The Sultan's Tigers

by Josh Lacey

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2013 by Josh Lacey

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Lacey, Josh.

  The sultan’s tigers / by Josh Lacey.

  p. cm.

  Originally published in Great Britain by Andersen Press, 2012.

  Sequel to: Island of Thieves.

  Summary: Tom, who comes from a long line of criminals, travels with his roguish uncle to India to find a family treasure—a bejeweled tiger stolen from the sultan’s throne hundreds of years ago.

  ISBN 978-0-544-09645-5

  [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Families—Fiction. 3. Uncles—Fiction. 4. Criminals—Fiction. 5. India—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.l128SU 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012044648

  eISBN 978-0-544-15611-1

  v1.1113

  To Bella

  1

  My name is Tom Trelawney and I come from a long line of liars, cheats, crooks, bandits, thieves, and smugglers.

  That’s what my uncle says, anyway.

  I’d like to believe him, but if our family consists entirely of criminals, what went wrong with my dad? He’s probably the most honest person on the planet.

  “He’s not a real Trelawney,” says Uncle Harvey. “Not like you and me.”

  According to my uncle, our family originally came from a small village in Cornwall, a rugged corner of England that sticks out into the Atlantic, pointing like a finger at America. The Trelawneys called themselves fishermen, but they actually made their living by piracy, smuggling illegal goods ashore and hiding them in the caves that riddle the Cornish coast.

  My grandfather was a real Trelawney too.

  He wasn’t a pirate or a smuggler, but he never did an honest day’s work in his life. He was always running from someone, always searching for a place to hide, and he left a trail of enemies all around the world.

  I never really knew him.

  I wish I had.

  We only saw Grandpa once a year, sometimes even less. The last time he came to the States for Christmas, he drank too much wine and had a big argument with Dad.

  Ten months later, he was dead.

  He had a heart attack while watching TV, and that was that, kaput, he was gone.

  “A good death,” my mom called it, and perhaps she’s right, although it’s not exactly what I’d call a good death. What’s wrong with being gnawed to pieces by piranhas? Or flung from a plane without a parachute? If Grandpa had died like that, I really would have been proud of him. But he died sitting in his recliner, slumped in front of the TV, according to the neighbor who found him, so maybe that really was a good death.

  Grandpa had lived all over the world, but he spent the last few years of his life in a small village on the west coast of Ireland. We arrived in Shannon at dawn on the morning of the funeral. (By “we,” I mean me, my mom, my dad, my little bro, Jack, and my big sister, Grace.) Dad rented a bright blue Ford Focus at the airport and drove us across the country to Grandpa’s village.

  Not many people came to the funeral: just us and a few neighbors.

  Halfway through the service, the door squeaked open and Uncle Harvey stumbled down the aisle. “Sorry I’m late,” he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. The vicar gave him a stern look and carried on with the sermon. Uncle Harvey grinned at us and slid into a pew on the other side of the church. I grinned back while Dad gave him a dirty look. They might be brothers, but they don’t like each other much.

  I was looking forward to talking to my uncle. Earlier in the year, we had traveled to Peru together, hunting down a stash of buried gold that had belonged to Sir Francis Drake. Later, back in the U.S., we’d been given dinner at the Peruvian embassy, but I hadn’t seen my uncle since. I wanted to know if he’d had any more adventures. Had he been chased by crooks? Threatened by thugs? Or beat up? Had he stolen anything? Or cheated anyone? Even after spending a week with my uncle in Peru, I didn’t know very much about his life, but I knew one thing for sure: it was a lot more interesting than mine.

  The ceremony concluded with prayers, then we shuffled into the graveyard and stood in line to shake hands with the vicar. When my turn came, the vicar smiled down at me and said in his warm Irish accent, “So which of the grandsons are you? Are you Jack or are you Tom?”

  “I’m Tom.”

  “Ah, the famous Tom. Your grandfather told me all about you. He said you were full of mischief. Is that true?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “He also said he saw himself in you. I can see what he meant.”

  “Really?” I said. “What else did he say?”

  “Oh, this and that. Maybe I’ll tell you when you’re a bit older.” Chuckling, the vicar let go of my hand and grabbed the next in line, which happened to belong to Uncle Harvey. “Your father was a lovely man,” the vicar said. “You must be missing his presence.”

  “I’ve heard him called a lot of things,” said Uncle Harvey. “But never lovely. Maybe he was lovelier to you than he was to us.”

  The vicar looked a bit nervous, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “I didn’t know your father well, but we thought of him as a valued member of the community.”

  “Did you really?” Uncle Harvey sounded surprised. “So he didn’t steal any of your silver? Or flog your hymn books on eBay?”

  “Actually, we did have a few things go missing,” said the vicar. Then he noticed that my uncle was smiling. “Ah! You’re having a joke with me, aren’t you?”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Uncle Harvey. “I can’t help myself.”

  “Even in times of trouble, it’s good to have a smile on your face.” The vicar beamed and moved to talk to the next person in line.

  As my uncle and I walked through the churchyard, he winked at me. I winked back. Now we knew how Grandpa had been supplementing his pension.

  Uncle Harvey said, “How’s life, kid?”

  “It’s OK. A little boring. How’s yours?”

  “I would say it’s good, but my dad’s just died so I probably shouldn’t. How often did you see the old man?”

  “Not very often,” I replied. “He sometimes visited us for Christmas. But he and Dad always ended up arguing.”

  “He argued with everyone. That was just his way.”

  “Did you argue with him too?”

  “All the time,” said Uncle Harvey. “But we always made up
again. He was like that. We’d get drunk together and have a big row, then forget all about it the next day. It’s a pity you won’t get to know him better. Did you ever come and stay with him?”

  “Dad wouldn’t let me. I don’t know why not.”

  “I do,” said Uncle Harvey.

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “He knows that as far as he’s concerned, the Trelawney genes skipped a generation. You’re more like your grandfather than your father. He must have been worried about what would happen if the two of you ever got together. Just like he’s worried about the two of us. And he’s right, isn’t he? Ah, hello, Simon. How are you?”

  Simon is my dad. He didn’t look particularly pleased to see his brother, but maybe he was just feeling sad. I guess you would feel sad if your father died, even if the two of you had furious arguments whenever you happened to be in the same room at the same time.

  The brothers shook hands. Then Uncle Harvey kissed my mom on both cheeks and said hello to Jack and Grace.

  “I’ve invited the vicar to join us for lunch,” my father said to Harvey. “Can you give him a lift in your car? There isn’t much room in ours.”

  “Sure. Where are we going?”

  “I’ve booked a table at a restaurant on the coast. Apparently it’s very good. You can follow me there.”

  “Great. I’ll go and get the vicar.”

  Once Uncle Harvey was striding across the churchyard, Dad turned to me. “Here are the keys to Grandpa’s house. We’ll see you there in a couple of hours.”

  I took the keys and stared stupidly at my father. “Why are you giving me these?”

  “Because you’re going to go to the house.”

  “What am I supposed to do there?”

  “Whatever you like. Read a book, play a game. It’s up to you.”

  “What about lunch?”

  “What about lunch?”

  “Why can’t I come to lunch?”

  “You know why not.”

  “Because I’m grounded?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But this is Grandpa’s funeral! You’ve got to let me come to the lunch!”

  “I’m afraid not, Tom. You’re grounded.”

  “That’s so unfair!”

  “You should have thought about that before you stole the golf cart. We’ll be a couple of hours. See you later.”

  “Dad—”

  “Don’t ‘Dad’ me.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “I said don’t ‘Dad’ me.”

  “But, Dad, it’s just not fair.”

  “See you later,” said my father, showing not a trace of sympathy. “Go on. Go to the house.”

  Grace tried to argue on my behalf, which was nice of her, and Jack said he wouldn’t mind staying with me, which was nice of him, too, but Dad asked if they both wanted to be grounded as well, and of course they didn’t. He told them to go to the car. Grace grinned at me and Jack gave me a thumbs-up, then they sloped away. Dad turned back to me. “I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t like doing this. I wish there were some other way. But you’ve really given me no choice.”

  I looked at my dad for a moment. Then I said, “You’re an idiot.”

  His face turned red and he told me never to talk to him like that, and Mom said I should remember where I was, but I didn’t care. I turned my back on my parents and walked away, their angry voices following me out of the graveyard.

  2

  I’d been grounded for a month. It was my own stupid fault. I had been caught borrowing a golf cart from the local golf course. The groundskeepers said I was stealing. I said I wasn’t stealing, I was borrowing. They said what’s the difference? I said the difference is that I would have brought it back again. They said how do we know you would have brought it back? I said you have to trust me. They said how can we trust you when you steal things? I said I wasn’t stealing, I was borrowing, but by that time no one was listening.

  It was so unfair. Of course I wasn’t stealing their golf cart. I just wanted to have a bit of fun and drive around the course. Unfortunately I’d only gotten as far as the first hole when two groundskeepers came running after me.

  I gunned the throttle and tried to lose them, and probably would have if some idiot hadn’t planted a tree right where I wanted to go.

  Which was how I now came to find myself walking down the street to Grandpa’s house while the rest of my family drove twelve miles to the nearest nice restaurant.

  I wanted to be there. I wanted my lunch. I wanted to see Uncle Harvey. And more than anything, I wanted to hear about all the crazy things that Grandpa had done in his long and disreputable existence.

  Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t have stolen that golf cart.

  Even better, I shouldn’t have gotten caught.

  But I couldn’t help myself. I’m a Trelawney. We do dumb things like stealing golf carts.

  As I walked down the street, I thought about Grandpa and wondered how he ended up living here, a wet village on the western coast of nowhere. What did he do all day? This village seemed nice enough, but it wasn’t exactly exciting. I wouldn’t have chosen to live here. Or die here.

  All the other houses had mowed lawns and beds of bright flowers, but Grandpa’s looked as if no one had lived there for years. Paint was peeling off the front door. There was a hole in one of the windows. The front garden was a jumble of weeds and brambles, plus the odd broken bottle and what looked like the remains of a bicycle. Because I’d been here before, I knew Grandpa’s house hadn’t been wrecked in the days since his death; it had always looked like this. He didn’t bother with fixing it up. Or even cleaning.

  Inside, things were even worse. The house was a danger zone. The kitchen sink was blocked and the stove was caked with dried food. In the hallway, the light switch had fallen off. Exposed wires drooled out of the wall. It was a miracle Grandpa had survived so long.

  I went hunting for food. The fridge contained nothing but some carrots covered in black spots and a half-drunk carton of milk with a sell-by date of three weeks ago, but I found some cans of tomato soup in a cupboard. I opened one and tipped the contents into a saucepan. When the soup was piping hot, I poured it into a bowl and ate my lunch in front of the TV, flicking through every channel. There was nothing on. I feel sorry for the Irish. Their TV is lame.

  Grandpa had a few books and there were some old magazines lying around, but I didn’t feel like reading. So I explored the house, looking through the rooms, poking around, seeing what I could find. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I hoped I might uncover some curious treasure from one of Grandpa’s adventures.

  I was standing in his bedroom, staring at the suits and shirts hanging in his wardrobe, when I heard a sound like breaking glass. It seemed to have come from downstairs.

  I stood very still, listening.

  Had I imagined it?

  Yes, I must have imagined it.

  Then I heard the noise again. Another smash. More glass tinkling. As if someone was knocking the loose pieces out of a windowpane.

  Why would anyone want to break into this house?

  Maybe it wasn’t a person. Maybe it was a cat hunting for a warm place to take a nap.

  I decided to investigate.

  I took three steps along the landing and heard a loud thump.

  That wasn’t a cat. That was the sound of feet slamming down on the floor. Now I could hear them crunching on the glass that they’d just knocked out of the window.

  I could have run. I could have hidden. I could have snuck into the wardrobe in Grandpa’s bedroom or jumped out of an upstairs window. But it was daylight and I was in my own grandfather’s house, so I thought I’d be able to look after myself.

  Anyway, I knew what I’d find when I went downstairs.

  A kid like me.

  Who else would break into an empty house?

  I’ve done it myself. If you’re bored on a Saturday afternoon and the town is quiet and your friends are otherwise occupied, what could be
better than sneaking into a derelict house and poking around? I like seeing what’s left behind. Sometimes people have to get out in a hurry and they discard everything—all the junk they couldn’t carry, clothes and TVs and tins of tuna fish. Once I found a twenty-dollar bill in the crack of a kitchen drawer. Another time, I found a white bag stuffed with plastic giraffes. Who could possibly want a hundred plastic giraffes? I took one as a memento. It’s still on a shelf in my bedroom.

  Anyway, that’s how I knew who would have broken into Grandpa’s house. It would just be someone looking for a bit of excitement. Some kid who lived in this boring little village on the edge of nowhere and wanted to get a kick from exploring some dead guy’s abandoned home. If I was really lucky, he might want to hang out with me for the next couple of hours while I was waiting for my family to come back from lunch.

  I jogged down the stairs and headed along the hallway. I was just about to stroll into the sitting room and make some quip, looking forward to startling the kid who’d dared to break into my grandad’s house, when a man appeared out of the shadows.

  “Not another step,” he said, his voice low and threatening.

  “Who are you?” I stammered. “What are you—?”

  He swung at me. I dodged backwards, but he managed to grab me around the neck. I held his arm with both hands. His fingers pressed into my throat. I struggled. Lurched backwards. Tried to wriggle out of his grasp. Then I felt something pressing into my side and knew it was a knife. He’d just have to push a bit harder and the blade would be sliding between my ribs. I went very still.

  He was a big guy. Much taller than me. Much broader, too. His eyes were dark and cold. “Who’s here?” he hissed. “Who else?”

  “No one,” I said, then cursed myself for telling the truth. Why didn’t I say my friend the black belt was coming over for lunch?

  “When will they be back?”

  “Who?”

  He pressed the knife deeper into my side. “When will they be back?”

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  It’s difficult to think straight when you’ve got a knife pushing against your ribs, and so, like an idiot, I told him exactly what he wanted to know. I guess I was nervous. I even told him the restaurant was twelve miles away, whereas if I’d been thinking straight, I would have said it was just around the corner and my folks might be back any minute. I probably would have told him about being grounded and the unfairness of it all, but he interrupted me: “What’s your name?”