The Game - Laurie R. King [136]
“Holmes, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not leaving you hostage.”
“Russell, understand this: I am not a hostage. O’Hara is political, I am mild entertainment. A world of difference. The maharaja only put me under key in the first place because I slipped away from him in the city, and he was irked. That was a week ago. If the magician vanished overnight, they might send word out for him, but if he was not to be found, no one would bother further—unless he took O’Hara with him. But if they find O’Hara missing and the so-called magician still locked inside, what harm will come? They will question me as to what I heard in the night, and I will tell them I heard men speaking, and men moving, and then my dinner came. Yes, the other prisoner disappeared, but what of it? I did not know him, I have never spoken to him, so far as they know. The Morse tappings through our wall were things unheard ten feet away. Five minutes.”
“Stop it!”
He relented, so far as he could, stepping forward to take my head in his hands. “Russell, once, once only, I was taken and suffered for it. Please, my dear wife, believe me, this is not the same situation. If you want O’Hara free, you and Nesbit must take him and leave me. I will drug Sanji tomorrow night and slip away—one man, alone and unencumbered. If I have not shown up in Hijarkot inside the week, come back. Please, believe me: I shall be safe. After all, as a last resort I need only stand up and declare myself an English citizen to be made invulnerable.”
I turned, reluctantly, to consult with Nesbit.
The blond head nodded. “It’s true. A public declaration like that, Jimmy’d be furious, but I can’t imagine he’d dare take it further.”
A weight far greater than that of Kimball O’Hara settled over me. I turned back to Holmes and hissed, “If you’re wrong, I shall be extremely angry with you.” Then I kissed him hard on the lips, more threat than affection, and let him step back into his cell.
Before the door shut on him, he stuck his head back, his hand on the slim line of hair on his upper lip. “However, Russ? I think that, all in all, given the choice, I prefer you with the hair and without the moustache.”
Suddenly the light in the hall-way shifted as the oil flames ducked and fluttered: A lower door had opened. Aware of Nesbit apologetically slinging O’Hara across his shoulders, I made haste to lock Holmes’ door, then that of the other cell, before dropping the keys back into the tin box and scurrying away on Nesbit’s heels.
Our nice, smooth rescue operation had turned into something out of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, thanks to two hugely reluctant prisoners. Why could nothing in this damnable country be simple?
We had to use the distraction of small stones to make our escape through the gates, but both guards behaved as the first set had, and went to investigate the rattles, allowing us ample time to gain the road outside. Carrying our burden, however, we could not take a short-cut down the hillside, but were forced to keep to the paved surface, and made the main road seconds before the sound of marching feet rang out from the New Fort gates high above us. Six guards started down the hill to fetch the magician for his midnight rendezvous with the maharaja. We huddled behind a heap of stones and waited for them to cross the road and go through the gates of the Old Fort; as he had promised, our reluctant escapee made not a sound. When the guards had disappeared, Nesbit resumed his burden and staggered off across the moonlit landscape.
A mile later, we stopped to let Nesbit tip his burden to the ground and drop down beside him. O’Hara watched the younger man