A split second, and then she was off the stool like a striking snake, whipping the knife from her boot as she launched herself at me, screaming vengeance, and it would have been Flashy R.I.P., Abyssinia 1868, if Wedaju hadn’t thrust me aside, caught her wrist as the knife descended, thrown her on her back, and pinned her, all in one lightning movement. She was hollering blue murder as he disarmed her, the old chamberlain was collapsing in an apparent fit, my escorting guardsmen were hastening to put themselves between the commotion and the throne, the apartment seemed to be full of squealing handmaidens… and Queen Masteeat gently slapped the muzzle of a lion which had arisen, growling, at the dis turbance. Beyond that she didn’t blink an eyelid, waiting until Uliba’s shrieks had subsided, and applying herself to a chicken leg in the meantime.
“Fair, fat, and forty” was how Speedy had described her. She must have been a stunner as a girl, but sloth and gluttony had plumped out the comely face, and if “fat” was a trifle unkind she still looked as though it might take two strong men to raise her commanding form from its cushioned bed. It was clad in a splendid robe of shimmering blue silk, with one fleshy polished shoulder and arm bare, and if there was plenty of her it all appeared to be complete and in working order. Elspeth would have called her sonsy, signifying bonny and buxom. As a commoner she’d have been a fine figure of a woman; being royalty, she was stately, regal, imposing, statuesque, or any other courtly grovel you please, and a perfectly acceptable piece of mattress-fodder—supposing she had the energy.
For a more lethargic lady I’d seldom seen. The full, good-natured face, as light as creamy coffee between the long oiled braids, was placid, and the large, slightly protruding eyes were almost sleepy as she considered me, toying with the mane of her blasted man-eater. Seeing her so at ease among her cushions, pondering which dish to tackle next, it struck me that if she was as shrewd and ruth less as I’d been told, she knew how to conceal it. Even her voice, when she addressed Uliba, was gentle and bored.
“Is this the man? The horse-trader of India? Tell me in a word, but do not name him.”
Uliba said it was, at the top of her voice, with unprintable ad ditions, as she writhed in Wedaju’s grasp. “And I shall kill the bastard! The filthy villain would have cast me to death, I who had guided and guarded him! He shall die! As I am a woman, I swear it!”
“And as I am a queen, I shall have you whipped till you weep if you raise your voice in my presence again,” says Masteeat mildly. “It would not be the first time… remember?”
“I remember!” snaps Uliba, and glared at me. “As I shall remember you also, dog! And I shall have my way in the end, dear sister! When the time comes this jackal shall be paid a traitor’s wages!”
“That shall be as God wills.” Masteeat indicated the stool. “Sit, child, and be still. You who aspire to a throne should try to behave like a queen. What he did or did not do is for another day. We have greater matters before us now.”
Like what goody to guzzle next, apparently, for she was busy at the dishes even as she chided Uliba, sounding like a patient teacher with a naughty pupil, and I guessed this was a scene they’d played many times in Uliba’s childhood, and that it drove her wild. She wrenched free of Wedaju, stood blazing silently for a moment, and then stalked back to her stool. Masteeat selected what looked like a large underdone steak, took a hearty bite, chewed reflectively, and directed her handmaiden to take a tray to me, indicating that I should help myself.
I didn’t know, then, that this was a considerable honour in Ab court circles. I made a quick survey of the raw beef and roasts, surrounded by cakes and desserts, chose some skewered meat, and bowed civilly in majesty’s direction, but she was busy engulfing the last of her steak. Having belched delicately, she wiped her lips with the hem of that beautiful dress, began to spoon a pudding into herself, and signed to the handmaiden, who clapped sharply to call the room to attention. The old chamberlain, having clam bered to his feet, bowed and tottered out, followed by the guards and Wedaju, who I was glad to see was taking Uliba’s knife with him.
And then, before my wondering eyes, Masteeat laid aside her empty bowl, and clicked her tongue. At this three of the lions rose with a reluctant lethargy to match their mistress’s, and padded out, followed by the bowing handmaidens, leaving the fourth lion, evi dently a royal favourite, blinking at the Queen’s feet and purring like a motor engine.
So there we were, Flashy and the sister-queens, and I’ll not waste time rehearsing my bewildered thoughts. All that seemed certain was that if Uliba had attempted a coup, it had misfired, but her elder didn’t seem much put out, and was giving courteous atten tion at last to her visitor.
“You have earned a welcome by your patience,” says she, “but first I must know your true name.”
“Sir Harry Flashman, ma’am,” says I, shoulders back, chin up. “Colonel, British Army, with messages from Sir Robert Napier, general officer commanding Her Britannic Majesty’s forces in Abyssinia.”
She nodded acknowledgment and glanced at Uliba. “So you were telling the truth. You did well to whisper it in my ear alone.”
“Pah!” snaps Uliba. “At last you believe me! The Queen is gracious!”
“Be thankful for that,” says Masteeat. “And for the Queen’s mercy.”
“I ask no mercy from you!” Uliba was on her feet again. “I never have, and I never will!”
“You have never had to,” says Masteeat, stroking her lion’s mane. “The baby of the family must always be indulged and excused and forgiven, whatever her fault. Because she is the baby, and knows well how to trade on it.”
Uliba let out a squeal like a steam whistle, fists clenched, stamping. “You lie! I never made excuse, or pleaded kinship! I have shown a bare face and fought for what should be mine! I am no hypocrite, like you who talk of the Queen’s mercy! What mercy have you shown to my friends, my faithful ones? To Zaneh, and Adilu, and Abite, you cruel heartless woman?” And I’d not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it: she burst into tears and stood there, knuckling her eyes.
“What you would have done if they had plotted against
Uliba went on sobbing, and Masteeat frowned at me as though becoming aware that the family squabble was being earwigged by this foreigner. I was spellbound: Uliba racked by sobs of penitence or rage, you couldn’t tell which, looking all forlorn and fetching in her scanty tunic, and the languid matron reclining on her cushions, a study in fatigued perplexity. At last she sighed, pushed the lion aside, and extended a hand towards Uliba.
“Oh, come here, little one! Stop this foolish weeping; you have nothing to weep for!” Uliba gave a mighty gulp, scowled, and tossed her head. “Come, I say!” And damme if Uliba didn’t dash the tears from her eyes and move with halting steps to the couch. Masteeat took her hand and pulled her gently to her knees, putting an arm about her shoulders.
“What am I to do with you, daughter of tribulation, sister of strife? You are too big to put across my knee these days… and if I did, you would rage and break things… and later hang your head and beg forgiveness. Perhaps even make me another gift in amends… ?”
She twitched the blue silk robe aside, revealing a massive but beautifully turned leg (ran in the family, no doubt) shod with a golden sandal and bearing two ankle-chains, one of the silver bells popular with Galla ladies, the other of cheap little coloured beads.
Uliba stared and sniffed. “You kept it! All these years…”
“Since your sixth birthday, when you flew into a passion because you were not given a pony, and father had you beaten, and you broke my crystal cup in your tantrum,” says Masteeat. “And howled with remorse, and presently brought me this anklet as a peace offering.”
“I made it with beads stolen from Warkite’s gown of state… the bitch!” sniffs Uliba, adding sulkily: “I wonder your majesty wears such a tawdry thing!”
Masteeat leaned forward to finger the anklet, and said in that tired, gentle voice: “I have no jewel so precious as that brought to me by a sad, sorry little girl long ago. And if she tries to take my throne, still she is that little girl… and so I must love her always.”
Uliba gave a wail that combined frustrated rage with that howl of remorse Masteeat had mentioned, and buried her face, while her sister went on in the same gentle, chiding tone.
“But what’s to be done with her? Our father Abushir raised her as though she were a true daughter, and she
