Flashman and the Mountain of Light. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ quite composed considering she’d plainly had her ear at the keyhole, and informed his garrulous majesty peremptorily that his mother commanded him to the durbar room. He pouted and kicked his heels, but finally submitted, exchanged salaams, and allowed her to shoo him into the passage. To my surprise, she didn’t follow, but closed the door and faced me, mighty cool – she didn’t look at all like a slave-girl, and she didn’t talk like one.

      ‘His majesty speaks as children do,’ says she. ‘You will not mind him. Especially what he says of his uncle, Wazir Jawaheer Singh.’

      No ‘sahib’, or downcast eyes, or humble tone, you notice. I took her in, from the dainty Persian slippers and tight silk trousers to the well-filled bodice and the calm lovely face framed by the flimsy head veil, and moved up for a closer view.

      ‘I care nothing about your Wazir, little Mangla,’ smiles I. ‘But if our small tyrant speaks true … I envy him.’

      ‘Jawaheer is not a man to be envied,’ says she, watching me with those insolent gazelle eyes, and a drift of her perfume reached me – heady stuff, these slave-girls use. I reached out and drew a glossy black tress from beneath the veil, and she didn’t blink; I stroked her cheek with it, and she smiled, a provocative parting of the lips. ‘Besides, envy is the last deadly sin I’d expect from Flashman bahadur.’

      ‘But you can guess the first, can’t you?’ says I, and gathered her smoothly in by tit and buttock, not omitting a chaste salute on the lips, to which the coy little creature responded by slipping her hand down between us, taking hold, and thrusting her tongue half way down my throat – at which point that infernal brat Dalip began hacking at the door, clamouring for attention.

      ‘To hell with him!’ growls I, thoroughly engrossed, and for a moment she teased with hand and tongue before pulling her trembling softness away, panting bright-eyed.

      ‘Yes, I know the first,’ she murmurs, taking a last fond stroke, ‘but this is not the time –’

      ‘Ain’t it, by God? Never mind the pup – he’ll go away, he’ll get tired –’

      ‘It is not that.’ She pushed her hands against my chest, pouting and shaking her head. ‘My mistress would never forgive me.’

      ‘Your mistress? What the blazes –?’

      ‘Oh, you will see.’ She disengaged my hands, with a pretty little grimace as that whining whelp kicked and yammered at the panels. ‘Be patient, Flashman bahadur – remember, the servant may sup last, but she sups longest.’ Her tongue flickered at my lips again, and then she had slipped out, closing the door to the accompaniment of shrill childish reproaches, leaving me most randily frustrated – but in better trim than I’d been for days. There’s nothing like a brisk overhaul of a sporty female, with the certainty of a treat in store, for putting one in temper. And it goes to show – whiskers ain’t everything.

      I wasn’t allowed to spend long in lustful contemplation, though, for who should loaf in now but the bold Jassa, looking fit for treason, and no whit put out when I damned his eyes and demanded where he’d been. ‘About the husoor’s business,’ was all the answer I got, while he took a wary prowl through the two rooms, prodding a hanging here and tapping a panel there, and remarking that these Hindoo swine did themselves uncommon well. Then he motioned me out on to the little balcony, took a glance up and down, and says softly: ‘Thou has seen the little raja, then – and his mother’s pimp?’

      ‘What the devil d’ye mean?’

      ‘Speak low, husoor. The woman Mangla – Mai Jeendan’s spy and partner in all mischief. A slave – that stands by her mistress’s purdah in durbar, and speaks for her. Aye, and makes policy on her own account, and is grown the richest woman in Lahore. Think on that, husoor. She is Jawaheer’s whore – and betrayer, like enough. Not a doubt but she was sent to scout thee … for whatever purposes.’ He grinned his evil, pock-marked grin, and cut me off before I could speak.

      ‘Husoor, we are together in this business, thou and I. If I am blunt, take it not amiss, but harken. They will come at thee all ways, these folk. If some have sleek limbs and plump breasts, why then … take thy pleasure, if thou’rt so minded,’ says this generous ruffian, ‘but remember always what they are. Now … I shall be here and there awhile. Others will come presently to woo thee – not so well favoured as Mangla, alas!’

      Well, damn his impudence – and thank God for him. And he was right. For the next hour Flashy’s apartments were like London Bridge Station in Canterbury week. First arrival was a tall, stately, ancient grandee, splendidly attired and straight from a Persian print. He came alone, coldly begging my pardon for his intrusion, and keeping an ear cocked; damned uneasy he seemed. His name was Dewan Dinanath, familiar to me from Broadfoot’s packets, where he was listed as an influential Court adviser, inclined to the peace party, but a weathercock. His business was simple: did the Sirkar intend to return the Soochet fortune to the Court of Lahore? I said that would not be known until I’d reported to Calcutta, where the decision would be taken, and he eyed me with bleak disapproval.

      ‘I have enjoyed Major Broadfoot’s confidence in the past,’ sniffs he. ‘You may have equal confidence in me.’ Both of which were damned lies. ‘This treasure is vast, and its return might be a precedent for other Punjab monies at present in the … ah, care of the British authorities. In the hands of our government, these funds would have a stabilising effect.’ They’d help Jawaheer and Jeendan to keep the Khalsa happy, he meant. ‘A word in season to me, of Hardinge sahib’s intentions …’

      ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ says I. ‘I’m only an advocate.’

      ‘A young advocate,’ snaps he, ‘should study conciliation as well as law. It is to go to Goolab, is it?’

      ‘Or Soochet Singh’s widow. Or the Maharaja’s government. Unless it is retained by Calcutta, for the time being. That’s all I can tell you, sir, I’m afraid.’

      He didn’t like me, I could see, and might well have told me so, but a sound caught his ear, and he was through into my bedchamber like an elderly whippet. I heard the door close as my next unexpected guests arrived: two other grave seniors, Fakir Azizudeen, a tough, shrewd-looking heavyweight, and Bhai Ram Singh, portly, jovial, and bespectacled – staunch men of the peace party, according to the packets. Bhai Ram was the one who thought Jawaheer a fool, according to little Dalip.

      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, СКАЧАТЬ