The Game - Laurie R. King [132]
“Christ! I wish you’d warned me.”
“Where would the fun in that be?”
Nesbit stared, then gave a bark of laughter and thrust out his hand. Our host took it, allowing himself to be pulled upright, and they stood shoulder to shoulder admiring the dead animal until the appalled servants had brought the horses back. Both men mounted, and the maharaja surveyed the scene.
“I can’t imagine we’ll improve on that kill. Shall we let the day stand?”
I tried not to show how abjectly grateful I was.
Nesbit and I lagged behind the others on the ride back, and I told him about Holmes’ note. To my surprise he nodded at the list of requests.
“Not a problem. How much rope does he mean?”
I started to tell him that I thought it would be for tying prisoners, but hesitated. In that case, wouldn’t Holmes have specified “twine”? The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. He had, after all, had some time to consider the contents of the note. “I shouldn’t think all that much. He says he’s being held on the first floor.”
“But if we need to come off the roof?”
“You’re right. Where are we going to get that much strong rope?”
“Again, not a problem, unless Jimmy’s had the lumber-room cleared out. He had a team of mountain-climbers here a few years ago, bought the equipment for learning, I shouldn’t think he’s used it since. And the morphia? How much of that does he require, do you suppose?”
Of that I felt more certain. “If it had been for more than three or four people, he’d have specified. Is that also in the lumber-room?”
“Morphia I carry with me.” He caught my look, and smiled. “And skin dye, which I shall bring as well. One simply never knows what emergency may come up.”
My spirits rose somewhat; we might yet pull this off.
They dipped again at dinner, when our host stormed in, after keeping us all waiting for half an hour, back in the strange, unsettled state of the morning, if not worse. Nesbit worked hard to keep him entertained and on a straight track, although it was quite a job, made no easier by the grim determination with which the maharaja drank and the black looks he shot at the Englishman. My heart sank when the prince abruptly dismissed most of the hangers-on and told Nesbit to come with him to the gun-room. But Nesbit demurred.
“Look, old man,” Nesbit said pleasantly, “another night like the last one, and I won’t be fit for the Cup next month, far less whatever you’ve got planned for tomorrow. Thanks, but I’m for bed.” He drained his glass and stood up; the prince’s dark eyes narrowed, and I braced for an eruption.
But it did not come. Instead, the maharaja seemed to have been distracted by something in what Nesbit said; he sat back in his chair, smiling as at a private joke. “The Kadir Cup, yes. Britain’s honour at stake, and it will be arranged that India will lose yet again. But tomorrow, on India’s ground? Yes, Nesbit, let’s see what you do with my entertainment tomorrow.”
He waved a hand of dismissal, and we left, but as we went out of the door I suddenly understood the traditional method of bowing oneself out of the royal presence: It was not out of respect, but for reluctance of presenting one’s back to the throne.
In the hall-way, I murmured to the man beside me, “I don’t know that I cared much for the sound of that.”
“It had the distinct ring of a gauntlet thrown, did it not? Wouldn’t be the first time, you know. Still, if he offers a round of tiger sticking, I really shouldn’t volunteer if I were you.”
I thought he was joking, until I looked at his face. My God, tiger sticking?
In compensation for the disturbances of the night before, New Fort quieted quickly. I left my lights burning until half past eleven, and then wandered out, again wearing a dressing-gown over dark clothing, and stood on the outside walkway, smoking a cigarette. As was my habit, I offered one to the squatting servant, holding the match to him without thinking, then strolled away to gaze over the courtyard garden, comprised of mysterious shapes in the moonlight.
It took less than ten minutes for this particular