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 shook his head in wonder at this, and deciding butter wouldn’t hurt I asked if I might be shown his toys. He squeaked with delight, but Mangla said it must be another time, as I had important affairs to attend to. He kicked over his castle and pouted, but as I was salaaming my way out he did the strangest thing, running to me and hugging me round the neck before trotting back to his nurses with a little wave of farewell. Mangla gave me an odd look as she closed the door behind us, and asked if I had children of my own; I said I hadn’t.

      “I think you have now,” says she.

      I’d supposed that was the end of the audience, but now she conducted me through that labyrinth of palace passages until I was quite lost, and from her haste and the stealthy way she paused at corners for a look-see, I thought, aha, we’re bound for some secret nook where she means to have her wicked will of me. Watching her neat little bottom bobbing along in front of me, I didn’t mind a bit – tho’ I’d rather it had been Jeendan – and when she ushered me into a pretty boudoir, all hung in rose silk and containing a large divan, I lost no time in seizing her opportunities; she clung for a moment, and then slipped away, cautioning me to wait. She drew the curtain from a small alcove, pressed a spring, and a panel slid noiselessly back to reveal a narrow stairway leading down. Sounds of distant voices came from somewhere below. Having had experience of their architecture, I hesitated, but she drew me towards it with a finger to her lips.

      “We must make no sound,” she breathed. “The Maharani is holding durbar.”

      “Capital,” says I, kneading her stern with both hands. “Let’s have a durbar ourselves, shall we?”

      “Not now!” whispers she, trying to wriggle free. “Ah, no! It is by her command … you are to watch and listen … no, please! … they must not hear us … follow me close … and make no noise …” Well, she was at a splendid disadvantage, so I held her fast and played with her for a moment or two, until she began to tremble and bite her lip, moaning softly for me to leave off or we’d be overheard, and when I had her nicely on the boil and fit to dislocate herself – why, I let her go, reminding her that we must be quiet as mice. I’ll learn ’em to lure me into boudoirs on false pretences. She gulped her breath back, gave me a look that would have splintered glass, and led the way cautiously down.

      It was a dim, steep spiral, thickly carpeted against sound, and as we descended the murmur of voices grew ever louder; it sounded like a meeting before the chairman brings ’em to order. At the stair foot was a small landing, and in the wall ahead an aperture like a horizontal arrow-slit, very narrow on our side but widening to the far side of the wall so that it gave a full view of the room beyond.

      We were looking down on the durbar room, at a point directly above the purdah curtain which enclosed one end of it. To the right, in the body of the room before the empty throne and dais, was a great, jostling throng of men, hundreds strong – the panches of the Khalsa, much as I’d seen them that first day at Maian Mir, soldiers of every rank and regiment, from officers in brocaded coats and aigretted turbans to barefoot jawans; even in our eyrie we could feel the heat and impatience of the close-packed throng as they pushed and craned and muttered to each other. Half a dozen of their spokesmen stood to the fore: Maka Khan, the imposing old general who’d harangued them at Maian Mir; the burly Imam Shah, who’d described Peshora’s death; my rissaldar-major of the heroic whiskers, and a couple of tall young Sikhs whom I didn’t recognise. Maka Khan was holding forth in a loud, irritated way; I suppose you feel a bit of an ass, addressing two hundred square feet of embroidery.

      To our left, hidden from their view by the great curtain, and paying no heed at all to Maka Khan’s oratory, the Queen Regent and Mother of All Sikhs was making up for her recent enforced abstinence from drink and frivolity. For two weeks she’d been appearing in public sober, grief-stricken, and swathed in mourning apparel; now she was enjoying a leisurely toilet, lounging goblet in hand against a table loaded with cosmetics and fripperies, while her maids fluttered silently about her, putting the finishing touches to an appearance plainly calculated to enthrall her audience when she emerged. Watching her drain her cup and have it refilled, I wondered if she’d be sober enough; if she wasn’t, the Khalsa would miss a rare treat.

      From mourning she had gone to the other extreme, and was decked out in a dancing-girl’s costume which, in any civilised society, would have led to her arrest for breach of the peace. Not that it was unduly scanty: her red silk trousers, fringed with silver lace, covered her from hip to ankle, and her gold weskit was modestly opaque, but since both garments had evidently been designed for a well-grown dwarf I could only wonder how she’d been squeezed into them without bursting the seams. For the rest she wore a head veil secured by a silver circlet above her brows, and a profusion of rings and wrist-bangles; the lovely, sullen face was touched with rouge and kohl, and one of her maids was painting her lips with vermilion while another held a mirror and two more were gilding her finger and toe nails.

      They were all intent as artists at a canvas, Jeendan pouting critically at the mirror and directing the maid to touch up the corner of her mouth; then they all stood back to admire the result before making another titivation – and beyond the purdah her army coughed and shuffled and waited and Maka Khan ploughed on.

      “Three divisions have declared for Goolab Singh as Wazir,” cries he. “Court’s, Avitabile’s, and the Povinda. They wish the durbar to summon him from Kashmir with all speed.”

      Jeendan continued to study her mouth in the mirror, opening and closing her lips; satisfied, she drank again, and without looking aside gestured to her chief maid, who called out: “What say the other divisions of the Khalsa?”

      Maka Khan hesitated. “They are undecided …”

      “Not about Goolab Singh!” shouts the rissaldar-major. “We’ll have no rebel as Wazir, and the devil with Court’s and the Povinda!” There was a roar of agreement, and Maka Khan tried to make himself heard. Jeendan took another pull at her goblet before whispering to the chief maid, who called: “There is no majority, then, for Goolab Singh?”

      A great bellow of “No!” and “Raja Goolab!” with the leaders trying to quiet them; one of the young Sikh spokesmen shouted that his division would accept whoever the Maharani chose, which was greeted with cheering and a few groans, to the amusement of Jeendan and the delight of the maids, who were now holding up three long pier-glasses so that she might survey herself from all sides. She turned and posed, emptied her cup, pulled her trouser waist lower on her stomach, winked at her chief maid, then raised a finger as Maka Khan shouted hoarsely:

      “We can do nothing until the kunwari speaks her mind! Will she have Goolab Singh or no?”

      There was a hush at that, and Jeendan whispered to the chief maid, who stifled a fit of the giggles and called back: “The Maharani is only a woman, and can’t make up her mind. How is she to choose, when the great Khalsa cannot?”

      That sent them into noisy confusion, and the maids into stitches. One of them was bringing something from the table on a little velvet cushion, and to my astonishment I saw it was the great Koh-i-Noor stone which I’d last seen streaked with blood in Dalip’s hand. Jeendan took it, smiling a question at her maids, and the wicked sluts all nodded eagerly and clustered round as the Khalsa fumed and bickered beyond the curtain and one of the young Sikhs shouted:

      “We have asked her to choose! Some say she favours Lal Singh!” A chorus of groans. “Let her come out to us and speak her mind!”

      “It is not seemly that her majesty should come out!” cries the chief maid. “She is not prepared!” This while her majesty, with the diamond now in place, was flexing her stomach to make it twinkle, and her maids hugged themselves, giggling, and egged her on. “It is shameful to СКАЧАТЬ