He opened the ball, with genial compliments about my Afghan service. "But now you come to us in another capacity … as an advocate. Still of the Army, but in Major Broadfoot's service." He twinkled at me, stroking his white beard. Well, he probably knew the colour of George's drawers, too. I explained that I'd been studying law at home—.
"At the Inns of Court, perhaps?"
"No, sir—firm in Chancery Lane. I hope to read for the Bar some day."
"Excellent," purrs Bhai Ram, beaming. "I have a little law, myself." I'll lay you do, thinks I, bracing myself. Sure enough, out came the legal straight left. "I have been asking myself what difficulty might arise, if in this Soochet business, it should prove that the widow had a coparcener." He smiled at me inquiringly, and I looked baffled, and asked how that could possibly affect matters.
"I do not know," says he blandly. "That is why I ask you."
"Well, sir," says I, puzzled, "the answer is that it don't apply, you see. If the lady were Soochet's descendant, and had a sister—a female in the same degree, that is—then they'd take together. As coparceners. But she's his widow, so the question doesn't arise." So put that in your pipe and smoke it, old Cheeryble; I hadn't sat up in Simla with towel round my head for nothing.
He regarded me ruefully, and sighed, with a shrug to Fakir Azizudeen, who promptly exploded.
"So he is a lawyer, then! Did you expect Broadfoot to send a farmer? As if this legacy matters! We know it does not, and so does he!" This with a gesture at me. He leaned forward. "Why are you here, sahib? Is it to take up time, with this legal folly? To whet the hopes of that drunken fool Jawaheer —"
"Gently, gently," Bhai Ram reproved him.
"Gently—on the brink of war? When the Five Rivers are like to run red?" He swung angrily on me. "Let us regarded me benevolently over his specs. "A needless precaution, no doubt … but your safety is important, They would be discreet, of course."
You may judge that this put the wind up me like a full gale—if this wily old stick thought I was in danger, that was enough for me. I was sure he meant me no harm; Broadfoot had marked him A3. So, affecting nonchalance, I said I'd be most obliged, while assuring him I felt as safe in Lahore as I would in Calcutta or London or Wisconsin, even, ha-ha. He gave me a puzzled look, said he would see to it, and left me in a rare sweat of anxiety, which was interrupted by my final visitor.
He was a fat and unctuous villain with oily eyes, one Tej Singh, who waddled in with a couple of flunkeys, greeting me effusively as a fellow-soldier—he sported an enormous jewelled sabre over a military coat crusted with bullion, his insignia as a Khalsa general. He was full of my Afghan exploits, and insisted on presenting me with a superb silk robe—not quite a dress of honour, he explained fawning, but rather more practical in the sultry heat. He was such a toad, I wondered if the robe was poisoned, but after he'd Heeped his way out, assuring me of his undying friendship and homage, I decided he was just dropping dash where he thought it might do good. A fine garment it was, too; I peeled down and donned it, enjoying its silky coolness while I reflected on the affairs of the day.
Broadfoot and Jassa had been right: I was receiving attention from all kinds of people. What struck me was their impatience—I wasn't even here yet, officially, and wouldn't be until I'd been presented in durbar, but they'd come flocking like sparrows to crumbs. Most of their motives were plain enough; they saw through the legacy sham, and recognised me as Broadfoot's ear trumpet. But it was reassuring that they thought me worth cultivating—Tej Singh, a Khalsa big-wig, especially; if that damned old Bhai Ram hadn't shown such concern for my safety, I'd have been cheery altogether. Well, I had more news for Broadfoot, for what it was worth; at this rate, Second Thessalonians was going to take some traffic. I ambled through to the bedside table, picked up the Bible—and dropped it in surprise.
The note I'd placed in it a bare two hours earlier was gone. And since I'd never left the room, Broadfoot's mysterious messenger must be one of those who had called on me.
Jassa was my first thought, instantly dismissed—George would have told me, in his case. Dinanath and Fakir Azizudeen had each passed alone through my bedroom … but they seemed most unlikely. Tej Singh hadn't been out of sight, but I couldn't swear to his flunkeys—or the two little maids. Little Dalip was impossible, Bhai Ram hadn't been near my bedside, nor had Mangla, worse luck … could she have sneaked in unobserved while I was with Dalip, beyond the arch? I sifted the whole thing while I ate a solitary supper, hoping it was Mangla, and wondering if she'd be back presently … it was going to be a lonely night, and I cursed the Indian protocol that kept me in purdah, so to speak, until I was summoned to durbar, probably next day.
It was dark outside now, but the maids (working tandem to avoid molestation, no doubt) had lit the lamps, and the moths were fluttering at the mosquito curtain as I settled down with Crotchet Castle, enjoying for the hundredth time the passage where old Folliott becomes agitated in the presence of bare-arsed statues of Venus … which set me thinking of Mangla again, and I was idly wondering which of the ninety-seven positions taught me by Fetnab would suit her best, when I became aware that the punkah had stopped.
The old bastard's caulked out again, thinks I, and hollered, without result, so I rolled, up, seized my crop, and strode forth to give him an enjoyable leathering. But his mat was empty, and so was the passage, stretching away to the far stairs, with only a couple of lamps shining faint in the gloom. I called for Jassa; nothing but a hollow echo. I stood a moment; it was damned quiet, not a sound anywhere, and for the first time my silk robe felt chill against my skin.
I went inside again, and listened, but apart from the faint pitter of the moths at the screen, no sound at all. To be sure, the Kwabagh was a big place, and I'd no notion where I was within it, but you'd have expected some noise … distant voices, or music. I went through the screen on to the little balcony, and looked over the marble balustrade; it was a long drop, four storeys at least, to the enclosed court, high enough to make my crotch contract; I would just hear the faint tinkle of the fountain, and make out the white pavement in the gloom, but the walls enclosing the court were black; not a light anywhere.
I found I was shivering, and it wasn't the night air. My skin was crawling with a sudden dread in that lonely, sinister darkness, and I was just about to turn hurriedly back into my room when I saw something that brought the hair bristling up on my neck.
Far down in the court, on the pale marble by the fountain, there was a shadow where none had been before. I stared, thrilling with horror as I realised it was a man, in black robes, his upturned face hidden in a dark hood. He was looking up at my balcony, and then he stepped back into the shadows, and the court was empty.
I was inside and streaking across the room in an instant—and if you say I start at shadows, I'll agree with you, pointing out only that behind every shadow there's sub-stance, and in this case it wasn't out for an evening stroll. I yanked open the door, preparing to speed down the pass-age in search of cheer and comfort—and my foot wasn't over the threshold before I froze in my tracks. At the far end of the passage, beyond the last light, dark figures were advancing, and I caught the gleam of steel among them.
I skipped back, slamming the door, looking wildly about for a bolt-hole which I knew didn't exist. There wasn't time to get my pepperbox; they'd be at the door in a second—there was nothing for it but to slip through the screen to the balcony, shuddering back against the balustrade even as I heard the door flung open and men bursting in. In unthinking panic I swung over the side of the balustrade, close to the wall, clutching its pillars from the outside, cowering low with my toes scrabbling for a hold and that appalling drop beneath me, while heavy footsteps and harsh voices rang out from my room.
It was futile, of course. They'd be ravening out on the balcony in a moment, see me through the pillars—I could hear the yell of triumph, feel the agony of steel slicing through my fingers, sending me hurtling to hideous death. I crouched lower
, gibbering like an ape, trying to peer under the balcony—God, there was a massive stone bracket supporting it, only inches away! I thrust a foot through it, slipped, and for a ghastly instant was hanging at full stretch before I got one leg crooked over the bracket, made a frantic grab, and found myself clinging to it like a bloody sloth, upside down beneath the balcony, with my fine silk robe billowing beneath me.
I've no head for heights, did I tell you? That yawning black void was dragging my mind down, willing me to let go, even as I clung for dear life with locked ankles and sweating fingers—I must drag myself up and over the bracket somehow, but even as I braced myself a voice sang out just overhead, and the toe of a boot appeared between the pillars only a yard above my upturned face. Thank God the balcony rail was a broad projecting slab which hid me from view as he shouted down—and only then did I remember blasted Romeo below, who must have been watching my frantic acrobatics …
"Ai, Nurla Bey—what of the feringhee?" cries the voice above—a rasping croak in Pushtu, and I could hear my muscles creaking with the awful strain as I waited to be announced.
"He came out a moment since, Gurdana Khan," came the answer—Jesus, it sounded a mile down. "Then he went back within."
He hadn't seen me? Pondering it later—which you ain't inclined to do while hanging supine under a balcony of murderers—I concluded that he must have been looking elsewhere or relieving himself when I made my leap for glory, and my robe being dark green, he couldn't make me out in the deep shadow beneath the balcony. I embraced the bracket, blubbering silently, while Gurdana Khan swore by the Seven Lakes of Hell that I wasn't in the room, so where the devil was I?
"Perchance he has the gift of invisibility," calls up the wag in the court. "The English are great chemists." Gurdana damned his eyes, and for no sane reason I found myself thinking that this was the kind of crisis in which, Broadfoot had said, I might drop the magic word "Wisconsin" into the conversation. I didn't care to interrupt, though, just then, while Gurdana stamped in fury and addressed his followers.
"Find him! Search every nook, every corner in the palace! Stay, though—he may have gone to the durbar room!"
"What—into the very presence of Jawaheer?" scoffs another.
"His best refuge, fool! Even thou wouldst not cut his throat in open durbar. Away, and search! Nurla, thou dirt—back to the gate!"
For a split second, as he shouted down, his sleeve came into view—and even in the poor light there was no mistaking that pattern. It was the tartan of the 79th, and Gurdana Khan was the Pathan officer I'd seen that after-noon—dear God, the Palace Guard were after me!
How I held on for those last muscle-cracking moments, with fiery cramps searing my arms, I can't fathom, much less how I managed to struggle up astride of the bracket. But I did, and sat gasping and shaking in the freezing dark. They were gone, and I must steel myself to reach out and up for a hold on the balcony pillars, and somehow find the strength to drag myself to safety. I knew it was death to try, but equally certain death to remain, so I drew myself into a crouch, feet on the bracket like some damned cathedral gargoyle, leaned out, and reached slowly up with one trembling hand, too terrified to make the snatch which had to be made .. ,
A hideous face shot over the balustrade, glaring down at me, I squealed in terror, my foot slipped, I clawed wildly at thin air as I began to fall—and a hand like a vice clamped on my wrist, almost wrenching my arm from its socket. For two bowel-chilling seconds I swung free, wailing, then another hand seized my forearm, and I was dragged up and over the balustrade, collapsing in a quaking heap on the balcony, with Jassa's ugly face peering into mine.
I'm not certain what line our conversation took, once I'd heaved up my supper, because I was in that state of blind funk and shock where talk don't matter, and I made it worse—once I'd recovered the strength to crawl indoors—by emptying my pint flask of brandy in about three great gulps, while Jassa asked damfool questions.
That brandy was a mistake. Sober, I'd have begun to reason straight, and let him talk some sense into me, but I sank the lot, and the short result was that, in the immortal words of Thomas Hughes, Flashy became beastly drunk. And when I'm foxed, and shuddering scared into the bargain … well, I ain't responsible. The odd thing is, I keep all my faculties except common sense; I see and hear clearly, and remember, too—and I know I had only one thought in mind, seared there by that tartan villain who was bent on murdering me: "The durbar room—his best refuge!" If there's one thing I respect, drunk or sober, it's a professional opinion, and if my hunters thought I'd be safe there then by God not Jassa or fifty like him were going to keep me from it. He must have tried to calm me, for I fancy I took him by the throat, to make my intentions clear, but all I'm sure of is that I went blundering off along the passage, and then along another, and down a long spiral staircase that grew lighter as I descended, with the sound of music coming closer, and then I was in a broad carpeted gallery, where various interesting Orientals glanced at me curiously, and I was looking out at a huge chandelier gleaming with a thousand candles, and below it a broad circular floor on which two men and a woman were dancing, three brilliant figures whirling to and fro. There were spectators down there, too, in curtained booths round the walls, all in extravagant costumes—aha, thinks I, this is the spot, and a fancy dress party in progress, too; capital, I'll go as a chap in a green silk robe with bare feet. It's a terrible thing, drink.
"Flashman bahadur! Why, have you received the parwana, then?"
I turned, and there was Mangla walking towards me along the gallery, wearing a smile of astonishment and 'very little besides. Plainly it was fancy dress, and she'd come as a dancer from some select brothel (which wasn't far out, in fact). She wore a long black sash low on her hips, knotted so that it hung to her ankles before and behind, leaving her legs bare; her fine upper works were displayed in a bodice of transparent gauze, her hair hung in a black tail to her waist, she tinkled with bangles, and there were silver castanets on her fingers. A cheering sight, I can tell you, at any time, but even more so when you've been hanging out of windows to avoid the broker's men.
"No parwana, I'm afraid," says I. "Here, I say, that's a fetching rig! Well, now … is that the durbar room down yonder?"
"Why, yes—you wish to meet their highnessses?" She came closer, eyeing me curiously. "Is all well with you, bahadur? Why, you are shaking! Are you ill?"
"Not a bit of it!" says I. "Took a turn in the night air … chilly, eh?" Some drunken instinct told me to keep mum about my balcony adventure, at least until I met higher authority. She said I needed something to warm me, and a lackey serving the folk in the gallery put a beaker in my hand. What with brandy and funk I was parched as a camel's oxter, so I drank it straight off, and another—dry red wine, with a curious effervescent tang to it. D'you know, it settled me wonderfully; a few more of these, thinks I, and they can bring the nigger in. I took another swig, and Mangla laid a hand on my arm, smiling roguishly.
"That is your third cup, bahadur. Have a care. It is , . . strangely potent, and the night has only begun. Rest a moment."
I didn't mind. With the liquor taking hold I felt safe among the lights and music, with this delectable houri to hand. I slipped an arm round her waist as we looked down on the dancers; the guests reclining in the booths around the floor were clapping to the music and throwing silver: others were drinking and eating and dallying—it looked a thoroughly jolly party, with most of the women as briefly attired as Mangla. One black charmer, naked to the waist, was supporting a shouting reveller as he weaved his way across the floor, there was excited laughter and shrill voices, and one or two of the booths had their curtains discreetly closed … and not a Pathan in sight.
"Their highnesses are merry," says Mangla. "One of them, at least." A man's voice was shouting angrily below, but the music and celebration continued uninterrupted. "Never fear, you will find a welcome—come and join our entertainment."
Capital, thinks I, we'll entertain each
other in one of those curtained nooks, so I let her lead me down a curved stair giving on to an open space at one side of the floor, where there were buffets piled high with delicacies and drink. The angry man's voice greeted us as we descended, and then he was in view beside the tables: a tall, well-made fellow, handsome in the pretty Indian way, with a curly beard and moustache, a huge jewelled turban on his head and only baggy silk pantaloons on the rest of him. He was staggering tight, with a goblet in one hand and the other round the neck of the black beauty who'd been helping him across the floor. Before him stood Dinanath and Azizudeen, grim and furious as he railed at them, stuttering drunkenly.
"Tell 'em to go to the devil! Do they think the Wazir is some mujbee*(*Sweeper.) who'll run to their bidding! Let 'em come to me—aye, and humbly! Khalsa scum! Sons of pigs and owls! Do they think they rule here?"
"They know it," snaps Azizudeen. "Persist in this folly and they'll prove it."
"Treason!" bawls the other, and flung the goblet at him. It missed by yards, and he'd have tumbled over if the black wench hadn't caught him. He clung tipsily to her, flecks of spittle on his beard, crying that he was the Wazir, they wouldn't dare -
"And what's to stop them?" demands Azizudeen. "Your Palace Guard—whom the Khalsa have promised to blow from guns if you escape? Try it, my prince, and you'll find your Guards have become your jailers!"
"Liar!" yammers the other, and then from raging and cursing he burst into tears, bleating about how well he'd paid them, half a lakh to a single general, and they'd stand by him while the British ate the Khalsa alive. "Oh, aye—the British are marching on us even now!" cries he. "Don't the fools know that?"
"They know you say so—but that it is not true," puts in Dinanath sternly. "My prince, this is foolish. You know you must go out to the Khalsa tomorrow, to answer for Peshora's death . . if you speak them fair, all may be well …" He stepped closer, speaking low and earnest, while the fellow mowed and wept—and then, damme if he didn't lose interest and start nuzzling and fondling his black popsy. First things first seemed to be his motto, and he pawed with such ardour that they tumbled down and sprawled in a drunken embrace at the stair foot, while Dinanath and Azizudeen stood speechless. The drunkard raised his face from between her boobies once, blubbering at Dinanath that he daren't go out to the Khalsa, they'd do him a mischief, and then went back to the matter in hand, trying to climb on top of her with his great turban all awry.
The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light fp-9 Page 7