The Peshawar Lancers

by S. M. Stirling

  They talked rock-climbing for a while; after a moment he opened the picnic basket and offered a sandwich.

  “Ham,” he said. “Or there’s mutton, or watercress.”

  “Ham will be fine, Charles,” she replied, then raised a brow as he chuckled.

  “A moment ago I was thinking of how a surplus of servants is as inconvenient as a deficit,” he explained. “No privacy, and you’re always tripping over someone trying to be useful. But then again, when you have to have food that’s pure to guests of any caste, several sets of kitchen staff are very handy.”

  “That would be a problem,” she said, taking a bite of the sandwich, and obviously mentally listing the varieties: strict vegetarian and prepared only by Brahmin cooks for the more picky high-caste Hindus; no pork and all the other meat slaughtered in hallal fashion for Muslims; and then there were the Jains, who considered even some plants to have souls and so be on the forbidden list—

  She gave a slight snort. “These food taboos are all absurd, of course. Superstitious nonsense.”

  Charles raised a brow in turn. “Would you prefer a roast beef sandwich, then?” he said, with a sly grin.

  Cassandra choked slightly. “Touché,” she admitted. “My Whig intellect says why not? My sahib-log stomach would rebel, I’m afraid.”

  India had thousands of jati-castes, many associated with some specific trade or neighborhood, and each with its own weird complexity of rules about food, ritual purity, and marriage. Since the days of the Vedas they had been grouped in four rough categories called varnas— colors. There were the Brahmins on top, at least in their own opinion; they were the priest-scholars. Next the Kyashtrias, the warrior-rulers; in the middle the Vaisyas, merchant-artisan-farmers. Those three were the twice-born castes. On the bottom—not counting caste-less untouchables, sweepers and pariahs—were the Sudras, the common laborers.

  Most Hindus—all but the stiffest purists—had long ago accepted the sahib-log immigrants as a caste of the Kyashtria varna, since they were men of governance and war, just as they had come to see Christ as yet another avatar of Vishnu, like the Buddha.

  The influence went both ways, of course; objectively, Charles knew his great-grandfather had eaten cow meat with innocent calm—Australians and Kapenaars still did, although more and more of their upper crusts followed Delhi fashion. But emotionally . . . emotionally, the land of his birth had laid bonds on him. And on Cassandra as well, it appeared.

  Once a group settled in the land, that all-absorbing acceptance was the natural course, and fighting it was like trying to slash a cloud with a sword. Only the fierce monotheism of Islam had even tried, and not altogether successfully. For all their claims of descent from Sun and Moon and Fire in ancient Vedic times, he suspected that the noble Rajput clans had ridden down the Khyber from Central Asia fairly recently as history went, and bullied their way into the Kyashtria category at spear-point just as his own Angrezi ancestors had shot their way in.

  A faint tinkle of music came through the warm breeze. They both shifted and looked down over the cliff face; there was a pavilion there at its foot, open-sided and with flaps on one side to shade a broad area covered with rugs that glowed wine red, gold, indigo, and crimson. Sita and a group of young women—some ladies-in-waiting, some the daughters of local Rajput nobles—were dancing on the carpets, to the sound of a one-sided drum and plangent flutes, their own voices, the skip-and-stamp of feet bare except for anklets and toe rings. They were all in Rajasthani dress, tight bodices and gauzy shawls and long wine-red-and-spangles skirts that flared to the slow twirls and swift gliding steps. The princess turned in the middle of the circle, laughing, her arms moving through graceful curves to the sweet ting-ting of the finger cymbals she clashed.

  “Is that the ghoomal?” Cassandra asked.

  She knew most of the Kashmiri dances from her childhood, but Rajputana was a long way from her native province.

  “No, it’s the panihari,” Charles said after a moment’s thought. “The Water-Carrier Dance . . . there are two; for the other one you have to put a jug on your head and it’s much slower. Sita prefers lively dances.”

  “I’d noticed,” Cassandra said.

  “Sita seems in a better mood lately,” Charles said. “I’m glad you two are getting on so well.”

  “Yes. She’s very intelligent and a likable girl, if a bit of a handful.” Cassandra coughed discreetly and hesitated. “Ah . . . Highness . . .”

  “Charles, I thought?” he said.

  “Charles . . . I understand arrangements for a marriage are in progress?” He nodded. “Well,” she continued, “while in theory I disapprove of arranged matches . . . though I suppose they’re inevitable for the dynasty . . . let’s put it this way: That girl needs a man. And in the worst way.”

  Charles blinked. Well, that’s blunt enough, he thought. One reason he liked the young woman from Oxford was that she was forthright, but it was a bit startling at times.

  “Has she been doing the thousand-hands-of-Pravati thing again?” he asked. Usually only a problem when she was bored, but . . .

  “No, not at all, but I’d say she definitely has an, ah, ardent nature.”

  Charles chuckled. “She’s going to be a handful wherever she goes,” he said. “I’m just relieved that de Vascogne isn’t more alarmed. The French court is quite stiff about decorum and appearances, I understand.”

  “Where is the Vicomte de Vascogne, in any case? He and Sir Manfred were here yesterday.”

  “Business in Delhi called Sir Manfred back to the capital, I understand,” Charles said. He sighed slightly. “Real business.”

  The young woman looked up, slightly startled, and turned her head to one side in inquiry.

  “Cassandra . . . this sort of thing”—he waved a hand—“is all very well. But it’s not a substitute for work.”

  “You do have a fairly busy schedule of official business,” she pointed out.

  “Makework, most of it. Or ceremony—like this damned camel-judging festival in Udipur I’m supposed to go to next. And there you have the story of my life; complimenting camels and cutting ribbons.”

  She blinked, surprised at his bitterness. “Well, may the current King-Emperor live forever, but even John II won’t, and ruling the Empire . . . that’s a life’s work, surely?”

  “Of a sort,” he said, looking out over the plains with his elbows braced on his knees. “Father isn’t quite the figurehead that Old Empire monarchs were—he doesn’t have to accept a prime minister he disapproves of; whatever PM Parliament does send to ‘kiss hands’ would think three times before crossing him; and he really does set most foreign policy, and—but at seventh and last, the politicians run the Empire. The Whigs tend to exaggerate the powers of the throne, so they can whittle them down; the Tories do the same thing, so they can use the King-Emperor as a combination totem and bombproof shelter.”

  A wry quirk of the mouth. “I can be a genuine patron of the arts and sciences, of course—that is within the throne’s power.”

  “And that is an important job,” Cassandra said with quiet conviction. “Believe me.”

  Slowly, Charles nodded. “I grant you that. It’s been . . . educational listening to you, Dr. King.”

  “Cassandra,” the young woman reminded him. Smiling: “And if you knew how refreshing it is to meet a man who isn’t an academic and who does listen, instead of getting a look of glazed desperation—”

  Charles snorted. “Give me some credit, Cassandra. I can’t follow the mathematics you use, but I can take them on faith and then consider the implications of what you and your colleagues have discovered.”

  The young woman glowed back at him. It was oddly satisfying. There had never been a shortage of women, as such—the matter had been taken care of with quiet competence by the household majordomo when he turned thirteen. And of course as soon as he came to man’s estate there had been something like a normal young aristocrat’s social life, with a huge golden advantage
.

  But I’ve never flirted with a girl who got that look when I complimented her mind before, he thought.

  It was a relief from the giggling highborn debutantes court was full of, and the even larger legion of wives who’d done their reproductive duty to their spouses young and were taking full advantage of the traditional unspoken liberty to do a little discreet wandering afterward.

  For that matter, the conversation itself was a relief. He’d done a little to expand the company acceptable at court, or at least his portion of it. Not that he had anything against the martial-caste noblemen, generals, and administrators—often the same people—who made up the traditional inner circle. Still, he’d created a little scandal now and then by bringing in others; wealthy commoner industrialists and merchants, scholars, even artists.

  But not many attractive women in any of those groups, and ones with a taste for sport as well, he thought happily. For once, let rajadharma wait for a bit.

  The sun was declining in the west, turning the rose quartz of the cliffs around them to the color of its namesake flower. The commander of the guard contingent coughed.

  “My thanks for a very pleasant afternoon,” Charles said half-formally. “Unfortunately, I have to dine with a selection of Rajput lordlings here, and . . .”

  “. . . and while they don’t exactly practice purdah anymore, they’d be scandalized at a mixed banquet, yes,” Cassandra said, smiling.

  “Father wants me to talk them around to passing an equivalent of the Ryot’s Protection Act in the client kingdoms here in Rajputana,” Charles said apologetically. “Real work, if you like—the maharajas aren’t subordinates of some abstract thing called the Empire, they’re vassals of the King-Emperor, the real breathing man who sired me. If we don’t talk them ’round, questions will be asked in Parliament. It’s damned difficult real work, at that.”

  “Not as difficult as my task, Charles,” Cassandra said demurely, lowering her eyes for a second.

  Was that a glint in her eye? “Well, I said that I grasped what you were saying about the observatories for—”

  “No, no. I have to go to the women’s dinner with Sita, and convince the lordlings’ wives and daughters and sisters that I spent the entire afternoon with you talking about science and politics.”

  His laugh joined hers as he bowed over her hand and strode away. The banquet would be damned dull—Vishnu knew he liked to talk polo and horses, but there were limits—yet suddenly it didn’t seem so utterly wearisome.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sir Manfred Warburton looked up from his desk. The punkha was doing its best—the punkha-wallah outside was an agent under punishment, doing his best to earn forgiveness—but the air in this office was always a little close, except in January, when it was chilly. For now he undid the high collar of his tunic and sighed. Nevertheless, he’d kept refusing offers of better quarters for his subdivision of the Service. It was his considered opinion that staying too long down among the splendors of South Delhi tended to isolate you from reality and promote delusions of omnipotence.

  “Just look at what it does to Parliament,” he muttered, and reached a hand to turn up the desk gas lamp; night was falling, and the narrow slit windows didn’t let in much light even at noonday.

  The staff were leaving for the evening, as usual; as usual, he was staying—the telephone, that instrument of the rakashas, would leave him alone if he worked through the dinner hour. His own meal came in on a covered thali platter, catered from Nizzamudin, his favorite Delhi-style eatery; spiced lentil-and-tamarind mulligatawny soup, kahari chicken, with a salad of pickled tandoor-grilled cauliflower, onions, okra, and capsicum; flat bakarkhani bread and papads to accompany it, sandalwood-flavored sherbet to drink and melon to finish off.

  One advantage of eating at your desk was that you could comfortably use fingers and flatbread on the food, rather than the archaic formality of knife and fork.

  His executive assistant came in as the tray was being cleared away; Rabindra Das was a short, fat Gujarati who looked exactly like a moderately prosperous trader in ghee and cottonseed from Bombay. He also looked very much like his brother, who was a moderately prosperous trader in ghee and cottonseed, in Ratnagiri, which was a port just down the coast from Bombay. The utter ordinariness of his appearance had been a considerable asset over the years. He gave a fastidious shudder at the remains of the meal—being like many from his Jain-influenced province a vegetarian so strict that even onions and garlic were taboo—and spoke:

  “Allenby sahib will be here for his appointment in two hours twenty minutes,” he said, sliding a stack of paper bound with a length of red tape onto Warburton’s desk. “Here is the Madagascar file.”

  The baronet snorted. “He’s trying to distract me again,” he said, reading and making an occasional note for the meeting.

  The perennial question of adding Madagascar to the Empire could wait; it had waited generations. The Kapenaars wanted annexation, from sheer greed; Australia was against, on general principle and because the island was ruled by a friendly, progressive, and three-quarters-civilized dynasty. The natives and their rulers were even Anglicans, converted by missionaries back in Old Empire times and accepting the Archbishop of Delhi’s ecclesiastical authority ever since; on the whole, the present free-trade-and-alliance treaty gave both sides all the benefits of official Imperial overlordship with few of the drawbacks.

  The central government was going to go on doing what it did best, ignoring the issue in the hope it would solve itself with time. That often worked. Sometime later he murmured to himself:

  “Why is he trying to distract me? It’s not just that he doesn’t believe me about the Russians.” Warburton snubbed out his cheroot with a savage gesture and lit another.

  “Self, being mere failed B.A. of Bombay University, not even of martial caste, and not being confidant of sahib-log upper-rogers, could hardly be expected to know inner recesses of Allenby sahib’s mind,” Das said unctuously. “Have therefore succeeded in suborning guardians of his bibi khana.”

  “Ah?” Warburton’s ears pricked up. Hell to pay if that’s ever discovered, he thought.

  Allenby was old-fashioned enough to keep both his mistresses on the premises and semisecluded; the Gods knew how he got his wife to go along with it, these days. Bibi khana meant women’s quarters. It wouldn’t do to be found interfering in a fellow-Political’s personal arrangements.

  Unless Das had dug up some very, very good dirt, in which case all would be forgiven. The Service was decentralized, and its actual pathways of authority were obscure even to someone at his level. One thing he could say for certain was that its ultimate masters didn’t quarrel with success.

  “Have found that strangers—male strangers—are in practice of visiting Allenby sahib there,” Das said, a trace of smugness on his fat features. “Would venture perhaps to say that Allenby sahib wished these visitors to remain secret . . . from the Service.”

  Warburton shaped a silent whistle. That would be the best place; sacrosanct even from spies, usually. “Well done, Das,” he said. “Find out more if you can. Precisely who, why, and what discussions.”

  Rabindra Das made the salaam, began to turn . . . and dropped silently to the floor like a puppet with cut strings. Warburton rose, his hand darting under his jacket, then slumped across his desk as something struck a massive blow to his side. He gasped as the pain slammed home like a chill blade in the flesh, trying to turn and see what had crept up behind him. Another blow struck, this time with a length of fine sharp-edged chain that cut through cloth and flesh as it wrapped around his right forearm. The same pull that savaged his arm twisted him around to face the door.

  “Zdravstvuyte, gospodin Warburton,” said the tall man with the eye patch. “Radsvamee poznakomit’sya.”

  Allenby stood beside him, his face sallow and expressionless save for a sheen of sweat that he licked at nervously as it stung chewed lips.

  “I have been looking forward to
this conversation for some time, Sir Manfred,” the big man said in excellent Imperial English. “More than twenty years, since you escaped me in the Border country and ruined my little ambush. I am sure it will be a pleasure.”

  He smiled, and pushed the eye patch up from one blue eye. “For me, at least.”

  “It is the E-rus fakir’s seeress!” Narayan Singh said.

  His hand went to his hilt. King’s hand went out to touch him on the arm. “Be still, bhai,” he said.

  For a moment he seemed to be apart from the milling crush on the nighted street, from the city and the world. His skin prickled, as it might when he felt a sniper’s gaze behind a rock five hundred yards away.

  The slight woman swayed on her feet. “You must go in,” she said. “You must go in now.”

  “A trap, huzoor!”

  King hesitated, but only for an instant; if there was one thing being a cavalry commander on the Border taught you, it was that a second-rate decision made in time was usually better than a perfect one made too late. Ganesha, god of luck, had an elephant’s head—you couldn’t grab his trunk once he’d passed by.

  “No,” he said. “We were going in here anyway—she merely tells us to be wary, and she makes us wary, herself. Only a madman would make such a trap. Quickly, now—but keep the woman between us. She must be questioned, later. And no weapons yet! The gatekeepers won’t let us through if we look like we’re on razziah.”

  Metcalfe House didn’t look much different from the rest of the buildings on the Chandi Chowk, apart from not having its ground-level frontage broken up into small shops. Instead there was a simple teak door with a knocker. King took a long deep breath to center himself and swung it with a clack-clack-clack.

  The khansama was a tall thin man dressed from turban to toes in shades of beige, set off only by the scarlet of his cummerbund. His face stayed a mask of politely expressionless inquiry as he salaamed and asked:

  “May I help you, sirs, madam?”

  Not even a blink at whoever-she-is, King thought. Well, Sir Manfred’s butler has probably seen everything, at one time or another.