The Serpent's Shadow (20 page)

Shivani ground her teeth and forbore to smash the mirror to pieces there and then. The mirror-servant was still useful, though clearly limited. She confined herself to punishing it with pain until nothing emerged from the depths of the black glass but incoherent whimpers.

Anger temporarily assuaged, she dropped the black mirror back into the cushioning swaths of black silk, and carelessly dropped a fold over the top of it. Let it rest and recover from its punishment. At least next time it would be more eager to placate and serve her.

Magic had failed her; no matter. Those who lived by magic often neglected to guard themselves in other ways. The girl could not possibly hide herself forever. Shivani grew stronger every day, and as she grew stronger, her small army of followers multiplied. At some point, she would have even English servants under her control. Granted, she would not trust them if they were
not
utterly under her power, but once she had them, she could loose them and let
them
do her hunting for her, in circles where her thugee could not go.

And that reminded her; she had an appointment.

With a grimace, she rose from her throne in a rustle of silk and a rasping of gold embroideries. It was time to dress; the idiot sahibs expected yards of white silk gauze and flowers, or black gauze and heavy gold jewelry, depending on whether she was feigning to be the dispenser of light or shadow. In either case, they would only have been confused by her embroidered red sari. They liked their symbols clear and simple to read.

She put herself into the hands of her waiting-woman, indicating with a nod of her head that she would be the mysterious “Lady of Night” for this meeting and not the innocent “Lady of the Moon.” When she emerged from the secret passage that connected the apartments she used for the cult and the tiny flat she used for her English assignations, she was swathed in a cloud of darkness that merely hinted at the trim body beneath, and veiled with black silk as well. She found it easier to be in the same room as the English when she wore a veil; they were mesmerized by the thing, unable to read her eyes, and she didn't feel as if she was forced to breathe their tainted exhalations.

This was as much a staged setting as the temple, but here she was the focus of the room. A deep-pile, figured carpet laid over a padding of more carpets so worn as to be worthless created a floor that didn't even squeak when she walked over it. In this room, all the walls were swathed in dark maroon fabric that was gathered together at the midpoint of the ceiling, like a tent. From that point depended a pierced-metal lantern fitted with colored glass panels. This was the sole source of light in the room, and the colored light, red and blue, served to confuse more than it revealed. At the back, she had made use of a little alcove, pulling aside the fabric and creating a canopy above it. Creating a platform within the alcove and piling it with pillows gave her a kind of dais on which she sat. Petitioners standing before her were at her eye level. If they chose to sit, they had to do so on one of the several flat cushions placed in front of her, and so would be much below her. On either side of the platform were incense holders.

Shivani arranged herself in full lotus position on her platform, and gestured to the servant who had followed her to light the incense burners on either side of it. The drugs she had inhaled earlier had worn off, leaving her mind clear, making everything sharp-edged. She made a pattern in the air, whispered a few words as the smoke from the braziers rose about her. There was more hashish mixed in with the strong incense; not enough to bother
her,
bolstered as she now was against its effects by the subtle spell, but enough to fuddle her visitors.

She used every weapon she could get against the English sahibs, especially when she had one in her view that could prove more than merely useful.

Such a one was this, who stepped into the room with all the arrogant confidence of one who felt he had the right to anything that met his eye.

This man was not the sort—outwardly—to be expected in this place. His type was of the sort that figured in advertisements and tales of “manly men.” Tall, with hair of short-cropped, new-minted gold, the body of a warrior of sorts, with ruddy cheeks, a small mustache, and a perfectly pressed suit, he was the very epitome of everything Shivani hated.

He was used to his steps sounding firmly on the floor, and was slightly nonplussed when they made not a whisper on the soft carpets. He was accustomed to having someone meeting him when he entered a room. It took him aback to be forced to scan a darkened chamber for the person he had come to see, and then have the disadvantage that
she
could see
him
clearly, but he could not see very much of her. He didn't even notice the drug taking hold of him, making him a little more clumsy (and self-conscious) when he stood before her and had to decide between the indignity of facing her on his feet, like a child about to be chastised, or sitting uncomfortably on the ground.

He finally chose the ground, and she was much amused, watching him folding his long legs as he tried to find something like a position he could hold for any length of time.

All this time, she had not said a word to him. Only when he was seated did she acknowledge his presence.

“Speak,” she said. Nothing more. No questions, no greetings, only the barest of beginnings. And an order—not a request, nor the expected query of “How may I serve you?” He was here as the petitioner; it was she who would be served, and she would drive that home to him with even the tiniest of gestures.

Nothing loath—and aided, no doubt, by the drugs in his brain—he carried on for some time. He began with his importance (largely existing only in his own eyes, although the one claim to status he had, he did not mention), his occult prowess (minimal), his knowledge (surface), and ended in a demand that she add to his enlightenment (as she had expected).

But this man was not
quite
such a fool as others of his sort had been, and Shivani gave him a different answer than she had the rest. He had seen through to the heart of the group headed by one called “Crawly” (or something like it), and had found it rotten. He had gone to the woman Blat-sky and discovered that the only things
she
had to offer were stolen and discarded bits of true wisdom, overlaid with a tinsel-dross of half-truth, flattery, and lies to make it pretty and palatable. He did have enough native talent in the occult to see that she had real power. So instead of giving him half-truth herself, and implying she could grant him things she had no intention of granting, she gave him a less embroidered version than the one she had caught her mirror-servant with.

But first, she laughed scornfully.

“So, the novice seeks to be Archbishop before he has even made his first vows!” she taunted him in flawless English, which probably startled him the more. “Either you are a fool, or you take me for one. So which is it, O Lord of the World? Are
you
the fool, or do you think you can deceive one who can see into your empty head and heart?” She tilted her head mockingly, and waited for his answer.

He gritted his teeth, but did not get up and walk out, nor snap back an immediate insult.

“So, you have
some
self-control, at least,” she said when he made no reply. “That is better than your erstwhile friends who follow the Dawn.” He started, and stared at her, the whites showing momentarily about his eyes. “Oh yes, I know of them, and of
you,
and all you have said and done with them; why should this surprise you?” she continued. “I have what they only pretend to,
as
you know. Well. You have ordered me about, and you have seen what that brings you. Now what will you do?”

What he did was the unusual but not entirely unexpected step of humbling himself. He bowed his proud head to her, although the stiffness in his neck was due entirely to pride and not to muscle strain.

“I apologize for my poor manners,” he said at last, after taking himself in hand and subduing his temper and his arrogance.

“That is an improvement.” She nodded, indicating that he should go on.

“I—” He gritted his teeth again; she heard them grinding. “I beg that you should accept me as a disciple.”

“And what will you offer me for the privilege?” she asked, again surprising him. “What, why should you be astonished? What I have is of value. Every Master is entitled to a fee for taking an Apprentice; the difference between me and those you have sought out in the past is that I am honest about requiring that fee, and I have far more to teach you than they have. You have so far given me no indication that you have any intention of making an exchange of value for value.”

His indignation was evident in every movement of his body—but he reached into his pocket for his wallet before she stopped him with an abrupt gesture of rejection.

“Money? I think
not,
Englishman,” she said sharply. “What need have I of the dross of your money? My Goddess grants anything I need; I need not contaminate myself with your leavings to supply my wants.” She waved her hand around her chamber. “Look about you! I have no hordes of idiot English hangers-on, and you see how I live. That I choose to dwell
here
and not in some ‘fashionable district' is a matter of my convenience and privacy, and not because I cannot
afford
to live there. You must offer me something better than your abominable English pounds and pence.”

Clearly he had never found anyone who so forcefully rejected his money before. Shivani wasn't at all surprised at that; the Blat woman's begging habits were a matter of mirth among her dacoits, one or two of whom had penetrated the ranks of her servants before they learned just how empty her promises were. And the Crawly-man regularly milked the largesse of his disciples, though with a little more finesse.

Now the petitioner's mood shifted from indignation to puzzlement. “Then what do you want?” he asked, so thoroughly discomfited that he had become, had he but known it, as malleable as she could have wished. She leaned forward; he mirrored her action, his ruddy cheeks pale with strain. He wanted what she had, more than wanted it. Under the influence of her manner and the drugs, he craved it. He would not yet do
anything
to get it, but that would come.

“Nothing small,” she replied in a low voice. “Only what is proper. For the reward of becoming my disciple, I demand no less than your service, your devotion, and your obedience in all things.”

Over the course of the next hour, they bargained, but it was hopeless on his side of the bargain from the moment that he had asked what she wanted. In the end, she had him. He didn't know she had him, body and soul, but she did. He went away with orders to carry out; only when he had fulfilled them would she teach him anything.

For now his orders were simple things, and so far as he knew, harmless. He was merely to procure a list of addresses from the pension rolls of an importation company—one which imported opium as well as tea, and dealt in jewels which were not always honestly gotten—in which he was a not-so-petty official. When he brought it back to her, she would have a list of men who had worked in one of the many companies that traded in Indian misery, in this case, headquartered in Calcutta. From this, she could choose potential victims.

He protested over her instructions, and blustered, but they both knew it was merely for form's sake. He had not enough imagination to construe what she wanted with the list, and even if he had known, he probably would not have believed she had the means to carry out her plans. He went away knowing that there is always a price for anything that is genuine. That was the first step in what
might
become an extensive education, if he returned.

She summoned her handmaiden to escort the man to the street. The girl came with one of the dacoits, which was wise of her, in case the English decided to take out his humiliation on his escort. The dacoit was the one who took the man away; the handmaiden remained with her mistress.

“Come,” Shivani said, and returned to her private rooms to take off her ridiculous guise and assume a more comfortable set of garments.

There was, of course, the chance that the man would get his wits about him and not make a second visit; that was the chance she always had to take. You did not capture an ape with shouting and chasing after it. You caught it by careful planning, tempting it in with things it could not resist, and seducing it with pleasures it was loath to do without. Only when the pleasures had become necessities did you close the door of the trap.

If he did not return, there would be others like him. This one was useful in that he had already tried and tested other groups in this place who purported to have some dealings with the Unseen—and he had access to those “lists.” It would be much easier to choose those who should die first, if she had those lists.

Of course, if all went according to her plans, eventually there would not be an English soul on this island that was not dead or a slave to the shrine of Kali Durga (or both)—but until that bright day dawned, it would be convenient, so
very
convenient, to have the lists.

9

P
ETER Scott had never been a teacher before, but Maya Witherspoon was such an eager learner that any defects in his teaching were inconsequential. “The main thing is that all of these names and conventions we use are only that, and no more: conventions,” Peter pointed out, doing his best to keep from being distracted by the doctor's intense gaze and proximity. The way she concentrated on him reminded him strongly of the owl on the branch just overhead. She didn't look away for a second, and her gaze, while not threatening, was not in the least
mild.
He'd seen that look before—most notably on Almsley's face—and it meant that nothing was going to distract that person from whatever his or her goal was.