The Game - Laurie R. King [58]
He undid the twine, taking care with the knots, and unfolded the newspaper from the broken pieces of a looking-glass. It was enough to cover about a square foot, although it was in eight or ten pieces.
“If you press small pieces into the wet paint,” I told him, having checked my vocabulary with Holmes earlier, “I believe they will stick.”
He turned the shiny treasure over and over in his hands, relishing the potential. Then he picked up the other object, a dented, palm-sized metal case missing most of its original enamel which, due to the wear, had not cost me much more than the broken glass had. I waited for him to find and manipulate the side latch, then said, “This is the looking-glass of an English lady. The cover protects it from breakage.”
I might have given him solid gold. He peered into it, looked at me over it, and went back to the contemplation of his own eye. I stood up to get ready for the performance, and as I pulled open the tent flap, I heard a small voice say, “I thank you.”
“It is nothing,” I told him.
That night the cart’s sides grew stars, the mirrored glass broken down further with infinite care, rock against rock, each splinter treasured. And despite the proliferation of sharp edges, the boy didn’t so much as scratch himself in the process.
Under the morning sun, our progress was glorious.
Chapter Eleven
The next day began like the others. The dust rose and the villages passed—variations on mud walls, communal well, and fields—while we left behind the early-morning murmur of grindstones and walked to the music of the bells on grazing cattle, the melodious dirge of camel-drawn Persian wheels, and the chorus of cooing doves. Halfway through the morning we bought bowls of yogurt-like lhassi from a veiled woman and crumbled some of the gur over it, taking our refreshment in the fine-speckled shade of a neem tree while Holmes traded news with the farmer who came to see who we were. As the sun slanted and softened into the smoke of the horizon, we began to look for a village of the right size and, preferably, state of affluence, to appreciate our labours with an offering of food and perhaps a few annas—not a town, just a centre of fifteen to thirty mud houses around the inevitable small stone temple. Up to that time, when we had spotted a promising candidate along the road or across some fields, Bindra and I would wait with the donkey while Holmes went ahead to consult with the village headman. On our first day out of the caravanserai, this had been quickly done, and permission granted to make camp just outside the village walls. The next day, Holmes had been gone for two hours, since the man he sought was working in his fields and had to be tracked down. Today, Bindra took charge.
I thought at first the scamp had tired of us and decided to steal away—with all our possessions. Holmes and I had been deep in conversation when I looked up and realised the boy and animal were nowhere to be seen.
“Hell!” I exclaimed, in English. “The brat’s gone.”
Holmes examined the dusty track ahead of us, which was devoid of the familiar shapes. He said nothing, but picked up his pace. After half a mile or so we came to a field occupied by an old man clearing his channel from the nearby canal.
“Ho, my father,” Holmes called. “Have you seen a small boy and a blue donkey cart come this way?”
The elderly man straightened his back, with difficulty, and shaded his eyes against the sun. “An imp with a quick tongue?”
“That is he.”
“He asked after the mukhiya, seeking permission to bring to the village a jadoo-wallah with a wonder show.” He sounded rather dubious; despite the sparkling cart, Holmes and I looked far from wondrous or magical in our dust-caked clothing.
“Oah,” Holmes said with a sideways shake of his head. “He is a good lad, if too quick with his elders. I hope you will join us for the show, father.”
“We have not so many entertainments passing through our village that we turn our backs like city dwellers,” the old man said with a chuckle, and resumed