arc, then looked again at Jama.
“Don’t look at him, you great ox! Look at me!” Sharpe went forward,
the spear low, then he raised the blade and lunged towards the big
man’s belly and Prithviraj made a clumsy parry that rang against the
spear blade.
“You’ll have to put more strength into it than that,” Sharpe said,
pulling back the spear and standing still to tempt thejetti forward.
Prithviraj stepped towards him, swung the blade and Sharpe stepped back
so that the tulwar’s tip slashed inches from his chest.
“You have to be quick,” Sharpe said, and he feinted right, spun away
and walked back to the left leaving Prithviraj off balance. Sharpe
turned and lunged with the spear, pricking the big man’s back and
leaving a trickle of blood.
“Ain’t the same, is it, when the other fellow’s got a weapon?” He
smiled at the jetti.
“So come on, you daft pudding. Come on!”
The crowd was silent now. Prithviraj seemed puzzled. He had not
expected to fight, not with a weapon, and it was plain he was not
accustomed to a tulwar.
“You can give up,” Sharpe said.
“You can kneel down and give up. I won’t kill you if you do that, but
if you stay on your feet I’ll pick you apart like a joint of bloody
meat.”
Prithviraj did not understand a word, but he knew Sharpe was dangerous
and he was trying to work out how best to kill him. He glanced at the
spear, wishing he had that weapon instead of the tulwar, but Sharpe
knew the point should always beat the edge, which was why he had kept
the spear.
“You want it quick or slow, Sevajee?” Sharpe called.
“Whichever you prefer, Ensign,” Sevajee said, smiling.
“It is not for the audience to tell the actors how the play should
go.”
“Then I’ll make it quick,” Sharpe said, and he pointed at Prithviraj
with his free hand and motioned that thejetti could kneel down.
“Just kneel,” he said, ‘and I’ll spare you. Tell him that, Sevajee!”
Sevajee called out in an Indian language and Prithviraj must have
decided the offer was an insult, for he suddenly ran forward, tulwar
swinging, and Sharpe had to step quickly aside and parry one of the
cuts with the spear’s staff. The blade cut a sliver of wood from the
shaft, but went nowhere near Sharpe.
“No good doing that,” Sharpe said.
“You’re not making hay, you great pudding, you’re trying to stay
alive.”
Prithviraj attacked again, but all he could think to do was make great
swings with the blade, any one of which might have slit Sharpe into
two, but the attacks were clumsy and Sharpe backed away, always
circling around to the middle of the courtyard so that he was not
trapped against its edges. The crowd, sensing that Prithviraj might
win, began to urge him on, but some noticed that the Englishman was not
even trying to fight yet. He was taunting thejetti, he was evading him
and he was keeping his spear low.
“I thought you said it would be quick,” Sevajee said.
“You want it over?” Sharpe asked. He crouched, raising the spear
blade, and the motion checked Prithviraj who stared at him warily.
“What I’m going to do,” Sharpe said, ‘is cut your belly open, then slit
your throat. Are you ready?” He went forward, jabbing the spear,
still low, and Prithviraj backed away, trying to parry the small
lunges, but Sharpe dragged the spear back each time before the parry
could connect, and Prithviraj frowned. He seemed hypnotized by the
shining blade that flickered like a snake’s tongue, and behind it
Sharpe was grinning at him and taunting him, and Prithviraj tried to
counter-attack once, but the spear slashed up to within an inch of his
face and he went on stepping backwards. Then he backed into the
blinded jettt who still crouched on the flagstones and Prithviraj
staggered as he lost his balance.
Sharpe came up from the crouch, the spear lancing forward and the wild
parry came far too late and suddenly the blade was punching and tearing
through the skin and muscle of the jettfs stomach. Sharpe twisted the