Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Kathleen Ryan

  “If you wish to leave, you are free to do so.” The Setite caught clearly the flash of panic on the other’s face, and let the sentence end itself. Khalil was deathly afraid of something outside. Hesha rose to join the mortals in conference. The Ravnos remained in the corner, looking more like a trapped animal than ever.

  The Asp, Thompson, and Janet Lindbergh were waiting for him—the first two in chairs at the main table, the last by phone, an open net connection, and a miniature laser printer.

  “Good evening,” said Hesha. “Report.”

  “Yes sir,” Janet responded promptly. “Ron, the first file for him, please.

  “The following facts are undisputed by any sources. First, Typhoon Justin, centered over West Bengal and Bangladesh, lost momentum at last and returned to tropical storm status. Second, Bangladesh suffered massive, deadly mudslides in nearly every corner of the country. Third, Bangladesh was at the epicenter of a considerable earthquake whose effects were felt as far as Rangoon and Delhi.”

  Hesha contemplated the report before him. Without looking up, he asked, “How are our people?”

  “Everyone checked in on time, sir,” Thompson answered.

  “Elizabeth?” inquired the Setite, in the same detached tone.

  “Sleeping. When we try to wake her, she starts talking about Ravana again. I thought it best to let her be, sir.” To Thompson’s relief, his master remained at the table, and the conference went on without further reference to the girl.

  Hesha shook the dreaming woman by the shoulder. “Elizabeth? Can you hear me?”

  Liz mumbled incomprehensibly.

  “Elizabeth!” Hesha said sharply. She stirred. “Good. Talk to me. Tell me about Ravana.”

  “Ravana…the three overcame Ravana. They tore him down from the mountain, cut him open, and gave his heart to the sun to eat. The Prince of Storms let go his hold on the kingdom…Ravana died in the center of his power, in the midst of his children. They had not come to aid him. He put his curse on them, from the center of his power: They should go mad; they should be no more; and so it was. Their nights will dwindle unto nothing…even rakshasa cannot fight the power of three curses at once…murder, calumny, and the madness…” She flickered briefly into a normal voice: “It’s a common enough metaphor, Professor. The rebellious children cursed by a grandparent—usually part of a colonization cycle. Campbell makes too much of it, but Graves is sound….” Clarity faded to fairy tale—chapters Hesha had heard before—and decayed further into meaningless murmurs.

  Monday, 26 July 1999, 10:02 PM

  Unfinished works of the second Hooghly Bridge

  Calcutta, West Bengal

  Hesha approached the gypsy camps by the same route he had tried on the Friday. He walked to and through the site of his previous encounter, down through the northern half of the camp, and under the bridgework itself without being accosted by the feral guardians. He passed through the center—well south—out through the other side, and no Ravnos called him out or tried to do anything to him. It was against all possibility that every shilmulo in the settlement could restrain itself when presented such a pretty mark as a serious, public, devout Follower of Set.

  Hesha stopped on the southern limits, and looked back thoughtfully. There were, he realized, a great many fires lit among the shacks and tents and wagons—not cookfires, which need not be so large—not drying fires, since the flood-dampened stores weren’t hung near them. Hesha had avoided them on the way through as a matter of course. Now he turned his steps back to the nearest, drawing as close to it as his courage would allow, and squinted into the heart of the light.

  It was a scrap-wood bonfire, knee-high and not quite four feet across. Piles of fabric lay atop the board-ends and broken crates, charring and melting in the heat—a cardboard suitcase, a broken violin, a pile of books, photographs, a set of hairbrushes, half a dozen decks of cards—as each sheet of paper smoldered through, the ashes peeled away into the wind, and wisps of old cloth drifted with the smoke.

  Hesha retreated into more comfortable shadows and watched the people in the vicinity. He was almost certain that the fire was the end of a gypsy wake…the dead man or woman’s possessions destroyed by smashing and burning them…but no one grieved at the blaze or in the tents around it. No mourners stood here or at any other open fire he could see—and the passersby averted their eyes from the sight.

  Half an hour later, the Setite walked into the Albert Hall Coffee Shop.

  Subhas’s table was empty.

  After a moment’s contemplation, Hesha sat down in the old man’s usual seat. He placed his hands on the table, and the waitress he remembered Subhas dealing with came over to serve him.

  “Nomoshkar, sahib. What would you like me to bring to you this evening?”

  “Turkish coffee, please.” As she started to go, Hesha cleared his throat. “Pardon me, but could you tell me where my friend, the gentleman who usually sits here, might be?”

  The polite, dark-skinned girl shook her head. “Oh, no, sir.” She seemed upset, and turned back with plenty of conversation on her face. “It’s funny that you should ask that. We have all been worried—he was a very kind and generous gentleman, and no one has seen him since the night of the earthquake.” Hesha encouraged her with a nod. “Every night he comes in just as the lights go on, and leaves just as we close the doors. He never misses a night…not until the quake came. And tonight is the second evening he has been gone. I am afraid something might be wrong with him. The owner thinks that the old Babu—pardon me, sir—the old gentleman may have lost family in East Bengal.” Her eyes showed more than that; the Setite saw that she feared Subhas had died. “If you see him, sir, do tell him that all of us here are very, very concerned for him. Please ask him to send us word if he is all right.”

  “I will,” said Hesha. “If I see him.”

  Tuesday, 27 July 1999, 1:02 AM

  Five Star Market, Kidderpore

  Calcutta, West Bengal

  “Old Nag!” The peddler stared in amazement for a moment longer, and then shook his head. “Damned if I’m not glad to see you,” the Nosferatu declared wonderingly.

  “And I am extraordinarily relieved to see you,” Hesha replied.

  They regarded each other in silence for what seemed like a long time, even for creatures of their patience. Then the gray-skinned monster rasped out: “About our arrangements…”

  “Yes?” Hesha’s tone implied a limited bargaining distance, and the face in the little bookshop bobbed nervously.

  “You found Michel before I did, I hear. Which renders that deal null and void, I’m afraid. But the other…I won’t be able to fulfill your wishes for some months, at least. All my contacts are temporarily unavailable.”

  “I accept that as an excuse for nonpayment of the debt,” Hesha said, and the monster amid the magazines appeared relieved. “Tell me, though, where were you Sunday morning…when the quake hit?”

  Warily, the Nosferatu answered: “In a drainage tunnel.”

  “Underground and underwater?”

  With even more caution: “Yes.”

  “There are no creatures of the night in Calcutta but ourselves, are there?”

  After a terrible, rattling sigh: “No. No one. I was on my way to meet some friends that night. I came up to street level, and they were gone. Every one. The Ravnos are gone, the Court is gone, the Prince is dead….” With a hint of hysteria in its voice, the bookseller shouted, “I am the Prince of the City, old Nag!” In a lower tone, he added, “My first act is to abdicate my throne. How about it? Want a city, Prince Hesha? Lord Ruhadze?”

  “I’m leaving town, I think. I’ll see that you receive at least partial payment for your attempts on my behalf.” Hesha leaned on his stick and resumed walking toward the hotel. “If you ever find yourself in a position to tell me what I asked about, the Grand will have a method available; ask after me at the front desk.”

  The short, gray, spindly creature looked down at him, and the S
etite’s long strides halted. Trembling, licking its lips, nervous, the Nosferatu leaned in. It asked, “What did you do to Calcutta, old Nag?”

  Hesha stared at the hideous face for a moment, shook his head, and moved on.

  Tuesday, 27 July 1999, 2:51 AM

  The Oberoi Grand Hotel

  Calcutta, West Bengal

  Elizabeth lay swathed in blankets. Her eyes moved like a dreamer’s, but her face never relaxed into peaceful sleep. The covers were undisturbed; she could not have moved much since Thompson and his master had checked on her at sundown. She had not eaten since Sunday. She took water only when bullied into it, and even then in small sips. Hesha looked at his pet antiquarian with concern; if the trance were unbroken another day, they would be forced to put her in a hospital to keep her from dying of dehydration.

  He pulled her by the shoulders into a sitting position, then propped her up with mounds of pillows. Liz showed no reaction. He called her by name—softly, sharply, commandingly, even (though it took an effort) with tenderness in his voice to bait her. The Setite took her hands—she neither resisted nor clasped back. The expressions on her face reflected things she saw outside the room, not horror or happiness that Hesha was near.

  Without guilt—simply as a point of information—he recalled drinking a fair amount from her. Nothing more dangerous than a pint or two, but a weakened body might not protect against the…trance…so well as a healthy one. Hesha went to the washroom and filled a glass with water. Slowly, with a few spills, he persuaded her unconscious mouth to swallow properly. He brought more, managed to give it to the woman without choking her, and sat beside her for a while, holding the empty cup in his hands. A faint clicking sound caught his attention, and he glanced down…his claws, extended, tapped a rhythm on the thin glass. Hesha lanced one wrist with the other thumb and let the blood flow into the cup. He held the reddish-black fluid under Elizabeth’s nose, and called her again. Faint signs of recognition rewarded him—he put the glass in her hands and held the rim to her lips.

  “Elizabeth? Can you hear me? Try to drink this.”

  Ron Thompson came into the sickroom quietly, looking for his employer. He found a scene that disturbed him more than anything else he had known in Calcutta: Elizabeth, apparently awake, sitting up, seeing nothing, talking nonsense about kings and monsters and page-boys and demons—amulets draped around her neck—a tape recorder on the bedside table—traces of red on the girl’s lips—Hesha sitting at the foot of the bed, listening intently and holding an empty, bloodstained cup.

  Hesha caught his driver’s eye and signaled silence. He mouthed, “What is it?”

  Thompson glared at him like a thundercloud. He beckoned brusquely. Hesha eased off the bed carefully, so as not to disturb the recitation, and joined him on the other side of the door.

  “Sir,” began Thompson in darkest tones.

  Hesha scanned the conference room over Ron’s shoulder. Janet’s line was open; the Asp and Khalil sat at the main table, playing cards.

  “Thompson,” Hesha whispered warningly, “you know how deeply I value your opinion. However. This is not the time, the place, or the company,” his eyes flicked meaningfully toward the Ravnos, “in which I would desire to hear your views. Understood? We will take this up in private, later.

  “Now,” he said, resuming conversational volume, “what was it you came to see me about?”

  Ron hesitated, stumbling over the sudden change in gears. He pulled his notepad from his breast pocket to reassure himself. “Our agents have their exit assignments, sir. We’re prepared to close up shop on your word.” He turned to the marked pages, but hardly glanced at them. “The ‘good-will’ items we brought with us have been delivered to the bookseller in the Five Star. The gentleman was rather overwhelmed by the consignment, but we persuaded him to accept.”

  “So…you progress,” said Hesha.

  “Yes, sir. But so far…the agents know where they’re going, but you haven’t given me any information yet to start arrangements for us. What’s the next step, sir?”

  The Setite stepped away from the wall, seeming to grow taller and more commanding. He approached the table and looked down at the card game in mild disapproval. Thompson, guessing ahead, unobtrusively took his place at the foot of the table. The Asp laid his cards face down and waited respectfully for his employer to speak. Khalil Ravana, sensing the shift in atmosphere, fanned his cards perfectly, and elegantly, and set the hand to one side. He made himself comfortable, relaxing into the soft chair, resting his arms on the padded rests, and letting his quick fingers play amongst the poker stake in front of him.

  “Bullets?” Hesha remarked.

  Khalil picked up a 45mm round and spun on its point like a top. “He wouldn’t play for money.”

  “I warned him not to.”

  “And Khalil here didn’t want to play with matches,” the Asp sneered.

  “I see.” Hesha seated himself, dialed Janet into the conference, and began: “As you are all aware, my primary project at this time involves tracking down the Eye of Hazimel. Khalil Ravana,” he nodded at the Ravnos, “has provided substantial aid in this direction. In return for his services, we will provide transportation and sufficient false papers to allow him to emigrate to the United States.

  “What none of you have been told yet is that Calcutta, as a nucleus of Family activity, no longer exists.” The Setite regarded his guest reservedly. “Perhaps you need confirmation of this?” The Ravnos shook his head, and Hesha smiled inwardly. There were, as he had thought, at least four survivors—the bookseller, himself, this errand-boy, and Khalil’s master. Of course, Khalil’s master need not have been in the city at the time…Hesha shelved the speculation for later and continued his speech.

  “When we concluded the second half of our agreement, Khalil, you implied that your knowledge of the Eye and its properties would make you useful to me as I searched for it. I have called this meeting to discuss our next move toward the artifact, and I would be grateful if you would contribute to that discussion.”

  Raphael’s face twitched slightly at his master’s implied invitation to “discuss” anything.

  Thompson, more accustomed to Hesha’s tactics with third parties—and more often asked in fact for an opinion, despite the scene over Elizabeth moments before—cleared his throat and started talking. “Well, sir, maybe the time has come to go to Atlanta ourselves. If you knew for certain what had happened to…” he paused, looking for terms to hide behind, “…your associate, you might learn something. Isn’t that where the first trace led?”

  “That is true,” said Hesha.

  Thompson snatched at straws to keep going. “California? The professor’s notes will be there; you know from Liz that he had relevant info. He probably didn’t tell her all of it.” The Asp translated “discuss” in his head: Play up and play dumb.

  “I like the idea of Atlanta,” he said slowly. “But I can’t help but wonder about the little nest of lines running around New York City. There were traces headed that way we never followed up.”

  Hesha nodded, and Raphael let his pent-up breath go. He’d taken it—whatever it was—in the right direction. Let Ron pick it up again….

  With a sleek and superior air, Khalil held both hands up to stop the conversation. He shook his head condescendingly. “Gentlemen, gentlemen…you’re on the wrong track entirely. Professor’s notes? Cold killings? You’re lucky I’m here. Atlanta is old, old news. And New York is no good; the Eye has never been in the city, whatever you may think.” He let his voice lilt up, and his final word rolled off his tongue momentously: “Chicago.”

  “Chicago?” Hesha inquired evenly.

  “Chicago.” Khalil smiled.

  “You are certain of this?”

  “The Eye is in Chicago,” said the cocky young gypsy. “I swear. See? I told you I’d be useful. Atlanta, hell…”

  Hesha studied his partner. “Very well,” he said. “Thompson. Janet. Reservations and security t
hrough Chicago.” Hesha had no more use for Calcutta. His discovery in the underwater chamber of the tomb had prepared him for this next, and perhaps final, leg of his quest. “I want to be out of India by sundown. Khalil, you have two hours until dawn. Be ready by the time the sun catches us. If you have more things to do than can be accomplished in the time, make a list of them and the team will attend to it.”

  The Setite rose. “Questions?” No one spoke. “Then I look forward to seeing you all…Wednesday night, I believe.”

  As the dead filed into the next suite to rest, Hesha clapped a hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder, and Ron felt a paper pressed into his palm. After the door closed on them and the sun rose, he sat down at the table to read it.

  Thompson,

  Ignore Khalil. Find out from Miles where Kettridge is and arrange for our transportation there. If the good professor has gone to ground in Chicago, very well—the Ravnos is telling the truth. Simply be sure that we arrive before him.

  Send Khalil to Chicago no matter where we go.

  Wednesday, 28 July 1999, 7:27 PM (local time)

  Upstate New York

  The cabin was small, rough, new, and intended to look both older and more rustic than was plausible. It smelt of disinfectant, detergent, dog, tourist, grass, fish, and dirt. Over “country” print curtains black duct tape stuck black plastic sheeting to walls and windows. Patches of sunshield on the door and near the ceiling testified to the scrupulous care with which the creature’s servants looked after his interests. When Ra released the Setite from sleep, Ron Thompson was there, waiting patiently.