Stas did not respond for a few seconds, seeming to stare into space. Finally, he nodded his assent.
The two turned and headed back to the desk on the opposite side of the room, Stas picking up the pen he had thrown on the floor earlier. They took their seats, hunching over an ancient Greek grammar text. With that, the study session resumed in earnest.
Six
The call to prayer rang out over the city. Hearing it, Captain John Richard Pluckett got up from his desk and, affixing his hat to his head, left the office where he had worked – a colonial administration building in Lahore – for the last decade and a half.
It was mid-morning. As he walked he turned his head upward to the towering white stone walls of the city’s fort, constructed in its present form under Akbar, one of the Mughal’s legendary emperors. Next to it, men called out melodiously, praising the glory of Allah from the reddish minarets of Badshahi Masjid, its three white onionlike domes reaching just as high as the walls of the fort. Looking ahead, the captain dodged a few Desis heading in his opposite direction as they answered the call.
Pluckett, a brown-haired forty-five-year-old of average height, had heard it five times every day since being stationed in Lahore. He was sick of it. It seemed to him like nothing more than mere superstition. More so, it reminded him of his failure. His right hand moved to the mysterious piece of paper in his uniform’s pocket. He turned onto a narrower but equally busy street. The captain was now entering the old town; buildings a few stories tall, each with their intricately carved wooden bay windows, rose above him.
He had found the paper waiting for him on the center of his desk as he unlocked his office door that morning. The cream-colored parchment had been small, about half the size of a regular sheet of paper. It had not been there the evening before; he could not see how it had been placed in the locked office during the night.
As he walked, Pluckett unfolded it. He looked succinctly at the sheet’s upper left corner, on which was embossed the head of a hissing black cobra. The captain read its short message once more:
Realization of lost hope. Absolvence of indiscretions past.
Meet in the baths near the Mosque of Khan at Thoha.
The last word, its first letter sounding something ambiguously between an English D and a Th, was written in Persian script. The captain, having spent most of his adult life in the Raj, could read it perfectly, knowing its final word signified the mid-morning call to prayer that he heard as he walked. The paper’s message was certainly vague enough; Pluckett, at first, almost dismissed its presence in his office as a mistake. Yet, there was just enough specificity in its melodramatic prose to pique his curiosity.
Born the second son of Lord James Pluckett, the system had always worked against him. As the younger brother, John had been taught from a young age that the assumption of the lordship would be closed to him when his father passed. As he got older, he found that many of the avenues open to him were less than appealing. He had no interest in many of the professions that he could train to take up. He was still aristocracy by blood: the idea of working alongside commoners disquieted him. Meanwhile, to John’s great displeasure, his older brother diligently prepared himself to take over the mantle from his father, making it unlikely that Lord James would break with tradition. It had seemed to John that the prestige, which should so rightfully be his, was farther from his grasp than ever.
John could think of only one way of gaining the stature that should have been his by birthright. The position he couldn’t have in the civilian world, he decided, he would make in Her Majesty’s military.
And so, as an ambitious young man, he had applied and been accepted to officer’s school. As he was granted a commission, John could see his future clearly in his mind’s eye. He would rise quickly through the ranks, winning many battles that added to the glory of the Crown’s realm. Finally, one day, he would kneel before the Queen and be knighted for his efforts, proving once and for all that he was more deserving of stature in society than the brother who had inherited it.
Pluckett turned right and then right again, and kept up his brisk pace.
It had been going so well, he reflected. After his arrival in India, he had quickly learned the local languages of many of the Raj’s peoples. When not on campaign, John made translations of local works for British audiences who were hungry for more information about their far-off dominion. He’d even published a book about his supposed military exploits. His plan would work better, he figured, if his deeds became widely publicized. Eventually, his language ability had seen him installed as the British resident to the court of the Nizam at Hyderabad.
That was when he had made the mistake that had derailed his life. It started on that afternoon when he saw a pair of dark eyes staring at him from a slatted window in the women’s wing of the palace. From the first time her eyes made contact with his, it had seemed as if they had something between them. Eventually, John asked the Nizam about this woman, and confessed his love for her. As it turned out, she was one of the Nizam’s daughters; the Nizam was not amused. He ordered John banished from court.
But – or so it had seemed at the time – fortune had smiled on him. That night he had stayed up late, preparing to leave the following morning. As he did so, he spied a group of armed men sneaking toward the Nizam’s chambers. Later, he would find out that they were allied with the Nizam’s brother, who coveted his elder sibling’s position.
A superbly trained fighter, John had single-handedly taken down many of them while sounding the alarm to the Nizam’s barracks. With the plot foiled, the Nizam had been so grateful that he had changed his mind and allowed John to marry the woman with the dark eyes.
Captain Pluckett paused to allow a donkey cart, overflowing with a large family, to pass in the narrow street he was currently on.
If it had ended there, he reflected, all would have been fine. Instead, that was when his troubles had begun in earnest.
Many of the Nizam’s courtiers were scandalized by their leader’s decision. Eventually, he’d been forced to send the newly married couple away from his palace. John asked his commander for reassignment. But, when his superiors learned of the reason for his request – it was impossible to hide as gossip of the marriage had spread throughout the city – they not only denied it but also threatened to try him on charges of conduct unbecoming an officer of Her Majesty’s Army, if he did not resign. His dreams faded, John and his new wife retired to a small dwelling outside of the city.
At first, despite his military setback, life had gone well. He proceeded in writing a second accounting of his exploits, detailing life in the court of the Nizam. Within a year the Nizam’s daughter gave birth to twin sisters. For reasons he did not understand to this day, she’d always been a bit scared by the girls’ bright blue eyes. Her reaction was to be expected, he guessed. It was rare to find such irises in the face of someone who looked otherwise Indian; such a trait did not run in his family.
Shortly after that, any illusions of domestic bliss were shattered. When John sent the finished manuscript of his book to his publisher, they had replied in a letter curtly stating that they refused even to look at it. Similarly, few employers in town would speak with him. As money began to grow tighter, he and his wife began to fight significantly more often. Appeals to his brother – now the Lord of Yorkshire – fell on deaf ears. Like everyone, he considered John to be ‘living in sin.’ John hated him all the more for it.
What’s more, he had begun to hate his bride. Every time John looked at her, he was reminded of his failure. Instead of being part of the masthead of civilization, he’d been shunned by it, all because he had underestimated the consequences of association with an Indian woman.
Captain Pluckett was nearing his destination. Ahead of him on the left, the colorfully tiled minarets of the Wazir Khan Masjid rose above him. He walked toward them.
Finally, there had come a day, he remembered, when it all became too much. He and his wife had been
fighting – he no longer remembered what about – when the thought came before him. A simple question whose significance would not be denied by his mind:
Why am I putting up with this?
“I divorce you! I divorce you! I divorce you!” he screamed suddenly. It had been a Muslim marriage; that had been all that was required to dissolve it. John turned and walked out of the cottage, leaving his now ex-wife in a pile of tears.
He’d heard the rumors: her health had deteriorated steadily and she’d died, impoverished, not long after. As for the children, he’d overheard that his ex-wife had ordered them sent to a nunnery far away from Hyderabad, just before her death. Yet, their caravan disappeared mysteriously. Most likely, he thought now, they had been killed by Thags; the discovery of the tribe was just now making news across the Empire.
At any rate, he reasoned, it was of no matter to him. After his experience, he had vowed never to stray again from the path of a proper British officer. He had gone back to the army and, having ‘come to his senses,’ convinced them to reinstate his commission. But, they had assigned him to a desk job in an obscure Lahore army office building, the one he’d left just moments before. There he had stayed, a glorified bureaucrat, for the past fourteen years. No matter how diligently he worked, no promotions or reassignments had come his way. Certainly no knightship.
He hated his life and he blamed those in power for it. They not only denied his rightful position, but also continued to shun him for one small lapse in judgment to this day.
The captain now stood before his destination. On the right side of the Wazir Khan mosque, the ruins of a Mughal bathhouse comprised the abandoned lower level of one of the buildings. Past its open entrance, one could only see darkness.
He looked down at the piece of paper still in his hand.
It’s probably nothing, he thought. Still, the semblance of his life to the paper’s short descriptor made him wonder.
As the call to prayer ended, John Pluckett, youngest son of the Lord of Yorkshire, entered.
***
Bozhena waited in the shadows of what had once been an ornate Mughal bathhouse. Even though it was dark, she appeared as an indefinite black figure, even dimmer than the amount of light that surrounded her. She had no idea if the plan her Chosen had laid out for her would work. The night before, using her cloak to appear invisible, she had sneaked into her target’s office building, picked the lock to his bureau, and left a piece of paper on the desk with a short inscription that the leader of the Urumi had told her to write. Unlike the Betrayers who ran the Society, she lamented, the Urumi did not possess the ability to simply make the notes appear. But, sleight of hand could deliver the same effect just as easily.
She heard the call to prayer begin. Its sounds floated through the air as men sang from the minarets of the mosque next to the building where she’d currently situated herself. That was supposed to signal the meeting with her target.
Being just as far from omniscient as an average human being, Bozhena had no idea whether the note would produce the desired effect. Though the Chosen, who was in direct communion with the Dark Prince, had told her to enact the plan, Bozhena was only forced to serve that deity; she lacked faith in her commander’s orders. Still, the effects of the Transmutation now obliged her to stand in waiting for a target that may never come.
If he did not? The Urumi supposed she could shadow him invisibly and appear as the dark form she had currently taken, at such a time when he was alone.
That would have been simpler, really, she thought.
The call to prayer neared its end. Bozhena began to suspect that her target had decided to ignore the note.
Then, just as it ended, a man entered through the only doorway. It being the only source of light in the former bathhouse, his figure appeared almost as dark and featureless to her as her form appeared to him. Bozhena’s hand automatically went to the handle of the coiled blade, which hung from her waist.
“Captain John Pluckett?” she inquired. Having taken her dark form, her voice was not her own. Instead, the words took on a deep ominous character. She always found the discord between that voice and her true appearance to be ironic; she wondered with mild amusement how her target would react if he knew he was really speaking to a blond-haired Slavic girl in her late teens.
Pluckett looked around, at first not seeing who – or what – had asked his identity. Then, he noticed her figure, darker than the surroundings. It was vaguely human in shape, but with ill-defined edges.
“Yes,” he replied eventually. “Who are you? What do you want?” There was a suspicious edge in his voice.
“Who I am is not important. Know only that I am a follower of the great Order of the Urumi. We seek to aid you in your goals. In return for a small price, of course.”
Having read many local legends, the captain knew the stories of the child-stealing dark warriors. When he spoke again it was with an air of annoyance.
“The Urumi are a myth. If this is a hoax, it’s not even a very convincing one. You’re attempting to defraud me. I’m taking you into custody.”
When he started towards her, Bozhena simply moved to the other side of the room. Due to her superhuman speed, it appeared to the captain that the dark figure moved completely across the chamber in the blink of an eye.
“I assure you, it is no hoax,” the deep voice replied. “Any attempts to imprison me will meet with failure.”
With their positions in the bathhouse now reversed, Bozhena could get a better look at her target. Pluckett sported brown hair and light skin, which suggested that, at least recently, he had spent most of his waking hours indoors. His features displayed confusion, as if he were still processing what had happened.
Quickly, however, he regained composure. After a silence, it appeared that he decided to try another line of questioning.
“You mentioned that you wished to help me in my goals. What do you know of them?”
“Only what is written on the card you already hold in your hand.” That was all the Chosen had told Bozhena. As she responded to Pluckett’s question, she wondered if Ziya himself had known anything more.
“And the price you mentioned?”
“You must agree to give your eldest child into the service of our Order.”
“Then your offer is pointless. I have no children to give you.”
Now, it was time for Bozhena to reveal the only other piece of information Ziya al-Din had given her regarding her target’s background.
“That is not, in fact, true. One of your daughters lies dead. The other still lives.”
As she expected, the captain’s eyes widened in surprise upon hearing this information. Then, he grew reflective.
One of his daughters. Alive. He supposed that most people would feel joy or relief upon receiving such news. Yet, Pluckett discovered that for him, it just served as another unwelcome reminder of his mistake, his failure. Probably, he thought, this was really some form of elaborate ruse. But, as far as he could tell, it was one in which he had nothing to lose. And, on the off chance that the powers the figure before him claimed to have were real, he may have so much to gain. An idea began to take hold in his mind.
“If that is the case, I don’t even know where she is. How do you expect me to give her to you?”
“We know,” the figure replied. “All that is required is your consent. And as you pointed out, she is not here. For this, we require a small favor from you.”
She could see that he had begun to open his mouth in protest.
“Do not worry. It is not one that will cost you materially,” the dark figure finished.
“Just what, exactly, would this favor be?”
“You will find out only after your wishes have been fulfilled.” Of course, it would have been better if she could have told him. But, characteristically, Ziya hadn’t bothered to enlighten her as to what this favor was either.
“And if I should then choose to refuse this favor?”
In a lightning-fast gesture, Bozhena unfurled the coiled metal from her waist. It formed a flexible blade that was a couple of meters in length. The warrioress flung its tip over the man’s head, such that it formed an arc. She handled it so as to make it dance around him, coming only inches from his person in a blur of motion. Eventually, bringing the tip of the blade up again with a flick of her wrist, she brought the weapon back to her side where it coiled obediently in her hand.
“You will die,” she said simply. Bozhena did not inform him that, once his daughter had undergone the Transmutation, he was likely to die in any event. The Urumi and their Dark Prince, she knew, needed permission from the targets they tempted for the Transmutation to be effective, the One having endowed his creations with free will. Yet, this did not preclude the fact that a target could be convinced to agree to the deal without knowing its full terms.
“Tell me what you wish,” the dark figure demanded.
Pluckett’s brow furrowed. He pondered what this mysterious ‘favor’ might be. Would it be worth the fulfillment of his ambitions? It didn’t take him long to reach a decision. He had devoted his entire life to achieving the prestige and recognition he deserved. He would be willing to sacrifice quite a lot indeed for a second chance. The captain told the dark figure about his parentage, his ambitions to become a knighted flag officer in a position of true power. Then he mentioned those dark eyes at the Nizam’s court and how ever since seeing them, he’d been ostracized from any hope of achievement.
“The ambitions you speak of are well within our power to fulfill. You must only agree to the terms.”
“I agree,” came the captain’s reply.
“It is done,” the figure that was Bozhena said. “Now leave this place, John Richard Pluckett, and return directly to your office.” Her target complied, moving through the doorway and turning rightwards onto the street.
Bozhena sighed. Really, she reflected, the man deserved his fate. It was the girl she felt sorry for, who was now consigned to join the ranks of the Urumi, to serve the Dark Prince against her will until the end of her days. The death that would have awaited her in San Francisco, had it not been for her father’s deal, would have been a far more merciful fate.
Outcast_Keepers of the Stone_Book One Page 6
