The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [408]
Sarji released his breath in a long sigh and put a hand on Ash's arm, gripping it. ‘Forgive me, my friend. I did not mean to insult you. Or her. I know well that hearts are not like hired servants who can be bidden to do what we desire of them. They stay or go as they will, and we can neither hold nor prevent them. The gods know that I have lost and regained mine a dozen times. For which I have cause to be grateful, for my father lost his once only: to my mother. After she died he was never more than the shell of a man. He would have felt for you. But he could no more prevent my mother's death than you can prevent the Rani's.’
‘I know that. But I can and will save her from death by fire,’ said Ash with shut teeth.
‘How?’ Sarji's fingers tightened on his arm and shook it angrily. ‘It is not possible, and you know it. If you mean to break into the palace -’
‘I don't. I mean to reach the burning-ground ahead of the crowd and take up a position on the terrace of that chattri: the one overlooking the spot where they will build the pyre. From there I shall be able to see over the heads of the crowd below, and if by the time the women reach the clearing there has been no intervention by the Sirkar, and I know that the end is near, I shall do the only thing I can for her… put a bullet through her heart. I am too good a shot to miss at that range, and it will be a quick death and far more merciful than the fire. She will not even know that she has been hit.’
‘You are mad!’ whispered Sarji, his face grey with shock. ‘Mad.’ He snatched his hand away and his voice rose: ‘Do you think that those nearest you will not know who has fired the shot? They will tear you in pieces.’
‘My body, perhaps. But what will that matter? There are six bullets in a revolver, of which I shall only need two: the second will be for myself. Once I have fired it I shall neither know nor care what the mob does to me, and if, as you say, they tear me to pieces, it will be the best thing that could possibly happen, because then no one will ever be able to say who I was or where I came from – or even if I was a man. So we must hope that they will do so. All the same, you would be advised to leave as early as you can: you and the Hakim-Sahib and Manilal…
‘I have written to the Hakim, telling him that you will meet them at the spot where the road crosses the stream and there are two palm trees and a wayside shrine. Manilal will know it well. They must leave the city by the Mori Gate, to make it appear that they mean to attend the cremation; and once in the open country they should be able to separate themselves from the crowd without being observed, and make their way to the valley. I'll deliver that letter myself before I leave. There will be too many people in the square for the watchers to keep tally of everyone who passes the Hakim-Sahib's door.’
‘And the other letters?’ asked Sarji slowly, glancing at the pile on the floor.
‘Those I hope you will take back with-you and post at the dâk-khana in Ahmadabad.’ Ash picked them up and handed them over one by one: ‘This is the one that you put your name to: it is my Will and I have addressed it to a lawyer in Belait. And this, which is also in Angrezi, is for a Captain-Sahib in my Regiment in Mardan. These two are for an old man, a Pathan, who has been as a father to me, and for his son who has been my friend for many years. And this – No, this one too I will deliver myself to the Hakim-Sahib to take to Karidkote, as it is for the Ranis' uncle. This last is for my bearer, Gul Baz. Will you see that he