli; or of the future. Because a future without her presented nothing more than a vista of empty, fruitless years, stretching away in front of him like an endless road that led nowhere, and the thought of it frightened him.

Book Four

Bhithor

27

With the low range of hills that formed the northern border of Bhithor clearly in sight, an embassy from the Rana rode into camp.

The emissaries brought gifts, garlands and messages of welcome, and were accompanied, somewhat disconcertingly, by what appeared at first sight to be a horde of masked bandits; though these turned out to be nothing more alarming than royal servants, who in accordance with a local custom wore the ends of their turbans wound about nose, mouth and chin in the manner of the veiled Tuaregs of the Sahara – an effect that was distinctly unnerving, in that it suggested footpads and violence, but was in fact (or so they were informed) a mark of respect in Bhithor – symbolic veiling of humble features from the effulgent glory of the countenances of the highly born’. All the same, the sight of that faceless horde was far from reassuring, and Ash was not the only one to wonder what sort of country they were entering. However, it was too late to worry about that now.

There was nothing for it but to go forward, and three days later the vast cavalcade that had set out from Karidkote so many weeks ago crossed into the Rana's territory, where they were greeted by an escort of State Cavalry and a number of dignitaries, headed by the Diwan – the Prime Minister – who presented more garlands and made more long and flowery speeches. But if Ash had imagined for one moment that his troubles were almost over, he was to be disappointed. They were, on the contrary, about to begin.

The Diwan having taken his leave, Ash and Mulraj and several of the senior members of the camp rode off with the Rana's men to be shown the place where they would pitch their tents for the duration of their stay, and where all but a handful of them would live until the time came for them to return to Karidkote. The site, which had been personally selected by the Rana himself, proved to be in a long, level valley, some three miles from the ancient walled city of Bhithor from which the state took its name. At first glance it seemed to be an admirable choice: it was large enough to accommodate the camp without any over-crowding, and was, moreover, bisected by a stream that would provide all the water they would need. Mulraj and the others had expressed approval, but Ash had been markedly silent.

As a Guides officer trained in Frontier warfare, the site appeared to him to possess certain drawbacks that more than outweighed its advantages. There were, for instance, no less than three forts in the valley. Two were clearly visible at the far end of it, crowning the hilltops that flanked the city, and not only guarding the approaches to the capital, but commanding the full stretch of the level ground. The third dominated the narrow, steep-sided gorge through which they had ridden in order to reach the valley, and even a casual observer (which Ash was not) could see that its ancient walls were still in an excellent state of repair and its bastions armed with a formidable number of heavy cannon.

These last, like Bhithor itself, were relics of an earlier and more barbarous age – great, green-bronze things that had been cast in the reign of Akbar, greatest of the Moguls and grandson of Barbur the Tiger, but still capable of hurling an iron cannon ball with deadly effect against anyone attempting to force a passage through the gorge.

Taking all this into consideration, the valley had the appearance of a trap, and Ash surveyed the terrain with a jaundiced eye and did not fancy the prospect of walking into it; for though he had no reason to distrust the Rana, he was well aware that last-minute disputes over such matters as the payment or non-payment of the bride-price, and similar monetary transactions connected with a marriage, were not uncommon. As witness the drama that had preceded Lalji's wedding, when the bride's relatives had suddenly demanded double the sum originally agreed upon.

His orders having expressly stated that he was to protect the interests of the Maharajah's sisters and see that the proper payments were made, it seemed unwise, to say the least of it, to allow them and their followers to make camp in such a vulnerable spot; because once under the Rana's guns, negotiation would be difficult if not impossible, and unless he wished to risk bloodshed he might well find himself forced to accept any settlement that the prospective bridegroom chose to make. It was a possibility that did not appeal to him, and to the unconcealed annoyance of the Bhithor dignitaries he had not only refused to move the bridal camp into the valley, but had actually withdrawn it to a position some two miles on the far side of the gorge that gave access to it, and dispatched a special messenger with a letter to the Political Officer responsible for that part of Rajputana, advising him of what he had done, and why.

The decision had been an unpopular one with all save Mulraj and some of the more cautious and level-headed elders, for the entire camp had been looking forward to roaming through the bazaars of Bhithor and seeing the sights of the city. They could still do so, but only at the cost of covering some sixteen miles there and back, and the days were very hot. Therefore they grumbled and protested, and the Rana sent two elderly relatives with another deputation of high-ranking officials to inquire why the Sahib would not permit the brides and their entourage to set up their tents within easy reach of the city, and on the excellent site that had been specially selected for them.

The deputation was plainly aggrieved, and Ash's reply that the camp did very well where it was did nothing to mollify them. They withdrew in so much dudgeon that Kaka-ji took fright and suggested that it might be wiser to fall in with the Rana's wishes, for if they offended him he might withdraw from the marriage contract altogether. Ash did not think this in the least likely – considering that half the bride-price had already been paid and that the preparations for the wedding must by now have cost the state a pretty penny. But Unpora-Bai and several of the elders had become infected by Kaka-ji's fears, and they urged him to reconsider.

Even Mulraj began to look a little doubtful, and when, eventually, a reply came from the Political Officer, it proved to be a frostily worded note that rebuked Captain Pelham-Martyn for being over-zealous and advised him to accept the proffered site without any further delay.

According to the Political Officer, such an uncalled-for display of caution could only offend the Rana, who was not in the least likely to back out of his obligations or attempt to dictate unacceptable terms, and therefore the sooner the camp was moved the better. The note, and its tone, was not something that Ash could afford to ignore, so bowing to the inevitable, he gave the order to march.

Two days later the last of the long column passed through the gorge under the guns of the fort crowning the ridge above it, to pitch their tents in the valley: and within a matter of hours Ash's fears weie fully realized and the Political Officer's confidence proved groundless.

The Rana sent a junior minister to announce that the terms of the marriage contracts drawn up in the previous year with His Highness the Maharajah of Karidkote were, on reflection, adjudged to be unsatisfactory, and the council had therefore decided that they must be re-negotiated on a more realistic scale. If the Sahib and such of the elders who chose to accompany him cared to present themselves at the city palace, the Rana would be pleased to receive them and discuss the matter in more detail, after which they would undoubtedly see the justice of his claims, and the affair would be speedily settled to the satisfaction of all.

The minister sweetened his message with a few fulsome compliments, and having tactfully ignored the Sahib's statement that there was nothing whatever to discuss, set the time of the meeting for the following morning and removed himself with some haste.

‘What did I tell you?’ demanded Ash. The question was not untinged by a certain gloomy satisfaction, for he had not relished the barely concealed accusation of timidity that the Political Officer's strictures on ‘undue and unnecessary caution’ had inferred. Or the angry grumbling in the camp and the reiterated fears of those who had agreed with Kaka-ji that the Rana must not be annoyed.

‘But he cannot do this to us,’ exploded a senior official, finding his voice at long last. ‘The terms were agreed. Everything was settled. He cannot in honour go back on them now.’

‘Can't he?’ returned Ash sceptically. ‘Well, all we can do is wait and see what he has to say before we decide what we can do about it. With luck it may not turn out to be as bad as we think.’

On the following morning Ash, Kaka-ji and Mulraj, attended by a small escort of cavalry, had ridden to the city to meet the Rana.

The ride was not a pleasant one. The unshaded road was little more than a cart-track, inches deep in dust and full of ruts and potholes, and the sun was very hot. The valley must have been a good two miles wide at the point where their camp had been pitched, but nearer the city it narrowed until its sides were less than half that distance apart, the gap between them forming a natural gateway that gave on to a wide plain encircled by hills and containing the life-blood of Bhithor – the great Rani Talab, the ‘Queen's Lake’. It was in the centre of this gap, midway between the two fort-crowned heights that flanked it, that the first Rana had built his capital in the reign of Krishna Deva Raya.

The city had changed very little since then. So little, that had its builders been able to return they would have found themselves on familiar ground, and still felt themselves at home, for here old customs and old ways still prevailed, and the lives of the inhabitants had altered almost as little as the solid sandstone of which their city was built or the jagged outline of the low hills that enclosed the valley. There were still only four gateways in the massive outer wall: the
Hathi Pol
– the ‘Elephant Gate’ – facing down the length of the valley, the Water Gate that looked eastward across the lake and the open country towards the far hills, and on the north and south, the
Mori
and the
Thakur
Gates, both of which faced an almost identical view – a belt of cultivated land three quarters of a mile wide, with beyond it the steep rise of a hillside topped by an ancient fort.

The cultivation gave the city the appearance of a rock standing in a river gorge and splitting the current into two streams: a green river made up of fields where the farmers grew grain and vegetables and sugar-cane, interspersed with groves of mango, papaya, lichi and palm trees. But the cultivated area did not stretch far, and beyond it the valley, grazing-grounds, plain and hills lay bleached and colourless under the glare of the sun, so that Ash was thankful to reach the shade of the great gateway, and more than grateful for the prospect of being able to dismount and sit in coolness and comfort in the Rana's palace, even though the accompanying interview might prove to be a trying one.

Just how trying it was likely to be was at once made clear by the behaviour of the guards at the gateway, who did not trouble to salute them, and the fact that the one person waiting there to conduct them to the palace was a very minor official who ranked little higher than a flunkey. This in itself was a discourtesy that verged on insult, and Mulraj spoke between his teeth in a muttered aside:

‘Let us go back to the camp, Sahib. We will wait there until such time as these people' (
yeh-log
– the term is one of contempt) ‘have learned manners.’

‘Not so,’ said Ash softly. ‘We will wait here.’ He lifted his hand, and as the escort clattered to a halt behind him, raised his voice and addressed the solitary courier:

‘I fear that in our haste to greet the Rana we have arrived too early and caught him unprepared. Perhaps he has overslept, or his servants have been dilatory in attending to him. These things happen, and no court can be perfect. But we are in no hurry. You may tell your master that we will wait here in the shade until we hear that he is ready to receive us.’

‘But -’ began the man uncertainly.

Ash cut him short: ‘No, no. Do not apologize, we shall find the rest pleasant.
Ijazat hai
.’
*

He turned away and began to talk to Kaka-ji, and the man shifted uneasily and cleared his throat as though about to speak again, but Mulraj said curtly: ‘You heard what the Sahib said – you have his leave to go.’

The man went, and for the next twenty minutes or so the delegation from Karidkote sat at ease in their saddles under the shadow of the great gateway, while their mounted escort held off an ever-growing crowd of interested citizens, and Mulraj favoured Kaka-ji with a long monologue (delivered sotto-voce but still clearly audible to most of the by-standers) deploring the muddle and disorganization, the shocking lack of discipline and total ignorance of polite procedure that was to be met with in many small and backward states.

The men of the escort grinned and murmured agreement, and Kaka-ji added injury to insult by rebuking Mulraj for being so hard on men who had not had his advantages and therefore knew no better. It was not their fault, said Kaka-ji, that being ignorant of the ways of the great world they lacked polish, and it was unkind to censure them for behaving in a manner that appeared uncouth to men of superior culture.