An Oblique Approach

He was already there, and his men. They stalked into the best of the barracks reserved for the common soldiery. (The Rajputs took their quarters in a special barracks at the other end of the compound. Not luxurious, those, not even the rooms set aside for officers, but considerably better than the shacks provided for the common soldiery.)

The sound of angry voices came from the barracks into which they had marched. Had stalked. Like wolves entering a den of jackals.

A stream of common soldiers began pouring out of the barracks. Hastily, even frantically. The last one to emerge on his own feet was aided along by a kick. A second or so later, two others followed through the door, hurled like so many sacks of rice. They landed in the dirt and sprawled there, unconscious, their heads bleeding from savage blows.

Soon after, the kits of the common soldiers were likewise hurled through the door. The kits were not properly packed—were not packed at all, in fact. Just bundles slapped together and cast into the dirt, like garbage thrown out by a particularly foul-tempered housewife.

Sullenly—but, oh so meekly, with nary a snarl directed toward the barracks—the common soldiers scurried about, scraping together their belongings. They dusted off their meager possessions, rolled up their kits, and slouched toward the barracks located some distance away. The empty barracks. The one whose walls were caving in, and whose thatched roof kept out rain about as well as a fishnet.

Yes. Yes. Yes. It is true!

The panther raced back the way he had come. But, just before he reached his familiar hiding place beyond the door of the palace, he halted.

Oh, it was difficult! Weeks of frustration hurled him toward that hated palace!

But, he restrained himself, with the restraint of a man who had set a hundred ambushes, and eluded as many more.

Patience.The Vile One will not arrive for days yet. There is time. I must discover exactly what has happened. Lay out my plans.

He turned, and flitted through the woods, toward his hidden lair deep in the forest. Along the way, he tried to formulate new stratagems, based on a new reality. But, soon, he abandoned the effort. It was foolish to make plans in the absence of precise information. And besides, his soul was too flooded with emotion.

A new emotion. Hope. A huge emotion, like the surging monsoon. It filled every cranny and nook of his soul.

There was room for it. Another emotion was gone. The panther no longer hated him. The hate had vanished with the need, like a straw in the monsoon winds, and the panther was glad to see it go.

He arrived at his lair. Nothing much, that lair. Nothing much, for he possessed little, and had discarded most of that. He had prepared his lair carefully, making sure it could never be found.

He squatted, moved aside the stones and twigs which disguised his little campfire, and began piling up a small mound of kindling. There was not much to eat, but he would have time to cook it. Time to plot, and space to do it. A safe, perfectly hidden lair. Where he could become lost in his thoughts without fear of discovery.

The voice which came from behind him was the first knowledge he had of the ambush. He would have never believed it possible.

Speaking in Maratha. With a pronounced accent.

"You are very good, Raghunath Rao. Not as good as me, but very good."

The panther turned, slowly. Stared back at the foliage from whence the voice had come. Still, he saw nothing.

Until a flash of white appeared, in the darkness. A quick gleam, nothing more.

The panther could make him out now, barely. The man was so well concealed that his shape was nothing but black against black. Slowly, imperceptibly, the panther gathered up his haunches.

An object was flung from the darkness where the hunter lurked. It landed not more than a foot away from his feet. A small bundle. Slender, about a foot long. Wrapped in a cloth.

The voice came again:

"Examine the gift, first, Raghunath Rao. Then, if you still wish to be foolish, you will at least be a well-armed fool."

The panther hesitated for only an instant. He reached out his left hand and swiftly unfolded the bundle. The—gift—lay exposed.

He knew what it was, of course. But it wasn't until he withdrew the thing from its sheath, and examined it, that he understood what a truly excellent gift it was. With all the understanding of a great student of daggers, and their use.

Another packet landed by his feet.

"Now, that," came the voice.

The panther used the dagger to slice open the rawhide strip binding the small leather roll. Opened, the roll proved to contain a few sheets of papyrus. Upon them was a message, written in Marathi.

The panther glanced at his stalker. The hunter had not moved.

Strange ambush, he thought. But—he began to read the message.