The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [404]
That open space over there was the obvious site for a new pyre, and to judge from the many footprints that patterned the dust at that particular spot, it had been inspected during the past day by a large number of people who had walked all over and around it, stood talking together for a considerable time, and gone away without visiting any other part of the grove. These marks were proof that this was where the next Rana would be cremated and where in time his chattri would be built, and there was also enough space here for several thousand onlookers as well as the protagonists – and an excellent field of fire for anyone standing above the crowd, say on the terrace of a near-by chattri…
Sarji touched his friend's arm and spoke in a whisper that had been forced on him by the brooding atmosphere of the place: ‘Look – they have hung chiks up there. What do you suppose that is for?’
Ash's gaze followed the direction of Sarji's pointing hand, and saw that one storey of the nearest chattri had indeed been enclosed with split-cane chiks that hung between each pair of pillars, thus turning the top-but-one pavilion on the near side into a small room.
‘Probably for some of the purdah women who want to watch. The Diwan's wife and daughters – people like that. They'll get an excellent view from there,’ said Ash, and turned away quickly, nauseated by the thought that not only the ignorant and humbly-born women, but pampered, aristocratic ones would be equally eager to watch two members of their own sex burned alive – and think themselves blessed by being present.
He made a circuit of the grove, walking between the crowded chattris and the silent tanks that mirrored walls and terraces and domes that had been built before the days of Clive and Warren Hastings; and by the time he returned to the central clearing it was deep in shadow.
‘Let us get away,’ urged Sarji with a shiver. ‘This is an ill-omened spot, and the sun is almost down. I would not be caught near this place when night falls for all the gold in the Rana's treasury. Have you seen all that you wish to see?’
‘Yes,’ said Ash. ‘All and more. We can go now.’
He did not speak again during the walk back to the Mori Gate, and for once Sarji too showed no desire to talk. The sight of that silent, tree-enclosed city of tombs had shaken him more than he cared to own, and once again he found himself wishing that he had never become involved in this affair. Admittedly, Ashok had acknowledged that any last-minute attempt at a rescue from the grove was out of the question, but Sarji had an uneasy conviction that he had something else in mind – some scheme that he intended to carry out alone and without asking advice or assistance from anyone. Well, if he must, he must. There was little one could do to prevent him. But it was bound to end in disaster, and as the Hakim had pointed out, failure would inevitably end in death for all of them. How long, wondered Sarji, would Bukta wait before realizing that his master and the Sahib would never return…?
There were many more people than usual in the city that night, for by now the news that the Rana was dying had reached every village and hamlet in the state, and his subjects were flocking into the capital in order to witness his obsequies, and to look upon the suttees and acquire merit by being present at their sanctification. The talk in the streets was all of the approaching ceremonies, every temple was crowded, and by nightfall the square in front of the palace was overflowing with townsfolk and peasants who gaped at the main gate of the Rung Mahal while they waited for news.
Even the charcoal-seller