Upon his arrival he had been shown, with much ceremony, into a suite of apartments on the first floor of the Sun Palace; their magnificence and luxury were balmfor the fiercest spirit. But they had more than magnificence; the view from them must have been one of the fairest in the world. The palace stood at the crown of its hill, and the view was south as well as north; when his eyes tired of the northern prospect, from the Steps of Heaven down to the Lucinda D, and up again to the dome of the Golden Pagoda, he could turn away and look south to the sparkling sea. Here, the deeper water was of a different hue, purple mixed with green; the sunlight danced upon it, and upon the long lines of creamy surf which marked its nearer edges. It was a noble coastline, open to the main surge of the Java Sea. It completed the full panoply of glory, of which the glowing coral of the Sun Palace was the bright jewel.
Richard had rested first, upon a cushioned chaise longue of rattan canes; then warm water was brought, in a golden ewer perfumed with sandalwood, and after he had washed a meal was set out for him – rice with cloves and cinnamon stems, turtle flesh wrapped in mango leaves, and a dish of peeled lychees steeped in fermented syrup. The wine to accompany it was a pale, cool Javanese vintage. The repast was served, again with great ceremony, by palace servants who wore a livery of yellow; and overseen by John Keston who, impressed by his surroundings and perhaps nostalgic for the vanished greatness of Marriott, carried himself as if he were the very cup-bearer of the gods. At its close, a dark Trinchinopoly cheroot from a teakwood box had rounded out his ease.
Presently Amin Bulong had appeared, preceded by the clashing of spears which resounded strangely in the long galleries surrounding his apartments – yet not more strangely than the cries of peacocks, the monkey-chatter, the bourdon of gossip and grumbling from the gardeners in the grounds below him. But Amin Bulong brought nothing save his compliments, his hopes that Richard was comfortable and well cared for, and the announcement that the Rajah of Makassang, gratified by his presence, would give him audience as soon as certain pressing matters of state had been disposed of. After that, Richard had had a brief word with his own ‘bodyguard’, housed in an adjoining room (Peter Ramsay noisily proclaiming his fears that they were all being poisoned by foreign cooking); and then he had settled down to wait, and to reflect, and presently to doze off into dreamless sleep, at peace under the high gilded ceiling, lulled by a luxury he had not enjoyed for ten years and more.
When the messenger from the Rajah arrived, it was an effort to summon his wits, and to bend his thoughts towards an interview which, if it pursued the customary course, might test the most patient or the most subtle of men.
The audience chamber was a room of barbaric splendour, its vast floor tessellated in tiny, painstaking mosaic, its walls hung with curtains and canopies of Nanking velvet; the throne on which the Rajah sat was of ivory, and over it punkahs in the shape of fronded leaves, worked not by slaves but by men whose dress proclaimed their honourable rank, stirred the languorous air. At a first glance, the Rajah of Makassang did not match these splendours, save in his dress; he was a small man, as old as Amin Bulong, his face the colour of imperfect parchment, his hands straw-thin where they grasped the arms of the ivory throne. The richness of the robes, and the brilliance of the jewelled white turban, could not hide the fact that he was pathetically frail, and wasted by age or illness, and that there was scarcely a man in the room, whether they were the guards, or the yellow-liveried servants, or the bright-eyed boys seemingly serving as pages, who could not have wrestled him to the ground in the course of a single hold.
But there was more to royalty than animal strength; and Richard Marriott, approaching nearer, quickly became aware that he was in a royal presence. The face might be old and wizened, but it was lit by a fierce pride; the arm might be thin, but its gestures were regal and (he observed) instantly obeyed. A hawk-like nose, bloodless lips curved with a sardonic humour, and a pair of bright, intent eyes, completed the picture of a personality most formidable and most acute.
Here was a man who could be liberal, or cruel, or coldly detached; but he was clearly a man accustomed to have his will, come what may, a man whom no other men had denied in his lifetime, or, if they had ever dared to do so, had likely tasted peril and death as a consequence.
Richard advanced without fear, content that his own appearance lacked nothing in formality; his sword, tapping on the multicoloured floor, kept jaunty pace with his step. A hundred curious eyes gazed at him, moving as he moved, but he met only the Rajah’s, whose unwinking stare had been upon him ever since he entered the audience chamber. Close to, at the foot of the three steps leading to the ivory throne, he came to a stop, with military precision, and bowed low. Then he waited, in silence, for the Rajah to give him formal welcome.
But the Rajah was in no hurry; it seemed that his patent dignity and presence allowed him to stretch out any silence to its furthest limit. For a long moment he stared down at Richard Marriott, his eyes bright and searching in the pale, wizened face; the only sound in all the room was the slow wafting of the punkahs overhead. Finally, with an inclination of his head which set the jewelled turban flashing, he acknowledged the greeting; and then he spoke, in a voice which, though thin and rasping, was firmly composed.
‘Welcome to my house,’ he said. His manner of speaking was closely akin to Amin Bulong’s, as if they had shared the same teacher. ‘I trust that you have been made comfortable, and have rested after your journey.’
‘I have had every consideration,’ answered Richard formally, ‘and I am grateful … I would like to thank your Royal Highness for the magnificent present with which you greeted me.’
‘A small token,’ said the Rajah.
‘A token which I cannot hope to match, from my poor resources. But I have taken the liberty of bringing with me something which I trust will assure your Highness of my regard.’ He half turned, and John Keston, with a considerable air of consequence, came forward, bearing the walnut musical box. Richard took it from him, and advanced a step towards the Rajah. Then he paused, wishing at this delicate stage to preserve the utmost formality. ‘I am not schooled in the customs of your court … Have I your Highness’s permission to present it to you?’
The Rajah inclined his head. Then he leant forward, his eyes on the polished box in Richard’s hands, which might have held anything from a cash tribute to some infernal weapon of war. ‘I am grateful for this courtesy … Our customs, like our court, are of the simplest … Pray bring it to me.’
There was a low footstool at one side of the ivory throne; Richard placed the box upon it, and opened the lid. Necks were craned as he prepared the simple mechanism. Upon an impulse, he said: ‘This was my mother’s. It is now yours.’ Then he pressed the lever.
The silvery notes of the Scottish folk song filled the vast silence of the room. Though it was but the artless country air of ‘Loch Lomond’ its effect could not have been more remarkable. There was a curious intake of breath from nearly everyone in the room, as if they were hearing a melody cherished but long forgotten; and from the Rajah, an instant alertness which seemed to possess his whole frail body. He heard the piece to its end, with a smile almost of tenderness on his lips; when it was done, and the musical box had whirred and clicked into silence, he leant forward, a new animation in his pale face.
‘That is very beautiful,’ he said slowly. ‘Your gift is well received … But how does it come that you play this tune to me?’
‘It is a well-known tune,’ answered Richard, puzzled. ‘It is called “Loch Lomond”.’
‘“Loch Lomond”,’ corrected the Rajah, with a special emphasis on the first word, to which he gave a pure Scottish pronunciation. ‘We know it well here.’
‘In Makassang?’
The Rajah smiled. ‘Even in Makassang … Some years ago we were fortunate to have a learned man here, a missionary who made his home with us. His name was Andrew Farthing. You have heard of him?’
‘No, your Highness.’
<
br /> ‘It is no matter. He became very dear to us. It was he who taught us your language. And this was the tune he used often to play, on a mandolin.’ He turned to Amin Bulong, who was standing in the place of honour at his right hand. ‘What did you think of, when you heard the tune?’
‘The twelfth birthday of her Royal Highness,’ answered Amin Bulong readily. ‘When she first sang it for you.’
The Rajah nodded. ‘You shared my happy memory …’ Then he turned, and his glance grew sharper again, as if putting away such light thoughts. ‘Captain Marriott, you are welcome in Makassang, as I have said. It is not often that we entertain so distinguished a guest.’
There was something in his voice, a faint tinge of satire or sarcasm, hard to define, which Richard Marriott’s keen ear caught as soon as he heard it. Schooled in these Eastern exchanges, he recognized it instantly. It was the beginning of bargaining, the preparation for the clash of wills, the descent to the bazaar. The formalities were over – so said the tone, unmistakably; now it was time for niceties of a different sort – for trading, for pressure, for disparagement and insult if need be.
‘It is an honour to be here,’ he answered formally.
The Rajah’s sharp eyes were roving over his uniform. ‘So distinguished a guest,’ he repeated. ‘A very high rank indeed … I must congratulate you on the record of loyal service which it attests.’
Richard said nothing.
‘That’ – the Rajah pointed lightly – ‘is the ribbon of the Order of Orange-Nassau, is it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘An unusual distinction for an Englishman.’
‘I have been fortunate.’
‘May I inquire what particular services led to its award?’
‘It was won in battle,’ said Richard hardly. He decided that he would lose his temper in two minutes – neither more nor less – and that this was the time to show it. ‘I would not dream of inflicting the details on your Royal Highness, who doubtless has more important subjects to discuss with me.’
‘What could be more important than deeds of bravery?’
‘A fighting man is concerned only with future battles.’
Now there was a pause, while they stared at each other, gauging their strength. The Rajah’s eyes, which had been so bright, were now veiled; under the lowered lids, the look was not reassuring. But Richard’s returning stare was steadfast; he was not going to be put down, nor allow a joke to be prolonged till it became tedious. If the Rajah chose to make play with his admiral’s uniform, which he must know to be false, then he could make play when Richard was gone.
It seemed that he had allowed enough of this message to peep out of his eyes, for after a long moment the Rajah relaxed his glance. Without a word, he turned aside, and made a sign to Amin Bulong. The latter stepped forward, and spoke a single sentence in Malay to the assembled company. It was dismissal. Within a few moments, the audience chamber, save for the three of them, was empty. The waving frond of one of the punkahs was all that stirred.
Richard waited, with sharpened attention. It was clear that he had survived some test or other, and that the Rajah was now ready to proceed to the business he had in mind. He felt very much alone – as a matter of courtesy, he had motioned to John Keston to leave with the rest – but overtopping this solitude was a feeling of intense curiosity. He was to learn now why he had been summoned, and he had still received no clue, nor could he guess anything at all of what was intended.
It seemed that even now he was not to know immediately, for the Rajah took up the conversation at a leisurely pace, as if there had been no interruption.
‘You said that you were a fighting man, Captain Marriott,’ he observed. His hand stroked the arm of the ivory throne as he spoke; the pale colour of the one was not far removed from the other. ‘That is good news, since it is fighting I wish to discuss with you … You have been told something of our history already, and now is the time to talk of it in more detail. I rule here’ – there was more than confidence in his voice, there was an ancient pride of calling – ‘but my rule has been challenged in the past, and it is being challenged now. You have heard of the Anapuri, the hereditary priests of Makassang. The High Priest of their sect is a man known as Selang Aro, an ambitious man who now sees a chance to come to power. I am an old man, and’ – he glanced at Amin Bulong – ‘my advisers, though faithful, are old also, and I have no son to follow me. Selang Aro sees this moment as a propitious one. He has been plotting for a long time. It was his followers who killed Andrew Farthing – but that is no matter, that is a story of long ago …’ The Rajah’s voice, which had seemed to tremble, grew firm again. ‘I tell you this, so that you may see who are my enemies, and who my friends.’
As the Rajah paused, Richard inclined his head, to show his attention; but he did not feel called upon to venture a comment. It would indeed have been difficult to produce one which would have aided the course of the interview. For he was growing cautious, feeling that he had at last caught the drift of events. He found the Rajah’s recital intriguing, even moving, but it seemed that this was purposeful, that his words were skilfully designed to engage a hearer’s sympathy. Already his own sympathies were turning away. He could see – or thought he could see – what the Rajah wished of him. It was help that he wanted, help in some petty tribal struggle which had proved too much for his resources; he wanted a town sacked, or a fleet of prahus destroyed, or an important man killed. The idea beckoned Richard not at all; he had never yet been involved in such a quarrel, and he had no taste for it now, and particularly not in Makassang, which seemed to have far more than its fair share of the cross-currents of treachery and hazard.
He raised his head, to find the Rajah’s keen eyes upon him. ‘You are wondering, Captain Marriott,’ said the old man, accurately enough, ‘what is your part in this, and why I have summoned you.’ Summoned, thought Richard privately; now there is another idea which I like not at all … But he did not speak his objection, and the Rajah continued: ‘The truth is that I need help, in one particular direction. The High Priest Selang Aro, and the Anapuri, are traditionally allied with the Land-Dyaks – a tribe of the interior which, in the past, have always been the first of my subjects to show disloyalty. That is not a great matter – I have disposed of it before now, and I will do so again.’ There was a matter-of-fact tone in his voice more telling than any threatened fierceness. ‘The help I need is in a fresh quarter. It seems that Selang Aro has acquired a new ally. When I tell you his name, you will understand the purpose of this audience. In fact, he is a man known to you.’
‘Known to me?’ echoed Richard Marriott, surprised in spite of himself. ‘Who is that?’
The Rajah rose. ‘If you will attend me to the terrace outside, I will show him to you.’
The sun outside was fierce, but only briefly so; the Rajah led the way – his passing marked by the low bows of gardeners and attendants – to a bower of flame trees which stood interlaced at one corner of the palace façade. Here, the air was cool, and the shade most welcome. But one side of the bower was open to the bay below the Steps of Heaven, and at its edge stood an unsuspected novelty.
It was a giant telescope. Richard, approaching close to it, saw it to be a star telescope adapted for land use, pivoting on a heavy metal base. It was of German make, by Liebig of Jena, beautifully fashioned and maintained; its magnification could not be guessed, but it must have been enormous. Richard, turning from it, said: ‘This is a fine instrument, your Highness. It must afford you much enjoyment.’
‘Thus do I draw near to my subjects,’ answered the Rajah ironically. ‘And to my visitors …’
Richard had bent his head to the polished lenses, and as he looked through them he smiled broadly. The sharply-focused view of the Lucinda D was really remarkably clear … He could recognize men working on the deck; he could even see Nick Garrett sitting within the open door of the wheelhouse, quaffing something from a tin pannikin. It was no wonder that Amin Bulong h
ad known more of his ship, and of her situation, than he could possibly have guessed.
Richard turned, still smiling. ‘An interesting view,’ he said.
‘Most absorbing,’ agreed the Rajah.
‘We have observed,’ said Amin Bulong, ‘that you have a woman and child on board.’
‘The child is my son.’
‘And the woman – his mother?’
‘His nurse. His mother is dead.’
‘Forgive my inquiry,’ said Amin Bulong. ‘It was a thoughtless intrusion.’
‘You love your son?’ asked the Rajah.
‘Naturally.’
‘So did I love mine.’ The Rajah placed his thin hands on the telescope, swivelling it round to the right, and adjusting the focus. It was clearly a favourite pastime, at which he was expert. ‘Now I will show you my enemy.’
He motioned to Richard, who again bent his head to the lenses. He found that he was looking at a town, on the nearer side of the bay; a bustling town with quays, and superior buildings, and people thronging the streets. A hazy blue smoke hung over it, but the telescope seemed able to pierce this. It was almost as if he could reach out and touch the man sitting gossiping on his front step, the merchant lounging in his doorway, the woman hobbling along in a blue sarong, burdened with a shabby bundle which might have been a baby.
‘What do you see?’ asked the Rajah.
‘A town – a town of some size.’
‘It is my capital, Prahang, some twenty miles from here. I hope you will visit it … Now follow the coast, to the east and then the north … What do you see now?’
Richard, whose hands were clumsier, was slow in manoeuvring the telescope, but within a few moments he had mastered its working. He discovered that the coastline to the east of Prahang led to a thin strip of land, with the sea visible on both its sides. There was a road winding along it, and on the road, a trio of elephants making a slow, swaying progress as they dragged an enormous sledge laden with orange-brown teak logs.
The White Rajah (1961) Page 11
