The high priest started to protest, but Jaimihr silenced him with coarse-mouthed threats.
“I, too, can play double when occasion calls for it!” he swore. And with that hint at coming trouble he clattered on home to his palace.
To begin with, when he reached home, he had the guard beaten all but unconscious for having dared let raiders in during the night before; then he sent them, waterless and thirsty, back to the dungeon. He felt better then, and called for ink and paper.
For hours he thought and wrote alternately, tearing up letter after letter. Then, at last, he read over a composition that satisfied him and set his seal at the foot. He placed the whole in a silver tube, poured wax into the joint, and called for the fat man who had been responsible for Ali Partab's capture.
“Dog!” he snarled. “Interfering fool! All this was thy doing! Didst thou see the guard beaten awhile ago?”
“I did. It was a lordly beating. The men are all but dead but will live for such another one.”
“Wouldst thou be so beaten?”
“How can I prevent, if your highness wishes?”
“Take this. It is intended for Peshawur but may be given to any British officer above the rank of major. It calls for a receipt. Do not dare come back, or be caught in Howrah City, without a receipt for that tube and its contents intact!”
“If Alwa and Mahommed Gunga are in league with my brother,” muttered Jaimihr to himself when the fat Hindoo had gone, “then the sooner the British quarrel with both of them the better. Howrah alone I can dispose of easily enough, and there is yet time before rebellion starts for the British to spike the guns of the other two. By the time that is done, I will be Maharajah!”