The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  Manilal, that stolid and imperturbable person, was for once betrayed into a startled gasp, and stood open-mouthed, staring at Ash as though he could not believe his eyes. ‘Ai-yah!’ breathed Manilal, awed, ‘it is wonderful. And yet… yet it is only a matter of clothes and a razor. But what is the meaning of this, Sahib?’

  ‘Ashok,’ corrected Ash with a grin. ‘In this garb I have another name, and am no longer a Sahib.’

  ‘What does the – what does Ashok mean to do?’ inquired Manilal.

  Ash told him, and Manilal listened, looking doubtful, and when he had finished, said cautiously that it might serve, but that the Sahib – Ashok – must take into account that the Bhithoris were a surly and suspicious folk, apt to suspect any stranger of being a spy. More especially in the present circumstances. ‘They have no liking for strangers at the best of times,’ said Manilal, ‘and should their Rana die, they would think nothing of slitting all our throats if they thought that we stood in the way of anything that they desired.’

  ‘Such as a tamarsha,’ said Ash, spitting out the word as though it were a bad taste in his mouth. ‘What you mean is that they are looking forward to the enjoyable spectacle of two high-born and beautiful young women walking unveiled to the burning ground, and being burned alive there before their eyes.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Manilal quietly. ‘To look on the face of a queen, and to watch her die, is something that few will see more than once in a lifetime; so to many it will indeed seem a great tamarsha. But to others – maybe to all – it will be a holy occasion: one that bestows merit on everyone who is present. Therefore on both counts the people of Bhithor will be enraged if any should attempt to prevent it, and only a strong force of well-armed soldiers or police of the Raj will be able to restrain them. But one man, or two or three, can do nothing. Except lose their lives needlessly.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ash soberly. ‘And I have already thought deeply. I go because I must. It is laid on me. But there is no reason for anyone to go with me, and my friend the Sirdar here knows that.’

  ‘He also knows,’ put in Sarji, ‘that anyone riding such a horse as Dagobaz would not be travelling alone without a servant or a syce. I can act the part of one or other; or if need be, both.’

  Ash laughed and said: ‘You see how it is? The Sirdar comes of his own free will and I cannot prevent him. Any more than you can prevent me. As for Bukta, he goes only to show us the secret paths into Bhithor, so that we may go swiftly and not lose ourselves among the hills, or be stopped and questioned and perhaps turned back by those who guard the known ways. Once our road ahead is clear, there will be no need to take him further and he can return here in safety. You of course must go back to Bhithor by the same road that you came by, and be seen to return openly. It would not do for you to return secretly.’

  ‘And you?’ asked Manilal, still doubtful. ‘When you have reached the city, what will you do then?’

  ‘That is in the lap of the gods. How can I know until I see what the situation is and have talked to the Hakim-Sahib, and learned what measures the Sirkar has taken.’

  ‘If they have taken any,’ muttered Manilal sceptically.

  ‘Indeed so. Which is why I go. I must discover if they have done so; and if they have not, take what steps I can to see that they do.’

  Manilal shrugged and capitulated. But he warned Ash to be very careful about approaching Gobind; his master had never been persona grata with the palace circle in Bhithor, and the Rana's councillors and courtiers had been hostile to him from the first.

  ‘The Hakim-Sahib has many enemies,’ said Manilal. ‘Some hate him because he is from Karidkote, and some because he is more skilled in the arts of healing than they – while others hate him because he, a stranger, has the ear of the Rana. Me they dislike because I am his servant. But fortunately they also look upon me as a simpleton, which means that we can meet any day as strangers, and by chance, in the main bazaar or the Street of the Coppersmiths, where there are always crowds.’

  For the next quarter-of-an-hour they had discussed their plans in some detail, before Manilal left, riding one of Sarji's country-bred hacks in place of Ash's bay, which was thought too showy an animal for a hakim's servant to have acquired. He would take longer to reach Bhithor than the two who meant to go there by way of a smugglers' route across the hills, but he did not think that the difference would be more than a few days: two or three at most.

  In fact, it was nearer five. For no one in all Gujerat had a better knowledge of the trails through the jungles and hills than Bukta, whose father, having fled to Gujerat as a youth (according to Bukta he had killed a powerful man of his own country, somewhere in Central India), had taught his son to hunt and track almost as soon as he could walk.

  Bukta had made them wait a full half hour so that Manilal should get well ahead, yet still managed to bring them to the fringes of the jungle by the time the sun had set. Despite the difficulties of the terrain, they had actually covered close on fifty miles in less than six hours, in the course of which they had crossed the Hathmati by ferry-boat, and Sarji declared that at this rate they would be in Bhithor tomorrow. But Bukta shook his head, saying that although up to now the going had been easy (which was not how Ash would have described it) once among the jungle-clad foothills they would find it increasingly difficult, and much of the trail could only be taken at a foot's pace.

  They made camp near a stream, and being tired, slept soundly, taking it in turn to keep watch, as there were both tiger and leopard in these jungles and Bukta feared for the horses. Sarji, who had taken the last watch of the night, woke them at first light, and by mid-morning they were free of the jungle and among the bare slopes of the hills, where, as Bukta had predicted, they could only cover a few miles an hour, moving in single file.

  Ash had brought a compass with him, but even with this to aid him he realized that left to himself among these hills he would have become hopelessly lost within a matter of minutes. The spurs and ridges ran this way and that in an aimless, featureless maze. But Bukta appeared to see and recognize landmarks that were invisible to his companions and he pressed ahead unhesitatingly, riding where the ground permitted, and where it did not, plodding forward on foot, leading his pony along narrow rock ledges or across precipitous slopes of shale or slippery, sun-bleached grass.

  Once they halted for an hour by a spring among a wilderness of rocks, and later, as the afternoon drew towards evening and the folds and gullies filled with shadow, they descended a hair-raising cliff and came upon a little wooded valley, less than half-a-mile long, that lay like some lost oasis among the harsh, treeless hills. Here another spring debouched from the rocks above to send a thin silver waterfall tumbling down into a deep pool that was fringed with grass and rushes and shaded by trees – a surprising sight in that barren land, and a most welcome one, for the day had been very hot and the horses were parched with thirst.

  There were many animal tracks leading down to the pool and marking the damp verges, but no sign that it had been recently visited by men; which seemed to relieve Bukta, though he must have realized hours ago that for many seasons neither men nor horses could have used the trail he had been following all day, since had they done so they would have left unmistakable traces – horse droppings and the ashes of old fires.

  There was nothing of that description to be seen now, and only after digging down among the roots of a certain old and twisted wild fig tree did Bukta unearth a few blackened stones, and announce with a grunt of satisfaction that this was where he and his smuggling friend used to light their cooking fire. ‘I was a young man then and neither of you can have been born, as that was many years ago. But it is clear to me that none save wild creatures have come to this place for a long time; which is as well, for I can light a fire here in safety.’

  They spent the night there, keeping the fire alight as a protection against the wild creatures that Bukta had spoken of, and were away again before the sun gilded the crests of
the hills. That day was a repetition of the previous one; except that as there had been places where it was possible for the horses to trot, they had made better time, so that when evening came Ash had been all for pressing on. But Bukta had been adamant, pointing out that they were all tired, and tired men were prone to make mistakes – and weary horses apt to stumble. Also that the miles that lay ahead of them were among the most difficult, and to attempt them by night would be courting disaster, for he could easily miss the path.

  The prospect of being lost in that trackless sea of hills was one he, Bukta, did not fancy; and besides, had not the Hakim's servant told them that it was the custom in Bhithor to close the city gates an hour after sunset? If that were so, there was nothing to be gained by pressing forward, and in his opinion they would be well advised to time their arrival for dusk on the following day, when men and cattle and flocks of goats would be streaming homeward from the fields and the grazing grounds that surrounded the city, and they would be unremarked among the crowds.

  ‘He is right, you know,’ said Sarji. ‘In the evening, when the cooking fires are lit and the air is full of smoke and dust, the light is poorer – and men less inclined to curiosity, their thoughts being fixed on rest and food.’

  Ash had reluctantly agreed, and they found a cave among the rocks on a high ridge, and having turned the horses loose to graze, ate a cold meal for fear that a fire might attract attention, and spent the night there, going forward again only when the sun was up.

  There was still no sign of a path to follow, and as far as Ash could see, not so much as a goat-track marked the bare hillsides where the scanty grass of winter was already turning brown and brittle with the approach of the hot weather. But Bukta led the way as confidently as ever, and the others followed: today for the most part on foot across steep slopes where they and their horses slithered on the brittle grass or picked their way among broken rocks, riding only occasionally in single file along some narrow ravine between sheer hillsides.

  There were no springs here, and they were parched with thirst by the time they crossed a high ridge at mid-afternoon and looking down, saw below them, in a rocky hollow, a small pool of water that glittered in the slanting sunlight like a jewel in a setting of brass. It was shaded by a solitary and incongruous palm that had somehow managed to find a foothold among the rocks, and must have been fed by a spring, for the water was unexpectedly cool. To the dry-throated men and thirsty horses it tasted like nectar, and when they had drunk their fill, Bukta allowed them half an hour's rest before they scrambled up the far slope, and reaching the top of another ridge, once again moved downwards.

  An hour later they reached the floor of a narrow canyon that wound and twisted between the folds of the hills like the track of some giant snake, and for the first time that day they rode forward at a brisk pace on level ground. It was a welcome change but it did not last long, for after less than a mile the canyon ended abruptly in what appeared to be an impassable barrier: the debris of some ancient landslide that blocked it with a forty-foot wall of boulders and scree.

  Ash and Sarji pulled up and stared at the obstruction in dismay, imagining that Bukta had taken a wrong turning and that they would have to go back. But the shikari dismounted, and beckoning them to do the same, walked forward leading his horse; and following doubtfully behind him they rounded a boulder the size of a small house, passed between two more, and entered a narrow crevice some twenty feet in length, where the saddle flaps brushed the rock on either side.

  Like the canyon, this too appeared to come to a dead end. But Bukta turned sharply to the left, and after a further ten or twelve paces, right again – and suddenly Ash found himself out in the open, and facing the self-same stretch of valley where the Karidkote camp had been pitched two long years ago.

  There was little to show where that great sea of tents and carts had once stood. All that remained of it were the dilapidated ruins of the stout, thatched-roofed sheds that Mulraj had had built to shelter the horses and elephants from the fierce glare of the sun; and of these only a handful were still standing, for sun, rain and wind, and the depredations of white ants, had combined to bring them down.

  Bukta heard Ash gasp, and turned to him grinning. ‘Did I not say that the road here was well hidden? No one who did not know it would dream that there was a way through those rocks, or think of searching for one.’

  Ash glanced behind him and saw nothing but tumbled boulders and the steep flank of a hill, and realized that he himself must have looked out at this spot at least a hundred times, and ridden past it on numerous occasions, without ever suspecting that there was a way through those rocks and back into the folds of the hills behind them. He turned to study the place carefully so that he would recognize it again in case of need, noting such landmarks as a triple-fanged ridge on the hillcrest above, with a patch of shale in the shape of an arrow-head lying immediately below it.

  The shale should be easy to see from a long way off, as it was several shades lighter than the hillside, while the tip of the arrow pointed directly downwards to the spot where he now stood. And nearer at hand, a mere dozen yards away, stood a twelve-foot-high boulder, liberally streaked with bird droppings and flaunting a tall tuft of grass that had sprouted from some crevice on the summit. He would recognize that boulder again, thought Ash, for combined with those parallel white streaks, the grass gave it the appearance of a plumed helmet, and he took careful note of its position in relation to the rocks that concealed the entrance to the canyon.

  The old shikari, watching him, nodded in approval. ‘The Sahib does well to mark this place carefully,’ said Bukta, ‘for it is not easy to find again from this side. Well, there lies your way to the city. You had better leave me fifty rounds – and the shot-gun and cartridges also. It will cause talk if you carry more than one weapon apiece. I will remain here until such time as you return.’

  ‘That may be much longer than you think,’ observed Ash grimly.

  Bukta waved a negligent hand. ‘No matter. There is both water and grazing here, and having food and the Sahib's shot-gun – not forgetting the beautiful new Angrezi rifle that the Sahib gave me, and my own old one also – I shall neither go hungry nor fear attack, so can wait a long time. Besides, it is in my mind that you may wish to leave in haste and by this same road, it being the only one that is not guarded, and I do not think you would find your way back to Gujerat without me.’

  ‘That much is certain,’ agreed Sarji with a curt laugh. ‘Stay then, and wait for us. For I too think that we may need to leave in haste.’

  The city being no more than a few miles distant and the sun still well above the horizon, they returned to the canyon and rested in the shade until the light mellowed and the shadow of the hills at their back crept forward and engulfed the valley, leaving only the opposite range warm gold against an evening sky. Only then did they rise, and whistling up the horses, led them back through the narrow passage between the rocks, mounted, and having bade goodbye to Bukta, rode out across the valley towards the dusty, beaten track along which Ash had ridden so often in the days when he and Kaka-ji and Mulraj had gone again and again to argue with the Diwan and the Rana's councillors over the disputed marriage contracts of the brides from Karidkote.

  The valley had not changed, nor had the forts that overlooked it, or the frowning walls and flat, jostling rooftops of Bhithor that blocked its far end and masked the great lake and the wide, enclosed amphitheatre of plain beyond. Nothing had changed: except himself, thought Ash wryly. In appearance, at least, he bore no resemblance to the young British officer who had ridden along this same track on a blazing spring morning, bound for the Rung Mahal and his first sight of the unpleasant despot who was to become Anjuli's husband.

  He had been wearing the elaborately frogged ceremonial full-dress of his Corps, a sword had clanked at his hip and spurs jingled on his boot heels and an escort of twenty armed men had ridden behind him. While today he rode with only one companion, a man like hims
elf, an unremarkable, middle-class Indian, clean-shaven and soberly clad, well mounted as befitted a traveller on a long journey, and armed, as a precaution against dacoits and other chance-met malefactors, with a rusty second-hand carbine of a type that was officially restricted to the army, but could be acquired – at a price – in almost any thieves-market from Cape Comorin to the Khyber.

  Ash had taken pains to give that serviceable weapon the outward appearance of neglect, an effect that was purely illusory and in no degree altered its performance, and Dagobaz too had suffered a similar transformation; Bukta having insisted on altering his coat with touches of bleach and an application of reddish-brown dye before they started out, on the grounds that someone might recognize the horse, if not its rider, and it was better that both be disguised so that if any accident befell them they could not be easily traced.

  In addition to this the black stallion's once gleaming coat was rough with dust, while the expensive English saddle had been changed for a shabby though stoutly-made one, normally used by one of Sarji's peons, so that his whole appearance, like that of his rider, was now undistinguished enough to escape notice. For though anyone with an eye for horseflesh could not fail to recognize his quality, the average passer-by would not have spared him a second glance; and as Sarji had predicted, such citizens as were to be met with at that hour had other things on their minds, for by now the sun was almost down, and those who had worked in the fields all day were coming home. The air was full of dust and the low, blue haze of smoke, and there was a rich smell of cattle and goats and of cooking pots simmering over innumerable fires.