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 disposed 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
