Sary and the Maharajah's Emeralds

by Sharon Shipley

  I was not so sure but said nothing. I could hardly blame the maharani. She was saving her own skin too. I still saw Preeta’s face, in the tunnel, secretive, gloating. “She meant to leave me there,” I said slowly. “She supposed I was a rival. If only she knew! She did not think I could free myself the way I did. Thanks to a hunk of dead bamboo!” I shook my head, still taking it in. “Preeta supposed I’d crawl the maze, blind, until I died of thirst, or of whatever was down there. No one would ever know.”

  “He threw her in the tiger’s cage.” Rami’s words were dry as rust. Dry as old bone.

  “Tiger’s cage!” My thoughts flew back to Preeta’s boasts. Had the maharajah heard the truth?

  “The—the elephant tender’s boy. How—is he?” I ventured. Rami must think I had gone soft in the head.

  “The elephant tender’s lad. Well—I suppose. Why ask? Have not we enough to think on?”

  I smiled in the dimness. So the maharajah had heard nothing. It was all coincidence that Preeta met her end in a cage of tigers. I closed my eyes to keep from seeing the tigers tear into her. Poor Preeta. I could hold no malice.

  “And the maharani?”

  “Well too, but reticent, keeping to her quarters. Not under siege, but she has put up her own discreet guards.”

  We wasted time. I suspected the maharajah did not intend for us to languish. “Let’s see what is here, then. I suspect she cannot help us.”

  He nodded. “When it is lighter.”

  “Now, Rami! We must try!” This was all new to him, I could tell. After a life of privilege, he still could not believe anything was happening to him in this manner.

  “At dawn, when it is lighter, we will try.” His voice slurred. I realized I was exhausted too.

  I shook my head no, till my hair flew in my face. “Must be a loose stone somewhere!” To what, another cell? my imp roused his ugly head.

  I stubbornly fumbled along the wall, striving to hook my fingers in any crevice, aware Rami stirred himself and, moving in the other direction, scraped and pounded walls for weak spots.

  When he reached the door, I went to help. Maybe the door was rotted or weak. We felt along side, but the hinges were outside, and the rest seemed built for eternity. We slid down the door, leaning against each other, each with our own thoughts and rejected schemes.

  ****

  We jumped up to the sound of scuffling feet and muffled groaning, as if many hands lifted a hefty burden, followed by a thud on packed dirt, followed by gargled curses, more grunts, and rasped breathing.

  “I know that sound. He’s come to gloat.” He did not need to tell me who. We rose, facing the door, holding hands with our backs straight. The door swung. Stuck like a bung in a whiskey barrel, stood the maharajah.

  He strode in, or what he thought was a princely stride, more an agitated waddle, surveying us, his hands like puffy unbaked bread on wobbly hips. He did not look dangerous. I could not take him seriously. Rami squeezed my hand in warning.

  The maharajah wrinkled his nose and waved back a phalanx of guards—easy to be brave, I thought, with those thugs. Holding up a kerchief, he beckoned a guard with a faggot and fit it in a sconce I had overlooked. The metal was old rusty lace. No weapon there, even had we found it.

  In the glare I took a stumble back. Even my stalwart prince twitched. Behind the supreme ruler, a terrifying sight emerged from the gloom. At first, the giant seemed dressed in a costume. I heard Rami’s intake of breath.

  Nervous laughter welled. Rami tightened his grip again in warning. “Courage, dear little rājpatnī,” he whispered, even though I felt him tremble.

  Little wife. I gazed boldly at the behemoth, though my insides quaked.

  Bare feet, from the dirt up. Tight puttees wrapped spread, tree-like calves, a short robe with a drooping sash, topped by a square boulder-like head. He was immobile as stone, too, all but the pebble eyes, glittering like a dog eyeing raw meat.

  I noticed more, with an alarm I tried to conceal. A noose hung carelessly about the bull neck, but the oddest, most ominous feature was his padded-leather vest and arm pads studded with five-inch spikes. The same wicked barbs bristled from wide shoulder pads. The metal thorns even spiked a cantilevered cap extending over long drooping ears, and his massive fist gripped a broad, gleaming scimitar—the other held a small round shield, innocuous among his other murderous regalia.

  So this was it. The end of Rami and me…or perhaps only me, for Rami was of royal blood, after all. I would have courage. I would not tremble. I would meet death celebrating the recent past, my other hidden life might be revealed only on the other side. A small reason to rejoice, but a comfort and shield for what was to come.

  But, oh! I wished to live.

  I risked a look at Rami. As any brave man, he was suitably expressionless. I bit my mouth and gripped his hand tighter, speaking many things in that gesture. Love, regret, fear…but not acceptance. I heard words through a haze and tried to focus.

  “Forgive my interrupting your cozy—” The maharajah swept the insalubruious space. Still holding a dainty kerchief before his nose, he minced, “I would like”—his belly shook as he giggled, waving a hand at the massive figure hulking behind him—“to introduce your executioner. This handsome fellow is quite efficient—when he is not drinking.”

  He turned to the behemoth. “Are you drunk now?” And named him, though I did not hear it.

  The giant gave a slight sway, a tightening of the mouth. My face grew as numb as my thoughts. Execution! Now? So soon? I dared not look at Rami.

  Instead, I watched the maharajah closely for any meaning. My hand in Rami’s grew slippery. Would he mean the giant to—do it here? I faltered. My gaze swept to the curved sword at his side.

  No! Not now! A little time! Let us think. Plead. But no. Never would Rami beg. Perhaps persuade…if we had time. My brave resolve seemed to have evaporated.

  I saw the maharajah’s pupils were all black. I knew what that meant. He could not be reasoned with.

  The studded creature shifted as if readying himself—a dog straining on a spiked leash.

  Rami tightened his fist—courage, love—and then moved slightly in front of me, muscles tensing as if to do battle. What could he do? Get slaughtered? Affording me a few more precious seconds—minutes—hours, in which to reflect on my own death while sorrowing his?

  We would go together, God willing. The armored giant shuffled forward, pressing the maharajah’s back. Armor! Against us! I surveyed his studded vest with such contempt that even he could read it.

  I scarcely heard the maharajah’s next words.

  “In benevolence and consideration for our once-close kinship”—he wiped tears from his eyes—“I am allowing you one more night”—the fat man chuckled. wheezing when he regained his breath—“to reflect, pray, or whatever else your feelings run to.”

  He leered. His small black eyes swept the dismal cell. “Do you fancy your love nest—your bower for your last night? I only wished you to be prepared, giving you the courtesy of time to dwell on your fate upon the morrow,” he oozed.

  “This woman is nothing to you,” Rami said. “I am the one you despise. Let her go in peace. Take me on—yourself, if you dare, if you do not fear to do so.” He ended bitterly, “You always let others do your bloody chores.”

  Oh, Rami, do not annoy him further.

  “Fear!” The maharajah narrowed his eyes to slits. “Seems your strength is in words, not deeds. It is you in prison, not me. I was not blinded by a female. Fear! Look about you. See you not these walls? Impregnable! And when all is prepared, I invited a few—favored guests to your, ah, rather inventive execution.”

  He chuckled again and turned to invite his guards to join him. They dutifully responded.

  “Here is the guest list, and a copy of the invitation.” He waved a sheet of vellum. “They will be quite amused and entertained. It is getting more difficult to shock them.”

  He shoved the paper back into his pocke
t and gestured to the giant. “Come, come, we must not waste their last precious hours together—alone.”

  However, Rami shot an arrow. “You mean your depraved, sadistic, lunatic sycophants who laugh behind your back? Those special guests?”

  The maharajah, sweating and losing steam, wavered at that last volley, backing into the doorpost. A slave wiped his forehead. He backhanded him and dug in his voluminous robe, thrusting out the thick vellum sheet, which I now noted was inked in black calligraphy, with red wax seals like drops of blood.

  “Say what you may. The guest list!” He thrust it in Rami’s face. “This might kill the hours.” He sniggered again like a hideous boy killing flies. “Until that time you are led out to greet them.”

  Then, not sure what to do with it, he flung it at Rami, who had not reached out to accept it.

  And that was the maharajah’s undoing.

  “You will find familiar names,” he continued, oblivious. “Some old friends, who will be surprised, astonished even, to find themselves following you into Naraka to meet Yama as eternal guests of the God of Death.”

  He laughed soundlessly at his own joke, then switched to English, shifting his bird-dropping eyes upon me, and said, “Where sinners are tormented after death. But we need not wait with either of you. Oh, yes, you shall certainly experience the torments of death before you die.”

  He wobbled again. No doubt it was one of the rare times he was forced to stand for any length of time. To keep pride intact, he swept out. Actually, he lurched backward into the arms of the bearers. The clutch of guards and the huge creature with the spikes lumbered after. His retainers rushed to support him to a litter before they dragged the door closed. Did I detect a smirk on the giant’s face?

  I’d like to think so.

  Instantly, the cell seemed cleaner, fresher, if not filled with hope. After the cricket chirp of locks and many feet thudding off with the wheezy sound of the maharajah’s efforts, Rami and I avoided each other’s eyes, each deep in thought.

  Again, laughter welled up behind my fortress wall of clenched teeth. Hysterical laughter.

  We both began a low humming, as if trying to smother amusement. Soon the chuckling became uncontrollable, tears rolling down our faces. We could not breathe. We finally eyed each other, stifling our loss of restraint.

  “Frightened?”

  I nodded numbly. “Yes—no.” I shook my head. “I cannot believe this is—real. It is all so—”

  “Theatrical? Yes, that. Yet he is serious. He must do something to prop up his pride. He has nothing to lose, except us.”

  He eyed the cell like a fox ferreting out a mouse, squinting and prodding hidden corners we already had scoured a dozen times.

  We talked the night through…sharing memories, laughing over frivolous things, even our meeting in Madhuri’s kitchen. We yet eyed walls and talked of escape. We avoided what might come at dawn.

  The air lightened with the passing of rain, filtering from God knew where. I roved dully over an abandoned tin plate and caught the pale blotch of vellum in the corner getting wet.

  I ignored it, looking with despair over rough stone and the door with its tiny solid grille. Was this it? Our last hours? Here? But Rami was with me. I wished he were not.

  Suddenly I began giggling, scrambling up as I stared at the discarded vellum the maharajah dismissively had tossed at us. Rami jerked around from digging near where he thought the outer hinge might be set. “Sary?”

  With a savage whoop, I picked up the piece, waving it like a stiff flag.

  Rami frowned as if I had gone daft. As I had. Daft with hope. Recalling the wood splinter, I tracked the floor for the only other light scrap in our grim space. “This is it, Rami! This will do it!”

  “Throw it away. We don’t need to read it.”

  He made to snatch it from me, but I held it behind me, searching frantically for the jagged wood splintered from the door when they forced me in. Had they kicked it out? Picked it up?

  “Oh, no, no…Rami! Where is it?”

  “Sary, end this.”

  “But Rami! This will”—I lowered my voice—“get us out of here. We can escape,” I added, in case he did not understand. At the moment, he watched as if I were mad as the hatter’s wife.

  I ignored that, for just then I spied it, shoved behind the door all the time. I landed on the insignificant splinter, holding it up like a sacred relic. I even danced.

  Rami studied me with pity.

  “But don’t you see?” I waggled the splinter before his nose. “I will show you!” Rami cocked his head. After listening, he shook it, bemused, shrugging. “Could do.”

  “Could do? In a pig’s eye.” I crouched by the door, gripping the vellum.

  “You said you—read this, somewhere?” As if reading were an alien concept left for silly girls, he took the usual stand of the male claim to superiority over any suggestion brought by a female, which must be taken with a condescending grain of salt.

  Humor her was all over his face.

  “I did. Somewhere. I remember! Doyle. Arthur-something. One of his stories. Oh, never mind!” I shook my head, impatient. “First, create a diversion.”

  “A diversion?” He sighed. “Ohh, Sary. You make me smile and forget our…troubles, but it will not do, my dearest heart.”

  Oooh! Insufferable!

  “We must get serious. We do not know when…” He looked at the door.

  “We die? When his thugees return? Oh, Rami!” I tugged his shirt, pleading with my eyes. “Will you just do it? We have to try!”

  “Yes, but be quick.”

  So I can attempt a manly thing. He cast an impatient, worried glance at the door. “If they come…?”

  “Go—go!” I tossed him the tin plate and shoved him to the far wall. Sighing deeply, he stood there clutching the hefty tin plate, looking foolish.

  “You know,” I hissed. “Bang it!” I motioned frantically.

  Looking embarrassed, he tapped the plate against the stone. Whether it led to another cell or outside, I could not tell, or if it made a difference. Our plan depended on the guard—his sense of hearing, or duty, or both. Nevertheless, it was our only chance.

  Rami thought that wall faced outside. I hoped so.

  I motioned, BANG IT!

  He did, making up for his reluctance and giving the stone wall a great whacking—back and forth, back and forth, clang, bam, bam! Tang, ting boom, clang—! A cacophony of sound that echoed and bounced inside our cell and off the stone.

  The plate slipped from his hands, skipping across the floor with a heavy metallic clatter. He resumed, but not before we heard circular shuffling, as if a body turned in place, then boots rushing off…then a door banged somewhere.

  Good! Outside!

  Instantly I shoved the vellum under the door.

  I had crinkled it.

  It stuck.

  I shoved harder.

  ‘Damn!” The vellum wedged like an accordion. The space below the door was uneven, though. Angry at my haste, I dragged it back, smoothed it, and slid it down toward the frame. I was all thumbs. I heard feet approach. Frantically I waved to Rami. He renewed banging. The feet hesitated outside. Air rushed beneath our door. He was outside again.

  Perspiring, I shoved the vellum through, skimming it until I positioned it under the keyhole. Next, I jammed, poked, and prodded the jagged splinter in the hole, praying it would fit.

  A bit broke off, jamming it. I poked harder, holding my breath until I heard the tiny rustle as the fragment fell inside. I peered in. The way was blocked. Surely that was the key. I worked the rest of the splinter—still no resistance, but then it stuck, or hit something solid. Gently, I pushed and wiggled.

  As I had the splinter all the way in, my fingers barely cleared the hole. I could push no farther. I hit it with the heel of my hand, rewarded by an iron clunk thudding outside.

  I winced. The thud came a second time, musical this time. Off the vellum? No, thank God, becau
se the sheet was heavier when I tugged at it. I jerked it and then, breathing slowly, gently teased it through the gap. It stuck at the jamb.

  “Oh! Damnation!”

  “Easy, Sary,” I heard. The rajah saw what I was attempting.

  Sweat made my hands slippery. The crude key was too thick for the crack between the jamb and door. There was only one spot near the post—where it had been kicked over centuries, most likely—worn away by a full inch, leaving a mouse-sized gap. I cursed the dim light for not allowing me to spot it before.

  I slid the vellum to the gap. Again it caught. I was aware of Rami anxiously watching over my shoulder. I thrust my little finger through, catching the filigreed head of the key, clamping down with teeth-gritting punishment on the tip of my finger.

  It scraped through, and I had it in my hand—all three inches of beautiful battered iron—just as I heard the guard clomping around outside. Dear God, please do not have him notice the key is gone. It was as dim out there. Probably he would not. Why should he?

  We listened.

  I heard the man make water against the wall, and stretch, I could hear the crack of his bones, and groans. I smelt strong tobacco. He was in no hurry to return to this dismal place. Perhaps the new day beckoned him too. I held the key out to Rami as if it were a newborn child.

  It was. The infant of hope.

  The rajah gave me a quick hug that smashed the wind out of my lungs.

  ****

  The maharajah’s eyes opened as far as they could, pushing at jowly cheeks, and his plump lips, gaping with stupefaction and fear, dribbled saliva and half-masticated figs upon a stained coverlet.

  He struggled to his knees as he stared at Rami and me. His face, pale as goat cheese, flooded red, like a pitcher filling with wine. “You!” He started to croak an alarm and fall out of the bed.

  Rami snarled, “Stay! Don’t say one word!”

  The maharajah’s corpulent body wobbled, but he got no farther than one foot thrust from the covers. When he opened his mouth to call, Rami stuffed into it a gob of whatever was on the brass tray within the maharajah’s reach, clamping his hand over the whole resultant mess.