The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald

well-turned out, as usual, but their junior officers had been at the Queen’s party all night, and came on parade half-soused. Seeing my chance, I set ’em to drill their columns, and in five minutes that muster looked like the Battle of Borodino, with Hovas walking into each other, whole companies going astray, and little drunk officers staggering about shrieking and weeping. In happy inspiration I had the band paraded to accompany the drill, and since most of them were still cross-eyed and blowing into the wrong end of their instruments, the shambles was only increased.

      At this I flew into a frightful passion, placed the drunker officers under arrest, harangued the parade at the top of my voice, and told them they could d--n well march in full kit until they were sober and respectable again. Ankay was the place, I said; they could camp out on the plain without tents or blankets, and if one of ’em dared to get fever I’d flog him stupid. It must have sounded convincing, and presently off they went, led by the band playing three different marches at once; I watched them fade into the dusty haze and thought, well, that’s my part well done – and if the whole plot goes agley, I can still plead that my actions have been perfectly normal.

      But that’s small comfort to a conscience like mine. I was a prey to increasing terror all day, fretting about what Laborde and the others might be doing – there was another day and night for word of the plot to leak out, and I started at every voice and footfall. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice; no doubt they attributed my jumps, like their own, to the excesses of the previous night. There was no word from the palace, no hint of anything untoward; evening came, and I prepared to turn in early with a bottle of aniseed to quiet my dark hours.

      I lay there, listening to the distant sounds of the palace, sucking at my flask, and telling myself for the thousandth time there was no reason why all shouldn’t be well – why, given luck, in two days Elspeth and I would be riding down in style to Tamitave, with Rakota’s blessing; then the first English ship, and home and safety, far from this h--lish place. It mightn’t be so bad, of course, with Ranavalona out of the way – might be financial advantage to be had – rich country, new market – trading ventures, expert advice to City merchants in return for ten per cent of the profits – not to be sneezed at. Wonder what they’d do with Good Queen Randy – exile to the southern province, likely, with a platoon of Hova bucks to keep her warm … serve her right …

      The knock on my door sounded thunderously, and I came bolt upright, sweating. I heard my orderly’s voice, and here he was, as I scrabbled for my boots, and behind him, the ominous figures of Hova guardsmen, bandoliers and all, their bare chests gleaming black in the lamplight. There was an under-officer, summoning me to the royal apartments; the words pierced my drowsy brain like drops of acid – oh, Ch---t, I was done for. I had to hold on to the edge of my cot as I pulled on my breeches; what could she want, at this hour, and why should she send a guard of soldiers, unless the worst had happened? The gaff was blown, it must be – steady, though, it might be nothing after all – I must keep a straight face, whatever it was. Panic shook me – should I try a bolt? No, that would be fatal, and my legs wouldn’t answer; it was all they could do to walk steady as the officer led the way round to the front of the palace, past the broad steps – was it imagination that there seemed to be more sentries than usual? – and across the court to the Silver Palace, gleaming dimly under the rising moon, its million bells tinkling softly in the night air.

      Up the stairs, along the broad corridor, with my legs like jelly and the Hova boots pounding stolidly behind me – I wasn’t happy about those boots, I remembered; I’d toyed with the idea of trying ’em in sandals, but hadn’t been sure how they’d stand up to long marching – ye G-ds, what a thing to think about, with my life in the balance, and now the great doors were opening, the officer was waving me in, and here, in a blaze of light, was the reception room, and I was striding in and bowing automatically, while the picture was emblazoned in my mind.

      She was there, black and still, on her throne. It must be midnight, surely, but d---e if she wasn’t wearing a taffeta afternoon dress, all blue flounces, and a hat with an ostrich plume. I came up from my bow, feeling the chill stare, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. A couple of her girl attendants alongside, then the lean, robed figure of Vavalana the Chancellor, his head cocked, looking at me out of his crafty eyes; Fankanonikaka – I struggled for composure, but his bland black face told me nothing. And then my heart leaped sickeningly, and I almost cried out.

      To one side, between two guardsmen, stood Baron Andriama. His shirt was torn, his face contorted, and his hands were bound; he seemed barely able to stand. There was a filthy mess on the floor near him – and the word shot into my mind: tanguin. She knew, then – it was all up.

      Out of the corner of my eye I could see her watching me, her hand at her earring. Then she muttered something, and Vavalana shuffled forward, his staff tapping. His grizzled head and skinny black face looked curiously bird-like; he blinked at me like a cheeky old robin.

      “Speak before the Queen,” says he, and his voice was a gentle croak. “Why did you send the Guards to Ankay?”

      I tried to look slightly puzzled, and to keep my voice steady. “May the Queen live a thousand years. I sent the Guards on a punishment march – because they were drunk and slovenly. So was the band.” I frowned at him, and spoke louder. “They were not fit to be seen – I have five of their officers in arrest. Fifty miles in full kit is what they need, to teach ’em to behave like soldiers – and when they come back I’ll send them out again, if they haven’t learned their lesson!”

      It sounded well, I think – the right touch of puzzled indignation and martial severity, although how I managed it G-d alone knows. Vavalana was studying me, and behind him that black face and beady eyes beneath the ostrich plume were as fixed as a stone idol’s. I must not falter, or betray fear—

      “They were not sent away on the orders of that man?” says Vavalana, and his scrawny hand pointed at Andriama, sagging between his guards.

      “Baron Andriama?” says I, bewildered. “He has no authority over the troops. Why – does he say he ordered me? He has never shown any interest in their training – he’s not a soldier, even. I don’t understand, Chancellor—”

      “But you knew” – cries Vavalana, his finger stabbing at me – “you knew he plotted against the life of the Great Lake Supplying Water! Why else should you remove her shield, her trusted soldiers?”

      I let my jaw drop in amazement, then I laughed right in his face – and for the first time saw Ranavalona startled. She jumped like a jerked puppet, for I don’t suppose anyone had ever laughed aloud in her presence before.

      “A plot, you say? Is this a joke, Chancellor? If so, it’s in poor taste.” I stopped laughing and scowled, seeing the doubt in his eyes – now’s your chance, my boy, I thought, rage and indignation, carry it off for all you’re worth, bluff loyal old Harry. “Who would dare plot against her majesty, or say that I knew of it?” I almost shouted the words, red in the face, and Vavalana absolutely fell back a step. Then:

      “Enough!” Ranavalona took her hand from her earring. “Come here.”

      I stepped forward, forcing myself to look into those hypnotic eyes, my mouth dry with fear. Had the bluff worked? Did she believe me? The glazed, frozen pupils surveyed me for a full minute, then she reached out and took my hand. My spirits leaped as she held it – and then she grunted one word:

      “Tanguin.”

      My heart lurched, and I almost fell. For it meant she didn’t believe me, or at least wasn’t sure, which was just as bad; she was holding my hand, sentencing me to trial by ordeal, that horrible, lunatic test of Madagascar, which gave barely a chance of survival. I heard my own teeth chattering, and then I was grovelling and pleading, protesting my loyalty, swearing she was the darlingest, loveliest queen who ever was – only the blind certainty that confession meant sure and unspeakable death stopped me from whimpering out the whole plot; for at least the tanguin gave me a slender chance, and I suppose I knew it. The sullen face didn’t change. She let go my hand and gestured to the guards.

      I could only crouch there while they made