The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [317]
The morbidness of the last thought suddenly struck him, and he grimaced at the picture of himself that it presented: a spineless coward, wallowing in self-pity. How Juli would despise him if she knew. And she would be right to do so, for one thing was certain: living was going to be a lot easier for him than it would be for her. He was not condemned to stay in Bhithor, and there were many ways in which he could fill his life. The North-West Frontier was seldom quiet for long, and the Guides were more familiar with war than peace. There would be campaigns among the Border hills, and battles to be planned and fought and won; horses to ride and strange, wild places to explore; mountains to climb… and friends to talk and drink and laugh with – Zarin and Wally and Koda Dad, Mahdoo and Mulraj and Kaka-ji and many others. But for Juli there was only Shushila, and if Shu-shu were to fail her or turn against her, or fall ill and die, she would have nothing left…
The sky that had been dark when Ash came up onto the roof was beginning to pale, and there were no longer lights in the city, for the chirags had burned out or been extinguished by the dawn wind. The night was over and morning only a step away, and soon the cocks would begin to crow and a new day begin. It was time to go down to his room and try to snatch an hour's rest while the air was still faintly cool, because once the sun rose the heat would be too gruelling for sleep, and there was so much to be done and decided on in the coming day that it would be as well to avoid trying to deal with it while sodden with fatigue.
Ash straightened up tiredly and thrust his hands into his pockets, and as he did so his fingers encountered something round and rough. It was one of the small cakes that had been passed round among the guests on the steps of the Pearl Palace, and that he had accepted out of politeness and put in his pocket, meaning to throw it away later. He took it out, and looking at it was reminded of other days. A smile softened the grim weariness of his mouth and he crumbled it up and strewed it on the rim of the parapet; and when he had done that, he looked for the last time at the distant silhouette of the Rung Mahal and spoke very softly into the stillness.
It was not the prayer that he had been used to say when he made offerings to the Dur Khaima but it was, in its way, a prayer. A prayer and a vow. ‘Don't worry, my dear darling,’ said Ash. ‘I promise I won't forget you. I shall love you always and for ever. Goodbye, Juli. Goodbye, my dear and only love. Khuda hafiz!…’
He turned and walked back across the roof, and was asleep by the time the dawn broke in a wash of lemon yellow behind the dark line of the hills.
Two days later – which was one more than Ash had hoped for and several less than Mulraj had expected – the new Maharajah of Karidkote set out for home with a party of seventy men; twenty-four of them soldiers, a dozen officials, and the remainder syces and servants. They had received a royal send-off, being accompanied as far as the frontier of Bhithor by what appeared to be fully half the population of the state, headed by the Rana himself. And as they rode down the valley the guns of the three forts had thundered in salute.
Their departure had been preceded by three farewell interviews: an official one in the Diwan-i-Khas, another between Jhoti and his sisters, and a third, and private one, between Ash and Kaka-ji.
The official farewell had consisted largely of speeches and garlands, and Jhoti's had been a taxing experience. Shushila had genuinely admired her elder brother and already wept herself into a state of exhaustion on hearing of his death. Faced now with parting from the younger one, she had given way to hysteria and behaved in such a frenzied manner that Jhoti had finally