The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [396]
Sarji had been in Bhithor for five days, but two had been more than enough to convince him that Ash's account of its ruler and his people had not been exaggerated; and that night, for the first time, it occurred to him that this masquerade on which he had embarked so light-heartedly was likely to prove a far more dangerous affair than he had imagined, and that if that fat and cunning man Manilal failed to return to Bhithor, the odds on his own chances of leaving it alive were too small to be worth betting on.
Lying awake in the hot darkness and listening to Ash's quiet breathing and the reverberating snores of the dumb youth in the shop below, Sarji shivered and wished fervently that he was back in his own safe and pleasant house among the lush green fields and banana groves near Janapat. Life was good, and he had no wish to die, particularly at the hands of these medieval-minded Bhithoris. He heard a horse snort and stamp and a hoof thud against the wooden side of the shed as Dagobaz or his own Moti Raj lashed out angrily at some foraging rat or mongoose, and the sounds reminded him that there was still a way of escape open to them: Bukta's road. That at least was neither closed nor guarded, and tomorrow, if the fat servant again failed to put in an appearance, he, Sarji, would put his foot down.
He would have a straight talk with Ashok, and make him see that in the circumstances it was futile to invite suspicion and discovery by remaining any longer in Bhithor, and that their wisest course would be to leave by the way they had come and make for Ajmer by way of Deesa and Sirohi. True, this would take time, as it involved a considerable detour. But once there Ashok, in his own guise, would be able to see and speak to senior representatives of the Political Department and the police, explain the situation and inform them (if they did not already know it) that Bhithor had sealed itself off from the outside world and was now virtually a fortress.
Sarji distrusted the telegraph and all new-fangled means of communication, and was not in the least surprised that his friend's wires had evoked no response. A letter delivered by a trustworthy peon was, in his opinion, far more reliable. And better still was a face-to-face talk, for that way there could be no mistakes.
But as it happened there was no need for them to go to Ajmer, for Manilal was already in Bhithor. He had arrived late that evening, just as the gates were closing. And on the following morning he went to the bazaar to make some small purchases, where he fell into conversation with two visitors to the city: a tall, lean-faced man from Baroda and a small-boned Gujerati, who were debating the rival merits of mangoes and papayas with the owner of a fruit shop.
40
Gobind had not been pleased to see the Sahib.
The doctor from Karidkote had hoped against hope that when Manilal returned it would be with news that help was on the way, and during the past week he had looked to see the Political Officer or some senior Police-Sahib ride up to the Elephant Gate with a strong contingent of armed men at their back. Instead, he learned that Pelham-Sahib, having sent off several urgent telegrams that had not been answered, had insisted against all advice on coming to Bhithor himself, and was presumably at that moment somewhere in the city, disguised, and accompanied by a Gujerati friend posing as his servant.
Gobind's dismay at official lethargy was only equalled by his alarm at this disclosure, and though he seldom lost his temper,