The Confusion

“No,” said Padraig, “this road-block was at a border crossing. The Moguls who gave us the Intelligence Test, and who press-ganged our friends, were in the pay of-”

“Dispenser of Mayhem!” cried Surendranath.

“The very same,” said Jack.

“That is an unexpected boon for us,” said the Banyan. “For as you know, the realm of Dispenser of Mayhem lies squarely astride the road to Delhi.”

“That amounts to saying that Dispenser of Mayhem has been doing a miserable job of controlling the Marathas,” Jack said.

“Which means that if we can find Vrej Esphahnian and Monsieur Arlanc, they will have much useful intelligence for us!”

Jack reckoned that this was as good a moment as any to spring the trap. “Indeed, it seems as if the Cabal-wretched and scattered though we are-may be very useful to you, Surendranath. Or to whichever merchant ends up hiring us, and making the run to Delhi first.”

A sort of brisk whooshing noise now, as Surendranath yanked the curtain closed around his palanquin. Then silence-though Jack thought he could hear a curious throbbing, as if Surendranath were trying to stifle agonized laughter.

The next morning they got under way early and traveled for a few miles to a border, where they crossed into the realm of Shatterer of Worlds.

“Shatterer of Worlds has extirpated the local Marathas, but there are ragged bandit gangs all over the place,” Surendranath said.

“Reminds me of France,” Jack mused.

“The comparison is apt,” Surendranath said. “As a matter of fact, it is not even a comparison. Shatterer of Worlds is a Frenchman.”

“Those damned Frogs are everywhere!” Jack exclaimed. “Does the Great Mogul have any other kings from Christendom?”

“I believe that Bringer of Thunder is a Neapolitan artilleryman. He owns a piece of Rajasthan.”

“Would you like us to round up some Frankish clothes, then? To scare away the highwaymen?” Padraig inquired.

“No need-in Kathiawar, they still observe the ancient customs,” said Surendranath, and alighted from his palanquin to parley with some Hindoos who were squatting by the side of the road. In a few minutes, one of them arose and took up a position in the front of the tiny caravan.

A STICK WAS JABBED into the salty concrete that passed for soil hereabouts. A yard away was another stick. A third stick had been lashed across the tops of the first two, and a fourth across the bottom. Miles of vermilion thread had been run back and forth between the top and bottom stick. A woman in an orange sari squatted before this contrivance maneuvering a smaller stick through the vertical threads, drawing another thread behind it. A couple of yards away was the same thing again, except that the sticks, the colors, and the woman were different; and this woman was chatting with a third woman who had also managed to round up four sticks and some thread.

The same was repeated all the way to the horizon on both sides of the road. Some of the weavers were working with coarse undyed thread, but most of their work was in vivid colors that burned in the light of the sun. In some places there would be an irregular patch of green, or blue, or yellow, where some group of weavers were filling a large order. In other zones, each weaver worked with a different thread and so there might be an acre or two in which no two frames were of the same color. The only people who were standing were a few boys carrying water; a smattering of bony wretches bent under racks of thread that were strapped to their backs; and a two-wheeled ox-cart meandering about and collecting finished bits of cloth. A rutted road cut through the middle of it all, headed off in the general direction of Diu: a Portuguese enclave at the tip of Kathiawar. This was the third day of their journey from Ahmadabad. The Charan continued to plod along ahead of them, humming to himself, occasionally eating a handful of something from a bag slung over his shoulder.

Out of all the thousands of Pieces of India stretched out for viewing, one caught Jack’s eye, like a familiar face in a crowd: a square of blue Calicoe just like one of Eliza’s dresses. He decided that he had better get some conversation going.

“Your narration puts me in mind of a question I have been meaning to ask of the first Hindoo I met who had the faintest idea what the hell I was saying,” he said.

Down in the palanquin, Surendranath startled awake.

Padraig sat up straighter in his saddle and blinked. “But no one has said a word these last two hours, Jack.”

Surendranath was game. “There is much in Hindoostan that cries out, to the Western mind, for explanation,” he said agreeably.