The Sultan's Tigers by Josh Lacey Page B

said.”
    â€œGood idea.” He unzipped his bag, pulled out the treasure box, and unfolded the final letter so we could both read it.
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I might have ridden twenty, or I might have ridden thirty miles, it was not easy to know. The landscape was so hilly and the roads so rough that any accurate figure is beyond me.
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    Horatio had left only the vaguest directions for us to follow: head north for something between twenty and thirty miles. Stop when you come to a small hill topped with a rickety stone shrine. Then climb to the top.
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To my astonishment, I found a small shrine on the top of the hill.
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    We just had to hope it was still there.
    Our rickshaw whizzed us through a village of small houses with straw roofs. Suresh blasted his horn, scattering children and chickens, then the dust whirled and they were gone.
    The road went on and on. My throat was dry. My butt ached. Only a finger-thin cushion lay between me and the hard seat, and the uneven surface bounced us about mercilessly.
    My hands hurt too. I had to cling on to the metal struts or I would have been thrown out of the rickshaw whenever we went over a bump.
    But I couldn’t stop grinning.
    Driving in a funny little vehicle halfway between a van and a scooter, heading into a strange landscape, baked by the sun, hunting for treasure—what could be better than this?
    The same sights repeated again and again, fields and trees and oxen and cyclists, the monotony broken only by the occasional car careening down the road toward us, furiously hooting its horn, ordering us out of its way, then roaring past and leaving our little rickshaw in a cloud of dust. There was only one law on these roads: biggest is best.
    Uncle Harvey had been looking over Suresh’s shoulder, keeping an eye on the odometer, and suddenly announced, “We’ve gone eighteen miles. It should be soon.”
    Horatio had taken an entire morning to ride this route on his horse. Even in our battered, spluttering three-wheeled rickshaw, we’d done the same journey in less than an hour.
    We took a side each, Uncle Harvey on the left and me on the right, and peered at the landscape.
    Five minutes passed. Then another five. The road curved. And I saw what we were looking for.
    I nudged my uncle. “That’s it.” I spoke in a low voice, not wanting Suresh to hear me. “Look. Do you see?”
    Uncle Harvey crowded over to my side of the rickshaw and peered out of the open doorway. Together we stared at the hill. It was exactly as Horatio had described, a small, steep mound springing straight out of the dusty plain.
    Now we just had to climb up there, find the hole in the ground, dig up the tiger—and we’d be rich.
    Uncle Harvey waited for us to come right up to the hill, then tapped Suresh on his shoulder. “We’ll stop here, please.”
    â€œHere, sir?” shouted Suresh.
    â€œYes. Here.”
    We glided to a standstill by the side of the road.
    Uncle Harvey and I stepped out. The heat was astonishing. While the rickshaw was moving, a breeze had been cooling us down, but stepping out of it onto the road was like putting your head in an oven.
    Suresh watched us curiously. He asked, “You will go where?”
    â€œUp there.” I pointed to the top of the hill.
    â€œWhy?”
    I wasn’t sure how to answer, but luckily Uncle Harvey took over. “We want to see the view. Will you wait for us here, please? We won’t be long.”
    â€œYou will leave your bag?” asked Suresh. “Is safe with me.”
    â€œThat’s not a bad idea,” said Uncle Harvey. He pulled a few valuables out of the bag, zipped it up, and dumped it on the back seat. “You’re not going to steal it, are you?”
    â€œNo, sir!” Suresh looked shocked at the very idea. “I am your driver, not a thief! I will keep it safe for you.”
    â€œJust checking. See you later.”
    I thought about my bag, now