Danger at Dahlkari (5 page)

Poor, boastful Yasmin Singh, plump and pleasant, bragging about his wealth and prestige. Ahmed, young and swaggering and full of life, such a beautiful youth. All the servants and bearers, men who probably had large families. Yesterday so alive, and now.… I took a deep breath and stood up straight and deliberately forced the images out of my mind. I couldn't allow myself to think about it. I thought about Dollie and Reggie and the warm welcome awaiting us at Dahlkari. They … they wouldn't miss us because they didn't know when we were due to arrive. They expected us to arrive with Lieutenant Parks and a full military escort. We could expect no one to come looking for us, not for days and days, no one except the Thugs who might return to finish the job.

Stop it
! I admonished myself sharply, and this time I was successful. The nightmare was over, over, and the sunlight was radiant this morning, slanting through the dark green treetops in dazzling yellow-gold rays, creating soft blue-gray shadows, and white flowers blossomed on vines like tiny showers spilling down. Bright green parakeets flitted overhead, singing and scolding, while the ever-present monkeys swung from limb to limb, making a friendly, noisy clatter. The jungle was anything but ominous now as I moved purposefully down the path to the tall grayish-tan trees so heavy with fruit that the boughs nearly touched the ground, fruit like Christmas tree ornaments, dark-orange, bright red.

As we would have to carry the fruit, I unceremoniously lifted my skirt and ripped off one of my petticoats, folding it into a makeshift carry bag which I slowly began to fill. A swarm of white and yellow butterflies suddenly materialized, hovering over me like scraps of fluttering silk, hanging there for a moment, trembling on air, then passing on. Sally was right about the monkeys. One brazen little creature perched on a limb nearby and watched me with head cocked to one side, finally swooping down and snatching a piece of fruit from my hand. I laughed, a lovely, spontaneous laugh, and I knew then that it was going to be all right.

Sally had already fashioned our parasols when I returned with the heavily laden bag. The leaves were thick and heavy, a very dark green, almost two feet in circumference, and she had fastened the stems of five together for each parasol, attaching the stems to the top of long sticks with strips of white cotton that had previously been ruffles on one of her petticoats. I had often grumbled about the necessity of wearing so many undergarments, anything less than five considered shockingly lax by the ladies at the academy, but they were certainly proving useful now. By the time we finally reached Dahlkari we would probably both be down to our bloomers, I thought, smiling.

“That bag looks familiar,” Sally said. “Oh dear, one of your very best, too. At least mine are just
cotton
. Here's your parasol, Miss Lauren. Quite the thing, isn't it? It'd set a new style in Bath. Let me take that bag. I see you brought plenty.”

“At least two dozen. I wasn't sure we'd be able to find anything else to eat. Are—are we ready?”

“Ready as rain,” she said brightly. “We—we'll have to pass through the campsite and around those boulders. I hope it won't—”

“It won't upset me at all,” I lied.

Sally jammed the pistol in the waistband of her dress, slung the bag of fruit over one shoulder, propped the parasol over the other and gave a twirl. We left the jungle and passed across the large clearing surrounded by the enormous gray boulders. When we had left it, it had been filled with tents and campfires with bubbling pots and men who talked in quiet, relaxed voices, and then … I thrust the threatening images from my mind, peering up at the sky, a pale, pale blue that looked as hard as baked enamel, hot, like the rays of sunlight that suddenly seemed fierce without the protective leaves to diffuse their strength.

“I explored a bit earlier this morning,” Sally told me, leading the way around one of the immense boulders. “I—well, I crept about with the gun clutched in front of me, just in case they'd left someone behind. Took a lot of nerve, I don't mind telling you. Miss Lauren—”

“Yes?”

“I couldn't find it. The—the place where the hole had been. There was no hole, nothing that looked like there
had
been. They left no signs whatsoever. As far as the world is concerned, the caravan just—vanished, just like hundreds of others before it.”

“It's incredible to think this has been happening for centuries and no one has been able to do anything about it until Captain Sleeman came along. It—staggers the imagination.”

“I know,” Sally agreed. “I read that book by Captain Taylor, and it fair gave me the shudders. I read all those dreadful accounts in the penny press, too, each more lurid than the next, some of 'em with drawings. The Indians seem to have just ac
cept
ed it, traveling at their own risk, and if someone failed to return from a journey, their folks just took it as fate, rarely making inquiries.”

“Of course, there're no proper roads, no trains—at least not yet. That has a lot to do with it. The Indians have a different way of looking at things. Because of their religious beliefs, life here and now doesn't have as much value as it does to us. Something like—like what happened last night could never take place in England. The criminals would be hunted down until every last one of them had been caught and hung. Here in India.…” I paused, noting the expression on Sally's face.

“That smell,” she remarked, wrinkling her nose. “So sharp, almost like pepper. Those little seeds scattered over the ground.…”

“Fleawort,” I said. My cheeks grew pale.

“Miss Lauren, what's wrong? You look—”

“That's what they use—the Thugs. Kali—Kali commands them to scatter fleawort seeds over—over the graves, supposedly as a token to her. It has a very useful purpose, too. It keeps the jackals away, keeps them from digging up the ground to get at the—”

I couldn't go on. Sally looked as horrified as I, and we quickly made a wide circle around the stretch of ground scattered with seeds. Neither of us said anything else for at least a quarter of an hour. By that time we had passed through the area of boulders, had skirted the tip of the jungle and were moving east, the jungle to our left, to our right a seemingly endless expanse of desert sand broken only by occasional clusters of rock. Although it was still morning, the heat was already intense, the sun a fierce yellow ball. Heat waves filled the air like barely visible gas. Our large leafy parasols kept off the direct rays of sunlight, protecting faces and arms, but they did nothing to alleviate the extreme discomfort. Nice English girls weren't supposed to perspire, but Sally and I were already perspiring freely, hair damp, bodices clinging wetly.

“I'm beginning to dislike this country,” Sally confessed as we trudged along. “I mean—well, those handsome Sepoys were adorable, and I dearly loved all those gorgeous marble palaces and things. The nautch dancers were interesting, too, and those cows running loose all over the place, but I can't say that I care for the
cli
mate.”

“It's not this bad everywhere. This is desert, after all.”

“What wouldn't I give for a nice cool drink of water.”

“Maybe—maybe we'll find a well. Best not think about it.”

“Best not,” she agreed.

“You'll like Dahlkari,” I told her, hoping to divert both our minds from the thirst that was already such torment. “Dollie told me all about it in her letters. There's a large native village, quite colorful, with fascinating shops, and then up above the village is the military garrison. A little bit of home, she calls it, nice English houses, English gardens, even a polo field. The local rajah has his palace less than a mile away. It's something to see, Dollie wrote. He frequently entertains the English there, gives lavish garden parties.”

“I've never been to a garden party.”

“You'll go to one in Dahlkari,” I promised. “I—I'm sure you'll have all the enlisted men vying for the privilege of taking you. You're going to set them on their heels.”

“I imagine I will,” Sally said frankly. “I imagine you'll find a beau, too. You may pretend not to be interested, but you are. You're not quite the cool bluestocking you pretend to be.”

I made no reply, knowing all too well the truth in Sally's statement. Try though I might to suppress it, there was an infuriatingly romantic streak in my nature. Proud as I was of my mind, my scholarship, my ability to read Latin and Greek and discuss philosophy and ancient cultures, I nevertheless consumed florid, flamboyant romantic novels featuring adventuresome heroines and dark, dashing heroes who were usually rogues of the first water. How many such books had I read? How many times had I imagined myself in the arms of a man such as those I read about? Cool and prim in the classroom, translating the
Aeneid
of Vergil, writing dissertations about Socrates, I had burned the midnight oil night after night, consuming the sensational novels I took from the lending library by the score, keeping them carefully hidden from the other girls. Who would have imagined that the oh so poised, ever so erudite Lauren Gray had a fantasy life featuring swashbuckling pirates, highwaymen with gypsy blood, noblemen as reckless as they were handsome? The novels were my secret addiction, and no matter how many times I tried to cure myself of them, I always returned to the lending library for yet another batch. I wondered if Sally had discovered some of the books in the bottom of my wardrobe back in Bath.

“You're very beautiful, you know,” she continued. “Those marvelous patrician features, cheekbones ever so high and elegant, hair such a glossy silver brown. I wish
I
looked like that.”

“Nonsense. You're very fetching.”

“I have something men like,” Sally admitted, “but I'll always be a hoyden at heart. No one'll ever take me for a lady. Guess I wouldn't want to be taken for one, come to think of it. I have ever so much more fun the way I am. I'm not having much fun at the moment, though.”

“Do you want to stop for a while, Sally?”

“I—I reckon we'd better keep walking as long as we can,” she replied grimly. “We can't afford to pamper ourselves. We've got to endure.”

Endure we did, no longer talking, no longer making any attempts to cheer each other up with inconsequential chatter. The heat grew worse, and we grew tired, yet still we walked, both of us wrapped up in our thoughts and trying to ignore parched throats and aching bones and sore feet, trying not to think about the man or men who might come riding back with a yellow rumal to finish us off. We finally stopped for lunch, moving into the jungle and sitting under a tree to devour the fruit. It didn't taste so good this time, nor did it do as much to alleviate our thirst. I wondered what we were going to do if we didn't find a well soon.

We rested for an hour under the shade of a tall banyan tree, and then we resumed our journey, trudging over the sand, silent, skirts dusty and ragged at the hems, hair damp and tangled, bodies covered with perspiration. This evening, when we stopped, we would have to search for a stream in the jungle. Heaven only knew how contaminated it might be, what tropical diseases we might be courting, but we simply couldn't go on without any water. The thirst was like torture now, and I was beginning to feel weak and dizzy. I knew Sally must feel the same way, but both of us knew we had to keep moving.

An hour passed, another, and it must have been around four o'clock in the afternoon when Sally gave a little cry and grabbed my arm. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with alarm, and I wondered what in the world could be the matter with her. Then she pointed, and I saw the horseman on the horizon. He stopped, much too far away for us to make out any details. Silhouetted against the sunlight, he was a sinister figure, a figure of great menace. After a moment he turned the horse around and began to gallop over the desert toward us. As he drew nearer I saw that he was a native with the face of a brigand. We both knew what he was and why he had come.

Three

For a moment both of us were too terrified to do anything but stare in horror as the rider approached on the magnificent stallion that kicked up clouds of dust, and then Sally dropped the bag of fruit and dropped the parasol and took the pistol out, holding it in front of her with both hands as he swooped down upon us. I felt faint, and my heart was pounding, but I didn't scream, nor did Sally. Neither of us had the strength. The rider jerked on the reins and the horse reared up on its hind legs a few yards from us, front hooves waving in the air, silky black coat gleaming in the sunlight, and then it grew still. The rider sat there in the saddle, staring at us with dark eyes, his face inscrutable.

“Hold it, you brigand!” Sally cried. “Don't get off that horse! If you do, I—I'll blow your head off!”

His face remained inscrutable, Sally's words having no effect whatsoever. He wore sturdy brown knee boots, tight white breeches and a loose, flowing tan and white burnoose, hood thrown back, long sleeves full at the wrist. The garment was shabby and dusty, the sort of thing an Arab might have worn, and, indeed, he looked much more like an Arab than an Indian. He had deeply tanned skin, strong, harsh features and unruly raven locks, several of them spilling across his forehead. His lips were full, curling sardonically at one corner, and his nose was hawklike, but it was his eyes that dominated, dark, glowing eyes, brown-black, the eyes of a hunter observing his prey. His lids were heavy, half-concealing those incredibly hypnotic eyes, his dark brows highly arched, flaring out at the corners. His was a cruel, ruthless face, the face of a killer.

“Stay right where you are!” Sally ordered.

There was a tremor in her voice, and she held the gun rigidly out in front of her as though afraid it might go off at any moment. The man merely stared at us, not the least bit perturbed by the pistol or the frightened young woman who pointed it at him. The sleek, magnificent horse pawed the ground restlessly. The rider touched the side of its neck with a strong brown hand, murmuring something unintelligible, and the horse grew still. The man sat casually in the saddle, as though born to it. There was a certain rugged grandeur about him, a curious magnetism I couldn't help but notice, even under the circumstances. He was no humble native peasant, that much was certain.