“I can control myself, Captain, I simply dislike waiting for things.”
“Then let us sit down to table, and discuss our progress.”
He did not offer her his arm, but she felt as cheerful as if he had.
Sir Rodney took his midday meal at his desk, as did his aides, but the servants seemed not at all put out at having to lay a meal in the dining room. Over cold meats and a selection of cheeses, Phillips said, “We were mostly unsuccessful. We met many who knew of men who might meet our needs, but every one of them was deceased years ago.”
“I was told I should speak with Kahanikar Vaachaspati, but no one would tell me how to find the man,” Ainsworth said. He had stacked bread and meat atop each other and now took a large bite that made him incapable of speaking further.
“Kahānīkār is a title. It means ‘storyteller,’” Fletcher said. “And no doubt the reason no one would tell you how to find Vaachaspati is that you are European. Vaachaspati is, according to my sources, a holy man and poet, someone who does not sully himself in casual contact with non-Hindoos. We cannot simply demand an audience with him.”
“You make him sound like a nobleman,” Bess said. “Does he truly know the information we seek?”
“I can’t know that until I speak to him. But I am certain he knows a great deal about Madhyapatnam’s history. He moves around frequently—I believe he lives like a beggar—and is difficult to find if he chooses to remain hidden. But I persuaded an old man that I might have information to exchange, and he told me where Vaachaspati will be telling stories tonight.”
“So we will meet him tonight?” Wright said.
“Not we,” said Fletcher. “Lady Daphne and myself.”
Daphne held back a squeak of surprise and excitement. “You can’t go alone!” Ainsworth said. “Who knows what kind of violence might await you, in a gathering of Hindoos, at night, defenseless!”
“Hence Lady Daphne’s presence. I believe she’s proved she can think quickly under dire circumstances. And my impression was that Vaachaspati is intrigued by those visibly different from himself. Lady Daphne and I, with our light coloring, are as markedly different as they come.”
“Red hair is startling too,” Phillips ventured.
“True, but as Lady Daphne can only convey one passenger at a time, and you do not yet speak Hindoostani, I judge it best if we are the only ones who go. But I suggest we survey the place soon, so you will know where to look for us if things go wrong.”
“You do not expect things to go wrong, do you, Captain?”
Fletcher shrugged. “Lady Daphne, after yesterday’s riot I assume the worst is a possibility. But no, I do not anticipate anything worse than being turned away.”
Daphne clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from drumming on the table with excitement. “I hope this Vaachaspati will see us!”
“We will be as respectful of his culture as possible,” Fletcher said, “and hope that and curiosity will be enough. However… I am afraid what you are wearing will not suffice.”
“I brought my nicest gown from home; will that do?”
Fletcher shook his head. “For this,” he said, “we should dress like the Hindoo.”
In which a story has an unhappy ending
he gown, if one could call it that, came in two pieces, a fitted shirt that hung to her thighs and a skirt made for someone three inches taller than Daphne. The shirt, with its short sleeves and square neckline, fit her snugly but comfortably around the waist and breasts and revealed the smoothly defined muscles of her arms. Unlike her formal English gowns, which made her look plump and round, this attire showed off the musculature she had spent years developing. To her relief, she still looked womanly, just powerfully so.
She experimentally lifted her arms; it was not so tight that the seams strained, but she would not be doing any running in it. She removed the skirt, sat on her bed, and hemmed it swiftly, not caring that the hem was not perfectly even. It was not, strictly speaking, beautiful, woven of smooth Indian cotton dyed a plain dark blue, but in Daphne’s eyes it glowed with mystery and excitement.
The gown was meant to be worn with a drape, a long, wide piece of blue fabric that matched the gown. Daphne was not certain it was a good idea, since it would likely get in her way if she had to Bound anywhere, let alone with a passenger. However, showing respect was of paramount importance that evening, and she intended to be respectful. There was also a part of Daphne that knew she looked beautiful in the alien regalia and was anticipating other people seeing her. She refused to be consciously specific as to who those other people might be.
She donned the skirt again and adjusted the waistband. Now its hem brushed the tops of her feet. Much better. She brushed out her hair and pinned it up again in a workmanlike twist, something that would keep her hair from falling into her face should she be forced to Bound or Skip rapidly in succession. Not the sort of hairstyle one would wear to a social function, but this was not technically social. Though naturally she did not wish to appear slovenly. She was, in a sense, representing her country.
Bess entered and approached closely, lowering her spectacles and squinting at Daphne. “You look lovely,” she said. “Strange, if I may say that without giving offense.”
“No, and I feel strange, though this is quite comfortable.” Daphne hitched the wrap around herself the way it had been described to her, hanging in a great loop across her body and crossing on her left shoulder. “This is not comfortable. It feels as if I am doing it wrong.”
“The captain will know.” Daphne braced herself for more teasing, but Bess said only, “I wish I might come with you, but at night I am virtually blind and would be a liability were you to need to flee.”
“I wish I could communicate with you. I confess to feeling somewhat uncertain about this excursion. Captain Fletcher seems confident that we will not be attacked outright, but I cannot help remembering being surrounded by furious men, all intent on doing me harm.”
“That is perfectly natural. Just remember, you cannot easily be held against your will, correct? And Captain Fletcher knows what he is about.”
“I know. I feel more eager for the adventure than I am uncertain about its outcome. I am sure it will be beautiful, even if I do not speak the language!”
The wrap persisted in slipping off her shoulder as she walked down the stairs. Frustration at it kept her from feeling self-conscious when she entered the drawing room and found herself facing the admiring stares of five men. “How well it suits you, my dear,” Sir Rodney said.
“Yes, you could set quite the fashion if you appeared so at Government House!” Ainsworth said with a laugh.
Fletcher said nothing, just stepped forward and did something to the wrap that halted its slide. “Thank you, Captain,” she said, daring to meet his eyes, which were alight with admiration that made her feel warm down to her toes. He wore a pair of loose grey trousers and a long-sleeved shirt that matched them, with a sort of scarf hanging around his neck, and looked altogether more dashing even than in his uniform.
“We will travel by palanquin to the house where the ceremony will be held,” he told her. “The skies are clear, so no fear of rain spoiling the event.”
“Ceremony? I believed this to be some kind of poetry reading.”
“It is, but Vaachaspati dedicates his poems to Vishnu and it is considered a holy event. I was told it would be held out of doors, in a garden belonging to his… I suppose ‘sponsor’ is as good a word as any.”
“Very well. Shall we go, Captain?”
Fletcher assisted her into her palanquin, which was quite an effort when one considered the need to keep the wrap from flying off in every direction. Daphne settled herself on the cushions and inhaled the damp air, still warm from the day’s heat. The sun had set an hour earlier, but the earth still clung to its warmth, and Daphne immediately felt sticky and uncomfortable despite the coolness of her unfamiliar gown.
She drew back the curtains and wat
ched the landscape bob past. The roads still teemed with men and women, most of whom stared at her as she went past. She chose to ignore the stares. Lamps glowed along the roadside, blobs of light smelling of animal fat or coconut oil, illuminating the road poorly. Madhyapatnam was smaller and poorer than Calcutta, but the people did not seem to know that. They talked and laughed as cheerily as anyone in the great city might, though their talking and laughter subsided when she was near. There was no sense of incipient violence as there had been in the bazaar, but it made her uncomfortable nevertheless.
The palanquin was passing much larger houses now, the homes of wealthier Hindoos. They were not nearly the size of the old palace, but the construction was much the same: large arched doorways, ranks of windows, paint and carvings making each home a masterwork of art. Sir Rodney and his staff did not mingle socially with the Hindoos, so Daphne had never seen any of the high-caste Indians Fletcher had occasionally referred to. She leaned forward in her eagerness. Surely Fletcher would prevent them from being turned away!
The palanquin was approaching yet another of these houses, this one much better lit so Daphne could see it was of pale yellow stone, decorated fancifully in some dark color, blue or green perhaps. Just as she was preparing to lean out as far as she dared to get a better look, the bearers set the palanquin down at the side of the road. Moments later, Fletcher was there to assist her out and to help rearrange her wrap. “Now we shall see how persuasive I can be,” he said, offering her his arm.
“At worst, they will simply deny us entrance, correct?”
“At worst, they will decide we have insulted their gods and their gods’ servants and set an angry mob on us, and we will return to the Residence rather more precipitously than we left it.”
“You do not actually believe they—surely they must know we mean no insult!”
“I believe that is unlikely. But you did ask what the worst might be.” He smiled at her. “Or would you prefer the polite lie?”
“You know I will never prefer that.”
“Then let us proceed, Lady Daphne, and pray for success.”
Men and women, some of them dressed less finely than they were, made their way across the grass fronting the house, which Daphne saw now was lit only on the outside; no light shone from within the many windows. She and Fletcher followed them around to the side of the house and beyond, into a vast garden lined with trees that sheltered it from casual view from the road. More lights burned there, casting the trees’ shadows toward them like warning sentinels. In the darkness between the lights of the road and the lights of the garden, Daphne felt more like an intruder than ever. She suppressed an unworthy urge to take Fletcher and Bound away somewhere safe and tried not to squeeze his arm too tightly.
“You have nothing to fear,” Fletcher said in a low voice.
“I do not believe it is fear precisely, just… I feel we do not belong, and I cannot help wondering how these people would feel if they were invited to a gala at Carlton House.”
“I understand. Tonight we will try not to be intruders.”
They had nearly reached the line of trees, and Daphne could see men and women seated cross-legged on the soft grass beyond, when two shadowy figures detached themselves from the trees and came toward them. One had her arm outstretched and was shaking her head, saying something that sounded curt. Fletcher stopped and spoke to her at length, pointing at Daphne, then at himself. The woman—the first woman; both were female—shook her head again. Fletcher released Daphne and held out his hand toward her, offering a handshake.
“Give her your hand,” he said to Daphne. “They are Discerners. We must establish our goodwill toward this gathering and to Vaachaspati. Tell her why we are here.”
“I do not speak Hindoostani, Captain.”
“Emotions are a language beyond speech, Lady Daphne. She will understand you.” He clasped the first woman’s hand and spoke again. Daphne immediately extended her hand to the second woman.
“My name is Lady Daphne St. Clair, and I wish to meet with your… with Vaachaspati. We intend to find out who is causing unrest in Madhyapatnam, for all our sakes,” she said, meeting the woman’s eyes with what she hoped was a direct, honest gaze. Well, she was being honest, and that would be evident to the woman’s Discernment.
The woman stared her down, her dark face emotionless. Without breaking their gaze, she said something to her companion. Fletcher spoke, and to Daphne’s surprise, both women laughed. The second woman nodded and released Daphne, gesturing to the two of them to proceed. Fletcher again took Daphne’s arm. “I had not expected that,” he said in a low voice, “but it makes sense that they might have ways of keeping out undesirables.”
“Why did they laugh, Captain?”
“The woman commented on—it is what I have told you before, that it is rare to find someone whose demeanor so perfectly matches her emotions. I may have made a joke about how I am growing accustomed to your being more trusted than I even though you speak not more than three words of Hindoostani.”
Daphne reddened slightly. “You are certainly trustworthy, Captain.”
“Gopika came to you, Lady Daphne. I do not resent it.”
The garden beyond the tree line looked very little like an English garden. An area of soft lawn filled the space between the house and another row of trees, beyond which the garden lay in shadow. Daphne could just see rows of some kind of flowering bush, their buds closed against the night, which nevertheless sent up a sweet, robust scent that made Daphne hungry for good Indian food, rice and curry and skewers of meat.
Men and women sat on the lawn, their legs crossed neatly under them. No one spoke; the only noise was the shuffling of feet and the rustling of cloth. A few stared at Daphne and Fletcher, but most had their eyes closed and their hands resting loosely on their knees. Fletcher led Daphne to a place off to one side and helped her sit. Crossing her legs in the relatively narrow skirt proved difficult, but eventually Daphne settled the wrap in a pile in her lap and was able to look about her with interest.
Two chairs, ornately carved with exaggerated human figures, stood at the far edge of the lawn, near the house, and lanterns on tall poles stood next to them. Before the chairs lay an enormous red cushion with gold tassels at each of its four corners. More cushions flanked the space defined by the chairs and the cushion. They gave the garden the appearance of an audience chamber, though one roofed by the sky and its myriad stars. Daphne tried not to stare at the man seated nearest them, but it was difficult not to, as he wore clothes like Fletcher’s, but in golden silk, and his hat, which was almost a turban, was secured in front by an opal the size of a hen’s egg. He looked as out of place as they did.
“Gatherings like this have become popular in the last seventy years, ever since it became clear that Discerners were becoming a large part of the Indian population,” Fletcher said in the same low voice, though they were too far from anyone else to be overheard, even assuming anyone in this gathering spoke English. “You will see how emotional display is of paramount importance to Hindoos, even those who are not Discerners. They despise concealment of one’s feelings—it is an affront to the gods who gave men talent.”
“But they do not mind us observing their ceremony?”
“They are not so much secret as they are sacred. Those women confirmed that we did not come to mock or disrupt, and that is enough. We are outsiders, so we do not have the understanding to fully appreciate what will be done tonight. Which is, as I believe I said, a poetry recitation dedicated to Vishnu.”
“And Vishnu is their god.”
“One of them. If you are interested, I will explain their religion later. It is rather more complex than time will permit.”
“Of course! I am very interested in India.”
Fletcher smiled and briefly clasped her hand. “I need not repeat that you are a remarkable woman, Lady Daphne.”
She held his hand for a moment when he would have let her go. “I thank you for the complime
nt, Captain.” What would he feel from her—pleasure, attraction, happiness at being in his company? In that moment, she could not bring herself to rebuff him.
A jingle of bells, the high-pitched tapping of a paper drum, drew Daphne’s attention from the captain to the entrance to the garden. A man and a woman, both dressed in silken finery, approached the two chairs slowly. It looked like a processional for some religious service, which it probably was. Daphne realized she was holding her breath and let it out slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself. The man wore a hat like the other gentleman’s, only fastened with a spray of peacock feathers. The woman wore more gold jewelry than Daphne had ever seen in one place: a necklace of many lengths of chain, large ruby and gold earrings, a nose ring connected to one earring by more chain, and several heavy rings on her fingers.
They took their seats in the chairs without speaking or looking at one another. A third person, this one a gangly youth dressed in red silk robes that flowed around his knees, came to stand in front of them. He bowed his head and extended his arms to each side. The lanterns flared high.
“A Scorcher, sanctified to Agni,” Fletcher whispered. “That was a symbolic act declaring this evening sacred to the gods.”
The Scorcher bowed, said something to the man in the chair, and backed away. Musicians carrying strange-looking stringed instruments or drums or bells filed in and took their seats on the smaller cushions. They did not make any of the sounds Daphne associated with musicians preparing for a performance, and except for the high-pitched jingling of a few uncontrolled bells, everything was as silent as before. The seated figures were as still as if they were no different than the carved figures on their chairs, though Daphne was certain the woman’s eyes flicked her way once.
The silence went on for what felt like hours to Daphne, though there was so much to look at she was never conscious of being impatient. Finally, another man approached through the trees and stood in front of the man and woman. He was not tall, perhaps only a few inches taller than Daphne herself. His beard was much longer than any Daphne had seen on a Hindoo man thus far, and streaked with white, though his bare head revealed dark hair that curled around his ears and neck. He wore a long white robe with a deep neckline that revealed his narrow chest, and his feet were unshod. Surprisingly, his skin was not very dark for a Hindoo, only a few shades darker than Fletcher’s tanned skin.
Abounding Might (The Extraordinaries Book 3) Page 16