“What! Why?” Stas responded to his father’s revelation with shock. They were seated across from each other at the dining room table of the home that Southern India Railways provided Stas’s father, an engineer, as partial compensation for the consulting work he performed for the company. The house’s servants waited silently in the corners of the room, having just laid out a meal of chicken tikka, along with some dal and roti. It was Friday evening; the room was dimly lit by candles on the far ends of the table.
At first, Stas’s father remained silent in response to his son’s startled query, as if still pondering how to frame his reasoning. When he returned from near Bangalore, where he had supervised the installation of new rail lines, four days beforehand, Mr. Wladislaw Tarkowski had not been pleased to learn that his son had left school to go in search of his younger English friend. The Polish exile had been banished from the czar’s realm after fighting for the independence of his country in the failed 1863 rebellion. He couldn’t deny that Stas’s decision to go in search of Nell had led his son to play a role in foiling a Russian plot to wrest control of the subcontinent into the clutches of the Russian eagle. The engineer didn’t harbor any love for Muscovy. At the same time, recent events made him worry for his son’s future and safety.
Stas had known from his father’s look when he sat down at the table that the elder Tarkowski had something on his mind. But, he had expected nothing as drastic as this.
It had been a week since he and his friend, Mungo, stood on the white sand of the beach near the outskirts of the city, bidding farewell to the mysterious girl who had become their traveling companion over the course of their tribulations. As she said goodbye to them, she had tried to hide her identity by pretending to be her twin sister. But Stas had noticed the signs: the sash, her Sect’s weapon of choice, in one hand; the tattoo of the ax united with a Sanskrit inscription on the other, which had revealed itself as a gust of wind momentarily pushed back the sleeve of her robe.
Stas felt sure that Malka had the diamond. Even though he did not know what she intended to do with it, or where she planned to go, he was surprised to feel that he trusted her in spite of himself. She was a thief from a gang of thieves – trained to kill – who seemed to have no problem lying through her teeth when it suited her; the young Tarkowski suspected that he still didn’t know the whole truth about her.
Stas had never found such traits to be admirable. He held honesty, loyalty and other Catholic values as some of the most important traits of an upstanding Pole, for that was how he thought of himself. Despite that, born in Egypt to a French mother who’d died in childbirth, he had never been to Poland.
He thought back to that night in front of the beach house belonging to Mungo’s family. He and Malka had sat in the moonlight, discussing their origins: she, the product of a failed union between a British officer and a local aristocrat, was taken at a young age to be raised by her kidnappers; he, from a country that wasn’t on any map, a foreigner no matter where he went. Now, he was faced with the uncomfortable likelihood that they may have had more in common than either of them would have liked to admit.
Stas’s mind wandered to his adventures with childhood friend, Nell, in Africa. An ordeal that’d begun unwittingly almost two years ago. He had saved her; that was what mattered. He had drawn strength from his values, and his Polish identity. He had saved Nell again, just a few weeks ago in India. He tried not to think about the fact that he’d needed Malka’s aid – and the help of the mysterious longhaired man who’d seemed to stop time as he handed Stas the bullet he’d needed to defeat Lubomirski, save the jewel, and preserve his own life.
His thoughts moved to the other mystic legends he had heard: the similarities between the Black Madonna and the pagan goddess worshiped in this region? Pure coincidence. And what of the mysterious diamond and its evident power? The lightning-fast Shadow Warriors who overran the compound at Aydar? The supposed werepanther who saved Nell from recapture by Malka’s Thags? All of the other things he had seen at the Invisible Circus? He dismissed them.
Any science sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic, he kept telling himself. There had to be a rational explanation. He refused to accept even the possibility of any other eventuality. And yet, other answers did not present themselves readily. Stas wouldn’t admit it if asked, but since his return from the mystic forum of the Invisible Circus, doubt had gnawed at his convictions.
The past week at St. Thomas’s, the only quality school in Madras, hadn’t been easy, either. He had already fallen behind in his studies from the months he and Nell had spent in the African wilderness; after leaving school to find Nell in India and his embroilment in subsequent events, he lagged even further behind his peers. Although Mungo had tried to help him, most of the school’s teachers were dissatisfied with Stas’s diligence and progress in his studies. Once a top student, the young Tarkowski was now in danger of losing his position.
“This is no good, Stas,” his father said finally, bringing his son’s attention back to the table. “You were already having trouble at St. Thomas’s before you went off in search of Nell. I talked with the headmaster yesterday afternoon. He tells me that you’re in danger of failing Greek, and struggling in at least three other subjects.”
Stas stared across the table at his father. He had been expecting a conversation along these lines. The Egypt-born youth was not surprised that his father would have checked with the school and learned about his scholastic situation; talk of his adventures had become common gossip in the social circles of Madras. His father’s decision, however, came as a shock.
“I know my marks are low,” Stas began slowly. “But I’m working hard to improve them. I know I was behind because of the kidnapping in Africa. But when I heard Nell’s caravan disappeared on the road to Madras, I had to go searching for her, to protect her the way a good gentleman would.” He paused for a second and then added, hopefully, “You taught me that.”
Stas had told his father about his latest adventure in his own words when the older man had asked earlier that afternoon. The young man had given him an accurate accounting. Yet, he had left out anything related to the strange mystic acts he had seen at the Invisible Circus, or to the jewel and its fabled power. The colonial government had been doing everything possible to ensure that its existence remained a secret. Stas agreed. Knowledge of it was too dangerous to divulge freely. He trusted his father and didn’t enjoy lying to him, even if it was only a lie of omission. It was just the latest example of another gray area that recent events had forced him to face.
His father sighed and smiled sadly, looking down at his plate before facing his son again.
“You’re right. I did. And you did a very good job of protecting Nell after both of you were kidnapped in the Sahara. But this…,” he trailed off shortly, sighing again. “Stas, this was a completely different situation. There was an entire colonial administration searching for the caravan, and you and your friend chose to leave school and go running off in search of her.”
“I know we did,” Stas acknowledged. “But if we hadn’t, the Russians’ plot would have gone uncovered. All of India could have been at war by now.”
Mr. Tarkowski shook his head.
“We don’t know that. Maybe the proper authorities would have uncovered the plot in a different way. They might have found Nell. You chose to go running off, half-cocked, on some adventure, instead of focusing on your studies. You can’t just rationalize it by saying that it turned out for the best.”
His elder’s characterization raised the hairs on the back of Stas’s neck. He respected his father; they rarely argued, yet the engineer’s comments struck Stas as unfair.
“When I went missing in Egypt, did you just notify the authorities and go on with your day?” he challenged.
Stas knew that almost two years ago, when he and Nell had gone missing, Mr. Tarkowski and Nell’s father, Mr. Rawlison, had organized a massive search effort.
“No
,” the older man allowed. “But, even then, we didn’t just go running off into the desert. We stayed calm. Helped to coordinate the search effort. Besides, Stas, you aren’t Nell’s father.”
Stas paused. He couldn’t disagree with his parent’s last statement. He wasn’t her father, or even her brother, exactly. He and Nell had grown up together, but it was the events that occurred following their kidnapping from Port Said, which brought a closeness between them that could only come from facing life and death together. He didn’t know how to explain it. The green-eyed youth took a deep breath.
“The search effort didn’t uncover any clues as to where those who attacked the caravan went. We both know that. If I hadn’t gone, Lubomirski and his men would have killed her as a sacrifice. That’s not just a rationalization, Father. We now know what the conspirators’ intentions were all the while. What I did was justified. I know my grades have suffered because of my decision, but I can fix that. I don’t think that’s a bad tradeoff, considering that I survived two dangerous ordeals, to even still have a position at….”
“Which brings up another point,” his father cut him off. “Assuming, for the moment, that you made the right decision to go after Nell, that’s two times in as many years that you’ve been involved in life and death circumstances, Stas. You’re sixteen years old. You need a more stable environment that cannot be provided here. I’m not doing this to punish you. I’m worried about you. As your father, I’m concerned for your safety.”
“What about Nell?” Stas asked, in equal parts out of concern and frustration at his father’s patronizing attitude. “Wouldn’t she be better off if I were here to help protect her?” His voice began to rise. “Are you saying that she is safe here but I am not?”
His father looked at him calmly. Having been in war, he understood the bonds that could be forged between individuals facing danger. He wasn’t surprised by his son’s reaction. In fact, the man nodded in agreement with Stas’s assessment.
“I spoke with Mr. Rawlison yesterday. He agrees that in light of recent events, Madras is too dangerous. The empire is experiencing more unrest than it was a few years ago. Yes, we have our work here, and we would like to keep our children close. But, in the end, we agreed that it’s too hazardous for either of you. Nell is being sent away as well.”
Stas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His father was sending him away because he had protected the girl who had been given into his care. He and Nell were being punished for fighting the same enemy that his father had defended his homeland against. The sandy-haired youth calmed himself and tried one more tack.
“It’s still the middle of the school year. If all of this ‘instability’ has made me fall behind in my lessons,” he couldn’t keep a hint of sarcasm out of his voice, “won’t my moving now worsen the problem?”
Again, his father nodded immediately, clearly having thought of this issue.
“We’ll wait until the end of the winter term. Then, Nell’s father and I have decided that you will depart together overland to Bombay on the first day of the New Year. There, I’m afraid you will have to say your farewells. You’ll board different ships to your destinations. With luck you will only miss a few days of the second session.”
The youth’s eyes widened in astonishment and he could feel his breath quicken with anxiety. When his father had told him that he was being sent away to a different school, he had assumed that he would be going to the Imperial capital of Delhi, or maybe across the empire to the sleepy port city of Karachi. What his father told him now suggested that they would be going much further afield. A chill crept up his spine. When he spoke, he tried to keep the fear out of his voice.
“Where are you sending us?” he asked quietly.
“Nell will be going to England. She has an aunt there who will look after her near Hampton Court. You’ll go by sea to Marseille, and then by train into Switzerland. I have a Swiss friend in the railway company here from Fribourg. He’s agreed to help secure you a place at St. Nicholas Catholic School.”
Switzerland, he thought. Europe. As a Pole, he’d always considered himself to be a European, even though he’d never been to the continent in his entire life. As he heard his father’s news, Stas found he was nervous. The British had never really accepted him. What would the Swiss make of the scion of a Polish refugee who had grown up in the British Empire, the only home he had ever known? All of a sudden, Stas realized that he didn’t want to find out.
“Father, please!” he entreated. “I’m normally diligent with my studies. You know that. I’m sure that what happened over the last few years were coincidences! Bad luck that surely isn’t bound….”
“Stas. My mind is made up.” His father stopped him in a tone that brooked no discussion. Then, his voice softened, and he sighed again as if in thought. “Stas. I know you don’t understand my decision now. This doesn’t seem like much comfort at the moment. But, maybe one day, you will understand that to have children is to see things differently.” With that, his father looked down at his food and began eating even though it had turned almost cold.
His son did as well. But Stas found that he didn’t have much of an appetite. He mechanically ate his meal, processing what his father had told him.
As the rest of supper continued in silence, Stanislaw ‘Stas’ Tarkowski felt his world beginning to unravel around him.
Three
The road to Calcutta had been thankfully uneventful, though the feeling of unease that Malka begun to feel on her last morning in the camp had continued to come and go. Often, after she had stopped for the night, she could have sworn that someone was watching her. But she never discovered any concrete evidence to bear her feeling out. Still, she trusted her instincts and had remained in a state of heightened awareness for the entire journey.
Letter from the Society aside, Malka was glad that she had chosen to head for Calcutta even though Bombay had been closer to the Thags’ erstwhile camp. Once it became apparent that her sister had not returned to Pondicherry, the Urumi might have realized what had happened. If they weren’t already watching her, taking the longer route northeast to Calcutta was one more way in which she could throw them off her track.
Now she appeared to be approaching the outskirts of the Bengali city. The evening before, she had bathed in the stream she had camped next to. That morning, the mid-tan-skinned girl had changed into one of the dresses she had found, its black folds contrasting sharply with her intense blue eyes and the bloodred sash she had tied around her waist. Sitting on top of the lacquered black carriage, she figured she could now pass as the daughter of a local Hindu administrator who worked for the British government. Her lighter skin and unusual irises gave lie to that impression. But, Malka sighed, there wasn’t much she could do about that.
Malka knew from the loot the Thags brought back from their heists and from her adventures with Stas and Mungo that people in the cities exchanged coins and small pieces of paper for things they wanted. She needed those. Lots of them. Now that she was alone, trying to strangle groups of people traveling in between cities for their possessions single-handedly wasn’t an option. Malka looked behind her, towards the carriage’s cabin and the valuable items it contained. She had something else in mind.
The buildings around her had grown denser and larger in size and she came to a river, across which she could see the heart of the city. There was a bridge a few hundred paces down river on her right. She turned, reached the bridge, and crossed it. Malka was now in an area of the city that was clearly occupied by most of the high-level British administrators. Passersby looked at her with suspicion. It wasn’t every day that they saw a finely dressed Indian girl driving an unoccupied carriage, let alone in their part of town. From the deaths of her father and mother, Malka knew that the British colonizers and their Indian subjects didn’t always mix with positive results. She now realized that she should have taken her appearance into greater account. If she was going to bargain her hoard for money, the Tha
g couldn’t do so here.
“You, there! Indian girl!” a graying, bald British man, who was dressed in a suit despite Calcutta’s searing heat, called out at her in a polished English accent. “Where did you get that carriage? And those clothes?”
Malka stared at him silently as his pudgy figure trudged towards her. Her carriage was stopped at a busy intersection, waiting for a break in the wagons and rickshaws. She was stuck.
The man reached her and examined the carriage. Through its window his eyes were drawn to a corner where the sheet no longer fully covered the valuable contents inside. His eyes widened. The lines of his face set, as though his suspicion had been confirmed.
“Thief!” he yelled. The older man backed away, pointing an accusatory finger at the darker-skinned figure seated atop the carriage.
The older man turned and ran through the traffic towards another individual of European descent, who was dressed in a constable’s uniform and stood at the center of the vehicles, vainly trying to keep them moving in some semblance of order.
“That girl there!” he said urgently to the officer, again pointing in Malka’s direction. “She’s a thief, I tell you! That carriage. It’s full of valuable items.”
The officer’s brow furrowed as he turned to look at Malka through the torrent of heavy traffic, which moved from his left to right in front of him, as if assessing her. Then, evidently giving up any pretense that those on the road were obeying his directions, he started towards her.
Malka sat on the carriage’s driving bench unmoved. Yet, her mind was in turmoil. Under ordinary circumstances she would have strangled both of these upstarts with her sash, as she was trained to, and been done with it. But the art of the Thags depended on the element of surprise. She couldn’t let them find what she carried. What was she to do, alone in the middle of a busy street?
Her mind flashed back to one of the last conversations she’d had with her Master before the events that had turned her life upside down.
Outcast: Keepers of the Stone Book One (An Historical Epic Fantasy Adventure) Page 2
