Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  CHAPTER XX

  Ha! my purse may be lean, but my ‘scutcheon is clean,

  And I’m backed by a dozen true men;

  I’ve a sword to my name, and a wrist for the same;

  Can a king frown fear into me, then?

  IT is the privilege of emperors, and kings and princes, that — however little real authority they have, or however much their power is undermined by men behind the throne — they must be accorded dignity. They must be, on the face of things, obeyed.

  Inspection of the treasure finished and an hour-long mummery of rites performed, the thirty wound their way, chanting, in single file back again. The bronze-enforced door, that was only first of half a hundred barriers between approach and the semi-sacred hoard, at last clanged shut and was locked with three locks, each of whose individual keys was in the keeping of a separate member of the three — Maharajah, Prince, and priest. The same keys fitted every door of the maze — made passages, but no one door would open without all three.

  Speaking like an omen from the deepest shadow, the sweeper called to Jaimihr.

  “Sahib, thy palace burns! Sahib, thy prisoner runs! Haste, sahib! Call thy men and hasten back! Thy palace is in flames — the Rangars come to—”

  As a raven, disturbed into night omen-croaking, he sent forth his news from utter blackness into nerve-strung tension. No one member of the thirty but was on the alert for friction or sudden treachery; the were all eyes for each other, and the croaking fell on ears strained to the aching point. He had time to repeat his warning before one of Jaimihr’s men stepped into the darkness where he hid and dragged him out.

  “Sahib, a woman came but now and brought the news. It was from the captain of the guard. The Rangars came to take their man away. They broke in. They burn. They loot. They—”

  But Jaimihr did not wait another instant to hear the rest. To him this seemed like the scheming of his brother. Now he imagined he could read between the lines! That letter sent to Alwa had been misreported to him, and had been really a call to come and free the prisoner and wreak Rangar vengeance! He understood! But first he must save his palace, if it could be saved. The priests must have deceived him, so he wasted no time in arguing with them; he ran, with his guards behind him, to the outer wall of Siva’s temple where the horses waited, each with a saice squatting at his head. The saices were sent scattering among the crowd to give the alarm and send the rest of his contingent hurrying back; Jaimihr and his ten drove home their spurs, and streaked, as the frightened jackal runs when a tiger interrupts them at their worry, hell-bent-for-leather up the unlit street.

  Then Maharajah Howrah’s custom-accorded dignity stood him in good stead. It flashed across his worried brain that space had been given him by the gods in which to think. Jaimihr — one facet of the problem and perhaps the sharpest — would have his hands full for a while, and the priests — wish how they would — would never dare omit the after-ritual in Siva’s temple. He — untrammelled for an hour to come — might study out a course to take and hold with those embarrassing prisoners of his.

  He turned — updrawn in regal stateliness — and intimated to the high priest that the ceremony might proceed without him. When the priests demurred and murmured, he informed them that he would be pleased to give them audience when the ritual was over, and without deigning another argument he turned through a side door into the palace.

  Within ten minutes he was seated in his throne-room. One minute later his prisoners stood in front of him, still holding each other’s hands, and the guard withdrew. The great doors opening on the marble outer hall clanged tight, and in this room there were no carved screens through which a hidden, rustling world might listen. There was gold-incrusted splendor — there were glittering, hanging ornaments that far outdid the peacocks’ feathers of the canopy above the throne; but the walls were solid, and the marble floor rang hard and true.

  There was no nook or corner anywhere that could conceal a man. For a minute, still bejewelled in his robes of state and glittering as the diamonds in his head-dress caught the light from half a dozen hanging lamps, the Maharajah sat and gazed at them, his chin resting on one hand and his silk-clad elbow laid on the carved gold arm of his throne.

  “Why am I troubled?” he demanded suddenly.

  “You know!” said the missionary. His daughter clutched his hand tightly, partly to reassure him, partly because she knew that a despot would be bearded now in his gold-bespattered den, and fear gripped her.

  “Maharajah-sahib, when I came here with letters from the government of India and asked you for a mission house in which to live and work, I told you that I came as a friend — as a respectful sympathizer. I told you I would not incite rebellion against you, and that I would not interfere with native custom or your authority so long as acquiescence and obedience by me did not run counter to the overriding law of the British Government.”

  Howrah did not even move his head in token that he listened, but his tired eyes answered.

  “To that extent I promised not to interfere with your religion.”

  Howrah nodded.

  “Once — twice — in all nine times — I came and warned you that the practice of suttee was and is illegal. My knowledge of Sanskrit is only slight, but there are others of my race who have had opportunity to translate the Sanskrit Vedas, and I have in writing what they found in them. I warned you, when that information reached me, that your priests have been deliberately lying to you — that the Vedas say: ‘Thrice-blessed is she who dies of a broken heart because her lord and master leaves her.’ They say nothing, absolutely nothing, about suttee or its practice, which from the beginning has been a damnable invention of the priests. But the practice of suttee has continued. I have warned the government frequently, in writing, but for reasons which I do not profess to understand they have made no move as yet. For that reason, and for no other, I have tried to be a thorn in your side, and will continue to try to be until this suttee ceases!”

  “Why,” demanded Howrah, “since you are a foreigner with neither influence nor right, do you stay here and behold what you cannot change? Does a snake lie sleeping on an ant-hill? Does a woman watch the butchering of lambs? Yet, do ant-hills cease to be, and are lambs not butchered? Look the other way! Sleep softer in another place!”

  “I am a prisoner. For months past my daughter and I have been prisoners to all intents and purposes, and you, Maharajah-sahib, have known it well. Now, the one man who was left to be our escort to another place is a prisoner, too. You know that, too. And you ask me why I stay! Suppose you answer?”

  Rosemary squeezed his hand again, this time less to restrain him than herself. She was torn between an inclination to laugh at the daring or shiver at the indiscretion of taking to task a man whose one word could place them at the mercy of the priests of Siva, or the mob. But Duncan McClean, a little bowed about the shoulders, peered through his spectacles and waited — quite unawed by all the splendor — for the Maharajah’s answer.

  “Of what man do you speak?” asked Howrah, still undecided what to do with them, and anxious above all things to disguise his thoughts. “What man is a prisoner, and how do you know it?”

  Before McClean had time to answer him, a spear haft rang on the great teak double door. There was a pause, and the clang repeated — another pause — a third reverberating, humming metal notice of an interruption, and the doors swung wide. A Hindoo, salaaming low so that the expression of his face could not be seen, called out down the long length of the hall.

  “The Alwa-sahib waits, demanding audience!” There was no change apparent on Howrah’s face. His fingers tightened on the jewelled cimeter that protruded, silk-sashed, from his middle, but neither voice nor eyes nor lips betrayed the least emotion. It was the McCleans whose eyes blazed with a new-born hope, that was destined to be dashed a second later.

  “Has he guards with him?”

  “But ten, Maharajah-sahib.”

  “Then remove these people to
the place where they were, and afterward admit him — without his guards!”

  “I demand permission to speak with this Alwa-sahib!” said McClean.

  “Remove them!”

  Two spear-armed custodians of the door advanced. Resistance was obviously futile. Still holding his daughter’s hand, the missionary let himself be led to the outer hall and down a corridor, where, presently, a six-inch door shut prisoners and guards even from sound of what transpired beyond.

  Alwa, swaggering until his long spurs jingled like a bunch of keys each time his boot-heels struck the marble floor, strode straight as a soldier up to the raised throne dais — took no notice whatever of the sudden slamming of the door behind him — looked knife-keenly into Howrah’s eyes — and saluted with a flourish.

  “I come from bursting open Jaimihr’s buzzard roost!” he intimated mildly. “He held a man of mine. I have the man.”

  Merely to speak first was insolence; but that breach of etiquette was nothing to his manner and his voice. It appeared that he was so utterly confident of his own prowess that he could afford to speak casually; he did not raise his voice or emphasize a word. He was a man of his word, relating facts, and every line of his steel-thewed anatomy showed it.

  “I sent a letter to you, by horseman, with a present,” said Howrah. “I await the answer.”

  Alwa’s eyes changed, and his attention stiffened. Not having been at home, he knew nothing of the letter, but he did not choose to acknowledge the fact. The principle that one only shares the truth with friends is good, when taken by surprise.

  “I preferred to have confirmation of the matter from the Maharajah’s lips in person, so — since I had this other matter to attend to — I combined two visits in one trip.”

  He lied, as he walked and fought, like a soldier, and the weary man who watched him from the throne detected no false ring.

  “I informed you that I had extended my protection to the two missionaries, man and daughter.”

  “You did. Also, you did well.” He tossed that piece of comfort to the despot as a man might throw table scraps to a starveling dog! “I have come to take away the missionaries.”

  “With a guard of ten!”

  It was the first admission of astonishment that either man had made.

  “Are you not aware that Jaimihr, too, has eyes on the woman?”

  “I am aware of it. I have shown Jaimihr how deep my fear of him lies! I know, too, how deep the love lies between thee and thy brother, king of Howrah! I am here to remind you that many more than ten men would race their horses to a stand-still to answer my summons — brave men, Maharajah-sahib — men whose blades are keen, and straightly held, and true. They who would rally round me against Jaimihr would—”

  “Would fight for me?”

  “I have not yet said so.” There was a little, barely accentuated emphasis on the one word “yet.” The Maharajah thought a minute before he answered.

  “How many mounted troopers could you raise?”

  “Who knows? A thousand — three thousand — according to the soreness of the need.”

  “You have heard — I know that you have heard — what, even at this minute, awaits the British? I know, for I have taken care to know, that a cousin of yours — Mahommed Gunga — is interested for the British. So — so I am interested to have word with you.”

  Alwa laughed ironically.

  “And the tiger asked the wolf pack where good hunting was!” he mocked. “I and my men strike which way suits us when the hour comes.”

  “My palace has many chambers in it!” hinted Howrah. “There have been men who wondered what the light of day was like, having long ago forgotten!”

  “Make me prisoner!” laughed Alwa. “Count then the hours until three thousand blades join Jaimihr and help him grease the dungeon hinges with thy fat!”

  “Having looted Jaimihr’s palace, you speak thus?”

  “Having whipped a dog, I wait for the dog to lick my hand.”

  “What is your purpose with these missionaries?”

  “To redeem my given word.”

  “And then?”

  “I would be free to pledge it again.”

  “To me?”

  “To whom I choose.”

  “I will give thee the missionaries, against thy word to fight on my side when the hour comes.”

  “Against whom?”

  “The British.”

  “I have no quarrel with the British, yet.”

  “I will give thee the missionaries, against thy word to support me on this throne.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Against all comers.”

  “If I refuse, what then?”

  “Jaimihr — who by this time must surely be thy very warmest friend! — shall attack thee unmolested. Pledge thy word — take thy missionary people — and Jaimihr must oppose thee and me combined.”

  “Should Jaimihr ride after me, what then?”

  “If he takes many with him, he must leave his camp unguarded, or only weakly guarded. Then I would act. If he goes with few, how can he take thy castle?”

  “Then I have your protection against Jaimihr, and the missionaries, against my promise to support you on the throne?”

  “My word on it.”

  “And mine.”

  Howrah rose, stepped forward to the dais edge, and held his hand out.

  “Nay!” swore Alwa, recoiling. “My word is given. I take no Hindoo’s hand!”

  Howrah glared for a moment, but thought better of the hot retort that rose to his lips. Instead he struck a silver gong, and when the doors swung open ordered the prisoners to be produced.

  “Escape through the palace-grounds,” he advised Alwa. “A man of mine will show the way.”

  “Remember!” said Alwa across his shoulder with more than royal insolence, “I swore to help thee against Jaimihr and to support thee on thy throne — but in nothing did I swear to be thy tool — remember!”

  CHAPTER XXI

  Howrah City bows the knee

  (More or less) to masters three,

  King, and Prince, and Siva.

  Howrah City comes and goes —

  Buys and sells — and never knows

  Which is friend, and which are foes —

  King, or Prince, or Siva.

  THAT that followed Alwa’s breakaway was all but the tensest hour in Howrah City’s history. The inevitable — the foiled rage of the priests and Jaimihr’s impudent insistence that the missionaries should be handed over to him — the Maharajah’s answer — all combined to set the murmurings afoot. Men said that the threatened rebellion against the rule of Britain had broken loose at last, and a dozen other quite as false and equally probable things.

  Jaimihr, finding that his palace was intact, and that only the prisoner and three horses from his stable were missing, placed the whole guard under arrest — stormed futilely, while his hurrying swarm flocked to him through the dinning streets — and then, mad-angry and made reckless by his rage, rode with a hundred at his back to Howrah’s palace, scattering the bee-swarm of inquisitive but so far peaceful citizens right and left.

  With little ceremony, he sent in word to Howrah that he wanted Alwa and the missionaries; he stated that his private honor was at stake, and that he would stop at nothing to wreak vengeance. He wanted the man who had dared invade his palace — the man whom he had released — and the two who were the prime cause of the outrage. And with just as little ceremony word came out that the Maharajah would please himself as to what he did with prisoners.

  That message was followed almost instantly by the high priest of Siva in person, angry as a turkey-gobbler and blasphemously vindictive. He it was who told Jaimihr of the unexpected departure through the palace-grounds.

  “Ride, Jaimihr-sahib! Ride!” he advised him.

  “How many have you? A hundred? Plenty! Ride and cut him off! There is but one road to Alwa’s place; he must pass by the northern ford through Howrah River. Ride and
cut him off!”

  So, loose-reined, foam-flecked, breathing vengeance, Jaimihr and his hundred thundered through the dark hot night, making a bee-line for the point where Alwa’s band must pass in order to take the shortest route to safety.

  It was his word to the Jew that saved Alwa’s neck. He and his men were riding borrowed horses, and he had promised to return them and reclaim his own. They had moved at a walk through winding, dark palace-alleys, led by a palace attendant, and debouched through a narrow door that gave barely horse-room into the road where Jaimihr had once killed a Maharati trader who molested Rosemary McClean. The missionary and his daughter were mounted on the horses seized in Jaimihr’s stable; Joanna, moaning about “three gold mohurs, sahib — three, where are they?” was up behind Ali Partab, tossed like a pea on a drum-skin by the lunging movements of the wonder of a horse.

  Instead of heading straight for home, in which case — although he did not know it — he would have been surely overhauled and brought to bay, he led at a stiff hand gallop to the Jew’s, changed horses, crossed the ford by the burning ghats, and swooped in a wide half-circle for the sandy trail that would take him homeward. He made the home road miles beyond the point where Jaimihr waited for him — drew rein into the long-striding amble that desert-taught horses love — and led on, laughing.

  “Ho!” He laughed. “Ho-ho! Here, then, is the end of Mahommed Gunga’s scheming! Now, when he comes with arguments to make me fight on the British side, what a tale I have for him! Ho! What a swearing there will be! I will give him his missionary people, and say, ‘There, Mahommed Gunga, cousin mine, there is my word redeemed — there is thy man into the bargain — there are three horses for thee — and I — I am at Howrah’s beck and call!’ Allah! What a swearing there will be!”

  There was swearing, viler and more blasphemous than any of which Mahommed Gunga might be capable, where Jaimihr waited in the dark. He waited until the yellow dawn broke up the first dim streaks of violet before he realized that Alwa had given him the slip; and he cursed even the high priest of Siva when that worthy accosted him and asked what tidings.