by Myke Cole
She snorted. “We have that in common, sir.”
The sun was scarcely up the next morning before Captain Ghaisas arrived with two Naga guards and a trooper of his own.
He was empty-handed, which surprised Bookbinder because humans only ever approached them here to bring food.
Ghaisas saluted. “Good morning, sir.”
Bookbinder returned the salute. “Good morning, Captain. Nice to see you.”
“It is nice to see you. I am thinking you are very unhappy sitting here with nothing to do. I am inviting you to play games with my men. His Majesty has given permission for the playing.”
Bookbinder stood, working kinks out of his shoulders from sleeping on the hard stone floor. He felt a snake drop from his knee, where it had been curled up to sleep. He had become so used to them now that he barely noticed. He looked over at the rest of his team, most already awake, stiff and annoyed from enforced idleness and sleeping on stone. He turned back to the captain. “That would be delightful.”
Ghaisas chatted amiably as they headed over to the Indian encampment. “We are a combined force here, sir. All of our best come. We have Assam, Madras, Gurkhas. I am from Fourth Rajputs. Subedar Major Dhatri is Sikh Regiment.”
They passed through the curtain wall out to the tent city that comprised the human presence. The smells of cooking and sounds of conversation were rain in Bookbinder’s desert after being cooped up in that pavilion for so long. “This is it?” He gestured to the camp around him. “Are there more of you here?”
Ghaisas shook his head. “His Royal Majesty only permits a small number of peoples to be living here. Most of them are officers inside the palace.”
“You like it?” Bookbinder asked, unsure of what else to say.
Ghaisas grinned until his moustache tickled his cheeks. “It is the biggest honor to be coming here, sir. We are living with our gods.”
They passed beyond the line of tents to a broad field covered in semifrozen grass that was miraculously free of snakes. A cricket pitch had been laid out, complete with wickets. Bats, balls, helmets, and pads lay haphazardly along the side. A group of young Indian soldiers mulled around the stumps at one end.
They looked up, smiling, as the Americans approached.
One of the troopers handed Ghaisas a basket of flat bread, which he passed to Bookbinder. “Only a little eating. You are running a lot today! Has anyone played the game cricket before?”
Bookbinder shook his head and noted that the Americans around him were following suit. “I did once,” Stanley said. “On a liaison tour with the Brits. But that was ages ago. It’s a little like baseball . . . and a little like golf.”
Ghaisas nodded. “You are right. We are dividing you up on two teams, and you will learn fast. This is an easy game to play.”
Sharp and Archer shook their heads. “We’d like to sit this out, sir, if it’s okay with you. We’re happy just to be out of that gazebo.”
“It’s not okay with me, Sergeant. You’ll play and you’ll do your best and we’re all going to have a good time and get along with our friends here, okay?”
“Okay.” Sharp shrugged, as unflappable as ever.
“No using magic,” Bookbinder joked to Ghaisas as they headed over to the knot of Indian soldiers to make their introductions.
Ghaisas smiled back. “No worrying about that. Humans are not allowed to be bringing magic to this place. His Majesty makes special permission for you and Major Woon. It is a great honor.”
Cricket was precisely as Stanley had described it, a lively game that felt part baseball, part soccer, and part golf. Near as Bookbinder could tell, it consisted of whacking a ball with a short flat bat and then running back and forth between a couple of sticks while the pitcher tried to get him declared “dismissed” through a variety of confusing ways, most consisting of knocking down the sticks they were running between. It was tough to follow, but the Indians seemed to be playing honestly, and the mere act of being around people and stretching their legs to run in the bright sunshine was an absolute blessing. Bookbinder found himself smiling and wasn’t surprised to see Sharp, Archer, and even Stanley doing the same despite their original refusal to play.
The Indians were affable and playful, poking fun at one another when a swing at the ball was missed, or the sticks accidentally knocked over during a run. There was Nishok, a Nepali lad from the Gurkhas who was missing three of his teeth. It didn’t stop him from grinning incessantly. He was the fastest runner Bookbinder could remember seeing and in the habit of disputing referee calls with Ghaisas, who served as the game’s umpire, shouting “Howzat!” at the top of his lungs every time he felt a player should be declared out. There was Jivan, a Naik cavalryman from the Kashmir Rifles, who could throw the ball with such accuracy that he often hit the sticks before a batter could finish the run, keeping him from scoring even once.
Dhatri turned out to be the best bowler, what Bookbinder thought of as a pitcher, in the entire camp.
They ran and sweated and laughed, and Bookbinder felt better than he had in a long time despite the maddening wait for the Great King’s pleasure. He looked up about halfway through the game to see many naga clustering the parapets of the ring wall, watching them play. Much of the Indian encampment seemed to have turned out as well, standing alongside the oval pitch, shouting encouragement in broken English as the Americans fumbled their way through the bats and runs. Sharp and Archer, gifted natural athletes, took to it quickly, and what Stanley, Bookbinder, and Woon lacked in athleticism, they made up for in the charity of the opposing team, who worked hard to let the Americans off easy when they were up at bat.
After a couple of hours, they broke for a snack, sitting around the stumps and making halting conversation in their limited common language. Bookbinder was trying to comprehend some joke Nishok had told in his broken English when he heard a throaty rumble of vehicles. A small row of trucks had gathered on the opposite side of the pitch in a clearing just beyond the camp. Indian soldiers massed around it, waiting for something.
Bookbinder stared for a moment, and was about to turn his attention back to Nishok when the air before them shimmered.
A giant gate rolled open before them, as large as the one he’d passed through when he’d first come to the Source.
A convoy of military trucks rolled through, and the Indian soldiers swarmed them, rushing to move stacks of heavy wooden crates into their own vehicles.
Resupply by Portamantic gate. Bookbinder snapped his eyes up to the ring wall. After a moment’s scanning, they alighted on one of the naga princes, leaning from one of the wall’s turrets, arms outstretched. His current was wickedly strong. Even from this great distance, Bookbinder felt the faintest hint of it thrumming in the air.
Their Portamancer. Bookbinder tried not to stare and failed.
Here was the answer to their problems. Right beside him and not helping him for reasons he couldn’t understand.
Bookbinder bit back on his anger. Ghaisas followed his gaze and noted his expression. “Perhaps Colonel Bookbinder is feeling tired from too much playing,” he ventured. “Maybe now is the time to go back to the guesthouse for resting. Maybe with rest you can finish the fear-sickness and give His Royal Majesty the requested demonstration.”
The Naga Raja summoned them again the next day, right on schedule. They proceeded into his presence, Hazarika and Vasuki-Kai in the lead, just as before. Ajathashatru reclined on his dais, just as before. The only thing to distinguish this visit from the last was the presence of a single naga sorcerer by his side. Bookbinder still had trouble telling any two naga apart, but this looked to him to be the Portamancer he’d seen during the cricket game.
Once they had performed their prostrations, Ajathashatru addressed them. “His Royal Majesty notes that you are enjoying playing games with his children. This pleases him. Cricket is a silly game, but it is a mark of civilization, and taking to it can only improve the lot of your people.”
Bookbinder
bowed. “His Majesty was kind to permit it. Captain Ghaisas has been very gracious and patient in teaching us.”
Ajathashatru’s many heads nodded. “His Majesty says that you have been a polite guest. He will hear your entreaty now if you wish to beg a boon of him.”
Bookbinder glanced at the Portamancer. The formality of the request making perplexed him. Surely Vasuki-Kai had informed his king why they had come here. Why bother with the asking?
He shrugged inwardly. This was a different race, a different culture.
He couldn’t begin to understand how their minds worked.
Best to play along in the hopes they were getting somewhere.
The Portamancer couldn’t help but be a good sign.
“Please inform His Majesty that my government’s presence in this plane is cut off from resupply and aid. We are under siege by hostile goblin tribes and cannot hold out for very long. If we are not rescued, many thousands will die. I ask that His Majesty use his Portamancer to help us to return to my home to obtain relief for my men before they are lost.”
Ajathashatru hissed to one of the naga guards, who bowed, slithered away, and returned with a bundle of arrows. A princely naga joined it, a strong current emanating from it. The tenor of the tide came clear to Bookbinder, soft, cold, fluid. A Hydromancer.
“His Majesty asks if, now that you are rested and accustomed to life among us, you can work your magic as a demonstration.”
Bookbinder sighed inwardly. It seemed that while he could not bargain, the Great King most certainly could. The naga Hydromancer stretched its hands forward, Binding its magic into a shimmering ball of ice that hovered before it.
“His Majesty asks that you magic the tips of these arrows, as you did the bullets of your sipahi when you fought the agni danav on your journey here.”
There was no playing games now. If he wanted to use the king’s gate, he was going to have to put something on the table.
He stepped forward and did his grunting drama as before, but this time, he worked his magic properly, siphoning off the naga’s current in full to its hissing surprise, then channeling it into the arrowheads, one by one, until they crackled on the stone floor of the promenade, blue with cold, sparking frost.
One of the naga guards slithered forward at a gesture from the king, retrieved one of the magic arrows, and nocked it to a man-sized bow. At a nod from Ajathashatru, it fired it into one of the stone pedestals that fed the clouds of glass insects. The arrow slammed into the base of it, the frost spreading outward, the stone crackling from the cold. After a moment, the pedestal shivered, then shattered, frozen pieces scattering across the promenade, sending the snakes sliding away.
Ajathashatru hissed in frank admiration, then paused, assuming his usual regal mode. “His Majesty says your magic is very impressive. He asks how long these arrows will stay ensorcelled.”
Bookbinder shook his head honestly. “I regret I do not know. I believe they expend their magic as they are used.”
“His Majesty is pleased with your demonstration. He grants your boon and will direct his amatyan to return you home to your people soon. Unfortunately, the time is not auspicious for the working of this particular magic. The great rain that indicates the end of the Vassa is late this year. Until these rains come, the magic you request cannot be worked.”
Bookbinder seethed. Fucking liar. He had just seen the Portamancer working his magic right in front of him yesterday. He chose one of Ajathashatru’s heads and met its eyes. The head stared back, daring him to challenge the patent falsehood. Bookbinder swallowed his pride and bowed. “Of course, I will be patient and await His Majesty’s pleasure.”
Ajathashatru nodded. “His Majesty commands you to do so. He will summon you again when he next desires an audience. Go now, and know that His Royal Majesty is pleased with you.”
Bookbinder backed out of the audience again, eyes down, blood boiling with fury, digging deep for scraps of patience.
When next the Indians brought them out for cricket, Bookbinder noted soldiers busily cleaning up the tents and doing their best to put their gear in order. Regimental standards were being raised, A golden Maltese cross surrounded a horn beneath three lions fluttered above one tent pole, an elephant paraded across a round shield before two crossed swords on another. The number of dress uniforms had spiked sharply.
“What’s up with that?” Bookbinder asked Ghaisas, indicating the fluttering standards, the sudden interest in order and cleanliness.
Ghaisas grinned. “Very soon it is Army Day in my country. We celebrate a very famous general. He was our first once India became a free democracy. There will be celebrations here and also at home.”
“Outstanding. Do we get to celebrate with you?”
Ghaisas thought about it for a moment. “Maybe we are having special ‘grudge’ cricket match?”
Bookbinder nodded. No doubt they’d find a way to use that as an excuse to further delay them. He knew the cricket games were an attempt to distract them.
The next day, two naga guards escorted the same naga Hydromancer and deposited a larger bundle of arrows beside the fountain, hissing and nodding at Bookbinder until he transferred the creature’s magic into them. He looked up once the bundle was fully magicked, gingerly lifted by the guards, careful not to touch the blue tips, and carted away. “Tell His Royal Majesty that I sincerely hope those rains come soon,” Bookbinder said.
But if the naga understood him, they gave no sign.
This became a daily ritual. Bookbinder would magick bundles of arrows in the morning, as well as the occasional sword or magazine of ammunition. In the afternoon, Captain Ghaisas would collect them for cricket. The captain was tight-lipped about the coming rains, and his men all studiously avoided the topic, Dhatri included. After a while, Bookbinder stopped bringing it up.
Each day, the Portamancer would come to the turret to open the gate for the Indian soldiers to transfer equipment or personnel.
Bookbinder would look at his lap, knowing he was expected to ignore this flagrant dishonesty.
When, after another week, Hazarika and Vasuki-Kai came to summon him before the Naga Raja again, hope stirred in his breast. Perhaps he’d finally passed whatever test of patience they’d laid before him. Maybe this was it.
But his heart sank when he saw that the promenade before Ajathashatru had at last been cleared of snakes. Instead, there were heaps of ordinance. Arrows, swords, bullets, even larger artillery shells and rockets. They stretched all around Bookbinder, forcing him to turn his head to take it all in.
“His Royal Majesty is exceedingly pleased with your magic,” Hazarika translated. “The frost you have put into his arms persists, and has given him a great tool to strike at the heart of his enemies. He is most pleased with you and has decided to make an exception. There is no need to wait for the Vassa this year. His Majesty will employ his magic to aid you.”
Bookbinder shuddered as he waited for the “but” that was surely coming. It did.
“But,” Hazarika added, “His Majesty asks that you first complete this task for him.” He swept his arm across all the ordnance spread around him. “You must first magick these instruments of war for the glory of his Majesty’s army.”
Bookbinder nodded and bowed. All anger was gone. His blood was as cool as his mind was clear.
Because now he knew. He had seen the vast expanse of the Agni Danav Raajya. He knew that a full-scale offensive against them would take months, that it would require magicked ammunition far beyond even the piles that lay all around him now.
He knew the truth: Now that Ajathashatru knew what he could do, the Great King would never, ever let him go.
Chapter XXIII
Off the Pitch
The notion of “Probe” or prohibited magics is completely arbitrary. It’s much like passing judgment on homosexuality, or euthanasia. The physical world isn’t interested in human moral judgments. It simply ticks along as it always has. In the so–called “pariah�
� states in Africa and the Caribbean, where Necromancy is embraced and openly practiced, the idea of death and the sanctity of burial are different. The Mexican “Dios de los Muertos Exception,” and the fact that the United States recognizes it, underscores this flagrant hypocrisy. There are so–called “Probe Selfers” rotting in prison, or even dead, for the crime of practicing magic that would have been perfectly legal if they’d been lucky enough to be born in Nigeria, or the Southern Sudan, or Haiti.
—Loretta Kiwan, Vice President
Council on Latent-American Rights
Appearing on WorldSpan Networks Counterpoint
Bookbinder returned to the pavilion, stretched, and tapped Sharp on the shoulder. “A word.” He motioned toward the fountain.
Sharp nodded and followed. The naga guards, now confident that Bookbinder and his team would keep to the pavilion and its environs, no longer followed them to the place where the loud pattering of falling water obscured hushed conversation.
Bookbinder was fairly certain that the naga guards couldn’t understand a word of what they said, but he still made a great show of scrubbing down, and was sure to pitch his voice low when he said to Sharp, “We’re leaving.”
Sharp looked up, surprised. “Sir . . .”
Bookbinder plunged his hands into the water, scrubbing them hard and splashing loudly. “You’re in receive mode now, Sergeant. I am not asking for your opinion. I am telling you what our course of action is.”
Sharp paused only briefly. “Roger that, sir. What are your orders?”
Bookbinder nodded. “The first thing is that the only people who know are you and I. That doesn’t change. I don’t want Woon or Stanley accidentally letting the cat out of the bag.”
“Got it. What’s the plan? It’s a long walk back to the FOB.”
“We’re not walking back to the FOB. Listen, when this happens, it’s going to be a big surprise. I’m telling you because I know I can count on you not to hesitate. If anyone holds back when this kicks off, you grab them by the short hairs and make them move.”