Why Lord Peter's open approval should have made Peter feel as if a huge weight had been taken from him, he didn't know—until Almsley added, after allowing an expression of bliss to pass across his features following the first bite of his meal, "I'll back you in front of the Old Man himself, if that's needed. Absolutely. And I doubt he'll argue with me."
"You will?" Perhaps he sounded a bit too surprised; Almsley chuckled.
"Oh, ye of little faith. Of course I will. We're not doddering about in Victorian parlors anymore. We have serious business to attend to and not enough hands to attend to it. Well, think of it! The more people there are in the world, the more mages there will be, of course! And the more mages there are, the more likely it is that some of 'em will go to the bad, or be born into it. The Old Man's obstinate refusal to bring in the ladies or the—ahem!—tradesmen—"
"Other than me, and that only because I was too strong to ignore—" Peter interrupted, with just a touch of bitterness. "—and even if I wasn't one of you, I was at least a ship's captain, which might slide in under the definition of 'gentleman.' "
"Pre-cisely." Lord Peter allowed another bite of the tender lamb to melt on his tongue, and Peter Scott followed his example, finally doing justice to the meal by according it the attention it deserved. "It's antiquated, it's ridiculous, and it's going to cost us one day. What if we need more manpower than we've got? That lot old Uncle Aleister's got hanging about him isn't worth much, but what if some day he corrupts a real Master? What if one of the ladies decides she's had enough of being patted on the head and patronized and tells us all to go to hell when we most need her? Have you ever had to try and placate an angry Earth Elemental?"
"Ah—no. The project's never come up on my watch." Scott replied carefully.
"I have." Lord Peter's wry expression held no pain, but from the shadows in his eyes, the experience had been no pleasure either. "And if you ever do, you'll be glad enough to have an Earth Master there. The ones that surface in the city are—not pleasant." Lord Peter shrugged. "For some reason, that Mastery tends to go to women and country folk. Neither of which are likely to be invited to -the Council if the Old Man continues to have his way."
"See here, Twin—you're not talking palace revolution here, are you?" Peter asked, a spark of alarm lighting up within him. The last thing he wanted to do was to challenge the entire structure of the Council and Lodge! To his relief, Lord Peter laughed.
"Great heavens, no! Just that the Old Man needs to change with the times, and I think your clever doctor may be the one who makes him see that. She's certainly got the brains to best him in argument, and if she's as strong as you say—well, Earth can support Fire, but it can also smother it. I don't think he'd put it to the Challenge." He gestured with his fork. "Now—eat. I've got heredity to thank for my lean and hungry look; there's no excuse for you to go about looking as if you were starving for something."
It was on the tip of Peter's tongue to say that he was starving for something, but he was afraid that his "twin" would only make a joke of it. Lord Peter was, to all appearances, perfectly content with his ballet dancers and his sopranos, and to put it bluntly, he had the resources to indulge himself with them as much as he cared to. His rank and wealth- allowed him to spend time in the company of many sorts of women, from the educated to the artists, the debutantes to the little dancers. If he wanted the company of an educated woman, or a clever one, he had any number of open invitations to the salons of the intelligentsia. If his need was more—well—carnal, he could afford a woman who made carnality into a delicate and sensual art.
With limited funds came limited choices. Peter Scott had no taste for dance-hall belles, or the women of the dockside bars, and the only other sorts of women he came into contact with were generally someone else's wives. Besides, most of the women he'd met in either venue had minds too shallow to drown a worm. Maya Witherspoon, however—
Enough of that. You're not only putting the cart before the horse, you haven't got cart or horse yet. The afternoon post hadn't come when he left the shop; there'd been nothing in the morning post. There was no telling what the doctor would think of his letter. She might not answer it at all.
No, she must! She's intelligent. Surely she's aware of how little she knows, how much more she could be with proper training. He recalled only too clearly the frustration he had felt when the magic began to wake . in him, and his natural abilities far outstripped his knowledge. For someone like the doctor, accustomed to having the answers to every dilemma at her fingertips, it must be a torment. Almsley must have been starving; he finished long before Peter Scott did. There was no vulgar business with bills being presented in a private club like this one. A meal was tallied to the member's running account, which was presented at the end of the month. Lord Peter waved off a waiter who appeared to ask him if he wished a sweet, and stood up. "I've got business to attend to, old man—but send a note around when you've heard from the good doctor. I'm deuced curious now."
"I may not hear from her," Scott replied cautiously. "She may think I'm mad."
But his Lordship only chuckled. "Small chance of that," he said confidently. "Only think what you would do in her place, and you'll know I'm right there."
Lord Peter strode off, weaving his way expertly among the tables, leaving Scott to finish his meal in silence. He, too, waved the waiter away when he finally finished all he had an appetite for. The afternoon post should have arrived by now; he had to know if there was an answer in it.
He hurried back to the shop, unlocked it—and there on the mat was a letter, monogrammed in one corner with an M entwined with a W—and as if that wasn't enough to identify it for him, two little puncture marks crowned each end of the W.
He snatched it off the floor and ripped it open, in too much haste to neatly detach the wafer. Mere seconds later, he had her answer.
Initial elation was followed quickly by a certain disappointment. After his own long, heartfelt missive, to get only this bald, bare reply?
Then he shook himself into reasonableness. What else can she say? She's a lady, she's reticent, she may even be shy; she isn't going to pour her heart out to a stranger, a strange man. She's opened herself up enough just by accepting my offer. And, good God, she wants the first meeting tonight! What more could I ask for?
He looked around the empty shop then, and realized how very long it was going to be until eight o'clock that evening.
Maya alighted from the cab with more than her usual energy at this time of night. She hadn't bothered with the veil coming back; as poorly lit as the streets here were, why trouble herself? Besides, she was in the cab most of the time anyway.
"Thank you, Tom," she said with gratitude. She'd forgotten this was a Saturday, and the resultant number of drunks hanging about the Fleet was double the usual. She'd been glad to get past them and into the waiting cab.
"Moi pleasure, ma'am," Tom replied, with a grin.
"The timin' is pretty good anyways, come Satterdays. I usually gets a fella t' take down nears t' the Fleet, an' by th' time I brings ye back here, it's about time fer th' theater crowd, an' you're handy t' that."
"Fair enough—and good luck to you for the rest of the night!" she called after him as he pulled away. She was about to enter the door of her surgery, when the unusual sound of another cab coming along arrested her before she could set her hand to the latch.
She wondered for a moment if it wasn't sheer coincidence—but then the cab stopped right at her door, and Peter Scott alighted, paid the driver and exchanged a few words with him, then turned toward her as the second cab moved off.
She smiled; she couldn't help herself. "Very punctual, Mister Scott," she said approvingly.
He touched his hat to her. "I try to be, Doctor Witherspoon."
Good, No "Miss Witherspoon," no "ma'am," and certainly no "Maya" or "Miss Maya." He's not presuming anything, except that I agree with his judgment and accept his offer of teaching. That pleased her; she'd had her fill
and more of men who "presumed" far too much, given her mixed heritage. She unlocked the door. He opened it for her, a gentlemanly action, especially given that she was already burdened with her bag and umbrella.
Gupta, on hearing the cab and her key in the lock, materialized in the hallway, and looked surprised, even shocked, to see that she wasn't alone. "Mem sahib—" he began, and then stopped, for once caught without words.
"You remember Captain Scott from yesterday," she prompted. Gupta nodded, cautiously. "Captain Scott was not here for a knee ailment, as I'm sure you guessed. He is a man of magic; he came to see what was causing a—"
"—disturbance," Peter Scott supplied, when she groped for words; he did not seem at all surprised that she revealed her secret and his—if it even was one to those in her household—to her servant. "Doctor Witherspoon and I recognized each other for what we are. I am here to—" A slight hesitation, then that charming, faint smile crinkled the corners of his eyes "—to trade my lore for hers, seeing as we come from opposite sides of the world."
Oh, well said!
Gupta's face suddenly lit up, as if Peter Scott had given him his heart's desire. The transformation from suspicious old warrior and wary guardian to this was nothing short of startling. "You are to teach her! Blessed be Lord Ganesh, who has answered my prayers! Oh, mem sahib, this is good, this is very good!"
Peter Scott looked thunderstruck; Maya almost laughed at the comical expression on his face. She wasn't in the least surprised by Gupta's lightning conclusion, given the revelations she'd had from him last night and his quick mind. He'd known from the moment that Peter Scott entered the door that the knee was pretense; he'd also known that whatever reason there had been for the deception, Maya had penetrated it and dismissed it, because she had invited him into the garden. And the animals clearly approved of him—if Gupta didn't know exactly what they were (and she wouldn't necessarily wager that he didn't) he at least knew that they were something special, for they had been her mother's companions once her twin sister deserted her. Anyone they approved of could not be bad.
Thus—his quick appreciation of the reason for Captain Scott's appearance at this hour.
"Will you go to the garden? Or to—the other room?" he asked, as Peter Scott struggled to regain his composure.
"The garden for now, I think, Gupta. Please see that we are left alone," she replied, knowing that Gupta would carry out her wishes to the letter. After all, she didn't need his physical protection in the garden. Nisha was in the garden, and it was well after dark. She would be awake and watching, and eagle-owls had been known to kill (if not carry off) newborn kids and fawns. If Peter Scott dared to lay so much as an unwanted finger on her, he would shortly be displaying a bloody, furrowed scalp.
Gupta simply bowed and vanished. Maya herself led her guest back through the house into the conservatory. Once there, she delayed the moment of truth for a little by lighting several more candle-lanterns, while Scott settled himself into the same chair he had taken yesterday morning. She glanced up, and caught sight of Nisha's eyes gleaming down at her from the shadows above.
A moment more, however, and a swirl of mongooses enveloped Peter Scott's ankles, while Charan took imperious possession of his lap. A laugh escaped him, and he looked surprised that it had.
I don't think he laughs very much, she thought, as she took advantage of her little friends' purposeful confusion to take possession of her chair. And I think that's a great pity.
Only when she was seated did they grant him relief from their deliberately exuberant greetings. They both looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Maya decided to be the one to break the silence.
"I am glad that you wrote to me," she said, simply.
"I'm glad that you replied," he countered. "Very. Would it be too much to ask how it is that you—came to be what you are?"
"Not even half trained, you mean?" she responded ruefully. "What magic I learned, I learned on my own, from street magicians and fakirs. My mother could not teach me—oh, she had magic enough, more than enough, but she said that my magic was not the magic of her land, that it came to me through my father, and it was from my father's people that I must learn it."
"Ah." She watched the shadows of his thoughts flitting across his face. "Well, then," he finally said, with a certain cheer. "There won't be anything for you to unlearn."
She had to laugh at that. "One small blessing, and I suppose I must be grateful for every blessing in this sorry situation. So; please, start from the beginning. Explain to me; tell me about—" she thought quickly back to his letter "—explain to me about Elementals, and Masters, and all the rest."
"What, am I to be your storyteller now?" he asked, in what was clearly mock indignation, much to her delight. "Well, then, on your own head be it if you are bored—because I am very bad at telling stories!"
Actually, she thought, as she listened attentively to his explanations, he was a very good storyteller. Or to put it more truly, he was very good at making clear explanations of things she had felt, but could not articulate. She settled in to absorb all that she could, with all the intensity she had ever put into learning medicine.
There were no illusions about what she was about to learn, no matter how Peter Scott diverted her. This was more important than anything she had ever put her mind to, for if she did not master what she needed to know, and quickly . . .
... then she might never have the chance to learn anything ever again—other than the answer to the question of whether it was Christian Heaven, Hindu Wheel, or something else entirely that awaited after death.
SHADOWS moved in the corners of the room, but Kali Durga's priestess knew that there could be no one present here but herself. Her servants were afraid to come into the temple when the priestess was present, fearing, no doubt, that if a sacrifice was required and nothing appropriate was at hand, one of them would be taken. Silly creatures; Shivani would never sacrifice a servant, not unless the servant became intractable and disobedient, for where would she get a trained replacement? And no servant of Shivani's ever became disobedient. She never gave them the reason or the freedom to disobey. She never terrified them enough so that they felt pushed into an inescapable corner by their fears, and she never gave them enough leisure to contemplate any other life but this.
As for her followers, the thugees and the dacoits, they worshiped Shivani with a fervor second only to that which they very properly accorded the Goddess. She had told them never to enter while she was in meditation. Therefore, unless the temple was burning down around her ears, or the wretched English invaded it, they never would. It was quite that simple.
Incense smoke, heavy and sweet, with a faint hint in its odor that called up a memory of spilled blood, hung in uneven striations across the length of the room. The smoke diffused and dimmed the uncertain light of many candles ranged in pottery lanterns made to resemble carved stone. It overpowered the stink of boiled cabbage and sausages, (a hideous, ancient smell of poverty and despair that permeated the entire building) and managed at last to sweep it away.
Shivani hated that smell. She hated everything about the English, it was true, but that smell—it was impossible to escape, a constant reminder of where she was. But she needed a place large enough to contain her, the temple, and her followers and servants, yet a place where she and hers would not attract undue attention. There was no Indian quarter; the immigrants from home here in London were either servants and had their own places in an English master's house, or the wealthy offspring of the Brahmin caste and were invariably male and attending Cambridge or Oxford. Although price had not played a factor in where Shivani settled her flock, the requirement for invisibility had. That meant there was only one place where she and Kali Durga's people could go; the East End, where immigrants of darker complexions than her, stranger languages than Urdu, and religions equally as alien to the English swarmed in their thousands. Shivani had commandeered a kind of warehouse with apartments attached, paying the ask
ed-for price without bargaining, and the former owner had not asked questions. He had simply thrown out the current tenants at her request, clearing the way for her people.
But the stink of them remained, and the same smells penetrated the cleansed building at every meal.
At least the incense was able to chase it out of the temple. Blue wisps of the heavy smoke curled around the altar at the northern end of the room, garlanding the painted statue of Kali Durga, with Her blue tongue protruding, Her heavy, round breasts obscured by Her necklace and Her garlands, Her hands red, and not with henna or paint. The source of the smoke, charcoal braziers in each corner, kept the room at a properly elevated temperature, so that here in Her place, Shivani was warm enough without resorting to piles of wrappings.
Garlands of marigolds bedecked the statue, partly concealing the necklaces of skulls that were Kali Dur-ga's only clothing above the waist. More of them draped over Her several arms, Her hands holding severed heads, daggers, or making sacred gestures. Kali Durga's altar, gilded and most gloriously carved, with demons of every description writhing about the skulls at each corner, was as magnificent as her statue, and just as newly created. Both, in fact, had been made in this very room, once the room had been cleansed and consecrated. Shivani knew that the wretched British sahibs, warned about the cult of thugee, were apt to poke their inquisitive noses into cargoes sent out of the country by natives rather than the trading companies of other sahibs. Unfortunately, the Colonial Police were perfectly capable of recognizing a statue of the Goddess of the cult when they saw it. So Shivani had emigrated with no statues, no altars, nothing to furnish a temple. She brought instead a skilled and devout woodcarver, an artist of the first rank, a maker of holy images with more talent in his littlest finger than most men could ever dream of commanding. Shivani truly believed that had his hands been amputated he could carve with his feet. Take them, and he would carve with a knife held in his teeth.
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