The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light

went back within.'

He hadn't seen me? Pondering it later—which you ain't inclined to do while hanging supine under a balcony of murderers—I concluded that he must have been looking elsewhere or relieving himself when I made my leap for glory, and my robe being dark green, he couldn't make me out in the deep shadow beneath the balcony. I embraced the bracket, blubbering silently, while Gurdana Khan swore by the Seven Lakes of Hell that I wasn't in the room, so where the devil was I?

'Perchance he has the gift of invisibility,' calls up the wag in the court. 'The English are great chemists.' Gurdana damned his eyes, and for no sane reason I found myself thinking that this was the kind of crisis in which, Broadfoot had said, I might drop the magic word 'Wisconsin' into the conversation. I didn't care to interrupt, though, just then, while Gurdana stamped in fury and addressed his followers.

'Find him! Search every nook, every corner in the palace! Stay, though—he may have gone to the durbar room!'

'What—into the very presence of Jawaheer?' scoffs another.

'His best refuge, fool! Even thou wouldst not cut his throat in open durbar. Away, and search! Nurla, thou dirt—back to the gate!'

For a split second, as he shouted down, his sleeve came into view—and even in the poor light there was no mistaking that pattern. It was the tartan of the 79th, and Gurdana Khan was the Pathan officer I'd seen that after- noon—dear God, the Palace Guard were after me!

How I held on for those last muscle-cracking moments, with fiery cramps searing my arms, I can't fathom, much less how I managed to struggle up astride of the bracket. But I did, and sat gasping and shaking in the freezing dark. They were gone, and I must steel myself to reach out and up for a hold on the balcony pillars, and somehow find the strength to drag myself to safety. I knew it was death to try, but equally certain death to remain, so I drew myself into a crouch, feet on the bracket like some damned cathedral gargoyle, leaned out, and reached slowly up with one trembling hand, too terrified to make the snatch which had to be made .. ,

A hideous face shot over the balustrade, glaring down at me, I squealed in terror, my foot slipped, I clawed wildly at thin air as I began to fall—and a hand like a vice clamped on my wrist, almost wrenching my arm from its socket. For two bowel-chilling seconds I swung free, wailing, then another hand seized my forearm, and I was dragged up and over the balustrade, collapsing in a quaking heap on the balcony, with Jassa's ugly face peering into mine.

I'm not certain what line our conversation took, once I'd heaved up my supper, because I was in that state of blind funk and shock where talk don't matter, and I made it worse—once I'd recovered the strength to crawl indoors—by emptying my pint flask of brandy in about three great gulps, while Jassa asked damfool questions.

That brandy was a mistake. Sober, I'd have begun to reason straight, and let him talk some sense into me, but I sank the lot, and the short result was that, in the immortal words of Thomas Hughes, Flashy became beastly drunk. And when I'm foxed, and shuddering scared into the bargain … well, I ain't responsible. The odd thing is, I keep all my faculties except common sense; I see and hear clearly, and remember, too—and I know I had only one thought in mind, seared there by that tartan villain who was bent on murdering me: 'The durbar room—his best refuge!' If there's one thing I respect, drunk or sober, it's a professional opinion, and if my hunters thought I'd be safe there then by God not Jassa or fifty like him were going to keep me from it. He must have tried to calm me, for I fancy I took him by the throat, to make my intentions clear, but all I'm sure of is that I went blundering off along the passage, and then along another, and down a long spiral staircase that grew lighter as I descended, with the sound of music coming closer, and then I was in a broad carpeted gallery, where various interesting Orientals glanced at me curiously, and I was looking out at a huge chandelier gleaming with a thousand candles, and below it a broad circular floor on which two men and a woman were dancing, three brilliant figures whirling to and fro. There were spectators down there, too, in curtained booths round the walls, all in extravagant costumes—aha, thinks I, this is the spot, and a fancy dress party in progress, too; capital, I'll go as a chap in a green silk robe with bare feet. It's a terrible thing, drink.

'Flashman bahadur! Why, have you received the parwana, then?'

I turned, and there was Mangla walking towards me along the gallery, wearing a smile of astonishment and 'very little besides. Plainly it was fancy dress, and she'd come as a dancer from some select brothel (which wasn't far out, in fact). She wore a long black sash low on her hips, knotted so that it hung to her ankles before and behind, leaving her legs bare; her fine upper works were displayed in a bodice of transparent gauze, her hair hung in a black tail to her waist, she tinkled with bangles, and there were silver castanets on her fingers. A cheering sight, I can tell you, at any time, but even more so when you've been hanging out of windows to avoid the broker's men.

'No parwana, I'm afraid,' says I. 'Here, I say, that's a fetching rig! Well, now … is that the durbar room down yonder?'

'Why, yes—you wish to meet their highnessses?' She came closer, eyeing me curiously. 'Is all well with you, bahadur? Why, you are shaking! Are you ill?'

'Not a bit of it!' says I. 'Took a turn in the night air … chilly, eh?' Some drunken instinct told me to keep mum about my balcony adventure, at least until I met higher authority. She said I needed something to warm me, and a lackey serving the folk in the gallery put a beaker in my hand. What with brandy and funk I was parched as a camel's oxter, so I drank it straight off, and another—dry red wine, with a curious effervescent tang to it. D'you know, it settled me wonderfully; a few more of these, thinks I, and they can bring the nigger in. I took another swig, and Mangla laid a hand on my arm, smiling roguishly.

'That is your third cup, bahadur. Have a care. It is , . . strangely potent, and the night has only begun. Rest a moment.'

I didn't mind. With the liquor taking hold I felt safe among the lights and music, with this delectable houri to hand. I slipped an arm round her waist as we looked down on the dancers; the guests reclining in the booths around the floor were clapping to the music and throwing silver: others were drinking and eating and dallying—it looked a thoroughly jolly party, with most of the women as briefly attired as Mangla. One black charmer, naked to the waist, was supporting a shouting reveller as he weaved his way across the floor, there was excited laughter and shrill voices, and one or two of the booths had their curtains discreetly closed … and not a Pathan in sight.

'Their highnesses are merry,' says Mangla. 'One of them, at least.' A man's voice was shouting angrily below, but the music and celebration continued uninterrupted. 'Never fear, you will find a welcome—come and join our entertainment.'

Capital, thinks I, we'll entertain each other in one of those curtained nooks, so I let her lead me down a curved stair giving on to an open space at one side of the floor, where there were buffets piled high with delicacies and drink. The angry man's voice greeted us as we descended, and then he was in view beside the tables: a tall, well-made fellow, handsome in the pretty Indian way, with a curly beard and moustache, a huge jewelled turban on his head and only baggy silk pantaloons on the rest of him. He was staggering tight, with a goblet in one hand and the other round the neck of the black beauty who'd been helping him across the floor. Before him stood Dinanath and Azizudeen, grim and furious as he railed at them, stuttering drunkenly.

'Tell 'em to go to the devil! Do they think the Wazir is some mujbee*(*Sweeper.) who'll run to their bidding! Let 'em come to me—aye, and humbly! Khalsa scum! Sons of pigs and owls! Do they think they rule here?'

'They know it,' snaps Azizudeen. 'Persist in this folly and they'll prove it.'

'Treason!' bawls the other, and flung the goblet at him. It missed by yards, and he'd have tumbled over if the black wench hadn't caught him. He clung tipsily to her, flecks of spittle on his beard, crying that he was the Wazir, they wouldn't dare -

'And what's to stop them?' demands Azizudeen. 'Your Palace Guard—whom the Khalsa have promised to blow from guns if you escape? Try it, my prince, and you'll find your Guards have become your jailers!'

'Liar!' yammers the other, and then from raging and cursing he burst into tears, bleating about how well he'd paid them, half a lakh to a single general, and they'd stand by him while the British ate the Khalsa alive. 'Oh, aye— the British are marching on us even now!' cries he. 'Don't the fools know that?'

'They know you say so—but that it is not true,' puts in Dinanath sternly. 'My prince, this is foolish. You know you must go out to the Khalsa tomorrow, to answer for Peshora's death . . if you speak them fair, all may be well …' He stepped closer, speaking low and earnest, while the fellow mowed and wept—and then, damme if he didn't lose interest and start nuzzling and fondling his black popsy. First things first seemed to be his motto, and he