Path of the Tiger, стр. 420

‘Good,’ Kelly said, snatching the narcotic from the man’s grimy hand. ‘And one more thing, something that I somehow almost forgot to mention: I stopped by the post office in Calcutta earlier this week, and guess what? I picked up another letter for you, all the way from the other side of the world. Would you like to read it?’

The man’s glazed eyes brightened up immediately, and he sat bolt upright in the hay.

‘Y-, y-, yes master, please, p-, p-, please, p-, please!’ he begged.

Kelly’s thin lips tightened, and his eyes gleamed like frozen stone.

‘Win that race and you’ll get it. Lose though and I’ll burn it, along with all the rest.’

The man nodded and seemed suddenly alert, with burnished determination now shining in his eyes. Kelly noticed this, and the corners of his mouth inched upwards in a smug grin.

‘Go on then, show me that you’re not a worthless street urchin!’ he snapped. ‘Go out there and make me proud!’

‘Yes master! Y-, yes!’

***

‘By Jove, that wretch is who you’ve brought along to compete in this contest of ours? I understood that he was an opium smoker, but I did not know that he was also a street beggar!’

Earl Cavanaugh, utterly flabbergasted, was staring through his field glasses at the man on the horse who had just trotted out onto the lawn – the same dishevelled, pallid fellow who had been smoking opium in the stables earlier. Ivor Bingham, an English friend of Cavanaugh’s, a tall middle-aged man with a shiny bald pate and a huge grey walrus moustache, repeated this question as he too stared with disbelief at the ragged-looking jockey.

‘That’s your competitor, Kelly? Are you joking, man?’

Niall Kelly simply clasped his hands together, subdued mischief dancing in his eyes.

‘That is my contender, gentlemen.’

‘You are fully aware of the consequences of you losing this wager, are you not?’ Bingham asked incredulously.

‘I am indeed. I suppose Cavanaugh’s competitor does look like he’ll have the edge in this contest, but what can I say? I like to live dangerously.’

Kelly grinned and twirled one of his foppish golden locks around his forefinger. Bingham shook his head and chuckled, with mocking mirth shining brightly in his brown eyes, but Cavanaugh glared at Kelly with a rage-smouldering glower before replying.

‘My competitor is a former French cavalryman,’ he snarled, ‘a veteran of a number of foreign campaigns, and he would trounce that street vagrant of yours even if he were blindfolded! Have you come here to compete, Kelly, or to make a mockery of my hobby?! I’m warning you, man, I’m warning you! You know what I’m capable of…’

Kelly merely sipped on his brandy, calm and collected, and smiled cryptically.

‘Oh I know, Cavanaugh, I know,’ he said. ‘Humour me though, will you sir?’

Out on the field the two horsemen trotted up to the starting line of the race. One, the forty-three-year-old French cavalryman, was dressed in resplendent finery, and his thick black hair, meticulously styled and oiled, gleamed glossily under the Indian sun. The other competitor, greasy, wan and looking more like a vagrant than a horseman, rocked to and fro in his saddle, having still not entirely recovered from the effects of the opium he had smoked earlier. The Frenchman glanced over at his adversary and laughed haughtily before speaking in a heavily accented voice to the young man.

‘Which sewage canal did they drag you out of, eh? Bah, I come here to race against the likes of you?! I’m surprised you can even sit upright on a horse, let alone ride one!’

Two Indian servants rushed over to the men, handing each contestant a lance and a sabre.

The Frenchman gripped the lance in his left hand, and in his right he whirled the sabre about his head in a flamboyant display of expertise before slamming it into the scabbard on his hip. He laughed heartily, and then bowed in his saddle to the distant spectators who were seated on Cavanaugh’s veranda. The other rider merely shoved his sabre, somewhat clumsily, into the sheath on his hip, and gripped the lance loosely in his right hand, trying to keep his bleary eyes focused on the course ahead of him.

A thin Indian man dressed in an exquisite red suit strolled up to the contestants and beamed a toothy smile at each of them before he began to speak in flawless English.

‘Let me explain the rules of this contest, gentlemen. Please, listen first and ask any questions afterwards.’

Both men nodded and grunted in affirmation.

‘The first leg of the race will involve tent pegging,’ the man said. ‘You can see the markers out there; there are ten of them for each of you. Yours are painted yellow,’ he said, glancing at the Frenchman, ‘and yours are painted red,’ he said, nodding to the other man. ‘You must spear at least eight out of the ten markers with your lances. Failure to do so will result in immediate disqualification. Also, spearing an opponent’s marker is considered bad sportsmanship and will also result in disqualification. Are we clear on this?’

Both men nodded.

‘Excellent. The second leg will involve sabre cuts, and you are free to discard your lance for this. Out there are ten melons per competitor. As with the markers, they are colour-coded, and once again the targets are red and yellow respectively. Again, you must successfully cut eight out of ten melons to pass. Do you understand?’

Each man muttered an affirmation.

‘Good. The final stage before the finish line is a slalom course. If you look over there at the end of the field, you will see that you each have a separate but identical course to navigate, with jumps to clear, barriers to evade, and obstacles around which to guide your horse. You will finish off the contest by stabbing a dummy through its heart – which is painted onto its chest – just before crossing the finish line. If you do not hit this exact target, you will be disqualified. Are you both clear on all