Soul of Fire (41 page)

“You’ll have to tell Sahib General,” Bhishma said.
“You’ll have to tell him that this city exists, and that its people are planning something horrible.” He looked thoughtful. “You might want to tell him it’s a were kingdom. Don’t tell him about sepoys in the ranks, though. I’m afraid of how my comrades will react to the sight of Gold Coats in the encampment, but they should be fine if it’s clear they’re there to investigate the city of the tigers. Even the tiger sepoys will be fine. They’ve been getting nervous.”

They were halfway back through the verdant tunnel of vegetation. William wasn’t sure what he’d seen was as grave as Bhishma made it out to be. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he could see that Bhishma was taking it seriously. He had no idea, though, what Bhishma thought William could tell the general, or why it would matter. And he couldn’t understand the problem with Gold Coats in India. Oh, he’d heard it mentioned, but he didn’t understand the native perspective on it. “Why would they revolt at the sight of Gold Coats?”

Bhishma shrugged. “Because we—weres are sacred to a lot of local religions. So many of the religions believe in some form of understanding, of spirit-union with an animal that is also part of the divine. And it is believed that if all the weres of India are exterminated, then India itself will die. That the land and the magic of the people will vanish.” He sighed. “Look, the Muslims tried to eliminate all the weres in India, and they were almost overthrown before they decided to accept the ways of the land. And the British, when they first arrived, centuries ago, were intelligent enough to infringe on local customs as little as possible. If a were is not dangerous or if the natives don’t mind it, they do nothing. The only weres that have been hunted in India are those who go on rampages and try to kill everyone.”

“I know a were,” William said, his words coming out through his unwilling lips, as though someone else were saying them. It was the whole thing with St. Maur. He must tell at least part of it to someone and explain why he wasn’t seeking death for a dragon, that most dangerous of all weres. “And I have no intention of denouncing him or having him killed.” It was the first time he’d said this aloud, the first time he’d admitted it. He smiled into Bhishma’s shocked expression. “Perhaps I’m more Indian than I thought.”

“Perhaps,” Bhishma said, gravely. “But in all honesty, Sahib, what started my fears of a mutiny were rumors that there were Gold Coats landing in Calcutta, Delhi and Mumbai. If there are Gold Coats seen in this region, then all hell will break lose.”

“Why this region most of all?” William asked.

“Because there are so many weres here,” Bhishma said, with a curiously shy look at William. Unlike most of the native sepoys, Bhishma wore his hair longish, pulled back and held in place by a tie. Now the tie had come loose, probably pulled off by one of the vines as they came through the tunnel. It left Bhishma’s very straight, dark hair falling like a curtain in front of his face whenever he inclined his head. He inclined it now. “You have to understand, we are a remote region. The various lords of India largely have left us alone. It means that there is more of everything here that is truly Indian. Like weres.”

“I see,” William said, though in fact he didn’t see at all. His mind persisted on following an uncontrollable course of its own, wondering how such a man, who looked so much like a bronze statue of antiquity—merciless and majestic—could by simply lowering of his head look very much like a young man, nervous and confused.

“I will tell the general about the city. Not about any weres in the garrison,” he said, softly, wishing for nothing more than to reassure his companion, who suddenly looked so vulnerable. “I will tell him that the tigers are planning something, but I can’t promise that he will take any action. He ignored me before.” Internally, William was trying to think of what he could tell General Paitel about the whole plan—everything St. Maur had told him—without giving St. Maur away. He didn’t know how to do it. And yet he must.

Bhishma looked at him while his hand went up to sweep his hair back, and suddenly he smiled disarmingly. “Sometimes the best we can do is try, isn’t it? Sometimes all a man of honor can do is his best, and let go of all that is not in his purveyance.”

William nodded. A good philosophy, if only he could implement it. He tried to explain. “It’s just that, in the crystal, I saw . . . a massacre, people killed.”

Bhishma shot him a concerned look. “I know. I’ve seen it in your eyes, the horror of it, long before you said anything.”

“Is that why . . . ?” William hesitated. He had no real need to know, but he wanted to. Had he been going around the garrison looking like one pursued by demons? What about him had caused Bhishma to seek him out? He took a deep breath. “Look here, why did you come to me? Why did you choose me to tell about your fears? It might have been better if you’d gone to General Paitel directly and spoken to him. I have almost no power.”

Bhishma chuckled. “The general? Listen to a sepoy?”

“Well, they call him There and Back Again Paitel. They say he’s very devoted to his men and they to him. They say he’s survived all these years thanks to the devotion of his native troops and how attentive he is to them.”

Bhishma shrugged and looked away. “Perhaps he is attentive to his troops, to those who’ve served with him. Those close to his age, who’ve seen battle with him. But a young sepoy coming to him with a story involving were-tigers . . . Well, he’s more likely to think I’ve gone mad.”

“He might think I’ve gone mad, too,” William said, ruefully.

Bhishma looked at him, and his face took on a slow, considering frown. “No. You’re the son of his old friend. He will not do that.”

“Yet I’m not the son of your old friend. There are several English officers here. So why did you come to me?”

Bhishma took a deep breath. Swallowed. “You looked . . . worried. You looked as though you cared, as though you gave a damn about . . . about everything. You looked . . .”

He turned fully to look at William and William turned, too, in response. They were almost at the end of the tunnel, where they could fully stand up. And, facing each other, they looked into each other’s eyes. “I thought . . .” Bhishma said. He seemed to be having difficulty speaking. His breath came fast and hard, and William realized, somewhat surprised, that his own breath was echoing it. They were so close he could feel Bhishma’s warm breath on his face. So close that they were breathing each other’s breath.

It was like, William thought, feeling feverish, like when young boys cut their fingers and mingled their blood so that they would be blood brothers forever. They were sharing breath. The most ancient cultures in the world used to believe that breath was the essence of life. Were their lives becoming intermingled in some way? Yet what did they have in common, except their fear of a coming massacre. Their grandfathers had fought on opposite sides of the 1857 mutiny. Their grandfathers had both died as a result of that mutiny.

Bhishma’s eyes were black—dark, impenetrable—and there was in them some plea that William couldn’t quite understand. Something was happening, something passing between them, gaze to gaze, some language older than words, and quite alien to the waking mind. Something only understood by the deeper levels of the brain, where dreams played hide-and-seek with one’s desire.

Not knowing what he did, but obeying an overpowering impulse that he could not have stopped any more than he could have stopped himself from breathing, William leaned forward toward the other man.

And Bhishma leaned forward, too, and tilted his face up. Their eyes met with a sudden shock, of jarring recognition and thundering surprise.

And then William understood.

WAKE NOT THE BEAST; THE PATH OF THE DRAGON

Peter woke up in a cave and tried to remember how
he’d got there. After he’d left Sofie and her escort behind, he’d flown away, more or less haphazardly. He’d eaten. He thought it was a buffalo, though there was a very good chance it had been some other sort of animal, even one of the sacred cows. All he could remember was a horned animal, in the dark.

And then he’d gone in search of a place to sleep. He hadn’t been very conscious by then. Flying for almost two whole days, in dragon shape, had left him confused and stumbling. His progress had denuded trees of birds and fields of all sorts of creatures great and small. They’d run in front of him, in his human form, as they’d run from a forest fire.

He’d lain down in what appeared to be little more than a covered ledge, and had immediately fallen asleep. He had no idea how long he’d slept, nor where he was. It was nighttime, and he was cold, and the sky was a perfect, serene dark blue, pierced through with stars.

Dark blue like Sofie’s eyes. He’d warned her maid. And her maid had said she would take care of Sofie, that she would make sure that Sofie and the ruby wouldn’t both fall into the tigers’ hands, at least not at the same time.

And yet, Peter couldn’t feel easy. It was all, he thought, very much like a disease. You caught it, and you weren’t even aware of it. A scratch at the back of the throat, a confusion in the head, and you didn’t think anything of it, except maybe that you were tired, that you needed more sleep.

And then suddenly you realized that you were ill, really ill. It had happened so gradually and by steps, you hadn’t realized it until you were tossing in a bed, wet through with your own sweat, while grim doctors sent for the local clergyman in all haste. His feelings for Sofie were like that. They had come upon him so gradually that he hadn’t even been aware of their approach. They’d snuck up on him like a thief in the night. But they were now completely unavoidable.

Slowly, he brought out his eye and invoked its seeing powers. He had to find where Sofie was. And he had to go to her.

HOPING FOR WINGS; THE RUBY; SAVING IT ALL