“I felt myself die!” she whispered, her face against his, cheek to cheek. “As I jumped—I felt myself die, in a thousand lines of time near this one—I felt the wheels grind through me!”
Merciful Krishna, King thought, hugging her to him. She gets to die the thousand deaths without even being a coward and deserving it.
“It didn’t happen,” he soothed. “You’re here. You’re alive. I caught you.”
She pulled her head back, and her blue-green eyes were wide with horror. “You don’t understand: I felt it. With my waking mind, without the drugs. Again. The madness—it has begun.”
Chapter Twenty
Cassandra King found herself on an elephant again, but enjoying the experience more; for a start, the walls of the howdah were solid, made for hunting and travel rather than parades.
Bombay was built on islands, and most of the largest, directly north of the city, was within the boundaries of Borivali Imperial Forest. The main railroad ran through it, and there were villages along the west coast, but otherwise the hills between Powai Lake and Bassein Creek were wilderness—three hundred square miles of it, and once past the perimeter fence you could hardly believe that a city of nearly two million was an hour’s travel away. Admission was priced at ten rupees, about a week’s average wage for a laborer, and apart from the most traveled areas, you might almost have been in a world before man, or after.
Despite anticipation and nagging worry, she lost herself for a moment as the great beast swayed through meadows of tall grass, sere with winter but yielding explosions of butterflies at each stately pace. Jungle climbed the low rolling hills ahead; big-buttressed trees with pale trunks arched cathedral high above her as they plunged into the cool shadowed depths, lianas dangled, and monkeys swarmed through, chattering. They paced by a lake edged with swamp where shaggy brown sambhur raised dripping muzzles and long horns from water laced with jade green reeds, bounding away not in fear of the humans but of a tiger that darted through in a flash of yellow-and-black grace. The smell was wild, damp, with a taste of musk and spice; the air was full of brilliantly colored wings and their raucous cries.
“Like it?” Sita asked.
“Very much,” Cassandra answered. “This isn’t a part of the country I’ve seen much of—I’ve been in Bombay for astronomical conferences, twice, but never outside it.” She paused in thought. “You know, apart from the cities, I really haven’t seen much of the country except Kashmir. And that’s extremely different. Perhaps I should travel more.”
The two of them were alone in the howdah, but Guardsmen and servants followed on the little train of elephants behind them; that was as little in the way of escort as the kunwari could arrange, and it had brought Cassandra looks of scorching jealousy from some of the ladies-in-waiting who resented the princess’s new friend.
Guards and hangers-on are something I could do without, if mad devil-worshiping assassins weren’t after me, she thought. Sita and Charles have to put up with this nonsense all their lives, and it’s a severe drawback of the family business.
Plus Sita had gone into a fit of giggles when Cassandra told her of the resentment about her new friend, deliberately misinterpreted it, and started giving her tutor melting looks occasionally in public; which was thoroughly embarrassing and started the Palace rumor mill working overtime and added outrage to the jealousy shown the newcomer. Bad enough to have rumors about her and Charles flying about, but being suspected of involvement with both siblings was like something in a bad historical novel about the court of Victoria II.
Which, of course, had been exactly what Sita intended; she was quite merciless when it came to her jokes.
The girl takes mischief to the level of an art form, Cassandra thought. Although to be fair, she’s a good sport about it when the tables are turned.
She went on aloud: “Do you hunt here?”
The howdah had come equipped with two beautiful Purdy side-by-side double rifles, in scabbards on either side; they probably would have entranced her brother. She could appreciate their craftsmanship herself, not to mention the delicate wildlife scenes engraved in hammered gold and silver thread on the locks.
“Mmm?” Sita started out of a brown study. “Oh—no, we couldn’t. Well, theoretically we could, but the Imperial Forest Service says this reserve isn’t big enough for issuing hunting licenses, so we don’t either. It would be unfair, when we couldn’t let anyone else do it, and so close to Bombay.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Now, the Terai Forest, that’s a different matter. Tiger hunts there are such fun. Someday we should . . .”
She stopped, subdued. “If there is a someday.”
“There will be,” Cassandra said stoutly; then with forced brightness, for the onlookers’ sakes: “Here we are!”
The long cliff that cut the hillside ahead of them didn’t exactly contain a ruined temple. Generations of Buddhist monks had make their vihara-monasteries and chatiya-temples here in the Kanheri Caves, a millennium and a bit before, digging and shaping for century after century before the faith of Siddhartha Gautama faded from his native India and the wilderness returned. The Forest Service rangers kept the jungle at bay, and there was usually an attendant to see that visitors behaved themselves. Sita’s Imperial whim had ensured that they had the place to themselves today. The elephants came to a halt on a stretch of open ground before the largest of the chatiyas.
For a moment they fell silent, looking up into the faces of the two great Buddhas that flanked the entrance, at the long row of columns to either side. Then Cassandra shook herself and let down the ladder. Two of the Gurkhas sprang to hold it as the ladies descended; the others fanned out to cover the approaches, kneeling with their rifles ready. Their jemadar—lieutenant—was a Sikh noble from the client kingdom of Basholi, a humorless young man who’d still managed to give Cassandra a smile when she talked to him in his own language. He approached, saluted, bowed, and spoke briskly:
“Kunwari, since you and this lady are alone, I will detail two men to accompany you into the temple and carry your—”
“Jemadar Singh, I said that I didn’t want an escort! This is a closed cave, you know. No way in or out except through the front door. My friend and I will examine it alone.”
“Kunwari . . .”
“Jemadar . . .” Sita fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You do realize that there are times a princess needs . . . privacy . . .”
“Oh.”
The officer was too swarthy to blush, but did his best, as the attendants came up with picnic baskets and blankets and cushions, and the Imperial princess took some of them with her own heaven-born hands. He cleared his throat and looked above her head in a military fashion as he replied:
“Oh. Of course. I kiss feet, Kunwari. We will guard your privacy most carefully.”
As they walked into the cool dimness of the caves, Sita giggled. “I could hear your teeth grinding, Cass!”
“You need your Royal and Imperial backside paddled, my girl!”
“Oh, would you?” Then she cowered back in mock-terror. “No, no, I promise I’ll be serious now. Sorry.”
They went farther back into the darkness; Cassandra paused to light a lantern. At last a man stepped around a pillar; it took a moment for her to realize that the dirty, ragged, bearded form was her brother. Then she carefully set the lamp on the floor and threw herself at him with a muffled shout. He gave a slight wuff—she was not a small woman—then picked her up and squeezed her, something he hadn’t done since she was eleven.
“Oh, thank Pravati,” she whispered.
He smelled, of sweat and camels and smoke; the jowl that touched hers had gone past bristly. There was a little dried blood on the right cuff of his jacket. It still felt wonderful to hold him.
“I was so worried about you,” she said. “And I couldn’t tell anyone—not even Mother—telegrams not safe—”
“I know,” he said.
Then he turned to Sita, realized who she was, and went
to one knee.
“Kunwari,” he said, with a courtliness that clashed horribly with his present state of dishevelment. “I would kiss feet, but I’m afraid I might give you lice, in my present state.”
Sita offered her hand, smiling warmly as he kissed it and rose. “Henri has told me about you, Captain King—and so has Cass, a great deal. I feel I know you already.”
Cassandra blinked to herself; a schoolgirl one minute, and then you realized she was an Imperial princess. Narayan Singh and a drawn, slight blond girl made their salaams to Sita, and the Sikh gave Cassandra a warm memsahib, which made her feel a little guilty; the man had endured unimaginable torment for his salt. Cassandra shook hands with him, then realized with a cold shock that the young woman half-hidden behind him must be the True Dreamer—Yasmini, the underminer of her rational certainties.
Why, she’s afraid of me! Cassandra thought, and smiled reassuringly. Then she was all business.
“Here are the documents,” she said. “Plans, schedules, passwords. Uniforms, and the toilet things you wanted. Charles—the kunwar—”
She saw her brother raise a brow at the use of the heir’s first name, then shake his head and put it aside.
“—got them from a Sandhurst friend of his, one who was willing to do it without an explanation and say nothing to anyone, whatever happened.”
Athelstane shaped a silent whistle. “Now there’s a man willing to put his career on the chopping block for friendship,” he said. “Not to mention other sensitive things.”
Sita nodded. “The women’s things are an old set of mine—they ought to do.” She looked curiously at Yasmini, then blossomed into a smile; probably because she was sensitive about not being taller, Cassandra thought, and found the doll-like Russian a welcome change from being loomed at. “I think the size will be about right.”
Yasmini nodded, but she seemed to be distracted. Well, I suppose a seeress should be strange.
“And the documents—the laissez-passer, and the blank, and the pens and ink, and the photo of you,” Cassandra went on. “And the letter from . . . Sita’s father. The pass doesn’t have your description, though, and—”
Sir Manfred pounced on them; for an instant she didn’t recognize him, with his skin and hair dyed, in ragged nondescript off-white clothes.
“Leave that to me, Dr. King,” he said eagerly, flipping open the folder. “Yes, yes . . . this is a copy of the boarding list?” He looked up at her and smiled. “Duplicating a laissez-passer I can handle.” He flexed his fingers and moved over to where a crack in the ceiling let in a puddle of good light. “Forging documents is one of the staples of my trade, and I’m still quite good at it.”
“And you’ve brought some food, I hope,” King said. “We’ve been hiding in here for forty-eight hours, while Warburton found Malusre. There’s water, but nothing to eat unless you like insects.”
“Yes, in the other basket—chapatis, cakes, some cold chicken, fruit,” Cassandra said. “And . . . you did want some bhang lassi?”
The pleasure of seeing her faded from Athelstane’s face; he glanced over at Yasmini. “It probably won’t be necessary, I’m afraid,” he said, and cut off her questions. “No time. Thank the merciful Krishna that the airship port is so close to the Imperial Forest.”
“Captain King,” Sita said.
He looked up sharply; his eyes narrowed a little, appraising. With a sister’s experience, Cassandra could hear Young, but no fool, this one, running through his head.
“I, my brother, and my father know something of what you’ve been going through for us, and for the Empire,” she said. “They both send their thanks. To you, and to your companions.”
“Kunwari, we haven’t had much choice about what we’ve been going through,” Athelstane said, and grinned.
Always his best expression, Cassandra thought. Sita seemed to like it, too, and returned it.
“But it’s very pleasant to be appreciated,” he went on. “After all, if a story has vile villains, daring exploits, and supernatural mysteries, tradition demands a beautiful princess, too.”
Her laugh was clear and delighted, echoing off the ancient stone. Cassandra wondered if the cave had ever heard such before.
“It also demands a gallant knight,” Sita said. Soberly: “God guide your swords, Agent Warburton, Captain King. You draw them in a good cause, and against a worse enemy than the demon king Ravana himself.”
Sita was in a somber mood as they returned to the cave mouth. “That girl, Yasmini. She was trying hard while we gave her pointers, and she’s a natural actress, but . . . is there something wrong with her?”
Cassandra shook her head. “I hope not. Everything depends on her.”
The princess’s mood lasted almost all the way to the entrance. Then she beckoned Cassandra close as if to whisper in her ear, and planted a smacking kiss on the side of her neck.
Cassandra hadn’t quite scrubbed the lip rouge off her skin by the time they reached the outside.
“I can hear your teeth grinding again,” Sita murmured, as they climbed the ladder to the howdah.
Even a cold-water bath and shave made Athelstane King feel halfway himself again. Beneath that was a taut eagerness; the next day or so would see this ended—victory, of course. Or he would be dead, in which case the question was moot; but he didn’t intend to die. He examined his face in the hand mirror; the sideburns had been trimmed back to his ears and the mustache removed. That was a bit of a wrench, but the disguise kit Warburton had received made the skin tone match the weathered olive tan of the rest of his face. He used the little mirror to adjust his military turban and the hang of the tail that fell halfway down his back.
The uniform did even more for his morale, although it wasn’t that of his own regiment; it was khaki field dress, working clothes, only the shoulder flashes to show that the wearer was supposed to be a captain in the Guards cavalry.
Have to watch how I talk, he thought, a little snidely; the cavalry regiments of the line had no particular love of their Delhi counterparts, not least because Guards officers tended to more in the way of titles and wealth.
Have to haw-haw a good deal and avoid any conversational subject that requires literacy. Cultivate the appearance of an overbred collie dog.
Warburton was dressed in the colorful but not-too-expensive clothes of a Eurasian valet-cum-secretary; the sort a young Guards officer might have inherited from his father, and who did all his military paperwork behind the scenes. He’d already stained skin and hair, and the eyes weren’t a particular problem. Narayan Singh, to his own delight, was uniformed as a Sikh daffadar, which was a part he could play to perfection. He’d taken even more delight in Ibrahim’s role, which was as a lowly servant carrying their baggage. The Pathan hadn’t complained, probably because he had endless patience when practical matters required it. He could crouch for a day and night in ambush without moving more than he needed to breathe; a few hours as a bare-legged Bombay peon would be child’s play.
King looked through his papers. “I see I’m supposed to be fabulously wealthy,” he said. “Indigo plantations in Oudh, Tata Steelworks stockholder, and shares in mines in Australia and the Cape.”
“Yes, my lord,” Warburton said, with a slight singsong Bombay accent. “You’re just back from a hunting trip to the North American colonies, as a matter of fact. You have been a trifle out of touch with events.”
“And I’m taking my little sister to see the Garuda off,” King answered. “Yasmini . . . Yasmini?”
The Russian woman started. “Da, I mean—yes. Yes . . .” Her eyes went out of focus again.
King shuddered. She was seeing more and more of the possible nows, pulled apart into fragments of possibility. And I can’t do a damned thing for her, ran through him with bitter frustration. I couldn’t stop this even if it were in my power, because we need her talent too much.
“Now. We should leave now,” she said tonelessly.
Bombay’s civil airsh
ip port was near the cityside border of the reserve that held the Kanheri caves, where the land flattened toward the outskirts of town, south of Powai Lake. Most of it was open fields of cropped grass, carefully leveled. The mooring towers for the airships were tall narrow pyramids of iron, perfectly functional despite the fanciful embellishments of bronze foliage curling around them; the airship port was an important symbol of the great city’s touchy civic pride.
To the east was the technical side of the operation; twelve huge arched sheds of bamboo-resin laminate with clamshell doors, and the clanking steam traction engines that hauled airships in and out of them. Also there were the huge underground storage tanks for hydrogen, kerosene fuel, and water ballast, machine shops for repairing air engines, offices, workmen’s quarters, all the latter hidden by earth berms planted in trees and flowering shrubs. Today half the field had been cleared of civil traffic; only a few smaller airships were tethered to the masts. At the base of the one nearest the terminal buildings was the Garuda, winched down to ground level.
The passenger entrance was to the west of the fields, close to the rail and road lines that passed down the coast to Bombay itself. King made himself languid as they disembarked from the Kanheri local, with an air of bored indifference. He strolled toward the pillared triumphal arch that soared over the broad pathway of many-colored stone leading from the rail stop. Facing him in three-quarter relief above it was a huge statue of Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of good luck, lord of new beginnings, and patron of scribes—the broken tusk he held in one of his four hands was said to have been the first pen; after Mumba Devi, he was the favorite divinity of Bombay.
The Peshawar Lancers Page 40