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

do me to death – not for the first time. Ask him,” I shouted, “how I came here! Ask the lying, treacherous bastard!”

      “Never try to flatter Gul Shah,” said the stout man cheerfully. “He’ll believe every word of it. No, there has been a mistake, regrettably, but it has not been irreparable. For which God be thanked – and my timely arrival, to be sure.” And he smiled at me again. “But you must not blame Gul Shah, or his people: they did not know you for what you were.”

      Now, as he said those words, he ceased to be a waggish madman; his voice was as gentle as ever, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath. Suddenly things became real again, and I understood that the kindly smiling man before me was strong in a way that folk like Gul Shah could never be: strong and dangerous. And with a great surge of relief I realised too that with him by I was safe: Gul Shah must have sensed it also, for he roused himself and growled that I was his prisoner, feringhee officer or not, and he would deal with me.

      “No, he is my guest,” said the stout man reprovingly. “He has met with a mishap on his way here, and needs refreshment and care for his wounds. You have mistaken again, Gul Shah. Now, we shall have his wrists unbound, and I shall take him to such entertainment as befits a guest of his importance.”

      My bonds were cut off in a moment, and two of the Ghazis – the same evil-smelling brutes that a few moments ago had been preparing to hurl me to the snakes – supported me from that hellish place. I could feel Gul Shah’s eyes boring into my back, but he said not a word; it seemed to me that the only explanation was that this must be the stout man’s house, and under the strict rules of Musselman hospitality his word was law. But in my exhausted state I couldn’t attempt to make sense of it all, and was only glad to stagger after my benefactor.

      They took me to a well-furnished apartment, and under the stout man’s supervision the crack in my head was bathed, the blood washed from my torn wrists and oiled bandages applied, and then I was given strong mint tea and a dish of bread and fruit. Although my head ached damnably I was famishing, not having eaten all day, and while I ate the stout man talked.

      “You must not mind Gul Shah,” he said, sitting opposite me and toying with his small beard. “He is a savage – what Gilzai isn’t? – and now that I think on your name I connect you with the incident at Mogala some time ago. ‘Bloody Lance’, is it not?” And he gave me that tooth-flashing smile again. “I imagine you had given him cause for resentment—”

      “There was a woman,” I said. “I didn’t know she was his woman.” Which wasn’t true, but that was by the way.

      “There is so often a woman,” he agreed. “But I imagine there was more to it than that. The death of a British officer at Mogala would have been convenient politically for Gul – yes, yes, I see how it may have been. But that is past.” He paused, and looked at me reflectively. “And so is the unfortunate incident in the cellar today. It is best, believe me, that it should be so. Not only for you personally, but for all your people here.”

      “What about Sekundar Burnes and his brother?” said I. “Your soft words won’t bring them back.”

      “A terrible tragedy,” he agreed. “I admired Sekundar. Let us hope that the ruffians who slew him will be apprehended, and meet with a deserved judgement.”

      “Ruffians?” says I. “Good God, man, those were Akbar Khan’s warriors, not a gang of robbers. I don’t know who you are, or what your influence may be, but you’re behind the times where news is concerned. When they murdered Burnes and sacked his Residency, that was the beginning of a war. If the British haven’t marched from their cantonment into Kabul yet, they soon will, and you can bet on that!”

      “I think you exaggerate,” he said mildly. “This talk of Akbar Khan’s warriors, for example—”

      “Look you,” I said, “don’t try to tell me. I rode in from the east last night: the tribes are up along the passes from here to Jugdulluk and beyond, thousands of ’em. They’re trying to wipe out Sale’s force, they’ll be here as soon as Akbar has a mind to take Kabul and slit Shah Sujah’s throat and seize his throne. And God help the British garrison and loyalists like yourself who help them as you’ve helped me. I tried to tell Burnes this, and he laughed and wouldn’t heed me. Well, there you are.” I stopped; all that talk had made me thirsty. When I had taken some tea I added: “Believe it or not as you like.”

      He sat quiet for a moment, and then remarked that it was an alarming story, but that I must be mistaken. “If it were as you say, the British would have moved by now – either out of Kabul, or into the Bala Hissar fort, where they would be safe. They are not fools, after all.”

      “You don’t know Elphy Bey, that’s plain,” says I. “Or that ass McNaghten. They don’t want to believe it, you see; they want to think all’s well. They think Akbar Khan is still skulking away in the Hindu Kush; they refuse to believe the tribes are rallying to him, ready to sweep the British out of Afghanistan.”

      He sighed. “It may be as you say: such delusions are common. Or they may be right, and the danger smaller than you think.” He stood up. “But I am a thoughtless host. Your wound is paining you, and you need rest, Flashman huzoor. I shall weary you no longer. Here you can have peace, and in the morning we can talk again; among other things, of how to return you safely to your people.” He smiled, and the blue eyes twinkled. “We want no more ‘mistakes’ from hotheads like Gul Shah. Now, God be with you.”

      I struggled up, but I was so weak and weary that he insisted I be seated again. I told him I was deeply grateful for all his kindness, that I would wish to reward him, but he laughed and turned to go. I mumbled some more thanks to him, and it occurred to me that I still didn’t know who he was, or how he had the power to save me from Gul Shah. I asked him, and he paused in the curtained doorway.

      “As to that,” he said, “I am the master of this house. My close friends call me Bakbook, because I incline to talk. Others call me by various names, as they choose.” He bowed. “You may call me by my given name, which is Akbar Khan. Good night, Flashman huzoor, and a pleasant rest. There are servants within call if you need them.”

      And with that he was gone, leaving me gaping at the doorway, and feeling no end of a fool.

       Chapter 9

      In fact, Akbar Khan did not return next day, or for a week afterwards, so I had plenty of time to speculate, I was kept under close guard in the room, but comfortably enough; they fed me well and allowed me to exercise on a little closed verandah with a couple of armed Barukzis to keep an eye on me. But not a word would anyone say in answer to my questions and demands for release. I couldn’t even discover what was going on in Kabul, or what our troops were doing – or what Akbar Khan himself might be up to. Or, most important of all, why he was keeping me prisoner.

      Then, on the eighth day, Akbar returned, looking very spruce and satisfied. When he had dismissed the guards he inquired after my wounds, which were almost better, asked if I was well cared for and so forth, and then said that if there was anything I wished to know he would do his best to inform me.

      Well, I lost no time in making my wishes known, and he listened smiling and stroking his short black beard. At last he cut me off with a raised hand.

      “Stop, stop, Flashman huzoor. I see you are like a thirsty man; we must quench you a little at a time. Sit down now, and drink a little tea, and listen.”

      I sat, and he paced slowly about the room, a burly, springy figure in his green tunic and pyjamys which were tucked into short riding boots. He was something of a dandy, I noticed; there was gold lace on the tunic, and silver edging to the shirt beneath it. But again I was impressed by the obvious latent strength of the man; you could see it even in his stance, with his broad chest that looked always as though he was holding a deep breath, and his long, powerful hands.

      “First,” he said, “I keep you here because I need you. How,