“Perhaps too kind, sultana. Oh, I ain’t complaining… but I’ll tell you something about slaves: however devoted and loving and like bloody spaniels they seem, they never forgive their owners for owning ’em.” They don’t, either, though what prompted me to say it just then, I don’t know, unless I was just mentally marking time while debating whether to kiss her before I wrenched off that scanty tunic, or after. But I debated too long, and she was off with a laughing dismissal of my caution, and down the ladder-stair before I could get to work.
I spent the day imagining Khasim Tamwar, which is the key to disguise. You must “catch the man” if you’re to impersonate him faithfully, as I’d learned to do in the past with Crown Prince Carl Gustaf (dignified royal duffer) and Makarram Khan (truculent Pathan ruffian) and my military self (bluff mutton-headed hero), to name but a few. I decided Khasim would be a bit of a languid exquisite, and carefully shaved my splendid moustache to a mere line along the upper lip, got rid of my whiskers, and spent time oiling and curling myself a lovelock with a hot iron—frontier style rather than Hyderabadi, but no one in Abyssinia would know the difference. I’d grow a little imperial, too, and remember to point my toes as I walked, which ain’t difficult for a cavalryman.
Finally I boned a length of silk off my room dragon to impro vise a tight turban, and having spruced up my boots, pyjamys and sash, stood forth for Uliba’s inspection. “Oho!” says she, mighty droll, “is it the Indian horse-trader or the Prince of the Seventh Sea-Coast? My ladies must see this wonder—and Malee, too!”
“Half a tick,” says I. “They know me as Khasim Tamwar, but what tale are you telling ’em to explain our going south together?”
“What is to explain if I make a pleasure journey to the Sea of Tana with a handsome stranger? Let their imaginations work!” Which they did, judging by their slantendicular looks and the smirks of the booby-sporters, but Malee wasn’t to be seen. Fagged out, no doubt.
In the evening Uliba took me to a little room off the stables where we packed our bags for the trip—spare clobber of shamas and boots and waterproof cloaks, blankets and utensils, biltong and bread and teff-cakes, (* Millet.) flasks of maise and tej, cheese and dried fruit and locust-balls, God help me. We split my two hundred dollars between us, at my suggestion since she’d have to do the buying of necessities along the way, and in addition to my Joslyn and car tridge-belt I had a dagger and sword from the citadel’s armoury—not one of their sickle-blades but a straight cross-hilted weapon with Deus vult engraved on the blade—a Crusader sword, bigod, and why not, for if it was seven hundred years out of date it was still in Christian land.
It took us until supper-time to complete our packages, and to see that all was well in the stables, where she had picked out two fine Arab mares and a led-animal. Afterwards we retired early, since we were to be up by three and away by four, bidding each other a decorous good night in which I kept my hands to myself with difficulty, for while Malee had taken some of the edge off my carnal appetite, Uliba’s leather-clad bounties were a quivering temptation. Still, I knew it wouldn’t be long before the mistress decided she’d like a share of the jollification of which the maid had apparently spoken so highly, and on that consoling thought I fell asleep.
When I woke it took a moment to identify the noise that had disturbed me. Judging by the moonlight it must be past midnight; there was nothing out of the way in the sounds of the sleeping castle—and then I heard it, a faint whisper beyond my door, low and urgent. For an instant I wondered if it could be Uliba, but the language was recognisably Amharic, and I caught one of the few words I knew—"tenisu", which means “get up". It was a woman’s voice; could it be Malee after another nightcap, but if so why hadn’t she just breezed in as before? There it came again; with a soft chuckle, I called to enter, without result, so I hopped out and opened the door, and sure enough, Malee it was, eyes wild in the light of the lamp she carried, and as she stepped back swiftly from the threshold I turned and hurled myself towards my charpoy, grabbing for the Joslyn under the pillow.
Another split second and I’d have had it, but the men who’d been waiting with her were too quick. Even as my hand touched the butt, one of them landed on my back, wiry hands seizing my neck, while the other grabbed my wrist and snatched up the pistol with a yell of triumph. He covered me, his mate rolled off me, and as I came off the charpoy there was a shouted order from the doorway, and here was a hulking brute with a breastplate over his shama whom I recognised in horror as Yando, and Malee beside him squealing with excitement.
I know when I’m cornered, and I put up my hands. Yando let out a bellow of laughter, and the chap with my Joslyn shoved it into my ribs, shouting words which needed no translation as he urged me towards the door and down the ladder-stairs to the hall on the lower floor. His pal went first, menacing me with a spear as I came down while the pistoleer followed; Yando and Malee came last, she chattering like a parakeet and he roaring to his minions, no doubt to keep a tight grip on me.
The place was in uproar, women having hysterics, bare tits bouncing in alarm, elders dithering, and Uliba, teeth bared in fury, a stalwart Ab spearman at her side, two more with sickle-swords menacing the wailing crowd.
What had happened, if not why, was clear: my instinct about mistrusting slaves had been sound, and Malee had admitted Yando and his gang. This was confirmed by the demeanour of all parties. I couldn’t understand a word, but there was no mistaking the gleeful triumph of Malee’s tirade at Uliba, or Uliba’s snarling rage as she made for Malee, who took refuge behind Yando. The Ab guarding Uliba wrestled her back, Yando addressed her at the top of his voice in gloating amusement, she blazed back at him, the women’s hys terics increased with bosoms heaving to admiration, and I decided to put in my ha’porth with my best parade-ground roar.
"Chubbaraol” They stopped yelling. “Uliba-Wark, tell them who I am!”
It was common sense: whatever Yando might have done to an anonymous stranger within Uliba’s gates, he’d not dare misuse an envoy from the British army now invading his country. And if the revelation jeopardised my ridiculous mission to the Galla queen, so much the better.
“Tell him!” I repeated, in Arabic, and from the look he turned on Uliba I knew he didn’t understand a word. “He won’t dare
She looked at me without a word and then let fly a volley at Yando—and God alone knows what she said, but it drove him into a violent fury: he absolutely grabbed her by the shoulders, bawling into her face. They raged at each other until he thrust her away and turned to my captors, an outflung hand pointing at me, his pug face contorted with bestial anger, and before I knew it I was being thrust aloft again, the pistol wallah jabbing me with my own barrel, and the spearman offering assistance.