Flashman In The Great Game fp-5

by George MacDonald Fraser

  For on the morning after that talk at the pavilion — two weeks to the day since I'd arrived in Jhansi — things began to happen in earnest. To me, at any rate.

  I sensed there was something up as soon as I presented myself in the durbar room; she was perfectly pleasant, vivacious even, as she told me about some new hunting-cheetah she'd been given, but her vakeel and chief minister weren't meeting her eye, and her foot was tap-tapping under the edge of her gold sari; ah, thinks I, someone's been getting the sharp side of missy's tongue. She didn't have much mind to business, either, and once or twice I caught her eyeing me almost warily, when she would smile quickly — with anyone else I would have said it was nervousness. Finally she cut the discussion off abruptly, saying enough for today, and we would watch the guardsmen fencing in the courtyard.

  Even there, I noticed her finger tapping on the balcony as we looked down at the Pathans sabring away — damned active, dangerous lads they looked, too — but in a little while she began to take notice, talking about the swordplay and applauding the hits, and then she. glanced sidelong at me, and says:

  "Do you fence as well as you ride, colonel?"

  I said, pretty fair, and she gave me her lazy smile and says:

  "Then we shall try a bout," and blow me if she didn't order a couple of foils up to the durbar room, and go off to change into her jodhpurs and blouse. I waited, wondering — of course, Skene had said she'd been brought up with boys, and could handle arms with the best of them, but it seemed deuced odd — and then she was back, ordering her attendants away, tying up her hair in a silk scarf, and ordering me on guard very business-like. They'll never believe this at home, thinks I, but I obeyed, indulgently enough, and she touched me three times in the first minute. So I settled down, in earnest, and in the next minute she hit me only once, laughing, and told me to try harder.

  That nettled me, I confess; I wasn't having this, royalty or not, so I went to work — I'm a strong swordsman, but not too academic — and I pushed her for all I was worth. She was better-muscled than she looked, though, and fast as a cat, and I had to labour to make her break ground, gasping with laughter, until her back was against one of the glass walls. She took to the point, holding me off, and then unaccountably her guard seemed to falter, I jumped in with the old heavy cavalry trick, punching my hilt against the forte of her blade, her foil spun out of her hand — and for a moment we were breast to breast, with me panting within inches of that dusky face and open, laughing mouth — the great dark eyes were wide and waiting — and then my foil was clattering on the floor and I had her in my arms, crushing my lips on hers and tasting the sweetness of her tongue, with that soft body pressed against me, revelling in the feel and fragrance of her. I felt her hands slip up my back to my head, holding my face against hers for a long delicious moment, and then she drew her lips away, sighing, opened her eyes, and said:

  "How well do you shoot, colonel?"

  And then she had slipped from my arms and was walking quickly towards the door to her private room, with me grunting endearments in pursuit, but as I came after her she just raised a hand, without turning or breaking stride, and said firmly:

  "The durbar is finished … for the moment." The door closed behind her, and I was left with the fallen foils, panting like a bull before business, but thinking, my boy, we're home — the damned little teaser. I hesitated, wondering whether to invade her boudoir, when the little chamberlain came pottering in, eyeing the foils in astonishment, so I took my leave and presently was riding back to the cantonment, full of buck and anticipation — I'd known she'd call "Play!" in the end, and now there was nothing to do but enjoy the game.

  That was why she'd been jumpy earlier, of course, wondering how best to bring me to the boil, the cunning minx. "How well do you shoot?" forsooth — she'd find out soon enough, when we finished the durbar — tomorrow, no doubt. So by way of celebration I drank a sight more bubbly than was good for me at dinner, and even took a magnum back to my bungalow for luck. It was as well I did, for about ten Ilderim dropped by for a prose — as he'd taken to doing — and there's nobody thirstier than a dry Gilzai — if you think all Muslims abstain, I can tell you of one who didn't. So we popped the cork, and gassed about the old days, and smoked, and I was enjoying myself with carnal thoughts about my Lucky Lakshmibai and thinking about turning in, when there came a scraping on the chick at the back of the bungalow, and the khitmagar*(*Bearer, waiter.) appeared to tell me that there was a bibi*(*Lady.) who insisted on seeing me.

  Ilderim grinned and wagged his ugly head, and I cursed, thinking here was some bazaar houri plying her trade where it was least wanted, but I staggered out, and sure enough at the foot of the steps was a veiled woman in a sari, but with a burly-looking escort standing farther back at the gate. She didn't look like a slut, somehow, and when I asked what she wanted she came quickly up the steps, salaamed, and held out a little leather pouch. I took it, wondering; inside there was a handkerchief, and even through the champagne fumes there was no mistaking — it was heavy with my perfume.

  "From my mistress," says the woman, as I goggled at it. "By God," says I, and sniffed it again. "Who the blazes —"

  "Name no names," says she, and it was a well-spoken voice, for a Hindoo. "My mistress sends it, and bids you come to the river pavilion in an hour." And with that she salaamed again, and slipped down the steps. I called after her, and took an unsteady step, but she didn't stop, and she and her escort vanished in the dark.

  Well, I'm damned, thinks I, surprise giving way to delight — she couldn't wait, by heaven … and of course the river pavilion at night was just the place … far better than the palace, where all sorts of folk were prying. Nice and secluded, very discreet — just the place for a rowdy little Rani to entertain. "Syce!" I shouted, and strode back inside, a trifle unsteadily, damning the champagne, but chortling as I examined my chin in the glass, decided it would do, and roared for a clean shirt.

  "Now where away?" says Ilderim, who was squatting on the rug. "Not after some trollop from the bazaar, at this time?"

  "No, brother," says I. "Something much better than a trollop. If you could see this one you'd forswear small boys and melons for good." By jove, I was feeling prime; I dandied myself up in no time, rinsed my face to clear some of the booze away, and was out champing on the verandah as the syce brought my pony round.

  "You're mad," growls Ilderim. "Do you go alone — where to?"

  "I'm not sharing her, if that's what you mean. I'll take the syce." For I wasn't too sure of the way at night, and it was pitch black. I must have been drunker than I felt, for it took me three shots to mount, and then, with a wave to Ilderim, who was glowering doubtfully from the verandah, I trotted off, with the syce scrambling up behind.

  Now, I'll admit I was woozy, and say at the same time that I'd have gone if I'd been cold sober. I don't know when I've been pawing the ground quite so hard for a woman — probably the two weeks' spooning had worked me up, and I couldn't cover the two miles to the pavilion fast enough. Fortunately the syce was a handy lad, for he not only guided us but held me from tumbling out of the saddle; I don't remember much of the journey except that it lasted for ages, and then we were among trees, with the hooves padding on grass, the syce was shaking my arm, and there ahead was the pavilion, half-hidden by the foliage.

  I didn't want the syce spying, so I slid down and told him to wait, and then I pushed on. In spite of the night air, the booze seemed to have increased its grip, but I navigated well enough, leaning on a trunk every now and then. I surveyed the pavilion; there were dim lights on the ground floor, and in one room upstairs, and by George, there was even the sound of music on the slight breeze. I beamed into the dark — what these Indians don't know about the refinements of romping isn't worth knowing. An orchestra underneath, privacy and soft lights upstairs, and no doubt refreshments to boot — I rubbed my face and hurried forward through the garden to the outside staircase leading to the upper rooms, staggering quietly so as n
ot to disturb the hidden musicians, who were fluting sweetly away behind the screens.

  I mounted the staircase, holding on tight, and reached the little landing. There was a small passage, and a slatted door at the end, with light filtering through it. I paused, to struggle out of my loose trousers — at least I wasn't so tight that I'd been fool enough to come out in boots — took a great lusty breath, padded unsteadily forward, and felt the door give at my touch. The air was heavy with perfume as I stepped in, stumbled into a muslin curtain, swore softly as I disentangled myself, took hold of a wooden pillar for support, and gazed round into the half-gloom.

  There were dim pink lamps burning, on the floor against the walls, giving just enough light to show the broad couch, shrouded in mosquito net, against the far wall. And there she was, silhouetted against the glow, sitting back among the cushions, one leg stretched out, the other with knee raised; there was a soft tinkle of bangles, and I leaned against my pillar and croaked:

  "Lakshmibai? Lucky? — it's me, darling … chabeli*(*Sweetheart.) … I'm here!"

  She turned her head, and then in one movement raised the net and slipped out, standing motionless by the couch, like a bronze statue. She was wearing bangles, all right, and a little gold girdle round her hips, and some kind of metal headdress from which a flimsy veil descended from just beneath her eyes to her chin — not another stitch. I let out an astonishing noise, and was trying to steady myself for a plunge, but she checked me with a lifted hand, slid one foot forward, crooked her arms like a nautch-dancer, and came gliding slowly towards me, swaying that splendid golden nakedness in time to the throbbing of the music beneath our feet.

  I could only gape; whether it was the drink or admiration or what, I don't know, but I seemed paralysed in every limb but one. She came writhing up to me, bangles tinkling and dark eyes gleaming enormously in the soft light; I couldn't see her face for the veil, but I wasn't trying to; she retreated, turning and swaying her rump, and then approached again, reaching forward to brush me teasingly with her fingertips; I grabbed, gasping, but she slid away, faster now as the tempo of the music increased, and then back again, hissing at me through the veil, lifting those splendid breasts in her hands, and this time I had the wit to seize a tit and a buttock, fairly hooting with lust as she writhed against me and lifted the veil just enough to bring her mouth up to mine. Her right foot was slipping up the outside of my left leg, past the knee, up to the hip, and round so that her heel was in the small of my back — God knows how they do it, double joints or something — and then she was thrusting up and down like a demented monkey on a stick, raking me with her nails and giving little shrieks into my mouth, until the torchlight procession which was marching through my loins suddenly exploded, she went limp in my arms, and I thought, oh Lord, now Iettest thou thy servant depart in peace, as I slid gently to the floor in ecstatic exhaustion with that delightful burden clinging and quivering on top of me.

  The instructors who taught dancing to young Indian royalty in those days must have been uncommon sturdy; she had just about done for me, but somehow I must have managed to crawl to the couch, for the next I knew I was there with my face cradled against those wonderful perfumed boobies — I tried feebly to go brrr! but she turned my head and lifted a cup to my lips. As if I hadn't enough on board already, but I drank greedily and sank back, gasping, and was just deciding I might live, after all, when she set about me again, lips and hands questing over my body, fondling and plaguing, writhing her hips across my groaning carcase until she was astride my thighs with her back to me, and the torchlight procession staggered into marching order once more, eventually erupting yet again with shattering effect. After which she left me in peace for a good half-hour, as near as I could judge in my intoxicated state — one thing I'm certain of, that if I'd been sober and in my right mind she could never have teased me into action a third time, as she did, by doing incredible things which I still only half-believe as I recall them. But I remember those great eyes, over the veil, and the pearl on her brow, and her perfume, and the tawny velvet skin in the half-light …

  I came awake in an icy sweat, my limbs shivering, trying to remember where I was. There was a cold wind from somewhere out in the dark, and I turned my aching head; the pink lamps were burning, casting their shadows, but she was no longer there. Someone was, though, surely, over by the door; there was a dark figure, but it wasn't naked, for I could see a white loin-cloth, and instead of the gold headdress, there was a tight white turban. A man? And he was holding something — a stick? No, it had a strange curved head on it — and there was another man, just behind him, and even as I watched they were gliding stealthily into the room, and I saw that the second one had a cloth in his right hand.

  For perhaps ten seconds I lay motionless, gazing — and then it rushed in on me that this wasn't a dream, that they were moving towards the couch, and that this was horrible, inexplicable danger. The net was gone from the couch, and I could see them clearly, the white eyes in the black faces — I braced for an instant and then hurled myself off the couch away from them, slipped, recovered, and rushed at the shutters in the screen-wall. There was a snarl from behind me, something swished in the air and thudded, and I had a glimpse of a small pick-axe quivering in the shutter as I flung myself headlong at the screen, yelling in terror. Thank God I'm fourteen stone — it came down with a splintering crash, and I was sprawling on the little verandah, thrashing my way out of the splintered tangle and heaving myself on to the verandah rail.

  From the tail of my eye I saw a dark shape springing for me over the couch; there was a tree spreading its thick foliage within five feet of the verandah, and I dived straight into it, crashing and scraping through the branches, clutching vainly and taking a tremendous thump across the hips as I struck a limb. For a second I seemed suspended, and then I shot down and landed flat on my back with a shock that sickened me. I rolled over, trying to heave myself up, as two black figures dropped from the tree almost on top of me; I blundered into one of them, smashed a fist into its face, and then something flicked in front of my eyes, and I only just got a hand up in time to catch the garotte as it jerked back on to my throat.

  I shrieked, hauling at it; my wrist was clamped under my chin by the strangler's scarf, but my right arm was free, and as I staggered back into him I scrabbled behind me, was fortunate enough to grab a handful of essentials, and wrenched for all I was worth. He screamed in agony, the scarf slackened, and he went down, but before I could flee for the safety of the wood the other one was on my back, and he made no mistake; the scarf whipped round my windpipe, his knee was into my spine, and I was flailing helplessly with his breath hissing in my ear. Five seconds, it Hashed across my mind, is all it takes for an expert garotter to kill a man — oh, Jesus, my sight was going, my head was coming off, with a horrible pain tearing in my throat, I was dying even as I fell, floating down to the turf — and then I was on my back, gasping down huge gulps of air, and the faces that were swimming in front of my eyes, glaring horribly, were merging into one — Ilderim Khan was gripping my shoulders and urging:

  "Flashman! Be still! There — now lie a moment, and breathe! Inshallah! The strangler's touch is no light thing." His strong fingers were massaging my throat as he grinned down at me. "See what comes of lusting after loose women? A moment more, and we would have been sounding retreat over thee — so give thanks that I have a suspicious mind, and followed with my badmashes to see what kind of cunchunee*(*Dancing-girl.) it was who bade thee to her bed so mysteriously. How is it, old friend — can you stand?"

  "What happened?" I mumbled, trying to rise.

  "Ask why, rather. Has she a jealous husband, perhaps? We saw the lights, and heard music, but presently all was still, and many came out, to a palankeen in which ladies travel, and so away. But no sign of thee, till we heard thee burst out, with these hounds of hell behind thee." And following his nod, I saw there were two of his ruffians squatting in the shadows over two dark shapes lying on the grass —
one was ominously still, but the other was gasping and wheezing, and from the way he clutched himself I imagine he was the assassin whose courting-tackle I'd tried to rearrange. One of Ilderim's sowars was ostentatiously cleaning his Khyber knife with a handful of leaves, and presently a third came padding out of the dark.

  "The sahib's syce is dead yonder," says he. "Bitten with a tooth from Kali's mouth! "*(*Stabbed with a Thug pick-axe.)

  "What?" says Ilderim, starting up. "Now, in God's name —" and he went quickly to the body of the dead strangler, snatching a lantern from one of his men, and peering into the dead face. I heard him exclaim, and then he beckoned me. "Look there," says he, and pulled down the dead man's eyelid with his finger; even in the flickering light I could see the crude tattoo on the skin.11

  "Thug!" says Ilderim through his teeth. "Now, Flash-man, what does this mean?"

  I was trying to take hold of my senses, with my head splitting and my neck feeling as though it had been through the mangle. It was a nightmare — one moment I'd been in a drunken frenzy of fornication with Lakshmibai, with a houseful of musicians beating time — and the next I was being murdered by professional stranglers — and Thugs at that. But I was too shocked to think, so Ilderim grunted and turned to the groaning prisoner.

  "This one shall tell us," says he, and seized him by the throat. "Look now — thou art dead already. But it can be swift, or I can trim off the appurtenances and extremities from thy foul carcase and make thee eat them. That, for a beginning. So choose — who sent thee, and why?"

  The Thug snarled, and spat at him, so Ilderim says: "Take him to the tree yonder," and while they did he hauled out his knife, stropped it on his sole, says "Bide here, husoor," and then strode grimly after them.