The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  The latter had been visible to the garrison from the moment they left the city. But though the fort provided an excellent grandstand from which to view the drama, the antiquated matchlocks and jezails with which the garrisons opened fire on the fugitives were almost useless at that range, while the dust and the dancing, shimmering heat-haze did not make for good marksmanship. Their shots did not take effect, and looking down from the heights it seemed to them that the runaways were in danger of winning the race and breaking through into the valley.

  The great bronze cannons had already been fired once that day, but as by tradition they would be fired again to welcome the new Rana back to his city, they were primed and ready. An eager gunner leapt to load one and busied himself lighting a taper while his crew, following his lead, helped to train the monster ahead of the galloping target. The port-fire was applied to the touch-hole and the flash and roar of the explosion was as impressive as ever. But in the excitement of the moment the speed of the riders below had been miscalculated, and the cannon ball missed the fugitives and landed full in the path of the on-coming soldiers from the city.

  No one was seriously hurt, but the sudden and totally unexpected fountain of dust, dirt and debris that exploded a bare yard or two ahead, showering them with stones and clods of earth, panicked the already over-excited horses, who instantly reared and bolted. Several of the riders were thrown, and by the time the others had got their mounts under control the quarry had escaped through the gap and were riding like the wind down the long, straight stretch of the valley.

  It had been an incredible ride. Terrifying, nerve-racking and at the same time so wildly exhilarating that, if it had not been for Juli, Ash would actually have enjoyed it. Sarji had certainly done so: he had laughed and sung and urged Moti Raj to greater efforts with cries of encouragement and extravagant endearments. Dagobaz too had been in his element, and had he been given his head he would have outdistanced his companions and left them far behind in the first half-mile. But there was Juli to be thought of, and Ash's hands were firm on the reins and he held back, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to see that she was safe.

  The wind had whipped the folds of muslin away from her face and Ash saw that it was set and intent: a pale mask in which only the eyes were alive. She was handling her horse in a manner that would have done credit to her Cossack grandfather, and Ash felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards that old free-booter – and to her father, the old Rajah, who in the face of Janoo-Rani's opposition had insisted that his daughter Kairi-Bai should be taught to ride: ‘God bless him, wherever he has gone,’ thought Ash fervently.

  Gobind too was a good horseman. But Manilal was no more than an adequate one, and the pace was clearly beginning to tell on him; yet he hung on grimly and had the sense to leave everything else to his horse. As for the pursuit, from what little they could see of it through the dust that fumed up in their own wake, it was still in a state of disarray and too far behind to pose a serious threat.

  They had avoided the beaten track with its potholes and cart ruts, and kept well to one side of it – the left side, since it was on this side that the entrance to Bukta's road lay – and they had covered more than two thirds of the distance when Anjuli's horse put its foot in a rat hole and came down heavily, pitching her over its head to land spread-eagled in the dust.

  The fall had knocked the breath out of her body and she lay still, fighting for air, while her horse struggled to its feet and stood with drooping head and labouring sides. Manilal, who had been following behind, tugged wildly on his near rein to avoid riding over her, and missing her by inches, was carried helplessly onwards, completely out of control and reduced to clinging to the arch of his saddle. But the other three pulled up and circled back.

  Ash flung himself off Dagobaz and snatched Juli into his arms; and for a dreadful, heart-stopping moment he thought that she was dead, because she did not move. But one look was enough to reassure him, and he whirled round, holding her, and saw that the hunters were still on their trail, and getting dangerously near.

  Gobind too was looking back. He had not dismounted, but was holding Dagobaz's reins as well as Moti Raj's, while Sarji examined the injured horse, and he did not speak – there was no need to for they were all aware of the danger. Sarji said breathlessly: ‘The off-fore is badly strained. Dagobaz will have to carry two. Give me the Rani and get back in the saddle. Be quick.’

  Ash obeyed, and though Juli was still dazed by her fall she was getting her breath back and she had not lost her wits. When Sarji tossed her up onto the crupper she put her arms about Ash's waist and held on, and they were away again, racing after Manilal who was by now far ahead of them; Gobind and Sarji a length behind to left and right, riding wide of them to avoid being choked by their dust.

  The additional weight made no difference at all to Dagobaz, who swept on with the effortless speed of a hawk. But the delay had been fatal, for it had not only reduced their lead to a mere matter of a few hundred yards, but had served to break the headlong impetus of the other two horses, so that now Gobind must use both whip and spur while Sarji rode crouched like a jockey, far forward on Moti Raj's straining neck, and singing no more.

  Ash heard the crack of a shot and saw the dust spurt as a musket-ball ploughed into the ground ahead and well to one side, and realized that one of the pursuers had fired at them, and that he should have foreseen this when he took Juli up behind him. He ought to have put her in front, so that his body would have protected her from any aspiring marksmen, but it was too late to do anything about it now; they could not stop, and in any case, the risk of a shot taking effect was minimal, for a muzzle-loading jezail is an unhandy weapon when fired from the back of a galloping horse – and impossible to reload under those conditions.

  There was unlikely to be another shot, but that one, though well off target, showed that the pursuit must be gaining on them; and also reminded him that he carried a revolver. Knowing that Dagobaz would answer to the least pressure of his leg, he fumbled in the breast of his robes and guiding Dagobaz by knee, swerved to avoid the dust-cloud behind him, and telling Anjuli to hold close, turned in the saddle and fired at a man on a rangy, country-bred grey who was leading the field by several lengths.

  There was no luck about the shot: Koda Dad Khan had been too good a teacher for that, and Ash did not watch to see if it took effect. He looked to his front again, hearing the fall and the hoarse yells of rage from behind, and Sarji's exultant shout as the riderless grey careered past them.

  Ahead of them loomed the triple-fanged ridge with the wide, arrow-shaped fall of shale immediately below it: a pale landmark that pin-pointed the position of a tall grass-plumed, white-streaked rock near which – please God! Bukta the shikari would still be waiting for them. Bukta with a spare shot-gun and two boxes of cartridges, and another fifty rounds of rifle ammunition.

  If only they could increase their lead and reach the passage through the rockfall with even a minute to spare, they would be able to hold off any number of pursuers, and inflict such damage in the process that by the time darkness fell the survivors would be unlikely to follow them into the hills. But the shouts and the thunder of pursuing hooves were becoming nearer and louder… and of a sudden, uncannily familiar, until with a violent sensation of shock and incredulity Ash realized that this was the dream…

  It had all happened before. Many times. Only this time he was not dreaming. This time he was awake and it was real – the flat, stony plain, the low hills, the sound of pursuing hoof-beats on hard ground and the girl on the crupper who had once been Belinda – except that even then her hair had been black.

  The nightmare had come true at last, and as if to prove it, Juli began urging him to go faster – faster. But when he turned, revolver in hand, he found that he could not fire, because she had lost her turban when she fell, and now her loosened hair streamed out behind her like a black silk flag on the wind and made it impossible for him to see the men who galloped behind
him.

  This was far worse than any of the dreams had been, because he knew that he would not awake from it to find himself sweating with fear, but safe. And he had no idea how it would end. He could only urge Dagobaz to greater speed and pray that they would reach the haven among the rocks in time.

  The sun vanished with the abruptness of a snuffed candle as they rode into the shadow of the high ridges; and now they were nearing their goal. Half a mile to go… a quarter… four hundred yards… The white streaks of bird-droppings showed clearly against the purple hillside, and there was someone standing near the grass-crowned rock: a man with a rifle. Bukta, his dun-coloured shikari's clothing almost invisible among the shadows. So he had not gone. He had waited for them; and now he was here and sighting along the barrel of his beloved Lee-Enfield.

  Ash had seen Bukta hit a tree-rat at fifty paces and bring down a galloping leopard at twice that range in thick grass; and with the light in his favour and the pursuing soldiery ignorant of his presence, he should be able to pick off at least one of them before they realized their danger, and thereby sow enough confusion among the rest to enable their quarry to reach cover.

  There was barely two hundred yards to go now, and Ash found himself laughing exultantly as he waited for the flash: but it did not come – and suddenly he realized that it would not, because he and Sarji and Gobind were in the line of fire, and together they masked the enemy so effectively that the old shikari did not dare risk a shot.

  They had all forgotten Manilal. The fat man had been carried past the rocks where Bukta waited, but his horse was tiring and he managed to turn it in a wide arc that brought him round facing the way they had come, though from much further out in the valley. Galloping back from this direction, Manilal was able to see what was happening and to size up the situation a good deal more clearly than any of the other actors in the drama.

  The passage through the rock-fall had been described to him and, always a quick thinker, he realized that his companions would never reach it with enough time in hand, and that the shikari could not help them, for he must hold his fire until they were past him – by which time it would be too late. Manilal did not wear spurs, but he still had a whip that he had prudently carried on a loop round his wrist, and now he used it mercilessly, keeping his horse at full gallop and making not for the rocks, but for the bunched and yelling pack from the city.

  Ash saw him sweep past and heard the crash and the confusion as he drove full tilt into the pursuers. But there was no time to turn round and see what had happened. There was only time to pull up and leap to the ground, to catch Anjuli as she tumbled off, and grasping her wrist, to pull Dagobaz after them while Sarji and Gobind flung themselves from their horses and followed, and Bukta fired and re-loaded and fired again…

  The shadowed canyon behind the wall of rock and scree seemed a very peaceful spot after the heat and dust and frenzy of that wild ride. Bukta had been camping there for the past week, and his few belongings, together with the shot-gun and cartridges and the two boxes of ammunition, were neatly laid out on a ledge, and conveniently within reach. His pony, its forefeet hobbled, country-fashion, with a loop of cloth to prevent it straying, was placidly grazing on the dying grass, and the place looked curiously homelike. A haven of peace and safety enclosed by the cliffs of the steeply sloping hillsides, and only to be reached by a passage that was so narrow that a single man armed with a stout sword, let alone a revolver, could have held it against an army…

  Or so Ash had once thought. But faced now with the reality, he was less sanguine, for there was a limit to the time they could hold out. A limit set by their supply of ammunition and water. There might be enough of the first, but the latter would not last over-long in this dry, torrid heat especially when there were horses to be considered. Bukta had presumably watered his pony and drunk his fill at the stream in the valley, but that source was now closed to them, and the nearest supply – the little pool among the rocks with its solitary palm-tree – was over an hour's journey away. Other than that they had only the contents of their water-bottles, which might tide them over for a time, but do little for their horses. And it was now several hours since Dagobaz had last drunk; and longer still since he himself had done so.

  Ash was suddenly conscious again of his own thirst, which until now had been no more than a minor discomfort when compared with the mental emotions of that eventful day. But he knew that he did not dare slake it for fear that he would not be able to stop himself from draining every drop from the bottle; and they might all be in worse need of its contents soon, and he must endure a little longer. By nightfall there would be dew and then it would not be so bad, but two things were clear: they could not afford to stay here, for without water the quiet canyon could soon cease to be a place of refuge and become a trap; and the sooner they left the better, because once darkness fell even Bukta would find it next to impossible to follow that barely visible track that led back through the hills, dipping and climbing and crossing seemingly impossible slopes and precipitous rock-strewn ridges.

  Yet as soon as they left there would be nothing to prevent their pursuers from pouring through the gap and taking up the trail again. Unless someone stayed behind and held them off until the others…

  Ash looked quickly at the narrow cleft through which they had just come, and then back at Anjuli, who had dropped to the ground when he released her, and was sitting with closed eyes, her head thrown back against the wall of the canyon. Her dishevelled hair was grey with dust and he saw that there was a snow-white streak in it, like a wide bar of silver laid across the darkness. Her face was so drawn with exhaustion that a stranger would have been forgiven for thinking her an old woman, and it did not seem possible that she was not yet twenty-one.

  Ash wished that he could have let her rest there a little longer. She looked as though she needed it – as they all did, horses as well as riders – and though the air in the canyon was stiflingly hot with the accumulated heat of the blazing day, at least the shadows lent it an illusion of coolness, and the tired horses had already begun to nibble at the sun-dried grass. But there was no help for it: they would have to press on, for despite the steep hillsides on either hand and the great wall of rock and scree that lay between them and the valley, they could still hear the muffled crack of Bukta's rifle and the answering spatter of shots that told them that their pursuers had halted and were returning his fire.

  Ash's own carbine was still strapped to Sarji's saddle, and he took it down and re-loaded it, and reaching for the boxes of ammunition, stowed them in one of the saddle-bags and said curtly: ‘Sarji, you and Gobind must go on ahead with the Rani while I take over from Bukta and hold this rabble off. He will have to go with you because he's the only one who knows the way; and –’ He stopped and looked round: ‘Where is Manilal? What happened to him?’

  But neither Sarji or Gobind could tell him. There had been no time to look back, or to do anything but urge on the flagging horses; and once they were among the rocks they could no longer see what was happening in the valley. ‘But Bukta will have seen that he came to no harm,’ said Sarji confidently. ‘He never misses, and there will soon be many dead men out there. Hark to him! – he is firing as fast as he can load. If we three go back and help him we should be able to kill them all.’

  Ash said sharply: ‘No, Sarji. You must leave this to me. We came here to save the Rani, and her safety comes first. We cannot afford to take risks with her life, and though there may be only a handful of men out there now, there will soon be more coming up behind them from the burning-ground. Besides, once it is dark none of us will be able to move, so just do as I say and don't argue – we haven't time. Gobind, see that the Rani-Sahiba is ready to leave as soon as Bukta and Manilal get here. She'll have to ride behind one of you, so if there is any doubt about the other horses being able to take a double load, Sarji must ride Dagobaz and leave one of the others for me. Throw me over that shot-gun; I may as well take that too: and the cartridges
– Thanks, Sarji. I'll be back as soon as it's safe to go on. Don't stop unless you have to. You won't be safe until you're well beyond the border.’

  He shouldered the two guns, picked up the laden saddle-bag, and without looking at Anjuli went quickly away.

  The narrow cut that wound between the rocks was very quiet and deeply shadowed, for the light was already draining from the thin sliver of sky that showed high overhead, and it occurred to Ash that long before the sun was down it would be dark in there: too dark to see, which might be to his advantage, as anyone unfamiliar with the passage would probably be held up by the first sharp turn, imagining that it was a dead-end, whereas he would be able to grope his way back without much difficulty… that was, if he came back.

  ‘No. Not if, when,’ thought Ash soberly, for he had remembered something: a voice from the past saying ‘The Sahib-log do not understand that Truth should be used sparingly, and they call us liars because when we of this country are asked questions by strangers, we prefer to lie first and then consider whether the truth could have served us better.’ And another more recent one that said, ‘It don't do to believe more than a fraction of what these people tell you, for most of 'em will always tell a lie rather than speak the truth, and trying to find out what really happened is like drawing eye-teeth or hunting for that proverbial needle in a haystack.’

  He would have to come back. There was no ‘if' about it, for were the others to return to Gujerat without him there was no knowing what trouble they might find themselves involved in, because their story could so easily be disbelieved (or at best dismissed as the exaggerated out-pourings of a hysterical widow, her uncle's hakim and his servant, and a local breeder of horses, none of whom could speak a word of English). Officialdom, as he had good reason to know, was never very easy to convince; and if there was one thing he could be certain of it was that everyone in Bhithor, from the Diwan to the lowliest palace servant, could be counted upon to lie like a trooper in order to conceal the truth. It was even possible that his friends might end up being suspected of murdering him for the sake of his shot-gun and rifle, should he fail to return.