“Doesn’t it belong to Gungadhura now?” Tess asked.

“No.  It was part of my legacy.  This house, too, that we are in.  Look, some of them have come on elephants to do me honor.  Many of the nobles of the land are poor in these days; one, they tell me, came on foot, walking by night lest the ill-bred laugh at him.  He has a horse now.  He shall have ten when I am maharanee!”

“Won’t the English get to hear of this?” Tess asked.

Yasmini laughed.

“Their spies are everywhere.  But there has been great talk of a polo tournament to be held on the English side of the river at Sialpore.  The English encourage games, thinking they keep us Rajputs out of mischief—­ as indeed is true.  This, then, is a conference to decide which of our young bloods shall take part in the tournament, and who shall contribute ponies.  The English lend one another ponies; why not we?  The spies will report great interest in the polo tournament, and the English will smile complacently.”

“But suppose a spy gets in to see the ceremony?” Tess suggested.

Yasmini’s blue eyes looked into hers and there was a Viking glare behind them, suggestive of the wintry fjords whence one of her royal ancestresses came.

“Let him!” she said.  “It would be the last of him!”

Tess considered a while in silence.

“When is the tournament to be?” she asked presently.  “Won’t the English think it strange that the conference about men and ponies should be put off until so late?”

“They might have,” Yasmini answered.  “They are suspicious of all gatherings.  But a month ago we worked up a dispute entirely for their benefit.  This is supposed to be a last-hour effort to bring cohesion out of jealousy.  The English like to see Rajputs quarrel among themselves, because of their ancient saw that says ‘Divide and govern!’ I do not understand the English altogether—­yet; but in some ways they are like an open book.  They will let us quarrel over polo to our heart’s content.”

There is something very close to luxury in following the thread of an intrigue, sitting on soft cushions with the sunlight sending layers of golden shafts through jalousies into a cool room; so little of the strain and danger of it; so much of its engagement.  Tess was enjoying herself to the top of her bent.

“But when the ceremony is over,” she said, “and you yourself have proclaimed Prince Utirupa king of Sialpore, there will still remain the problem of how to make the English recognize him.  There is Gungadhura, for instance, to get out of the way; and Gungadhura’s sons—­how many has he?”

“Five, all whole and well.  But the dogs must suffer for their breeding.  Who takes a reverter’s colt to school into a charger?  The English will turn their eyes away from Gungadhura’s stock.”

“But Gungadhura himself?”

“Is in the toils already!  Say this for the English:  they are slow to reach conclusions—­slower still to change their policy; but when their mind is made up they are swift!  Gungadhura has been sending messages to the Northwest tribes.  How do I know?  You saw Ismail, my gateman?  His very brother took the letters back and forth!”