Outcast_Keepers of the Stone_Book One

by Andrew Anzur Clement

  Not bothering to look back, Liza answered a question of her own:

  “No need. You know that instinct you were talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know it has a name?”

  “No.”

  “Really? Paranoia. Ever heard of it?”

  Malka was galled by what the being she now knew as Liza was saying. Husain had taught her what a unique gift it was years ago. She did not want to bring herself to believe otherwise.

  ***

  It had been almost two months since Malka had begun her daily trainings with the Thag’s leader. Currently they were in front of his hut, practicing the methods he was teaching her for approaching a target from behind.

  So far that day, she had been unable to approach her Master undetected. Malka had been about to try again when she froze. She could feel eyes upon her, eyes that did not belong to any of the camp’s members that she could see around her. Focusing on that feeling, the Master’s pupil discerned a sense that she was being observed covertly from the far side of the temple, which lay next to the home of the village’s leader.

  Instead of moving toward Husain, Malka moved with silent speed to the closer side of the temple, intending to circle around the structure and come at whoever had been watching her from the far side. As she did so, she saw the back of one of the Thags’ children. It began to move forward, evidently having surmised what Malka was planning when it saw her disappear around the other side of the temple. Malka sprang forward, bringing her sash over the head of the escaping figure. She yanked the fabric taut against its throat as she pulled it backwards to the ground.

  It was Zaima. The two had not spoken since Malka’s escape attempt. However, Malka could tell that the camp native carried an air of righteous indignation about her, as she continued to attend the village-wide classes after Malka had become Husain’s personal student.

  Malka loosened the sash around Zaima’s neck just enough so that she could talk.

  “Why were you watching me?” she asked angrily.

  “I was curious,” Zaima managed.

  “Curious about what?” Malka responded, not having found the other girl’s answer satisfactory.

  “You seem to have become the Master’s favorite. I wanted to see what you were up to. To judge how long it will be before he realizes that you’re a waste of time.” It was clear Zaima was jealous that she had not gained the favor of the village leader.

  “What we were up to?” Malka yelled. “This is what we were up to!” She tightened the sash around Zaima’s neck again.

  “Malka. Release Zaima.” It was Husain’s voice.

  Malka looked up, to see him still seated facing away from both of them, waiting for her next attempt at ambush.

  The blue-eyed girl did as told. Rubbing her neck, Zaima got up and ran away. Husain turned to face his pupil. There was a curious expression on his otherwise placid face.

  “What did you hope to accomplish, Malka?” he asked simply.

  “She was watching us! You’re not going to punish her?”

  “I doubt that she will soon forget what happened; I’m disappointed in you, Malka.”

  “In me?”

  “You attacked a member of the Sect. Simply confronting Zaima would probably have caused her sufficient embarrassment. If we treat those on our side as the opponent, then our true enemy will certainly prevail. How would that serve the Black Goddess?”

  “Our true enemy?” In over five years at the camp this was the first she had heard of the Thags and their Goddess having an enemy.

  “Yes, Malka. The Urumi, those who shall not live to see the dawn. Once taken into their Order, one is no longer truly alive in freedom

  of will.”

  Malka nodded. Then her brow furrowed.

  “How does stealing objects for the Black Goddess fight this enemy?”

  “The day will come when such things will become clear to you. For now, know only that it is our faith in Shakti which tells us so.”

  The young Thag cocked her head at the Master. Then she frowned, looking worried.

  “What is it, Malka?” Husain prompted.

  “It’s just...after what I did to Zaima, do you think that I can’t be trusted again?”

  “I do not trust you now. Remember, you still are not allowed to leave. As for today’s incident, Zaima did give you a motive for your actions that does not call your loyalty into further doubt. Albeit that the situation could have been handled better.”

  The girl sighed in relief.

  “Which brings up another point,” her Master continued. “How did you know she was watching you?”

  “It is difficult to describe. I just felt it. Here,” she pointed to her stomach.

  Husain, whose features usually betrayed only calm, raised his eyebrows in surprise. He pursed his lips, lost in thought for a moment, as if he suspected something, of which he did not see fit to inform Malka.

  Finally, he said: “When such perceptions are accurate, it is a great gift, Malka. Use it. It will serve you well in life. Your technique in taking down Zaima was excellent. You are to be commended.”

  From that day onward, Malka had resolved to use her gift in her quest to become one of the Thag’s best warriors, in preparation for the day she would be considered one of them, enough to learn what they were truly fighting for.

  ***

  Malka heard Liza’s accusation with consternation. But, like it or not, she and the felinoid appeared to be allies. It would serve her best to remain calm.

  “Paranoia? My Master taught me that it was a great gift!”

  “In this case, I’m still going with paranoia,” Liza countered.

  “I’ve been able to use it with accuracy.”

  “Maybe, but you know when you thought you were being observed in that deserted camp?”

  “Yes.” Malka didn’t much care for her companion’s casual reference to her former home.

  “What did you think it was?”

  “The Urumi.”

  “That was me.”

  “What? What about that time in Calcutta?”

  “Also me. And I helped save you there, too. You’re welcome again.”

  “And San Francisco?”

  “Still me...well, okay. Partially. But I’ve been shadowing you this whole time since you visited the camp. And you’ve done nothing but automatically assume there’s a threat. Like I said, there’s a name for that and it’s kind of counterproductive.”

  Malka’s face moved into a guise of disbelieving annoyance as she took in the logic of Liza’s accusation. Despite her situation, she opened her mouth to respond.

  “Of course I’m….”

  Liza put a hand up over her shoulder as she interrupted Malka.

  “Ugh! Don’t even….”

  Eleven

  The outskirts of Madras lay just behind the caravan. None of its mud-brick dwellings stood taller than two stories. Mungo had accompanied Stas and Nell on horseback as they prepared to depart the city. At the request of the former police chief’s son, the group had stopped one final time before continuing on to Bombay so that he and his friend could say goodbye.

  Stas climbed down from the wagon where he and Nell had ensconced themselves for the journey, his younger companion following him. Tarkowski now realized that, having attended different schools, she and Mungo had never actually met each other, even during their adventures.

  “It looks like this is it,” was all he could think of to say.

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t convince your father,” the Briton offered.

  “So am I.”

  “It won’t be so bad. You’ll see.”

  Stas furrowed his brow, then eventually nodded.

  Mungo turned to the other British citizen present.

  “Nell, it’s good to finally meet you. Stanley has told me a lot about you and the adventures you had together in Africa.”

  “Yes.” Nell was sullen. Mungo cocked his head to one side and t
ried again.

  “I’m sure you’re happy to be going back to England.”

  “No. I’ve never even been there.” She looked up at Stas. “Honestly, I wish we could go back to Port Said.” Looking back at her, he nodded in understanding.

  Mungo, on the other hand, was confused. From Stas, he’d heard about Nell and how she revered the older boy. From the descriptions, he’d assumed her to be positive and polite. The girl that stood in front of him now seemed practically rude.

  It dawned on him that, even though he had thought of her as British, she was acting more like his Slavic friend had, since he’d received the news three months ago that his father was sending him away from Madras. Trying to be a good friend, Mungo had tolerated Stas’s reticence regarding moving to Europe, even though he did not completely understand it. They had succeeded with regard to their studies. By the end of the winter term, he and Stas had held some of the highest marks in their grade at St. Thomas’s. Yet, Stas’s father had remained unmoved.

  Now, he and his friend were saying goodbye for what was likely the final time. Mungo didn’t want to start an argument, especially not with Nell, who he knew Stas held in the highest regard.

  “I lived there until I was your age. It’ll be great. You’ll get to be around your own kind.”

  Nell looked down at her shoes.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  Mungo sighed. He turned back to Stas.

  “After all our adventures, I guess this is goodbye.”

  Stas shrugged. “There’s the post. We can write.”

  “Yes, we can.”

  They hugged in a gesture of camaraderie, slapping each other on the back.

  “Trzymaj się.” There was a mischievous smile on Stas’s face as he spoke the words in the language of his father.

  “What?”

  “Trzymaj się.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means….” He searched his mind for an appropriate translation. “It means...be well.”

  “Well then, ‘chaymay shen’ to you, too.”

  Stas smiled at the mutilated pronunciation, but appreciated the attempt and the sentiment. They turned from each other. Stas and Nell climbed back into the carriage. It began moving as they seated themselves on the plush red velvet seats opposite each other.

  Almost immediately, Nell asked: “Stas, why does he think I’m going to be around my own kind in Hampton Court? The other English people I’ve met here are nothing like me. We don’t even get along.” Her last sentence ended on a down note, emphasizing her complaint.

  “I’m not sure,” Stas sighed in resignation.

  Since Christmas, the two had met on a few occasions. Each time, they had discussed their growing consternation with the reactions they had gotten from their schoolmates as news of their departure became increasingly common knowledge in the lead-up to Christmas break. On each occasion, it felt like they were the only two who could understand each other’s trepidation.

  “I got the same reaction from the girls at school when I told them. Except with them, they seemed to think that getting sent to England would make me learn to act like a proper English girl. One of them actually told me that. Still, at the same time….” She trailed off, clearly befuddled.

  “They think you should want to go?”

  “Yes. And they get mad when I tell them I don’t. It’s like I’m doing something wrong by not wanting to become one of them.”

  “Mungo just said that they think you’re one of them. I think you’re lucky, Nell. At least you have that.”

  “But, I don’t Stas,” Nell whined, explaining to him. “It’s like I said. To them I’m English, but I don’t think or act like they do. They think there’s something wrong with me, wrong with who I am.”

  Stas nodded in understanding.

  “And the only thing worse about it to them is….”

  “That you don’t want to,” Stas said, now understanding her logic. He had realized the same thing himself.

  “I know Mungo means well,” Stas said after a moment’s silence, “but no matter how I try to explain it to him, it’s like….”

  “He doesn’t understand,” Nell interrupted her friend. “He can’t.” She shrugged slightly.

  Stas creased his brow, looking questioningly at Nell.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “It’s like we’ve been saying, Stas. We grew up in Port Said. Completely removed our whole lives from the countries we’ve been told are our homes. Our experiences there, the people we knew, made us who we are, even though we’re not Egyptian. Mungo didn’t. You heard him, Stas, he lived in England until he was ten and then with the British here. It’s like this: his home and his life have been the same. Ours haven’t. We could try to convince him all day and he wouldn’t take what we say as we mean it.”

  Stas was surprised at his younger friend’s reasoning. Clearly, she’d thought through these issues during the past weeks. Unfortunately, he found that he had to agree with her. In a way, Nell’s argument was similar to the one Malka had made that night on the beach, maintaining that their claims for equal treatment – to ‘fit in,’ as it were – would never be realized. They were simply too different from anyone else. It saddened him to see that it had also made his usually optimistic friend sullen. He supposed that he couldn’t blame her.

  “What can we do about it, Stas?” Nell asked, coming to him again, as she always had, for answers.

  Stas turned from her and stared out of the window.

  “Try, Nell, all we can do is try.”

  “But...if it will never work….”

  “What choice do we have, Nell?” He still wasn’t looking at her.

  Nell nodded, sadly, realizing his meaning.

  They settled into a long silence.

  Twelve

  The grotto of the Urumi’s sanctuary looked much as it had before; the same as it had every time Bozhena had entered it. She had no idea where the Chosen was, but there was unpleasant information that she was bound to relate to him. Until he decided to show himself, she would wait.

  It wasn’t as if she had the energy to do much else. Bozhena felt terrible; she imagined she looked even worse. The right socket of her eye was clearly blackened, and blood from a cut trickled down the same cheek. The left quarter of her robe was ripped and moistened from a flesh wound the girl’s dagger had made as it clipped her lower thigh. Her hand went to her ribs, at least a couple of which, she figured, were cracked or broken.

  That damn felinoid, she thought. I should have suspected the moment I saw it on the docks. Bozhena knew that felinoids were one of the few beings capable of movement as swift as the Urumi. Given recent events in Pondicherry, the Invisible Circus, and just now in San Francisco, it would have been reasonable to assume that a number of them had been working with the Society, for some time at least.

  Bozhena berated herself for not having kept her guard up, especially when her quarry was possessed of such agility. Yet, even as she tried to bury it, the native of Podole felt a pang of satisfaction that the girl had gotten away. Her escape was sure to displease the Chosen; it in no way meant that Bozhena or another member of the Order would cease searching for her or the Fragment. Still, the dark-skinned girl’s life was her own for another day. If that helped thwart the Urumi’s designs, even for a short while, then Bozhena could not help taking some solace from it. After the life that had consigned her to the service of the Dark Prince, the Slav felt she was entitled, at least, to that.

  A descendant of one of the great lines of Polish Szlachta, Bozhena’s father, Alexey Lubomirski, came from a lineage that had spent countless generations defending the fatherland. Back to the Swedish Deluge, the Lubomirskis had been there, defending the independence of Poland and its people. When foreign powers, with the aid of many of the Lubomirskis’ contemporaries, had begun to divide the Polish state among themselves, those of the Lubomirski line had refused to take part, even refusing at first to adopt Western
trappings or customs.

  Over time, the family found itself isolated from power. The feudal lineages that had colluded with Prussia, the Hapsburgs or Russia in order to maintain a hold on power in their own territories treated the Lubomirskis as pariahs, bygones of a faded golden age. Beyond this limitation, Alexey’s father proved less than up to the task of handling the family’s finances. The family suffered in both social and material terms.

  It was amid this state of affairs that Alexey came of age. He had been a gallant young man from a house of declining influence that had found itself on the wrong side of politics in Hapsburg Galicia. The latest addition to the Lubomirski line had been determined to do something about it ever since his early teens. He had bided his time, waited for his moment.

  Then came the news that he would be married. With his family excluded from most of partitioned Poland’s more stratified social circles, his father had told Alexey that he would be wedded to a young woman descended from a once-great line. Materially, they had fallen to the status of petty gentry, barely able to keep hold of one small manor near Kamieniec Podolski, in their native region of what had come to be referred to as Podolsky Oblast, under the auspices of the Czar.

  Yet, it was a family that continued to be just as stubbornly committed to their Polish identity. Its head had died a few months previously, leaving no male heir.

  And so, Alexey, Bozhena’s mother had told her, had been elated to learn that he was expected to marry the eldest daughter of the Korczak aristocratic line. As his wife, she had become convinced that he had viewed the marriage – and the necessary move from Poland’s Hapsburg section to its Russian division – as a means of gaining autonomy from what he viewed as his backward-looking family. For him, Russia had become the future. After his Father had died, Alexey had taken over control of both houses, moving his ailing mother into the Podole manner with him, though the older woman had kept her distance from her son’s wife and children.

  As early as she could remember, Bozhena enjoyed her childhood at the manor. Of course, she didn’t understand her father, whose morose manner and forbiddance of any signs of Polish culture weighed heavily upon the girl and her mother when he wasn’t away on one of his long trips to St. Petersburg. He had even refused to allow Bozhena – and then her younger sister – to be given Catholic names, demanding that they be supplanted instead with the Orthodox patronymic structure. However, her mother had won one battle, insisting that Bozhena’s given name remain ethnically Polish – one that had been in her family for more generations than could be remembered.