Wilbur Smith - Assegai

‘For king and country!’ he grumbled, as he went to her tent, but he was intrigued to discover what entertainment the princess had planned for the evening.

The princess was stretched out languidly on the big bed. However, she was not alone. Her maid, Heidi, knelt in the middle of the floor. She was stark naked except for a miniature saddle on her back and a gold bit in her mouth. The tiny golden bells on the reins tinkled as she tossed her head and whinnied.

‘Your steed awaits you, Courtney,’ said the Princess. ‘Would you like to take her for a little trot?’

When she had exhausted her imagination, she sent Heidi away, but when Leon started to follow the girl the princess stopped him. ‘I did not say you could leave, Courtney.’ She moved over on the bed and patted the mattress beside her. ‘Stay awhile, and I will tell you interesting stories of the wicked and wonderful things that I do with my friends in Berlin.’

The goosedown mattress was wondrously soft and warm. Leon stretched out on it. At first he listened idly to her anecdotes. They seemed so far-fetched that they must be fairy-tales, the kind that the devils of hell must spin to their offspring. They were about witchcraft and Satan worship, obscene and sacrilegious rituals.

Then, with a creepy sensation that made the hair at the back of his neck rise, he began to realize that she was naming well-known personages from the upper reaches of the German aristocracy and military. What she was relating as amusing titbits of scandal was political cordite – and sweating, unstable cordite at that. What would Penrod make of such volatile information? Would he believe a single word of it?

The following evening, as he filled in his game book after a hard day’s hunting, he tried to recall every name the princess had mentioned. He started recording them on one of the back pages. There were sixteen on his list when he had completed it. He was about to lock away the book when he became uneasy.

Nobody, except Penrod, will ever read this, he thought. But the niggling doubt remained at the back of his mind as he prepared for bed. Finally he unlocked the bureau and took up his straight razor. He spread open the game book and carefully cut out the incriminating page. He held it over the lantern flame and let it burn to a black crisp. Then he crushed the ashes to dust, and climbed into bed to await the summons of his client. However, that night no pistol shot sounded before he fell asleep.

He woke with the dawn light creeping into his tent, feeling fresh and bright after a full seven hours’ sleep.

Before the company had finished breakfast Manyoro came to the mess tent and squatted outside the opening where only Leon could see him. As soon as they made eye contact Manyoro rose to his feet and slipped away. Leon excused himself and followed him. Manyoro was waiting for him in the servants’ compound.

‘What ails you, brother?’ Leon asked him.

‘Swalu has been bitten by a snake.’

Swalu was the head skinner. ‘Did he see what manner of snake it was?’ Leon asked, with consternation.

‘It was futa , M’bogo.’

‘Are you sure?’ Leon clutched at the faint hope that it had not been a black mamba, the most venomous serpent in Africa.

‘It came into his bed. After it had bitten him three times he killed it with his skinning knife. I have seen the snake. It is futa .’

‘Is Swalu yet dead?’

‘No, M’bogo. He waits for your blessing before he goes to his ancestors.’

‘Take me to him swiftly.’ They hurried to one of the grass huts in the compound and Leon stooped through the low doorway. Swalu lay on his sleeping mat. The other three skinners sat in a circle around him. The body of the snake lay close by. Its head had been hacked off, but a single glance confirmed Manyoro’s identification. It was a black mamba, not a particularly large specimen, only about four feet long, but its single bite would have contained sufficient venom to kill twenty men. Swalu had been bitten thrice.

Swalu lay on his back, naked except for his loincloth. His head was supported by a carved wooden pillow. There were two double fang punctures on his chest, and one on his cheek. His eyes were wide, but glazed and sightless. White froth bubbled out of his mouth and nostrils.

Leon knelt beside him and took his hand. It was cold, but the fingers twitched. ‘Go in peace, Swalu,’ Leon whispered in his ear. ‘Your ancestors wait to welcome you.’ Barely perceptibly Swalu’s cold fingers squeezed his hand. Then Swalu smiled faintly and died. Leon sat with him awhile, then leaned forward and closed his staring eyes.

‘Dig his grave deep,’ Leon told the other skinners. ‘Place rocks above him so that the hyena cannot reach him.’

‘Why would she wish to kill Swalu?’ Manyoro asked, of nobody in particular. The skinners stirred uneasily.

‘No more of that!’ Leon snapped as he stood up. ‘The futa was a futa and nothing else. It was not a witch’s thing!’

‘As the bwana says,’ Manyoro agreed, with studied politesse, but he did not look at Leon.

Leon stood up and went back to the mess tent. The princess was finishing a cup of coffee. She greeted him coldly. ‘Ah, so! You have made time to take care of your client’s needs. I am gratified.’

‘Forgive me, Your Royal Highness, a small matter demanded my attention. What can I do for you?’

‘I have lost one of my gold lockets. It contains a strand of my mother’s hair. It is of paramount importance to me.’

‘We will find it,’ he assured her. ‘When and where do you remember last having seen it?’

‘After the pig battue yesterday. I sat under that tree while I waited for you and your men to butcher the animals. I remember rubbing the locket between my fingers. I must have dropped it there.’

‘I will go to recover it immediately.’ Leon bowed to her. ‘I shall return before noon.’ She waved him away and he strode from the tent, calling to the syce to bring his horse.

When Leon and the trackers reached the area of the warthog drive they found a large and splendidly dappled tom leopard feeding on the remains of the carcasses. It raced away and disappeared into the tall grass. Leon and the trackers went to where the princess had sat and searched the entire surrounding area.

‘ Hapana .’ Manyoro admitted defeat at last. ‘There is nothing.’ They returned to the camp.

The princess’s handmaidens were sitting in the mess tent, working on their embroidery frames, drinking coffee, whispering and giggling together.

‘Where is your mistress?’ Leon asked, and they exchanged a glance, giggled a little more and shrugged, but did not reply. He left them and went to his own tent, ducked in through the fly and found the princess sitting on his bed. His campaign bureau was open and the contents were spread around her. His game book was open on her lap.

‘Princess.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘I regret we were unable to find your jewel.’

She touched the locket, which now hung at her throat. The single large diamond set in the lid glinted in the subdued light. ‘No matter,’ she said. ‘One of my maids found it under my bed. I must have dropped it there.’

‘I am relieved to hear that.’ He looked pointedly at the game book. ‘Is there anything in particular Your Royal Highness was looking for?’

‘No, nothing, really. I was bored in your absence so I was passing the time. I was diverted by your accounts of my prowess . . .’ she paused significantly and stared into his eyes ‘. . . in the chase.’ She closed the book and stood up. ‘So Courtney, how are you going to amuse me today? What is there for me to kill?’

‘I have found a formidable leopard for you.’