Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Kathleen Ryan

  Slowly, courteously, the elder man shooed away his guests. They left, dissatisfied but saving face, without taking notice of the clean-shaven black newcomer who had cut short their audience.

  Hesha waited respectfully for a nod from the bearded man, then crossed the tangled, noisy room to join him. Hesha Ruhadze bowed, cleared away some of the detritus left by the students, and companionably took up a seat backing the deep blue-and-green wall of the shop. The old man’s view of the cafe was clear now…and so was Hesha’s.

  “Nomoshkar, Subhas Babu.”

  “Nomoshkar, Hesha Bhai. How have you been, little brother?”

  “I do well, Subhas. I do very well. And you?”

  “I confess that I bore easily; otherwise my life is sweet.” He picked up a coffee, not his own, and Hesha followed suit. They pretended to drink, then set their cups down close to emptier vessels.

  “I apologize if my unexpected appearance has caused you to lose friends or business, Subhas. I would have been happy to return later, if you wished it.”

  “On the contrary, little brother. Those children would chatter all night. I am grateful for the release.” The old man brought a colder cup to his lips, set it down, and smiled. “It is funny. The more I insist to them that I have no Family, the more they convince themselves that I am of their own, but ashamed of them.”

  “Young warriors looking for philosophy in your venerable mind?”

  “Rabble looking for a leader, Hesha. Don’t flatter them as they flatter themselves. Flatter me all you like, of course.” He laughed softly. “Now, what brings you forth, little brother? Surely not the Festival of Snakes; it is too early.

  Conversation with you, Subhas.”

  “All the way from America? Next time, fly me to your doorstep; I should like to see the land of riches for myself.”

  Hesha tilted his head toward his companion. “It brings me forth tonight. Calcutta has changed since last I walked its streets….”

  “It has streets,” interrupted the elder.

  “And I trust you to know all there is to know about it.”

  “You honor me.” Subhas licked his lips, pushed his chair farther from the table, and crossed his legs. “Make yourself comfortable, little brother. Can you smoke?” Hesha nodded.

  “It is the thing done here, you understand. Accha!” With a wrinkled, spotted hand, he called up an attendant.

  “My dear girl,” he said into her glazed eyes, “clear this mess away and bring us two lit pipes and two used cups.”

  When she’s left them, Subhas began a catalog of Calcutta night life. “You might say the Camarilla is in possession, little brother. They certainly say it. They have a Prince; they keep court, and the same cast of characters plays out the same little comedy as in…oh, Lisbon, let us say. Ventrue says he wields the power. Tremere witches behind his back. Toreador pretends to rise above it all. Gangrel disdains to need the others. Malkav mystifies everyone, including herself. Brujah shakes a fist at Ventrue. And the Nosferatu watch and say nothing. But in Lisbon, of course, Ravnos is a rare and unwelcome visitor. Here I daresay he outnumbers the Europeans.” The girl arrived and handed the empty cups and full, smoldering pipes to her patrons. “Forgive me, little brother. I let my poetry run away from me. This is not what you need.

  “The eldest Anglo Kindred keep their lairs in the old White Town. Young leeches sleep anywhere they think is safe. They are often wrong. We have many, many dangerous places here. I will tell you these first. I know,” he said, shaking his head at Hesha, “that you will go there first, so it may as well be. The Gypsies camp by the river, north of the racecourse, under the workings for the new bridge. Do not go near their homes if you wish to keep your senses and your skin. The Gangrel and the Ravnos keep up a fine little war defending the area from each other. Stay out of Chinatown. This is difficult; there are…maybe seven, maybe eight little neighborhoods that could vie for the title. Since you last left us, strange creatures have moved in from Bangladesh and Tibet. Beware of them. There are wizards in the south. I have not heard of attacks by them on our kin for some time—but only for as long as our kin have avoided the temples of Kali. The temple district is…uncertain.

  “Sunderban jungle is filled with tigers. I need not explain myself, I trust?” Both took long, meaningless drags on their pipes and leaned back in their chairs.

  “Hunting grounds?” Hesha asked, after a long silence.

  “Everywhere. For a newcomer, if you seek crowds after dark, Park Street is good. The hotels are good. The grounds of the Maidan never quite empty, but I should not risk it. Too many trees, not enough masonry.”

  “Elysium?”

  “Ah. You want to mingle with the Camarilla? Such poor taste, little brother. Very well. You are in luck, as usual. Tomorrow night the so-called Prince and his court gather to peck at each other. You will find them,” he ended, well-bred contempt showing in every line of his face, “at the Bhooter Bari.”

  Hesha raised an eyebrow. “The Haunted House?” he translated.

  “I am afraid so…I believe Malkav’s courtier arranges the festivities during Monsoon.”

  They smoked again, presenting thoughtful faces to the passing mortals. At length, Hesha spoke. “I am greatly obliged to you for your time and wisdom, Subhas Babu.”

  “May I offer you the opportunity to redeem your debt at once?”

  Hesha cast a noncommittal eye over the Calcuttan elder. “Please do, sir. Please do.”

  “I hear a great many rumors about the situation in the United States. Would you favor me with your considered opinion of events there?”

  Hesha nodded, and wreathed himself in pipe smoke. “I speak from the outside, of course,” he said, thus reserving the Eye and his own losses from the story, “but the facts as I know them are yours….”

  Much later, on the dirty steps of a closed bookshop, in a crooked lane off Albert Street, a dark and ragged figure sat as if asleep. From his urchin’s perch, the waiting spy watched a tall, dark, bald stranger stride past him and well away into the rainy night. When the black man was out of sight and hearing, the figure unfolded itself. Short, but taller than he had seemed sitting; poorly dressed, but less tattered than first glance would have shown; dirty and saturnine, but more handsome than the layers of grime would suggest—he flicked his wet hair out of his eyes, turned to an empty space in the air beside the steps, and asked it, “Him?”

  Saturday, 17 July 1999, 11:33 PM

  Bhagyakul Roy Palace, called Bhooter Bari

  Calcutta, West Bengal

  Hesha approached the palace from the south. The weeds that choked the pavement had been crushed down by many feet before him; he trod a well-worn path among the enthusiastic vines and grasses. Through the thick, gray veil of rain, he looked up at the old manse. The architect had graced it with cheap copies of classical Greek statues; squatters had added still uglier wire television antennas. The original owners had displayed their wealth in marble and rare stones; time, floods, gentle decay, and encroaching trees had destroyed the mortar and cracked the elegant facade. The windowless walls still stood, the columns and arches were intact, but in the portico where the original family’s livery-clad footmen had waited on guests, two dozen shabby, unkempt men crowded close to take shelter from the storm. Smoke rose from pipes and damp cigarettes in their hands. Cheap speakers spewed out a woman’s voice: bubble-gum pop with Bengali lyrics.

  Hesha glanced back to the treeline and climbed the palace’s broken steps. A large man, seated in a position of importance on a column base, rose to greet him.

  “Salaam, sahib. Members only,” he said dully, and prepared to sit down again.

  “Salaam, bhai,” Hesha uttered, in tones of command. The guard stopped moving. “I have a message for one of the members.”

  “Very good, sahib. You give it to me, I give it to him.” Hesha climbed the final step and faced the poor man down. “I will give it to you,” he said, “if you will take it immediately to your lord.”


  Seriously now, in tones of great respect, the guard placed his hands together over the note. “Very good, sahib.” Grateful to go, he scrambled over his fellows and into the shadows beyond.

  Half an hour later, the guard returned. He shot commands to the others. They scuttled back into the mansion like rats into holes. The leader himself disappeared, and, onto a clear stage, the Camarilla Court of Calcutta filed into sight.

  Hesha waited for them, three steps down, wet but untroubled by it. If his robes were rain-heavy, they were that much harder to see through. If his cane and monocle and bare head glistened unnaturally in the house lights, so much more effective his lone figure would be. As a final touch, he made visible the coiling snake tattooed onto his bare scalp.

  A long-faced, blond gentleman in a pale gray suit came to the front of the portico. He and his visitor exchanged long, unhurried silence, and then (clearly to the shock of the Kindred closest to him) he descended gracefully down the broad steps to where Hesha stood.

  “Let us walk,” said Lord James Abernethie, Prince of Calcutta. “And you will tell me why an openly professed Follower of Set seeks audience with me.”

  “I am,” replied Hesha, “merely presenting myself to you upon arrival in your domain. That is one of your laws, is it not?”

  The Prince smiled slightly. “Hardly one I would expect you to obey.”

  “In this case, it is purely a matter of practicality. I am here on legitimate business; I do not wish to alarm you, nor would I care to be attacked in the course of conducting my affairs.”

  Lord Abernethie drew to a halt. Neither he nor Hesha were inexperienced enough ever to look another Kindred in the eyes unless they were certain what they would find there, but the Prince came, in his ire, as close as safety allowed.

  “And why in hell should I let one of your kind follow the rules?”

  “It is,” Hesha began, “your Elysium that would be broken. The sympathies of the Court would undoubtedly be behind you; but is it quite safe to have anyone standing,” he paused, “behind you? As an added consideration, I bring three things. A gift…”

  He clapped his hands, and a small, ill-tempered man stepped out of the trees. On a rolling cart, with immense difficulty, the servant pulled a large, olive-and-khaki-colored steel case through the weeds. Hesha pointed, and the Asp brought the cart to a skidding stop half-way to the house.

  “Shoulder-to-air missiles. British make, not Russian. And a launcher, of course.”

  “And why would I need those from you?”

  Hesha leaned thoughtfully on his stick. “Eastern problems, perhaps?”

  The rain chattered around them, but James Abernethie said nothing for some time. “I accept,” the Prince allowed, finally, “pending confirmation that they are as you say, and fully operational. What is the second item?”

  “My promise that I do not intend to settle in Calcutta.”

  Lord Abernethie laughed out loud. “And the third?”

  Hesha took from his vest pocket a thin plastic packet. He handed it to the Prince. Lord Abernethie opened the packet, using the envelope to shield the contents from the rain, and read—and recognized—the handwriting on the letters within. His death-pale skin blanched further, and he forgot himself so far as to look the other in the eyebrows.

  “Welcome,” he said shortly, “to my domain. Won’t you come inside?”

  “Thank you, your Lordship,” said Hesha.

  Lord Abernethie, after performing introductions between the visitor and the most distinguished of the guests—their hostess was missing and could not be found—handed his social duties over to one of his childer: the Rani Surama, a dark and dutiful daughter, native to the country (as Lord James was not), wrapped in a flame-orange sari and perfect manners. She took him round to meet each cluster of attendees, then established herself and Hesha in an out-of-the-way corner. Many of his new acquaintances made courtesy calls upon him, but his beautiful escort’s discouragement kept the intrusions short, and one o’clock found them deep in conversation.

  Surama’s long and exquisite hands played lightly along the strings of a zither. It was an antique brought to the palace by her father, and the young Ventrue made use of it for music, for show, and to open a close and probing dialogue on Bengali antiquities. Hesha laughed, smiled, complimented the young lady on her talents and her homeland’s treasures. Behind the civil mask, he kept track of the gorgeous creature’s attacks and feints as clearly as though she dueled with swords instead of questions. She was checking his story, probably on orders from Lord Abernethie; she was curious on her own account—the waiting court had been given no hint of the Setite’s three gifts; she was trying, poor infant, to seduce him.

  Eventually, Hesha caught sight of a teenage boy in the crowd. Deferentially, the slim, bony figure made his way to where Hesha and Surama sat. He stared at the floor before him as he spoke. “Rani, your father is looking for you, you know.”

  “Is he really? Thank you, Michel.” The Prince’s childe took her leave of Hesha, and wandered away into the party. Michel’s eyes followed her longingly; his heart lay in his face. Softly, in archaic Kurdish, he said: “What the hell are you doing, coming in the front like that?” His inflection suggested heartbroken poetry.

  “Time is important,” Hesha answered in the same language.

  “Typhon’s pet prophet in a hurry.” The old Tremere wizard, a long-time debtor of Hesha’s, shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “The Eye of Hazimel is loose in America.”

  “I’m glad I’m here, then.” He paused, and then added: “Just so you know—I am the greenest neonate, no more than twenty years dead, sent here by the Chantry in New Delhi. Since my arrival I have become the little Rani’s devoted slave.”

  “I shall do my best to reinforce the idea,” said the Setite. “However. The directive force behind the Eye is in Calcutta.”

  Michel’s face took on an even more mournful expression. “You are sure?”

  Hesha did not bother to answer, and Michel took up Surama’s discarded zither. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Pinpoint the source. Then tell me where to find it.”

  “Mmm.” Michel began to play a love song. “Hurry, if you are hurrying, and give me the details before she comes back.”

  “She won’t be coming back.”

  “Why?” The warlock glanced at his companion, but the Setite didn’t respond. “Sorry. How could I forget? ‘Nothing-for-nothing’ Hesha, as always. Let me see…. Lord Abernethie’s blood weakness is girls—very young girls.”

  “Lord Abernethie’s daughter, the Rani Surama, is an ambitious young leech with poor taste in friends. I brought proof of her treason with me tonight.” Michel stared at him. “I would not make contact with you without providing the good Court something more interesting to watch while we spoke,” said the Setite simply.

  As the rumors began to fly through the assembled Kindred, Hesha gave the Tremere details enough, and no more. The commotion in the outer rooms grew louder, and the Setite finished:

  “You will find me at the Oberoi Grand. I will dine in one of the restaurants each night with a brown-haired white woman as camouflage. Come to our table and talk to me about antiques. It should not compromise your position; I have encouraged half the leeches in town to do the same.”

  “Then you’ll see me tomorrow. If the trace is as strong as you say, this won’t take long,” said the warlock confidently.

  By the time one of Michel’s “friends” came to tell him his lady-love was in danger, the two devils in the corner were ready to act their part. The boy ran, awestruck and anguished, to the Prince’s audience chamber. He still clutched Surama’s zither in hand. Hesha stood, found a gossiping circle of Cainites to mingle with, and settled in for a long, dramatic, and tedious evening.

  Sunday, 18 July 1999, 9:16 PM

  Hesha’s suite, the Oberoi Grand Hotel

  Calcutta, West Bengal

  The last closed doo
r to the big room opened, and Hesha came out in a loose, simple black suit that stopped a cut short of a tuxedo. He glanced at the woman waiting, then began filling his pockets with equipment. Phone, cigarette case, lighter…

  “Turn, please,” he directed.

  Elizabeth obeyed. Layers of pale-blue and amber gauze followed leisurely. Thompson scratched his stubbled chin. The Asp leered freely. Hesha inspected her indifferently, and spoke in dull tones: “Janet. Her arms, shoulders, and chest are too bare for Bengal. Are all of your selections along these lines?”

  Janet Lindbergh’s voice sprang from the phone. “Yes, sir. Jet-set, you said. This is what ‘Society’ is wearing. Liz—” Elizabeth, no longer smiling, looked toward the phone to wrest her gaze away from Hesha. “Liz, there’s a cloth-of-gold wrap in one of the cases. Wear that; I ordered it in case of cooler weather.”

  “I’ll get it,” Thompson offered.

  “Elizabeth,” said Hesha. “We are going to go downstairs and eat. Have you ever had Mughlai food before? Good. Then we will order two sample platters. Offer me things from your plate; I will do the same. In the end you will have eaten most of what is set before us. You are going to pretend to be yourself, one month ago. You know nothing of my house or the security team. You came to Calcutta from Rutherford House at my request, and you are here to assist me in purchasing antiques and transporting them to America.

  “I expect that perhaps half-a-dozen people will come to see us tonight. Some of them will be perfectly innocent acquaintances of mine. When I introduce you to them, I will mention Amy Rutherford. Some of them will be less than innocent; I will refer to Agnes Rutherford and you will leave the table, visit the ladies’ lounge, and then return to the conversation. If I mention Hermione Rutherford, you will leave the table, visit the lounge, and stay there, pretending to be ill, until you receive further instructions by phone.”