Metal and Magic

by Chris Paton

  “Your master?” Hari smoothed a crooked finger over the hawk’s breast. Settling upon his wrist, the hawk lowered its wings and was still. The vultures gambled about the rocks above them on thick talons. Hari studied the boy. Reaching down he lifted the cuff of the boy’s shirt and found a leather bracelet with the name Shahin crudely carved into the surface. “Shahin?” Hari looked at the hawk as it shifted position on his wrist. “A fine companion for the Nightjar,” Hari nodded. “We will travel together.” Hari closed the boy’s eyes with his fingers and walked back down the path to the lookout post.

  Sprawled on a ledge, one hundred feet further along the path beyond the lookout post, Hari found the naked body of Jamie Hanover. Bruised, one arm and one ankle broken, Jamie’s body was bloody and dirty. The djinn mark burned on his chest wept a thin, clear fluid. Hari clambered over the rocks to where Jamie lay and sat down beside him. Shahin flapped from his wrist and settled upon a rock above them.

  “British,” Hari placed a hand on Jamie’s body. “Can you hear me?”

  Jamie stirred. Lifting his head an inch from the ground, he opened one eye, stared at Hari and let his head fall with a soft thud. “Hari,” Jamie’s mouth stretched into a thin line. He licked the dust from his lips. “What took you so long?”

  “You are well, British?”

  “Well?” Jamie coughed. “Hari, do I look well?”

  “Truly?” Hari patted Jamie’s shoulder. “No, you do not. But you are alive.”

  “I am something,” Jamie cursed as he forced himself into a sitting position. Hari helped position his ankle. “I am also naked. No wonder I am cold.”

  “Here,” Hari unbuttoned his jacket and wrapped it around Jamie’s shoulders.

  “You found my mother’s locket.”

  “Yes, the Russian gave it to me,” Hari started to remove it.”

  “No, keep it for me.” Jamie stared at the mark on Hari’s chest. “That,” he pointed, “I understand it now.”

  “Yes,” Hari traced the tattoo, azure blue on his brown skin. “It spirals the opposite way to yours,” he stared at Jamie’s chest. “Does it hurt?”

  “No. Not anymore.” Jamie rested his wrist on his thigh. “Other things do.” He turned at the rustle of wings above him. “We are being watched, Hari.”

  “Yes, it is the second pathetic creature to attach itself to me,” Hari grinned. Jamie winced as he laughed. “We must get you help.”

  “Wait, Hari,” Jamie reached out for Hari’s hand. “Let us sit for a while,” his eyes lingered on the bandage around Hari’s waist. “Unless you need help.”

  “I am all right, British. For the moment.”

  “Good,” Jamie leaned his back against a large, smooth rock. He held Hari’s hand. “I am not sure what happened down there.” He nodded toward the city and the ruin of bodies and war machines lining the road. “I remember things, whirling thoughts, gunpowder clouds and screeching metal.”

  “Yes,” Hari squeezed Jamie’s hand.

  “Did I really do all that, Hari?”

  “Yes, British. You did.”

  Jamie was quiet for a moment. Hari stared into the grey eyes of the young Englishman as he in turn stared out into the expanse of the rocky valley, the scene of the battle of Adina Pur.

  “You remember I spoke of my sister, Luise, back in England?” Jamie released Hari’s hand. “I haven’t been a particularly good brother,” he turned to look at Hari. “I stole from her, when I was thirsty. I stole from all my family.”

  Tucking his legs up against his chest, Hari hugged his knees as he listened, the light hairs on his skin stiffening in the breeze.

  “I want you to find her, Hari. Go to England and find her.”

  “Why can’t you go yourself, British?”

  “You know why, Hari.” Jamie’s eyes wandered back to the city. The first pricks of lantern light flared at the gates as the men shored up the entrance to the city, barring the gates to the packs of wild dogs picking at the bodies on the road. “There is a boat waiting on the banks of the Indus just beyond Peshawar. It will take you down the river if you give the bosun my name and the money I left in a box with the consul at the trading outpost.

  “And how will I get the box, British?”

  “Hari,” Jamie smiled, his teeth gleaming in the twilight. “I don’t doubt your powers of persuasion,” he tapped the pommel of Hari’s kukri.

  “And from there?”

  “Take a boat, to London. You might even find one of those new steamjammers in port. There is plenty of money in the box. The Admiral wanted this mission to succeed.”

  “And did it?” Hari leaned closer to Jamie.

  “I found a Frenchman at least. A Qarin or my Qarin. Villeneuve’s secret weapon.”

  “You believe now they used a djinni at the battle of Trafalgar, British?”

  “I don’t just believe it, Hari. I know it. You said it yourself,” he pointed at the road. “Just look what I did.”

  “You want me to report back to the Admiral?”

  “No, not at first. I want you to find my sister. Give her what is left of the money, and protect her?”

  “From what?”

  “Me, and the coming storm. Hanover is a German name, Hari. You know what is coming. If they can come this far unstopped, with their machines, then the flat fields of Europe will not stop them. War is coming, Hari, and I want my sister to be protected.”

  “I will find your sister,” Hari pressed his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “I will protect her.”

  “Thank you,” Jamie fell silent as the breeze chilled the two men sitting on the side of the mountain.

  “We must go, British. We will catch our death of cold here on the mountain dressed like this.”

  “You go, Hari. I will make my own way when I am ready.”

  “Don’t be foolish, your ankle is broken,” Hari pointed.

  “Is it?” Jamie waggled his ankle in the twilight. He lifted his wrist and presented it to Hari. A feint blue glow from Jamie’s chest lit the space between them and Hari saw that the man’s body was no longer bruised, all puncture wounds were healed. “I seem to be healed, Hari. Healed and cursed.”

  “Cursed?”

  Jamie shrugged. “I must return to the pit before long, before sunrise.” Jamie stood. “Take your jacket, Hari. I will walk with you to the end of the pass. See you well on your way.”

  The torch lights of Adina Pur flickered behind them as Hari and Jamie picked their way through the rocks and found the path down to the pass. Hari followed Jamie until they reached the pass proper and they could walk side by side. The soft light radiating from Jamie’s chest lit their way, shimmering in the hawk’s beady eyes as she stared at the naked Englishman. They walked in silence,

  “Tell me more about your sister, British.”

  “Luise?” Jamie chuckled. “She’ll eat you alive, Hari. She’s some kind of scientist. I don’t know what she does exactly, but I received two telegrams from her before I left Portsmouth, when Magnificent was being refitted. The first said she was on the brink of some great new discovery. The second, that she was very busy and was sorry she wouldn’t be in touch for a while.”

  “When was that?”

  “A couple of years ago.”

  “You never contacted her?”

  “No,” Jamie held his hand in front of his chest, turning his palm in the light. He stopped. “She might be in trouble, Hari. If not now, then soon. Find her, protect her. Promise me, Hari?”

  Hari winced as Jamie gripped his arms between powerful fingers. “I promise.”

  “Good,” Jamie let go of Hari. “Now I must leave you.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Back,” Jamie pointed to the west. “Back to the pit.”

  “You can’t go back there, British.”

  “Where else can I go, Hari? They made me. I cannot leave without the Shah’s blessing. I must return.” Jamie waved. “Look after yourself, Hari. You have been a good friend.”<
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  “Goodbye, British.” Hari watched Jamie turn and walk back toward the path to Adina Pur, his white skin disappearing in the growing gloom, the blue light fading as the distance grew between them. Hari placed his hand inside his jacket, smoothing his hand over the wound in his side. Holding his side he continued along the pass, pausing only once on the way to Peshawar at the sound of someone or something striding up the pass.

  Crouching behind a boulder, Hari watched another metal emissary clank along the smooth stones of the pass, passing within a few feet of Hari’s hiding place. Different from the others, the Russian star blazed upon its chest.

  Hari shook his head. He touched two fingers to his temple and saluted the emissary as it clanked past him. “Good luck,” Hari smiled and continued down the pass.

  Epilogue

  The River Indus

  Pakistan, Central Asia

  January, 1851

  Hari stubbed his sandaled feet on a rusty nail protruding from the weathered deck of The Cotton Licker. Pallid smoke puffed from the tiny smokestack in erratic clouds to the beat of the little boat’s steam engine. Perched upon Hari’s shoulder, Shahin tucked her head beneath her wing. Hari plucked an errant feather from the hawk’s breast and smoothed his palm over her wings.

  “Not long now, Shahin. The sun rises.”

  “You talking to that bird again?” The deck wobbled under the fat boatswain’s feet. The man fiddled with the oil lamp hanging from a large iron hook hammered into the rotten plinth of wood above the door to the cabin.

  “I am,” Hari stepped to one side as the boatswain staggered past him.

  “They won’t let it on board a steamerjammer. They is afeared of such, they is,” the man nodded. “Truth be told, I is afeared of such.” Taking off his shirt, he folded rolls of fat over the wooden gunwale and wet the shirt in the crest of the wave from the bow of the boat.

  “Truly?” Hari lifted Shahin from his shoulder and placed the hawk on the gunwale opposite the boatswain. “Shahin is nothing more than a bird.”

  “There you go again,” the boatswain wrung the water out of his shirt onto the deck of The Cotton Licker. Dirty splashes of water caught the first rays of sun before staining the deck with dark spots. “Giving it a name,” he flapped the shirt in front of him before stretching it over his belly. “Not natural. Things as is not human shouldn’t have names.”

  “You have named this boat,” Hari pointed to the sign above the cabin door.

  “Different, that is. This is a boat,” the boatswain tapped his temple with a stubby finger. “It don’t think.”

  “No,” Hari smiled. “It does not.” Hari sat on the gunwale next to Shahin. “But neither will it come when called.”

  “You can call that? And it comes?” the boatswain tugged the sleeves of his shirt down his sunburned arms.

  “Yes,” Hari rubbed a finger over Shahin’s breast. The hawk nibbled at his finger.

  “How far?”

  “Sorry?” Hari looked up.

  “How far away can you call it?” the boatswain frowned. “And how?”

  “If the wind is with us,” Hari shrugged. “I don’t know. Many miles at least.”

  “Show me,” the boatswain pointed at the flat plains beyond the banks of the river. The sun teased the long green grasses into burning fronds of orange.

  “Oh, I am sorry. Truly I am. But Shahin is too sad to fly.”

  “Sad? What nonsense is that? How can a bird be sad?”

  “She has lost a loved one. A young boy,” Hari pointed towards the mountains behind them. “Dead in the mountains.”

  “So she is in mourning?”

  “She is in grief, yes.”

  “Unnatural,” the boatswain shook his head. The man stared at Shahin for a moment. Hawking a glob of phlegm into his mouth, he spat into the Indus.

  Hari fished a morsel of goat meat from the pouch at his belt. Pinching the dried meat between finger and thumb he waited for Shahin to tease it from his grip. As Shahin plucked at the meat Hari lifted the lid of a wooden chest with the bridge of his foot.

  “What are these?” Hari pointed at the stack of newspapers inside the chest.

  “What did you say?” the boatswain jostled Hari out of the way to take a closer look. “Bugger me. I forgot a whole stack of papers,” he scratched at the thick, red muttonchops on his sunburned cheeks. “And I thought the store master was being tight with his sovereigns.” Sliding his fingers beneath the twine and lifting the stack, the boatswain turned to face the gunwale and swung back his arm ready to pitch the papers into the river.

  “What are you doing?” Hari moved out of the way.

  “Well, I can’t take them back with me. Not now. I can blame the store master for short-changing me, but not if I have the bloody papers on the deck.”

  “Wait,” Hari reached forward and tugged a single paper from the stack. “He moved out of the way and smiled at the boatswain. “Toss away.”

  The papers splashed into the Indus, bobbing in the brown water until the water began to seep in between the printed leaves. The boatswain closed the lid of the chest and sat down on it. He looked up at Hari and frowned.

  “Something caught your eye? That paper’s over a month old.”

  “The woman in the photo on the front page,” Hari shrugged Shahin off his wrist and onto the wheelhouse roof. He stooped beside the boatswain and pointed at a blonde woman suffering the kiss of an oil-stained man wearing a leather cap with thick goggles pushed back on his forehead. “Is she famous?”

  The boatswain tugged the paper from Hari’s hands. “That’s Beau Robshaw that is.”

  “The man?” Hari tapped the photograph with two fingers. “Who is the woman?”

  “Well,” the boatswain traced the text beneath the photo with his fingers. “It says it right here.”

  “Yes,” Hari tapped the finger. “Luise Hanover. I can read.”

  “All right. Don’t get all particular.”

  “Yes,” Hari sighed. “But who is she? Is she famous?”

  “He is,” the boatswain tapped the picture of the man. “He is one of those steamracers. A good one if I remember right. But who the lady is, I can’t rightly tell. That Robshaw fellow is a bit of a player if you know what I mean?” the boatswain grinned. “There’s only one lady he hasn’t had his fingers all over and that’s Romney Wallendorf, his greatest rival.”

  Hari took the paper as the boatswain talked and studied the picture of Luise Hanover. Despite the smudged print and the oily hands smearing her skin, Hari could clearly see the freckles and the resemblance to her brother.

  “Hanover?” The chest creaked as the boatswain pushed himself up and onto his feet. “I remember reading something about a Hanover. There’s plenty to read when doing the mail run,” he tapped the newspaper. “There’s a Hanover that has invented something or other. Might be as it was a woman. Might be that she had the first name Luise.”

  “Truly?” Hari folded the paper. “Can I keep this?”

  “I was going to pitch it in the river,” the boatswain shrugged.

  “Thank you.” Hari opened the satchel hanging from his shoulder inside his robes. Slipping the paper inside, he walked over to the hawk and presented it with another morsel of meat.

  “What’s your interest?” the boatswain shuffled behind Hari. “In the woman?”

  “I know her brother,” Hari stroked Shahin’s breast.

  Squinting at Hari, the boatswain spat. “Just as well. Can’t see the likes of you two meeting otherwise.” Brushing past Hari, the boatswain stepped inside the wheelhouse and steered the boat closer to the western bank of the river.

  Holding out his arm for Shahin, Hari turned away from the boatswain and carried the hawk to the bow of The Cotton Licker. The sun’s rays caught the brass-plated tops of the steamjammers’ masts anchored in the deep water at the mouth of the Indus.

  “There is our passage to England, Shahin,” Hari smoothed his fingers along the hawk’s wing all the
way to the tip. “What perils and pleasures await us at the end of our journey, I wonder?”

  The bow wave melted into the river as The Cotton Licker slowed and the boatswain nosed the little steam-powered boat into the busy stream of vessels servicing the steamjammers as they took on board supplies, freight and passengers bound for the lush meadows of Queen Victoria’s British Isles.

  Prologue

  London Docklands

  London, England

  April, 1851

  Soapy water slopped onto the polished timber deck of bathroom number two, deck three, of The Regal Giant, the flagship steamjammer of shipping moguls Roland & Percy. A steady trickle of sweat ran down stowaway Hari Singh’s chest soaking into the feathers of the damp hawk hidden beneath his mystic robes. Shahin’s wingtips, slick and heavy with moisture, brushed against Hari’s chest hairs as she twitched in the heat.

  “Quiet, Shahin,” Hari folded a sweaty palm around the bird’s breast. “Just a few minutes more, I promise.” Shahin snuffled beneath Hari’s robes. “Pah, stop sulking. I should have left you on the mountain.”

  The Regal Giant slowed as it approached its mooring along the wharf opposite the West India dock of London’s busy docklands. Hari peered out through the disconnected brass pipe fitting in the copper barrel, hoping the buxom mistress and her young playmate from the lower decks would soon be finished lathering one another with pungent bubbles of soap.

  The barrel, an empty repository for heating water when all the bathroom’s tubs were in use, was ringed with green lines of corrosion. Hari smeared a sweaty finger over the ring just beneath the fitting. Shahin flapped at the sudden shriek of the mistress as the young man tried to squirm beneath her amply-proportioned body. The hawk closed its beak upon Hari’s nipple, forcing the Indian mystic up and out of the barrel. Stumbling onto the deck, Hari let go of Shahin as she released her grip on his breast, flapping her damp wings through the clouds of steam billowing out of the copper tub in the centre of the bathroom. Hari pressed his palm upon his nipple and urged his cramped limbs into a standing position. As The Regal Giant bumped against the docks, Hari swayed into an elegant bow before the dumbfounded bathers.