The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light fp-9

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I was watching all this through a haze of booze and disbelief, taking another refreshing swig, and thinking, wait till I get back to Belgravia and teach 'em the new dance step, and when I looked again there was Jeendan, struggling and laughing wildly in the arms of another dancing-boy, and the great stone was back on her belly again—hollo, thinks I, someone's been handling in the scrimmage. She seized the boy's wine-cup, drained it and tossed it over her shoulder, and then began to dance towards me, the tawny hourglass body agleam as though it had been oiled, her limbs shimmering in their sheaths of gems. Now she was slapping her bare flanks to the tom-tom beat, drawing her fingers tantalisingly up her jewelled thighs and across her body, lifting the fat round breasts and laughing at me out of that painted harlot's face.

  "Will you have it, Englishman? Or shall I keep it for Lal—or Jawaheer? Come, take it, gora sahib, my English bahadur!

  You mayn't credit it, but I was recalling a line by some poet or other—Elizabethan, I think—who must have witnessed a similar performance, for he wrote of "her brave vibrations each way free.21 Couldn't have put it better myself, thinks I, as I made a heroic lurch for her and fell on all fours, but the sweet thoughtful girl sank down before me, arms raised from her sides, making her muscles quiver from her fingertips up her arms and beyond, shuddering her bounties at me, and I seized them with a cry of thanksgiving. She squealed, either in delight or to signify "Foul!", whipped her loincloth off and round my neck, and drew my face towards her open mouth.

  "Take it, Englishman!" she gasps, and then she had my robe open, thrusting her belly against mine and kissing me as though I were beefsteak and she'd been fasting for a week. And I don't know who the considerate chap was who drew the curtains to, but suddenly we were alone, and somehow I was on my feet with her clinging to me, her legs clasped round my hips, moaning as I settled her in place and began the slow march, up and down, keeping time to the tom-toms, and I fear I broke the rules, for I removed the jewel manually before it did me a mischief. I doubt if she noticed; didn't mention it, anyway.

  Well, I can't think when I've enjoyed a dance so much, unless it was when we set to partners again, an hour or so later, I imagine. I seem to remember we drank consider-able in between, and prosed in an incoherent way—most of it escapes me, but I recall distinctly that she said she purposed to send little Dalip to an English public school when he was older, and I said capital, look what it had done for me, but the devil with going up to Oxford, just a nest of bookworms and bestial, and how the deuce did she do that navel exercise with the diamond? So she tried to teach me, giggling through incredible contortions which culminated in her plunging and squirming astride of me as though I were Running Reins with only a furlong to go—and in the middle of it she screamed a summons and two of her Kashmiri girls popped in and urged her on by whip-ping her with canes—intrusive, I thought, but it was her home ground, after all.

  She went to sleep directly we'd passed the post, sprawled on top of me, and the Kashmiris left off lashing her and snickered to each other. I sent them packing, and having heaved her off was composing myself to slumber likewise, when I heard them chattering beyond the curtain, and presently they peeped in again, giggling. Their mistress would wake presently, they said, and it was their duty to see that I was clean, bright, slightly oiled, and ready for service. "Walk-er!" says I, but they insisted, respectfully covering her with a shawl before renewing their pestering of me, telling me I must be bathed and combed and perfumed and made presentable, or there'd be the devil to pay. I saw I'd get no peace, so I lumbered up, cursing, and warning them that their mistress would be out of luck, for I was ruined beyond redemption.

  "Wait until we have bathed you," giggles one of the houris. "You will make her scream for mercy."

  I doubted that, but told them to lead on, and they conducted me, one holding me up on either side, for I was still well foxed. Beyond the curtains the durbar room was empty now, and the great chandelier was out, with only a few candles on the walls making little pools of light in the gloom. They led me under the staircase, along a dim-lit passage, and down a short flight of stairs to a great stone and marble chamber like a Turkish bath-house; it was in deep shadow about its walls and high ceiling, but in the centre, surrounded by tall slender pillars, was a tiled area with a sunken bath in which water was steaming. There was a brazier close by, and towels piled to hand, while all about stood flagons of oils and soaps and shampoos; altogether it was as luxurious a wallow as you could wish. I asked if this was where the Maharani bathed.

  "Not this maharani," says one. "This was the bath of the Lady Chaund Cour, peace be upon her."

  "It is altogether finer than our mistress's," says the other, sidling up to me, "and is reserved for those whom she delights to honour." She took a playful tease at me, and her companion drew off my robe, squeaking with admiration. Bahadur, indeed! Oh, fortunate Mai Jeendan!"

  She'll be fortunate to get any good out of me after a, bath with you two, thinks I, admiring them boozily as they laid by their little bows and arrows and toy swords, and stripped off their silver skirts and breastplates. Lovely little nymphs they were, and there was much playing and giggling as we stepped down into the bath. It was about three feet deep by seven square, half-filled with warm scented water into which I subsided drowsily, letting it lap over my exhausted frame while one of the Kashmiris cradled my head and gently sponged my face and hair, and the other went to work on my feet and then on to my ankles and calves. You're on the right lines, thinks I, and closed my eyes, reflecting on what a delightful time of it Haroun al-Raschid must have had, and wondering if he'd ever become bored and yearned for the life of a jolly waggoner or productive farm labour in the open air. You wouldn't catch Flashy prowling the streets of Baghdad in disguise, looking for adventure, not while there was soap and water at home …

  The lower wench was soaping my knees now, and I opened my eyes, contemplating the ceiling far above, all coloured Persian designs, with a picture in the centre, of a cove with a stiff neck sitting under an awning and lording it over a platoon of bearded wallahs crouched in supplication. That's your sort, thinks I, whoever you are, some Sikh nabob … and that reminded me of the names I'd memorised so painfully from Broadfoot's packets: Heera Singh and Dehan Singh and Soochet Singh and Buggerlugs Singh and Chaund Cour and … Chaund Cour? Where had I heard that name recently …? Why, only a few moments since, from the houris; this was her bath-room—and suddenly a tiny maggot that had been wandering aimlessly through my mind snapped to attention, even as I heard swirling of water and realised that the girl had stopped soaping my knees and was swinging herself nimbly out of the bath … Chaund Cour's bath … Chaund Cour who'd been smashed to pieces while bathing!

  If the wench washing my hair had moved less sharply I'd have been a goner, but when her mate jumped out she dropped my head like a hot brick, and I went under and came out spluttering—to see her in the act of heaving herself out on the tiles, and from the tail of my eye I saw the huge coloured picture in the ceiling overhead start to quiver, with a dreadful scraping sound. For an instant I was frozen, sprawled in the water, and it can only have been instinct that galvanised my flaccid muscles, so that I thrust myself out of the water, turning and clutching for the edge of the bath, my hand closing on the girl's ankle. That hold saved me from toppling back, and gave me a purchase to hurl myself out on to the tiles, while she was catapulted back into the water, her scream of terror lost in a deafening grinding thunder like an avalanche, followed by an almighty crash that seemed to shake the whole building and made the tiles start from their settings beneath my face. I rolled away with a yell of terror, sprawling on the wet tiles and staring back in disbelief.

  Where the bath had been there was a flat expanse of rough stone, filling the cavity like a huge plug flush with the surrounding tiles. From that monstrous square of rock great rusty chains snaked up, clanking to and fro, into a gaping hole in the patterned ceiling. Foam was gushing up in a curtain from the narrow fissures
between the fallen slab and the sides of the bath, washing over me in a wave, and even as I stared in horror it continued to ooze out, pink at first and then a hideous crimson. Beyond the bath the second Kashmiri was cowering against a pillar, her mouth wide in scream after scream. She turned and ran, water flying from her bare body, and then stopped dead, her shrieks changing to a terrified wail.

  Three men were standing just clear of the shadows on that side, drawn scimitars in their hands. They wore only loose grey pyjamy trousers and great wide hoods so deep that their faces were invisible; the girl shrank away from them, blubbering and covering her face; she slipped and fell on the wet tiles and tried to scramble away while they stood like grey statues, and then one stepped forward, lightly hefting his sword, she bounded to her feet, screeching as she turned to run, but before she'd gone a step his point was through her back; it came out like a ghastly silver needle between her breasts, and she pitched forward lifeless on the stone block. Then they were flitting towards me in dead silence, expert assassins of whom two skirted wide to take me in flank while the third came straight for me, his blood-smeared blade out before him. I turned to run, slipped, and came down headlong.

  Cowardice has its uses. I'd be long dead without it, for it's driven me to try, in blind panic, ploys which no thinking man would even attempt. A brave man would have scrambled up to run or fling himself at the nearest enemy bare-handed; only Flashy, landing arse over tip on one of the little piles of gear discarded by the Kashmiri girls, would have grabbed at her pathetic tinsel bow, snatched a dart from its quiver, fumbled it gibbering on to the string and let fly at the leading thug as he came leaping over the girl's corpse at me, swinging up his scimitar. It was only a fragile toy, but it was tight-strung, and that small shaft must have been sharp as a chisel, for it sank to the flights in his midriff and he twisted howling in mid-air, his scimitar clashing on the tiles before me. I grabbed it, knowing I was done for, with one of the flank men driving at me, but I managed to turn his thrust and hurl myself sideways, expecting to feel his mate's point searing into my back. There was a yell and clash of steel behind me as I landed on my shoulder and rolled over and up, slashing blindly and bawling like an idiot for help.

  Wasted breath, for it had arrived. The other flank man was desperately trying to parry the sweep of a Khyber knife in the hand of a tall robed newcomer—which with a scimitar is rather like opposing a pea-shooter to a rifle. One slash and the scimitar blade was a shattered stump, another and the thug was down with a cloven skull—and the man whose thrust I'd parried leaped back and was off like a hare, dodging for the shadows. The robed apparition turned from his victim without undue haste, took one long stride and brought over his sword-arm like a fast bowler, letting the Khyber knife go; it turned once in the air and drove into the fugitive's back, he hurtled against a pillar, clinging to it with that dreadful cleaver imbedded in his body, and slid slowly to the floor. Twenty seconds earlier I'd been having my knees washed.

  The robed man strode past me, recovered his knife, and cursed as blood splashed his coat—and only then did I realise it was a crimson garment in the tartan of the 79th. He stalked back, hunkering down to wash his blade in the water lapping over the tiles, and surveyed the shambles where the bath had been, the great rock that filled it, and the dangling chains.

  "Well, I'll be a son of a bitch," says he. "So that's how they did for old lady Chaund Cour. No wonder we never saw the body—guess she didn't look like much with that on top of her." He stood up and barked at me. "Well, sir? You aim to stand around bollock-naked and take your death of cold? Or would you prefer to make tracks before the coroner gets here?"

  The words were English. The accent was pure American.

  Since I've seen a Welshman in a top hat leading a Zulu impi, and have myself ridden in an Apache war party in paint and breech-clout, I dare say I shouldn't have been surprised to find that Gurdana Khan, the complete Khyberie hillman, could talk the lingo of Brother Jonathan—there were some damned odd fellows about in the earlies, I can tell you. But the circumstances were unusual, you'll allow, and I probably gaped for several seconds before scrambling into my robe. Then reaction seized me, and I vomited, while he stood glowering like a Nonconformist at the three hooded bodies, and the naked white corpse of the poor little Kashmiri slut with the bloody water lapping round her. I say poor slut—she'd done her damnedest to have me squashed flatter than a fluke. The man I'd shot was writhing about, wailing in agony.

  "Let him linger," growls Gurdana Khan. "Mistreatment of women is something I cannot endure! Come away."

  He strode off to a staircase hidden in the shadows on the other side of the bath-house, ushering me impatiently ahead of him. We ascended, and he chivvied me along miles of turning passages, ignoring my incoherent questions, then across a lofty hall, through a guardroom where black-robed irregulars lounged, and at last into a spacious, comfortable room for all the world like a bachelor's den at home, with prints and trophies on the walls, book cases, and fine leather easy chairs. I was shivering with chill and shock and bewilderment; he sat me down, threw a shawl over my legs, and poured out two stiff pegs—malt whisky, if you please. He laid by his Khyber knife and pulled off his puggaree—he was a Pathan, though, with that close-cropped skull, hawk face, and grizzled beard, for all he grunted " Slainte" as he lifted his tumbler, first clamping his neck in that strange iron collar I'd seen in the after-noon—dear God, was it only twelve hours ago? Having drunk, he stood scowling down at me like a headmaster at an erring fag.

  "Now see here, Mr Flashman—where the devil were you this evening? We combed the palace, even looked under your bed, godammit! Well, sir?"

  I made no sense of this—all I knew was that someone was trying to murder me, but plainly it wasn't this cross-grained fellow … so I'd risked horrible death hanging out of windows while he and his gang had been looking for me to protect me, by the sound of it! I removed the glass from my chattering teeth.

  "I .. I was out. But … who on earth are you?"

  "Alexander Campbell Gardner!" snaps he. "Formerly artillery instructor to the Khalsa, presently guard commander to the Maharaja, and recently at your service—and think yourself lucky!"

  "But you're an American!"

  "That I am." He fixed me with an eye like a gimlet. "From the territory of Wisconsin."

  I must have been a picture of idiocy, for he clapped that iron object to his neck again, gulped whisky, and rasped:

  "Well, sir? You passed that word, as Broadfoot instructed you should, in an emergency. When, you ask? Dammit, to the little Maharaja, and again to old Ram Singh! It reached me—no matter how—and I came directly to help you, and not a hair of you in sight! Next I hear, you're with the Maharani, playing the Devil and Jenny Golightly! Was that intelligent conduct, sir, when you knew Jawaheer Singh was out to cut your throat?" He emptied his glass, clashed his iron clamp on the table, and glared.

  "How the dooce did you know he was after you, anyway?"

  This tirade had me all adrift. "I didn't know any such thing! Mr Gardner, I'm at a loss —"

  "Colonel Gardner! Then why the blue blazes did you sound the alarm? Hollering Wisconsin to everyone you met, concern it!"

  "Did I? I may have said it inadvertently —"

  "Inadvertently? Upon my soul, Mr Flashman!"

  "But I don't understand … it's all mad! Why should Jawaheer want to kill me? He don't even know me—barely met the fellow, and he was tight as Dick's hat-band!" An appalling thought struck me. "Why, they weren't his people—they were the Maharani's! Her slave-girls! They lured me to that bloody bathroom—they knew what was to happen! She must have ordered them—"

  "How dare you, sir!" So help me, it's what he said, with his whiskers crackling. "To suggest that she would .. What, after the … the kindness she had shown you? A fine thing that would be! I tell you those Kashmiris were bribed and coerced by Jawaheer and by Jawaheer alone—those were his villains down there, sent to silence the girls once you'd been d
isposed of! D'you think I don't know 'em? The Maharani, indeed!" He was in a fine indignation, right enough. "I'm not saying," he went on, "that she's the sort of young woman I'd take home to meet mother … but you mind this, sir!" He rounded on me. "With all her weaknesses—of which you've taken full advantage—Mai Jeendan is a charming and gracious lady and the best hope this god-abandoned territory has seen since Runjeet Singh! You'll remember that, by thunder, if you and I are to remain friends!"

  I wasn't alone in my enthusiasm for the lady, it seemed, although I guessed his was of a more spiritual variety. But I was as much in the dark as ever.

  "Very well, you say it was Jawaheer—why the devil should he want to murder me?"

  "Because he wants a war with the British! That's why! And the surest way to start one is to have a British emissary kiboshed right here in Lahore! Why, man, Gough would be over the Sutlej with fifty thousand bayonets before you could say Jack Robinson—John Company and the Khalsa would be at grips … that's what Jawaheer wants, don't you see?"

  I didn't, and said so. "If he wants a war—why doesn't he just order the Khalsa to march on India? They're spoiling for a fight with us, ain't they?"

  `"Sure they are—but not with Jawaheer leading them! They've never had any use for him, so the only way he can get 'em to fight is if the British strike first. But dammit, you won't oblige him, however much he provokes you along the border—and Jawaheer has gotten desperate. He's bankrupt, the Khalsa hates and distrusts him and is ready to skin him alive for Peshora's death, they hold him prisoner in his own palace, his balls are in the mangle!" He took a deep breath. "Don't you know anything, Mr Flashman? Jawaheer needs a war, now, to keep the Khalsa occupied and save his own skin. That's why he tried to put you out with the bath water tonight, confound it, don't you see?"