by Jon Cleary
“Herr Baron, those people coming down the path are Hungarians—the gentleman says he is a representative of Krupps. Do you know anything about him?”
“Not much, Major.” The Consul-General was straightforward, which may have explained why he had never risen to being an ambassador. “They only arrived two days ago. They stayed at the Hotel Cecil. Herr Monday paid a courtesy call on me.”
“Was he intending to sell arms to anyone in Simla?”
“I couldn’t say. He told me nothing about his business.”
Then the Mondays came down on to the road. Zoltan Monday dropped the suitcases and began bending his arms as if he were trying to push them back into their sockets. Bridie and the others looked at the pair curiously, then all looked at Farnol. Curtly he explained who the newcomers were, saw the Ranee look at them with sharp interest when he mentioned the name Krupp. The Nawab, standing in front of his six wives, gave a bright smile of welcome to Madame Monday, but ignored her husband. Lady Westbrook sniffed loudly and Bridie made mental notes for her as-yet-unthought-of memoirs.
“I am delighted to meet you all,” said Magda, who would have introduced herself in the same way to every circle of Hell. At fifteen she had walked the Fisherman’s Bastion above Budapest looking for men; at twenty she had found Zoltan in the chandeliered lobby of the Astoria Hotel. She had trained herself for rebuffs as a boxer builds the muscles of his midriff to absorb punches. “I’m sure we shall have a very good journey together.”
“It won’t be for want of your trying.” The Ranee had already decided there were too many women in her caravan; she also recognized a possible mischief-maker. She got up into her coach. “Get in, Viola. You, too, Miss O’Brady.”
“Thank you, Your Highness, but if I may I’d like to ride one of your horses with Major Farnol.”
“As you wish.” The Ranee, not trained for rebuffs, made no attempt to sound gracious. She turned her head away and looked down at the Hungarian woman. “Perhaps you had better ride with us, Madame Monday.”
“Monday?” Lady Westbrook had donned her two hats again and looked like a war-torn pagoda. She looked Magda up and down as the latter got into the coach and sat opposite her. She decided that Magda was riff-raff. “Is that your name or the day you are available?”
Magda’s smile had the bright shine of a razor turned to the sun. “I have just been complimenting the Major on the English sense of humour.” She moved sideways on the seat to make room for the bulk of the Baron. “We appear to have taken sides, Herr Baron. You and I against the British Empire.”
The Baron put on his glasses, looked across at the ladies of the Empire. “I should never take sides against such a formidable force.”
The procession got under way. Karim and two of the Nawab’s armed men rode up front on horses, with Farnol, Bridie and the Nawab immediately behind them. Then came the Ranee’s coach, the twelve elephants, their howdahs stuffed with the Nawab’s wives and all the luggage, and finally the rest of the horses ridden by Zoltan Monday and the Ranee’s and the Nawab’s escorts. All over India similar caravans were making their way towards the Great Durbar, but none of them had been forced to make their march in the way this one had been.
There was no scabbard on Farnol’s saddle and he rode with his rifle slung across his shoulder. The procession eased its way down the narrow sloping road, its pace geared to that of the elephants. Farnol was already resigned to the fact that they would probably have to go all the way down to Kalka by these means. He had little faith that a relief train would be sent up; all the regular drivers would be working on the extra trains going down to Delhi for the Durbar; any relief driver would fall sick as soon as he learned he had to take a train up into the hills where dacoits were operating. If he and the others made the journey safely, he estimated that it would take them five days to get down to Kalka; from there it was only an overnight trip by train to Delhi. That would give him still a day or two before the King was due to arrive in the capital, time for him to see George Lathrop and convince him that extra protection should be provided for the King-Emperor. That is, if he could convince Lathrop: so far he had no more evidence than the attack on his own life. The King himself, if offered such evidence, might brush it aside. An attempt to kill a sovereign’s subject did not necessarily mean the ruler himself was next on the list. The King might feel that was taking democratic precedence too far.
“I think they’ve done a bunk, Clive,” said the Nawab looking around.
“Perhaps. But I’m still puzzled, Bertie—why go to all that trouble to stop the train, then just buzz off?”
Bridie had been silent ever since she had got off the train. She was aware of the tension in Farnol; it was reflected in herself. In the course of her job as a reporter she had once or twice been threatened by hooligans, but she had never felt that her life was in danger. She was not a cowardly girl, but she did not know yet if she was brave; for the moment she was glad of the men riding on either side of her, no matter how inadequate their protection might be. She was not helped by the restive horse she was mounted on; she wished now that she had not been so quick to decline the Ranee’s invitation to ride in the coach. She was riding side-saddle, as she had seen all the women in Boston doing; it was the way ladies were expected to ride and in certain matters she tried to pass for a lady. That was her Irish mother’s influence; it had never been Sheila O’Brady’s ambition that her only daughter should grow up to be the biddy of some Boston ward boss, as she had done. Bridie had been on a horse no more than half a dozen times and her discomfort added to her tension. She sat the horse like a wooden doll.
“You don’t look comfortable, Miss O’Brady,” said the Nawab. “Would you prefer to ride one of the elephants? I can give you a howdah to yourself.”
Then the bullet zipped past Farnol’s head, ricocheted off a rock and whined away. The sound of the shot followed immediately, as did the second bullet. It hit Farnol’s saddle just as he dropped down out of it; the horse shied, but the bullet had hit the thickest part of the saddle and hadn’t gone through. Farnol pulled the rearing horse down; the Nawab had grabbed the reins of Bridie’s horse and was swinging it and his own mount back towards the shelter of the elephants. Karim and the two guards up front were already off their horses and returning the fire; it came from halfway up the steep slope above the road, from the midst of a thick stand of deodars. Farnol had quietened his horse, had unslung his rifle and was scanning the dense forest above him.
“Cease fire!”
Karim and the two guards ceased firing, tried to soothe their nervous horses. Then Karim said, “You want me to send these two chaps up there, sahib?”
Even in the tension of the moment Farnol had to smile. Good old Karim, who knew when to sacrifice someone else’s valour for his own discretion. “No, stay where you are. I think they’re already moving out.”
He had caught a glimpse of movement up through the trees: two, maybe three men going swiftly up the slope. He thought he recognized one of the men, but he was too far away; perhaps his imagination was playing tricks, conjuring up the man in the blue scarf. There had been no more shots after the first two. And those two had been aimed at him, at no one else in the caravan.
“Righto, remount. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Leading his own horse he went back to the coach, where the driver, with the aid of his assistant, was just getting the coach’s two horses under control. In the coach itself Lady Westbrook was trying to revive Magda Monday, who had fainted. Her husband had ridden forward from the rear and was gazing anxiously down at his wife, who lay with her head in the Baron’s lap. The Ranee ignored the unconscious Magda and looked out at Farnol. She had raised a parasol against the afternoon sun and looked sedate and regal.
“Well? Have they gone?”
He didn’t know whether to admire her or suspect her: her coolness was almost too perfect. “I think it’s safe to go on. Those shots were meant for me, not the rest of you.”
Lady
Westbrook, who had been waving a bottle of smelling salts under Magda’s nose, abruptly sat up straight. “Why should they only shoot at you, Clive? Are you something special?”
Lady Westbrook knew what he was; she knew what everyone in the Punjab States was. “Political agents are often targets, Viola. You know that—your husband was one.”
“No one ever tried to pop him off in this part of the country.” She gave her attention again to Magda, who was now beginning to stir. “Come on, gel—wake up! Does she often go off like this, Mr. Monday?”
“I don’t think she has ever been shot at before,” said Monday, still anxious about his wife.
“Nonsense, she wasn’t shot at. It was Major Farnol they were after. They’d have mowed us all down in a moment if they’d wanted to. Sit her up, Baron, put her head down between her knees. There, that’s better.”
“I should have brought another coach.” The Ranee was wasting no sympathy, a property she had in only small supply. “Let’s move on.”
“May I ride with my wife?” said Monday.
“There’s no room,” said the Ranee and poked her parasol into the back of her coachman. “Drive on!”
Magda lifted her head from between her knees and looked at the princess opposite her. The two women stared at each other and Lady Westbrook, eyes as alert as those of a Pathan scout, saw the battle lines drawn. She gave herself a sniff of the smelling salts and sat back to enjoy the rest of the journey.
Monday reached across, patted his wife’s shoulder and rode back to the rear of the procession. Farnol mounted his horse and went up to the front again. After a moment Bridie followed him, but the Nawab remained to ride beside the coach.
“What sort of story will you write about all this?” said Farnol.
“It isn’t over yet, is it?” Bridie was slowly learning how to control her horse, but she knew she would never make a good rider. She wondered if she would ever make a good foreign correspondent.
Farnol hesitated, then shook his head. He felt reasonably certain that no one else was in any real danger, unless another bullet aimed at him should go astray. He was still puzzled as to why the assassins, whoever they were, should be going to such lengths to kill him; and where had Rupert Savanna disappeared to and what was his connection with the Ranee? Why had an arms salesman, and a salesman for a German firm at that, suddenly appeared in these hills? His puzzlement increased his suspicion: he looked back up the road and saw a caravan of potential enemies.
“Do you mind if I stay close to you?” said Bridie.
“That may not be healthy.”
“Maybe not. But I’d still feel safer.”
He smiled at her, wondering why women always used such an obvious weapon as flattery. “You honour me, Miss O’Brady.”
“And I give you a pain in the neck, too. You don’t fool me, Major.”
“I don’t think any man has ever done that, has he?”
“If a woman never let a man fool her occasionally, her life would be very dry and unexciting.”
“Stay close to me, Miss O’Brady, and we’ll fool each other.”
“Thank you. Now we’ve both been warned.”
The road wound down through a forest of blue pine. Farnol could see ahead to where the forest petered out and the southern slopes of the hills began their sparsely cloaked descent to the plains. Down there he would find little cover if they should be attacked again and he began to wonder if there was an alternative route.
They came round a bend and suddenly they were in a small village. They passed down the main street, which was also the bazaar; but business was slack and storekeepers came to their doors and shouted invitations to come in and buy. Then they saw the Ranee and abruptly shut up and bowed their heads; this was her domain and they knew she was no customer. Children stared wide-eyed at the modest magnificence of the procession; above them, on the roof-tops, monkeys stared with eyes just as big but shrewder. The Ranee reached into the silk handbag she carried, took out a handful of small coins and tossed them out; the children, thrashing about them with closed fists, just beat the monkeys to the money. One monkey did manage to grab a coin and retreated to a roof-top where it bit on the coin, found it inedible and, imitating the Ranee’s benevolence, tossed it back down to the children.
The caravan passed through the village, then the pines started to thin out. The sun dropped behind the mountain above them and the air abruptly turned cool. Farnol pulled his horse to one side and waited till the coach came up to him.
“We are going to make camp soon, Your Highness. This is your territory—where do you suggest?”
“My dear Clive, when I’m this close to home, I don’t camp out. We shall detour and call in at the palace.”
“I say, old girl, do you think that’s wise?” The Nawab was on the other side of the coach; he looked across at Farnol. “Mala’s brother, Mahendra, doesn’t make visitors welcome.”
Farnol had never visited the palace of Serog, but he knew of it. It had stood since the 16th century and once had been one of the glories of northern India. He had also heard of Mala’s mentally unstable brother, known as Mad Mahendra and discreetly ignored by every arm of the British Raj. The palace did not suggest itself as a hospitable inn for the night.
But he knew better than to attempt to change the Ranee’s mind; that would be like trying to alter the course of the Ganges with a shovel. The procession moved on, came to a side road which cut away through the last of the now thin forest. The lead horsemen, on a cry from the Ranee’s coachman, turned off the main road and led the way through a narrow ravine that abruptly grew into a high-walled gorge. It was a natural gateway, Farnol saw at once, an ideal spot where intruders could be turned back.
Armed tribesmen, four on either side of the narrow road, materialized out of the rocks at the foot of the gorge’s walls. Farnol called a halt and rode ahead, spoke in Hindi: “The Ranee comes home. Let us pass.”
They looked at him with hostile suspicion; he imagined he could see their fingers curling on the triggers of their rifles. Then one of them looked towards the coach, saw the Ranee and instantly shouted to his colleagues. All eight jumped down from the rocks and rushed to pay their respects to their mistress. Farnol breathed a sigh of relief and moved the procession through. Then he fell in beside Bridie.
Bridie was curious: “But this place is only a few miles from Simla—doesn’t she ever come down here? Is it hers or her brother’s?”
“Hers. She belongs to one of those families where the eldest child, girl or boy, inherits everything. Her brother is more than half-mad—I gather he’s something of a handful. So she leaves him here and prefers to live up in Simla or, in the winter, down in Bombay. She likes her social life and—” he glanced up at the towering walls of the gorge “—I don’t think there would be much around here.”
Then the gorge opened out and the procession came into a narrow valley that was almost lush after the rocky barrenness they had passed through. The slopes of the mountains on the northern side were sparsely timbered; erosion scars showed like old yellow wounds on the rocky earth. But the slopes on the southern side and the floor of the valley were thick with pines, rhododendrons, laurels; meadows of autumn-yellowed grass stretched away on either side of a narrow tumbling river. Farnol knew such pockets of near-lushness could exist in these hills; he had seen such valleys even further north and at higher altitudes. They were oases protected from the fierce sun that, aided by the searing winds from the deserts of the western Punjab and Rajputana, killed all young vegetation on the mountains’ southern slopes. The people who lived in this valley might never see the majesty of the Himalayas, but they would never have to scratch for a living as did those who lived on the mountain-tops and were surrounded by the most breathtaking views in all the world. But even those who lived on mountain-tops did so only because it gave them the opportunity to see an approaching enemy. He had never met a peasant hillman who chose his home because of the view it gave him.
; The procession came round the end of a ridge running down from the southern wall of the valley and straight ahead, on a low bluff above the white-wealed river, was the palace of Serog.
“Oh my!” Bridie pulled her horse to one side while she paused to stare at the magnificent castle. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale!”
“Its history is as full of blood and gore as most fairy tales.”
The palace, or castle, for it was both, towered above the river in rising terraces on which marble-domed guard-towers, delicately decorated with pierced grilles, looked as fragile as pavilions of candy. Inside the thick outer walls the main buildings of the castle merged into each other through corner towers that rose from the ground to be topped, a hundred feet high, with blue domes that seemed to be nothing more substantial than mirages on the blue light of the late afternoon. The castle dominated the entire valley, but the effect was of a great blue-and-white cloud that had floated down to the valley floor rather than a threatening mass of rock and marble.
Farnol was a hundred yards from the castle before he recognized the huge dark rocks on either side of the great gateway. They were rows of fighting elephants, thirty or forty of them, their tusks tipped with metal and each beast chained to a stake at a safe distance from those on either side of it. He wondered how often Mad Mahendra came out on to his castle walk and ordered the elephants to be let loose to fight each other in a welter of blood.
He halted the procession and waited for the Ranee to bring her coach forward. “You’d better go in first, Your Highness. Your brother may not welcome us.”
“He knows better than to disagree with me,” said the Ranee and her tone suggested that everyone should know better.
“Perhaps we’d better get out,” said Magda Monday.
“Stay where you are,” ordered the Ranee and rapped her driver on the back with her parasol.
The coach went in under the great decorated arch of the gateway and Farnol and the rest of the party sat and waited. The fighting elephants began to raise their heads and trumpet as they became aware of the elephants in the caravan; the latter became restless, began to back off, wanting nothing to do with the hoodlums beneath the castle walls. The Nawab and Zoltan Monday rode up beside Farnol and Bridie.