by Lynn Kerstan
“Then you ought to have recruited a eunuch.”
“If you do not lower your tone,” Shivaji advised him coolly, “I shall be forced to silence you.”
“You’re queasy about noise? Very well, then. We’ll take it to the moors.” Duran spun on his heel and wrenched open the door. “Follow me or put a knife in me.”
Chapter 9
When Duran came to a halt at woodland’s edge, the sky had begun to lighten. He stood there for several minutes, breathing heavily, watching strands of mist weave through the oak branches and scatter in the freshening breeze.
What had he been thinking, to charge out of the house and demand that Shivaji follow him, for God’s sake. Not bloody likely. Each morning, his slender fingers curled around the razor he was holding to Duran’s lathered throat, the assassin-valet put him forcibly in mind of his own place in the order of things. There was no mistaking a show of power when it scraped past one’s jugular vein.
Or glowed from a jeweled bracelet on his wrist.
The bauble had attracted a good deal of attention from his fellow guests, and he’d provided a dozen explanations, each more nonsensical than the last, for wearing it. But none of his stories were so preposterous as the truth.
The Nizam of Alanabad liked to mark his possessions with emblems of his wealth and power. He wrapped diamond-crusted collars around the necks of his hunting leopards, shackled prisoners of stature in chains of silver, and had selected for his captured English nobleman an intricately carved casing of gold twisted around a core of Toledo steel. The bangle could only be removed by applying a pair of tiny probes to a concealed lock, and Shivaji held the keys.
There were, he was told, other mechanisms secreted on the underside of the bracelet. They masked needles coated with poison.
He had been given a telling demonstration of what would occur if he tampered with the bracelet. The craftsman, with evident pride, had clamped a model around the belly of a rat and instructed Duran to touch the carved surface with the tip of a knife. Nothing happened the first eight times, but his ninth effort triggered one of the needles. Within a minute, the hapless animal lay dead. Then Duran was blindfolded and the golden bracelet applied to his wrist.
“What if something—a dinner fork, perhaps—accidentally hits the wrong spot on this thing?” he asked as the shackle clicked into place.
“Ah,” said the craftsman mournfully. “That would be most unfortunate.”
Since then Duran had learned that the bracelet could take considerable banging about without damage to itself or to him, and only a deliberate effort to pry out the jewels, scrape off the gold, or unlock the clamp would set loose one of those deadly needles. Even so, the poison-studded bangle was a constant reminder of his powerlessness. He despised it.
A soft whistle floated from a rise of hills to his left. The sound reminded him of a bird—he didn’t know the name of it—reputedly favored by Shiva the Destroyer.
Shivaji, his own personal destroyer, must have emerged from the servants’ door behind the house and passed him by when he wasn’t looking. Leaving him to follow, which was, he supposed, as it should be. At least the delay gave him a little time to reel in his straying wits and put together a plan.
He struck out across the sheep-manicured lawn, his feet imprinting the dew-damp grass, his eyes searching the rocky hills for a sign of his quarry. Between the landscaped gardens and the hills stretched a long tract of moorland that all the guests had been warned to avoid. There was no sure footing there.
The pearl-gray sky cupped the black tor like an oyster shell. He picked his way over the hissing ground, not committing his full weight until the mud stopped short of his ankles. He’d charged out without putting on his boots or availing himself of the privy room, which he was now beginning to regret. Covering the last hundred yards in a dash, he ducked behind an outcropping of granite stones to relieve himself
Shortly after, the summoning whistle sounded again, echoing off the hills and seeming to come from everywhere at once. He emerged from the sheltering stones and began his climb to the top of Devil’s Tor.
Concentration eluded him. His thoughts kept sliding back to the room where Jessie was sleeping. He hoped to God she was sleeping. That he would be permitted to see her again. In the next few minutes he had to convince Shivaji to let him remain at High Tor, but he’d already used every argument he could think of to get himself here in the first place.
The path into the steep hills curled and dipped, winding around boulders and skirting treacherous bogs. At times, one wrong step would have sent him off a high escarpment. He was fairly out of breath when the path made a sharp turn and opened onto an odd sort of clearing. Standing stones, taller than he by a foot or more, circled a flat space perhaps twenty yards in diameter.
Poised dead center, unyielding as a slab of granite, was Shivaji.
Aware of cold sweat streaming between his shoulder blades, Duran sauntered to the nearest of the stones and slouched against it with his arms folded. “How neglectful of me,” he said. “I forgot to bring a gun.”
“It would have been taken from you along the way.”
“Oh, quite. By the Others.”
“Believe what you will.” A hint of impatience edged Shivaji’s soft words. “You wish to speak with me, I believe, on the subject of our departure.”
Duran had thrown himself against the assassin’s iron will often enough to know the futility of argument. This time, curious to see if it would make a difference, he meant to tack in the direction Shivaji wanted him to go. “In fact, I’ve no particular objection to leaving,” he said with a shrug. “Shooting at birds is an overrated pastime, and since you allow me no money for wagering at cards, the evenings are tedious. There’s only one female of interest on the premises, and she wishes me to the devil. By all means, let us be off.”
There was the slightest hesitation before Shivaji spoke. “A short time ago you felt otherwise.”
“Not at all. Given a choice, I’d always take London over this backwater. But did you not wish me to track down the nizam’s toy?”
As always, baiting Shivaji was a staggering waste of time. “So I do,” he said in his tranquil voice. “You are accomplishing nothing here. In London you will contrive to examine the passenger records of ships departing Madras following the theft of the leopard.”
“And will the thief have inscribed ‘accompanied by a purloined icon’ beside his name, do you suppose? Because if he didn’t, I cannot imagine how we’ll distinguish him from the other passengers.”
“Then,” Shivaji continued mildly, “you will employ our replica to draw the attention of collectors. Should one of them bear a name that appears on the passenger list—”
“Yes, yes, I know that part of the plan. It’s my plan. But the timing is all wrong. There’s no use flogging our fake icon in London while everyone of consequence is in the country. And there’s also the small matter of persuading the East India Company to give me access to the shipping records. I am not precisely in their good graces.”
“Then you must convince them of your good intentions.”
“If it comes to that.” Easy enough to concede the impossible. They were more likely to haul him into a storeroom and beat the stuffing out of him. “But we still need Lady Jessica, who can put us directly in touch with the collectors. And what have we to lose? Should nothing come of my new proposal, we can revert to the original plan in the spring.”
“The spring will be too late, Duran-Sahib. Only a little time remains to you.”
The air deadened.
“What do you mean?” But already he knew the answer. He had been tricked. “The nizam gave me a year.”
“You have misunderstood. The time commenced at the moment he issued his ruling.”
“B-but that’s absurd,” Duran said, disaster beating like wings in his throat. “The journey alone has eaten up the better part of a year.”
“It required eighteen weeks to create the replica
. We were nearly seven months on ship, and we have passed sixteen days in England. By my calculations, twenty-five days remain to you. I would advise that you make good use of them.”
Twenty-five days? Duran sagged against the stone at his back. It was the only thing keeping him upright, that stone and, perhaps, a thin tracery of pride. Dear God. Willy-nilly, his year had shrunk to less than a month. No time to raise money. To plot an escape. No time to spend with Jessica.
Profoundly shaken, he produced a harsh laugh. “Good use? We both know this leopard hunt is a sham. There’s one chance in a million it made it to England, or anywhere else, in one piece. By now any thief with a grain of sense would have pried out the gems, melted the gold, and sold the lot. The nizam must have known that. So far as I can tell, I’m as superfluous to his schemes as drawers on a whore. Why didn’t you slit my throat in a Madras alley and have done with it?”
“To preserve the illusion of the search,” Shivaji replied after a rare hesitation. “We were certain to be followed to Madras. It was necessary to take ship.”
“And were we followed here as well?”
“That is unlikely. As you have realized, the nizam never intended you to arrive in England. But his people must believe in your quest, for while they await your promised return with the leopard, they will not permit the noble prince’s enemies to remove him from the throne.”
“Then he miscalculated. He should have given me a decade to find it.”
Shivaji’s lashes flickered. “As ever, his judgment of the people’s tolerance was precise. There is turmoil throughout the countryside. Crops fail and sickness afflicts the children. Foreigners seize the best land and wrest commerce from our hands. Even so, Alanabad would endure the times of trouble as it has always done, if not for Malik Rao. He leads the worshipers of Nagas, and his influence has grown so great that the nizam was compelled to admit him to the Inner Council. At your trial, it was Rao who called for your execution.”
“I remember him.” A rough-featured man dressed all in black. Blunt fingers mollusked with rings. A cone-shaped turban sporting a pair of silver snakes. In a land speckled with odd fellows, he had been odder than most. “Who is Nagas?”
“The Nagas are serpent deities. Their worshipers were an insignificant cult until Rao chose them to advance his own ambitions. Our people are superstitious, and the leopard’s disappearance has made them fearful. Rao astounds them with displays of simple magic and preaches that the Nagas have power to save Alanabad. Already his followers number in the thousands. Only the return of the leopard will discredit him and restore the people’s faith in themselves.”
For all Duran cared, Alanabad could go to the snakes. It was his own future—all days of it—that concerned him now. Escape. And Jessica. Like an underground river she flowed quietly through his every thought. Echoes of her pain thrummed at his nerve ends.
Let her be sleeping.
He pulled himself away from the standing stone and began to circle the clearing. “The common folk may be superstitious, but you are an educated man. Why are you here, waiting like a midwife for me to whelp a leopard? Surely you see how ridiculous this is.”
“The gods—”
“Are you their puppet? The nizam’s? You could take ship for India tomorrow with the replica and leave me here to go about my business. Who would know or care?”
For a time he thought Shivaji did not mean to answer. The assassin’s gaze had lifted to the bluing sky. The first rays of the sun limned his turban with gold.
“It was my duty to guard the leopard,” he said at length. “I must make amends by returning it to Alanabad. The true leopard, Duran-Sahib.”
Guilt! An emotion that Duran had explored to its depths. Jubilant, he wished he could break off the conversation until he’d figured some way to exploit Shivaji’s unexpected vulnerability. But he was locked in an immediate battle he had to win.
“What’s the difference?” he asked. “You said it was an exact copy. A mama leopard couldn’t tell the two of them apart.”
“The replica will satisfy the people, yes, and preserve the nizam’s throne. But only for a short time. The gods who placed Alanabad under the protection of the Golden Leopard will not be mocked.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.” Duran was feeling a little better now. The leopard had been stolen on Shivaji’s watch, and he wanted it back. Under all that silky calm lay a healthy bedrock of frustration and pride. Under different circumstances, Duran could imagine liking the fellow.
“It is not important that you understand,” Shivaji said. “Like my own, your fate has been inscribed. We are bound together, wheel and axle, on this journey.”
“The question being, who will drive? Little has been accomplished, I know, but I thought I had more time.” Twenty-five days. If he kept gnawing on that, it would paralyze him. “We need Lady Jessica. Give me another chance to recruit her.”
“That would be unwise. Your interest in the lady is not confined to our search.”
Duran turned with a start. “Because I played nursemaid to her headache? It was a damn lucky turn of events, her being ill and me on the spot to take advantage of it. Mind you, I’m not cut out to mop brows and catch vomit in a basin.” He gave a delicate shudder. “But I acted my part to the hilt, don’t you think?”
“It did not appear that you were feigning concern.”
“Good. Then I may have fooled her as well. An insignificant incident between us several years ago caused a breach of trust, but perhaps she will now think better of me.”
Shivaji raised a noncommittal eyebrow.
“In any case,” Duran continued while he held the advantage, “I want one thing to be clear. Tell the Others. Under no circumstance is she to be harmed.”
He looked up to see Shivaji directly in front of him, the Iron Dagger gleaming at his earlobe. “Very well, Duran-Sahib. We wish no harm to come to those who assist us. But I am sworn to see that you do not escape the nizam’s judgment.”
“Unless I find the leopard, of course.”
“Even when you do.” Shivaji’s long fingers curled lightly over the slave bracelet. “My instructions make no allowance for success. In twenty-five days, or before then if I so choose, you will die. That is your destiny.”
Plain enough. But nothing had changed. Finding the leopard had never been in the cards. “I don’t believe in destiny,” he said, “except the one I create for myself.”
“Few are given the privilege to choose their own fates. If you wish to protect the lady, you must swear she will not be drawn into any scheme designed to escape your responsibility. Or to escape me.”
Duran pulled free his hand and resumed his prowling. Another bond settled around his throat. Responsibility. Jessica. An oath.
Would he break his word to save his life? Was there any other way out of this deadlock?
“I could swear to do whatever it is you want,” he said at length, “but it would be the word of a scoundrel. Ask anyone who ever knew me what my honor is worth.”
“I have done so. Before we departed from India, I made a study of you.”
“I trust you were appropriately shocked.”
Shivaji made a dismissive gesture. “Mercenaries are not an unknown species in my country.”
“Even those who train the soldiers of his own country’s enemies?”
“The East India Company is not your country, and its enemies are often capriciously selected. You were angry.”
God yes. Burning rage, and on its heels, cold retribution. But he was careful not to react to what Shivaji had learned of him. The assassin was probing for his weaknesses, and no one was allowed to come close to this one.
Easier, he decided, to swear the oath and get it over with. It meant surrendering any last-ditch effort to enlist Jessie’s help, but that was just as well. When he grew desperate, and he expected to, his oath would be her only protection.
“So, what do I do? Go on one knee? Place my hand on somebo
dy’s holy writings?”
“Your word will suffice. Do you give it?”
He turned to face Shivaji. “Lady Jessica will not be told of any escape plans I make,” he said in a flat tone, “nor will she be permitted, even by indirection, to assist me in any way. I swear it.”
“Very well. In return I shall grant you a little time, perhaps two days, to secure her cooperation.”
“Make it three,” Duran said, trying not to show his relief. “She’s ill. And you understand that I shall be required to tell her the truth. Most of it, at any rate.”
“It would be better otherwise. Should indiscretion lead to difficulties for me or my subordinates, your present incarnation will be terminated.”
“Oh, now there’s a charming euphemism. I’m excessively fond of my current incarnation, thank you very much. And your elastic moral sensibilities astonish me. All this to-do about preserving your insignificant little kingdom on a foundation of truth, but nary a qualm about cutting me down like a weed.”
“To kill you is my duty,” Shivaji said. “My dharma. It is written that one shall not absolve oneself from an obligation consequent on one’s birth, even if it involves evil. For all undertakings are surrounded by evil as fire is surrounded by smoke.”
“Oh, well, then. If it’s written.” Shaking his head, Duran made his way to the footpath. “But really, my good fellow, you ought to find something less crack-brained to read.”
Chapter 10
Duran slogged through the rest of the day in a weary haze, Jessica never far from his thoughts. Someone was tending to her, he knew, but he couldn’t ask how she was, nor, quite naturally, did the servants volunteer the information. Short of barging into her bedchamber to see for himself, there was nothing he could do.
The same could be said, he supposed, about the year that had suddenly compressed itself into twenty-five days. About the death sentence he had never quite believed in until Shivaji made it clear what he was facing. And about the choices open to him—actively seek the leopard and die in a few weeks, or abandon the hunt and die now.
