The Serpent's Shadow

Chapter Twelve

SHIVANI sat comfortably in lotus position on her tiny cushioned “throne,” as the Englishman she had recently annexed to her service stood before her. He shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily, but made no move to seat himself before her, and thus put her head above his. He was so careful of his position, this sahib, and yet did he but know it, he might as well be in chains before her; he had forged them himself, of greed, desire, and ambition. This “Simon Parkening” could be very useful to her. She had learned much more about him since he had last brought her the list of names and addresses she had commanded. These had been culled from among the employees in the firms where he worked, and were all denoted men who had served in the Raj and thus were her enemies, and the enemies of her land. Those who would not be immediately missed had been marked out. Her thugee would seek them some dark night, and more enemies of India would fall, quietly, unregarded. She had learned he could be even more useful to her. It transpired that his uncle was the head of a great hospital in London. This place could be the source of information on more enemies. Many retired soldiers and civil servants from the Colonies and Protectorates passed through the portals of his uncle’s hospital for treatment of various tropical ailments they had contracted over the course of their careers. He was in a position to find out addresses and other details; he was also in a position to spirit some of them away and into Shivani’s possession, were he inclined to cooperate.

Soon or late, he would cooperate.

“I trust that the Goddess has made all smooth for you with your uncle, as I promised?” she asked—knowing that of course She had. Or rather, Shivani had. The mere altering of a memory or two in the unguarded mind of a fat, foolish sahib was nothing, and never mind that he was supposedly an all-wise doctor. A spell, a word of power, a whisper on the wind, the clue of a strand of hair, and the Serpent slid into the old man’s mind and swallowed a few memories of an unpleasant altercation over a vanished patient.

“Uncle doesn’t recall a thing,” Parkening replied, a gloating smile on his sensuous lips. “I’m back in his good graces again. I wish, though, you could get him to dismiss that damned Irishman; I’m sure he was the one that spirited Jenner out of there. He’s too arrogant by half, that O’Reilly.”

Shivani frowned behind the black cloud of her veil. She didn’t like to admit that there were things she couldn’t do, especially not to this barbarian. “If the Goddess had ample evidence of your commitment, something might be done,” she temporized, her tone made sharper with an edge of accusation. “No!” she corrected waspishly as his hand moved slightly toward the wallet pocket in his jacket. “Not money! How often must I tell you that the Goddess requires coin of another color?”

“She’d have had it, if I’d been able to get my hands on Jenner,” Parkening muttered, coloring angrily under her gaze.

Shivani only laughed at him; he was so easy to manipulate. “And what makes you think that a damaged sacrifice would have been acceptable to Her?” the priestess taunted. “You have access, means, and money, which latter you seem to believe can solve every dilemma. Your first gift was acceptable—but only acceptable. It proved your intent, but not your will. If you wish to move the Goddess to help you, you must show Her the level of your devotion. The man you intended to give to Her was no fit offering. He was damaged and he was of no interest to Her. Bring Her something She values, not some fool you wished to be revenged upon. Bring Her one who is—or was—Her enemy. That is the meat and drink She craves, not your leavings.”

Parkening’s high color faded, and his cheek paled. He fingered his lapel nervously. Shivani smiled. She knew that the way to keep this fool was to continue to challenge him to prove himself. While he focused on proving himself, he would not see the ropes binding him tighter and tighter. One day he would awaken and find it was no longer possible to escape, even into death. “I don’t know—” he muttered.

“Then you are not fit to serve Her and be rewarded,” Shivani replied contemptuously. “Every one of Her followers here has brought Her sacrifice after sacrifice with his own hands. If you truly desire Her blessings, you cannot do less.” She made a dismissive motion with one tiny hand, on which gem-heavy rings sparkled in the dim light. Parkening gazed on that sparkle hungrily. He was well-off, but he craved riches, immense riches—among many other things.

As do all fools, jackdaws, and magpies who seek only pretty baubles to play with. Children! Shivani thought contemptuously.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he temporized.

“Do, or do not,” she scoffed. “Make no half-promises you are too weak to keep and can renounce if you fail. The Goddess is not moved by promises, but by deeds. Make Her a gift, or seek elsewhere for what you desire.”

This time she nodded to the dacoits who stood on either side of the door behind Parkening. They pulled the door open and waited impassively. There was no mistaking her intent. He was dismissed.

With ill grace, he bowed to her, turned on his heel, and left. The dacoits followed him, closing the door behind them, to make certain that he left the building.

Once they were gone, Shivani relaxed. She reclined in the cushions of her alcove, and carefully contemplated the person of Simon Parkening.

He was weak, but strong enough to be useful, and ruthless enough so long as he himself was in no physical danger. He had brought the Goddess a sacrifice, in fact, one that Shivani was going to make use of in another hour or so, when the stars were right. He’d been clever enough to understand what it was that Kali Durga fed on. Last night he had gone out into the streets and obtained a girl, a child-whore, being careful to pay highly enough for her services that her “protector” focused on the money and not on the customer, and he saw that her panderer did not get a good look at his face nor inquire where he was going other than the cheap boarding house from which there were many exits. He’d brought the child here, unconscious from a light blow to the head. Kali Durga cared nothing for virginity, only for potential fecundity. In fact, the Goddess on occasion preferred a sacrifice that had been polluted. This child, her virginity plundered and potentially able to produce a dozen more enemies of the Goddess out of her body, was indeed a fitting sacrifice.

But this was only a sacrifice valuable enough to buy Parkening a small favor, and that favor had been granted. Parkening’s servant had offended him. He set his dogs on the man, hoping to kill him, and fool as he was, had not made certain of the rest of his servants before he had given in to his impulse. They had rescued the man and had taken him to the very hospital where the uncle ruled. Parkening had again proved his lack of wit by not arranging the disposal of his servant immediately and personally. Instead, he had left it to others. By the time he realized that the servant was not going to favor him by dying and had moved to act, it was too late.

And there, yet again, he proved how foolish he was. At this point, Shivani would have washed her hands of the situation. The man could not possibly obtain another place in London, so if he lived, he would have to make his way elsewhere. The place he got would of necessity be obscure. He could do Parkening no harm. What point was there in pursuit, or in trying to punish those who had aided him?

None, of course, but Parkening was a creature of emotion and rash impulse rather than thought.

Shivani dismissed him from her mind. He was as yet only potentially of great use. She would not permit him to cost her any care.

There were, however, areas of potential trouble that she could not leave unwatched. As her own strength grew, she had become aware of certain strongholds of magic in this city. Some of those were of the sort Parkening had consorted with, commanded by those who walked the shadowed paths, and whose power, like Shivani’s, was drawn from the wells of the suffering of others. But some—and these were stronger—were not.

Those who captained these strongholds took their strength from the elements of nature itself, and their magic was an alien thing to Shivani. She was wary of them in consequence; she could not reason out their aims or their attitudes. Yet—they were English. Thus, they were the Enemy. She must neutralize them if she could not yet rid herself of them altogether. To that end, among others, tonight’s sacrifice. She would use the power she gained to throw confusion among them. If she could not penetrate the shining walls of their strongholds, she could make it so that they were loath to venture beyond. She would strew their path with dissension, with reluctance, with doubt. There would be no direct attack upon them, only the subtle and ever-burgeoning poison of mistrust; no mighty blows to shatter defenses, only the acid of hesitation to eat at their foundations. For her purposes, that was as good as attacking them directly. She only needed for them to hold their own hands while they bickered among themselves for as long as it took her to become as firmly entrenched as they. Then if they could not agree to unite, she could defeat them singly.

The knives were ready, the restraints in place upon Kali Durga’s altar. The little whore would be long in dying, for the Death of a Thousand Cuts was designed for this very purpose: to keep the victim alive as long as possible, and to make every living moment filled with unbearable pain from which there was no escape.

And Kali and Her votary would drink in the dark power of her agony, and thrive, and grow.

The girl breathed her last at dawn. Greatly pleased, if not sated, Shivani put her knives aside for the servants of the shrine to clean, and retired to her chamber.

She permitted her body servant to take her blood-drenched clothing, to wash the sticky residue of the night’s work from her flesh, and to attire her in a loose, silk robe. The servant brought food and drink, sweet rice balls and fragrant tea, and she sat beside the table on which they were placed as if in a dream. While a dawn breeze played in at the window and incense perfumes disguised the alien scent with familiar fragrances, she reclined into her cushions, and listened to the music of wind chimes hanging wherever a breeze might find them. She ate and drank without noticing what was in the cup or on the plate, her mind blank.