Free The Maharajah's Monkey by Natasha Narayan Page B

putus up was really very fortunate.”
    â€œYes?” Mr. Prinsep asked, bewildered.
    â€œWe are interested in the recent discovery in the palace’s treasure vaults. They are said to include a map to the legendary mountain paradise, Shambala.”
    At the name Shambala, my father woke up. “You must help us find these papers, Prinsep. They belonged to the famous Jesuit traveler Father Anthony Monserrate. He was in India three hundred years ago and wrote a diary. It is said that he may have even found a very old stone table or parchment—we don’t know which—that shows the way to Shambala.”
    â€œI don’t know anything about Sham-whatsitsname or any paradises,” replied Prinsep, who was starting to look a bit harassed. ‘Of course I will help you all I can, but you see things are a bit delicate at the moment in Baroda. The crops have failed, there’s been a bit of a famine and, well, the old Maharajah—he just made things worse. Thing is, revolution hangs in the air. There’re all sorts of bandits on the loose who want to kill the new king.
    â€œThere have already been six attempts on the young Maharajah’s life. He is surrounded by armed guards day and night. The palace is seething with talk of plots, the staff constantly on the lookout for would-be killers. You must be very careful for, you see, he’s only a lad, just twelve years old.” He came to an abrupt stop and wesmiled encouragingly at him.
    â€œHope I’ve not put my foot in it or anything like that,” Prinsep suddenly gave one of his foolish grins—this one directed at Aunt Hilda. “See, we’re jolly lucky to be allowed in to see the Maharajah. So the thing is, folks, pretty important to show the proper respect to the little lad.”
    â€œAm I showing the proper respect?” I mouthed silently to Rachel. Bowing so low my nose scraped the floor, I inched snail-like toward the boy king.
    â€œBehave,” Rachel whispered, though she could not help grinning.
    I caught my first glimpse of the Maharajah, Sayaji—a boy perching on a throne made for a man. His face was round as a full moon, teeth flashing white in skin with the sheen of polished walnut. His puffy cheeks were fringed by feathery eyelashes. He surveyed the world from under those lashes. In fact, at first glance he looked as if he was dozing on his throne.
    What a throne! Like a curved golden shell, set with glittering gems. The throne dominated the enormous first-floor chamber, which was crowded with courtiers, open to the sun and rain on all sides. Birds fluttered in and out, graceful swooping things with scarlet tails andruffs. Above the chatter of the courtiers was the melodious twitter of these bulbul songbirds, India’s nightingales. But the boy was apart from all the hullabaloo, ringed as he was by five bodyguards. I was told these men shadowed him day and night, on the watch for assassins. How small he looked among those burly men, bristling with knives and swords! Like a child at the dress-up box. A boy playing at king.
    Rachel murmured, “He looks so sad and lonely.”
    â€œI wouldn’t be sad. Not if everyone had to grovel to
me
.” Waldo grinned.
    As we approached, the boy opened his eyes and I saw what Rachel meant. He did look sad, somehow. There was a lost look in those bulging brown eyes. The Maharajah was dressed in the simplest white linen tunic and pajamas, though his chubby hands were be-ringed with glittering gems. Nothing save the huge diamond—the legendary Star of the East—glittering on a chain around his neck marked him out as the king. What an odd ruler.
    I felt sorry for the young Maharajah. How many of the courtiers circling around him must be plotting to seize power for themselves? How many supposed friends were just waiting for their chance to plant a knife between his shoulder blades? The looks, the whispers, the courtiers bristling with swords.