The Game - Laurie R. King [137]
“How many beads on your rosary?” I asked the monk; my voice revealed my great displeasure with the entire episode.
He turned on me a beatific smile. “One hundred eight. My days of counting paces are over; now I count prayers.”
Stifling a groan, Nesbit stood again and prepared to take up his burden.
“Wait,” I said.
“I’ll take him another stretch, then you can try.”
“No.”
“We can’t delay, we’re too close to The Forts.”
“It’s only five miles to the border,” I noted.
“And three—”
“Three more to the British encampment, yes. But once we get to the border, couldn’t we send Mr O’Hara on under his own power?” I turned to our unhelpful burden, the monk sitting patiently and untroubled. “Wouldn’t that be within the scope of your vow?”
“Oah yes,” he replied happily. “Once outside the borders of Khanpur, I will have already—however unwillingly—effected my escape. The vow would thus be broken, well and truly; I could come and go wherever I pleased.”
I felt another pulse of rage at the absurdity of this escapade, arguing Jesuitical minutiae with an Irish Buddhist spy while Holmes performed conjuring tricks before a mad maharaja—and then I pushed the emotion down: No time for it now.
“I’d like to propose a change of plan,” I said grimly. “I think it might be a very good idea if you and I, Nesbit, were inside The Forts when the sun comes up.”
Nesbit was no longer too winded to argue, but I spoke over his automatic objections.
“I know, the original plan was for us four to make for the border and abandon Khanpur. But thanks to Mr O’Hara here, we are only three. It’s less than five miles to the border, and not yet one o’clock. Eleven miles forced march there and back, you and I could be in our beds before daylight.”
Nesbit’s quick brain considered my words, saw their truth, and picked out the glaring problem. “We can’t manage the pace carrying him.”
“No,” I agreed. So I pulled the fancy revolver out of my belt, cocked it, and lowered it until its gleaming barrel pointed directly between Kimball O’Hara’s arched eyebrows. “He’s going to walk.”
A great silence fell sharply. A pi-dog barked in the distance, a peahen screamed, and I became aware that only one of us was breathing evenly. Then Nesbit gave an uncertain laugh.
“I don’t believe that’s going to work.”
I allowed some of my anger to surface, which was not difficult. “My husband chose to remain in the hands of a powerful and mentally unstable man in order to buy time to get Mr O’Hara free. I, however, have no particular affection for your retired spy, and I have no intention of abandoning Holmes under those circumstances. Mr O’Hara’s unwillingness to carry his own weight delays me and puts my husband into even greater danger. You honestly think I won’t pull this trigger?”
In any performance, the key is convincing oneself first, and at that moment, with my fury and frustration welling close to the surface, I could well imagine my finger tightening. My performance certainly convinced Nesbit, whose breath froze completely in his throat; in the end, Kimball O’Hara, too, allowed himself to believe I meant it. He stood, brushed down his clothing, turned his back, and started walking: east towards the border. I eased the hammer down and took a much-needed lungful of air of my own before pushing past the stunned-looking captain.
I kept the gun on O’Hara’s back all the way to the borders of Khanpur, so it could not be argued that he was escaping of his own volition.
And footsore, famished, and exhausted, we made it back to New Fort a good forty minutes before dawn, to find our drugged chuprassi still snoring gently in his corner.
Before we parted, Nesbit caught my elbow and spoke into my ear. “Would you have shot O’Hara?”
I looked at the man’s features, haggard with fatigue but beautiful still, and I saw only Holmes’ face as the door locked him in. The false moustache shifted on my upper lip as I smiled. “If he’d refused? I honestly don