Fletcher’s eyes widened. His hand closed firmly over hers, his skin warm and pleasantly dry. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He looked so stunned Daphne could not help but smile. It prompted a smile from him, the warm smile that said he knew a wonderful secret, the smile, Daphne realized, he only ever shared with her. “Daphne,” he said, “oh, my love,” and bent to kiss her.
His kiss left her breathless, speechless, sending a rush of joy through her that set her whole body tingling. He gasped and pulled her close to him, kissing her again and again until she burned with the longing for more. They had been this close before, when she Bounded or Skipped with him, but it had never felt like this, his body against hers, his arm circling her waist. She released his hand to put her arms around his neck and returned his kisses, feeling utterly wanton and not caring one bit. If this was something no proper young lady would ever dream of doing, she did not want to be proper.
A scraping sound, an ancient key in a rusted lock, broke them apart. Fletcher brushed one last kiss across her forehead, then gently pushed her away. “Hide back here, and when you are recovered, Bound back to the Residence,” he whispered.
“But—”
His eyes blazed a warning. “Just go!” He turned and disappeared through the square opening. Daphne heard a deep voice address him in French, heard Fletcher reply in a tone that did not suggest he might be going to his death, and then the door ground shut again.
Daphne backed away from the opening, into a corner where she could not possibly be seen from the door, and sat against the wall. Her pain was fading, but not enough, and she closed her eyes and cursed, quietly. She was doing so many improper things today she felt hardly entitled to call herself a lady. If only Bess could read her mind! They could send the soldiers immediately, and not wait on her recovery. Not that she wished Bess to know what she had been doing only moments before.
The thought of Fletcher alone, facing down Amitabh, filled Daphne with wordless terror. She tried not to imagine the kind of suasion an Extraordinary Discerner might use. Fletcher had said he was resisting, and as a Discerner he was certainly aware of how his emotions would appear to another Discerner, but who knew how long he might be able to hold out? He needed help immediately.
She stood and walked to where she could peek around the opening. The room beyond was as bare as hers, and as intricately decorated. A door with a grille in its center stood opposite the opening. Daphne jerked back into hiding, but no one exclaimed, and the door did not open. She peeked out again, then carefully made her way across the room to the door and looked out through the grille. The door opened on a short corridor, not nearly so colorful as the zenana, and dimly lit at both ends by lamps that gave off a smoky, bitter smell. It was empty.
Daphne rested her hands on the grille and tried to picture where she was with regard to the outside world. She remembered the door Fletcher had showed her in the palace wall, the one he had said led to the zenana, if indirectly. It was no doubt locked, but suppose she could open it, permit the soldiers access to the palace at two points instead of just the one gaping hole at the front? If she could get free, she could do that, and by the time she was finished, she would no doubt be recovered enough to Bound to the Residence.
She pressed her face hard against the grille, straining to see where the hallway went. At both ends, it made a sharp turn away from the zenana, presumably toward the center of the palace. That did her no good. She needed more information. She stepped away from the door, her hands still resting on the grille, and the door moved fractionally toward her. She tugged harder, and it groaned quietly as it swung inward on its ancient hinges. Of course. With their prisoner no longer within, there was no point in locking the zenana. Daphne silently said a swift, incoherent prayer of thanks and pulled the door open enough for her to slip through.
Tiptoeing, she hurried down the corridor to the right and peeked around the corner. The new hallway was wider, tiled in vivid blue and scarlet and deep green, and its ceiling came to a peak high above. It, too, was lit by more smelly lanterns, and it extended into the distance with no sign of any other exits. Daphne backed away quietly, though she saw no more movement there than before.
To the left, around the corner, another hallway extended into the distance. This one had doors along its length, most of them on the right, one larger one on the left. The right-hand doors had to lead deeper into the palace, but that left-hand door… it must be the one she sought. Daphne listened, straining to hear movement, then ran for the door. It did not appear to have a lock at all, just a heavy iron bar slung across it preventing her opening it. Daphne put her weight under it and heaved. It gave slightly, perhaps an inch, before falling noisily back into place. She quickly looked around to see if the noise had summoned anyone, but the hall remained unoccupied save for her.
She examined the bar more closely. It did not simply sit in its slots; one end of it was fastened to a fat iron pin it might swivel around. Naturally, this was the end Daphne had pushed on. She switched to the other end of the iron bar and heaved on it. The pin squealed as the bar pivoted around it, up and into brackets on the wall beside the door. Daphne shoved hard on it until she was certain it was secure and would not come swinging back down into place. Then she pressed down on the latch, one slow inch at a time, until the pin engaged and the door swung inward a few inches.
Cheering silently, she sat and removed one of her boots, then peeled off her stocking and jammed it into the latch mechanism. Now the door would close without latching, and the soldiers need only push on it to enter the palace. Hopping on one foot, she put her boot back on and leaned against the door, breathing a little too rapidly from her exertions. Excitement and fear for Fletcher’s life made her blood pulse harder than it should. She would return to the zenana to rest just a few more minutes, and then Bound away and tell the soldiers where to go.
When her heart had stilled somewhat, she ran back along the corridor. The lamps stank badly; they would be unbearable in cramped quarters. But they gave off enough light to guide her feet—
—and to show her the face of a tall, muscular soldier just as she rounded the corner and ran into him.
She Skipped out of his reach, or tried to; a stabbing pain went through her head as she attempted it. The man’s reflexes were better than hers, and he grabbed her arm before she could flee the traditional way. In French, he said, “Where did you come from?”
“Let me go,” she replied in the same language. His grip was like a vise, but she tried to pull away anyway.
He regarded her with puzzlement, then swept her up over his shoulder and walked away down the right-hand corridor. At least he will not see what I did to the door, she thought wildly.
She fought him with every ounce of strength she possessed, but might as well have been a kitten fighting to free herself from the coils of a python, for all the good her fighting did her. Finally, her captor silently slapped her across the face, a ringing blow that dizzied her and momentarily sapped her strength. Despairing, she sagged, thinking perhaps this would fool him into relaxing his grip and letting her slip away. But if anything, he held on tighter. Not that it mattered; her head and body still hurt, and Bounding eluded her.
She heard noises now, the sound of many men together in one place, laughing and talking at too great a distance for her to make out the language. A chill went through her, fear at being helpless and surrounded by her enemies, and she began to make plans for getting away that did not depend on her Bounding talent. There were horribly few of them, and all of them were founded on her captors being stupid, or arrogant—not things she could depend on. She felt tears come to her eyes and she dashed them away angrily. Crying would not save her.
The noises grew louder, and she craned her head to see where the man was taking her. She caught a glimpse of a large room that stank of the lamps and unwashed bodies, heard a dozen conversations in unrefined French, and then, to her surprise, they went past it and into an empty chamber where her capt
or’s footsteps echoed. This one had a high, vaulted ceiling, with more of the tiny round windows near the top, and the ruddy light told her sunset was coming. If she had not been so foolhardy, the soldiers might have been on their way now. Instead, she was a captive, and Fletcher would be furious—
The man pushed open a door that creaked in a high, thin wail. Daphne caught a glimpse of another high ceiling, and tiled walls that flickered with what looked like real gold. She raised her head and saw in the lamplight men in French military uniforms lining the walls, all of them armed with swords and pistols thrust through their belts. Their stern visages regarded her dispassionately, as if they knew she was small and helpless and no threat. She glared back at them, though her heart was pounding again, this time with terror.
“What is this interruption?” someone said angrily.
“I caught her in the hall. I do not know how she entered,” the man replied in a gruff voice. He swung Daphne off his shoulder, setting her roughly on the floor and giving her a shove so she staggered forward. Angrily, she turned on him, fists raised, though she had no idea what she intended to do to someone his size—batter his toes into submission, possibly? He looked briefly startled before bursting into laughter and prodding her shoulder, making her stagger again. He grabbed her by the shoulders in a painful grip and turned her around.
Fletcher stood there, some ten feet away from her, looking more impassive than she’d ever seen him. He was not bound, but stood stiffly, as if he were afraid to move. Another ten feet from them, forming the point of an equilateral triangle, was a dais that rose three steps above the floor. Upon it stood a throne carved of pink marble, its arms and back decorated with elaborate human figures that appeared to be dancing. It would have been unspeakably gaudy anywhere but India. A red velvet cushion rested on its seat, trimmed with gold cord and tassels, but no one sat upon it.
Seated on the dais in front of the throne was a young Hindoo, clean-shaven and extremely handsome. It took Daphne only a moment to remember that she had seen him before, lounging in the door of the palace with the Shaper that day she and Fletcher had visited. Then, he had looked away as if embarrassed to be caught staring. Now he gazed at Daphne with fascination. It was the look of an entomologist who had discovered a representative of a new species of bug and was considering how best to dissect it. She stared back at him coldly, refusing to be intimidated.
Movement distracted her eye. Behind the throne, the Shaper, still in the guise of Lieutenant Wright, leaned against its tall back. She expected him to smile maliciously, to taunt her with having escaped her grasp, but he merely looked at her the way he might a dog, or a horse—some creature that might prove useful, but whose opinion he would not even consider entertaining. It was a more terrifying look than the one the young man wore, so she returned her gaze to him and tried to pretend the Shaper was not in the room.
The young man shifted his position, bringing his knees up and resting his chin on them. It was such a youthful gesture Daphne realized that he could not be much older than she. “You are disturbed,” he said without taking his eyes off her, yet she was certain he was not speaking to her. “Interesting.” His English was precise, French-accented but easily intelligible.
“You have been battering at me for hours. I believe ‘disturbed’ is an understatement,” Fletcher said, his voice calm. Daphne was afraid to look at him, for fear her eyes might give her heart away.
“It is not that. Something has changed.” The young man stood in a lithe movement and came down the steps of the dais to stand in front of Daphne. “I wonder.”
Daphne tried to project emotions, wishing she knew Schofeld’s trick—anger, determination, fearlessness. The young man’s eyes widened briefly. Then he laughed, a merry sound such as any schoolboy might utter. His hand darted out, quick as a snake striking, and grabbed Daphne’s chin, so that if she had not already been looking at him she would have no way to look elsewhere.
“I believe,” said Amitabh, “you deserve my full attention.”
In which a confrontation leads to a terrible ultimatum
believe you are a troublemaker,” Daphne said. “Let us go.”
“And lose the opportunity to learn more of you, fearless girl? You whose demeanor matches her words so perfectly?” Amitabh’s grip grew painfully tight, making Daphne close her eyes. Her body no longer ached, the pain in her head was bearable now, and if she were not held tight by the enormous soldier, she might have Bounded back to the Residence as Fletcher had ordered. She looked at him, at how controlled he was, and her heart ached at the thought of leaving him behind. She had to find a way to bring them both out of this safely.
“Ah,” Amitabh said, releasing her with a twist of his hand that rocked her head back. “You care for him. But he… I believe you may be doomed to disappointment, girl. Or do you know this already? Your misery pours off you like steam from a boiling cauldron.”
“The others believed he cared for her,” the Shaper said. He sounded less like Wright now, his voice husky and with the faintest hint of a French accent.
“He shows no sign of it.” Amitabh drew a fingertip along the line of Daphne’s cheekbone, making her flinch. Had not Fletcher once said high-caste Indians would not willingly touch a European? Why was Amitabh so different?
“Take care,” the Shaper said. “She is kūdne vālā, and will escape if you give her room.”
“Is she? Interesting.” Amitabh made a gesture, and the hands clamped down harder on Daphne’s shoulders, pressing her into the ground. She clenched her teeth hard to prevent a cry of pain from escaping. Fletcher did not need any such distractions.
“You came seeking your captain, did you?” Amitabh continued. “How did you bypass my guards? They are ever vigilant.”
“Not vigilant enough,” Daphne said. “It was easy.”
The blow caught her by surprise, rocking her head back again. She swallowed, tasting blood. “I will not tolerate lying, certainly not from a European woman. You did not enter by the front door. I ask again, how did you bypass my guards?”
Daphne did not dare look at Fletcher. “I Bounded to where he was.”
“You do not know the… is it signature? You have never been inside this place. How is it done?” Amitabh sounded genuinely curious, not at all angry. Daphne wished she were free to return blow for blow—or better yet, to Skip with him through the palace until she could see sky, then drop him from a thousand feet up.
“It is essence,” she said, “and you would not understand how it is done unless you are also an Extraordinary Bounder.”
He slapped her again. “Try.”
She glared at him. “Can you explain to me how you know when I lie? There are things only one who shares your experience can understand. I followed Captain Fletcher’s essence and Bounded to it and very nearly lost my life. It is not a thing I will do again.”
Amitabh shrugged and turned away, apparently losing interest as rapidly as he had pounced on her. “Then you cannot teach my Bounders.”
“If they are Extraordinaries—but I would teach them only to kill themselves, and I do not believe you want that.”
“Unfortunate.” Amitabh walked up the steps of the dais and once again seated himself before the throne. “Perhaps you will be more forthcoming than the captain. Tell me, how many troops are stationed at Fort William?”
“I do not know. I am not a soldier.”
“How many troops defend Government House?”
“Again, I do not know.”
“Lady Daphne is with the War Office and as such is little more than a courier,” Fletcher said, in an impassive voice that matched his demeanor. “She knows nothing of war.”
“And yet she traveled with you. Patenaude, what do you know of her?”
The Shaper stood upright and let his fingers trail across the marble of the throne’s tall back. “She is far more than a courier,” he said. “Her reputation as an Extraordinary Bounder is unparalleled. I do not know why she is in Ind
ia and not the Peninsula, but I presume it is a punishment for some misdeed. She is required to return to Government House on occasion to convey Lord Moira’s wife and children, so she knows its interior well. She might be a better choice than Fletcher.”
Daphne risked a glance at Fletcher. He was still impassive, his eyes fixed on Amitabh, who in turn had his gaze on Fletcher. They had the focused look of two men engaged in a wrestling match, which Daphne had once seen when she was intended to be elsewhere. There had been a moment when the wrestlers stood poised, each gripping the other, muscles distended and taut, neither giving way. She was reminded of that moment now.
“You will give in to me,” Amitabh said, his voice tense. “I do not see why you persist in fighting.”
“I will not,” Fletcher said calmly. He gave no hint of the struggle raging between them. “Your efforts are pointless. I am far more experienced at this than you. Release us, and I will see that your grievances are heard.”
Amitabh laughed, throwing his head back and roaring with delight. “Will you? How generous, when we both know the Honourable Company has nothing resembling honor when it comes to its treatment of its… subjects. They will never give up Madhyapatnam—its revenues are far too great.”
“They will recompense you for your loss. You will not be prince, but you will not be impoverished. You need not throw in your lot with the French.”
“I need not sense your emotions to know that is a lie, if a well-meaning one. I will even do you the courtesy of believing you believe it.”
“I would not make such a promise were I not capable of fulfilling it. My word means much to those who matter.”
“You are so very earnest, Captain, so determined to see this poor Hindoo treated fairly. Madhyapatnam means nothing to me. I am French, not Hindoo, and the place stinks of poverty and filth. It is the means to an end only. I will take Madhyapatnam in the emperor’s name, and he will drive the English from India, and then I will have my reward in the drawing rooms of Paris.”
Abounding Might (The Extraordinaries Book 3) Page 24