The Game - Laurie R. King [133]
In half an hour, we were looking up at the walls of the older fort, black against the moonlit sky. I settled the decorative revolver in the back of my belt, and prepared to storm Khanpur’s castle.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The moon rode blessedly near full in a cloudless sky, which made the task of approach far easier. Of course, had anyone been watching for us, it would have simplified their job as well, but they did not seem to be doing so, and we slunk up the road in the shadow of the wall, gaining the gates without an alarm being raised.
The entrance to Old Fort was a mirror image of the other, but less well-kept-up. The paving stones were uneven underfoot, and where the western fort smelt of sandalwood and flowers, even from its gate, here the air was heavy with must and decay. The slovenliness extended to the guards as well. In the courtyard two men had made a fire, and sat warming themselves as they ate something from tin bowls; one of them had his back to us.
I put my mouth to Nesbit’s ear, and breathed a question. “Just the two?”
I felt him nod, and followed him as he crept into the gateway, our sleeves brushing the massive wooden doors that I had never seen closed, keeping to the side of the passage lest we be outlined against the moon-bright sky behind us. He stopped where the passage opened into the inner courtyard, then slowly leant forward to peep around the corner; over his shoulder I could see the two men, who were arguing loudly over something in the local language. Nesbit reached back to touch my arm in warning, then stepped out, moving lightly around the wall to the arcades that began twenty feet from the gates. My heart leapt into my throat, but I followed, even though it was impossible that neither guard would spot us—we were in the open, less than fifty feet from them.
Yet they didn’t. They kept arguing, kept eating, and then we were behind the first column, my pulse racing furiously. My God, this Englishman was madder than the maharaja!
He led me along the arcade that circled the open yard, a smaller version of the New Fort’s, although the only resemblance to a garden here was one lone tree growing against the walk directly across from the gates, which even in the thin light looked half dead. When we had circled two-thirds of the complex, Nesbit began to feel for a door. We were nearly to the gates again when he found one; the latch lifted easily, the door’s creaks were minor, and he stepped within. After a moment he put his head back out to breathe the word “Stairs.” The door shut, and as soon as the arguing voices had faded, I exploded at a whisper.
“What on earth were you thinking? God knows why they didn’t spot us!”
“The one was looking away, the other’d been staring into the fire. The only way they would have noticed us was if we shone a torch at them.”
And so saying, he gave the torch in his hand a brief flash, illuminating a run of worn stone steps. I touched the revolver, for the hundredth time that night, and crept on his heels up the concave surfaces, pausing at the top; the hall-way to the left glowed faintly, as at a tiny candle. As we came up on it the light proved to come from an oil lamp set in a wall niche. Another lamp burned thirty feet along; halfway between the two and facing them was a ramshackle table, on which sat an equally bashed-about tin box.
Unfortunately, the guard sitting behind the table looked remarkably strong and healthy, and far from slumbering at his post, he studied the walls, bored for something to do.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when a loud Hindi voice rang down the stones, and even Nesbit jerked. “Oh my brother,” it called. “I hunger for your wife’s good curry.” My husband’s voice, sounding strong and sure;