The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  This time it was Gobind who cut him short. ‘It is too late for that, said Gobind curtly.

  ‘Because the frontiers are closed? But there is another way out of Bhithor. The way that we came in by. That is still open, for none here know of it.’

  ‘So my servant Manilal told me. But even if you could leave by any road you chose, it would still be too late. Because the Rana will die tonight.’

  He heard Ash catch his breath in a gasp that was harshly audible in the stillness that followed, and turning to look at him, saw the blood drain from his face and realized with a sharp sense of incredulity that the Sahib was afraid, desperately afraid. And in the next moment, and with as much certainty as though it had been shouted aloud, he knew why –

  So this was the reason for the Sahib's presence in Bhithor. Not mere foolishness and bravado, or an egotistical belief that no ‘black man’ would dare lay hands on a member of the conquering race, and that one Angrezi should be able to over-awe the Diwan and the council and put the fear of the Raj into the local inhabitants. No – the Sahib had come because he could not help it. Because he had to come. Manilal had spoken no more than the truth when he had said ‘his heart was set on it’.

  It was a complication that Gobind would never have dreamed of, and the discovery appalled him as much as it had appalled Kaka-ji and Mahdoo, and for the same reasons. ‘A casteless man… a foreigner… a Christian,’ thought Gobind, shocked to the depths of his orthodox soul. This was what came of relaxing the rules of purdah and permitting young maidens to meet and talk freely with a strange man, Sahib or no. And when the man was young and well-looking and the maidens beautiful, what else could one expect? It should never have been allowed; and he blamed the Rao-Sahib and Mulraj and young Jhoti, and everyone else whose duty it had been to see to the safety and welfare of the future Ranis. Unpora-Bai most of all.

  But he knew that such thoughts were futile. What was done was done; and in any case, there was no reason to suppose that the Sahib's feelings had been reciprocated, as in all probability the one to whom he had lost his heart had remained wholly unaware of it. Gobind could only hope so. But this sudden insight into the Sahib's motives did nothing to improve his own disquiet. It merely added to his anxiety, since who could tell what folly a man in love might be capable of committing?

  For a space there was silence in the room, and even Sarji seemed unwilling to break it. Gobind watched the blood come slowly back to the Sahib's face and knew what he would say before he said it…

  ‘I must see the Diwan myself,’ said Ash at last. ‘That is our only chance.’

  ‘It will not serve,’ said Gobind curtly. ‘That much I can tell you now. If you think differently, then you do not know him, nor have you any understanding of the temper and disposition of his fellow councillors or the people of this city.’

  ‘Maybe. But I can at least warn him that if he permits the Ranis to burn, he and his fellow councillors will be held responsible, and that the Raj will send a Political-Sahib and a regiment from Ajmer to arrest him and to take over the state and make it a part of British India.’

  ‘He will not believe you,’ said Gobind quietly. ‘And he will be right: for even to so small and remote a place as this there has come talk of unrest in the north and of the pultons gathering for war. This you too must have heard as your own pulton will surely be among them, and having heard you must also know that the Raj will not move in this matter once it is done and cannot be undone. They will have no desire to stir up a hornets' nest in Rajasthan at a time when they have such grave matters as Afghanistan on their minds. And consider, Sahib: news of the suttee may not reach the ears of those in authority for many days – even weeks – and when it does, it will be too late to do more than send Spiller-Sahib to speak to the Diwan and council and perhaps impose a fine. But necks are not broken by hard words, and a fine can be paid from the Treasury or by means of a tax upon the people. Neither the Diwan nor his purse will suffer.’

  ‘There is also another thing,’ put in Sarji, addressing Ash. ‘Unless he is a fool he will know very well that you did not come here as an accredited spokesman of your Raj, for had you done so you would not have entered Bhithor secretly. Like a thief, and in disguise.’

  ‘That is so,’ confirmed Gobind. ‘And as the Diwan is not a fool, you will neither turn him from his purpose nor save the Ranis from the fire. You will only throw away your life to no purpose – and ours with it, for you and your friend have come openly to this house, which is watched, and once your identity is known, all our heads will fall to ensure that there is no one left to carry tales of your fate. Even those who gave you lodging will not be spared in case they might have noticed more than they should during the past few days, and be tempted to speak of it.’

  Ash might have argued some of Gobind's previous statements, but he was forced to recognize the truth of this one; and to be silenced by it. Had it only been a question of risking his own life in an attempt to save Juli's, he would have done so gladly and without a second's thought. But he had no right to sacrifice the lives of eight other people (for the charcoal-seller and his wife would not be the only ones in that house to have their throats cut; all five would die for the crime of having rented him a room to lodge in).

  He sat staring blindly out at the view beyond the window where the low sunlight glowed rose-red on the outer walls of the Rung Mahal, his mind desperately engaged with wild plans for rescuing Juli, each one more hazardous and impractical than the last…

  If only he could find some way of getting into the palace he could shoot down the Zenana guard, and having barred the door behind him, snatch Juli from among her women and lower her over the walls on a rope and follow himself while the enemy battered on the door; and then… No, that was patently impossible-it would entail tying up a score of screaming women who if left at liberty would unbar the door the instant his back was turned. He would have to have help -

  Between them, he and Sarji could muster five weapons, while Gobind and Manilal could surely contrive to get possession of a musket or two. Then if Gobind was right about the Rana, it should be possible, under cover of the confusion that would reign in the palace that night, for five determined men to force their way into the Zenana Quarters and liberate two women, as everyone who could would be in or near the dying man's room, and few would have any attention to spare for the women. Vigilance was bound to be relaxed, and it might even be possible to enter the palace in the wake of Gobind, who would be admitted without question and –

  Why, of course – that was how they could do it! Gobind must introduce him as a fellow-physician, a well-known practitioner of Ayurvedic medicine whose opinion could be valuable in this crisis. Sarji could pass as his assistant while Manilal, being the Hakim's servant carrying drugs, was unlikely to be questioned, and having gained admission to the palace the worst would be over, as from there they could probably bluff their way to the door of the Zenana without recourse to violence, and once inside, the rest should be comparatively simple. With the Rana dead or dying, screams and lamentation from the Women's Quarters would cause no remark, and there would be an ample supply of sheets and saris that could be used to gag and tie up the more troublesome women and knot into ropes by which the Ranis and their rescuers could descend to the dry ditch below the outer wall, from where they could escape while the city slept. It was a hare-brained scheme, but it might work: and anything, however desperate, was better than leaving Juli to her fate. But if it failed…

  ‘I should have made straight for Ajmer,’ thought Ash. ‘I could have made them listen to me. I ought to have realized that this could happen… that telegrams might go astray or be read and pigeon-holed by some underling who didn't realize… I should never have… Juli, oh God, Juli, My dear love… It can't happen… there must be some way, something I can do. I cannot stand aside and let her die…’

  He did not realize that he had spoken those last few words aloud until Sarji said: ‘Her? Do you think then that it is plan
ned that only one will follow her husband's body to the burning ground, and the other be permitted to live?’

  The blind look left Ash's eyes and two spots of colour showed darkly on his cheeks. He said confusedly: ‘No, I didn't mean… I suppose they will both go. But we must not let it come to that. I have been thinking –’

  He propounded his plan and the two men listened to it: Gobind impassively and the more volatile Sarji occasionally nodding approval and some-times shaking his head. When he finished it was Sarji who spoke first: ‘It could succeed. But to win free of the palace would not be enough, as the city gates are closed and barred at nightfall. We should still be trapped, for even if we tied up every woman in the Zenana so that the alarm would not be given until after dawn, we could not ride out unseen and unremarked.’

  Ash said: ‘We would have to leave the horses outside the walls, and as for getting out of the city, we can do that in the same way as we shall get out of the palace – over the wall with ropes; and if all goes well we should join Bukta and be out of the valley before the sky begins to lighten. I know it will be difficult and dangerous. I know there will be a great many risks and that things may go wrong. But it is a chance.’

  ‘It is not one that we can afford to take,’ said Gobind flatly.

  ‘But –’

  ‘No, Sahib. Let me speak. Perhaps I should have told you earlier that I can no longer return to the Rung Mahal. When I left today, it was for the last time.’

  According to Gobind, the Rana's councillors had been urging him to adopt an heir ever since it was learned that the Senior Rani's child was another daughter, and when he had fallen ill they had redoubled their pleas, but to no avail. He would not believe that his sickness was mortal: he would recover and sire other children, sons who would grow up to be strong men – they would see. Meanwhile, as he had no near relations apart from a pair of sickly daughters (who had failed to give him grandsons and whose husbands he despised) he refused to jeopardize the future of his line by adopting some other man's brat. His mind was made up.

  Nothing that anyone could say had changed that… until this morning. Today, some time during the small hours, he had recognized at last that he was dying; and appalled by the prospect of descending to that hell called Pât, to which men who have no son to light their pyre are doomed, he had agreed to adopt an heir – though not, as had been feared, a child from the family of the Diwan, or one or other of his current favourites.

  His choice had fallen instead upon the youngest grandchild of a distant relative on his mother's side – that same semi-royal relative who had been sent to greet the brides from Karidkote on their arrival in Bhithor. The boy had been sent for in haste and such ceremonies as were necessary had been rushed through, because though the choice might be a disappointment to many, even those who had cherished hopes on behalf of their own sons preferred that it should be an unimportant six-year-old rather than the child of some rival. The Rana, in fact, had remained shrewd to the end; but the effort involved had drained the last of his strength, and the affair being concluded he had collapsed and passed into a coma.

  ‘He no longer knows me,’ said Gobind. ‘Or anyone else. Wherefore his priests and his own physicians, who have always deeply resented me, have seized their opportunity and had me expelled from his sick-room. They have also prevailed upon the Diwan, who has no love for Karidkote, to forbid me to set foot again in the palace. Believe me, they will see to it that I do not return, so you cannot use me as a cover for any attempt to enter the Rung Mahal yourself. And if you think to shoot your way in you are mad; kings are not permitted to die alone and in peace, and tonight there will be more guards and many more wakeful people in the palace than ever before, since all now know that the Rana is dying. Every passage-way and courtyard will be thronged with men who wait to hear that he has drawn his last breath, and because there is much of value in the palace, the Diwan has ordered extra guards on every door of every room – fearing, so it is said, that various trifles such as jade vases and ornaments made of gold and ivory might vanish before he himself has had time to abstract them. That last may be only slander, but I can tell you that any attempt to enter the palace by force of arms will fail.’

  Ash said nothing but his face spoke for him, and Gobind said gently: ‘Sahib, I am not so wedded to my life that I would hesitate to risk losing it if I thought that there was even the smallest chance that your plan would succeed. It is because I know there is not that I would restrain you from it. And also because if it fails, as it must, the very ones whom you hoped to save may be suspected of complicity in the plot and condemned to an even worse death than the fire. Whereas if you wait and do nothing rash, it is possible that even at the eleventh hour the Sirkar may move to prevent the burning – Yes, yes, Sahib! I know that it does not appear likely. But how do we know that they too have not laid their plans? We cannot be sure, and if we throw away our lives needlessly – killing many in that fight, as we should do, and further endangering the Ranis – it may well prove we have, as they say, “lost Delhi for the sake of a fish”.’

  ‘He is right,’ affirmed Sarji abruptly. ‘If he can no longer enter the palace there is no hope of our being admitted, and to attempt to force our way in would be madness. I may be foolish, but I am not mad – nor, I hope, are you.’

  Ash's mouth twitched in a parody of a smile, and he said: ‘Not yet, but – but I still cannot bring myself to believe that there is nothing I can do, and that I must resign myself to seeing…’

  He stopped with a shudder and fell silent again, and Gobind, observing him with a professional eye, decided that madness might not be so very far off. The Sahib, it was plain, had endured much during the past week or two, and the accumulated effects of strain, fear and anxiety – and a stubborn refusal to despair contending with the gradual death of hope – had stretched his nerves almost to breaking point. In his present mood he was a danger to them all, and the next thing he would suggest was sure to be some wild scheme for snatching the Ranis as they walked through the crowds on their way to the burning ground, relying on surprise, and hoping to escape under cover of the uproar and confusion that such an act would create among a milling and unmanageable mass of sightseeers.

  Gobind himself had, in fact, already given some thought to this particular line of action; but on consideration he had been forced to reject it, realizing that the crowd itself would wreck any such enterprise, for the people of Bhithor would be worked up to a high pitch of excitement and anticipation, and the threat of being robbed of the spectacle they had gathered to see would turn them in an instant into a raving mob. They would tear the impious intruders to pieces, and there would be no hope of escaping from them. Gobind knew this even if the Sahib did not, and he could only hope that he would be able to convince him that any such attempt would be worse than useless. But he was not called upon to do so, though he had been right in supposing that Ash was bound to think of it.

  Ash had done so; but only to come to the same conclusion as Gobind. He too was aware that a crowd keyed to a high pitch of excitement can be more dangerous than a wounded leopard or a charging elephant – and that a mob is hydra-headed. If there was a way of saving Juli, it was not that one.

  He rose to his feet stiffly, as though it was an effort to move, and said in a flat, formal voice: ‘There does not seem to be anything else to say. If either you or Manilal can think of any plan that might succeed, I would be grateful if you would let me know. I will do the same for you. We still have a few more hours of daylight and the whole of the coming night in which to think of one, and if the Rana's hold on life is stronger than you suppose, we may even have another day and another night as well; who knows?’

  ‘Only the gods,’ said Gobind soberly. ‘Let us pray to them that tomorrow the Sirkar will send us a regiment, or at least a Political-Sahib from Ajmer. If you will take my advice, Sahib, you will try to sleep tonight. A tired man is apt to make errors of judgement and you may have need of all your wits and your stren
gth. Be assured that I will send Manilal to you if there is any news, or if I should see any way out of this tangle.’

  He bowed gravely above his lifted hands, palms pressed together, and Manilal saw them out and barred the door behind them.

  ‘Where are you going?’ demanded Sarji suspiciously, as Ash turned left into an alleyway that led in the opposite direction to the quarter of the town where they lodged.

  ‘To the Suttee Gate. I must see the way that they will come, and the road they will take. I would have done so before if I had not been so sure that the Sirkar would step in before it was too late.’

  The alleyway skirted that side of the Rung Mahal where the Zenana Quarter lay, and presently they came to a narrow gateway cut through the thickness of the palace wall. It was an unobtrusive gate, barely wide enough to take two people walking abreast, and decorated with a curious formal pattern that on closer inspection proved to be made up of the prints of innumerable slender hands, the hands of queens and concubines who down the long centuries had walked through that gate on their way to the fire and to sanctification.

  Ash had seen and noted it on his previous visit to Bhithor, and now he did no more than glance at it as they passed. His interest was not in the gate but the route that the procession would take from there to the pyre. The burning-ground lay some distance from the city, and as the city gates would be closed within an hour of sundown there was no time to waste, and he hurried Sarji forward, taking note as they went of every turn and twist and alleyway between the Suttee Gate of the Rung Mahal and the Mori Gate, which was the nearest of the city gates.

  Ten minutes saw them out in the open country and walking along a dusty road that led straight as an arrow towards the hills. There were no houses here, and no cover, but there was a good deal of traffic on the road, mostly pedestrian and all of it moving towards the city. Presently Ash said: ‘There should be a path leading off to the right somewhere here. I used to ride across this bit of country, but I never actually visited the memorial chattris and the burning-ground. I did not think then that…’ He left the sentence unfinished to stop a herd-boy who was driving his cattle back to the city, and inquire the way to the burning-ground.