Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “What bearing has this on Ranjoor Singh?” asked Kirby. It was so long since he had been spoken to so bluntly that he could not sit still under it.

  “I am explaining why the colonel sahib shall beg for his Ranjoor Singh,” she smiled. “Does the fire burn yet, I wonder?”

  She struck a gong, and a maid appeared in the door like an instant echo.

  “Does the fire still burn?” she asked.

  The maid disappeared, and was gone five minutes, during which Kirby and Warrington sat in silent wonder. They wondered chiefly what the regiment would say if it knew — and whether the regiment would ever know. Then the maid came back.

  “It burns,” she said. “I can see flame from the roof, though not so much flame.”

  “So,” said Yasmini. “Listen, sahibs.”

  It is doubtful if a trumpet could have summoned them away, for she had them bound in her spells, and each in a different spell, as her way is. She had little need to order them to listen.

  “The talk in the bazaars did little harm, for the fat bunnias know well whose rule has given them their pickings. They talk for the love of words, but they trade for the love of money, and the government protects their money. Nay, it was not the bunnias who mattered.

  “But there came a day when the rings of talk had reached the hills, and hillmen came to Delhi to hear more, as they ever have come since India was India. And it was clear then to the government that proof of disloyalty among the native regiments would set the hillmen screaming for a holy war — for the hills are cold, sahibs, and the hillmen have cold hearts and are quick to take advantage, even as I am, of others’ embarrassment. Hillmen have no mercy, Colonel sahib. I was weaned amid the hills.”

  It seemed to Kirby and Warrington both — for not all their wits were stupefied — that she was sparring for time. And then Warrington saw a face reflected in one of the mirrors and nudged Kirby, and Kirby saw it too. They both saw that she was watching it. It was a fat face, and it looked terrified, but the lips did not move and only the eyes had expression. In a moment a curtain seemed to be drawn in front of it, and Yasmini took up her tale.

  “And then, sahibs, as I have told already, there came a wind that whistled about war; and it pleased the government to know which, if any, of the native regiments had been affected by the talk. So a closer watch was set, then a net was drawn, and Ranjoor Singh ran into the net.”

  “An antelope might blunder into a net set for a tiger,” said Kirby. “I am here to cut him out again.”

  Yasmini laughed.

  “With pistols to shoot the cobras and sweat to put out flame? Nay, what is there to cut but the dark that closes up again? Sahib, thou shalt beg for Ranjoor Singh, who struck a hillman in my house, he was so eager to hear treason!”

  “Ranjoor Singh’s honor and mine are one!” said Colonel Kirby, using a native phrase that admits of no double meaning, and for a second Yasmini stared at him in doubt.

  She had heard that phrase used often to express native regard for a native, or for an Englishman, but never before by an Englishman for a native.

  “Then beg for him!” she grinned mischievously. “Aye, I know the tale! It is the eve of war, and he commands a squadron, and there is need of him. Is it not so? Yet the house that he entered burns. And the hillman’s knife is long and keen, sahib! Beg for him!”

  Kirby had risen to his feet, and Warrington followed suit. Kirby’s self- possession was returning and she must have known it; perhaps she even intended that it should. But she lay curled on the divan, laughing up at him, and perfectly unimpressed by his recovered dignity.

  “If he’s alive, and you know where he is,” said Kirby, “I will pay you your price. Name it!”

  “Beg for him! There is no other price. The ‘House of the Eight Half- Brothers’ burns! Beg for him!”

  Now, the colonel of a regiment of light cavalry is so little given to beg for things that the word beg has almost lapsed out of his vocabulary from desuetude.

  “I beg you to tell me where he is,” he said stiffly, and she clapped her hands and laughed with such delight that he blushed to his ears again.

  “I have had a prince on his knees to me, and many a priest,” she chuckled, “aye, and many a soldier — but never yet a British colonel sahib. Kneel and beg!”

  “Why — what — what d’ye mean?” demanded Kirby.

  “Is his honor not your honor? I have heard it said. Then beg, Colonel sahib, on your knees — on those stiff British knees — beg for the honor of Ranjoor Singh!”

  “D’you mean — d’you mean — ?”

  “Beg for his honor, and beg for his life, on your knees, Colonel sahib!”

  “I could look the other way, sir,” whispered Warrington, for the regiment’s need was very real.

  “Nay, both of you! Ye shall both beg!” said Yasmini, “or Ranjoor Singh shall taste a hillman’s mercy. He shall die so dishonored that the regiment shall hang its head in shame.”

  “Impossible!” said Kirby. “His honor is as good as mine!”

  “Then beg for his and thine — on your knees, Colonel sahib!”

  Then it seemed to Colonel Kirby that the room began to swim, for what with the heat and what with an unconquerable dread of snakes, he was not in shape to play his will against this woman’s.

  “What if I kneel?” he asked.

  “I will promise you Ranjoor Singh, alive and clean!”

  “When?”

  “In time!”

  “In time for what?”

  “Against the regiment’s need!”

  “No use. I want him at once!” said Colonel Kirby.

  “Then go, sahib! Put out the fire with the sweat that streams from thee! Nay, go, both of you — ye have my leave to go! And what is a Sikh risaldar more or less? Nay, go, and let the Jat die!”

  It is not to be written lightly that the British colonel of Outram’s Own and his adjutant both knelt to a native woman — if she is a native — in a top back-room of a Delhi bazaar. But it has to be recorded that for the sake of Ranjoor Singh they did.

  They knelt and placed their foreheads where she bade them, against the divan at her feet, and she poured enough musk in their hair, for the love of mischief, to remind them of what they had done until in the course of slowly moving nature the smell should die away. And then in a second the lights went out, each blown by a fan from behind the silken hangings.

  They heard her silvery laugh, and they heard her spring to the floor. In cold, creeping sweat they listened to footsteps, and a little voice whispered in Hindustani:

  “This way, sahibs!”

  They followed, since there was nothing else to do and their pride was all gone, to be pushed and pulled by unseen hands and chuckling girls down stairs that were cut out of sheer blackness. And at the foot of the dark a voice that Warrington recognized shed new interest but no light on the mystery.

  “Salaam, sahibs,” said a fat babu, backing through a door in front of them and showing himself silhouetted against the lesser outer darkness. “Seeing regimental risaldar on the box seat, I took liberty. The risaldar-major is sending this by as yet unrewarded messenger, and word to the effect that back way out of burning house was easier than front way in. He sends salaam. I am unrewarded messenger.”

  He slipped something into Colonel Kirby’s hands, and Kirby struck a match to examine it. It was Ranjoor Singh’s ring that had the regimental crest engraved on it.

  “Not yet rewarded!” said the babu.

  CHAPTER 7

  Let the strong take the wall of the weak,

  (And there’s plenty of room in the dust!)

  Let the bully be brave, but the meek

  No more in the way than he must.

  Be crimson and ermine and gold,

  Good lying and living and mirth,

  (Oh, laugh and be fat!) the reward of the bold,

  But — (sotto voce) — the meek shall inherit the earth!

  “THAT’S the man whose face was in the
mirror!” said Warrington suddenly, reaching out to seize the babu’s collar. “He’s the man who wanted to be regimental clerk! He’s the man who was offering to eat a German a day! ... .No — stand still, and I won’t hurt you!”

  “Bring him out into the fresh air!” ordered Kirby.

  The illimitable sky did not seem big enough just then; four walls could not hold him. Kirby, colonel of light cavalry, and considered by many the soundest man in his profession, was in revolt against himself; and his collar was a beastly mess.

  “Hurry out of this hole, for heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed.

  So Warrington applied a little science to the babu, and that gentleman went out through a narrow door backward at a speed and at an angle that were new to him — so new that he could not express his sensations in the form of speech. The door shut behind them with a slam, and when they looked for it they could see no more than a mark in the wall about fifty yards from the bigger door by which they had originally entered.

  “There’s the carriage waiting, sir!” said Warrington, and with a glance toward it to reassure himself, Kirby opened his mouth wide and filled his lungs three times with the fresh, rain-sweetened air.

  There were splashes of rain falling, and he stood with bared head, face upward, as if the rain would wash Yasmini’s musk from him. It was nearly pitch- dark, but Warrington could just see that the risaldar on the box seat raised his whip to them in token of recognition.

  “Now then! Speak, my friend! What were you doing in there?” demanded Warrington.

  “No, not here!” said Kirby. “We might be recognized. Bring him into the shay.”

  The babu uttered no complaint, but allowed himself to be pushed along at a trot ahead of the adjutant, and bundled head-foremost through the carriage door.

  “Drive slowly!” ordered Kirby, clambering in last; and the risaldar sent the horses forward at a steady trot.

  “Now!” said Warrington.

  “H-r-r-ump!” said Kirby.

  “My God, gentlemen!” said the babu. “Sahibs, I am innocent of all complicitee in this or any other eventualitee. I am married man, having family responsibilitee and other handicaps. Therefore—”

  “Where did you get this ring?” demanded Kirby.

  “That? Oh, that!” said the babu. “That is veree simplee told. That is simple little matter. There is nothing untoward in that connection. Risaldar- Major Ranjoor Singh, who is legal owner of ring, same being his property, gave it into my hand.”

  “When?”

  Both men demanded to know that in one voice.

  “Sahibs, having no means of telling time, how can I guess?”

  “How long ago? About how long ago?”

  “Being elderly person of advancing years and much, adipose tissue, I am not able to observe more than one thing at a time. And yet many things have been forced on my attention. I do not know how long ago.”

  “Since I saw you outside the barrack gate?” demanded Warrington.

  “Oh, yes. Oh, certainly. By all means!”

  “Less than two hours ago, then, sir!” said Warrington, looking at his watch.

  “Then he isn’t burned to death!” said Kirby, with more satisfaction than he had expressed all the evening.

  “Oh, no, sir! Positivelee not, sahib! The risaldar-major is all vitalitee!”

  “Where did he give you the ring?”

  “Into the palm of my hand, sahib.”

  “Where — in what place — in what street — at whose house?”

  “At nobody’s house, sahib. It was in the dark, and the dark is very big.”

  “Did he give it you at Yasmini’s?”

  “Oh, no, sahib! Positivelee not!”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Sahib, how should I know, who am but elderly person of no metaphysical attainments, only failed B.A.?”

  “What did he say when he gave it to you?”

  “Sahib, he threatened me!”

  “Confound you, what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Babuji, present this ring to Colonel Kirby sahib. You will find him, babuji, where you will find him, but in any case you will lose no time at all in finding him. When you have given the ring to him he will ask you questions, and you will say Ranjoor Singh said, “All will presently be made clear”; and should you forget the message, babuji, or should you fail to find him soon, there are those who will make it their urgent business, babuji, to open that belly of thine and see what is in it!’ So, my God, gentlemen! I am veree timid man! I have given the ring and the message, but how will they know that I have given it? I did not think of that! Moreover, I am unrewarded — I have no emolument — as yet!”

  “How will who know?” demanded Warrington.

  “They, sahib.”

  “Who are they?” asked Kirby.

  “The men who will investigate the inside of my belly, sahib. Oh, a belly is so sensitive! I am afraid!”

  “Did he tell you who ‘they’ were?”

  “No, sahib. Had he done so, I would at once have sought police protection. Not knowing names of individuals, what was use of going to police, who would laugh at me? I went to Yasmini, who understands all things. She laughed, too; but she told me where is Colonel Kirby sahib.”

  Colonel Kirby became possessed of a bright idea, his first since Yasmini had thrown her spell over him.

  “Could you find the way,” he asked, “from here to wherever it was that Risaldar-Major Ranjoor Singh gave you that ring?”

  The babu thrust his head out of the carriage window and gazed into the dark for several minutes.

  “Conceivablee yes, sahib.”

  “Then tell the driver where to turn!”

  “I could direct with more discernment from box-seat,” said the babu, with a hand on the door.

  “No, you don’t!” commanded Warrington.

  “Let go that handle! What I want to know is why were you so afraid at Yasmini’s?”

  “I, sahib?”

  “Yes, you! I saw your face in a mirror, and you were scared nearly to death. Of what?”

  “Who is not afraid of Yasmini? Were the sahibs not also afraid?”

  “Of what besides Yasmini were you afraid? Of what in particular?”

  “Of her cobras, sahib!”

  “What of them?” demanded Warrington, with a reminiscent shudder.

  “Certain of her women showed them to me.”

  “Why?”

  “To further convince me, sahib, had that been necessary. Oh, but I was already quite convinced. Bravery is not my vade mecum!”

  “Confound the man! To convince you of what?”

  “That if I tell too much one of those snakes will shortlee be my bedmate. Ah! To think of it causes me to perspirate with sweat. Sahibs, that is a—”

  “You shall go to jail if you don’t tell me what I want to know!” said Kirby.

  “Ah, sahib, I was jail clerk once — dismissed for minor offenses but cumulative in effect. Being familiar with inside of jail, am able to make choice.”

  “Get on the box-seat with him!” commanded Kirby. “Let him show the driver where to turn. But watch him! Keep hold of him!”

  So again the babu was propelled on an involuntary course, and Warrington proceeded to pinch certain of his fat parts to encourage him to mount the box with greater speed; but his helplessness became so obvious that Warrington turned friend and shoved him up at last, keeping hold of his loin-cloth when he wedged his own muscular anatomy into the small space left.

  “To the right,” said the babu, pointing. And the risaldar drove to the right.

  “To the left,” said the babu, and Warrington made note of the fact that they were not so very far away from the ‘House of the Eight Half-Brothers.’

  Soon the babu began to scratch his stomach.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Warrington.

  “They said they would cut my belly open, sahib! A belly is so sensitive!”

  Warrington laughed sympatheti
cally; for the fear was genuine and candidly expressed. The babu continued scratching.

  “To the right,” he said after a while, and the risaldar drove to the right, toward where a Hindu temple cast deep shadows, and a row of trees stood sentry in spasmodic moonlight. In front of the temple, seated on a mat, was a wandering fakir of the none-too-holy type. By his side was a flat covered basket.

  “Look, sahib!” said the babu; and Warrington looked.

  “My belly crawls!”

  “What’s the matter, man?”

  “He is a fakir. There are snakes in that basket — cobras, sahib! Ow- ow-ow!”

  Warrington, swaying precariously over the edge, held tight by the loin- cloth, depending on it as a yacht in a tideway would to three hundred pounds of iron.

  “Oh, cobras are so veree dreadful creatures!” wailed the babu, caressing his waist again. “Look, sahib! Look! Oh, look! Between devil and over-sea what should a man do? Ow!”

  The carriage lurched at a mud-puddle. The babu’s weight lurched with it, and Warrington’s center of gravity shifted. The babu seemed to shrug himself away from the snakes, but the effect was to shove Warrington the odd half-inch it needed to put him overside. He clung to the loin-cloth and pulled hard to haul himself back again, and the loin-cloth came away.

  “Halt!” yelled Warrington; and the risaldar reined in.

  But the horses took fright and plunged forward, though the risaldar swore afterward that the babu did nothing to them; he supposed it must have been the fakir squatting in the shadows that scared them.

  And whatever it may have been — snakes or not — that had scared the babu, it had scared all his helplessness away. Naked from shirt to socks, he rolled like a big ball backward over the carriage top, fell to earth behind the carriage, bumped into Warrington, who was struggling to his feet, knocking him down again, and departed for the temple shadows, screaming. The temple door slammed just as Warrington started after him.

  By that time the risaldar had got the horses stopped, and Colonel Kirby realized what had happened.