The Sandalwood Princess

“Lay down your weapons,” the strange voice commanded the bearers, “or he dies.”

“Run, fools!” Padji cried. “Take her away. I die for—”

“No!” Amanda cried, before the bearers could move. “Do as the pig says.”

“A wise woman,” the voice said softly. “Down on your knees, my elephant,” he told Padji.

“I kneel to no thieving pig. Cut my throat, then, fool, and the others will fall upon you.”

“No!” Amanda screamed.

Too late. Silver gleamed as it swept through the air, and Padji crumpled to the ground. Instantly, the bearers set down their burden. To Amanda’s amazement, the intrepid attacker fled, pursued by four shrieking avengers.

Amanda pushed open the palanquin shutters and scrambled out. She stared at the dark heap on the ground.

“Oh, Padji,” she whispered. Shaking in every limb, she crept towards him. Gingerly, she reached out to his shoulder, then jerked her hand back. What was she thinking of? The thief must have cut his throat. He’d be covered with blood ... sticky ... ghastly.

She scuttled back hastily, struggling to control the spasm of nausea. One ... two ... three deep breaths. Then she looked about her, while her heart seemed to pound in her ears. She was not far from home. Even if she could have endured touching the body, she certainly could not carry it with her. She returned to the palanquin and quickly collected her belongings.

The robber had chosen the site well. Large gardens sprawled on either side of the dark, narrow passageway’s high walls. The houses’ inhabitants were too far away to hear cries for help. Normally, the gates at both ends of the passage were kept locked. Tonight, though, with virtually all Calcutta’s upper crust at the rani’s celebration, it must have been more convenient to leave the way open. Or else the thief had broken in. Alone? Amanda glanced anxiously about her. A risky business for one man, wasn’t it?

She held her breath, but the only sounds she made out came from a great distance: hoofbeats and voices. Nearby she heard only her own heart thundering.

Clutching her awkward bundles to her, she hiked up the skirts of her sari, ran blindly to the end of the passage, and turned the corner.

A dark form swept out of a gateway, a hand covered her mouth, another wrapped round her waist and dragged her backwards into the shadows.

“Drop it.”

To her shock, it was the same voice she’d heard only minutes before.

She dropped the lacquered jewel box, then drove her elbow into her attacker’s stomach and tore away from him. A foot shot out, tripping her. She stumbled, and the packet of silks slid out from under her arm. Still tightly clutching the Laughing Princess, Amanda regained her balance, only to be hauled up against the robber’s body. The hand closed over her mouth again, choking her.

“Drop it, curse you!” he gasped.

Amanda squirmed, frantically trying to break free of the suffocating embrace. One strong hand pressed painfully over her mouth. The other crushed her rib cage. She stomped on his foot, pushed, kicked, and elbowed, all the while clutching the sandalwood figure as though it were her firstborn. That was all she wanted. Why wouldn’t he take the rest and let her go? But he was pulling at her hands now.

Again she jammed madly with her elbow. This time he abruptly released her, and her own force unbalanced her. She fell against him, felt him dropping with her. They crashed to the ground . . . and she found herself pinned beneath him.

“Foolish woman,” he said, panting. While the weight of his hard body held her down, he began prying her fingers loose from the figure.

“No!” she shrieked, as he wrenched the statue from her grasp. “You bastard! No!”

There was a heartbeat’s pause, and Amanda realised she’d cried out in English.

“A thousand pardons, memsahib,” he said.

Then he leapt to his feet... and vanished into the night with the Laughing Princess.

White hot, it churned round her, blinding her: Rage. Amanda dragged herself up onto her knees and screamed, “You filthy bastard! You bloody, thieving swine!” Silence answered. She pounded her fists into the dirt in impotent fury.

Something else pounded, somewhere beyond the vast, surrounding wall of rage. Footsteps? She raised her head, just as a figure staggered into the narrow entryway.

“Oh, missy, what has that pig done to you? Fiend. A hell-fiend. We will find him. We will tear him in pieces and rip out his heart while it yet beats. We will—”

“Padji?” she croaked, disbelieving.

He fell to his knees beside her. “Aye, it is Padji, the worthless slave who has failed you.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, repeatedly, while he muttered inarticulate lamentations.

Amanda pulled her hand away. “You’re alive,” she said. “I thought he’d murdered you.”

“A blow only. Haifa breath’s less force and I should not have sunk under it. A moment less in blackness and I should have caught him and killed him, and thrown his polluted head at your feet. Ah, we have been tricked, and it is my folly. Aiyeeeeeee,” he wailed. “I am a dead man.”

“Do be quiet,” Amanda snapped. “There’s no point staying here moaning about it. We’ve got to get home.”

The servants were all abed, and Roderick and Eustacia were still out when Amanda and Padji reached the house. This was exceedingly fortunate, for Roderick would have made an international incident out of the attack—after, that is, his wife had finished dropping in and out of fourteen fits of hysterics.

Mrs. Gales, Amanda’s companion, possessed a less turbulent disposition. A tall, ample-figured woman in her mid-forties, the auburn-haired widow had small use for emotional displays. India was a treacherous, incomprehensible place, and the natives were, in general, demented. If one made a fuss about every objectionable episode that occurred, one would live in a constant state of fuss. This, to Mrs. Gales’s mind, constituted a prodigious waste of time and energy.

Though distressed by her employer’s shocking experience, the widow perceived no reason to compound the unpleasantness with swoons or hysteria. Instead, she calmly advised Amanda to wash and change. Mrs. Gales meanwhile saw to Padii’s facial injuries in her usual efficient manner, ordered him to sit quietly in a corner, then set about making tea.

With the removal of grime and the resumption of proper English attire, Amanda discovered she didn’t look nearly as ghastly as she felt. Her modest yellow muslin frock concealed her few outer bruises. Her mouth was sore, her jaw ached, and her ribs felt as though she’d been run through a gristmill. Nonetheless, her looking glass showed nothing obviously amiss.

As she entered the parlour, she found Padji in a considerably more colourful state. His face was bruised and cut where the paving stones had scraped it, and a large lump had sprung up on the back of his head. The villain had aimed beautifully, he grimly admitted. The man had struck with the sword hilt just below the cushioning turban.

“Indeed, the fellow sounds remarkable,” said Mrs. Gales as she handed Padji a cup of tea. He shook his head and commenced to rocking to and fro in a melancholy manner. Mrs. Gales shrugged and placed the cup on the floor beside him.

“I can scarcely credit it,” she said to Amanda. “That one man should attack so large and well-armed a party. How could he have robbed you while he was running away from four bearers? There must have been two robbers at least”

Amanda shook her head. “It was the same one. He must have tricked them somehow, then doubled back for me.”

“So it was,” Padji grumbled. “A master of deceit. How did he know my mistress’s signal?”

Amanda put down her teacup and looked at him. “Is that what the strange bird sound was?” she asked. “Is that why you stopped?”

Padji covered his face with his hands. “I am a dead man. She will tear my tongue from my throat. She will flay my flesh and pour burning poison into the wounds. ‘Protect my daughter,’ she told me, and I foiled. She will bury me alive and sing curses over my

grave.”

“She’ll do no such thing,” Amanda said briskly. “The man merely robbed me. I wasn’t raped or murdered. Calcutta is filled with thieves. I shall send a note, explaining.”

“No!” he shrieked, jumping up. “You must not tell her. She will know soon enough. My mistress learns everything. But there is time. I will go with you on the ship, and when she discovers, I will be far away.”

“Go with us!” Mrs. Gales echoed. “Are you mad?”

“I must go. There is no place in all India I can hide. Her spies will find me out. They will put out my eyes with burning brands, because I was a blind man who did not see the Falcon as he swept down upon her beloved daughter. They will—”

“The Falcon?” Amanda cut in before he could commence another litany of horrors.

Padji covered his mouth with his hands.

Amanda rose from her chair and approached him. “That was the Falcon?”