The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  The ancient bronze lamp that hung under the arch of the Elephant Gate was already being lit, and two of the three guards, their muskets laid aside, were squatting on the stone plinth by the guard-room door, intent on a game of chance and completely oblivious of the noise and the jostling throng of men and animals. The third was engaged in a wordy warfare with a carter whose off-wheel had become jammed against the gate-post, and no one challenged the two tired and dusty riders who had joined the hurrying stream of the homeward-bound.

  Few if any even noticed them, and those who did were not sufficiently interested to take a second look, for it is only in small villages that men are familiar with the names and faces of every member of their community, and Bhithor was a city of close on thirty thousand inhabitants – of which at least a tenth were attached in one capacity or another to the court, and since these lived within the precincts of the royal palace, many were not personally known to a large number of the citizens, particularly to those who lived in the poorer quarters of the town.

  Ash had good reason to know every turn and twist of the streets that lay between the Hathi Pol and the Rung Mahal, having ridden that way far too often to have forgotten it, but he knew very little of the rest of the city and must rely on the information that Manilal had given him. There was no inn or any public serai where a traveller could put up for a night, as Bhithor lay well off the beaten track and few travellers, it seemed, cared to visit the place: nor were they welcome.

  The ease with which Ash and Sarji had entered the city was counterbalanced by the difficulty they experienced in finding a place to lodge, and night had fallen before they managed to rent a room over a charcoal-seller's shop, with permission to stable their horses in a rickety shed that occupied a corner of the yard below.

  The charcoal-seller was old and infirm, and like most Bhithoris, distrusted all strangers on principle. But he was also avaricious, and though his sight and hearing were bad, both were still good enough to enable him to catch the gleam of silver and the chink of coins. He asked no questions, but after some haggling agreed to take them in for a sum that was, in the circumstances, not too excessive, and raised no objection to their staying as long as they chose, providing that they paid for each day in advance.

  This being settled and the first day's rent paid over to him, he took no further interest in them, and fortunately for his lodgers, the members of his household were to prove equally incurious. These consisted of three women (a humble, silent wife, an equally silent mother-in-law and an ancient servant) and his only son, a simple-minded youth who helped in the shop, and was apparently dumb, for neither Ash nor Sarji ever heard him speak.

  All in all, they had good reason to be grateful to the anonymous Samaritan who had chanced to hear them being refused lodging in another house and advised them to try this one, for they could not have been better suited. Their landlord did not trouble to ask where they came from or what business had brought them to Bhithor, and plainly did not care. Also – which was equally plain and far more important – neither he nor his family were addicted to gossiping with their neighbours.

  ‘Surely the gods were with us when they brought us to this place,’ said Sarji, who had anticipated having to answer a great many searching questions. ‘These folk are not friendly, but they do not seem to me as bad as the Hakim's servant made out that all Bhithoris were. They are at least harmless.’

  ‘As long as we pay them,’ observed Ash dryly. ‘But do not make the mistake of thinking that because they are old and blind and wholly uninterested in us, they are typical of the inhabitants of this city. They are not; and you would do well to remember that and be always upon your guard when you go abroad. We cannot afford to attract attention.’

  During the next few days, except for an hour each morning and evening when they exercised the horses, they spent their time strolling about the city, looking and listening and gleaning what information they could from the talk in the bazaars and wine shops. To those who asked, they gave the tale that had been agreed upon: that they were members of a party travelling to Mount Abu, who had become separated from their companions, and in endeavouring to overtake them had lost their way among the hills. Faced with the prospect of dying with thirst, they had been overjoyed at finding themselves in such a salubrious and hospitable spot as this, and intended to remain here for a few days in order' to recover from their ordeal and rest their horses.

  The story apparently sounded feasible, for it had been accepted without question. But if this was a weight off Ash's mind, it was the only one, because those who heard the tale had all made the same comment: that he would have to resign himself to staying longer than a few days, as only a week ago an edict had gone out forbidding anyone to leave the state until further notice – this by order of the Diwan and the council, acting on behalf of the Rana, who was ‘temporarily indisposed’. ‘So it may be many days before you will be free to continue your journey to Mount Abu; perhaps a month; or even more…’

  ‘But why?’ Ash had asked, disquieted by this news. ‘For what reason?’

  The answer had invariably been either a shrug, or the classic reply of those who accept every dictate of Government or fate as something beyond comprehension: ‘Who knows?’ But one man, who had been listening while a vendor of fruit served Ash with a seer of loquats and gave him this familiar answer, had been more outspoken.

  According to this citizen, the reason was perfectly obvious to anyone but a donkey. The Diwan (and everyone else in Bhithor) knew that the Rana was dying, and had no wish for the news to reach the ears of some officious feringhi, who might think it necessary to stir up trouble with the authorities and start interfering with matters of purely domestic interest. Therefore the Diwan had very properly ‘barred the gates of the state’, to ensure that no spy in the service of the Government of India, or any idle chatterer either, should carry lying tales and evil talk to the Sahib-log in Ajmer – or to anyone else for that matter. ‘For what we choose to do, or what we choose not to do, is our affair; and we in Bhithor do not brook interference from foreigners.’

  So that was it: the Diwan was making certain that the only news leaving Bhithor would be such as he and his fellow-councillors approved, and that it would be carried by his own men and no one else. Ash wondered if Manilal would be denied entry, and if so, how he, Ash, was going to contact Gobind. But this was a minor worry compared with the fact that there was as yet no sign of any detachment of police or soldiery from British India, or the least indication that the Government intended to interest itself in the affairs of Bhithor.

  Past experience had led Ash to talk slightingly of the Political Agencies' ‘see-no-evil, hear-no-evil’ attitude towards the independent states of Rajputana, and their kid-glove handling of the princes. But knowing that the great majority of Political Officers did invaluable work and were not as he had chosen to describe them, he had never really believed that in the present instance those concerned would not act with speed and firmness once they were aware of what was in the wind. And as both he and Mr Pettigrew of the police had taken steps to see that they should be made aware of it, he had arrived in Bhithor expecting to find a strong detachment of troops or police quartered in the city; or at the very least, that Spiller, the Political Officer, was occupying one of the royal guest-houses in the Ram Bagh.

  The last thing he had expected to find was that no officer representing the authority of the Raj had arrived in Bhithor – or, as far as he could discover, intended to arrive. And now that the ‘gates of the state’ had been closed and he and Sarji, like Gobind, were shut off from the outside world, it was going to be very difficult, if not impossible, to get any word out to the British authorities – except by means of Bukta's road, which would be a slow and circuitous route to Ajmer, and might well take too long to be of any use. Because the hot season was already here, and should the Rana die he would be cremated within a matter of hours – and Juli and Shushila with him.

  ‘I don't understand it,’ sa
id Ash, pacing to and fro in the room above the shop like a caged wolf. ‘One telegram might have gone astray, but surely not all four -! It's not possible. Kaka-ji or Jhoti are bound to have done something. They at least know what these people here are capable of – and so does Mulraj. They must have warned Simla. In fact they probably wired the Viceroy direct, and the A.G.G. Rajputana, too. Yet no one seems to have moved a finger. I can't understand it. I cannot!’

  ‘Be calm, my friend,’ urged Sarji. ‘Who knows but that the Sirkar has already posted agents here in disguise?’

  ‘What good would that do?’ demanded Ash angrily. ‘What do you suppose two or three spies – or six or a dozen – could do against all Bhithor? What is needed here is some senior Sahib from the Political Department or the police, with at least two companies of troops, or a strong detachment of police – Sikhs for choice. But there is no sign that the Government of India means to move in the matter, and now that the frontier has been closed, its spies – if any were sent here, which I doubt – cannot get out. And you and I can do nothing. Nothing!’

  ‘Except pray that the gods, and your friend the Hakim, will prolong the life of the Rana until such time as the Burra-Sahibs in Simla and Ajmer choose to bestir themselves and make inquiries as to what goes on in Bhithor,’ observed Sarji unhelpfully.

  He removed himself, leaving Ash to his pacing, and went down to see to the horses; and that done, sauntered through the bazaars again in search of news and in the hope of seeing a fat, foolish-seeming face among the drifting crowds. But there was still no sign of Manilal, and Sarji returned to the little room above the charcoal-vendor's shop in low spirits, convinced that the Hakim's servant must have met with some accident or else been stopped by the frontier guards and refused permission to re-enter the state; in which case the Sahib – Ashok – would undoubtedly go to the Hakim's house and demand to see him, thereby attracting to himself the attention of the Hakim's enemies – all those jealous physicians whose noses he had put out of joint and the many courtiers, councillors and priests who strongly resented the favour shown by their Rana to this interloper from the north.

  Sarji had been in Bhithor for five days, but two had been more than enough to convince him that Ash's account of its ruler and his people had not been exaggerated; and that night, for the first time, it occurred to him that this masquerade on which he had embarked so light-heartedly was likely to prove a far more dangerous affair than he had imagined, and that if that fat and cunning man Manilal failed to return to Bhithor, the odds on his own chances of leaving it alive were too small to be worth betting on.

  Lying awake in the hot darkness and listening to Ash's quiet breathing and the reverberating snores of the dumb youth in the shop below, Sarji shivered and wished fervently that he was back in his own safe and pleasant house among the lush green fields and banana groves near Janapat. Life was good, and he had no wish to die, particularly at the hands of these medieval-minded Bhithoris. He heard a horse snort and stamp and a hoof thud against the wooden side of the shed as Dagobaz or his own Moti Raj lashed out angrily at some foraging rat or mongoose, and the sounds reminded him that there was still a way of escape open to them: Bukta's road. That at least was neither closed nor guarded, and tomorrow, if the fat servant again failed to put in an appearance, he, Sarji, would put his foot down.

  He would have a straight talk with Ashok, and make him see that in the circumstances it was futile to invite suspicion and discovery by remaining any longer in Bhithor, and that their wisest course would be to leave by the way they had come and make for Ajmer by way of Deesa and Sirohi. True, this would take time, as it involved a considerable detour. But once there Ashok, in his own guise, would be able to see and speak to senior representatives of the Political Department and the police, explain the situation and inform them (if they did not already know it) that Bhithor had sealed itself off from the outside world and was now virtually a fortress.

  Sarji distrusted the telegraph and all new-fangled means of communication, and was not in the least surprised that his friend's wires had evoked no response. A letter delivered by a trustworthy peon was, in his opinion, far more reliable. And better still was a face-to-face talk, for that way there could be no mistakes.

  But as it happened there was no need for them to go to Ajmer, for Manilal was already in Bhithor. He had arrived late that evening, just as the gates were closing. And on the following morning he went to the bazaar to make some small purchases, where he fell into conversation with two visitors to the city: a tall, lean-faced man from Baroda and a small-boned Gujerati, who were debating the rival merits of mangoes and papayas with the owner of a fruit shop.

  40

  Gobind had not been pleased to see the Sahib.

  The doctor from Karidkote had hoped against hope that when Manilal returned it would be with news that help was on the way, and during the past week he had looked to see the Political Officer or some senior Police-Sahib ride up to the Elephant Gate with a strong contingent of armed men at their back. Instead, he learned that Pelham-Sahib, having sent off several urgent telegrams that had not been answered, had insisted against all advice on coming to Bhithor himself, and was presumably at that moment somewhere in the city, disguised, and accompanied by a Gujerati friend posing as his servant.

  Gobind's dismay at official lethargy was only equalled by his alarm at this disclosure, and though he seldom lost his temper, he did so now for which he could be forgiven, as he had been living under considerable strain and Ash's presence only increased it. Gobind could not see that any good purpose could be served by the Sahib coming to Bhithor at this juncture unless he had been able to do so openly, and with the full backing of the Government. It was a piece of suicidal folly, for apart from the fact that he could do no good, if he were to be recognized he would certainly be killed; and not one of his own people would ever know what had happened to him, since according to Manilal he had left without telling anyone of his intentions.

  The whole venture, in Gobind's opinion, was foolhardy to the point of madness, and could only add a further hazard to a situation that was already fraught with more dangers than he cared to contemplate. He could not understand it. Until now he had regarded Pelham-Sahib as a man of sense, and would have expected him to make straight for Ajmer to discover for himself why his telegraphed warnings had not been answered, and what action had been taken or decided upon – not dress up as a Hindu and come play-acting to Bhithor, as though it were possible for one man to turn several thousand from their purpose.

  ‘He must leave at once,’ declared Gobind, turning on Manilal. ‘His presence here endangers us all: you and I and those few remaining waiting-women from Karidkote as well as the Ranis, whose peril is great enough already without this folly. If either he or his friend should be unmasked there is no one here who would not believe that we sent for him, and they will see to it that not one of us leaves Bhithor alive. He can do nothing here but much harm. You should have told him so, and done everything in your power to turn him from this madness.’

  ‘I did what I could,’ protested Manilal, ‘but his heart was set on it and he would not listen to me.’

  ‘He will listen to me,’ said Gobind grimly. ‘You shall bring him here tomorrow. But think carefully how you go about it, for as you know, we walk on egg-shells and cannot afford to draw attention to him or suspicion on ourselves.’

  Manilal had been careful. The following morning, within an hour of his meeting Ash and Sarji at a fruit-stall, half the bazaar had learned from him that the man from Baroda had studied Ayurvedic medicine in the sacred city of Kashi (Benares) and had hopes of becoming a practitioner in that ancient science. So no one thought it strange that such a person should desire to meet and talk with a hakim of a different school, it being known that professional men of opposing views delighted in argument and discussion. He had taken special pains to see that anyone he suspected of spying on his master heard the tale, and in order to avoid any suggestion of secrecy, arranged tha
t the visitor should call openly on the Hakim-Sahib – and in daylight.

  This last had not been too easy, as shortly before the hour set for the visit, Gobind had been summoned to the palace, from where he had not returned until the late afternoon, tired and dispirited, and in no mood to receive guests, particularly one on whom he had pinned so many hopes, only to be disappointed.

  He greeted Ash unsmilingly, accepted without comment his explanation as to why he had thought it necessary to come to Bhithor, and when he had finished, said in a colourless voice: ‘I had hoped that you would be able to summon help, and when none came I feared that a hawk must have slain the last pigeon before it won home, and that my servant here had either been stopped at the frontier and held on some trumped-up charge, or had met with an accident and failed to reach you. But it did not enter my mind that you could have dispatched warnings to the Sahib-log in Ajmer and to His Highness of Karidkote and my master the Rao-Sahib, and received no help from any quarter. It is beyond my understanding.’

  ‘And mine,’ confessed Ash bitterly.

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Sarji, who had accompanied Ash to the interview, ‘the clerk who accepted those telegrams was a rogue, and must have kept the money himself instead of sending on your messages. It would not be the first time that such a thing has happened, and –’

  ‘Oh, what does it matter what happened to them?’ interrupted Ash impatiently. ‘Something did, and that's the important thing. The point is, what do we do now?’

  ‘Leave at once for Ajmer,’ said Sarji promptly, repeating the solution he had arrived at during the watches of the night and already urged upon Ash. ‘And when we get there, demand to see the Agent-General-Sahib himself, and the police Sahibs too, and tell them –’