basket came the head of a snake, drawn, it seemed, by the pipe’s lugubrious melody. It was not, to Hervey’s mind, of any great size, but it was no rat snake, for its spreading hood was unmistakable.
‘The
Hervey recalled it well enough from his schoolroom lessons in natural history.
The rajah sensed that he had expected to see a more impressive reptile, and sounded a note of warning. ‘Be assured, Captain Hervey, that the cobra, if its fangs could pierce the skin, has enough venom to kill an elephant.’
Hervey looked suitably warned. Indeed, he looked mildly alarmed.
‘Do not concern yourself though,’ smiled the rajah. ‘The cobra’s mouth is sewn together.’
The raj kumari leaned Hervey’s way a little. ‘To see the largest — the king of cobras — Captain Hervey,’ she began conspiratorially, ‘you must go into the forest. There it is called the hamadryad. You must understand why?’
He did. But Locke looked puzzled, leaving Hervey to whisper as best he could, ‘Wood nymph — Greeks — dies with the tree? Remember?’
Locke nodded in faint but indifferent recollection of his Shrewsbury classicals.
Once the rajah was satisfied that Hervey understood the principles of the art before him, he waved for the little man to cease his playing. The cobra descended at once into the basket, and the mongoose, which had not let up its jumping and turning throughout the performance, settled quietly on the floor of its cage.
‘My groom would be delighted by the mongoose, Your Highness,’ said Hervey, smiling. ‘He is inordinately fond of ferrets, an animal very akin to this.’
‘Is he here in Chintalpore with you?’ asked the rajah.
‘No, sir: he remained in Guntoor with my charger. But I am assured he will soon arrive.’
‘I am very glad of it, for I hope that you will avail yourself of our hospitality for some time yet,’ for, declared the rajah, he was in constant want of conversation since the demise of his tutor some years past.
And then curiously, as if to be done with every vestige of the grace and dignity that the Maharashtri nautch had given the evening, there came a raucous chorus of voices the like of which Hervey had never heard, accompanied by cymbals and tambours in a fearful cacophony. The voices wore sarees of the gaudiest colours imaginable, festooned with bangles, necklaces and ankle bells. They were taller even than the nautch girls, and older. Some, indeed, were counted in riper years. They were as thin as laths, without any of the voluptuousness of the nautch. And their singing — if such it could rightly be called — was incomprehensible, their husky voices rhythmically repeating words that Hervey sensed had little meaning. They were to the nautch, indeed, as sackcloth was to silk.
They did not dance, they cavorted. Cavorted for a full five minutes. And their gestures became increasingly lewd until the rajah, smiling indulgently, clapped his hands and shooed them away, at which they besieged the seated audience with little begging bowls — and made hissing noises if they considered the contributions mean. As they recessed to the outer chamber, keeping up the cacophony still, Hervey, astonished by so tawdry (but undeniably amusing) an intrusion, asked the raj kumari who they were. She, like her father before, smiled indulgently. ‘They are known variously, but we call them
Hervey was unenlightened. ‘Meaning?’
‘It is an Urdu word — “neither one thing nor the other”.’
Still Hervey had not understood.
‘Neither male nor female,’ she explained with a sigh.
His embarrassment made her smile.
‘They appear from nowhere at gatherings such as this — weddings, tamashas. They make a great deal of noise and accept money to go away. They always seem to know when there is such an assembly, but I suspect that your Mr Selden told them of this evening. He enjoys their confidence.’
Hervey looked across at Selden, who seemed content.
‘There is a small company of hijdas in Chintalpore, though their greatest number is in Haidarabad, for they are in truth more relics of the Mughal court.’
‘Will they come when the nizam visits?’ asked Hervey.
‘You may be assured of it,’ replied the raj kumari with a smile; ‘whether invited or not. And they will expect generous alms from so rich a ruler and his following.’
When the last strains of the hijdas’ chorus were gone, the rajah and the raj kumari took their leave, satisfied that the banquet had been a worthy gratuity for the service which Hervey had rendered the favoured elephant. The rajah looked forward, he insisted once again, to being able to continue that hospitality in a manner especially appropriate for one of Hervey’s calling, ‘for I believe you will hold with me that hunting is the most noble of our pleasures.’
Hervey thanked him fulsomely.
The raj kumari bowed, smiling also, and thanked him once more for his present of the tushes. ‘They are a handsome trophy, Captain Hervey. And you won them without permitting my Gita to suffer a single mark. Truly, the English are not to be trifled with!’
‘Take a turn with me about the gardens,’ said Selden as the khansamah’s men began the lengthy business of extinguishing the candles and oil lamps.
Hervey was glad of both the air and the chance of broaching at last the subject of his being there. When they were outside, and some distance from the ears of the palace itself, Selden gave his opinion of the evening. ‘The rajah has, quite evidently, taken to you. But I observed him closely as he questioned you on your purpose in coming to India, and I don’t think he was disposed to believing that your mission is concerned solely with the lance. As, indeed, do I not. The rajah is perforce both hospitable to and suspicious of strangers. He knows — without doubt — of the Wellesleys’ late affinity with the nizam, and it will not be beyond possibility that he is thinking of your being an agent of Haidarabad.’
This he had not imagined. He felt at once anxious as he realized that had he first made contact with Bazzard in Calcutta he would have been forewarned of this diplomatic complication.
‘The Pindarees are again making depredations on Chintal’s borders,’ continued Selden. ‘The rajah bought them off last year but they’ve paid his gold little heed. It can’t be long before they come within, for his forces would be hard-pressed to deal with them without leaving Chintalpore open to attack from the west, from Haidarabad.’
Hervey looked about him, anxious there might be ears closer than the palace. His mind was beginning to race and he tried hard to check it as it dawned on him how awkward was his predicament — and of his own making. ‘Selden, may we speak in absolute confidence?’
‘Here is as good as anywhere,’ shrugged the salutri.
‘I mean, may I divulge things to you confident they will go no further?’
Selden paused only for an instant. ‘I would never betray anything that might harm my country — on no account. But if it is something that might harm the rajah then I beg you would not try my loyalty.’
Hervey took the plunge he knew must come. ‘The duke has title to several jagirs in Chintal. They’re governed on his behalf by an official of the Company’s in Calcutta.’
‘Is this of great moment?’ asked Selden, the tone a shade bemused.
‘I don’t know. All I have need to know is that the duke wishes to dispose of them in as discreet a manner as possible.’ Never did Hervey imagine he would dislike a business so.
‘If he has an agent in Calcutta, why should you be concerned in this?’
‘Again, I don’t know why. I understand that not even the jagirs’ steward here in Chintal knows their true ownership. It’s the duke’s wish that they are disposed of as advantageously as possible, within Chintal, and that their former title remain privy.’
Selden inclined his head in a manner that suggested he was now well apprised of Hervey’s purpose. ‘And you wish me to assist in this disposal?’
‘Yes,’ said Hervey quietly, but emphatically.
Selden sucked his cheeks. ‘So your meeting with me was not coincident: you sought me out?’
‘The meeting on the Sukri was
