by M. M. Kaye
‘Of all fool-hardy things to do!’ scolded Kaka-ji severely. ‘Would it not have been far better to let one horse die than to kill both, and but for a miracle, yourself as well? But then you young men are all alike – you do not think. Nevertheless, it was bravely done, Sahib, and I for one would willingly exchange all the caution and wisdom that the years have brought me for a little of such rashness and valour.’
Kaka-ji Rao was by no means Ash's only visitor. There were others, members of the camp's panchayat such as Tarak Nath and Jabar Singh, and old Maldeo Rai who was Kaka-ji's third cousin: too many others, according to Mahdoo and Gul Baz, who disapproved of this stream of callers and did their best to keep them at bay. Gobind too had advocated quiet, but changed his mind when he saw that his patient was less restless when listening to gossip about Karidkote, or to any talk that kept him abreast of the day-today doings of the camp.
Ash's most frequent visitor was Jhoti. The boy would sit cross-legged on the floor, chatting away by the hour, and it was from him that Ash received confirmation of something that had occurred to him only as a vague suspicion. That Biju Ram, who for so many years had enjoyed the protection of Janoo-Rani – and during that time amassed a comfortable fortune in bribes, gifts and payments for unspecified services – had fallen on evil days.
It seemed that after the Nautch-girl's death, those who had stood highest in her favour had suddenly found themselves relegated by her son, Nandu, to positions of comparative unimportance and deprived of all their former influence, together with most of the perquisites of power, which had infuriated Biju Ram, who had grown vain and over-confident in the Rani's shadow. He had apparently been foolish enough to show his resentment, and the result had been an open quarrel, in the course of which Biju Ram had been threatened with arrest and the confiscation of all his property, and only saved himself by appealing to Colonel Pycroft, the British Resident, to intercede for him.
Colonel Pycroft had spoken to Nandu, who had said a great many rude things about his dead mother's stool-pigeon, but eventually agreed to accept a grovelling apology and a large fine, and forget the matter. But it was clear that Biju Ram had no confidence in Nandu doing any such thing, and when Nandu, barely a week after accepting that humiliating public apology, had refused permission for his Heir Apparent to accompany the bridal party to Bhithor, Biju Ram had instantly set about inciting the boy to revolt and planning Jhoti's escape – and his own.
For Ash had been right about that too. The idea had been Biju Ram's, and he and two of his friends, both of whom had been adherents of the late Rani and were now out of favour, had planned the escape and carried it through. ‘He said it was because he was sorry for me,’ said Jhoti, ‘– and because he and Mohun and Pran Krishna had always been loyal to my mother, and they knew she would have wished me to go to Shu-shu's wedding. But of course it was not that at all.’
‘No? What then?’ asked Ash, regarding his youthful visitor with increasing respect. Jhoti might be young, but he was obviously not gullible.
‘Oh, because of the quarrel. My brother Nandu doesn't like anyone to disagree with him, and though he might pretend to forgive Biju Ram, he wouldn't: not really. So of course Biju Ram thought it would be safer to leave Karidkote as soon as possible, and to stay away as long as he could. I suppose he is hoping that in the end Nandu's anger may cool, but I don't think it will. Pran and Mohun only came with me because just now Nandu does not like any of the people who my mother appointed, and so they feel safer here too; and they have brought away all the money they could, in case they can't ever go back. I wish I didn't have to. I think I shall stay behind in Bhithor with Kairi and Shu-shu. Or perhaps I shall run away again and become a robber chief, like Kale Khan.’
‘Kale Khan was caught and hanged,’ observed Ash dampingly.
He did not intend to encourage Jhoti in any further forms of rebellion; and in any case, he imagined that Biju Ram and his friends would be only too eager for Jhoti to extend his stay in Bhithor for as long as the Rana could be persuaded to have him. Unless, of course, news of Nandu's untimely demise was received even before they got there, in which case they would turn back at once and hurry homeward with the new Maharajah.
But Jhoti did not often talk of Karidkote. He much preferred to hear about life on the North-West Frontier; or better still, in England. He was an exhausting companion, for his thirst for knowledge forced Ash to talk a great deal at a time when talking was still something of an effort. But though Ash would have been only too pleased to do without Jhoti's endless questions, it was one way of keeping him out of mischief; and a disturbing conversation with Mulraj had made him uneasy on the boy's behalf…
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 Sahi
b 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, her
e 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.