Djinn (The adventures of Hanover and Singh Book 4)

by Chris Paton

  “Ten gold coins?”

  “Not coins – British sovereigns. You can buy what you need for the winter, and even rebuild some of your village,” Hari said and started to walk towards the path. “I will leave the payment in the village. Tell no one of the emissary. I will send someone for it.”

  The familiar mix of excitement and adventure drove Hari along the path and into the village. He found Jamie and Najma sitting close to the fire sharing a large mug of tea. Najma looked up at the sound of Hari's sandals crunching the grit beneath his feet. Jamie stared beyond the rim of the mug. Hari stopped and waited for him to blink and look up.

  “Was it an emissary?” Najma said. “Like the one in Adina Pur?”

  “Yes,” said Hari. “A most interesting emissary. I believe it escaped from its master.”

  “Escaped?” said Jamie and looked up.

  Hari smiled and held out his arm to pull Jamie to his feet. “Yes. Escaped. As we should this very night. If we are going to travel by djinn it is best to do it under the cover of darkness.”

  “But the moon,” said Najma as she stood and took the mug from Jamie.

  “Cannot be helped,” said Hari. “We must leave now. Are you rested, British? Are you full?”

  “I have eaten,” he said and looked at Najma. “It was difficult to refuse.”

  “You need your strength,” Najma said and placed her hand on Jamie's arm. She pulled it away quickly as their eyes met. “And,” she added. “I do not want to walk all the way to Russia.”

  “Then we must fly,” said Hari. He took a step forwards and lifted Jamie's arm. “You must hold us, one under each arm. You must not drop us, British. No matter what.”

  “I am not stupid, Hari.”

  “No, you are not. But the djinn,” Hari said and placed his hand flat on Jamie's chest. “They can be careless.”

  Jamie sighed and turned to look at the pit. He was silent for a moment as he strained to hear the sounds of the djinn within. “I have learned my lesson,” he said and looked down at his feet. His toes curled into smoke and the dust around his heels was tinged with blue as his feet and legs merged into a vortex of djinnsmoke. “Prepare yourselves.”

  Najma picked up her rifle and slung it over her shoulder. She tightened the sling, pressed her shirt into her pantaloons and buttoned her tunic. Hari placed a small leather bag of money by the cooking fire and snugged his satchel tight. He nodded at Jamie as the young Englishman wavered above the ground upon a twisted coil of blue smoke tinged with electric sparks and snaps of ancient desert magic.

  “Are you ready?” he said.

  With a quick glance at Hari, Najma nodded and took a step closer to Jamie. She tensed and held her arms straight against her sides. Jamie wrapped a thick arm around her waist. Najma gripped the knotted muscles of his forearm and held her breath.

  “Hari?” Jamie said and held out his left arm. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Hari said and pressed his hands together. He locked his elbows to his chest and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. “Although, I am suddenly reminded of something,” he said as visions on the tilting deck of The Flying Scotsman flashed through his mind.

  “And what is that, little man?” Jamie said with the deep, booming inflection of the djinn.

  “I have recently discovered an uncomfortable appreciation of heights.”

  “What does that mean?” said Najma as she exhaled.

  “I am afraid of them.”

  She laughed. “The Nightjar is afraid of heights?”

  “Truly,” said Hari and stepped into Jamie's embrace. “Three times now I have flown in an airship, and twice I have fallen out of one. Perhaps,” he said, “it is not a fear of flying that I have, but a fear of airships...” Hari held his breath as Jamie pulled him tight into his chest and launched into the dark desert night. “Alas,” said Hari through gritted teeth. “It is not just airships.”

  Najma's shriek of glee was smothered by the djinni's laughter like a battery of cannons erupting above the village. The wind whipped Najma's long, black hair behind her head as she stared, teary-eyed towards the mountains as the djinni raced across the plain and up towards the snow-capped peaks of the Hindu Kush, northwards and out of the desert.

  Chapter 16

  The Great Southern Plain

  Arkhangelsk Oblast

  July, 1851

  Kapitan Lev Bryullov, twisted into the air as the bullet slammed into his left arm. Lena bit into the powder cloud as she stalked towards the Russian and pressed her leather boot into his chest. Bryullov grunted and stared at the Cossack as she bent down, her battle-tangled hair tickling her jawline as she sneered at the man beneath her boot.

  “We've met before,” said Bryullov as he returned the Cossack's sneer. “Of course, I am only guessing. It is difficult to know for sure. The last time I saw you, you were running away.”

  “Why, you...”

  “Lena,” Stepan said as he dismounted and sprinted the short distance to where Bryullov squirmed beneath Lena's boot. “We need him.” Stepan caught Lena's hand as she twisted the pistol in her grip and made to strike Bryullov with the hardwood butt of the handle.

  “Ah, Kapitan Skuratov,” Bryullov said and coughed as Lena stabbed the heel of her boot into his ribs. “I see you have gone feral and joined the scourge of Russia. You truly are a patriot. Anna would be proud.”

  “Anna? You dare to mention my wife's name?” Stepan kneeled beside Bryullov and squeezed his hand around the Russian's throat. “It is patriots like you that have forced my wife and the people of Arkhangelsk into slavery at the hands of our enemies.”

  “Kapitan?” said Lena as Bryullov choked for breath.

  “You invited them into our country, to force our people into our mines...”

  “Kapitan,” Lena said. She tucked her pistol into her bandolier and took hold of Stepan's jacket, lifted him up and pulled him off Bryullov.

  “What?” Stepan said as he stumbled in the dirt. He trembled as Lena brushed the dirt from his jacket. Stepan leered at Bryullov and took a step forwards.

  “Hah,” Lena said and laughed. “Such restraint. Maybe I should become an officer, eh?”

  “You are both contemptible,” Bryullov said as he sat up. “An insult to the Russian Empire. I would shoot you both and feed you to the wolves.”

  Lena laughed again as she watched Bryullov inspect the wound in his arm. He poked at the hole in his uniform and grimaced as he explored the ragged flesh beneath the torn and bloody cloth. The beat of hooves pounded through the ground and they all three looked up to see Ivan arrive with three Cossacks. They slowed to a halt and moved their horses into a protective perimeter as Ivan slipped out of the saddle and strode through the dirt to greet his daughter.

  “She is alive,” he said to Stepan as he smoothed a rough hand on Lena's cheek. “Has she behaved?”

  “As much as I have,” said Stepan with a nod towards Bryullov. “Although, the devil himself has tempted us both.”

  “Da,” Ivan said. He kissed Lena on the forehead and turned towards Bryullov. “Kapitan Bryullov.”

  “Ivan Timofeyevich,” Bryullov said with a sigh. “It has been a long time.”

  “This is true.” Ivan turned and pointed a stubby finger at Stepan’s horse. “You have not lost your touch.”

  “And yet I seem to have lost my horse,” Bryullov said and glared at Stepan. “For the moment.”

  “We need to get him back to camp,” said Stepan. “He will be useful if Moscow sends more troops.”

  “Sure,” Ivan said and waved one of his men over. “Mishka will see to it.”

  Mishka grinned as he circled Bryullov, clapping his hands in the Russian's face. Bryullov, for his part, kept his eyes locked on Stepan. His jaw stiffened as Mishka bound his wrists with a length of leather cord and pulled him to his feet. Mishka turned Bryullov towards his horse.

  “Just a minute,” Stepan said. He walked towards Bryullov and stopped in front of him.
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  “Kapitan?” said Bryullov. “Have you had a change of heart? Do you wish to surrender?”

  “Tell me something. How does a man like you, a hero of the Russian army, renowned for his daring and adventurous exploits in the service of the Empire – how does such a man let a foreign power enter his country and take over one of the great cities of the north? How does he do that and sleep at night?”

  The muscles in Bryullov's jaw flickered with a short spasm of energy as he gritted his teeth and took a measured breath. Short flecks of anger blistered in his eyes.

  “I sleep...”

  “Yes?” Stepan said and pressed his face closer to Bryullov's. “How do you sleep? Traitor?”

  Stepan caught Bryullov's knee on his thigh as he twisted in anticipation of the Russian's attack. Mishka drew his pistol and whipped Bryullov in the lower back until the Russian sank to his knees. Bryullov twisted his neck to glare up at Stepan. He coughed and spat on the ground.

  “We all make sacrifices for our country, Kapitan Skuratov. What will yours be, I wonder, when this is all over?”

  “I have sacrificed enough already.”

  “Yes,” Bryullov said and laughed. “I can see that from the company you keep.” He grunted and collapsed to the floor as Mishka hit him again.

  “Enough,” said Ivan. “Mishka, take him back to camp. And you,” he said to Stepan. “You will come with me to Arkhangelsk. The Cossacks are gathering just south of the gates. It is time to begin the siege. Come, we will make plans as we ride.”

  Stepan watched as Mishka tied a length of rope to the cord around Bryullov's wrists and attached the other end to the pommel of his saddle. He mounted his horse and urged it forwards with a quick kick of his heels. Bryullov stumbled into a jog as the rope tightened.

  “Just one man?” said Stepan.

  “Mishka is one of my best. Come,” said Ivan. “Get on your horse and ride with me.”

  “Come,” said Lena. “Let us ride with my father. Don't worry about the Russian.” Lena placed her hand on Stepan's shoulder and guided him to his horse. He took the reins from her hand, climbed into the saddle and let Bystro have his head as the young horse followed Lena's mare.

  What would make a patriot like Bryullov turn against his own people? Stepan mused. Everything that man has ever done has been in the best interests of the Russian Empire. There is something more at work here. Stepan felt the cool wind on his face and let his thoughts wander as he moved his body to match Bystro's pace and rhythm. Ivan and Lena rode side by side with the two Cossacks riding on the flanks, their muskets loaded and held in the casual ready position – one hand on the stock below the barrel, the butts tucked tight upon their hips.

  As Stepan drew close to Ivan, the Cossack leader reminisced about the skirmishes they had fought as enemies, pointing out good campsites Stepan would enjoy and ambush sites he should remember. Stepan listened and nodded, the locations and features of the plain blurring as he wrestled with the idea that Bryullov was acting against his will, that something or someone was forcing him to carry out orders he did not agree with.

  “Kapitan?” said Lena. “Stop thinking about the Russian.”

  “Da,” said Ivan. “Mishka will take care of him. There is nothing to worry about.”

  Stepan slowed Bystro with a gentle tug of the reins.

  “Kapitan?” Lena said as she slowed and turned her mare. Ivan and the Cossacks cantered to a halt and waited.

  “I am going back. There is something Bryullov is not telling us. It is important, I am sure.”

  “It can wait,” Lena said and waved her arm in the direction of Arkhangelsk. “What about your son?”

  “Nikolas,” Stepan said and drew his lips into a tight smile. “I know.”

  “We are going to free the city. We will save your son.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “So?”

  Bystro tamped the dirt beneath its right hoof as Stepan fidgeted in the saddle. “But what if there is more to this, and we save the city only to...”

  “What?”

  “That's just it, Lena. I don't know,” Stepan said and turned in the saddle to look in the direction Mishka had pulled Bryullov behind his horse. “But he does, and I must know.”

  “You would have your son wait even longer just because the Russian knows something?”

  “If it means I can protect my family from something bad later on...”

  “Your son is trapped inside a city occupied by soldiers with metal monsters. What can be worse than that?”

  “That is what worries me, Lena.”

  Lena turned her head at the sound of her father's horse snorting. She walked her mare to Stepan. Bystro moved its head close to the mare's and nibbled its neck.

  “Father grows impatient. We must ride.”

  “You go. I will ride back and interrogate Bryullov. I will come to Arkhangelsk as soon as I am satisfied.”

  “Interrogation?”

  “What is taking so long?” Ivan called from his horse.

  “Wait, father,” Lena said and waved her hand at Ivan's curses. She leaned over her mare's head and gave Stepan a sly look. “This interrogation. It will be rough, no?”

  “That depends on Bryullov,” Stepan said. He rested his hands on the pommel. “Which is exactly why you should ride on to Arkhangelsk with your father.”

  “Nyet,” said Lena and grinned. “Now I want to know what secrets Bryullov is hiding. I will tell my father we will join him at the gates of the city.” Lena turned the mare away from Bystro and started towards her father.

  “You are a wicked woman, Lena Timofeyevich.”

  “Really?” she stopped and twisted in the saddle. “Does that make me a bad person? What about Vlad?”

  “What about him?”

  “Will he not want me?”

  “Lena,” Stepan said with a sigh. “What man could resist you?” He laughed and pointed to her father. “Now, tell Ivan what we are doing and we can get going.” Stepan lowered his head and whispered in Bystro's ear. “I hope Nikolas will forgive me. Now,” he said and turned the horse’s head to face the direction they had come. “Let's ride.”

  The beat of hooves drummed through Stepan's body as encouraged Bystro into a gallop across the Great Southern Plain of Arkhangelsk Oblast. Stepan forced himself to concentrate on the landmarks Ivan had pointed out. He remembered the ambushes, his men wounded and retreating beneath a steady hail of Cossack bullets. He remembered too the ease at which the Cossacks had flanked his men, and the nights he and Vladimir had discussed tactics around the campfire. They had learned from the Cossacks, and a greater study of Ivan Timofeyevich's tactics had given them the advantage. When Vlad had turned the Arkhangelsk division of the Imperial Russian Marines into a guerrilla force worthy of their opponents, and in greater numbers. And now, thought Stepan as the wind tugged at his cheeks and ruffled his hair, now we are allies.

  “Hey,” shouted Lena as she galloped in from behind Stepan to ride alongside him. “You ride like the devil himself,” she said as the wind whipped strands of hair into her mouth.

  “No,” said Stepan, “I ride like a Cossack.” He leaned forwards and stood up in the saddle only to sit down and tug on the reins, pulling Bystro to an abrupt stop. Lena stopped a few horse-lengths later and waited for Stepan as he slid off his horse and let it wander free. Stepan pulled the long rifle from the saddle holster and crouched in the dirt.

  “What is it?”

  “You can't see it?”

  “No,” said Lena. “Wait... Is that...”

  “Mishka,” said Stepan. “Yes.” Stepan cradled the rifle in his left arm and walked ahead of Lena. He stopped at the feet of Mishka's dusty body where it lay sprawled in the dirt. The leather cord and the length of rope Mishka had used to bind Bryullov were snaked in the dirt by the side of the Cossack, but his horse and his captive were gone.

  Chapter 17

  The Tanfana

  Imperial Russia

  July, 1851<
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  The Tanfana crept along the tracks, sweeping wood debris aside with the great iron plough welded to the front of the engine. Pillows of smoke chuffed out of the central stack as the engineer peered into the gloom ahead with one hand on the brake lever and the other on the whistle. The remains of The Flying Scotsman littered the tracks, with larger spars and rigging entangled with leather suitcases and trunks, the clothes tossed here and there, ragged and dirty like the bodies of the passengers lying lifeless in clumps and alone, separated, with no respect for family or association. The engineer slowed The Tanfana to a stop and Wallendorf's men directed the emissaries in two sweeping lines, one on each side of the tracks. The officer in charge of the sweep drew his sword from the scabbard at his side and the air was filled with the ring of metal as the emissaries did the same. From her place in the passenger car, Luise felt a thrill of adrenalin at the sound and the rumble through the train car as the emissaries clanked forwards. Emilia fretted by her side, pacing back and forth with a control box in her hands.

  “Quiet, Emilia,” said Luise.

  “Sorry, Miss Hanover, but they have got me all tangled up, they have.”

  “Who has?”

  “The engineers. They refuse to fire up Kettlepot. They keep going on about how he is dangerous, and how if it wasn't for you they would...”

  “What?”

  “Throw him off the train,” Emilia said and slumped into a seat. She set the control box on the tabletop and huffed as she leaned back and closed her eyes. She opened them again a second later.

  Luise thought for a moment as she watched Emilia fidget on the seat, the girl started to swing her legs, kicking the heels of her boots against the bench and the toes against the underside of the table.

  “Would you like to go outside?”

  “Fräulein von Ense said I was forbidden.”

  “To go outside? Nonsense,” Luise said and looked around the car for a coat. “Come on. We'll put these on and blend in with the troops. No one will notice.”