Sandokan: Quest for a Throne (The Sandokan Series Book 6)

by Emilio Salgari

  His face, half hidden by a rough and unkempt beard that descended to his knees, bore the tattoo of a red trident; his hair, tied in a knot, was rolled above his head and shaped into a pointed mitre. He wore a yellow strip of cloth about his hips and his body, which was skeletally thin and smeared with ashes.

  It was his right arm, however, that drew the eye, for it was held aloft and had withered to little more than coloured bone. His hand had been bound round with strips of linen and its hollow had been filled with dirt to serve as a flowerpot for a small myrtle seedling.

  All bowed as he approached and quickly cleared the path before him. He was a fakir, a gosain to be precise, a man much admired for his piety.

  Gosains are homeless, wandering holy men who make their living by collecting alms and looking after temples. They are followers of Shiva and some are more fanatical in their beliefs than others. It takes determination and years of self-control to obtain a withered arm. It must be kept raised until the blood ceases to flow up to the fingers, and the joints become stiff and rigid. The arm can never be bent again and this sacrifice of a limb is considered an act of martyrdom.

  The two servants who had been standing guard at the door, chewing betel as they passed the time, spied the fakir climbing up the four steps and immediately drew close to bar his path.

  “What do you want?” asked the eldest.

  “Someone has cast the evil eye upon this house,” said the fakir, “I’ve come to ask your mistress if she’d like me to remove the curse before some misfortune befalls her.”

  The two servants exchanged anxious looks.

  “Are you certain of this, gosain?” asked one of the servants.

  “I was sitting on the steps of that pagoda over there when I saw an old man stop and fix his eyes upon this house and trace mysterious symbols in the air. He cast the evil eye upon it and all who dwell within. You know that can be fatal.”

  The guards nodded.

  “Do you know who that old man was?”

  “I’ve never seen him before,” said the fakir. “Does your mistress have any enemies?”

  “Wait here a moment, gosain,” replied one of the guards.

  The servant quickly went into the house, leaving his companion with the fakir. The old man sat down on the top step. A few minutes later the first servant returned, his face now marked with worry.

  “You may enter, gosain,” he said. “My mistress requests that you remove the curse immediately.”

  “It shall be done,” replied the fakir.

  “Come.”

  The gosain slowly entered the villa and climbed the steps that led to Surama’s apartments.

  The princess was waiting for him on the landing. Like most of her compatriots she was a little superstitious and feared the evil eye.

  “Mistress,” the fakir said, “your home has been cursed with the evil eye and I’ve come to destroy its power.”

  “Thank you for your vigilance,” said the young woman.

  “Do you have a bowl I can use?”

  “Of course.”

  Surama gestured to one of her servants, who returned moments later with a silver bowl.

  “And a piece of cloth,” said the fakir.

  Surama unfastened the fine blue and white percaline sash about her hips and handed it to him.

  “Now some water,” said the fakir.

  A servant brought a red crystal bottle inlaid with lapis lazuli.

  The fakir filled the bowl, poured in some red ochre powder, and stirred it into a paste with his fingers. Then he waved his left hand three times over Surama’s face and applied a red dot to her forehead with his thumb. One by one he did the same to all her servants who had gathered behind her, ignoring the four Malays who were standing off to one side and were watching the ceremony in silence.

  Once all the servants had been marked, the fakir took the sash Surama had given him, tore it in half with his teeth, and cast the pieces to the ground, one to his right, the other to his left.

  “It is done,” he said to Surama. “I have removed the curse; you are all out of danger.”

  “What can I offer you for your troubles?” asked the young woman.

  “Allow me to rest here for a while,” said the fakir. “I have not slept or eaten for many nights. What would I do with money? A fakir needs no more than a banana and a few scraps of naan.[20]”

  “Rest then,” said Surama. “We have many sofas here that you’ll find more comfortable than the steps of your pagoda. When you decide it is time to leave, you’ll be given a small gift. In the meantime, what can I offer you?”

  “A cup of toddy would be lovely. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted any.”

  “Immediately. Come everyone, let him sleep.”

  All left the room; the fakir stretched out on a carpet and smiled softly.

  A moment later a servant entered carrying a tray with a cup and a silver flask full of sweet palm wine.

  “Drink your fill, gosain,” he said, placing the tray on the ground. “And the mistress bids you to take this small purse of ten rupees.”

  “I’ll give it to you if you answer my questions,” said the fakir.

  “What would you like to know, gosain?”

  “Where is your mistress’ room?”

  “Next to this one.”

  “On the right or on the left?”

  “On the left,” replied the servant. “Why do you ask?”

  “To better direct her my prayers,” replied the fakir.

  The servant went out. The fakir remained still until the man’s footsteps had faded, then rose to his feet and crept towards the door to Surama’s room. He listened for a moment, then silently turned the handle and stepped inside.

  The princess’s bedroom was hung with white silk embroidered in gold and silver. Her bed stood in the centre, draped with exquisite embroidered cloth, beneath a large punka.

  “No one,” the fakir, muttered to himself. “Brahma or Shiva must be watching over me.”

  He walked to a small ebony cabinet inlaid with mother-of-pearl and drew a small crystal globe from beneath his loincloth, which contained a handful of kashash petals, blue flowers that looked like violets. He carefully opened that odd container, cast the flowers on the floor and swept them beneath the bed with his foot.

  “You’ll sleep soundly tonight,” he murmured with a smile.

  He crept back to his room, closed the door, stretched out on the floor, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  One of Surama’s servants awakened him a couple of hours after sunset.

  “Would you care for some dinner, holy one? My mistress thought you might be hungry.”

  “I’m very tired,” the fakir, replied groggily. “Would your mistress allow me to sleep here for a few more hours?”

  “Of course. May Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu watch over you as you slumber,” replied the servant. “Sleep for as long as you desire!”

  The fakir nodded his thanks and closed his eyes.

  The night was dark and by eleven Surama and her servants had retired to their chambers. The fakir had not stirred, but though his eyes were closed, he was very much awake, his ears straining to catch the slightest sound. It must have been near midnight when a shrill whistle tore through the air. The fakir sat up.

  He went to the window, opened it with his left hand and spied several silhouettes standing in the dark street below.

  The fakir pursed his lips and hissed.

  A similar sound came in reply.

  “It’s them,” he murmured, “On schedule.”

  He looked out the window and hissed again. Seconds later he heard a thud against one of the shutters. The fakir stretched out his left hand, and touched a long arrow that had pierced through one of the thick wooden slats. A rope was attached to the end of it.

  He smiled, turned and went to the door that communicated with Surama’s room, listened for a moment then opened it. A small lamp burned in a corner, filling the room with a soft blue light.
Surama was fast asleep.

  The fakir watched her in silence for a moment then returned to the drawing room. He unfastened the rope from the arrow, threaded it through the shutter ring, fashioned a knot and pulled it tight.

  Satisfied, he leaned out the window and let out a long hiss followed by two short ones.

  Less than a minute later a man climbed over the windowsill, clutching a talwar between his lips.

  “What is it, gosain?” he asked, jumping nimbly into the room.

  “I need your help,” said the fakir. “I cannot carry her with my withered arm.”

  “Kill her and be done with it.”

  “The master does not wish it. He wishes to question her first. Come.”

  The fakir led the man into the adjoining room and pointed to the sleeping princess.

  “Hurry, kashash spares no one.”

  The Indian tore the white silk blanket from the bed, quickly wrapped Surama in the sheets and carried her out of the room.

  “Those were potent flowers!” he muttered. “A moment longer and I would have fallen asleep myself!”

  He hefted Surama over his left shoulder, climbed over the windowsill, grabbed the rope with his right hand and slid to the ground. The fakir, despite his withered arm, followed quickly behind him. Ten men armed with sabres and carbines were waiting for them in the middle of the street.

  “Success?” asked one.

  “Yes.”

  “This way then, quickly.”

  “What about me?” asked the fakir.

  “Come with us.”

  A palanquin carried by four bearers was waiting off to one side. Surama, still wrapped in the white silk blanket was set down inside it, the curtains were drawn, then the small band of men set off at a run, a pair of mashalachi – torchbearers – lighting the path before them.

  One of the men looked back to see if they were being followed, but the windows in the villa were still dark; no one, it seemed, had heard a sound.

  The abductors ran down several deserted streets then stopped before a large elegant bungalow. The door was open; a khansama and four servants sat on the steps beneath a lamp.

  “Is it done?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the fakir. “Your master will be happy.”

  The khansama raised one of the palanquin’s curtains and cast a look upon Surama.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s her. The mysterious princess.”

  He gestured to the servants; they took the palanquin and quickly carried it up the steps.

  “You may go,” said the khansama, turning to the small squad. “You as well, gosain. Better that you are not seen about this house. Here are the hundred rupees my master promised you. Thank you again for you services. Good night.”

  He closed the door and walked to a large room where the servants had set down the palanquin; a lavish bed stood in the centre inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl and adorned with sumptuous embroidered blue silk quilts and pillows.

  The khansama took up the sleeping princess in his powerful arms, carried her to the bed and set her down.

  “Take away the palanquin,” he said to the servants.

  As they were leaving one of the rajah’s ministers stepped into the room.

  “Here she is, sir,” said the khansama, bowing deeply. “As promised.”

  The minister drew back the blanket and looked at Surama.

  “She’s beautiful,” he said. “The English hunter has good taste. Has she been drugged?”

  “No, sir. Kashash petals. I grow them in the garden.”

  “Ah!” nodded the minister.

  “Should I wake her?”

  “Are you going to give her yuma to make her talk?”

  “Something better,” replied the khansama with a smile. “An infusion of bhang[21] and rice. I prepared it yesterday.”

  “Bhang? Won’t that just make her sleep?”

  “The rice slows the effect. It’ll relax her and put her into a trance; you can ask her whatever you like, when she awakens she won’t remember anything.”

  “When can we begin?”

  “Whenever you wish, sir.”

  “And you assure me the princess will not suffer?”

  “No, sir. You have my word.”

  “Begin then.”

  The khansama drew a silver knife and a small crystal vial filled with a yellowish liquid from a shelf and went to Surama’s side.

  “Be careful not to harm her,” said the minister. “We do not yet know who she is; the rajah wants us to be cautious.”

  “There’s no need to fear, sir,” said the khansama.

  He parted Surama’s lips, carefully inserted the tip of the knife between her teeth and gently pried them open. She sighed softly, but her eyes remained closed.

  The khansama took the vial, poured several drops down her throat and counted to ten.

  “That should do,” he said.

  He had barely uttered those words when Surama’s body began to twitch and tremble.

  “She’s waking up, sir,” said the khansama.

  A second tremor, stronger than the first, shook her from head to toe.

  “Hear that? She’s breathing more freely now, sir,” said the khansama who had not taken his eyes from Surama, “Any moment now.”

  Suddenly Surama opened her eyes and sat up. She looked around with great astonishment, then her gaze fell upon the two men who had been watching her in silence.

  “Where am I?” she asked. “This isn’t my room!”

  The surprise lasted but an instant. Her face went slack, her eyes glazed over and she brought a hand to her forehead.

  “Yanez! White sahib!” she said after a moment. “Where are you?”

  “Yanez!” murmured the minister, looking at the khansama. “Who can that be?”

  “Shhh,” whispered the khansama. “Let her speak.”

  Surama continued to rub her brow, her eyes fixed before her.

  “Yanez,” she repeated after a brief silence. “Where are you? Come, my beloved, I need you. I’ve been cursed! The evil eye! A fakir told me so! What if it’s true? What if it’s true? The crown will never be ours.”

  “Crown!” whispered, the minister with a frown. “Did you hear that, khansama?”

  “Every word.”

  Suddenly Surama’s voice grew hard.

  “Wretched fakir!” she exclaimed, clenching her fists. “You lied! There was no evil eye! It was all a ruse. A trap! Where are you my white sahib?”

  “She knows?” asked the minister.

  “Speculation,” said the khansama.

  “Then she—”

  “Shhh, let her talk.”

  Surama wiped away the sweat that had begun to bead across her forehead. The bhang was taking effect.

  She fell silent for a moment, her eyes staring blankly before her.

  “But what if it’s true? Where are Sandokan and Tremal-Naik? Surely they can come to my aid! Such fearless men, nothing can stand before them. Not even Suyodhana and his thugs!”

  “Do you make anything of that, khansama?” asked the rajah’s minister, astonished by what he had heard.

  “No, sir.”

  “Suyodhana… have you heard that name before?””

  “No, sir.”

  “She spoke of a crown.”

  “The crown of Assam no doubt.”

  “Possibly, but we can’t say that for certain.”

  Surama sat up again and fixed her eyes upon the minister.

  “You’re not the white sahib,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  The khansama signalled for him to reply.

  “I’m his friend,” said the minister, “he asked me to check on you.”

  “Where is the Tiger of Malaysia?”

  “Who?”

  “The Tiger of Malaysia,” repeated Surama.

  “I do not know him. Who is he?”

  “The most dreaded pirate in the South China Sea.”

  “A pirate?”

&n
bsp; “A warrior. From Borneo, far far from here.”

  “You met him there?”

  “No, in Calcutta, when he came to fight the thugs. That’s when I met my white sahib.”

  The minister, who could make no sense of those replies, cast a glance at the khansama who signalled him to continue.

  “They fought the thugs?” asked the minister.

  “And killed them all,” replied Surama, “including their leader, Suyodhana.”

  “Killed by the white sahib?”

  “Killed by the Tiger of Malaysia.”

  “Where is this man? I haven’t seen him at court.”

  “Hiding in an old pagoda with his men.”

  “Which pagoda?”

  “Opposite that island… that island where they stole the Shaligram.”

  “Who stole it?”

  “Yanez.”

  “Again that name,” murmured the minister. “Who are these men?” Then, raising his voice he asked. “Do you know the name of that pagoda?”

  “No, it’s underground, in a hill not far from the river.”

  “I think I know it,” said the khansama. “That sounds like the old Kariya temple.”

  The minister gave a nod and continued.

  “How many men does the Tiger have with him?”

  “I do not know,” replied Surama.

  “Many?”

  “I do not know,” she repeated.

  “Why did they come here?”

  “For the crown.”

  “Which crown?”

  “The crown of Assam.”

  The two men’s eyes widened as they took in those words.

  “A plot against the rajah,” said the minister.

  “Continue to question her, sir,” replied the khansama. “The rajah’s life may be at stake.”

  The minister turned back to Surama, the young woman had not moved, her eyes staring blankly before her.

  “Who is leading this plot?” he asked.

  Surama remained silent.

  “Did you hear me, madam?” asked the minister.

  The young woman made as if to speak then fell back upon the bed and closed her eyes.

  “I’m afraid that’s all you’ll get tonight,” said the khansama.

  “Can we resume tomorrow?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. The concoction is quite potent; she may never awaken again.”

  “I know enough,” murmured the minister. “We must warn Teotokris immediately and take all measures to thwart this terrible plot.”