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

platter on which lay the three dried scraps of chicken-skin. There it was, my poisoned death; one of the guards jerked me roughly to my feet, gripping my arms behind me; the other advanced, lifting the plate up to my face. He seized my jaw – and then paused as the Queen spoke, but it wasn’t a reprieve: she was signing to one of her maids, and everything must wait, me with my eyes popping at that venomous offal I was going to have to swallow, while the girl scurried away and came back with a purse, from which the Queen solemnly counted twenty-four dollars into Vavalana’s hand. At that final callousness, that obscene adherence to the letter of their heathen ritual, my nerve broke.

      “No!” I screamed. “Let me go! I’ll tell – I swear I’ll tell!” By the grace of God I shouted in English, which no one except Fankanonikaka understood. “Mercy! They made me do it! I’ll tell—”

      My jaw was wrenched cruelly open; bestial fingers were holding it, and I choked as my mouth filled with the filthy odour of the tanguin. I struggled, gagging, but the scraps of chicken were thrust cruelly to the back of my mouth; then muscular hands clamped my jaws shut and pinched my nostrils, I struggled and heaved, trying not to swallow, my throat was on fire with that vile dust, I was choking horribly, my lungs bursting, but it was no use. I gulped agonizingly – and then I was staggering free, sobbing and trying to retch, glaring round in panic, knowing I was dying – yet even then aware of the curiosity in the watching eyes of Vavalana and the guards, and the blank indifference of the creature motionless on the throne.

      I screamed, again and again, clutching at my burning throat, while the room spun giddily round me – and then the guards had seized me once more, little Fankanonikaka was jabbering at me while they forced a bowl to my lips. “Buvez! Buvez! Drinking – quickly!” and a torrent of rice-water was being poured into me, filling my mouth and nostrils, soaking my whole head; my very lungs seemed to be filling with the stuff. I swallowed and swallowed until I felt I must burst, feeling the relief as that corrosive pain was washed from my mouth – and then an agonizing convulsion gripped my stomach, and then another, and another. I was on hands and knees, crawling blindly – oh, G-d, if this was death it was worse than anything I’d imagined. I opened my mouth to scream, and in that moment I spewed as never before, again and again, and collapsed in a shuddering heap, wailing feebly and all but dead to the world, while the spectators gathered round to take stock.

      This is the interesting part of the tanguin ordeal, you see: will the victim vomit properly? It’s true – that’s the test. They force that deadly poison into you, douse you with rice-water to help digestion, and await events – but it ain’t enough just to be sick, you know, you must bring up the three pieces of chicken skin as well, and if you do, it’s handshakes all round and a tanner from the poor box. If you don’t, then you’ve failed the test, your guilt is established – and her majesty has endless fun disposing of you.

Delightful, ain’t it? And just about as logical as the proceedings of our police courts, if rather more upsetting to the accused. At least you don’t have to wait in suspense while they sift the evidence, for you’re too racked and exhausted to care; I lay, coughing and whining with my eyes blurred with tears of pain, until someone seized my hair and jerked me upright, and there was Vavalana, solemnly surveying three sodden little objects on his palm, and Fankanonikaka beaming relief at his elbow, nodding at me, and I was still too dazed to take it in as the guards thrust me forward on to my knees, snuffling and blubbering before the throne.⁴²

      Then followed the most astonishing thing of all. Ranavalona held out her hand, and Vavalana carefully placed eight dollars in her palm. She passed them to her maid, and he then gave her another eight, which she held out to me. I was too used up to recollect that this was the token that I’d survived the ordeal successfully, but then she made it abundantly clear. When I took the money she closed her hand round mine and leaned forward from her throne until our faces were almost touching, and to my utter disbelief I saw that there were tears in those dreadful snake eyes. Very gently she rubbed her nose against mine, and touched my face with her lips. Then she was upright again, turning her glare on the unfortunate Andriama, and hissing something in Malagassy – she may have been reminding him to wear wool next his skin, but I doubt it, for he shrieked with terror and flung himself grovelling in front of her, nuzzling at her feet while the guards fell on him and dragged him writhing towards the doors. My hair stood up shuddering on my scalp as his screams died away; a less comprehensive spew, and that would have been me wailing.

      Fankanonikaka was at my elbow, and taking my cue from him I bowed unsteadily, backing out of the presence. As the doors closed on us, Ranavalona was still seated, the ostrich plume nodding as she muttered to her bottle idol; her maids were starting to mop the floor in a disconsolate way.

      “Much touching, Queen loving you greatly, so pleased you puking pretty, much happy tanguin not dying!” Fankanonikaka was absolutely snivelling with sentiment as he hurried. “She never loving so deep, except royal bulls, which aren’t human being. But now hurrying, much danger still, for you, for me, for all, when Andriama telling plots.” He thrust me along the passages, and so to his little office, where he shot the bolt and stood gasping.

      “What about Andriama? What happened?”

      He rolled his eyes. “Who knowing, someone betraying, awful humbug Vavalana maybe spy keyholing, hearing somethings. Queen suspicioning Andriama, giving tanguin, he puking no good, not like you. I not there in time, no helping, like for you, with salt, little-little cascara in rice-water, making mighty sickings, jolly happy, all right and tight, I say.”

      No wonder I’d been sick. I could have kissed the little blighter, but he was fairly twitching with alarm.

      “Andriama telling soon. Awful torturings now, worse from Spanish Inquizzing, burnings and cutting away private participles—” He shuddered, his hands over his face. “He crying about plot, me, you, Rakohaja, Laborde—”

      “For G-d’s sake, talk French!”

      “—everything be knowing to Vavalana and Queen. Maybe little time yet, then clink for us, torturings too, then Tyburn jig, I’ll wager! Only hope, making plot now – tonight Guards not here, marching Ankay left-right! Must telling Rakohaja, Laborde, Queen suspicioning, Andriama blowing gaff soon …”

      He babbled on while I tried desperately to think. He was right, of course: Malagassies are brave and tough as teak, but Andriama would never stand the horrors that Ranavalona’s beauties were probably inflicting on him while we stood talking. He’d break, and soon, and we’d be dead men – by George, though, she fancied me, didn’t she just, piping her eye when I survived the tanguin, the tender-hearted little bundle? Aye, and no doubt she’d weep into her pillow after I’d been flayed alive for treason, too. If we could reach Laborde or Rakohaja, could they bring off the coup at once? Where were Andriama’s thirty villains? Did Rakota know what had been happening? Rakota – dear G-d, Elspeth! What would become of her? I pounded my fist in a fury of despair, while Fankanonikaka twittered in Malagassy and pidgin English, and suddenly I saw that there was only one way, and a slender hope at that, but it was that or unspeakable death. The Flashman gambit – when in doubt, run.

      “Look, Fankanonikaka,” says I, “leave this to me. I’ll find Laborde and Rakohaja. But if I’m to move quickly, I must have a horse. Can you give me an order on the royal stables? They won’t let me take a beast without authority. Come on, man! I can’t run all over b----y Antan’ on foot! Wait, though – I may need more than one. Write me an order for a dozen horses, so that I can give ’em to Laborde, or Rakohaja – they’ll have to assemble those men of Andriama’s somehow.”

      He goggled at me in consternation. “But what reason? If order say taking all horse, someone suspicioning, crying fire and Bow Street—”

      “Say they’re for the Guards’ officers I sent marching to Ankay! Say the Queen’s sorry for ’em, and they can ride back! Any d----d excuse will do! Hurry, man – Andriama’s probably crying uncle this instant!”

      That decided him; he grabbed a quill and scribbled as I hovered at his shoulder, shuddering with impatience. The minutes were flying, and with every one my chances were growing dimmer. I pocketed the order;