Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  The Rajput hesitated. The answer to that question could be seen any day near the place they call the Old Gate, where beggars sit in rags.

  “Shall I offer him money?” whispered Tess.

  “For God’s sake, no, lady! The man’s a decent soldier. He’d refuse it and we’d all be in the apple-cart! Leave him to me.”

  He turned again on the Rajput.

  “You know who I am, don’t you? You know it’s my duty to see that the palace guards attend to business, eh? That’s why I’m here tonight. His highness particularly warned me to see that if anything unusual wanted doing it should get done. If you want to question my authority you’ll have it out with me before his highness in the morning first thing.”

  The Rajput obviously wavered. Everybody knew that the first thing in the morning was no good time to appear on charges before a man who spent his nights as Gungadhura did.

  “Who is to enter? A man and a woman?”

  “No, you idiot! A lady doctor only. And nobody’s to know. You’d better warn your men that if there’s any talk about this night’s business the palace guard will catch the first blast of the typhoon. Gungadhura’s anger isn’t mild in these days!”

  “Show me the letter again,” said the Rajput. “Let me keep it in case

  I am brought to book.”

  Tom translated that to Tess and her husband.

  “It’s this way, ma’am. If you let him keep the letter I suspect he’ll let you go in. But he may show it to the maharajah in the morning, and then there’ll be hot fat in the fire. If you don’t let him keep it, perhaps he’ll admit you and perhaps he won’t; but if you keep the letter, and trouble comes of it, he and I’ll both be in the soup! Never mind about me. Maybe I’m too valuable to be sent packing. I’ll take the chance. But this man’s a decent soldier, and he’d be helpless.”

  “Let him keep it,” said Tess.

  Tom turned on the Rajput again.

  “Here’s the letter. Take it. But mark this! What his highness wants tonight is discretion. There might be promotion for a man who’d say nothing about this night’s work. If, on top of that, he was soldier enough to keep his men from talking he’d be reported favorably to his highness by Tom Tripe. Who got you made risaldar, eh? Who stood up for you, when you were charged with striking Gullam Singh? Was Tom Tripe’s friendship worth having then? Now suit yourself! I’ve said all I’m going to say.”

  The Rajput muttered something in his beard, stared again at the letter as if that of itself would justify him, looked sharply at Tess, whose hamper might or might not be corroborative evidence, folded the letter away in his tunic pocket, and made a gesture of assent.

  “Now, lady, hurry!” said Tom. “And here’s hoping you’re right about there being no hell! I’ve told lies enough tonight to damn my soul forever! Once you’re safely through the gate I’ll have a word or two more with the guard, and then your husband and I will go to a place close by that I know of and wait for you.”

  But Tess objected to that. “Please don’t leave me waiting for you in the dark outside the gate when I return! Why not keep the carriage here; my husband won’t mind.”

  “Might make talk, ma’am. I’ll leave Trotters here to watch for you. He’ll bring word in less than a minute.”

  Tom Tripe dismounted to help her out of the dog-cart. The Rajput struck the iron gate as if he expected to have to wake the dead and take an hour about it. But it opened suspiciously quickly and a bearded Afridi, of all unlikely people, thrust an expectant face outward, rather like a tortoise emerging from its shell, blinking as he tried to recognize the shadowy forms that moved in the confusing lamplight. He seemed to know whom to expect and admit, for he beckoned Tess with a long crooked forefinger the moment she approached the gate, and in another ten seconds the iron clanged behind her, shutting her off from husband and all present hope of succor. The chance of any rescuer entering the palace that night, whether by force or subtlety, was infinitesimal.

  The strange gateman — he had a little kennel of a place to sleep in just inside the entrance — snatched the hamper from Tess and led her almost at a run across an ancient courtyard whose outlines were nearly invisible except where the yellow light of one ancient oil lantern on an iron bracket showed a part of the palace wall and a steep flight of stone steps, worn down the middle by centuries of sandals. Everything else was in gloom and shadow, and only one chink of light betrayed the whereabouts of a curtained window. The Afridi led her up the stone steps, and paused at the top to hammer on a carved door with his clenched fist; but the door moved while his fist was in mid-air, and the merry-eyed maid who opened it mocked him for a lunatic. Dumb, apparently, in the presence of woman, he slunk down the steps again, leaving Tess wondering whether it were not good manners to remove her shoes before entering. Natives of the country always removed their shoes before entering her house, and she supposed it would be only decent to reciprocate.

  However, the maid took her by the hand and pulled her inside without further ceremony, not letting go of the hand even to close the door, but patting it and making much of her, smiling the welcome that they had no words in common to express. The little outer hall in which they stood was shut off by curtains six yards high, all smothered in a needlework of peacocks that generations of patient fingers must have toiled at. Pulling these apart the maid led her into an inner hall fifty or sixty feet long, the first sight of which banished all diffidence about her shoes; for never had she seen such medley of East and West, such toning down of Oriental mysticism with the sheer utility of European importations; and that without incongruity.

  The lamps, of which there were dozens, were mostly Russian. Some of the furniture was Buhl, some French. There were hangings that looked like loot from the Pekin Summer Palace, and tapestry from Gobelin. In a place of honor on a side wall was an ikon, framed in gold, and facing that an image of the Buddha done in greenish bronze, flanked by a Dutch picture of the Twelve Apostles with laughably Dutch faces receiving instruction on a mountain from a Christ whose other name was surely Hans.

  Down the center of the hall, leading to a gallery, was a magnificent stairway of marble and lapis lazuli, carpeted with long Bokhara strips so well joined end to end that the whole looked like one piece. And at the top of those stairs Yasmini stood waiting, her golden hair illuminated by glass lamps on either marble column at the stairhead. She was as different from the Gunga Singh of riding boots and turban as the morning is from night — the loveliest, bewitchingest girl in silken gossamer that Tess had ever set eyes on.

  “I knew you would come!” she shouted gleefully. “I knew you would get in! I knew you are my friend! Oh, I’m glad! I’m glad!”

  She pirouetted a dozen times on bare toes at the top of the stairs, spinning until her silken skirts expanded in a nimbus, then danced down-stairs into Tess’s arms, where she clung, panting and laughing.

  “I’m so hungry! Oh, I’m hungry! Did you bring the food?”

  “I’m ashamed!” Tess answered. “The man set it down outside the door and I left it there.”

  But Yasmini gave a little shrill of delight, and Tess turned to see that another maid had brought it.

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Five.”

  “Thank heaven! I’ve brought enough for a square meal for a dozen.”

  “We have eaten a little, little bit each day of the servants’ rice, washing it first for hours, until today, when two of the servants were taken sick and we thought perhaps their food was poisoned too. Oh, we’re hungry!”

  Hasamurti, Yasmini’s maid, opened the basket on the floor and crowed aloud. Tess apologized.

  “I knew nothing about the caste restrictions, but I’ve put in meat jelly — and bread — and fruit — and rice — and nuts — and milk — and tea — and wine — and sugar—”

  Yasmini laughed.

  “I am as Western as I choose to be, and only pretend to caste when

  I see fit. My maids do as I do, or they
seek another mistress. Come!”

  Hasamurti would have spread a banquet there on the floor, but Yasmini led them up-stairs, holding Tess by the hand, turning to the right at the stairhead into a room all cream and golden, lighted by hanging lamps that shone through disks of colored glass. There she pulled Tess down beside her on to a great soft divan and they all ate together, the maids munching their share while they served their mistress. They devoured the milk, and left the wine, eating, all things considered, astonishingly moderately.

  “Now we ought all to go to sleep,” announced Yasmini, yawning, and then bubbling with delighted laughter at the expression of Tess’s face. “The people outside might wait!”

  “Great heavens, child. Do you suppose I can stay here indefinitely?” Tess demanded. “I must be gone in an hour or my husband will murder the guard and force an entrance!”

  “I will have just such a husband soon,” announced Yasmini. “When I send him one little word, he will cut the throats of thirty men and come to me through flames! Let us try your husband,” she added as an afterthought — then laughed again at Tess’s expression of dissent, and nodded.

  “I, too, will be careful how I risk my husband! Men are but moths in a woman’s hands — fragile — but the good ones are precious. Besides, we have no time tonight for sport. I must escape.”

  Evidently Tess was causing her exquisite amusement. The thought of being an accomplice in any such adventure stirred all her Yankee common sense to its depths, and she had none of the Eastern trick of not displaying her emotions.

  “Nonsense, child! Let me go to the commissioner and warn him that you are being starved to death in this place. I will threaten him with public scandal if he doesn’t put an end to it at once.”

  “Pouf!” laughed Yasmini. “Samson sahib would make a nice clumsy accomplice! He would send me to Calcutta, where I should be poisoned sooner or later for a certainty, because Gungadhura would send agents to attend to that. They would wait months and months for their opportunity, and I can not always stay awake. Meanwhile Samson sahib would claim praise from his government, and they would put some more initials at the end of his name, and promote him to a bigger district with more pay. No! Samson sahib shall have another district surely, but even he in his conceit will not consider it promotion! There will not be room for Samson sahib in Sialpore when I am maharanee!”

  “You maharanee? It was you yourself who told me that Gungadhura has lots of children, who all stand between you and the throne. Do you mean — ?”

  Again the bell-like laugh announced utter enjoyment of Tess’s bewilderment.

  “No, I will kill nobody. I will not even send snakes in a basket to Gungadhura. That scorpion shall sting himself to death if he sees fit, with a ring of the fire of ridicule all about him and no friends to console him, and no hope — nothing but disappointment and fear and rage! I will kill nobody. Yet I will be maharanee within the month!”

  Suddenly she grew deadly serious, her young face darkening as the sky does when a quick cloud hides the sun.

  “What is your husband’s contract with Gungadhura? May he dig for gold anywhere? He is digging now, isn’t he, close to the British fort on the ‘island’ in our territory — that fort with the flagstaff on it that can be seen from Gungadhura’s roof? He is wasting time!”

  “He has found a little vein of gold,” said Tess, “that will likely lead to a bigger vein.”

  “He is wasting time! Sita Ram, who has a compass, and who knows all that goes on in Samson sahib’s office, sent me word that the little vein of gold runs nearly due north. In another week at the rate the men are digging your husband will be under the fort. That is English territory. The English have nothing to do with Gungadhura’s contract. They will take the gold your husband finds and give him nothing. Then Samson sahib would be considered a most excellent commissioner and would surely get promotion! Pouf!”

  “Perhaps my husband can make a separate bargain with the English.”

  “Pouf! Samson sahib is an idiot, but he is not fool enough to give away what would be in his hands already! I myself, hidden beneath your window, heard him give you clear warning on that point! No, there must be another plan. Your husband must dig elsewhere.”

  “But, my dear, Gungadhura knows already that my husband has found a ‘leader.’ He is all worked up about it, and goes every day to watch the progress.”

  “Surely — knowing as well as I do that the vein is leading toward the fort. He goes afterward to the priests, and prays that the vein of gold may turn another way and save him from bankruptcy! Listen? I speak truth! I speak to you woman to woman — womb to womb! I will count myself accursed, and will let a cobra bite me if I tell you now one word that is not true! Do you believe I am going to tell you the truth?”

  Tess nodded. Yasmini, by her own admission, would lie deliberately when that suited her; but the truth tells itself, as it were, and there is no mistaking it, except by such as lie invariably, of whom there is a multifarious host.

  “If your husband continues digging near the fort he will get nothing, because the English will take it all. If he digs in a certain other place he will get a very great fortune!”

  “But, my dear, supposing that is quite true, how shall he convince Gungadhura, after all the outlay and expense of the present operations, that it’s best to abandon them and begin all over again in another place?”

  Yasmini lay back on the cushions, drew something out from under one of them, and laughed softly, as if enjoying a deep underflow of secret information.

  “Gungadhura himself shall insist on it!”

  “What? On starting again in a new place?”

  Yasmini nodded.

  “Only do as I say, and Gungadhura himself shall insist.”

  “What do you wish me to do?”

  Tess was beginning to feel alarmed again. She knew to a rupee how much Gungadhura had been obliged to pay out for the digging. To make herself responsible even in degree for the abandonment of all that outlay would be risky, even if no other construction could be placed on it.

  “Has Tom Tripe been told to search your house?”

  “Yes, so he says.”

  “Do you know the cellar of your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is dark. Are you afraid to go there?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Is there a flat stone in a corner of the cellar floor that once had a ring in it but the ring is broken out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then Sita Ram did not lie to me. Take this.” She gave her a little silver tube, capped at either end and sealed heavily with wax. “There is a writing inside it — done in Persian. Hide that under the stone, and let Tom Tripe search the cellar and find it there; but forbid him to remove it.”

  “If I only knew what you are driving at!” said Tess with a wry smile.

  A clumsier conspirator might have lost the game at that point by over-emphasis, for Tess was wavering between point-blank refusal and delay that would give her time to consult her husband. But Yasmini, even at that age, was adept at feeling her way nicely. Again she lay back on the cushion, and this time lit a cigarette, smoking lazily.

  “The stake that I am playing for — the stake that I shall surely win,” she said after a minute, “is too big to be risked. If you are afraid, let us forget all that I have said. Let us be friends and nothing more.”

  Tess did not answer. She recognized the appeal to her own pride, and ignored it. What she was thinking of was Gungadhura’s beastliness — his attempts to poison Yasmini — his treatment of women generally — his cruelty to animals in the arena — his viciousness; and then, of how much more queenly if nothing else, this girl would likely be than ever Gungadhura could be kingly. It was tempting enough to have a hand in substituting Yasmini for Gungadhura on the throne of Sialpore if the chance of doing it were real.

  Yasmini seemed able to read her thoughts, or at all events to guess them.

  “When I am mah
aranee,” she said, “there will be an end of Gungadhura’s swinishness. Moreover, promises will all be kept, unwritten ones as well as written. Gungadhura’s contracts will be carried out. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes, I think I believe that.”

  “Let Tom Tripe find that silver tube in your cellar then. But listen! When Gungadhura comes to your husband and insists on digging elsewhere, let your husband bargain like a huckster! Let him at first refuse. It may be that Gungadhura will let him continue where he digs, and will himself send men to start digging in the other place. In that case, well and good.”

  “I would prefer that, said Tess. “My husband is a mining engineer.

  I think he would hate to abandon a true lead for a whim of some one’s else.”

  Yasmini’s bright eyes gleamed intelligence. She was only learning in those days to bend people to her own imperious will and to use others’ virtues for own ends as readily as their vices. She recognized the necessity of yielding to Tess’s compunctions, more than suspecting that Dick Blaine would color his own views pretty much to suit his wife’s in any case. And with a lightning ability peculiar to her she saw how to improve her own plan by yielding.

  “That is settled, then,” she said lazily. “Your husband shall continue to dig near the fort, if he so wishes. But let him show Samson sahib some specimens of the gold — how little it is — how feeble — how uncertain. Be sure he does that, please. That will be the end of Gungadhura. And now it is time to escape from here, and for you to help me.”

  Tess resigned herself to the inevitable. Whatever the consequences, she was not willing to leave Yasmini to starve or be poisoned.

  “I’m ready!” she said. “What’s the plan?”

  “I shall leave all the maids behind. They have food enough for the morning. In the morning, after it is known that I have escaped, word shall be sent to Samson sahib that the women in this palace have nothing but poisoned food to eat. He must beard Gungadhura about that or lose his own standing with the English.”

  “But how will you escape?”

  “Nay, that is not the difficulty. Your husband and Tom Tripe are waiting with the carriage. My part is easy. This is the problem: how will you follow me?”