Free Sharpe's Tiger by Bernard Cornwell Page B

said. Malavelly was the nearest village to where the battle had been fought.
    â€œSo you know what happened?”
    â€œI know the Tippoo sacrificed hundreds of your people,” McCandless said. “Your people, General, not his.”
    Appah Rao dismissed the distinction. “The people follow him.”
    â€œBecause they have no choice. They follow, but do they love him?”
    â€œSome do,” Appah Rao answered. “But what does it matter? Why should a ruler want his people’s love? Their obedience, yes, but love? Love is for children, McCandless, and for gods and for women.”
    McCandless smiled, tacitly yielding the argument which was not important. He did not have to persuade Appah Rao to treachery, the very presence of the Mysorean General was proof that he was already halfway to betraying the Tippoo, but McCandless did not expect the General to yield gracefully. There was pride at stake here, and Appah Rao’s pride was great and needed to be handled as gently as a cocked dueling pistol. Appah Rao had always been thus, even when he was a young man in the Company’s army, and McCandless approved of that pride. He had always respected Appah Rao, and still did, and he believed Appah Rao returned the respect. It was in that belief that the Colonel had sent a message to Seringapatam. The message was carried by one of the Company’s native agents who wandered as a naked fakir through southern India. The message had been concealed in the man’s long greasy hair and it had invited Appah Rao to a reunion with his old commanding officer. The reply had specified this temple and this night as the rendezvous. Appah Rao was flirting with treachery, but that did not mean he was finding it either easy or pleasant.
    â€œI have a gift,” McCandless said, changing the subject, “for your Rajah.”
    â€œHe is in need of gifts.”
    â€œThen this comes with our most humble duty and high respect.” McCandless took a leather bag from his sporran and placed it beside the lantern. The bag chinked as it waslaid down and, though Appah Rao glanced at it, he did not take it. “Tell your Rajah,” McCandless said, “that it is our desire to place him back on his throne.”
    â€œAnd who will stand behind his throne?” Appall Rao demanded. “Men in red coats?”
    â€œYou will,” McCandless said, “as your family always did.”
    â€œAnd you?” the General asked. “What do you want?”
    â€œTo trade. That is the Company’s business: trade. Why should we become rulers?”
    Appall Rao sneered. “Because you always do. You come as merchants, but you bring guns and use them to make yourselves into taxmen, judges, and executioners. Then you bring your churches.” He shuddered.
    â€œWe come to trade,” McCandless insisted equably. “And what would you prefer, General? To trade with the British or be ruled by Muslims?”
    And that, McCandless knew, was the question that had brought Appah Rao to this temple in the dark night. Mysore was a Hindu country and its ancient rulers, the Wodeyars, were Hindus like their people, but the Tippoo’s father, the fierce Hyder Ali, had come from the north and conquered their state and the Tippoo had inherited his father’s stolen throne. To give himself a shred of legality the Tippoo, like his father before him, kept the old ruling family alive, but the Wodeyars were now reduced to poverty and to ceremonial appearances only. The new Rajah was scarce more than a child, but to many of Mysore’s Hindus he was still their rightful monarch, though that was an opinion best kept secret from the Tippoo.
    Appall Rao had not answered the Scotsman’s question, so McCandless phrased it differently. “Are you the last Hindu senior officer in the Tippoo’s army?”
    â€œThere are others,” Appall Rao said evasively.
    â€œAnd the rest?”
    Appall Rao