The Place of Dead Kings

by Geoffrey Wilson

  Jhala stopped and turned. ‘Walk over here, Casey.’

  Jack didn’t want to do it but knew he had to obey. It was a silly thing anyway. He’d been through the Slav War, fought at Ragusa. What did it matter about walking into that spot?

  He took two paces forward and felt the familiar tingle on his skin. Sweet perfume touched his nose. He shivered slightly.

  Jhala folded his arms across his chest. ‘You noticed something, didn’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘When you stepped forward you shook slightly. I could tell.’

  ‘Just a chill, I’m sure, sir.’

  Jhala walked closer. ‘I don’t think so. You smelt something sweet, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Smelt that before?’

  It was strange to be discussing this with Jhala. Jack hadn’t spoken to anyone about it since he was a child explaining to his playmates that he could tell when places were ‘haunted’. That was the only way he’d been able to describe the sensation. Some places felt inhabited by ghosts and made your skin crawl, while others didn’t.

  But he’d never met anyone else who sensed these haunted spots. He’d begun to think it must be in his imagination, or perhaps some trick of the Devil.

  And yet Jhala seemed to understand.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jack said. ‘I have smelt it before.’

  Jhala smiled slowly. ‘Do you know what a native siddha is?’

  ‘Some kind of sorcerer, I heard.’

  Jhala snorted. ‘Sorcerer? If you like. But a native siddha is much more than that. You may have a power within you, Casey. A power that not even the Rajthanan siddhas can learn.’

  Jack frowned. This was the strangest conversation he’d ever had with Jhala. He was just an ordinary soldier. Did Jhala really think he had a special power?

  ‘Meet me at the training tent tomorrow at nine o’clock,’ Jhala said. ‘You’re something special, Casey. I can sense it.’

  Jhala walked back to his bungalow with his hands behind his back, leaving Jack standing on the parade ground with his mouth hanging open.

  Was Jhala mad?

  Jack had heard rumours that Jhala was a sorcerer, but he’d never believed them. Now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps there was more to Jhala than he’d realised.

  Jack had the creeping sense that somehow he’d taken a first step into a world that was far larger and stranger than he’d previously imagined.

  Jack opened his eyes. He’d been dreaming about Jhala – he could tell, even though he couldn’t recall what the dream had been about. He’d passed out and then must have drifted off to sleep.

  He was staring up at the underside of the wooden stage. He was still in the castle bailey. And he still hadn’t been discovered.

  The pain in his chest had receded to a dull ache and his breathing was clear and deep.

  How long had he been lying there? He rolled over, crawled to the edge of the platform and squinted out. It was dark, although a few lights cast faint radiance across the ground. Occasionally, a flake of glowing ash drifted to the earth and melted instantly. He couldn’t see any feet, couldn’t hear anyone nearby. The only sound was the occasional puff of steam and the distant, perpetual thudding of machinery.

  The worshippers seemed to have all left. The Cattan guards would presumably have returned to their usual duties. No one would suspect he was hiding under the stage.

  But what to do now?

  The only way he could get further into the castle was through the side doors. But would these still be guarded? If they were, the Cattans would immediately see he was an impostor. On the other hand, there was little reason to guard the doors once the worshippers had left. If he were lucky, the entrance would be unattended and unlocked.

  He rubbed his face. Was he thinking straight? What other choice did he have?

  He would have to do it. He was going to get out from his hiding place and walk calmly across the bailey. At a glance, he would look like a Cattan – he was dressed appropriately in his cloak and tunic. Of course, he wasn’t wearing the sign of the white skull, but it would take someone a few seconds to realise that.

  He might just be able to make it.

  He took a deep breath and rolled out from under the platform. He stood immediately and blackness reeled about him. He’d forgotten how ill he was. He slammed his eyes shut, managed to steady himself and then looked around. Shadows webbed the bailey and the only light came from a handful of windows in the towers deeper in the castle.

  The doors were about thirty yards away.

  And they were unguarded.

  Without hesitation, he strode across to them.

  He half expected to hear someone shout or even shoot at him. But nothing happened. He risked glancing up and saw only a couple of Cattans standing on the wall, both of them facing away from him. He looked across the bailey and noticed a few guards walking about, but none of them paid him the slightest attention.

  In the dark he obviously passed for a Cattan.

  He reached the doors. His hand shook slightly as he turned one of the ringed handles. Of course, the door would be locked or bolted, and then he would be trapped in the bailey. He would be captured and killed in no time.

  Except the door yielded and opened into a passage. He slipped inside, heart pumping feverishly, and swung the door shut behind him. The hall had plain stone walls and smelt of coal. The only light filtered in from an archway at the far end.

  He paused for a second. He’d made it this far. Next he had to find Saleem.

  He slipped down the passage towards the exit, but then heard voices. Two men were approaching and would turn into the archway within seconds.

  His heart smacked harder.

  There was a door to his left, just a few feet away. He strode faster, reached it and shoved his shoulder against it. It swung open, but as he went through someone called out in Gaalic. He couldn’t understand the words, but he didn’t like the sound of the harsh tone.

  Had he been spotted?

  He found himself in a windowless hall lit by guttering torches set in sconces. Pipes writhed over the walls and ceiling, shifting slightly when he tried to focus on them. Warm air and coal smoke struck him and every part of his exposed skin smarted at the strong sattva. He’d never been in such a powerful stream, had never even believed one like this could exist.

  He hurried down the corridor and came to a chamber half filled by a pile of coal. Someone called to him and when he looked back, he saw two Cattans running up the hall, swords swinging at their sides.

  Damn. They’d seen him and were clearly suspicious.

  He dashed down a further corridor, charged through an arch and was immediately blasted by heat. A row of giant boilers swelled from the far wall of a wide chamber. Men in tunics shovelled coal constantly through hatches to feed the throbbing fires within. A few men glanced at Jack, but most continued labouring, their skin gleaming with sweat and streaked with soot.

  He dodged his way through the men, smoke whirling around him and the heat of the furnaces beating on one side of his face.

  He heard further shouts behind him. Looking back, he saw the two Cattans were still following.

  Damn.

  He ran more quickly and bumped into one of the workers, who growled at him. He stumbled on and reached an arched exit. He ran through this and up a flight of corkscrew stairs. His heavy breathing rattled in the stairwell. He heard the scuffle of feet echoing up after him and occasionally his pursuers called out.

  He kept going up three flights and reached a thin, gloomy hall that bent away to the right. He left the stairwell, charged down the passage and hid around the corner. He stood with his back pressed against the stone, his chest heaving and trickles of sweat running down his cheeks. The smell of sattva was still strong here, but there were no pipes running along the walls, no sign of any machinery. Tallow candles flickered in brackets along the hallway.

  He listened carefully and heard the g
uards reach the landing, then stop and speak to each other. But there were more than two men now – he picked out at least four voices. Worse, while two now charged on up the steps, two made their way down the hall towards him. He heard the wooden floorboards creak beneath their feet.

  How many guards were searching for him now?

  He ran down the corridor, stepping as quietly as he could. He tried a door, found it locked, tried another, then gave up and sprinted up the passageway. At the end, he found another stairway spiralling up.

  He heard shouts behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw two Cattans bounding up the hall towards him.

  He launched himself up the steps, his hide shoes scraping on the stone. The Cattans were right behind him – he could hear them panting and calling to him as they clambered up.

  He went up three more flights and then suddenly came out into the open. He was on top of a tower, battlements all around him and the night sky arcing above. A colossal chimney reared up to his left, puffing out whorls of thick smoke and glinting ash. Clots of steam whistled from valves and veiled the buildings and towers nearby.

  There was no one up here, but no obvious way out.

  And he could still hear the footsteps of the Cattans behind him.

  He ran to the parapet and looked down. He was six storeys up and the ground far below was no more than a knot of shadows. The walls of the tower were sheer and impossible to climb.

  He was trapped.

  He ran across to the other side of the roof and this time spotted a balcony jutting out of the wall two floors below. He could try jumping down to that – if he were crazy. If he missed, he would fall to his death in a crevice between the buildings.

  Steam hissed from further down the wall and obscured his view of the balcony for a second.

  He would have to jump. It was his only chance now.

  Without pausing, he turned round, slipped over the wall and hung there, still holding on to the edge. He looked down and his head reeled. He felt sick.

  He heard shouting from nearby – the Cattans must have reached the top of the stairs and were no doubt startled to find he’d vanished.

  He had to let go. So long as he dropped straight down, staying close to the wall without touching it, he would be all right.

  He said a Hail Mary.

  And then he released his grip.

  He fell so quickly he didn’t even have time to think about what was happening. One second he was holding on to the battlements, the next he was rolling across the stone balcony. Pain welled in one arm – he’d hit it on something as he fell. But otherwise he was unhurt.

  He glanced up and saw no one looking over the ramparts. Not yet.

  A set of double doors stood open before him. Curtains of some diaphanous material floated in the slight breeze, but he couldn’t make out anything of the room beyond.

  But he couldn’t waste any time.

  He charged through the curtains, got tangled up in one, thrashed about for a moment and broke free. He had no time to take in his surroundings, however, as he heard someone cry out nearby. He spun round and saw a woman cowering in the corner of the chamber.

  An Indian woman.

  24

  Jack frowned. What was an Indian woman doing out here in the wilds of Scotland?

  She wore a red shawl and a green sari that was gathered between her legs to form a pair of loose pantaloons. Earrings glinted in both her ears and a thin golden torc circled her neck. Bangles encrusted her wrists and tinkled as she moved. It was hard to tell her age, but Jack thought she was perhaps in her thirties.

  She shook slightly as she huddled near the floor. Her eyes, edged by dark eyeliner, were wide and glassy.

  Jack held up his hand and said in Rajthani, ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  She opened her mouth.

  Was she going to scream?

  ‘No.’ Jack pressed his finger to his lips. ‘Please. I won’t harm you. I promise.’

  She stared at him and chewed her bottom lip. She shot a look at the doors to the balcony, as if she were going to run there. But instead she looked back at Jack. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just leaving.’ He glanced around for an exit. A series of cane lattice screens blocked his view of the far side of the room. He couldn’t see a door anywhere, couldn’t even tell how large the chamber was.

  He heard a scrape and then footsteps coming from somewhere behind the screens.

  ‘Here.’ The woman opened the door of an ornate wardrobe.

  He was stunned for a moment. What? Was she trying to help him? Why?

  ‘They’ll see you,’ the woman said. ‘Quick.’

  He had to trust her. He couldn’t see a way out of the room and there was no point running back to the balcony – once there, he would be cornered.

  He slipped into the wardrobe and pressed himself between a row of perfumed saris, shawls and jackets. The woman shut the door and he peered out through a decorative lattice panel. His arm still throbbed where he’d struck it, but it didn’t seem badly injured.

  A Scottish woman scurried into the room, pressed her hands together, bowed and said, ‘Namaste.’ She wore the typical ankle-length tunic of the savages, but it was finely sewn and spotlessly clean. Her hair was surprisingly clean too and tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘What is it?’ the Rajthanan woman asked.

  ‘They think there’s an intruder in the castle, madam.’ The Scot spoke Rajthani well but with a thick accent.

  ‘Really?’ The woman stared out at the balcony. As she did this, Jack noticed an iron chain secured to her ankle. His eyes followed the chain and found the point where it was bolted to the wall.

  The woman was a captive.

  ‘We’d best shut these, madam.’ The Scot closed the balcony doors and pulled across the latch.

  ‘I don’t think anyone will get in through there.’

  ‘Yes, madam. But the guard told me to. Just in case.’

  ‘Who is this intruder?’

  ‘Don’t know. The guard said some strange man was seen near here.’

  ‘A strange man?’ The woman gave a wry smile. ‘I’ll look out for him.’

  ‘Yes, madam. They’ve put a few guards outside your door for the time being.’ The Scot bowed and shuffled away through the gaps between the screens. A few seconds later a door scraped open and then closed.

  The Rajthanan woman waited for a moment, then walked around the screens, the chain attached to her ankle clinking. Jack could just make out her flickering silhouette through the dense mesh of cane. Seemingly satisfied there was now no one in the room, she came back to the wardrobe and opened the door.

  Jack stepped out. ‘Thank you.’

  He couldn’t quite believe his luck in coming across this woman. He would probably have been captured by now if it weren’t for her.

  He looked around and took in several luxurious Rajthanan-style cushion-seats, a dressing table, wicker stools, a rug covered in intricate designs and a bed shrouded by silk drapes. A fire crackled in a small hearth and several oil lanterns were dotted about the chamber. He smelt jasmine, cinnamon and lotus, although this wasn’t enough to disguise the background scent of coal and sattva.

  It was odd to be standing in the private room of a Rajthanan woman. Normally, an Englishman would be executed for that. He felt strangely awkward, as if he’d walked in while the woman was half dressed.

  He pulled his hair back, retied his ponytail and straightened his tunic. ‘I’ll be on my way, then.’

  The woman smiled quizzically. ‘Don’t think you’ll get far. There’re guards outside my door.’

  ‘Then I’ll go back out that way.’ He motioned to the balcony.

  ‘You going to climb? It’s a long way to fall.’

  ‘I’ll have to take my chances.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea. Hide here for a few hours. The guards won’t stay outside the door long. Most of them get drunk in the evening. Usually there are hardly any of
them around at night.’

  Jack rubbed his chin. The woman was making sense. He couldn’t fight armed guards when he didn’t have a weapon. And if the Cattans were mostly drunk, that would make it easier for him to move around the castle.

  But still, why was this woman helping him? Could he trust her? ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You’ve just burst into my room and you’re asking me who I am?’

  He coughed and straightened his shoulders. ‘Sorry, madam. I don’t have time for niceties.’

  Her eyes twinkled. ‘My name’s Sonali. Who are you?’

  Was there any point lying to her? ‘Jack.’

  ‘Jack.’ She sounded the word out slowly, as if sampling a rare fruit. ‘And what are you doing here, Jack?’

  As he thought how to respond to this question, the door creaked open again. He heard voices somewhere behind the screens.

  Sonali’s face dropped and her eyes went dark. ‘Back in there.’ She pushed him towards the wardrobe.

  He slipped inside and she shut the door.

  ‘There you are,’ a man said from the other side of the room.

  Sonali jumped and turned.

  Jack saw a dark figure coalesce behind the lattice screens. He tensed. Who’d just come into the room? Had he seen Jack?

  Sonali turned her back on the new arrival, walked across the room and stood before the mirror on top of her dressing table. She brushed her long black hair.

  The man emerged from behind the screens.

  Jack’s heart jolted.

  It was Mahajan.

  The siddha was still dressed in a Scottish cloak and tunic, but had set aside his staff. ‘The guards think there was an intruder.’

  Sonali glanced at Mahajan in her mirror, then looked away and continued brushing her hair.

  ‘Did you see anyone?’ Mahajan asked. ‘He was in this tower.’

  Sonali looked at Mahajan in the mirror again and raised her chin haughtily. ‘I saw no one. Leave me now.’

  Mahajan scowled. A blast of sattva flew out from him, so powerful Jack had to fight to stop himself from choking. Mahajan strode across to Sonali, grasped her hair and yanked her head back. She cried out and stumbled to her knees. Mahajan dragged her into the centre of the room. She shrieked, struggled to free herself and managed to get back on her feet.