Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ have a gun,” he pointed out gravely.

      “That’s a gift,” says I, inspired, “which I’ll present to a friend of mine, when I leave Lahore.”

      “You have friends in Lahore?” says he, frowning.

      “I have now,” says I, winking at him, and after a moment his jaw dropped, and he squealed with glee. Gad, wasn’t I doing my country’s work, though?

      “I shall have it! That gun? Oh! Oh!” He hugged himself, capering. “And will you teach me your war-cry? You know, the great shout you gave just now, when I ran in with my sword?” The small face puckered as he tried to say it: “Wee … ska … see …?”

      I was baffled – and then it dawned: Wisconsin. Gad, my instinct for self-preservation must be working well, for me to squeal that without realising it. “Oh, that was nothing, maharaj’. Tell you what, though – I’ll teach you to shoot.”

      “You will? With that gun?” He sighed ecstatically. “Then I shall be able to shoot Lal Singh!”

      I remembered the name – a general, the Maharani’s lover.

      “Who’s Lal Singh, maharaj’?”

      He shrugged. “Oh, one of my mother’s bed-men.” Seven years old, mark you. “He hates me, I can’t tell why. All her other bed-men like me, and give me sweets and toys.” He shook his head in perplexity, hopping on one leg, no doubt to assist thought. “I wonder why she has so many bed-men? Ever so many –”

      “Cold feet, I dare say … look, younker – maharaj’, I mean – hadn’t you better be running along? Mangla will be –”

      “Mangla has bed-men, too,” insists this fount of scandal. “But Uncle Jawaheer is her favourite. Do you know what Lady Eneela says they do?” He left off hopping, and took a deep breath. “Lady Eneela says they –”

      Fortunately, before my delicacy could receive its death blow, Mangla suddenly reappeared, 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 halfway 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 СКАЧАТЬ