Soul of Fire (14 page)

Not that she could follow him clearly or for very long. She knit herself deeper into the shadows as she watched him flit up the wall and around windows, until he plunged into an open one.

She thought he would be a while, and she prepared herself for screams of outrage or shock when someone spotted a monkey in their bedchamber. But there was nothing. Nothing but the distant sounds of the city. And suddenly, he was back, jumping in front of her in monkey form, then changing to human very rapidly and bowing smoothly, extending her a bundle of green-and-gold clothing. “I hope this is acceptable finery,” he said. “I know it is not worthy of your beauty, but it is the best I could do in the dark and in this neighborhood.”

Lalita wrapped herself in the sari, which was clean but fairly worn cotton, and did not deign to dignify his needling with an answer. Instead, she said, “You said there was something you could do for our scent. I thought you meant to steal sandalwood or some of the other perfumes that dull the ability to smell.”

He shook his head. “Those would inevitably work, but then they would also dull
our
ability to smell. And that would lead to our finding ourselves adrift, with no possibility of finding your friend before the tigers do. Unless you propose to ride a tiger without being noticed?”

Lalita hoped he was joking, but she could not be sure, and she shook her head at him. “Then, what?”

“Magic,” he said. “Like what I used for the ruby.” He’d dressed himself while he spoke, in loose pants and a tunic. Not quite peasant attire, but not nearly as rich a fabric as he’d lost back in the Waringtons’ house—in what Lalita still thought was an ill-considered act, even if it had got them the jewel.

“Shouldn’t we bring the jewel to the king?” she asked. She was aware that if they did take the time to deliver the ruby to the secret palace, going through the various bodyguards and barriers, they might be too late to save Sofie. But the king wanted the jewel, and the ruby must be their first priority.

Hanuman shook his head. “Time enough to take the ruby when we have found your friend,” he said. “After all . . .” He shrugged. “If the dragons and the tigers think they need the girl and the jewel together, perhaps they do. What would be the good of giving the king half a solution?”

Lalita thought he was lying. Or at least giving her a superficial reason to hide a deeper one. She got a feeling, as she’d had back at the palace, that Hanuman played his own game. A trusted servant of the king he might be, and even perhaps loyal—within reason. But he had his own plan, and his own agenda. And he’d been in China. She wondered what that meant. What had he been doing in China? Who was this monkey-man who had a peasant’s name and a nobleman’s arrogant certainty?

“Come,” he said, displaying that certainty as he walked assuredly down an alley and up another, following a scent that Lalita could not sense.

They went down the alleys, and up streets, past parks and fountains. People crowded on either side and several discussed the tigers that had invaded the town. A few seemed aware that they were weres—enough of their conversation reached Lalita for her to know that. But Hanuman did not slow down and neither did she, so there was no time to ask what the locals had seen or what they knew. Which in a way fitted with Hanuman’s seeming arrogance, and certainty that he knew where he was going and what to do.

She followed him as the roads they traveled became less crowded and more spacious until before them loomed the huge mansions of the Englishmen in the most fashionable area of the city.

“What would a dragon be doing here?” Lalita asked Hanuman’s back, but he only shrugged. Then, reaching over, he pushed her against a wall. Before she could protest, she felt as though a warm hand were pressed over her mouth—even though Hanuman had squeezed against the wall by her side and was only touching her at waist level, to hold her still against the wall.

She squirmed against his hand. How dare he? She had saved his life. She had brought him here, too. And she was better born than him, of that she was sure.

He looked at her pleadingly. That stopped her movement. She didn’t even know his bold, handsome face could look that humble. She was sure the impudent cuss didn’t mean it, but that he could look like that at all was enough to arrest her movement.

In the next second, she felt as though a blanket were thrown over her, smothering her. She could see everything, and she could breathe, but there was a flicker before her vision, as if some translucent veil interposed between her and the street with its huge mansions and graceful palm trees. And she could only hear and breathe as though through that veil.

She couldn’t make a sound, because the feeling of a hand holding her mouth shut was still over her lips. But she could see and hear and smell as a tiger came padding down the street, looking this way and that, roaring softly with the appearance of a man talking to himself. Or perhaps calling signals to nearby companions.

Lalita’s heart beat fast at her throat, and she felt as if her blood had turned to ice in her veins. The tiger would see them. It would see them and turn on them, and weres always knew how to kill other weres.

As it passed, it turned in their direction, looked straight at them. It opened its broad jaws and roared loudly.

From an alley behind them, another roar answered it. It was calling its comrades. It—

Lalita fought for breath, to scream. Her mouth was still magically shut, but she refused to die silent. She fought with the magic, and found it overpoweringly strong, much stronger than her own.

And then the tiger turned, slowly, and roared again, looking at the other side of the street. It got an answer and padded on. It took a moment of hasty swallowing, of taking a deep breath—of feeling like she was drowning—for Lalita to realize that the tiger hadn’t seen her, after all. She was free. . . .
They
were free. Whatever strange magic Hanuman commanded, it had defeated what must be the personal bodyguards of the king of tigers.

“Who are you?” she asked Hanuman, as the tiger disappeared around a corner. She was surprised to hear her words echo back at her, actually audible. He’d removed the obstacle to her speech.

“Your humble servant,” he said.

She shook her head, annoyed. She wanted to interrogate him right here and now . . . but what good would it do? She didn’t have time to look for a proper answer. And besides, her uncle, whose duty it was to protect the kingdom of monkeys, thought that Hanuman was trustworthy. And what galled her most was feeling the charm of the creature. But she should know better than to allow herself to feel his attraction. She must remember how annoying he was and stay on guard.

“I don’t think we should go any nearer,” he said, and pointed. “The dragons went there.” He pointed to a white mansion enclosed by tall walls and set like a jewel in its casing deep within a rich garden kept verdant even in these premonsoon dry days. How many gardeners did they employ? How many servants?

“The tigers went there, too,” Hanuman continued. “All of them. That garden and that house will be lousy with them.”

“What about Sofie?” Lalita said.

Hanuman opened his mouth to answer. Before he could, there was a rush of wings overhead. Lalita stared, unable to believe. Sofie sat astride the dragon that had first taken her from the balcony. That much was easy to understand. The beast could have overpowered her or somehow forced her to climb on its back again, so it could take her wherever it meant to. But what magic, what strange twist of events could have caused the dragon to carry Sofie’s carpetbag and another one—one in one claw and one in another—like some sort of supernatural porter?

Lalita stared and fought back an urge to laugh at the incongruence of the sight. And before she could fully absorb it, another dragon flew by overhead. This was a different dragon, lacking the bulk of the first. It was a wisp or a serpentine creature that shimmered like a flash of lightning across the sky, and which had no visible wings.

By her side, Hanuman was not so constrained. He laughed, a full gurgle of amusement.

“Princess,” he said, “I think we might have got the whole situation wrong. I don’t think your friend was kidnapped.”

“No,” Lalita said, reluctantly. “But who was the other dragon? I suppose that creature was a dragon?”

Hanuman nodded. “Oh, yes. It was a dragon from China.”

CHINA TEA AND HUNTING HOUNDS; THE UNCONCERN OF THE GENTLEMEN

Inside the Wheeler Officers’ Club in Meerut, one
might have been in Mother England. Captain Blacklock looked across the small table, set with delicate china and plates of artfully piled sandwiches, at General Paitel.

It had been a matter of chance and—for a change—good luck to find that General Paitel was in fact an old Eton friend of William Blacklock’s father. He was also the man that William’s superiors in Her Majesty’s Secret Service had instructed him to tell his fears to. They had gotten tired of the minute explanations of William’s blood-soaked dreams, and so had told him to tell the general of his suspicions—though William presumed they still meant for him to hold on to the secrecy of his placement there. And it came to him, with sudden bitterness, that perhaps even that didn’t matter. Perhaps they were so disgusted by both his failure to find Soul of Fire and his refusal to marry Sofie Warington that they just wanted to punish him.

It shouldn’t be possible, of course, but William had found that the secret service, like any other large organization run by humans, could often descend to appallingly childlike behavior. So that left William with General Paitel.

The note sent around to the captain’s lodgings and brought in with almost reverence by his carrier had seemed fallen from heaven. He didn’t know how much he could tell the general. He was sure he could not reveal any of the knowledge that came to him from the secret service. Not that it mattered.

After all, all Lord Wiltington’s knowledge, delivered to Blacklock as it had been, at several removes—and probably delivered to at least fifty other young secret service men spread around the various parts of the empire, from China to Africa—was scant enough. Yet, perhaps because General Paitel had known William’s father, William wouldn’t need to reveal all. Perhaps he could just explain his premonitory gift that, after all, ran in the Blacklock family.

Now he’d poured out all that his subaltern had told him—and more, his vague feelings and fears—into General Paitel’s ears. He’d spoken in an undertone, conscious of the natives all around—one of them, uniformed and smooth shaven, wearing a European haircut, standing behind the General’s own chair and moving swiftly, now and then, to refill their cups. William wondered what he’d heard, and what he understood of William’s careful half-whispers.

He also wondered what General Paitel thought, or understood of what William had said. A fatherly man, portly and powerful, his rounded face fringed with white whiskers and beard, the general was the sort who could have posed for a sentimental portrait of an old man surrounded by grandchildren, enjoying the pleasures of home. Instead, he was out here, in an alien land. Experienced in India, too. He’d first come to the country at twenty or so, so he had been there almost his entire adult life. There and Back Again Paitel, his troops called him, and it was said he commanded the fanatical loyalty of his native sepoys.

Even in his short time in India, William had seen how General Paitel interacted with his troops and how they treated him, with deference and respect. If anyone here could make something of William’s misgivings, it would be General Paitel.