Underworld

by Oliver Bowden

It was some time after that—in fact, once the boy had made the transition from wood to steel—that Ethan discovered Jayadeep had a weakness. A serious weakness.

  NINE

  On the night he first met Maggie, The Ghost had been returning home to his place in the tunnel. He had passed Marylebone churchyard and glanced to check the angle of the stone—as he always did—but found his attention arrested by events taking place in the graveyard.

  It was dark, of course—this was almost exactly a year ago, when the days were as short as they were now—and it was cold, too, the kind of night where you didn’t hang around in darkened churchyards unless you had a very good reason to be hanging around in a darkened churchyard.

  Nobody had business to be in a darkened churchyard on a night like this, though. Not any kind of business that wasn’t wicked business.

  Sure enough, what The Ghost heard was very wicked business indeed.

  He stopped on the pathway by the low church wall. Listened. And he decided that on a scale of wickedness, with not-very-wicked at one end (some fornication, perhaps, a consensual business proposition conducted between a prostitute and her client), he was hearing something from the other end. He heard the sound of several men—The Ghost knew instantly, five men—some of whom were laughing and urging others on, as well as the sound of violence, of boots being used in a way their innocent maker never intended, and above all that the sound of a woman—The Ghost knew instantly, one woman—in very great pain.

  There were others who passed by, of course, who would have heard the commotion in the churchyard, the unmistakable sound of a woman screaming and calling for mercy as the blows rained down, but it was only The Ghost who stopped. He shouldn’t have done so as his job was to blend in at all times. But he stopped because he was an Assassin—he was still an Assassin—trained by Arbaaz Mir and Ethan Frye, instilled in the values of the Brotherhood.

  And he was damned if he was going to walk on by while five men got their jollies beating up a woman.

  He vaulted the low stone wall that acted as the churchyard boundary and moved farther into the gloom. The drunken, boisterous sound of men at play continued. From their accents The Ghost was able to tell that two of them were gentlemen, the other three of indeterminate class.

  Now he saw the glow of lanterns, and what he made out in a clearing in the shadow of the great church were two well-dressed men and a figure on the floor.

  “What do you call that?” one of them was saying as he stood astride her, slapping her face, the second man laughing and swigging from a flask.

  In the foreground were three bigger men, all of whom wore bowler hats. They stood with their backs to the two gents and their victim. Bodyguards, they stiffened as The Ghost navigated the graves toward them. Arbaaz and Ethan would have advised a stealthy intrusion; The Ghost could have killed two of the men before they even had a chance to react, but what he saw had awakened in him a primal anger, a sense of righteous justice, and he wanted a confrontation. He wanted for justice to be done and for justice to be seen to be done.

  “Move along, mate,” said one of the bodyguards. He had his arms folded. “Nothing for you to see here, lad.”

  The other two bodyguards had shifted. One of them had his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. The other clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Let the woman go,” said The Ghost.

  The two men had stopped their game, and they stood from the prone and bleeding body of the woman. Released, she groaned with a mixture of pain and relief and rolled over to one side, her skirts in disarray at her legs, face bloodied behind a tangle of matted hair. A poor, pitiable creature, she looked to be in her sixties.

  “Move away from her,” commanded The Ghost.

  One of the toffs sniggered and passed the flask to the second man, whose eyes twinkled with delight as he put it to his lips and drank greedily. Both looked as if they were anticipating the beginning of an entertaining show. Standing there, a lone man against five, The Ghost hoped he wouldn’t disappoint.

  He hoped that with all his fine thoughts of seeing justice done, he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew.

  The first bodyguard tilted his chin and spoke again, his words like stones dropping in the newly still churchyard. “Move along, my lad, before we do it for you.”

  The Ghost regarded him. He regarded them all. “I’ll move on when I’m satisfied the woman will be harmed no longer . . .”

  “Well, that . . .”

  “And when I’m satisfied that the two men who did this to her have been sufficiently punished.”

  The other two bodyguards burst out laughing but the leader stilled them with a hand. “Well, now, look, that ain’t going to happen because you see these two gen’men here? They pay handsomely for the services of myself and my two colleagues, specifically to ensure that no harm comes to them as they tour the less salubrious sides of this nation’s great capital, if you catch my meaning. To get to them you have to come through us, and you know, don’t you, that ain’t gonna ’appen.”

  Behind him the two pleasure-seeking toffs tittered some more, passing the flask back and forth, enjoying the show, an aperitif prior to the main course. They were weak and drunk and The Ghost knew he could take them both with one hand tied behind his back, but . . .

  First the bodyguards. Number three’s coat was unbuttoned, his hands still clasped behind his back. Either he was carrying a revolver or a cutlass hanging at his flank. He looked dangerous but also a little too relaxed, too confident.

  The same went for number two. He wore a coat that was buttoned up, ankle length, and though his left hand flexed in the pocket of his coat, his right hand was still, which meant he’d be holding a cosh or knife in there.

  Good. He was wearing a coat that was not conducive to close-quarter combat and secondly, though unwittingly, he’d shown The Ghost from where his weapon would appear. For these two reasons, The Ghost would target him first. He would be easiest to overcome, and The Ghost needed a weapon. He hoped it was a knife that the man had in his pocket.

  Number one was cleverer. He didn’t think a lone attacker would face up to five without good reason. His arms had remained folded across his chest—he carried a shoulder holster, perhaps?—but his eyes had roamed the area behind The Ghost, seeking out whatever reinforcements might be lurking there.

  When he saw nothing he regarded The Ghost with even greater interest, suspicion and apprehension, guessing what his colleagues did not even suspect: that this Indian lad was playing some kind of angle. That he was more than he seemed to be. Number one was sharper. He would be the hard one.

  The Ghost had finished sizing them up. He wished he held a kukri in one hand and had his hidden blade strapped to his other wrist. Were that the case, the battle’s outcome would be in no doubt. What’s more, it would have ended some moments ago. But even so, he was confident he could prevail. He had certain factors on his side: that his foes were largely underestimating him; that he was disgusted and supremely motivated; that he was highly trained and very adept and very fast and had assessed his distance, his surroundings, his opponents.

  And now came one more thing in his favor. For as number one began to speak, saying the words, “I’ll give you one last chance, lad . . .” The Ghost awarded himself the advantage of surprise.

  And he struck.

  Number two was still trying to pull his hands free of his coat pockets when The Ghost’s forehead smashed into his nose. This blow—a “dirty trick” that Arbaaz had never fully endorsed but of which Ethan was most fond—had the advantage of causing massive pain, instant, traumatic blood loss and temporary blindness and disorientation. For the first crucial moments of the battle, number two was incapacitated. He was out of the game, unable to resist as The Ghost spun and jabbed an elbow back to knock the wind out of him as his other hand delved into the coat pocket and found . . . a cosh, damn
.

  But it had some weight at least, and he pulled it out of the coat then swung back in the other direction, the black-leather cosh in his hand connecting with the temple of number three. The Ghost swung hard, with all his might—which was a lot of might indeed—and the blow almost took the top of his target’s head off.

  The third man had been reaching inside his coat at the time, but his hand never withdrew so The Ghost never got to find out what he had inside. Instead the man’s hand was still inside his coat as he staggered to one side with his mouth gaping like a fish on dry land. The ball bearings in the cosh had opened a gash in the side of his head and blood was already pouring from it. He would probably live, but would be brain-damaged, likely to spend the rest of his days in a bathchair drooling, being fed mushed-up food on a spoon and lacking the faculties to wonder how a mere boy had so easily bested him in a fight. The Ghost stepped forward, punched him twice in the throat and his body was still folding to the floor as The Ghost spun back around.

  The whole move was over in the time it took to draw a sword, which was exactly what number one had done. Between them both was number two, reeling from the headbutt yet still on his feet and about to gain control of his senses when The Ghost, keen not to relinquish his forward momentum, struck once more, swinging with the cosh and not making full contact but doing enough to break the man’s jaw. He kicked out at the same time, this one a clean connect, snapping the bodyguard’s leg, which folded beneath him and sent him sprawling to the dirt of the churchyard. This one would never walk again and the broken jaw meant that very few people would understand him when he spoke.

  In the same movement The Ghost lashed out with his other foot, kicking a lantern into the face of number one, who was hoping to use the opening to his advantage. The bodyguard knocked the lantern away with a cry of surprise and frustration that his move had met failure, and it gave The Ghost a moment to gather himself.

  He checked his balance, moved away from the possible obstacle of a nearby headstone and shifted the cosh from one hand to the other, then back again.

  The guardian gathered himself. He raised his cutlass, moved into position between The Ghost and the two men he was paid to protect; and then he called to them over his shoulder, saying, “Sirs, run.”

  The two toffs needed no further invitation, stumbling over one another and crashing into the stones as they took their leave, disappearing noisily into the night. Behind them on the floor lay the flask of booze.

  The Ghost clenched his teeth. He couldn’t let them get away.

  “You don’t have to die for the likes of them,” he told the bodyguard, who gave a short chuckle.

  “You’re wrong, my friend,” he replied. “Dying for the likes of them is exactly what the likes of me do. We do it all over the world.”

  Young though he was, The Ghost knew how it worked. The rich purchased commissions so they could rise quickly through the ranks of the British Army, ensuring that for the most part they stayed out of the bloodiest fighting and enjoyed the best comforts. “It doesn’t need to be that way,” he said.

  “It does, lad. When you’re as wise in the ways of the world as you are in combat—and by Christ you’re wise in that—then you’ll know.”

  The Ghost shook his head. Time was wasting. “It doesn’t matter, sir. Either way, it’s not you I want, it’s whom you serve.”

  “Still can’t do it, son,” said the bodyguard sadly. “I can’t let you do it.” The cutlass was raised, he kept his opponent on point and his stance remained firm, but there was something in his eyes The Ghost recognized. A look of impending defeat. The look of a man who knows he’s beaten, whose death or downfall is not a matter of if, but when.

  “You have no choice,” The Ghost replied, and was already in motion.

  To the bodyguard he was a mere blur, as though the night had rippled, the darkness shifting to accommodate the young Assassin’s sheer speed as he sprang forward.

  The Ghost had not made the mistake of underestimating his foe, of course. He had anticipated how his opponent might defend as well as factoring in the fact that his opponent would expect him to attack a certain way. And so he feinted first one way then the other, feeling the flow of his own body as he manipulated it in two different directions at once as he leapt, using a gravestone as a springboard to come at the bodyguard from an unexpected height and angle.

  Too good, too fast, and much too combat-intelligent for the bodyguard. This man, trained no doubt by the English military, tough as old boots to begin with and toughened even more by countless overseas campaigns, even he was no match for The Ghost. No match at all. The cosh, sticky with blood from its last victim, crashed into the back of his head and his jaw slacked and his eyes rolled as he fell, unconscious, to the ground.

  An hour or so later he would awaken, with a sore head but otherwise unharmed, when he would need to answer searching questions as to how he and his two equally battle-hardened companions could possibly be bested by a mere squit of a lad.

  For now, though, he was out cold.

  Meanwhile, The Ghost vaulted a gravestone, coming to the woman who had pulled herself up on her hands and now stared at him with a mixture of fear and awe and gratitude.

  “Bloody hell, lad, what the bloody hell are you, some kind of demon or summat?”

  “Go,” he told her, “leave this place before our friend gets his wits back about him,” and with that he took off after the two pleasure-seeking gentlemen, the sight of the woman’s bruised, bloody and swollen face spurring him on, kindling his anger as he snatched up the cutlass and ran.

  Catching them was easy. They were drunk, noisy and slow. Though they were frightened, they were probably confident that their champions could best this young upstart because men like this had never needed to worry about anything. They employed people to do their dirty work; they had servants and lackeys to do their worrying for them.

  So, yes, The Ghost caught them easily, and he reached the one who lagged behind, barreling into him so that the besuited toff fell and The Ghost was on him in an instant, rolling him over and pinning him down with his knees on either side of the man’s chest, raising the cutlass and channeling his fury, remembering that it was this man—this very man—who just moments ago he’d seen laughing as he kicked a defenseless woman, as he went to deliver the killing blow.

  TEN

  The time had come for Ethan to leave Amritsar, but there was something troubling him and he had called a meeting of the family, the outcome of which was to send shock waves through the Mir family.

  At this meeting Arbaaz had been expecting Ethan to announce that his promise had been fulfilled, which was to nurture his son’s obvious talents and hone them into an Assassin-ready whole, so that he might go on to embark upon the next phase of his education, one for which there was no set or predetermined end, the chapter of his career that would determine his legacy, his work in the field.

  However . . .

  “I don’t think he’s ready,” said Ethan bluntly, without ceremony or warning.

  Arbaaz broke bread and smiled. “Then you cannot leave, Ethan. That was our agreement.”

  The two men had shared great adventures together. Jayadeep had lain awake in bed, hearing them talking in the courtyard outside. They talked of the Koh-i-Noor diamond. How Arbaaz had retrieved it. Sometimes Jayadeep’s mother would be present and all three would reminisce. Names like Alexander Burnes and William Sleeman meant nothing to Jayadeep, but to his parents they were like a doorway into another world of exciting memories.

  “I’ve already sent word. They expect me home and I intend to honor the commitment I’ve made to them. I will return, Arbaaz, of that you can be sure.”

  “Then I fail to understand. Our agreement was that you should train Jayadeep until he was ready for the field.”

  The boy had sat beside his mother feeling invisible as they discussed him w
ithout acknowledging his presence. It wasn’t exactly an unknown occurrence; the more important the issue the less likely he was to have a say. He had never been consulted on his future, nor would he expect to be; it was simply a matter of fact that until further notice he had no say in matters involving his own destiny.

  “You’re going to have to enlighten me, my old friend,” said Arbaaz. “Throughout your years here you have assured me that Jayadeep is one of the most talented young Assassins you have ever encountered, which we all know means you think Jayadeep is the most talented Assassin you have ever encountered. And why not! He was tutored first by me then by your good self. I’ve seen for myself that he has no lack of skill, and unless you’ve been honey-coating my ears all this time, you think so, too, and yet now, on the eve of your departure, comes this news the boy isn’t ready. You must excuse my confusion. In what way is this highly trained, consummately skilled boy whose mentor is about to embark for home not ready? And more to the point, why?”

  A note of angry irritation was evident in his father’s voice, which had risen as he delivered his speech. Even a bread crumb clinging obstinately to his bottom lip did nothing to diminish his formidable look. Jayadeep shrank back. Even his mother appeared concerned.

  Only Ethan was unperturbed, returning Arbaaz’s daunting stare with an unfathomable gaze of his own.

  “It’s true that the boy has astonishing natural skill. It’s true that I have been able to mold that natural talent into Assassinship of a greater-than-usual standard. For my own part, I have learned much from the boy, which is partly the reason I intend to leave for home and have no intention of deviating from that path, no matter how many bread crumbs you spit at me, old friend.”

  Arbaaz, abashed, wiped his mouth and when his hand came away it revealed the very beginnings of a smile. “So why, then?” he asked. No, demanded. “Why leave us at this crucial time, when there is still so much to teach the boy?”