Desert Barbarian

She was puzzled, staring at him across the table. He was in his late twenties, fair-faced, with wiry brown hair and clear, friendly hazel eyes. She liked him on sight. He had a direct and cheerful manner which was appealing. 'How can I help you?'

'You work for Mrs Cunningham,' he said, accepting a plate from Lispa with a smile. 'And she works for the King. She could get him to see me.'

Marie laughed. 'Oh, I don't know about that. She hasn't seen the King since we arrived. They talked for a while on the first day, but he's been busy ever since.'

'All the same, if she wrote to him I think he might take some notice of her.'

'Why do you want to see him so badly?' she asked.

He forked some curry into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, then looked round at Lispa, who was dis­creetly hovering within earshot. He spoke in quick dia­lect for a moment, and Lispa's face beamed at him.

'Mr Davidson, do you speak the local language?' she asked him curiously.

He nodded. 'I've learnt it since I got here.'

'How long have you been here?' she asked.

'Three months.'

'Three months?' She was astounded. 'But… you sound quite fluent…'

He shrugged modestly. 'I have a flair for languages—I speak eleven. It's just a knack.' Then he grinned at her. 'By the way, my name is Peter.'

She acknowledged the invitation with a smile. 'Mine is Marie, Peter. So why do you need to see the King?'

He leaned forward. 'I want to see a temple some miles out in the jungle and apparently it's forbidden to go any­where near it. It's sacred, or something. I'm not sure why there's a taboo on it, but when I tried to drive there the other day I was forbidden to go any further by a very officious village headman, so I want to see the King to ask his permission. He's usually very good about these things—he's a modern-minded chap. But they denied me entrance to the palace, too. Probably old Hathni. He hates the sight of me and makes no bones about it. If I could get a message to the King I'm sure he would give me permission.'!''

Marie glanced at Rahaib's impassive face. 'Well, I'll speak to Mrs Cunningham, but I can't promise any­thing.'

Peter Davidson looked at Rahaib, too. 'What do you think, Rahaib?'

'I cannot say, sir,' Rahaib returned blandly.

'Hmm…' Peter looked at Marie and grinned. 'That means he refuses to get involved. Discreet chap, Rahaib.'

'You've met him before?'

Peter laughed. 'Anyone who meets the King meets Rahaib. He's the King's shadow.'

'He's our shadow for the moment,' said Marie, smiling at Rahaib. 'He's been very kind to us.'

Peter looked across the table at Jeremy. 'Enjoying your lunch, young chap?'

'No,' said Jeremy sulkily. 'I'm fed up with rice, and with curry and chapattis…'

Marie frowned at him. 'Jeremy! That's rude!'

'No,' said Peter cheerfully, 'just honest. I tell you what, Jeremy—why don't you come to dinner with me tonight and I'll give you real English food?'

Jeremy's face lit up. 'Chips?' he asked eagerly.

'I don't know about chips,' said Peter, scratching his chin. 'I could give you new potatoes and sausages, though.'

'Sausages?' Jeremy's face shone with delight. 'Hon­estly?' He stared at him as if at Santa Claus. 'And potatoes? Marie said there were no potatoes in Jedhpur!' He glared at her accusingly.

Peter winked at her. 'I've got a secret supply. Will you come?' He looked at Marie appealingly.

'Oh, please,' Jeremy begged.