Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  He said something, using a language that is dead — extinct — that never did exist according to some authorities. Instead of attempting to answer, all three bowed low from the waist with their hands palms-outward, like temple images come to life. And again Chullunder Ghose’s gorgeous barytone burst forth in praise of death.

  There is this about ancient mysteries. Nine-tenths of them, if not more, are forgotten and the words a generation passes to the next one— “mouth to ear and the word at low breath” — if not a substitute are no more than a fragment of lost knowledge. He who had spoken in perhaps the mother-tongue of lost Atlantis was content to carry on in Punjabi.

  “Ye heard his call, too? Brothers, ye were awake! I came up the outside and broke the lock with a chisel. Ye were cleverer! Ye did not slay, for I hear the voices of the guards down-stairs. Ye did well. Are there orders? Ye are not of my Nine, for ye make no answer to the signal.”

  Speech was impossible. Their one chance was to pretend to a vow of silence, such as fakirs often take. Instead of speaking Jeremy flicked the handkerchief from one hand to the other with the diabolical, suggestive swiftness of a past-practitioner of Thugee.

  The man by the head of the bed betrayed astonishment — maybe disgust.

  “By whose order should he die?” he demanded. “I have tested him according to rule. He has not betrayed. His failure is not complete. He — they — two of them are dead — burned all the books because they could take none. This one sent the Silent Call to give us information. He deserves life.”

  He paused for an answer. And the first sign having succeeded, Jeremy repeated it — as an executioner whose patience was exhaustible.

  Promptly, as if they had rehearsed that very combination, Chullunder Ghose sang of the death that is Kali’s life, and his voice boomed through the opening in praise of pain that is Kali’s ease — and of want that is her affluence.

  That tide in the affairs of men that Shakespeare sang was surely at flood that night! It brimmed the dyke. He by the head of the bed was aware of it, restlessly.

  “The Nines are no longer interlocked as formerly,” he grumbled. “One Nine has an order that another counteracts. There is confusion. There is too much slaying to hide clumsiness. Our plan was patterned on the true plan of the Nine Unknown, but we are a bad smell compared to their breath of roses! They know, and are Unknown. We do not know, and too many know of us.”

  A thrill that commenced with King and passed through Grim reached Jeremy, but none of them confessed to it. They sat still, expressionless, three bronze faces staring straight forward, only Jeremy’s fingers moving in the overture to death. The long silk handkerchief flicked back and forth like a thread in the loom of the Fates.

  The man on the bed groaned dismally, and as if that were a signal for the bursting of the dyke that stood between ignorance and understanding — for there always is a dyke between the two, and always a weak point where the dyke will yield if men can only find it — he by the head of the bed called up from his inner-man the lees of long-ago forgotten manliness. Then not in anger, but calmly as became a follower of the Destroyer’s Wife, he cast his ultimatum at the three.

  “I, who shall be slain for saying this, yet say this. Listen, ye! Dumb be the spirit in you as the lips your vow has sealed! This man, whom ye have come to kill because he failed, lest failure be a cause of danger to worse devils than ourselves — is my friend!”

  He paused, appearing to expect some sign of astonishment. Friendship is treason to Kali. Comment was due, and Chullunder Ghose obliged, hymning new stanzas in praise of Her who annihilates.

  “This man once spared me. I spare him. Ye shall not sacrifice him. Hear me! I came, not knowing who he was. Ye came, knowing. Your orders are to kill him . Mine are to go to Benares and slay one said to be a true Initiate of the Nine. But I am weary of all this. Ye shall not slay; I will not — unless—”

  He paused again, making no motion with his hands. But he left no doubt there was a weapon within reach with which the argument might be continued if convenient to all concerned. Jeremy’s hands moved, but only to manipulate the handkerchief. He, Grim and King all had pistols, so no need for hurry. King broke silence, sparing words like one who mistrusts speech —

  “We three have grown so weary of it all that a watch was set on us, lest we fail.”

  Confirming that, Chullunder Ghose’s barytone hymned one more stanza to the Queen of Death. The man on the bed groaned wearily. In the street the sound of revelry — the last verse of a drunkard’s love-song — announced and disguised the news that Narayan Singh arrived on the scene with the doctor.

  “If there is only one who watches you, is there any reason why we four should fear him?” asked the man by the head of the bed.

  That sounded like a trap. In dealing with the secret brotherhoods it is safe to suspect that every other question is asked for precaution’s sake. The wrong answer would be an astringent, drying up confidence at the source.

  “So be one died—” said King, not daring yet to speak openly, because he did not know the key-phrases that identify man to man.

  The other nodded.

  “I am not an executioner,” he said. “Let your brother use his skill.”

  And he nodded suggestively at Jeremy. The man on the bed groaned again. Chullunder Ghose was absolutely still. From below came Narayan Singh’s carousal song and the voices of Ali and his brother commanding silence in the name of decency.

  It began to be clear to King that his suspicion was accurate — that the members of one Nine did not know the members of any other Nine and had no means of challenging. Each Nine reported to its chief, who in turn was one of nine. That was what da Gama said, and though the Portuguese was not to be believed without deliberation, even deliberation must have limits. King took the chance.

  “I have no means of testing you,” he said. “You do not respond to my signs.”

  “Nor you to mine, brother! Let us then give pledges satisfactory to each.”

  “If we let this fellow live,” King answered, and paused, observing that the man by the head of the bed pricked his ears.

  He remembered that as Kali’s follower he must not offer to deprive the goddess altogether of her prey. There must be a substitute.

  “Will you betray the Initiate of the Nine to us in Benares in order that we may not fail to make Her a sacrifice?”

  “No!” came the answer — abrupt and firm. “Substitute him who sings to Her below there!”

  It was time for heroic measures. Insofar as reason applies to murder, he was reasonable. And besides, King was aware of a sound in the outer darkness that Chullunder Ghose heard too, for the babu sang to drown it.

  “I believe you are an impostor! I believe you know nothing of Benares! I believe you are that faithless member of another Nine whom we were told to watch for! If there should be a substitute I think that thou—”

  King pointed an accusing finger at him. Jeremy made the handkerchief perform like a living thing. It even looked hungry.

  “Nay, nay!” said the other.

  “Show me proofs!” said King.

  The subtle noises in the night had ceased and there was now no cause for hurry. It was almost possible to see — as one could sense — the pallor on his face as the man by the head of the bed reached out to push the door a little wider open and admit more starlight. Whatever his weapon was, he had to see clearly to use it. As his wrist reached out across the opening a huge hand closed on it — from outside.

  It was no use screaming, though the blood ran cold. The followers of Kali train themselves to self-control. It was no use moving, because two repeating pistols, King’s and Grim’s covered him.

  He could not speak. Terror, the stronger for being suppressed, gripped him tighter than the unknown hand that held his wrist against the door-frame like material in a vise.

  The door of the minaret below slammed suddenly, and one man was heard to enter. King felt the wheels of destiny turn once and
drop the finished solution like a gift into his hand. Destiny had chosen the right man, and his assistants waited on him, saying nothing, offering no advice, not even glancing sidewise to observe him. It was apparent to the man by the head of the bed that they, all three acted on instructions in accordance with a pre-arranged plan, that which is obvious being untrue nine times out of ten.

  “You are he whom we should watch for,” King said slowly. “There is talk of your sedition. That is why, they sent you to Benares. That is why you were picked to sacrifice that true Initiate of the Holy Nine.”

  King paused and took another long chance. Had not the others acted in threes? “You were ordered to Benares, where two others should join you. You, who cannot use the handkerchief, were to be decoy. We are they who should have met you in Benares! Yet you can no more tell which of us three are the two than you could escape from the task imposed on you!”

  The man’s jaw dropped. He believed himself taken in the toils of the relentless machine that owned him and a thousand others. There is no more paralyzing fear than that.

  “You would have cheated HER!” said King.

  He rose and made a sign to Grim and Jeremy that was not easy to mistake. They lifted the unconscious prisoner off the bed and, taking more care of his bandaged leg than was quite in keeping with the circumstances, carried him down through the opening in the floor. From below came the sound of one short strangling cry.

  “Clumsy!” said King. “He lacks practise!”

  Then there was whispering and the sound of a dead weight being carried down wooden stairs. The door below slammed. There was the noise of men’s feet outside — then of wheels. First Grim returned, and then Jeremy. The expression on their faces was of great elation suppressed and crowded to the point of near-explosion.

  “You will go to Benares. You will lead to the slaying him who was appointed for the sacrifice. You will be judged thereafter by the judges.”

  Some gesture that King made must have been visible from the outer- gallery, for the hand that held the wrist let go. The door was shut tight from without. In the ensuing darkness King descended, leaving Grim and Jeremy to guard the new prisoner, and Chullunder Ghose, holding both sides in silent laughter that made tears stream down his cheeks, motioned him toward the ground floor. Chullunder Ghose remained where he was, wallowing in exquisite emotion.

  Narayan Singh, descending by broken masonry, groping for foothold, found his foot in King’s hands and so reached terra firma .

  “Sahib , it would seem the gods are with us! The doctor has a place where he can treat that patient better than in this tower. He and I brought a litter on wheels and men to push it. The babu signaled me that there were doings up-stairs, so I climbed by the broken masonry, knowing the value of surprise in an emergency! Shall the doctor amputate?”

  “Tell him no,” said King, “but keep him incommunicado .”

  CHAPTER XI. “Allah! Do I live, and see such sons?”

  THERE was a cellar below the minaret — a mere enclosure in between foundations, but no less practicable as a dungeon on that account. Therein they cached the prisoner with Narayan Singh and three of Ali’s sons on guard, instructed not to show themselves to the man they guarded but to be as rabid as wolves at bay toward all trespassers.

  Then, because a good rule is to hold your conferences where not even friends expect you, King Grim and Jeremy went and sat like great owls in the shadow of a wall above a low roof several hundred yards away. There they could see one another and not be seen.

  King met Grim’s eyes. Grim met King’s. The two spoke simultaneously —

  “You were right!”

  “Pop Cyprian won’t believe it though!” laughed Jeremy, yawning. “Sleep under the stars, you blighters! Here goes then!”

  He curled himself up, and was breathing like a kitten in a moment.

  “There are two Nines!” King said with conviction.

  “The real gang, and this Kali outfit!” Grim agreed.

  “Right! But as Jeremy says, Cyprian won’t believe it.”

  King faced toward Grim and as if playing cards they tossed deductions to and fro, each checking each. “One’s good. The other’s bad.”

  “The Kali outfit patterned their organization after the real Nine’s, in the hope of stumbling on the secret.”

  “They’ve spotted a real Initiate of the Nine.”

  “Bet you! Maybe one of the Nine. Marked him down. Expect him in Benares.”

  “Told off this man-in-yellow to kill him.”

  “What for? Qui bono ? Ring in one of their own thugs to pose as the dead man?”

  “Probably. He might discover something before the remaining Eight get wise.”

  “But why pick a man who can’t use the handkerchief, and whose loyalty must have been questionable?”

  “Probably he’s the only one who can identify the proposed victim.”

  “If so, they’ll watch him.”

  “Which means they’ll have watched him to-night!”

  “Uh-huh. They must have seen him enter the minaret.”

  “Good thing we left Narayan Singh on guard.”

  “You bet — and those three sons of Ali’s who were in trouble with the police. They’ll fight like wolves.”

  “All nerves. Better than watch-dogs. What next?”

  “Sleep!” said Grim.

  And they did sleep — there on the roof, where none but the stars and the crescent moon could see them and only Chullunder Ghose knew where to track them down.

  Chullunder Ghose slept too, hands over stomach and chin on breast, with the broad of his back set flat against a wall and his whole weight on the trap-door that provided access to the cellar — turban over one ear — so asleep that even minaret mice (hungrier than they who live in churches) nibbled the thick skin of his feet without awaking him.

  The North — Sikunderam in particular — can sleep, too, when it has no guilty conscience; and it begins to measure guilt at about the deep degree, where squeamish folk leave off and lump the rest into one black category. None the less, although the sons of Ali yawned when Narayan Singh posted them around the iron-railed gallery, with orders to keep one another awake and summon him at the first sign of an intruder, yawning was as much as it amounted to. They sat like vultures on a ledge and listened to the Sikh’s enormous snores that boomed in the waist of the minaret. (He calculated that the second floor, midway of either, was the key to the strategic situation.)

  Nominally each of Ali’s sons from where he sat could view a hemisphere, so that their vision actually overlapped. But in practise there was one whose outlook included a high, blank wall, over which it was humanly impossible for an enemy to approach, because there were spikes along the wall, and broken glass, and beyond it were the women’s quarters of a much too married rajah.

  So that one — Habibullah was his name — was more or less a free lance, able to reenforce the others or to spell them, without that extra loss of self-respect that might otherwise have attended desertion of a fixed post. Narayan Singh had said, “Sit here — and here — and here.” Burt he had evidently meant “Divide the circle up between you.” So Habibullah construed it, the other two confirming; but it was an hour before anything happened. Then:

  “One beckons,” said Ormuzd — he facing due east. There was a roof in that direction on which the light from a half-shuttered upper window fell like a sheet of gold-leaf. “One sits like a frog in a pool and beckons. Come and see.”

  So Habibullah, having faced west long enough, changed his position and sat by Ormuzd.

  “Huh! He beckons. Is his garment yellow, like that of him we slew in the jail, or does the light make it seem so?”

  They watched with the infinite patience of Hillmen and all hunting animals, until the third brother came around to lend two eyes of flint — just one look and away again, back to his post.

  “He beckons,” he agreed.

  “Does he beckon to us or—”

  “To us
!” said Habibullah. “Moreover, he is clothed in yellow. The light shows it. He is one of those who loosed us from the jail.”

  As if confirming Habibullah’s words, the man on the roof in the pool of light raised up a Himalayan tulwar , shaped so exactly like the one that Ormuzd left in the police station that the two who saw it thrilled like women seeing a lost child. The northern knife is more than knife.

  “What does he want with us, think you?”

  “Go and see!”

  “That drunken dog of a Sikh who snores within there will awake and—”

  “Never mind him. Climb down by the broken edges of the stone. We have done worse many a time in our Hills.”

  But caution is as strong as curiosity in the mind of Sikunderam. No Highlander who followed Bonnie Charlie to his ruin was as hard to pin down to a course — or harder to turn from one, once on his way. Habibullah sat and weighed the pros and cons — including the likelihood that he in the pool of light might be a shaitan — until the other two cried shame on him. His reason in the end for going to investigate was fear that their loud arguing might wake Narayan Singh and that the Sikh might possibly claim all the credit for some discovery.

  Hand over band at last he went down the broken side of the minaret — leaped like a goat on to the street wall above the heads of Ali and his brother, who were sleeping the sleep of innocence in the shadow of the gate — and gained the street.

  But none came to meet him, as he had half-hoped. He was left to his own devices to find a way up to the roof the man had beckoned from — not nearly as easy a feat as threading the bat-infested ledges of eternal hills. In one street an unwise “constabeel” presumed to demand what his business might be; whereat Habibullah ran for half-a-mile in zig-zags, never losing direction; and finally, by way of a stable and the iron roof of a place where they sold chickens, he climbed to a point of vantage whence he could look down from darkness into the pool of light.