The Peshawar Lancers

by S. M. Stirling

  “The tessera . . . have you wondered why your father would exchange such a token with me, or I with him?”

  King nodded cautiously.

  “Heh. When your grandfather was alive, he made some investments. Not through me! But they nearly ruined him, ruined your family. Now . . . now I suspect that there were those who arranged it so. So be it, but he was on the verge of losing his land.”

  King concealed his shock, but not quite well enough. Lose the land? That was . . . well, obviously not impossible, because it happened. Disastrous or horrible to contemplate came a lot closer. Rexin wasn’t just an investment, or a source of income. It was the source of the Kings’ being, and had been since the Exodus. Not least, it was a responsibility—who would look after the people of the manor, if not the Kings?

  The old man laughed in a breathy chuckle: “Te-heyay, that makes you jump, eh? We Jews have learned that the only safe wealth is the wealth you can take with you when you have to run.”

  He tapped a long finger to his forehead. “Best of all, what you keep here. But you Angrezi, you need to be rooted in a spot like a tree, even after you fled here to India. It took the very Sword of God to move you! So. I bought your grandfather’s notes from the men who would have foreclosed on him, consolidated them . . . you would not be interested in the details. He paid me—he was an honest man. I made the conditions so that he could pay, with effort—I am an honest man, too, and your grandfather had always dealt fairly with me, and his father with my father. He swore that if ever he could return the favor, he would, or his kin after him.”

  The old man’s son coughed and looked aside. “I’m afraid, Captain King,” he said—in Imperial English, without the accent his father had, “that it was my own foolishness that compelled my father to ask for that favor of yours.”

  “Hey-ye-tai,” Elias said, making a flapping gesture with his hands. “Foolishness is not wickedness—it was wickedness that took you.”

  He looked at King. “My son, my David here—my only son—was in Bokhara on business.”

  “Bokhara?” King said incredulously, looking at the younger Jew and raising his brows. “You’re a braver man than I am, to dare going there.”

  Bokhara was the second city of the Czar’s domains, after Samarkand; and while Samarkand was the seat of the court, Bokhara housed the head priests of the cult of Malik Nous. The name of the Black God’s city was one to make men fear, from Damascus to the Yellow Sea.

  “Heh!” Elias chuckled. “What will a Jew not risk—for trade—for knowledge—for family? David went for all three. The Russian boyars let us trade in their domains, or manage mines or collect rents for them—should they dirty their hands with ledgers? And some of us they let live there, free—free after a fashion—because we are useful if left to ourselves. They have learned that we Jews make poor slaves—as Pharaoh learned—and that we cross all borders; France-outre-mer, the Caliphate, the Empire, Dai-Nippon . . . even the Americas.

  “And so some of us dwell in Bokhara. Of those some are of my family. They learned matters that the priests of Malik Nous, the Eaters of Men, the followers of Tchernobog, wished to keep secret. I offered ransom—sent David to bargain. And they seized him too—should they bother to keep faith with a dirty Jew, a zhid dog? They thought to squeeze me—to make me their tool here. Not merely by the threats of death or torment for my son. Other threats, to take my son’s soul. They can change a man; that is their devils’ skill. A Jew can face death when he must; how many of us have died for the Sanctification of the Name? But the Black God . . . that is another matter.”

  David spoke: “Your father rescued me,” he said. “From the dungeons of the House of the Fallen. I lived, and I kept my mind. My self.”

  King shaped a silent whistle, and even in the press of present need felt a glow of pride. That was something he had to get the details on, someday. To go into the empire of evil, and the very heart of darkness . . .

  I knew my father was a man of honor, he thought. He’d never doubted it, not when the track his life had made in the lives of others was plain to see. But if he could do that, he was a man indeed!

  Elias nodded. “I was desperate. I went to him. And he agreed, knowing what his father had promised. When we crossed the border again, your father and I, I said that there was no more debt between us—that now I was in his, forever. He laughed, as he had laughed at death and worse, and said that now each was in the other’s debt forever. So we broke the tessera.”

  The older man looked down at the table before him again. “Not long after, we learned of your father’s death on the Border. Chess . . . young lordling, someone is playing chess indeed. A game against your family, and by a master player.” His finger tipped over a knight. “A game across more than one generation.”

  “But why us?” King cried out, then flushed with embarrassment. “I mean . . . well, we’re just . . . how many tens of thousand of others like us are there, in the Empire?”

  Elias brooded silently for a moment. “There are things which can only be told to those who already have the knowledge,” he said. “Because otherwise, they will not be believed.”

  He raised his eyes to meet King’s; the contact sent a slight shock through King, like a drip of cold water on the back of the neck.

  “In that city of evil we learned much—my son, and I, and your father. The priests of Malik Nous—you think that what they do, it is mere degeneracy, mere evil, mere superstition? Would that it were! There is a core of truth to their claims of power, hidden among the diabolism and sickness. Whether the Evil Councilor who tormented Job aids them, or it is knowledge of science bent to their wicked purposes, I do not know. What we learned is this: that there is a . . . group of women. The Sisterhood of the True Dreamers, they are called. In visions they foresee—not simply the future, but what may be the future.”

  “I don’t understand—” King began.

  His mind tried to shape the word twaddle; it would be comforting. Then he remembered.

  “In the fight,” he whispered. “At Sir Manfred’s office. She pointed the gun and squeezed the trigger, but she wasn’t aiming. Yet she hit every time, with every round.”

  “Yes. Visions they see—in dreams, we heard—of things that were, or might have been; of things that will be, or might be.”

  King looked down on the woman sleeping under the spell of the narcotic. Her mouth was open, slightly; he swallowed a sudden revulsion at the thought of the sacrificial feasts.

  “Priestesses?”

  “Hey-vey,” Elias said. He held out a hand and waggled it. “Perhaps—perhaps to say slaves would be more just. Of course, in the lands under the Double Eagle, who is not a slave? Even the mightiest boyar; and the Czar himself is a slave to the cult of the Black God. The True Dreamers—think of the power that they give!”

  King did, pushing aside squeamishness. To know what the consequences of an action would be, or even the likely consequences . . .

  “There must be limits to it,” he said. “Or the Czar would rule the world.”

  Elias nodded. “Limits beyond the goodness of Him who forbids necromancy, yes. The dreams are hard to command, we heard; only a few of the Sisters could call them at will, and even then the price is high; they do not live long, the Sisters, nor are there ever many of them. Only the mightiest lords and High Priests of the Czar’s domain are given their services. Most important of all, they must dread the revealing of their secret, and so use the power sparingly. If it were known that it was possible, we heard, the skein of what might be would grow tangled and hard to see.”

  King nodded; it would be like having an agent in place. You’d have to be very careful using the intelligence you got, or you’d reveal the source and ruin its usefulness.

  “Why didn’t you inform the authorities?” he said.

  Elias shook with laughter. “Heh-yey! A mad Jew and a mad officer, with no proof? No proof at all? Your father, he only half believed himself; and less so as time went on. Too much
Angrezi common sense. And he had the Angrezi weakness—brave to madness before anything but embarrassment .”

  King winced slightly, trying to imagine reporting something like that to Colonel Claiborne. Or to a committee of scholars like his sister, and standing while the icy scalpels of their reason flayed him alive. On the whole, he’d rather be shot, himself.

  “But again, why are the Czar’s men after the Kings?” he said.

  Elias smiled crookedly and moved a chess piece with the tip of one finger. “Is it not obvious?” he said patiently. “The Sisters have told them that there is some great thing you Kings will do—or will prevent—if you live, some great thing against the Czar or the priesthood of Malik Nous. Perhaps something that you could not know until you do it, perhaps something whose weight can only be seen in hindsight . . . You know the poem about the horseshoe and the kingdom? Yes?”

  The Lancer nodded slowly. It made your head hurt, to imagine planning strategy with that sort of foresight—you could go after the father of the man who was going to save the life of the commander who was going to beat your army a generation from now. They needn’t be after him or Cass at all—it might be their children or their children’s children.

  Elias pointed a bony finger at Yasmini. “And now, seeking to track you down and kill you—they have left their greatest treasure in your hands!”

  A sudden thought struck the young lord of Rexin; the meal he’d wolfed so eagerly suddenly sat like lead in his belly.

  “Wait a minute . . .” He nodded at Yasmini. “She said, when she stopped me in the street—she said that if I died, the whole world would die.”

  “Cus emok,” David bar-Elias whispered—King recognized that as an Arabic curse. Elias went gray and pulled at his beard, muttering prayers.

  King’s mouth quirked. “I hope that doesn’t mean I have to live forever,” he said. “While I’m willing to do my bit for King-Emperor and Raj, that’s rather more than I’d care to promise.” More soberly: “Particularly considering the events of the last few months.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Henri de Vascogne raised a brow. “There is a problem, my old?”

  “No entry, sahib,” the patrolman said.

  “What occurs?”

  “I may not speak, sahib. Orders.”

  “Take my card to your superior,” de Vascogne said, and offered it. “Now, if you please.”

  Police had set up barricades around Metcalfe House and constables stood behind it, some leaning on lathi-sticks, long quarterstave-batons, as a reminder to the morning crowds not to come too close.

  After a moment the patrolman took the card and disappeared into the building. The Frenchman lit a cigarette and waited patiently amid the stares and chatter. After a half hour had passed he bought a samosa and ate it, enjoying the spicy deep-fried vegetables, but wishing the while for a real breakfast. A plate of petit pain and a decent cup of coffee, neither of which he’d had since he’d passed the borders of the Angrezi Raj. One heard that the Kapenaar could make good coffee—France-outre-mer bought most of its raw beans from the Viceroyalty of the Cape, or in Madagascar—but the Indian parts of the Empire had no conception of how to brew it, and forever drowned the taste with spices. Tea they could make, yes: coffee, no.

  Presently a plainclothes officer came to the edge of the prohibited area. Henri recognized him; Tanaji Malusre, something of a protégé of Sir Manfred. As I am myself, he thought with amusement, throwing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it out. For the occasion he was dressed like an Imperial, and the turban felt odd. It was excellent protective coloration, though: Now he could be mistaken for a million others.

  “Sahib,” the policeman said.

  “Namaste, Detective-Captain,” Henri replied politely. “Sir Manfred has returned none of my calls.”

  The detective was a brave man; Henri frowned to see the nervous sideways glance he gave. Then he ducked under the barricade and jerked his head slightly. The two men walked a few steps, losing themselves in the crowd.

  “Sahib, this is very strange,” Malusre said. “Sir Manfred is . . . missing.”

  Henri’s eyebrows climbed. “Missing?” he said, hiding his appalled start in calmness. “Name of a dog, how?”

  “And presumed either kidnapped or dead,” Malusre said, speaking in a low, hurried tone. “I was first on the scene—an appointment early this morning. Evidence of violence, yes; many bloodstains, wrecked furniture. Also gunshots; we found spent rounds, and the forensics people here are digging rounds from the walls. Evidence of forced entry, too. Sir Manfred’s safe had been forced open and papers taken. But no bodies. Three people are missing: Sir Manfred, his assistant, and the khansama.”

  He hesitated. “And witnesses say the whole affair took place late last night. One has identified Captain King as entering the building at the same time. I think a warrant for his arrest as a material witness, possibly a suspect, is in preparation.”

  “Merde,” Henri said quietly. “I do not find that particularly credible, given the circumstances, Detective.”

  “No indeed. However, the case is now in the hands of the Political Service. Allenby sahib, a colleague of Sir Manfred’s, has taken it over.” He went on in a neutral tone: “I am informed that I shall be rejoining the Kashmir Division of the Imperial Indian Police soon.”

  “Merde,” Henri said.

  Malusre nodded, smiling slightly. “I speak little French, but I think that may be appropriate, sahib,” he said. He looked up at the facade of Metcalfe House. “I regret leaving Delhi for many reasons . . . among which, I indubitably wish that I knew what happened here last night.”

  “So do I, my old, so do I,” Henri said.

  His diplomatic mission suddenly looked a good deal more complicated. Alone, he could do nothing—Warburton had been his link to the Political Service. Luckily, he’d made other friends during his stay here, and some of them were very influential indeed.

  Back to court, he thought.

  Two young men and two women sat on a circle of cushions near the portside gallery of an airship, talking quietly. The Garuda sailed silently northward, cruising at eight hundred feet for the sake of the view. The Imperial family’s air yacht was built on the same hull class as the Diana, the airship Cassandra King had taken to Oxford.

  Pravati, was that only a few months ago? she asked herself.

  Of course, the layout of the two-deck gondola was entirely different, built to accommodate the dynasty and their guests and servants, rather than scores of passengers; this section spanned a thousand square feet, with broad slanting windows along both sides, and railings around wells cut through the keel to let passengers look directly down. It was broad enough to hold the dancers for a small ball, with the main dining room to the rear and a lovely circular staircase twisting upward in a fantasy of gilt and rosewood. The conversation was not in the least festive, though.

  “I cannot interfere with the civil service or police,” Charles Saxe-Coburg-Gotha said, a troubled frown on his face. “For one thing, the Empire lives by law; for another, I’m heir to the throne, not the King-Emperor.”

  Cassandra flushed, and kept silent with an effort of will. Henri de Vascogne smiled and shrugged, a gesture subtly unlike anything a man of the sahib-log would have used.

  “Your Imperial Highness, I was not suggesting anything so blatant.”

  Be damned if you weren’t, Cassandra thought, as Sita snapped open a contraption of ivory fretwork from Dai-Nippon and fanned herself.

  “After all the trouble we’ve taken to get Henri here,” Sita pointed out, “it doesn’t make much sense not to listen to him.” She paused, and smiled. “And if you don’t listen to him, brother dear, why should I do so?”

  Charles winced, a slight narrowing of the eyes. That girl is trouble, Cassandra thought. It was a good point, in terms of getting her brother to do what she wanted; he’d been given the task of persuading her to agree to the diplomatic marriage with the heir to the throne o
f France-outre-mer. If she decided to start kicking up a fuss again, Charles would have to go to his father and report failure; they could scarcely stage a wedding with a guardsman standing behind the bride twisting her arm.

  And Sita would let them twist her arm right off rather than do something she really decided she didn’t want to do. So, effective.

  It was also ruthless, a bit unethical, and generally a low blow—very much like the princess at her worst. From what she knew of Charles, it might well just put his back up; and if he decided that it was his duty to do things according to the rule book, he might take a dourly dismal satisfaction in the personal trouble it caused him. Stubbornness ran in the Imperial dynasty’s blood.

  Henri de Vascogne seemed to sense all that in the same instant she did, and went on:

  “If Your Highness feels he cannot intervene at all in this matter, well”—another supremely Gallic shrug—“I am merely a guest here, and you must conduct the affairs of your home as you see fit. Still, Sir Manfred chose to confide in me . . .”

  “And you’ve always said that Sir Manfred was the smartest man in the Political Service,” Sita pointed out.

  “. . . and Sir Manfred was convinced that this Captain King—and of course his sister—were the objects of a conspiracy by persons hostile to the Empire. Many different persons, in fact.”

  Cassandra spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “Charles. My brother could no more betray the Empire than he could walk on water.”

  His eyes met hers. “Cass . . . Dr. King . . . you know your brother, but I do not. All I have to go on is the papers that my advisors give me—and Agent Allenby strongly, vehemently, claims that your brother should be at least regarded as a suspect.”

  “That’s not quite all you have to go on, Your Highness,” Cassandra said. “You haven’t met Athelstane, but you have met me. You have to take into account what you think of my judgment.”