The Weeping Ash by Joan Aiken Page A

quarreled on the evening of their birthday. Not seriously—their disagreements never went deep; Scylla had raised objections when she found that Carloman had accepted an invitation to spend the evening at the palace with the young Maharajah.
    â€œYou know perfectly well what will happen if you go,” she complained. “You will stay up there till two or three in the morning—drinking wine and smoking water pipes, and, for all I know, taking opium—”
    â€œOnly the prince, my dear; you know I never touch it—”
    â€œAnd he will lose more and more money to you, so that he will want to go on playing longer and longer to win back his losses—How much does he owe you now?”
    â€œI think it’s about twenty thousand rupees,” replied her brother cheerfully.
    â€œYes, and if he ever does pay you, which I daresay he never will, it would very likely be in shawls . Of what use would that be?”
    â€œWe could hire an elephant and dispose of them to the nearest East India Company factory. Stop scolding, Scylla, my dear! You know it would be foolish to offend Mihal. We shall not have a debauch, I promise you. I am going to read him some of my poems. Why don’t you come up to the palace with me? You could pay a call on poor Mahtab Kour.”
    â€œThank you, dearest Cal, I spend enough time in the purdah quarters as it is! And you can read your poetry to me at home, after all. Does Mihal understand it, may I ask?”
    â€œHe likes to think he does. And that puts him in a good humor. So it is really a piece of practical diplomacy to visit him.”
    â€œOh, undoubtedly!” she said, laughing. “Well— pray try to come back before midnight! It is our birthday tomorrow, after all. And you did promise that we should ride to the Great King’s tomb—”
    â€œDid I?” He sounded taken aback. “All the way to the Great King’s tomb?”
    â€œWhich means starting early, as soon as the boys have done their lessons, before it becomes too hot—”
    â€œI must have been mad to promise,” grumbled Cal. “It is quite twenty miles away.”
    â€œMiss Musson has offered to pack us a nuncheon. And, remember, the hot weather is almost here—if we don’t go soon, we shall have to wait until after the rains,” pleaded Scylla.
    â€œOh, very well!” Cal was really fond of his sister and generally prepared to indulge her if it did not mean a great deal of trouble for himself. “I promise that I will come away as early as I can.”
    â€œThat’s my dear brother!”
    â€œDo I look presentable?”
    â€œCorrect to a shade! Except for your hair—come here—”
    They were of equal height, both medium-sized and slender, so that she, for a girl, seemed tall, and he, for a man, just below average height. While she smoothed back the fine, soft, dark hair, which would fall forward in streaks over his brow, he stood placidly accepting her ministrations, then let her help him into a fresh white linen coat.
    â€œNow you are as fine as fivepence!” she teased. “Dress you up in uniform and you would be the spit image of that dashing young French general Buonaparte—whose picture was in the Gazette —except that your face is thinner—”
    â€œWear uniform? Thank heaven I don’t have to,” yawned her brother. “That’s one advantage of being cast off by our dear father. No obligation to go into some terrible cavalry regiment where they all look and sound like horses—including the horses themselves…” And he adjusted a pith helmet carefully over his interesting profile and walked out onto the veranda, shouting for the syce.
    Next moment she heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs cantering up the sandy causeway toward the great gate of Ziatur.
    * * *
    Naturally—in spite of his promise—Cal did stay late at the palace. She had known