The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
but I couldn’t go unarmed. He scurried about and found one in a nearby drawing-room – only a ceremonial rapier with a curved ivory hilt and no guard, but it would have to do. As I took it an appalling thought struck me – why not cut upstairs and kill the black b---h where she sat … or sick Fankanonikaka on to do it? He fairly squealed with alarm and indignation.
“No, no, no bloodings! Gentle deposings only – great Queen, poor lady – oh, so barmy! If only she peace and quiet, ourselves not needing d--n plottings, not above half! Now all to smash, kicking up rows, arrests and cruellings!” He wrung his hands. “You hurrying Laborde fastly, I waiting sentry, oh my stars, someone maybe nabbing, or Queen suspicioning—”
“Not a bit of it,” says I. “Tell you what, though – you’re a sharp hand at slipping things into chap’s drinks, ain’t you? Well, try and find a way of sending poor old Andriama some refreshment – put him out of his misery before he blabs, what? And don’t fret, Fankanonikaka! We all old boys, jolly times together. Floreat Highgate and to h--l with the Bluecoat School, hey?”
Then I was off, leaving him twittering, forcing myself to walk slowly as I descended the great staircase, past the incurious palace guardsmen, across the court and out into the street beyond. It was the small hours, but there was plenty of traffic about, for in the royal district of Antan’ society folk kept late hours, and there was sure to be much dining-out and discussing of last night’s orgy at the palace. They delight in scandal, you know, just like their civilized brethren and sisters. The streets were well-lit, but no one paid me any heed as I made my way past the strolling pedestrians and the sedans jogging under the trees. I had got a long cloak from Fankanonikaka, to wear over my boots and breeches and to cover my sword – for slaves didn’t ought to have such things – and apart from my white face and whiskers I was just like any other passer-by.
The stables were only five minutes’ walk, and I lounged about in a fever of nonchalance while the under-officer laboriously spelled out Fankanonikaka’s note and looked surly. He didn’t have much French, but I supplemented the written order as best I could, and since he recognized me as the sergeant-general he did what he was told.
“Two horses for me,” says I, “and the other dozen for the Guards’ officers out at Ankay. Send ’em out now, with a groom, and tell him to follow the Guards’ track, but not to hurry. I don’t want the cattle worn out, d’you see?”
“No grooms,” says he, sulky-like.
“Then get one,” says I, “or I’ll mention you to the Queen, may she live a thousand years. Been out to Ambohipotsy lately, have you? You’ll find yourself observing it from the top of the cliff, unless you look sharp – and put a water-bottle, filled, with each horse, and plenty of jaka in the saddle-bags.”
I left him as pale as only a scared nigger can be, and rode at a gentle pace in the direction of Prince Rakota’s palace, leading the second horse. I daren’t hurry, for a mounted man was rare enough in Antan’ at any time, and a hastening rider in the middle of the night would have had them hollering peeler. This is the worst of all, when every second’s precious but you have to dawdle – I think of strolling terrified through the pandy lines at Lucknow with Campbell’s message, or that nerve-racking wait on the steamboat wharf at Memphis with a disguised slave-girl on my elbow and the catchers at our very heels; you must idle along carelessly with your innards screaming – had Andriama talked yet? Did the Queen know it all by now? Was Fankanonikaka, perhaps, already shrieking under the knives? Were the city gates still open? They never closed ’em, as a rule; if I found them shut, that would be a sure sign that the caper was blown – heaven help us then.
Rakota’s place in the suburbs stood well apart from the other houses, behind a stockade approached through a belt of small trees and bushes. I left the horses there, out of sight, breathed a silent prayer that Malagassy hacks knew enough not to stray or neigh, and set forward boldly for the front gate. There was a porter dozing under the lantern, but he let me in ready enough – they don’t care much, these folk – and presently I was kicking the jigger-dubbera awake on the front steps, boldly announcing myself from the Silver Palace with a message for his royal highness.
This presently produced a butler, who knew my face, but when I demanded instant audience, he cocked his frosty head disdainfully.
“Their highnesses are not returned … ah … sergeant-general. They are dining with Count Potrafanton. You can wait – on the porch.”
That was a blow; I hadn’t a moment to spare. I hesitated, and then saw there was nothing for it but the high hand.
“It’s no matter, porter,” says I, briskly. “My message is that the foreign woman who is here is to be sent to the Silver Palace immediately. The Queen wishes to see her.”
If my nerves hadn’t been snapping, I dare say I’d have been quite entertained at the expressions which followed each other across his wrinkled black face. I was only tenth-caste foreign rubbish, a mere slave, he was thinking; on the other hand, I was sergeant-general, with impressive if undefined power, and much more to the point, I was the Queen’s current favourite and riding-master, as all the world knew. And I brought a command ostensibly from the throne itself. All this went through the woolly head – how much he’d been told by his master about the need to keep Elspeth’s presence secret, I couldn’t guess, but eventually he saw which way wisdom – and Ambohipotsy – lay.
“I shall inform her,” says he, stiffly, “and arrange an escort.”
“That won’t be necessary,” says I, harshly. “I have a sedan waiting beyond the gates.”
Butlers are the b----y limit; he was ready to argue, so eventually I just blazed at him, and threatened if he didn’t have her down and on parade in a brace of shakes, I’d march straight back to the palace and tell the Queen her son’s butler had said “Snooks!” and slammed the door on me. He quivered at that, more in anger than sorrow, and then marched off, all black dignity, to fetch her. You could see he was wondering what things were coming to nowadays.
I waited, chewing my knuckles, pacing the porch, and groaning at the recollection of how long it took the bl----d woman to dress. Ten to one she was peering at herself in the glass, patting her curls and making moues, while Andriama was probably blabbing, and plot, alarm, and arrest were breaking out with a vengeance; Ranavalona’s tentacles might be reaching out through the city this moment, in search of me – I stamped and cursed aloud in a fever of impatience, and then strode through the open door at the sound of a female voice. Sure enough, there she was, in cloak and bonnet, prattling her way down the stairs, and the butler carrying what looked like a hat-box, of all things. She gave a little shriek at the sight of me, but before I could frown her into silence another sound had me wheeling round, hackles rising, my hand starting towards my sword-hilt.
Through the open door I could see down the long drive to the main gate. It was dim down yonder, under the flickering lantern, but some kind of commotion was going on. There was a clatter of metal, a voice raised in command, a steady tread advancing – and into my horrified view, their steel and leather glittering in the beams cast by the front door lamps, came a file of Hova guardsmen.
a Door-keeper.
I may not be good for much, but if I have a minor talent it’s for finding the back door when coppers, creditors, and outraged husbands are coming in the front. I had the advantage of having my pants up and my boots on this time, and even hampered by the need to drag Elspeth along, I was going like a rat to a drainpipe before the butler even had his mouth open. Elspeth gave one shriek of astonishment as I bundled her along a passage beneath the stairs.
“Harry! Where are you going – we have left my band-box—!”
“D--n