The Sultan's Tigers by Josh Lacey Page A

said. “Please, you will go where? To the Tipu Palace? The gardens? You will have one stop for restaurant? You are hungry? You are thirsty? You want to buy good jewels? I know best shop.”
    â€œCalm down, kid. We don’t want to buy anything.” Uncle Harvey’s phone had a map. A flashing blue dot showed our current position. He pointed to where we wanted to go. “Can you take us here?”
    â€œNo problem, I will take you anywhere, you just tell me where.” The kid peered at the tiny screen. “What is the name of this place?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou do not know where you are going?”
    â€œWe want to head north. Somewhere around here,” said my uncle, gesturing vaguely again at the tiny map on the tiny screen of his tiny phone.
    Unsurprisingly, the kid was confused. “Round there means round where?”
    â€œDon’t worry about that,” said Uncle Harvey. “We’ll know when we get there.”
    â€œNo problem. We will find it. If you please to come aboard.”
    We clambered inside his rickshaw, which wobbled under our weight. A long crack ran across the entire length of the windshield. Stuffing wisped through slashes in the seats. There were no doors and no seat belts, just a rail to hang on to. It looked decrepit and dangerous and entirely fantastic. I wanted to drive it myself. Later I’d have to ask our driver if I could give it a shot.
    Once the motor was puttering away and the rickshaw was ready to go, the kid turned around and grinned at us. “You are comfy?”
    â€œYes, thanks,” said my uncle.
    â€œThe cushion is good?”
    I nodded. “Perfect.”
    â€œGood. My name is Suresh.”
    He waited for a moment as if he was expecting us to tell him our names in exchange, but my uncle just said, “Could you switch on the meter?”
    â€œMeter no working,” said Suresh.
    â€œOh, yeah. I’ve heard that one before.”
    â€œIt is true, sir. But not a problem. You will pay what you want.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” said my uncle. He swung one leg out of the rickshaw. “If you won’t switch on your meter, we’ll find another cab.”
    â€œBut I am telling you already, the meter is not working!”
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah. Come on, Tom. We’re outta here.”
    â€œWait a minute.” I turned to the kid. “What did you mean, we’d pay what we wanted? How would that work?”
    â€œLike I say, you pay what you want. You like my service, you give me good money. You no like, you no pay.”
    â€œYou mean, we’d get a free ride?”
    â€œYes! India is a free country. Free economy. Free enterprise. You pay what you want.”
    â€œThat’s crazy,” said Uncle Harvey. “What if you drive us for the whole day and go a hundred miles, but we only give you ten rupees?”
    â€œIt is for you to choose. I am telling you, sir, this is the best system.”
    â€œFine. If that’s how you want to play it, that’s how we’ll play it.” My uncle shifted himself back into the cab. “It sounds insane to me, but it’s your cab. You can do what you like.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    Suresh revved the throttle. The rickshaw jerked forward, spluttered down the road, and swept us into the lines of traffic toward our tiger.

19
    We soon left the town behind and drove through the countryside, heading north. Palm trees sprang out of the earth like big hands gesturing at the sky. White bullocks pulled wooden plows through the fields. We passed a man on a horse, clip-clopping slowly up the road, and I had a vision of Horatio Trelawney riding this way more than two hundred years ago, the sounds of the battle still ringing in his ears.
    I turned to my uncle. “Can I see the letter?”
    â€œWhich letter?”
    â€œThe last one. The one about the hill. I’d like to check what Horatio