The attitude was quickly justified, when the first spear handed the maharaja proved to have some flaw in its polish; petulance became fury and the razor-sharp head flashed down, missing the servant’s foot by a hairbreadth, and that only because the man had jumped back. The substitute spear proved more satisfactory. I exchanged a long look with Nesbit, and accepted a weapon of my own.
Riding behind our host, I murmured to the blond man, “What the hell is wrong with him? He acts like he’s taken some kind of drug.”
“Possibly. I’ve never seen him quite like this. Watch your back.” But before I could ask how exactly I was to do that, given the already hazardous setting of a pig-hunt, the man ahead of us turned to shout us forward, and we kicked our mounts to obey.
The day passed in a confusion of fury and high apprehension, until I felt as if I were dancing over a bed of planted swords with a partner courting suicide. We flushed three pigs, each one increasingly vicious, stronger than the last, ever more clever. It was as if Nature itself was being fed by its prince’s wild force, his manic laughter and cutting barbs driving his guests and servants on, welding us all into a kind of wild hunt, a pack out for blood. It was, I thought in a brief clear moment, only a matter of time before we turned on one of our own. Nesbit’s emerald eyes glittered and I found skills I could not have imagined, coaxing the horse into the turns of an acrobat, balancing the awkward spear like an extension of my arm.
It was with the fourth pig that it all came crashing down on us. It was an old and wily creature, still enormously broad across the shoulders but with one of its upper tusks broken down, and it came out of its thicket as ill-tempered as the prince himself. It ran and jinked and I dropped back so the two men didn’t ride me over, only to find the creature halting dead and reversing straight for me. Nesbit and the maharaja had ridden well past it by the time they could pull up, and the tusks were closing in, too fast.
What followed was the most furiously incomprehensible dance yet, the boar in the middle, all three of us jabbing and ducking away and coming back to its charges, waiting for an opening, the boar too experienced to allow us one. Around and around we went, the pig a welter of blood from a dozen minor wounds, not giving an inch, missing fetlocks and bellies by a breath, bolting and feinting and furious.
And then the maharaja came off his horse. I was looking straight at him when he did it, or I shouldn’t have believed it: I saw him toss his spear to one side and kick free of the stirrups, dropping to the ground, completely defenceless and grinning like a schoolboy. The boar was facing Nesbit at that moment, but the animal heard the sound behind it and started to whirl about. Without thinking, I shouted some nonsense sounds and kicked my horse forward, waving the spear over my head. The horse quite sensibly refused to take more than a couple of steps, but that was sufficient to attract the boar’s attention and turn it back to face me. It lowered its head to charge, but before it could find traction, its hind legs were jerked up from the ground, both of them, by the maharaja.
Incredulously, I watched the boar twist and scrabble to free itself, snorting and screaming its outrage, but the small man’s strength somehow held it up, and then Nesbit’s spear took it in the side, and it dropped, dead before it hit the earth.
My spear-head slumped to the ground as I fought for breath, but Nesbit had dropped off his horse and was standing over the dead pig, panting and shaking his head at his friend, who had collapsed to the ground behind the pig, still grinning.
“Jimmy,” Nesbit managed to gasp out. “What the hell was that about?”
“I haven’t done that since I was a boy,” the maharaja said when he’d got his breath. “Didn’t know if I still could.”
“Christ! I wish you’d warned me.”
“Where would the fun in that be?”
Nesbit stared, then gave a bark of laughter and thrust out his hand. Our host took it, allowing himself to be pulled upright, and they stood shoulder to shoulder admiring the dead animal until the appalled servants had brought the horses back. Both men mounted, and the maharaja surveyed the scene.
“I can’t imagine we’ll improve on that kill. Shall we let the day stand?”
I tried not to show how abjectly grateful I was.
Nesbit and I lagged behind the others on the ride back, and I told him about Holmes’ note. To my surprise he nodded at the list of requests.
“Not a problem. How much rope does he mean?”
I started to tell him that I thought it would be for tying prisoners, but hesitated. In that case, wouldn’t Holmes have specified “twine”? The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. He had, after all, had some time to consider the contents of the note. “I shouldn’t think all that much. He says he’s being held on the first floor.”
“But if we need to come off the roof?”
“You’re right. Where are we going to get that much strong rope?”
“Again, not a problem, unless Jimmy’s had the lumber-room cleared out. He had a team of mountain-climbers here a few years ago, bought the equipment for learning, I shouldn’t think he’s used it since. And the morphia? How much of that does he require, do you suppose?”
Of that I felt more certain. “If it had been for more than three or four people, he’d have specified. Is that also in the lumber-room?”
“Morphia I carry with me.” He caught my look, and smiled. “And skin dye, which I shall bring as well. One simply never knows what emergency may come up.”
My spirits rose somewhat; we might yet pull this off.
They dipped again at dinner, when our host stormed in, after keeping us all waiting for half an hour, back in the strange, unsettled state of the morning, if not worse. Nesbit worked hard to keep him entertained and on a straight track, although it was quite a job, made no easier by the grim determination with which the maharaja drank and the black looks he shot at the Englishman. My heart sank when the prince abruptly dismissed most of the hangers-on and told Nesbit to come with him to the gun-room. But Nesbit demurred.
“Look, old man,” Nesbit said pleasantly, “another night like the last one, and I won’t be fit for the Cup next month, far less whatever you’ve got planned for tomorrow. Thanks, but I’m for bed.” He drained his glass and stood up; the prince’s dark eyes narrowed, and I braced for an eruption.
But it did not come. Instead, the maharaja seemed to have been distracted by something in what Nesbit said; he sat back in his chair, smiling as at a private joke. “The Kadir Cup, yes. Britain’s honour at stake, and it will be arranged that India will lose yet again. But tomorrow, on India’s ground? Yes, Nesbit, let’s see what you do with my entertainment tomorrow.”
He waved a hand of dismissal, and we left, but as we went out of the door I suddenly understood the traditional method of bowing oneself out of the royal presence: It was not out of respect, but for reluctance of presenting one’s back to the throne.
In the hall-way, I murmured to the man beside me, “I don’t know that I cared much for the sound of that.”
“It had the distinct ring of a gauntlet thrown, did it not? Wouldn’t be the first time, you know. Still, if he offers a round of tiger sticking, I really shouldn’t volunteer if I were you.”
I thought he was joking, until I looked at his face. My God, tiger sticking?
In compensation for the disturbances of the night before, New Fort quieted quickly. I left my lights burning until half past eleven, and then wandered out, again wearing a dressing-gown over dark clothing, and stood on the outside walkway, smoking a cigarette. As was my habit, I offered one to the squatting servant, holding the match to him without thinking, then strolled away to gaze over the courtyard garden, comprised of mysterious shapes in the moonlight.
It took less than ten minutes for this particular cigarette to have its effect on the man. The moment I heard him slither to the side, I walked back and propped him upright, then went to Nesbit’s door and put my head inside. He was there waiting, his clothes black, face half-hi
dden by a dark scarf. We slid through the silent hall-ways like wraiths, and he knew precisely where he was going.
In half an hour, we were looking up at the walls of the older fort, black against the moonlit sky. I settled the decorative revolver in the back of my belt, and prepared to storm Khanpur’s castle.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The moon rode blessedly near full in a cloudless sky, which made the task of approach far easier. Of course, had anyone been watching for us, it would have simplified their job as well, but they did not seem to be doing so, and we slunk up the road in the shadow of the wall, gaining the gates without an alarm being raised.
The entrance to Old Fort was a mirror image of the other, but less well-kept-up. The paving stones were uneven underfoot, and where the western fort smelt of sandalwood and flowers, even from its gate, here the air was heavy with must and decay. The slovenliness extended to the guards as well. In the courtyard two men had made a fire, and sat warming themselves as they ate something from tin bowls; one of them had his back to us.
I put my mouth to Nesbit’s ear, and breathed a question. “Just the two?”
I felt him nod, and followed him as he crept into the gateway, our sleeves brushing the massive wooden doors that I had never seen closed, keeping to the side of the passage lest we be outlined against the moon-bright sky behind us. He stopped where the passage opened into the inner courtyard, then slowly leant forward to peep around the corner; over his shoulder I could see the two men, who were arguing loudly over something in the local language. Nesbit reached back to touch my arm in warning, then stepped out, moving lightly around the wall to the arcades that began twenty feet from the gates. My heart leapt into my throat, but I followed, even though it was impossible that neither guard would spot us—we were in the open, less than fifty feet from them.
Yet they didn’t. They kept arguing, kept eating, and then we were behind the first column, my pulse racing furiously. My God, this Englishman was madder than the maharaja!
He led me along the arcade that circled the open yard, a smaller version of the New Fort’s, although the only resemblance to a garden here was one lone tree growing against the walk directly across from the gates, which even in the thin light looked half dead. When we had circled two-thirds of the complex, Nesbit began to feel for a door. We were nearly to the gates again when he found one; the latch lifted easily, the door’s creaks were minor, and he stepped within. After a moment he put his head back out to breathe the word “Stairs.” The door shut, and as soon as the arguing voices had faded, I exploded at a whisper.
“What on earth were you thinking? God knows why they didn’t spot us!”
“The one was looking away, the other’d been staring into the fire. The only way they would have noticed us was if we shone a torch at them.”
And so saying, he gave the torch in his hand a brief flash, illuminating a run of worn stone steps. I touched the revolver, for the hundredth time that night, and crept on his heels up the concave surfaces, pausing at the top; the hall-way to the left glowed faintly, as at a tiny candle. As we came up on it the light proved to come from an oil lamp set in a wall niche. Another lamp burned thirty feet along; halfway between the two and facing them was a ramshackle table, on which sat an equally bashed-about tin box.
Unfortunately, the guard sitting behind the table looked remarkably strong and healthy, and far from slumbering at his post, he studied the walls, bored for something to do.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when a loud Hindi voice rang down the stones, and even Nesbit jerked. “Oh my brother,” it called. “I hunger for your wife’s good curry.” My husband’s voice, sounding strong and sure; I felt a thickness take over my throat. Not that I had been worried about Holmes, not really. But my body had been.
The bored guard raised his head to reply at the door nearest the first lamp, “Quiet, old man. It is too early.”
“And yesterday night and the night before, did I eat before our master called me to work my magic before him? I did not. He called me and I laboured, and pleased him, yet when I returned, cold and hungry, I found your good wife’s food gone cold and her chapatis dry to leather. It is not a great thing to ask, my brother, that you set my dinner before me now. It is there, to be sure—I can smell it rising from the air below.”
I doubted he could smell anything but the mustiness of The Fort, but his suggestion got the guard thinking, and in a minute he stood up and put his face to the small barred window. “Very well, old man. I shall bring your food now, and you shall show me the trick with the coin.”
“It is agreed, my brother. I shall show you all manner of wonders, if my strength permits.”
The guard chuckled at the feeble bribery, and marched down the hallway, to my relief in the opposite direction. When he came to the second wall-lamp, he paused to glance briefly through the small barred window set into its door, but his look seemed a gesture of no great interest, merely habit. His feet scuffed down the hall; the moment he cleared the first curve, I was dashing for the tin box with the key.
The door opened, and there was Holmes, black clad, bareheaded. I threw myself at him. And my undemonstrative husband, disregarding our audience, responded with a reassuring vigour, his arms circling mine, muscles drawing tight as if he intended never to let me move away, his right hand pressing my head to his shoulder, fingers moving against my skull.
“I’m sorry we took so long,” I babbled. “It took me days to get out of the country, and then we couldn’t get here yesterday night, and I was afraid that tonight, too … But how did you know to send the guard away?”
“The lamps shift when one of the lower doors goes open. I thought this a likely time for it to be you. Did you bring what I asked?”
Reluctantly, I stood away, although my hand lingered near his, and his grey eyes studied my face as if it had been months, a smile playing across his mouth. “We did, but we won’t need them, now that the guard’s gone.”
“And the key?”
“It’s—” But the key was not in the cell door, and when I looked for Nesbit, I found him at the other door, drawing it open, standing back.
His face was alight with the intensity of his pleasure, and he thrust out his hand with only a degree less enthusiasm than I had embraced Holmes. The prisoner of the second cell emerged into the dim light, his hand preceding him out of the door.
“Captain Nesbit,” said a low voice, its English lightly accented. “I am so very pleased to see you.”
“Mr O’Hara.” That was all, but he might as well have dropped onto his knee and said the words “My Lord.” All the love and respect of a student for his tutor welled into Nesbit’s voice, relief and affection and just a hint of amusement, that they should find themselves in this place.
The hand-clasp ended, and the man turned to us, curiosity enlivening the pale face—I had altogether forgotten that Kipling’s lad was not a native, that both parents had been Irish. He was a clean-shaven, black-haired Irishman going grey at the temples; kept from sunlight for nearly three years, his skin had faded to a sickly shade of yellow. But the dark eyes danced as they sought out Holmes, and as he came up, he stopped to place both hands together and bow over them. Holmes returned the gesture, then grinned widely and grasped the smaller man’s shoulders.
“By God, Mr O’Hara, it’s good to lay eyes on you.”
“And you, my brother Holmes. The Compassionate One has smiled upon you, it appears.” And with that, the Irishman’s gaze slid to one side, and took me in, and if anything the grin widened. He moved over to look up into my face, and I studied with interest this phantom we had been following for all these long weeks.
He was dressed as a monk, in dark red robes that left his arms uncovered, and now that I was standing in front of him I could see that his facial hair was not shaved, but had been laboriously kept plucked. Aside from that tiny detail, his features could have been those of a fellow passenger on a London bus. The face before me was remarkably unlin
ed, so that he appeared younger than his forty-seven years, the dark wells of his eyes calm, peculiarly open and unguarded. He did not look, I thought, like a man long held prisoner. His eyes reminded me of something or someone, although before I could hunt down what or whom that was, his light, amused voice addressed me.
“And you, appearances to the contrary, can only be Miss Russell.”
I suddenly remembered how I looked, and abruptly understood both his laughter and Holmes’ fingers exploring my scalp—in the extremity of the moment, I had forgotten that I was Martin Russell, not his sister. But this middle-aged Irishman saw what the maharaja had not, and accepted the disguise for what it was.
He continued, “I am grateful to God that I have lived to see this day. I call your husband brother now, but in days gone by he was my mother and my father, and I rejoice that my eyes can see the woman who pleases him.”
I was so confused, all I could do was look at him. And even more confused when he turned and walked back to the door of his cell. “But now you must be on your way, before Sanji returns with the supper.”
Both Nesbit and I started to protest, but Holmes took over. “Russell, there’s no time for discussion. The guard takes at a minimum fourteen minutes to get to the kitchen and back, and we cannot count on this being one of those times he stops to gossip. Listen to me. Did you bring the drug?”
“Here,” I said, fishing it from my pocket, along with the small vial of skin dye Nesbit’s kit had provided. The purloined climbing rope was best left around Nesbit’s waist until we needed it.
As Holmes secreted the bottles and needle away, he said, “The one thing you must understand, and accept, is that Mr O’Hara has given his word that he will not make any attempt at escaping Khanpur.”
The Game Page 30
