Bombay thrived on its growing importance. The popularity of the overland route across Egypt was allowing it to overtake even Calcutta as the favoured point of entry to the wilds of the Indian interior. The city might have been filthy, yet nowhere else could boast such vibrancy. To be in Bombay was to be at the heart of a great adventure.
Jack slowed his pace as he approached his destination. The pavilion was full of noise and people, the sound of their revelry echoing along the esplanade. He had overheard a group of fellow guests at the hotel discussing this particular event and it had seemed too good an opportunity to miss, even though it would inevitably require conversation, something he preferred to avoid. Yet he had to eat, and with the price of his ruby still to be agreed, he did not think it wise to try to extract another meal from the hotel.
‘Good evening, sir, are you bride or groom?’ The major-domo greeted the tall, well-dressed officer with a slight bow. The breeze had picked up, sweeping in across the esplanade and into the huge pavilion erected to house the three hundred and fifty guests attending the wedding feast being held in honour of the marriage of the Governor’s niece. The awning had been positioned with care and the wide openings in the thick canvas allowed much of the precious draught to enter the pungent interior of the pavilion.
Jack paused before answering, hiding his rapid scrutiny of the happy throng under the calm manner of an officer forced to deal with a trivial request.
‘Groom.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The man tasked with controlling access to the pavilion smiled as if applauding the choice. ‘If you could give me your name, please?’ He turned and selected one of two lists waiting for him on a table positioned near the entrance.
‘Fenris. Arthur Fenris.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The official began to run his thumb down the list of names.
In the background, the garrison band of the Bombay Sappers and Miners struck up the lively two-four time of a polka. Many of the younger guests cried out with delight at the change in tempo and charged the wooden dance floor. The celebration was already several hours old, and ranks of empty French wine bottles stood like a silent battalion on the huge sideboards ranged along one side of the pavilion, testament to the amount of alcohol already consumed.
‘I must apologise, sir.’ A bead of sweat ran down the major-domo’s face. It had been a long afternoon and he was tiring of his role in the proceedings. He had been looking forward to sneaking away from his post and enjoying one of the half-empty bottles of wine dotted liberally around the room. ‘Did you say “Ferris”?’
‘I did not. The name is Fenris, not Ferris. There shouldn’t be a problem. Alfie invited me personally.’
The official anxiously wiped away the sweat from his forehead. He had no idea who Alfie might be. There were so many young gentlemen attached to the Governor’s new relation that he had quite lost track.
‘Very good, sir.’ He took one look at the officer’s lean, hard physique and the calm stare that met his appraisal, and decided to retreat gracefully. ‘Please go ahead, sir. Enjoy the evening. I hope . . .’
The words died on the official’s lips. The British officer had already left him and was striding purposefully into the heaving throng.
‘The name is Knightly. Once of Hampshire, but now stuck in this festering sore of an arse pit.’ The man introducing himself slurred his words. He took a huge swig of brandy, rolling the liquid around his mouth before swallowing. He grimaced as the fiery liquid burnt his throat. ‘God, I hate this muck.’
Jack grinned at the show. He took a more circumspect sip of his own drink. ‘Then have something else.’
Knightly snorted. ‘I don’t like any of it.’ He waved an arm to encompass the phalanx of empty bottles and stained glasses that smothered the table where they sat. ‘I should’ve joined the bloody temperance movement.’
Jack caught the empty champagne bottle knocked flying by Knightly’s wild gesture. He had been brought up surrounded by drunks. His mother’s gin palace in Whitechapel was a thousand of leagues below this beautifully decorated wedding pavilion. He had seen all manner of men, and women, drunk on the filthy gin he had helped his mother water down. Drunkenness was a great leveller, its effect the same regardless of the rank, sex or position of whoever threw the bitter liquid down their neck. He had carried them all out on to the street, the stench of their debauchery thick in his nostrils, the stink the same no matter if it were a lord or a lad from the rookery. Yet despite all he had seen, he had never hesitated when the wine was being poured or the bottles of beer were being handed out.
He beckoned over one of the dozens of servants dotted around the room.
‘Sahib?’
‘Arrack. My friend would like to try some.’
The servant bowed low and nodded before scurrying off towards the entrance at the back of the pavilion that led to the separate awning dedicated to preparing the evening’s feast.
Jack sat back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. He had made himself at home, eating his fill of the remains of the wedding feast before turning his attention to the legions of wine bottles. It was not the first time he had bluffed his way into such an event. With Bombay full of officers passing through, either travelling up country into the mofussil or on their way to board one the steamships heading for England, there were myriad opportunities for anyone with the gumption and the guile to make the most of them. So long as a man spoke correctly, possessed passable manners and carried himself with the right attitude, there were few limits to how far he could take himself.
Knightly belched. ‘I always hoped to become a ten-bottle-a-day man. My father . . .’ he paused as he tried and failed to hide a fart, ‘now he could drink claret like you or I drink water.’
‘I don’t drink the water here as a rule, and neither should you if you fancy living for more than a month.’ Jack offered the advice as he welcomed back the waiter, who had brought a suspicious-looking wineskin to the table. ‘You won’t like this either, but I’ve found I’ve a taste for it.’ He emptied the champagne from two cut crystal glasses by simply tossing it on to the floor before pouring a healthy measure of the dark liquid for them both. ‘Bottoms up.’
Knightly peered at his glass with caution. ‘Is it safe to drink?’
‘Safer than the bloody water.’
The younger man continued to stare at the arrack. He was a handsome fellow who wore the uniform of a lieutenant with the black facings of the 64th Foot. Jack knew nothing more about him and had little inclination to find out anything else. He had found Knightly slumped at the table well into his cups. Jack usually preferred to drink alone, taking his fill and slipping away before the party crowd thinned out too much. Yet for a reason he could not truly fathom, he had taken the seat next to the young lieutenant, seeking the company of a stranger to temporarily ward off the loneliness that dogged his every step.
‘Have we not got any more champagne?’ Knightly pouted as he contemplated the evil-smelling liquid that had been presented to him.
‘I thought you said you didn’t like champagne. Now drink up, there’s a good fellow.’
Knightly licked his lips nervously before finally lifting the glass to his mouth and taking a tentative sip. ‘Good Lord.’ The young officer winced as the liquid ripped through his palate like a cannonload of canister.
Jack laughed at the reaction. ‘The natives swear by it.’
Knightly took a second, less hesitant mouthful. ‘I cannot see why.’
‘Neither can they. This stuff makes them go blind.’
Knightly ignored the comment, holding his nose and downing the rest of his glass. He winced, closing his eyes and shaking his head like a gundog irritated by a persistent fly. When he had recovered, he wiped the tears from his cheeks and looked at Jack through bloodshot eyes. ‘You see to know an awful lot about his place. Have you
been here long?’
‘Long enough. You?’
‘Three weeks, four days and a few damn hours.’ Knightly smiled sadly at the revelation. ‘It’s not quite what I expected.’
Jack snorted. ‘So you’re a griffin?’
‘A what?’
‘A griffin. It’s what newcomers are called. You shouldn’t worry. It takes a while to get accustomed to being out here.’
‘It is nothing at all like home.’
Jack tried to hide his grimace. He had a notion that Knightly’s home was a mansion in the country, with maybe a fine town house in London or Bath. Life was different in the rookeries. Boys like Jack were lucky to reach the age of thirty. He had only escaped such a dour fate by joining one of the recruiting parties that came to his mother’s gin palace as the British army scoured the dregs of London’s society for any lad likely to be able to handle a musket.
‘Sadly, it’s just like home.’ He looked around the room as he spoke. The sweaty faces were exactly what he expected to see. There were the keen-eyed young officers carousing and dancing with any female under the age of forty. The matrons sitting in their cliques, gossiping behind fast-moving fans. The senior officers and Company officials, their bulbous chins constrained by starched collars, gathered in sombre groups, their heavy beards and moustaches slick with sweat or stained with fallen food and wine. He had seen it all before. From the officers’ mess back in England to the gathering of polite society in the cantonment in the Maharajah’s kingdom on the very edge of the Empire, the faces were the same.
Knightly helped himself to some more of the arrack. ‘Goodness me, it’s Mrs Draper.’ He slunk lower in his chair, making a desultory attempt to hide.
Jack looked up as an elegant lady glided past. From the clutch of fat pearls around her neck and the princely diamond in her tiny fascinator, it was clear she was the wife of a wealthy man. She was a handsome lady too, with long legs and a narrow waist. Jack found himself staring. Her blond hair was cut shorter than was fashionable, something he did not think he had seen before. She might not have possessed the naïve prettiness of a young girl, but she was certainly striking.
‘Who is she?’ He asked the question casually.
‘She is the wife of Colonel Draper.’
‘And he is . . . ?’
‘My colonel. And if she is here, then so must he be. Oh God.’
Jack grinned at his new friend’s obvious discomfort. ‘Should you not be here then?’
‘I should’ve left a week ago. The battalion is up at Karachi. I am supposed to be with them.’
‘Why aren’t you?’ Jack could not help but censure the young officer. He had spent time posing as a captain. He knew what it was to have to command subordinate officers like Knightly.
‘It was a damn long voyage. I needed some time to recover.’
‘You call this recovering?’ Jack’s reply was tetchy. The redcoats deserved the best officers. They endured dreadful hardships that often culminated in being dispatched into the catastrophic maelstrom of battle. They were expected to weather everything the enemy threw at them before they were unleashed to kill, with their bare hands if necessary. To have to do so under the command of callow officers who had not the first notion of how to lead them was a disgrace.
Knightly went grey, though not at Jack’s biting reply. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
He looked so abjectly pathetic that Jack forgot his anger. ‘Come on. Let’s get you some fresh air.’
He lifted the young lieutenant to his feet and half dragged, half carried him outside. On the way, he caught a glimpse of a frosty glare on Mrs Draper’s face. He offered a rueful smile and was rewarded with a downturn of her lips as she took in the sorry state of one of her husband’s officers, her mouth puckering as if she had suddenly tasted something sour. But he also noticed the sly appraisal she gave him. She was a cool-looking piece, but Jack saw the narrowing of her eyes as she studied his form. He repaid the look in kind. Mrs Draper was an undeniably attractive woman, with an hourglass figure that captured his attention. He had been on his own for a long time, but he was still surprised by the sudden desire he felt fire within him. The colonel was a lucky man. In his choice of wife, if not the quality of his junior officers.
Jack lay on his bed underneath three sheets and a blanket. The heat of the day had given way to the cooler air of the night. A few months before, he would have been sleeping naked under a linen sheet liberally doused in cold water. Now, with the rainy season past, the nights quickly grew cold and he was glad of the extra blanket.
He lay in the darkness thinking of Sarah Draper. His lust was like an itch that he could not reach. It scratched at his mind, keeping him awake despite the copious amounts of champagne and arrack he had consumed.
A floorboard outside his room creaked, interrupting his thoughts. There was nothing unusual in the noise; it interrupted his rest whenever one of the guests enjoying the late-night charms of the Hotel Splendid walked past. He listened for the next creak as the guest carried on down the narrow corridor that ran outside the three rooms on Jack’s side of the hotel.
He heard nothing.
He came fully awake. He slid his hand under his pillow, wrapping his fingers around the reassuring solidity of his revolver. Every instinct screamed out in danger and he slipped from the bed, careful to keep it between him and the door. The draught from the window was cold on his skin, his naked body tingling as he felt the first twist of fear in his gut.
The room was dark, but enough light filtered through the grass tattie at the window to let him see the door handle start to turn slowly. He lifted the revolver, aiming it at the crack that was steadily widening between the door and its frame. As he opened his mouth to challenge the unwelcome visitor, a figure burst into the room. Jack caught a glimpse of bared steel before the talwar slashed down at the bed, the heavy blade slicing deep into the mattress.
There was no need for any further proof of his attacker’s intent. Jack lifted his arm and pulled the trigger, aiming the barrel squarely at the shadowy figure who had burst in to murder him in his bed.
The revolver misfired.
His attacker saw the flash as the firing cap went off but failed to ignite the main charge in the first chamber. His eyes immediately picked Jack out in the gloom.
Jack caught a glimpse of surprise and anger on the man’s face before he leapt across the bed, the sharp talwar slashing at Jack’s head. He ducked away from the blow and threw himself under the bed just as the assassin’s blade slashed down for a second time. He saw a set of fingers grasping the edge of the door as he scrambled back to his feet, so he lashed out, kicking it shut, hearing the yelp of pain as he crushed a second would-be assassin’s fingers beneath the heavy wood. He had time to snap the bolt across the door before the first attacker’s blade slammed into the frame, missing his head by no more than an inch. He twisted away, ducking low as he threw himself past the man who had come to kill him. He had left his own sword on a scarred and battered wooden chest under the window, and he dived forward, his only thought to retrieve his blade. His hand wrapped around the scabbard and he rolled hard to the right, narrowly missing a fast-moving thrust aimed at his naked back.
He felt the madness of battle surge through him, the urge to fight, to hack at the enemy forcing all other thoughts from his mind. His own talwar whispered from the scabbard. He let the madness have its head, releasing the wildness that had kept him alive on the vicious battlefields of the Crimea and the frontier.
In the darkness of the room it was hard to see his attacker as more than a fleeting shadow. Jack released a flurry of blows, cutting hard then following up with a quick thrust, parrying the counters before slamming his talwar forward once again. He let the attacks flow, his sword keening as it cut through the air, the powerful salvo forcing the assassin backwards.
Jack went after him. There was little room for finesse, so he battered his talwar at his enemy, hacking at the shadowy form. The assassin parried the attacks but the onslaught was relentless. Blow followed blow until one drove the attacker’s sword wide. Jack saw the opening and punched his own sword forward, a shriek of incoherent rage bursting from his lips. He felt the blade slide into the man’s guts and he pushed hard, driving the talwar deep. The man’s scream was piercing as Jack twisted the sword. The assassin fell to the ground, his hands trying to pull his torn stomach together.
The door was kicked open and another figure burst into the room.
Jack stepped backwards, away from his new attacker. The body of the dying assassin fell between the two men and blocked a controlled thrust aimed at Jack’s naked stomach. The second attacker grunted in annoyance before launching another blow. Jack let the blade come at him, then slashed his sword downward, slicing at his opponent’s arm. The blow was weak, the angle of the attack spoiled by the dying man, who flapped and writhed in agony at their feet. But the steel of Jack’s talwar was sharp and it sliced into his enemy’s forearm, gouging a thick crevice in the flesh.
‘You bastard!’ Jack twisted quickly, narrowly avoiding a counterattack. The oath came to his mouth unbidden, the rage of the fight coursing through him. ‘Come on!’ He punched his blade forward, his wrist already braced for the inevitable parry. When it came, he rotated his talwar, flinging the sword backwards, slicing the sharpened rear tip at his attacker’s eyes.
The man backed away, as Jack knew he would. As soon as he saw the first movement, he threw himself forward, careless of stamping on the ruined body of his first victim. He leapt at his attacker, punching the golden hilt of his sword into the man’s face.
He felt the vicious impact, the crack of breaking bone loud over the pant of exertion that exploded from his own lips. The power of the assault drove the assassin backwards and sent him staggering out of the small room. Jack went after him, battering his sword forward again, smacking it into the centre of his enemy’s face. The second blow knocked the assassin to the ground. As he fell, Jack snapped his knee forward, driving it into the man’s bloodied face.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 3
