by Cole, Myke
Bookbinder glanced at the Portamancer. The formality of the request making perplexed him. Surely Vasuki-Kai had informed his king why they had come here. Why bother with the asking? He shrugged inwardly. This was a different race, a different culture. He couldn’t begin to understand how their minds worked. Best to play along in the hopes they were getting somewhere. The Portamancer couldn’t help but be a good sign.
‘Please inform His Majesty that my government’s presence in this plane is cut off from resupply and aid. We are under siege by hostile goblin tribes and cannot hold out for very long. If we are not rescued, many thousands will die. I ask that His Majesty use his Portamancer to help us to return to my home to obtain relief for my men before they are lost.’
Ajathashatru hissed to one of the naga guards, who bowed, slithered away, and returned with a bundle of arrows. A princely naga joined it, a strong current emanating from it. The tenor of the tide came clear to Bookbinder, soft, cold, fluid. A Hydromancer.
‘His Majesty asks if, now that you are rested and accustomed to life among us, you can work your magic as a demonstration.’
Bookbinder sighed inwardly. It seemed that while he could not bargain, the Great King most certainly could. The naga Hydromancer stretched its hands forward, Binding its magic into a shimmering ball of ice that hovered before it.
‘His Majesty asks that you magic the tips of these arrows, as you did the bullets of your sipahi when you fought the agni danav on your journey here.’
There was no playing games now. If he wanted to use the king’s gate, he was going to have to put something on the table. He stepped forward and did his grunting drama as before, but this time, he worked his magic properly, siphoning off the naga’s current in full to its hissing surprise, then channeling it into the arrowheads, one by one, until they crackled on the stone floor of the promenade, blue with cold, sparking frost.
One of the naga guards slithered forward at a gesture from the king, retrieved one of the magic arrows, and nocked it to a man-sized bow. At a nod from Ajathashatru, it fired it into one of the stone pedestals that fed the clouds of glass insects. The arrow slammed into the base of it, the frost spreading outward, the stone crackling from the cold. After a moment, the pedestal shivered, then shattered, frozen pieces scattering across the promenade, sending the snakes sliding away.
Ajathashatru hissed in frank admiration, then paused, assuming his usual regal mode. ‘His Majesty says your magic is very impressive. He asks how long these arrows will stay ensorcelled.’
Bookbinder shook his head honestly. ‘I regret I do not know. I believe they expend their magic as they are used.’
‘His Majesty is pleased with your demonstration. He grants your boon and will direct his amatyan to return you home to your people soon. Unfortunately, the time is not auspicious for the working of this particular magic. The great rain that indicates the end of the Vassa is late this year. Until these rains come, the magic you request cannot be worked.’
Bookbinder seethed. Fucking liar. He had just seen the Portamancer working his magic right in front of him yesterday. He chose one of Ajathashatru’s heads and met its eyes. The head stared back, daring him to challenge the patent falsehood. Bookbinder swallowed his pride and bowed. ‘Of course, I will be patient and await His Majesty’s pleasure.’
Ajathashatru nodded. ‘His Majesty commands you to do so. He will summon you again when he next desires an audience. Go now, and know that His Royal Majesty is pleased with you.’
Bookbinder backed out of the audience again, eyes down, blood boiling with fury, digging deep for scraps of patience.
When next the Indians brought them out for cricket, Bookbinder noted soldiers busily cleaning up the tents and doing their best to put their gear in order. Regimental standards were being raised, a golden Maltese cross surrounded by a horn beneath three lions fluttered above one tent pole, an elephant paraded across a round shield before two crossed swords on another. The number of dress uniforms had spiked sharply.
‘What’s up with that?’ Bookbinder asked Ghaisas, indicating the fluttering standards, the sudden interest in order and cleanliness.
Ghaisas grinned. ‘Very soon it is Army Day in my country. We celebrate a very famous general. He was our first once India became a free democracy. There will be celebrations here and also at home.’
‘Outstanding. Do we get to celebrate with you?’
Ghaisas thought about it for a moment. ‘Maybe we are having special “grudge” cricket match?’
Bookbinder nodded. No doubt they’d find a way to use that as an excuse to further delay them. He knew the cricket games were an attempt to distract them.
The next day, two naga guards escorted the same naga Hydromancer and deposited a larger bundle of arrows beside the fountain, hissing and nodding at Bookbinder until he transferred the creature’s magic into them. He looked up once the bundle was fully magicked, gingerly lifted by the guards, careful not to touch the blue tips, and carted away. ‘Tell His Royal Majesty that I sincerely hope those rains come soon,’ Bookbinder said. But if the naga understood him, they gave no sign.
This became a daily ritual. Bookbinder would magick bundles of arrows in the morning, as well as the occasional sword or magazine of ammunition. In the afternoon, Captain Ghaisas would collect them for cricket. The captain was tight lipped about the coming rains, and his men all studiously avoided the topic, Dhatri included. After a while, Bookbinder stopped bringing it up.
Each day, the Portamancer would come to the turret to open the gate for the Indian soldiers to transfer equipment or personnel. Bookbinder would look at his lap, knowing he was expected to ignore this flagrant dishonesty.
When, after another week, Hazarika and Vasuki-Kai came to summon him before the Naga Raja again, hope stirred in his breast. Perhaps he’d finally passed whatever test of patience they’d laid before him. Maybe this was it.
But his heart sank when he saw that the promenade before Ajathashatru had at last been cleared of snakes. Instead, there were heaps of ordnance. Arrows, swords, bullets, even larger artillery shells and rockets. They stretched all around Bookbinder, forcing him to turn his head to take it all in.
‘His Royal Majesty is exceedingly pleased with your magic,’ Hazarika translated. ‘The frost you have put into his arms persists, and has given him a great tool to strike at the heart of his enemies. He is most pleased with you and has decided to make an exception. There is no need to wait for the Vassa this year. His Majesty will employ his magic to aid you.’
Bookbinder shuddered as he waited for the ‘but’ that was surely coming. It did.
‘But,’ Hazarika added, ‘His Majesty asks that you first complete this task for him.’ He swept his arm across all the ordnance spread around him. ‘You must first magick these instruments of war for the glory of his Majesty’s army.’
Bookbinder nodded and bowed. All anger was gone. His blood was as cool as his mind was clear.
Because now he knew. He had seen the vast expanse of the Agni Danav Raajya. He knew that a full-scale offensive against them would take months, that it would require magicked ammunition far beyond even the piles that lay all around him now.
He knew the truth: now that Ajathashatru knew what he could do, the Great King would never, ever let him go.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Off The Pitch
The notion of ‘Probe’ or prohibited magics is completely arbitrary. It’s much like passing judgment on homosexuality, or euthanasia. The physical world isn’t interested in human moral judgments. It simply ticks along as it always has. In the so-called ‘pariah’ states in Africa and the Caribbean, where Necromancy is embraced and openly practiced, the idea of death and the sanctity of burial are different. The Mexican ‘Dios de los Muertos Exception’, and the fact that the United States recognizes it, underscores this flagrant hypocrisy. There are so-called ‘Probe Selfers’ rotting in prison, or even dead, for the crime of practicing magic that would have been perfe
ctly legal if they’d been lucky enough to be born in Nigeria, or the Southern Sudan, or Haiti.
– Loretta Kiwan, Vice President
Council on Latent-American Rights
Appearing on WorldSpan Networks Counterpoint
Bookbinder returned to the pavilion, stretched, and tapped Sharp on the shoulder. ‘A word.’ He motioned toward the fountain. Sharp nodded and followed. The naga guards, now confident that Bookbinder and his team would keep to the pavilion and its environs, no longer followed them to the place where the loud pattering of falling water obscured hushed conversation.
Bookbinder was fairly certain that the naga guards couldn’t understand a word of what they said, but he still made a great show of scrubbing down, and was sure to pitch his voice low when he said to Sharp, ‘We’re leaving.’
Sharp looked up, surprised. ‘Sir . . .’
Bookbinder plunged his hands into the water, scrubbing them hard and splashing loudly. ‘You’re in receive mode now, Sergeant. I am not asking for your opinion. I am telling you what our course of action is.’
Sharp paused only briefly. ‘Roger that, sir. What are your orders?’
Bookbinder nodded. ‘The first thing is that the only people who know are you and I. That doesn’t change. I don’t want Woon or Stanley accidentally letting the cat out of the bag.’
‘Got it. What’s the plan? It’s a long walk back to the FOB.’
‘We’re not walking back to the FOB. Listen, when this happens, it’s going to be a big surprise. I’m telling you because I know I can count on you not to hesitate. If anyone holds back when this kicks off, you grab them by the short hairs and make them move.’
‘Make them move where?’
‘You’ll see.’
Sharp nodded. ‘All right, sir. When does this pop off?’
‘Tomorrow’s their big celebration, right? Their national Army Day or something?’
Sharp thought about it for a moment and nodded again. ‘All right, they’ll be distracted and busy. We’ll be out on the pitch for our grudge match.
‘That’s when we get out of here.’
Bookbinder barely slept that night. He was up at dawn, pacing the pavilion, waiting for his escort to arrive. He watched the tower’s base, willing his eyes to see through it. At some point, Indian officers would round that tower to fetch him away. Would it be Captain Ghaisas, coming to fetch him for another round of cricket? Or would it be Brigadier Hazarika and another day of ensorcelling Ajathashatru’s weaponry? Panic and elation warred in his gut.
At long last, two khaki uniforms appeared around the tower’s base, naga guards in tow. Bookbinder froze, staring hard as the men hove into view. One of them wore epaulets and Bookbinder strained to make them out. At long last he did.
Three gold suns. Ghaisas. Bookbinder swallowed hard and nodded to Sharp. The sergeant nodded back and said nothing. Ghaisas saluted, grinning. ‘Today is a very special cricket match, sir.’
Bookbinder cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why’s that?’ But his stomach was doing somersaults. He hadn’t forgotten about the promised grudge match.
‘Today is Army Day that I told you about. So we are having our grudge match, and we are not taking it easy on you, Colonel! Very tough cricket match.’ He smiled fiercely.
Bookbinder laughed. ‘Well, in honor of your holiday, I suppose we’ll try to lose with as much grace as possible.’
They headed through the plaza toward the main gate in the ring wall. Bookbinder motioned to Sharp to keep close by. The sergeant matched his pace, his face blank.
The Indian encampment was festive. Pennants flapped from staves shoved into the muddy lanes that intersected between the Indian tents, proudly displaying the regimental arms of the various units making up the Indian presence on the FOB. The red Indian Army flag, white swords crossed below white lions, was everywhere. Soldiers chatted happily around grill fires. He saw more than one dress uniform, starched jackets, red silk turbans, white feathers. They looked ridiculously out of place among the mud and tents.
Ghaisas was true to his word. The Indians did not take it easy this time. They put all the Americans on one team, then proceeded to crush that team, despite Dhatri and Jivan’s valiant efforts to save them. For the first time, the crowd of Indians cheered loudly as the team hosting the Americans was defeated, and Bookbinder smiled along with them, seeing it for what it was, national pride. Only Stanley Britton seemed irritated by losing, throwing himself into the game with a ferocity that did not match his skill. Bookbinder played worse and worse as his impatience grew. His eyes kept returning to the turret on the ring wall closest to the pitch. He played on, waiting. The naga didn’t appear. His heart sank. The Portamancer had been opening gates for resupply on a daily basis since he’d arrived. Maybe the holiday had delayed the daily occurrence?
He turned back to the game just as Jivan scooped up the ball and threw it hard at the stumps, knocking them down and saving their team from a more miserable trouncing than they’d have suffered otherwise. With that last dismissal, the teams came to the center of the pitch, clapping and shaking hands as they switched sides.
Bookbinder heard the rumble of trucks. He turned. The Portamancer had appeared on the balcony, hands spread lightly over the parapet. Bookbinder took an instinctive step toward it, then stopped himself. He wasn’t going to be able to get closer to the point of making a difference. He dabbed at his eye and waved to Ghaisas as he stepped off the pitch, as close to the turret as he dared, sitting this round out. Another Indian soldier raced in to play for him. Bookbinder sized up the side of one of the Indian trucks parked closest to the field, eyeing its large, enclosed cargo bed.
The trucks pulled to a stop, freshly washed, with the Indian Army flag fluttering brightly from their antennae. The Portamancer spread its arms wide and Drew its magic to open the gate. Bookbinder strained toward it, summoning his own current. The naga had to be Binding the magic to the air just before the Indian convoy at this very moment. But he could feel nothing.
Maybe the distance was too far? Maybe he was having an off day? It didn’t matter. He looked at the truck bed, so close and yet so useless, and swallowed his disappointment.
And then he felt it. A flicker, a tiny tendril of the naga Portamancer’s magic, deep and sonorous, transporting.
Now or never, all in. Bookbinder yanked his own flow, surging it through him with everything he had, sending it to latch on to that tiny flicker of the Portamancer’s current. For a moment it slipped, and he worried that he’d missed the opportunity. The gate slid open before the trucks, huge and shimmering.
And then Bookbinder’s magic caught. He hauled hard on the naga’s flow, feeling the Portamancer spin in the turret, many pairs of eyes searching for the thief siphoning off its magic.
He felt his own body suffuse with the double magical load, puffed up and strained, fit to burst. He turned and bound hard to the truck bed. The metal side vanished. In its place was the shimmering static of a gate. Beyond it, he could see asphalt and rows of trucks. The Home Plane, in India probably, but home nonetheless.
‘Sharp! Go!’ he shouted, breaking into a run. ‘Everybody through there right now! Gogogo!’
Sharp and Archer motioned to Stanley and all three broke into a run. Woon hesitated for a brief moment, then followed, all pelting as hard as they could for the shimmering gate that now flickered in the side of the truck. The Indians stood stunned, trying to understand what was happening.
But only for a moment. Shouts erupted from all around them as their hosts moved to intercept.
Bookbinder hoped a moment was enough. Ghaisas threw himself in Sharp’s path, but the sergeant brought his elbow up across the captain’s face without breaking stride, sending him sprawling in the dust.
The Indians lounging in the truck had leapt backward as the truck’s bed became a gate, but they now raced forward in front of it, trying to cut off the Americans’ escape. Woon reached forward without slowing and the ground bucked, sending the men fl
ying, leaving the truck rock steady.
Stanley was the first to jump through, the gate’s light washing over his back as he thudded out onto the asphalt surface on the other side. Sharp and Archer took up positions to either side, crouching, ready to fight. Woon was slower, nicely hurdling an Indian solider who dove at her and crunching down hard on the back of his hand before reaching the gate and passing through it. Bookbinder felt a hand grab his elbow, and spun to see Dhatri’s face frowning up at him, anger and betrayal scrawled across it. He yanked on Bookbinder’s arm, checking his run. His eyes were wide, the expression reading, How could you do this to us?
Bookbinder spun and brought his knee up into the subedar major’s crotch. Shaking his arm free, ‘I am not going to let my people die,’ he snarled, as the man sank to his knees. ‘Not for anyone!’
And then he turned and raced through the gate, Archer and Sharp turning and following close behind. At long last, shots rang out behind them, rounds churning the ground and thudding into the truck’s frame. Bookbinder skidded to a halt on the asphalt surface of what looked like a military parade ground, ringed with low buildings. He rolled his magic back, the gate sliding shut as his tide dissipated. Only then did he look up and make a quick check of his team. They stood around him, winded and puffing, but unharmed. The sense of the Home Plane washed over him, disappointing in its muted quality. Everything was . . . less here, the glow of the sunlight, the smells of engine oil and human sweat, the sound of Woon gasping for air beside him.
A long line of trucks stood before him, piled high with cargo, Indian soldiers standing in shock to either side. A banner strung over the plaza showed the Indian Army flag, with writing beneath it in Sanskrit, Chinese, and English. INDIA SAHIR WELCOMES SHANGHAI COOPERATIVE ORGANIZATION PARTNERS TO ARMY DAY!
A large stand of bleachers had been set up alongside the plaza, presumably to watch the gate open. It was crowded with Indian officers, but Bookbinder noted a few others in the press; Chinese sorcerers in long, traditional robes, officers from another Asian country in dark, tiger-striped camouflage. He spotted a redheaded man with the Russian flag stitched to his shoulder. All gaped at Bookbinder and his team open mouthed.
