Horsemen of Old

by Krishnarjun Bhattacharya

  She was planning something. A journey, perhaps. It had been manifesting for more than a week now, the restlessness, reminding her of the old Jadavpur escapade. What she wanted to do was go away, away from Gray and the others. She did not know where she would go, but she knew she could survive if she understood the magic well enough. She wanted to learn magic better, and MYTH was not the only teacher. She was not in New Kolkata anymore, and there must be others. She would be a difficult pupil, but she would learn. This would have to happen after they met the Keeper—if Adri came back, all the better, though somewhere she dreaded what the Tantric might put Gray through.

  She found herself thinking about the Tantric more and more, and not with fondness. And then it happened one night.

  They had camped, and everyone was asleep, everyone except Maya, who had first watch. She had been looking into the fire, remembering the time Adri had performed Pyromancy and read the memories of an object by burning it. She thought of Adri after that, of how she could not perfectly recall his face. She thought of his diaries, of all the things about Adri Sen that she now knew. And then it came to her, all of a sudden.

  She took a long while to steal the soul gem from Zabrielle, but the Demon was actually sleeping and Maya managed. She held it in her hands, the soul gem wrapped in the Ai’n Duisht—and then she focused all her magic, all her energies into destroying the gem. Electricity crackled from her gauntlets, loud bursts of energy and light which woke Gray and Zabrielle up.

  In the few seconds she had, try as she might, Maya could not damage the gem. Perhaps it was too strong. Or perhaps Maya herself had not understood magic well enough. It did not matter. Gray snatched it from her with a horrified yell.

  ‘Why? Why were you—’ Gray started, but he already knew the answer.

  Maya was silent, looking at the soul gem in Gray’s hand. ‘Breaking the soul gem is not the solution, Maya!’ he shouted, recognising the hatred in her eyes.

  ‘If there’s no gem, there’s no one after us,’ Maya replied, breathing heavily.

  ‘Have you forgotten about the man inside the gem? It would kill him!’

  Maya had a reply, but she did not say it. ‘How many times are we supposed to endanger ourselves to save Adri?’ she asked instead.

  ‘He did the same for you!’ Gray roared. ‘When you were stupid enough to land yourself with the Ancients! He faced everything for you!’

  Zabrielle watched the siblings, standing a little distance away.

  ‘You told me you were stepping up!’ Gray continued. ‘You told me you wanted to pay off the debt! Well, this is not how you do it—this is murder!’

  ‘All our hands are bloody, Gray,’ Maya said. ‘The moment you chose to pick up that shotgun, you became a murderer.’

  ‘What has gotten into you?’ Gray asked, eyes wide. ‘You’re not the Maya I knew! You’re becoming something else!’

  ‘Stronger,’ Maya said simply. ‘I’m becoming stronger.’

  Gray shook his head. ‘Something is going on inside you. You’ve snapped. I knew it. I had seen it, I was simply lying to myself, hoping it would pass—but this? If you try to kill Adri now, you of all people, Maya, then you’re not with us.’

  Maya felt the anger flare again, the anger that was so much a part of her now. She could not believe she had apologised to Gray in Mughlaa Dur, to this sentimental idiot. The stakes had risen now, they were playing for their very lives! Why could he not see that? Perhaps they were all blind, each one of them.

  ‘I think so too,’ Maya said. ‘This quest of yours—I’ve tried, but it doesn’t make sense to me anymore. Adri will not wave any magic wands to make this go away. He’ll be as lost as you are, even if you do bring him back. There has to be another solution to all this—all this shit. I’ll look for it.’

  ‘Look on your own, then,’ Gray said.

  ‘Gray,’ Zabrielle said softly.

  ‘No, Zabrielle,’ Gray retorted. ‘I can’t sleep at night if my own sister wants to kill Adri.’

  ‘Adri will die anyway,’ Maya said bitterly. ‘You will bring him back with blood and loss, and then he will die again.’

  ‘Then I will have died at his side,’ Gray said.

  Maya paused. ‘Victor was right,’ she said. ‘A martyr for Adri.’

  ‘The word you can’t find is friend,’ Gray said.

  Maya walked to her backpack and picked it up. ‘We part ways then, brother. I hope you make it.’

  ‘Just leave, Maya,’ Gray said. He turned around and walked off.

  Zabrielle went to her own bag and took something out. Then she walked up to Maya and pushed it into her palm. A cloth bag, a purse. Heavy.

  ‘Silver, for expenditures,’ Zabrielle said, not meeting Maya’s eyes.

  ‘I don’t need Ba’al’s money, Z.’

  ‘This money is mine. And one must insist.’

  There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘One cannot believe this is happening,’ Zabrielle continued.

  Maya chuckled. ‘Perhaps Gray is right. Even you would not trust me with the soul gem anymore. And I, I refuse to look at the Keeper as the last hope in a free world. No one’s that important.’

  ‘Nish labhis fol nedra,’ Zabrielle said seriously.

  ‘And the translation?’

  ‘When the darkness talks to you, do not answer.’

  ‘What will happen if I do?’

  Zabrielle looked up, into Maya’s eyes. ‘I know the path you walk on, Maya. I know the pain you feel, the anger. It is a dark path. There is power, a great deal of power, but there is also something else at the end of it. A great loss.’

  Maya looked back. ‘I’m changing, Z, and I don’t know if it’s for the better. But I feel I can defend myself for the first time. I can do what I want.’

  ‘Your change—it is a process. You are becoming something else.’

  ‘What? What am I becoming?’

  ‘A soldier of shadow. A Shade.’

  Maya did not reply.

  ‘Once you do,’ Zabrielle continued, ‘there is no going back. Remember my words when it hurts and stings and bleeds—and even though your world might be dark then—my voice will keep you going.’ She took a step back and bowed. ‘It was an honour to meet you, Maya Ghosh.’

  Maya gave a fleeting smile. ‘You take care of yourself, Z. Ba’al might command your life, but death—your death is in your hands.’ She turned and walked off, turning back after a couple of steps. ‘Tell Fayne that his contract isn’t broken if he stays with Gray. And you’re a rare one, Z. Meeting you was . . . was . . .’

  Without finishing, Maya walked off again, parting leaves as she entered the forest. It was black, and she could see nothing as she left the dim light of the camp, but inwardly she felt better. Inwardly, she felt glad. She felt free.

  Maya called the dragon and asked for light. Around her, the air, the darkness, the leaves brushing against her, the smell of clean, clean water, a peculiar kind of fruit or leaf, remnants of wood burning at the camp behind her. She drew from the air, from the cold and the silence and a light ball bloomed in her right palm, illuminating. Maya could not help but feel pleased with herself.

  She walked until dawn, the air much colder than before, snow falling lightly again. The trees were leafless again, and a thin layer of snow covered the ground her boots squelched on. She stood for a moment to take a deep breath, her backpack somehow heavier. She let the light ball fizzle away as the skies showed promise of dawn, and realised she had also stopped to think about her next move.

  Not the Shadowlands. Frozen Bombay, then. The city must have its fair share of Sorcerers. If not, she could perhaps work her way north along the coast. A map. She needed a map of the Old Country. She reached into her bag and brought out the beautiful travelling cloak she’d taken off one of the Soul Hunters. It felt warm, warmer than the magic.

  She did not have to plod through the dry forest for long. She found the beaten path again, and this time—with the Soul Hunter’s cloak enveloping her Dem
on Mage robes—she decided to try and hitch a ride with the next caravan that passed. With a little luck, she would get carried into Frozen Bombay without having to face the White Watchman. Two caravans ignored her, but the third one agreed to give her a lift; it was a theatre group, headed for a performance somewhere in the city. Maya did not speak much. Muttering her thanks, she sat in a corner of the carriage and watched as men and women of different ages rehearsed their dialogues. Her plan worked. She felt the carriage slow down towards the middle of the day, but she dared not look out of the window.

  ‘Ah, the Winter Gate,’ a pockmarked fellow exclaimed. ‘Almost there, boys!’

  There was a great amount of cheering at this, and the carriage started again. For Maya it was strange, being amidst new people, people too jovial and pretentious for her tastes. She feigned a weak interest when a young man offered to perform some magic tricks for her. She fell asleep around evening as the caravan continued its passage. It was a dreamless sleep, and she woke to pangs of hunger. She had not eaten for hours. She dug out a can of beans from her bag, wolfing it down, suddenly aware that she was alone. Picking up her bag, she peeped out of a window and got her first look at Frozen Bombay.

  An alley, dark bricks, fragments of old posters, feeble light. She opened the carriage door and stepped out. The caravan was parked behind a large building in an alley. It was filthy, the alley, large clumps of garbage dumped in bins too small, and the smell—the strong, pungent reek of urine, of excreta. Maya wrinkled her nose and hurried off, realising that the cleanest thing was the snow that formed a rather thick carpet on the ground. It was still falling and her hair was collecting; brushing off some flakes with her gauntleted hand, she pulled up the cloak’s hood. The alley led to a larger road, and Maya noticed the people first—crowds of people, reminding her of New Kolkata, some loitering, some waiting at a bus-stop, some on the move, not stopping, people of all shapes and sizes, people with umbrellas and hoods and long winter coats.

  She looked around and saw wide roads on both sides, with smaller alleys connecting them. The road was the pavement itself, and people walked without fear of the cars—yes there were cars, motor vehicles—and the buses. Autorickshaws. The buildings, the structures, they had small windows and large hoardings—things advertised with arrays of lights, the roads much dimmer with occasional street lamps, gaslights. Maya felt colder all of a sudden, a stranger—she drew a little more heat with her magic.

  There was no sea. She walked on, pausing at the theatre, a seedy place with flickering lights. The crowd was bustling. The caravan people were probably performing. Maya had no interest. She read the address on a booze shop signboard—Thane.

  Thane, she repeated to herself. Where was the sea? The sea would be to the west, of course, but there was also a gulf to the south. Just asking for the sea wouldn’t be enough. She needed some other landmark.

  She stopped walking. Why was she looking for the sea? She did not know—it had been the most immediate thing to try and find in this city. Like a child. Why was she here in Frozen Bombay?

  Maya took another second. This was really no place to think about this, this here where people kept bumping into her, people who looked tired and overworked, rich and starving. She needed a place to think. To take a clean bath, change her clothes, rest a little. There would, of course, be hotels here. She needed a cheap one, but nothing too cheap. Something a little safe. Might as well get something by the sea.

  A child selling trinkets. ‘How do I get to the coast?’ she asked.

  ‘Go fuck yourself, sister,’ the kid said, letching.

  Maya was taken aback, but not terribly so. A new city, and she did not know the rules. She did not want to ask people questions, but night was on its way, and she must act soon. She saw the man in the uniform then, a shiny black uniform and cap, some kind of a badge on his chest. He was standing at an intersection, doing nothing in particular.

  A lawkeeper. She hurried over to him and he answered her with enthusiasm. She must take the local train headed for Victoria Terminal, but get down at Dadar on the way. There, she must change trains, go towards Andheri, but again get down sooner, at Bandra. Bandra would be a good place to view the sea from. Were there hotels there? Not hotels, but good inns. And how would she reach the train station? That way, she would have to keep walking for about ten minutes.

  Maya thanked him and walked off in the mentioned direction. Too many names, but the basic instructions were clear. In case she needed more help, she could always ask how to get to Bandra. Too much to notice, all around her. Constructions, expensive cars, homeless vagrants shivering in the snow—

  She stopped looking and made the train station her singular target. She couldn’t miss it, not with the swarms of people headed there. The pathways to the station were thin, and Maya was almost carried along in the sea of relentless people as they rushed to the station. The station itself was rather large but dirty like everything else around. There were rows of ticket counters and long lines. Maya stood in line, and when her turn came she paid for her ticket with one silver coin. She got a lot of change for it, several large and small coins she had never seen before.

  Maya had also never seen trains that ran above ground. Compared to the metro of New Kolkata, this seemed rather pleasant. The train came soon. There was a separate women’s compartment, Maya observed. She found it similar to the last metro to Old Kolkata—weary, rather decrepit, and in bad shape. The seats were wooden and uncomfortable. Women were fighting for these seats, and Maya quickly took the nearest one.

  The train screamed to life, and Maya felt a faint rush of wind hit her, travelling through this mass of women. With nothing to watch but the women—the window was far away and it was dark outside—and no clue when Dadar would come, Maya kept her hood on, observing them in the dim gaslight that flared and dimmed. Seeing so many people was strange, it made her go back to New Kolkata again. It was difficult to believe that things like Demons and Horsemen existed. There were only people here, people heading home after a hard day’s work.

  Stations went by. Maya’s gaze went from person to person, woman to woman—fat ones dressed in old saris, glaring at her, young ones in t-shirts and jeans, listening to music on their electronic players, older ones sniffing their way disapprovingly through books, wearied ones in rags, carrying cloth bound baskets. Others wore travelling cloaks like her, keeping their faces hidden. Maya fit right in.

  There was continuous talk, loud conversations shouted over the noise of the engine, a dialect slightly different from her language, but Maya could understand. Conversations about the prices of fish, about a film and a handsome new actor, about an obnoxious landlord, about someone cheating on their girlfriend, about the sea trade currently being closed—

  Maya struggled to hear more. A woman, short and spectacled, dressed in what Maya guessed were office formals, was talking to her colleague. ‘. . . will lose everything if this shit carries on . . . Prakhar doesn’t understand, he thinks it will . . . the Sea Lord says it’s so, judging by the standards of . . . dangerous business, but bribing is all about . . .’ The rest of the conversation was drowned in laughter from somewhere in the coach.

  ‘When does Dadar arrive?’ Maya tentatively asked her neighbour.

  ‘Soon,’ the woman answered vaguely.

  Maya tried to listen in on the conversation about the Sea Lord again, but it had changed course and was now about someone called Prakhar. She did not know how much time had passed when she finally realised that the train was slowing down and Dadar had come. Maya got off, reeling at the touch of human. She managed to change trains, finding one heading for Andheri—it was incredibly, inhumanly crowded, and Maya bravely pushed her way into the women’s compartment again. A long and tiring train ride later, she got off at the Bandra station.

  She asked a newspaper vendor which way the coast was, and got a non-lewd answer. It was a long walk, the man warned her, there were autorickshaws that would take you, but Maya didn’t mind walkin
g. There was a smell in the air, a smell of freshness, not something she had smelt in the industrial section.

  When Maya finally reached the coast, the first thing she felt was the wind, the strong, salty, overbearing wind. She could see where the land ended and the sea began. It roared, the sea, and waves crashed. It was too dark, however, to see anything other than the bullets of snow that swept in the wind, visible under lamplight, white against the black. She was too tired to peer at what must be the sea, too tired to even look at the people around her—there were still crowds around, thinning in the night—she breathed in the fresh salt in the air instead, a new smell to her entirely, heard the roar of the sea, a new sound. Then Maya turned her attention to the rows of taverns and inns occupying the coast, a straight line.

  She walked a little until she found an inn that appeared to be in better shape than the rest. The Ancient Mariner. She walked in. It was a quiet place, she realised immediately, the shouting and loud singing only coming from the establishments next door. No bar, just an inn. Some old sofas decorated the small lobby, beyond which was a counter. Maya walked up to it, dropping snow all over the floor. A short, dark complexioned man sat on a stool behind, reading a fat book. There was a painting of a ship mounted behind him, next to a board which said “FIXED PRICE”.

  ‘Hello,’ Maya wheezed.

  The man looked up from his book. He was in his fifties, hair carefully slicked back, eyes sharp. He wore a clean white shirt and trousers. ‘Fixed price. No haggling,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘I’m not haggling, goddammit,’ Maya muttered. ‘I want a room.’

  The man nodded and carefully placed a bookmark on the page he was reading. Abandoning the book, he drew out an enormous register from under the desk. Opening it, he drew a pen from his shirt pocket.