The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [393]
Ash had taken pains to give that serviceable weapon the outward appearance of neglect, an effect that was purely illusory and in no degree altered its performance, and Dagobaz too had suffered a similar transformation; Bukta having insisted on altering his coat with touches of bleach and an application of reddish-brown dye before they started out, on the grounds that someone might recognize the horse, if not its rider, and it was better that both be disguised so that if any accident befell them they could not be easily traced.
In addition to this the black stallion's once gleaming coat was rough with dust, while the expensive English saddle had been changed for a shabby though stoutly-made one, normally used by one of Sarji's peons, so that his whole appearance, like that of his rider, was now undistinguished enough to escape notice. For though anyone with an eye for horseflesh could not fail to recognize his quality, the average passer-by would not have spared him a second glance; and as Sarji had predicted, such citizens as were to be met with at that hour had other things on their minds, for by now the sun was almost down, and those who had worked in the fields all day were coming home. The air was full of dust and the low, blue haze of smoke, and there was a rich smell of cattle and goats and of cooking pots simmering over innumerable fires.
The ancient bronze lamp that hung under the arch of the Elephant Gate was already being lit, and two of the three guards, their muskets laid aside, were squatting on the stone plinth by the guard-room door, intent on a game of chance and completely oblivious of the noise and the jostling throng of men and animals. The third was engaged in a wordy warfare with a carter whose off-wheel had become jammed against the gate-post, and no one challenged the two tired and dusty riders who had joined the hurrying stream of the homeward-bound.
Few if any even noticed them, and those who did were not sufficiently interested to take a second look, for it is only in small villages that men are familiar with the names and faces of every member of their community, and Bhithor was a city of close on thirty thousand inhabitants – of which at least a tenth were attached in one capacity or another to the court, and since these lived within the precincts of the royal palace, many were not personally known to a large number of the citizens, particularly to those who lived in the poorer quarters of the town.
Ash had good reason to know every turn and twist of the streets that lay between the Hathi Pol and the Rung Mahal, having ridden that way far too often to have forgotten it, but he knew very little of the rest of the city and must rely on the information that Manilal had given him. There was no inn or any public serai where a traveller could put up for a night, as Bhithor lay well off the beaten track and few travellers, it seemed, cared to visit the place: nor were they welcome.
The ease with which Ash and Sarji had entered the city was counterbalanced by the difficulty they experienced in finding a place to lodge, and night had fallen before they managed to rent a room over a charcoal-seller's shop, with permission to stable their horses in a rickety shed that occupied a corner of the yard below.
The charcoal-seller was old and infirm, and like most Bhithoris, distrusted all strangers on principle. But he was also avaricious, and though his sight and hearing were bad, both were still good