The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [412]
‘Of course he does. He knows everything, don't you, my son?’
Dagobaz bowed his head to nuzzle Ash's shoulder as though in affectionate agreement, and Ash rubbed his cheek against the velvet nose and said with a catch in his voice: ‘Be good to him, Sarji. Don't let him…’ He broke off abruptly, aware of a constriction in his throat, and for the next few minutes busied himself with the remaining straps. When he spoke again his voice was curt and unemotional:
‘There, that's done. I've left you the carbine, Sarji. I shan't need it, but you and the others may, so you must take it with you. You know what to do, don't you? There's no need to go over it again. We have been good friends, you and I, and I'm sorry that I let you get involved in this affair and brough you into danger – and that it had to end like this. I should never have let you come, but then I'd hoped that… Oh well, it doesn't matter now. But be careful, Sarji – be very careful. For if anything were to happen to you -’
‘It won't,’ said Sarji quickly. ‘Do not worry, I will be careful, I promse you. Here, you had better take my whip. It may come in useful to clear a way through the crowds. You have the revolver?’
‘Yes, open the yard door for me, will you? Goodbye, Sarji. Good luck… and thank you.’
They embraced as brothers do, and then Sarji went ahead with the lamp, and unbarring the door, held it open while Ash led Dagobaz out onto the street. ‘It will be light soon,’ said Sarji, holding the stirrup while Ash mounted. ‘The stars are already pale and the dawn is not far off. I wish…’
He broke off with a sharp sigh, and Ash leant from the saddle to grip his shoulder for a brief moment, then touching Dagobaz with his heel, he rode away without looking back.
It had not proved as easy as he had thought to reach Gobind's house, for the eerie clamour seemed to have drawn half the population of Bhithor to the Rung Mahal, and not only the square in front of the palace but every street and alleyway leading to it was packed to suffocation. But somehow he had managed to force a way through, using Sarji's whip mercilessly on the surrounding heads and shoulders, and urging Dagobaz onward a foot at a time while the crowd shouted and cursed and gave way before him.
The door of Gobind's house was barred, and anyone deputed to keep watch on it must have been swept up and carried along with the crowd minutes ago, as Ash himself would have been had he not come on horseback. But being mounted gave him another advantage, for by standing up in his stirrups he could just reach a first-floor window that had been left open because of the heat of the night. There was no light in the room behind it – or, as far as he could see, in any part of the house. But when he hammered on the lattice with the butt of the whip, Manilal's round, pale face appeared in the opening.
‘What is it? Who is it?’
Ash thrust the two letters at him by way of reply, and without speaking wrenched Dagobaz round and began to force his way back down the street against the moving torrent of people. Ten minutes later he was clear of them and riding hard through dark and almost deserted alleyways towards the Mori Gate. Here there were lights again: oil lamps, lanterns and cressets. And more people, though not too many; one or two guards and nightwatchmen, and a few small groups of country folk from outlying villages, who had evidently been camping out under the great archway and were now busy preparing an early meal before setting off to join the crowds about the palace.
The glare from the cressets and the wavering gleam of half-a-dozen little cow-dung fires made the sandstone walls glow like burnished copper, and by contrast the landscape that lay beyond the gateway appeared as a square of blackness – for the charcoal-seller had not lied about the opening of the gates: they stood wide and unguarded, so