by Lynn Kerstan
“Or he wants you to believe so. I know his capabilities. I have seen him kill. But I do not believe he has the soul of a murderer. He has tended me, and a number of the servants, when we were ill. He makes prayer boats.”
“Yes. I’ve seen those on the rivers in India. He’s an unusual man, to be sure. His philosophy, character, and profession remain an utter mystery to me. But at the end of the day, Shivaji is what he was bred to be. He is the fabled Sakar ki Churi, the Knife of Sugar. It is smooth and sweet, but still a knife.”
There was a conviction in his voice that persuaded her more than his words. And she had deciphered one of those resonances. His fear of Shivaji was genuine. She might not believe in the Knife of Sugar, but Duran most assuredly did. In the shadows of the grotto, death had come to call. “Will you take the leopard with you?” she said.
His relief at her acquiescence, although unspoken, made its presence felt. “I’ll try for it,” he admitted after a hesitation. “It took my former life from me. It’s taking the one I have now, here, with you. Why shouldn’t it pay for whatever life I find somewhere else?”
She hardly dared. But this would be her only opportunity. “Must that life, somewhere else, exclude me? I would go with you, Duran, if you’ll have me.”
Silence. A murmur then, perhaps Dear God.
“It isn’t possible,” he said at length. “I don’t know where I’m going, or if I’ll get anywhere at all. You should never have got caught up in this. I will answer for that, one way or another. But it stops now. From here on out you have to stay clear of me and what I do.”
“Because you say so? Or because you want rid of me?”
“Because there is no choice for either of us. Because I have made a covenant with Shivaji. So long as you are not involved with any attempt I make to escape, he will do you no injury. Jessica, we can debate this until we are found here, still jabbering, or I can lead you to safety and take my chances from there.”
She heard him stand, and the scrape of his boots on the stony ground as he went to the entrance and stood there, silhouetted against the starlight. “Or if you wish it, we can walk together into Shivaji’s grip and let him make the decision for us. I know only this, princess. It’s from a poem by a man named Rumi, and it seems to be engraved on every one of my bones. ‘Around the lip of this cup we share—My life is not mine.’”
She would have wept then, for the first time since she could remember, except that it would have made everything more difficult for him. And she had resolved—had she not?—to give him whatever he asked. How easy to make such a vow before she understood it meant she would never see him again. And how hard to keep it, since the vow was made only to herself.
Coming to her feet, she unclenched her hands and wedged a brisk tone into her voice. “Well, if you are going to deposit me on the assassin’s doorstep, we’d best be off. Just keep in mind, Duran, that I am not altogether helpless. You needn’t take me too close or linger to see if I have been properly received.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, and she heard the relief in his tone. “Come along, then. If we don’t get there before Shivaji has moved on, there will be the devil to pay.”
More than an hour later, as Duran led her up a steep, grassy incline, the smell of smoke and something oddly sweet enveloped them.
Duran halted. Took her hand. “I know that odor. It comes from a funeral pyre. They are burning their dead.”
“But I thought—”
“The stones were for the enemy,” he said. “It was a respectful burial. And they could hardly incinerate so many without drawing attention. If you don’t wish to see the fires, wait here for a time. They will soon burn out. Then proceed to the end of the promontory. From there you can get Shivaji’s attention.”
“I don’t mind the ritual,” she told him. “But I shall wait long enough to give you a head start. Do go off, Duran, before I embarrass us both with needless sentimentality. I shall miss you. I shall try not to think of you, and after a time, I expect I shall succeed. Good-bye, then. I am glad to have known you.”
For a long time she felt him there, still behind her, as if uncertain what to do. But the sensation of his presence gradually faded, and when she brought herself to look around, he was gone.
She gave thought to how much time to wait and decided very little was required. This was to be yet another masquerade, like the one she’d played out with Gerald, like the many she’d played with Duran in their sexual games. When she appeared in front of Shivaji, dramatically exhausted and lost, he would not expect the fugitive Duran to be lurking nearby. But neither did she wish to intrude on the funeral taking place below.
Dropping to her belly, she slithered her way to the narrow point of the overlook and saw a circle of men seated cross-legged around two pallets suspended over blazing fires. The pallets, and the figures laid out on them, were all but consumed by the flames. She could detect only the outlines, nearly transparent now, of what they had been.
Lowering her head, she slipped back a little, rolled over, and gazed up at the stars. All those men, the ones in the flames and the ones under the stones, come so far to reclaim a chunk of gold. They had died for a symbol, and for the political ambitions of their leaders. She had regained her lost love, and lost him again. There was no prayer boat in the world large enough to contain all her questions, or all her tears, if ever she permitted herself to weep.
Some time later, sounds from below stirred her from her reverie. She returned to her viewpoint and saw that the ceremony was done and the traces of it all but vanished. It was time. Rising, she stood directly on the edge of the promontory and waited for someone to notice her.
It didn’t take long. A finger pointed in her direction. Everyone looked up at her. And after a few minutes, Shivaji came for her. He was alone, on horseback, riding slowly up the grassy slope she had ascended with Duran.
She watched him dismount, approach her, and bow, and remembered how he had killed three men in the time it would take to close a window. “Were your losses great?” she said.
“Two dead,” he replied without expression, as if describing the weather. “Three wounded, but they are able to carry on their duties. Where is Duran?”
“I don’t know. He said he was going, he didn’t say where, and he left.”
“How long ago? In which direction.”
“He departed soon after we escaped the coach.” Which was, so far as it went, perfectly true. “I don’t know precisely where we were at the time, but he turned right.”
A silence. “Did he ask you to lie on his account, or to mislead me?”
“He asked me not to make a fuss. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me. It wasn’t a lengthy discussion. He was in something of a hurry.” She lifted her chin. “He did mention that if he stayed, you would kill him.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Is it true?”
He seemed not to want to answer that. But she couldn’t really tell. It was dark, and even in daylight, little could be read from his face.
“I was sent for him,” he said.
“Like Yamaraj for the prince. I remember the story. The prince dies, the princess cries a waterfall of tears, and the Lord of Death toddles along to his next victim. Are you quite proud of yourself?”
“I must do the work given me to do, memsahib. Duran’s fate was declared by another. I am not the wielder of death. Only the instrument. Can a sword choose where to strike?”
“A sword,” she said, “does not have a mind to think with. A will to make its own decision. A conscience to guide its action. Two legs to walk the hell away.”
He made no reply to that. Nor did he speak again until he had brought her to the carriage, she on the horse and Shivaji leading it as if he were the servant he had for so long pretended to be.
After he had helped her down, his strong hands firm on her waist, he regarded her thoughtfully. “I would like you to continue the journey,” he said.
&
nbsp; The declaration was so outrageous that she could scarcely believe he’d made it. Continue on as if nothing had happened? As if there were any purpose to it? “Why should I?” she said, not troubling to conceal her anger. “Even if I found the leopard and gave it you, Duran would still be marked for death. Can you deny that?”
“His life is not contingent on the leopard, no. But consider. If I am escorting you, I cannot be searching for him.”
The breath rushed out of her. He had a point. For a little time, at least, she could keep this relentless monster off Duran’s trail. It was a mercy that he wanted the leopard even more than he wanted Duran at the point of his knife. And she had no other place to go, really, nor anywhere she cared to be. Gerald could wait another few days. He would have to, because she was in no state of mind to deal with him now.
“Very well,” she said with patent reluctance. “I shall inquire for your statue, until I decide not to. Or am I your prisoner?”
“You may depart at any time, memsahib.”
At the least, she reflected, entering the carriage, she would have the satisfaction of pretending to seek the leopard when it had already been found. Shivaji would never have it, that was certain. Duran had got away. And the Lord of Death would be returning to his petty little country in disgrace.
Little enough comfort for the long days and nights ahead, but it was all she had.
Chapter 25
Three days had passed with no word of Duran. It occurred to Jessica, belatedly, that if he’d been captured or killed, Shivaji might not give her the news.
The outriders were hard on Duran’s trail, she knew. Only the driver, one guard, and Arjuna remained. And Shivaji. Always Shivaji, everywhere she looked, as if trying to read from her expression what she was thinking. But she wore her face like a mask. He would learn nothing from her.
For propriety’s sake, and because Shivaji insisted on it, she employed an abigail provided by an agency in Bristol. Prudence had appeared to be a cheerful lass, but that was only until she clapped eyes on the heathens. From that time on she huddled in the carriage, wringing her hands and moaning about the turbaned brutes who were, she was sure, plotting to ravish Lady Jessica and her hapless maid.
Lady Jessica thought it far more likely that she’d slap the sniveling girl and put her out at the next crossroads.
They had made three calls since leaving Clifton. She moved through each encounter with practiced social skill, making polite conversation and dutifully examining the collections, spending enough time to convince Shivaji her inquires had been thorough. She found it ironic that two of her hosts had promptly commissioned her to sell a number of valuable items, and the third wished to be contacted if she came across any fine Sévigné bows, which his mistress liked to collect. If this journey continued long enough, she could pick up several new clients.
To no purpose, she had to remind herself. Her business would soon be brought down by her brother-in-law. Might already have been, for all she knew.
It didn’t signify. She had lost Duran, and nothing else seemed to matter. If only she could be sure he was safe. But she didn’t know, and might never know, what became of him. Each night she lay dry-eyed on her bed and fought a silent battle with the pain.
On the fourth evening, under a leaden sky, she moved on leaden feet around the deepest puddles in the courtyard of yet another posthouse, a small one on the road between Much Wenlock and Shrewsbury. It had been raining on and off all day, and a biting wind had sprung up late in the afternoon. Her summer cloak flapped behind her like wings.
She was expected at the White Stallion, thanks to the efficient Helena, as she had been expected at each posthouse since the itinerary changed. The innkeeper, a small man with side-whiskers and a bulbous nose, was waiting for her just inside.
“Lady Jessica,” he said with a gap-toothed smile. “You are most welcome. There are two letters for you, which we have placed in your bedchamber, and the other member of your party, who arrived earlier this afternoon, is waiting for you in the private parlor.”
“The other—?” Her heart jumped about in her chest. And then subsided. It had to be Helena, probably with bad news concerning Gerald. Or . . . might she have heard something of Duran? No. That was unthinkable. But what else would bring her all the way from London?
Jessica knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. The events of the last few weeks had left her sluggish and numb. They had also taught her three lessons she wished she had never learned. Whatever happened was immeasurably worse than what had preceded it. News was always bad. And pain was more tolerable if one walked directly into it.
Today’s pain was waiting for her down a short passageway and behind a closed parlor door, so she walked directly to that door and flung it open.
Her gaze shot to a merry fire dancing in the hearth, the first she’d seen for half a year. She blinked. An awareness, like the moment one almost remembered a dream just before it dissolved, tingled from her hair to her toes. She was afraid to look.
“What kept you, princess?” said a slurred voiced to her right. “The landlord cut me off after one bottle of claret. I don’t think he believed you would pay for it, let alone another.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said, struggling to lock her trembling knees into place. “No one with sense believes anything you say.”
“And I thought you’d be delighted to see me. It is perfectly safe to glance this direction, by the way. Feel free to do so at any time.”
She did, chin lifted in a show of indifference.
Long-limbed and indolent, he reclined with feline grace in a carved-wood captain’s chair. His hair was filthy, his shirt and pants in tatters, his face and hands bruised and scabbed. He was grinning.
“You won’t want to touch me, princess, until I’ve had a bath. But you might wish to come over here and pet my cat.”
Her gaze followed his gesture to the small table beside his chair. To the Golden Leopard, more regal than King George IV had ever been, its lucent eyes staring directly into her soul.
“You were supposed to be on a ship by now,” she said, turning back to Duran. “I thought that with the head start I gave you, you’d be clever enough to escape.”
“I did escape.” He looked offended. “So far as I know, Shivaji’s spaniels are still chasing their tails fifty miles south of here. I’d have caught up with you last night, but I went to the wrong posthouse. This one, though, I remembered from the list.” His teeth flashed. “The Stallion. Reminded me of . . . well, me.”
“This isn’t funny.” Relief, rage, and pure joy at seeing him again tumbled inside her like a team of acrobats. “If you were free and clear, why in heaven’s name did you return?”
“You know what they say, my dear. The cat always comes back.”
“Only if he’s lost his mind. Now that Shivaji has got his leopard, he will—” She could not bear to say it. “You know what he’s going to do.”
“Of course. He’ll march back to India and save Alanabad from the snake chaps. What else?”
“Kill you, you dolt. He is sworn to do it. You told me so. Leopard or no leopard, you are the walking dead. Nothing, but nothing, will change his mind.”
“I told you that?” He considered. “I must have wanted something from you at the time.”
“Yes. The chance to retrieve a fortune in gold and gemstones before gallivanting off to a tropical island.”
“I hadn’t considered a tropical island. Perhaps I ought to start gallivanting now, before Shivaji knows I’m here.”
Her alarm faded to uncertainty. He was too pleased with himself, in too ebullient a mood . . . not at all like a man worrying about his imminent demise. Perhaps she could safely be happy he was here.
“Would I be lounging about, waiting to surprise Shivaji, if I expected him to garrote me? Yes, he made plenty of threats and always kept me well guarded. He assumed I would steal the leopard if I found it, which I did. He did not imagine I’d get away with it, but I did. A
nd it seems neither of you expected me to return with the leopard and put it in his hands. For that matter, neither did I. But here I am.”
She sank onto a footstool and gazed into his untroubled eyes. “Why, then?
“Why, for you, lady wife. We contracted for three weeks of marriage, and by my calculations, you still owe me seven days and eight hours. I lost track of the minutes last night under a hedgerow.”
She gave him the smile he expected, because she could do nothing else. But her pulse was beating erratically.
He still meant to leave her. Before she had even begun to hope he might stay, he made it clear he would not. Do not importune me, he was telling her. My life will not be here, with you.
And why should it be? He did not, after all, love her.
“You shall have what you are owed,” she said. “In truth, I was more than a little piqued when you took French leave in the middle of our wedding trip.”
“I can’t help but notice that you continued on without me.”
“There were reasons, or so I believed at the time. But it appears that while I was busy keeping Shivaji from joining the search, you were even busier catching up with us. Have you eaten?”
At the change of subject, he blinked. “Miss Holcombe left a packet of nuts, dried fruit, and biscuits alongside the box with the leopard. She rightly guessed I’d soon be paying a call at the icehouse. Oh, and she left me a pistol as well. If Shivaji shows signs of doing me in, I shall promptly shoot him.”
“That is comforting, to be sure. Not that I think you could hit a hay wagon in your present state.” She rose, pleased to find that her legs had stopped shaking. “I’ll see to a bath for you, and a hot meal. Do you wish me to fetch Shivaji?”
“By all means. And if you don’t mind, leave us in private for a short time. I’m hoping to negotiate a favor or two in exchange for the leopard.”
