Sandokan: Quest for a Throne (The Sandokan Series Book 6) Page 3

  Yanez remained by the minister, studying him closely. The Indian’s breathing was gradually becoming more regular; his eyelids began to flutter and his limbs twitched once or twice. The Portuguese heard him sigh deeply, then at last Kaksa Pharaum opened his eyes.

  “You do love your rest, Excellency,” smiled Yanez. “How do your servants wake you? We travelled for over an hour and you slept like a stone. I wish I could sleep as soundly.”

  “What… My lord!” exclaimed the minister, standing up suddenly and looking around in astonishment.

  “Yes?”

  “Where am I, my lord?”

  “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  The minister stood silently for a moment as he examined his surroundings more closely, then exclaimed:

  “By Shiva! I’ve never been in this room before.”

  “Of course not!” replied Yanez, with a note of mockery in his tone, “You’ve never deigned to visit me.”

  “And who is he?” Kaksa Pharaum asked, pointing to Sandokan, who continued to smoke quietly upon the sofa.

  “A great prince and a great warrior known throughout the South China Sea as the Tiger of Malaysia. His ferocity is legendary.”

  Kaksa Pharaum shivered despite himself.

  “There’s no need to be afraid, Excellency,” said Yanez, noticing the minister’s unease. “When he’s smoking, he’s as docile as a lamb.”

  “And what is he doing here, in your house?”

  “Keeping me company.”

  “You mock me!” Kaksa Pharaum shouted furiously. “Enough! Enough of this! Have you forgotten that I am as mighty as the Rajah of Assam? You will pay dearly for this! Tell me where I am and why you’ve brought me here or I’ll—”

  “You may shout and scream for as long as you wish, Excellency, no one can hear you. We’re several metres below ground and these walls are quite thick, not a sound will reach the surface. But there’s no need to fear, no harm will come to you if you answer my questions.”

  “What do you want of me, my lord?”

  “All in good time, Excellency. First let me apprise you of your situation. There are thirty men just outside that door, seasoned warriors that could destroy an entire sepoy regiment. Do not try anything foolish; you will not leave this room against my will. Am I clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Excellent, we’ll begin with a story. Sit down and listen.”

  “You’re going to tell me a story?”

  “Yes, Excellency, a story drawn from the pages of your country’s history.”

  He gently pushed the minister into a chair, took a few glasses of fine crystal and a flask of amber liquid from the shelf, then opened his cigar case and offered one to the prisoner.

  At the sight of it Kaksa Pharaum shuddered nervously.

  “There’s no need to fear, Excellency,” said Yanez. “These aren’t laced with opium. Would you prefer a cigarette? Your choice.”

  The minister shook his head.

  “A glass of whiskey then,” continued Yanez. “I’m having some as well. It’s excellent.”

  “Perhaps later. Tell me this tale of yours.”

  Yanez drained his glass, lit the cigarette, and leaned back in his chair.

  “As you wish, Excellency,” he said. “It’s not a long story, but I think it will be of great interest to you.”

  Sandokan continued to watch the conversation in silence, reclining on the sofa, smoking his chibouk.

  Chapter 3

  In the Tiger’s Den

  “EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO,” began Yanez, “the rajah’s brother ruled Assam, a wicked tyrant who was suspicious of all those about him, especially his relatives who he suspected of plotting to steal his riches and his throne.

  “Among his kin was an uncle, a tribal chief, a valiant warrior admired throughout the nation for his skill and bravery, for he had repeatedly defended the borders from Burmese attacks. Aware of his nephew’s unfounded suspicions, he had retired to the mountains to live among his loyal men. His name was Mahur, have you heard speak of him, Excellency?”

  “Yes,” Kaksa Pharaum replied dryly.

  “That year Assam was struck by famine; the Brahmins, gurus, and priests convinced the rajah to perform a special ceremony to appease the anger of the gods. The prince readily agreed and insisted that all his relatives had to attend, including his uncle, who, suspecting nothing, brought his wife and children, two boys and a little girl named Surama. All were received with the honours due their rank and hosted in the royal palace.

  “Once the ceremony had ended, the rajah invited his relatives to a grand banquet, during which the tyrant, as was his custom, drank large amounts of alcohol. The wretch was emboldening himself for what was to come. Just before sunset he rose and retired with his ministers, bidding all to continue to enjoy the festivities.

  “Minutes later a shot rang out and one of the rajah’s cousins fell to the ground with a bullet in his skull. But before anyone could react, a second shot thundered and another guest fell forward onto a table, dead.

  “The rajah had fired both shots from a small terrace above them. Eyes bulging, face perversely contorted, he clutched a smoking carbine, his ministers to either side of him.

  ““Die you greedy dogs!’ he bellowed. ‘You’ll never have my throne! You’ll never steal my riches! Bring me another drink! Bring me another drink! Or I’ll have you all beheaded!’

  “Terrified, the ministers filled his glass repeatedly. He drained one after another, then turned to fire upon those unfortunates, indifferent to their pleas for mercy.

  “Men, women and children scattered in all directions, screaming in fear, but there was no escape, the courtyard walls were too high and the gates had been barred shut. Bullets rained down relentlessly, ministers passing the tyrant a fresh carbine after every shot, the madman howling like a jackal each time he struck his prey. Mahur, whom he hated most, was one of the first to fall, a bullet shattering his spine. His wife soon followed, then, one by one, his two sons.

  “Thirty-seven of the rajah’s relatives had been invited to the banquet and in less than ten minutes thirty-five lay dead in the courtyard. Only two had miraculously escaped: Sindhia, the rajah’s younger brother, and Surama, Mahur’s daughter, who earlier had been sent into the palace to play with the other young girls and had watched the massacre from a balcony.

  “Bullets had grazed Sindhia three times, but he still jumped about the courtyard like a young tiger, diving in every direction to confuse his brother’s aim. Terrified, he cried out again and again:

  “‘Spare me! Spare me and I’ll leave your kingdom forever! I’m your father’s son! You do not have the right to kill me!’

  “The rajah ignored those desperate cries and fired two more shots, but his brother dodged them both and at last the tyrant lowered his rifle and shouted:

  “‘If you promise to leave this land forever, I’ll spare your life, but only on one condition.’”

  “‘I accept whatever you propose!’ replied the young prince.

  “‘I’ll toss a rupee into the air, if you can strike it with a bullet from this carbine, you may set off for Bengal.’

  “‘I accept!’ repeated the young man.

  “The rajah tossed him a carbine.

  “‘Be warned,’ shouted the madman, ‘if you miss the coin, you’ll suffer the same fate as the others.’

  “‘Toss it!’ shouted back the prince.

  “The rajah tossed a rupee into the air. There was a shot, but the coin struck the ground intact. The rajah, however, slumped back in his chair, dead. Sindhia had quickly pointed the weapon at his brother and shot him through the heart.”

  “Everyone in Assam knows that story,” said the minister.

  “But not what happened next,” replied Yanez, pouring himself another glass of whiskey and lighting a second cigarette. “Do you know what happened to Mahur’s daughter, the only other person to survive the slaughter?”

  Kaksa Pharaum shrugged.


  “Who would have given much thought to a little girl?”

  “That little girl was of royal blood.”

  “Continue, my lord.”

  “When Sindhia learned that Surama had survived, instead of welcoming her to court and offering her his protection or at least sending her to live among her father’s tribe, he sold her in secret to the thugs who were traveling the country in search of young women to train as devadasis.”

  “Ah!” said the minister.

  “Tell me, Excellency, are those the actions of an honourable man? Surely Mahur’s daughter, a young girl of warrior caste, deserved better treatment from her only kin,” said Yanez, suddenly serious.

  “It’s not for me to judge. What happened to her? Did she die?”

  “No, Your Excellency, Surama grew into a beautiful woman with only one desire: to wrest the crown from her cousin.”

  Kaksa Pharaum started.

  “Wrest the crown?” he asked nervously.

  “And she will succeed,” Yanez replied coldly.

  “And who will help her?”

  The Portuguese stood and pointed to the Tiger of Malaysia.

  “That man there. He’s overthrown more than one mighty ruler and years back he slew Suyodhana, the Tiger of India, the notorious leader of the Indian Thugs. Together we lead the Tigers of Mompracem, the most dreaded band of pirates in the South China Sea. Even proud and mighty England, ruler of half the world, has bowed her head before us on more than one occasion.”

  The minister slowly rose to his feet, his eyes moving anxiously from Sandokan to Yanez.

  “You’re pirates?” he stammered.

  “Warriors. Formidable, determined, warriors,” replied Yanez, his tone serious.

  “And what do you want of me? Why have you brought me here?”

  Instead of replying Yanez refilled the glasses and handed one to the minister.

  “Have a drink, Excellency. It’s of the finest quality I assure you, and it’ll help clear your mind. Drink as much as you like; no harm will come to you, you have my word.”

  The minister, believing he should not refuse, nervously picked up the glass and put it to his lips.

  Yanez watched him in silence for a moment.

  “Who is the white man at the rajah’s court?” he asked at last.

  “A man I hate.”

  “His name?”

  “Teotokris.”

  “Teotokris!” muttered Yanez. “That’s a Greek name.”

  “A Greek!?!” exclaimed Sandokan. “What’s that? I’ve never heard speak of Greeks.”

  “They’re Europeans,” said Yanez. “They’re reputed to be the cleverest men in Europe.”

  “A worthy opponent then?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Excellent,” smiled the Tiger of Malaysia.

  The Portuguese cast away his cigarette and turned to Kaksa Pharaum.

  “Does he have much influence at court?” he asked.

  “More than the royal ministers.”

  “I see.”

  He stood up again and circled the table three or four times, stroking his beard, then stopped suddenly before the minister.

  “Where is the Shaligram hidden?” he asked bluntly.

  Kaksa Pharaum’s eyes widened in fear, but he remained silent.

  “Did you understand my question, Excellency?” asked Yanez.

  “The Shaligram!” stammered the minister.

  “Yes, where is it hidden?”

  “I do not know, my lord, I swear; only the rajah and the high priest are privy to that information,” said Kaksa Pharaum, recovering his composure.

  “You lie,” replied Yanez, raising his voice. “The rajah’s ministers are all privy to the secret: my sources have confirmed as much.”

  “The others, perhaps, not me.”

  “You would have me believe the rajah’s Prime Minister knows less than his subordinates? I warn you, Excellency, it is not wise to lie to me.”

  “Why do you need to know where it’s hidden, my lord?”

  “I need to borrow it,” Yanez said boldly.

  Kaksa Pharaum roared.

  “You intend to steal it!” he shouted. “Our most sacred relic! Coveted by every ruler in India! Madness! You’d destroy this very realm! If the stone is taken, it will be the end of Assam! It was foretold long ago!”

  “Foretold by whom?” Yanez asked ironically.

  “Our wisest, holiest men.”

  The Portuguese shrugged; the Tiger of Malaysia chuckled mockingly.

  “As I said, Excellency, I only need to borrow the shell, it will not leave Assam. I’ll need it at most for twenty-four hours, you have my word.”

  “Then ask the rajah if he’ll grant you that favor. I do not know where it is kept.”

  “You refuse to tell me,” said Yanez, changing tone. “Not wise.”

  A gong sounded from outside the room.

  “What is it, Sambigliong?” asked the Portuguese.

  “Señor Yanez, Tremal-Naik is here.”

  Sandokan put down his pipe and quickly rose to his feet.

  The door opened and a man walked into the room.

  “Good evening, my dear friends!”

  Sandokan and Yanez greeted him warmly, shaking his hand in turn.

  “It’s so nice to see you both again,” said Tremal-Naik. “It makes me feel twenty years younger!”

  The newcomer was a handsome Indian from Bengal, about fifty years old, well built, with fine energetic features, light bronzed skin and dark eyes full of fire.

  He was dressed in the manner of modern wealthy Indians, who have exchanged their dhotis and dubgahs for the simpler and more comfortable Anglo-Indian costume: a white linen jacket with red silk frogging, a thick embroidered sash, white trousers and a small striped turban.

  “How’s Darma?” asked Sandokan and Yanez in unison.

  “Fine, fine,” replied the Bengali. “Sir Moreland has taken her to Europe. He wants to show her England.”

  “I’m sure she’ll enjoy herself. Speaking of journeys, I gather you’ve deduced why we’ve asked you to meet us in Guwahati?” asked Yanez.

  “To keep the promise you made to Surama that day Suyodhana’s son sank the King of the Sea.”

  “Your son in-law was quite a foe!” laughed Sandokan.

  “True, true… who would have thought that… Ah!”

  Only then had he noticed the third person in the room, sitting quietly at the table.

  “Who is this?” asked Tremal-Naik.

  “Tremal-Naik, allow me to introduce you to His Excellency Kaksa Pharaum, Prime Minister to the Rajah of Assam,” said Yanez. “You’ve come at just the right moment. He has a secret he refuses to share; perhaps you could help us convince him otherwise. Indians are masters at getting people to talk.”

  “He’s stubborn, is he?” asked Tremal-Naik, eyeing the prisoner closely. “I may have a few suggestions, but Kammamuri is more creative in such matters. Do you need the information urgently, Yanez?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve threatened him?”

  “Without success.”

  “Has he eaten?”

  “Not since dinner.”

  “It’s almost morning, how about a tiffin[2]? Would you care to join us, sir?”

  “Call him Excellency,” smiled Yanez.

  “Ah! Of course, pardon me,” said Tremal-Naik, a note of irony in his voice. “For a moment, Excellency, I’d forgotten you were the rajah’s Prime Minister. Would you care to join us for a tiffin?”

  “I usually do not eat breakfast before ten,” replied the minister, forcing a smile.

  “A little change will do you good. I set out from Calcutta yesterday morning; the food on the train was terrible and even worse once I got to Assam. I’m as hungry as a tiger. What do you say, my friends, shall I ask Kammamuri to prepare us some breakfast? How is this old pagoda stocked for food?”

  “We brought ample provisions,” replied Yanez.
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  “Come then. Kammamuri is an excellent cook. I’m sure he’d be happy to whip something up.”

  The two men left the room, leaving the Prime Minister alone with Sandokan.

  The pirate relit his chibouk, stretched out on the cushions and began to smoke, his eyes fixed upon the prisoner.

  Kaksa Pharaum had dropped back in his chair, taking his head in his hands.

  The two men sat in silence for several minutes, Sandokan continuing to smoke as the prisoner thought about his predicament. Then the pirate drew the pipe from his lips and said:

  “May I offer you some advice, Excellency?”

  Kaksa Pharaum raised his head and fixed his eyes upon the formidable man.

  “By all means, sahib,” he said nervously.

  “Tell my friend what he wishes to know; otherwise you’ll only invite more trouble. I do not say this lightly, Excellency! He’ll force the secret from you, one way or another. They call me the Tiger of Malaysia, they call him the White Tiger. Some say he is the more ruthless of the two; I would advise you not to cross him.”

  “I cannot tell you what I do not know!”

  “The cigar my friend gave you may have clouded your memory,” said Sandokan. “I’m certain, Excellency, that a good breakfast will help clear your head.”

  He leaned back on the sofa and returned to his pipe. A deep silence descended upon the room; Kaksa Pharaum, more frightened than ever, slumped back in his chair, taking his head in his hands once again.

  The Tiger of Malaysia sat there almost motionless, eyes fixed upon the minister. They remained that way for half an hour, then the door opened and an Indian walked in carrying a steaming bowl of fish in a black sauce.

  He was in his mid-forties, tall and strong-limbed, with dark bronze skin and fine energetic features; his clothes were white and he wore no jewelry save for a pair of large gold earrings.

  “Kammamuri!” exclaimed Sandokan, putting down his pipe. “Nice to see you again, my friend!”

  “Greetings, Tiger of Malaysia!” replied the Indian. “The pleasure is all mine!”

  Four men had followed him in, carrying a variety of dishes and several bottles of beer.

  Kammamuri set the bowl before the minister just as Yanez and Tremal-Naik stepped into the room.

  The Tiger of Malaysia rose from the couch and sat down opposite the prisoner; while the minister, stone still in his chair, studied his captors in nervous silence.