Red, White and Blue (Book Two of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Two: Concentrated Abandon

Joel liked the council chamber at the Chattar Manzil. Every other inch of the palace had been given over to the army – the men practised sparring in the muddy courtyards, and used the beautiful halls and galleries for storing ammunition – but this place felt civilized. It was large and airy and made of white marble. He could imagine generations of Lieutenant-governors and Brigadier-Generals sitting around the central table, smoking cheroots and being fanned by their punkah-wallahs, while going through the mountains of paperwork that running somebody else's country entailed.

As a freedom fighter, this was exactly the kind of colonial privilege that Joel had always despised, but he did like the fact that it was indoors, and didn't involve any brawling in the mud.

Brawling in the mud was all the soldiers could do to entertain themselves these days, because the monsoon rains had put a stop to the actual battles. The ground was far too waterlogged for horses. The plain around the city had become a placid lake, through which painted storks waded, and over which the mosquitoes hung like dark clouds.

And so the soldiers practised sparring, while the leaders of the rebel army argued in the council chamber.

In truth, there wouldn't have been much arguing without Garrett. It was always Garrett's voice raised in outrage, and Garrett's face, with its annoying, triangular beard, screwed up in anger. He was usually urging them into some massacre, some suicidal attack, some horrible round of looting and plundering.

But this time, he had the Rani on his side, which complicated matters.

She didn't like being on his side, Joel could tell. She sat as far away from him as possible, and looked at him – when it couldn't be avoided – with polite distaste. But he was her only ally now. He was the only one who wanted the war to continue.

The government in Westminster had ordered the Viceroy to stop the fighting. Any day, Joel was expecting the Viceroy to contact him with the terms of a truce, and he was well aware that he would have to take it. Winning this war had never been the plan.

But Garrett thought that agreeing to a truce now would be selling themselves short.

"We have the manpower and the resources to go all the way with this," he was saying, in his deep, throaty voice; Joel couldn't hear it these days without wincing. "We've got a huge army – we've got strategic bases – we've got people on our side--"

"You know how we got people on our side, Garrett?" said Jack solemnly. "By ignoring your advice whenever you offered it."

There was a pause. Jack didn't speak much at the council chamber these days, so, when he did venture an opinion, you knew he felt strongly about it.

He had been quiet for a month now, but not in a disconsolate way. He just seemed so murderously bored that it looked as though he was picturing the grisly death of everyone who ventured to speak. Still, everybody looked to him whenever they were discussing something important, as though he'd have the final say in the matter. The bottle of whisky that was constantly clutched in his hand had done nothing to diminish their confidence in him.

Since the rains began, Jack had spent all his time drinking in the main guard building, or sparring in the courtyards of the Chattar Manzil. Joel was forever looking down from the palace windows to see Jack at the centre of an animated crowd, muddy and shirtless, ducking punches and grinning through a mouthful of blood.

Of course, he had joined in these fights before – he had got drunk before – he had even occasionally glared at people as though he was picturing their death in his head – but never with such concentrated abandon as he was showing now. It was as though he thought he would die if he stood still.