The Serpent's Shadow

Chapter Seventeen

MAYA drifted in through her front door in a kind of rosy fog, trailing her fingers along the wainscoting and humming to herself. The kiss with which she had thanked Peter—

Be honest, Miss Witherspoon. You ambushed him.

—all right, ambushing Peter had produced the result she had hoped for. He had held her arm all the way to the ‘bus, held her hand on the ‘bus (disregarding the arctic glares of two old ladies and the giggles of three nursemaids), and had kissed her right on her own doorstep! Not a little peck—and not, thank heavens, the kind of nasty, slobbering thing that Parkening had forced on her—

It was wonderful. She had never put any credence in silly romantic novels, but nothing in her life had prepared her for that experience. No wonder even the poorest, most wretched girl of the slums could cling to her man and forget her surroundings for a moment.

She had invited him inside for a last cup of tea in her conservatory, but he had smilingly declined. “I have an appointment at the Exeter Club that will keep me well past midnight,” he had said, regret in his voice. “Much as I enjoy the peace of your haven.” But he had accepted an invitation to dinner tomorrow, which would be the first time he had ever accepted an invitation to a meal in her home.

Surely this was significant!

Of course it is! You felt that kiss—you saw his eyes!

She laughed out loud, right there in the hallway, and twirled in place for the sheer pleasure of it. She couldn’t possibly feel any more giddy than that kiss had made her!

But she stopped in mid-twirl; Gupta needed to know that she would have a guest for dinner, so that he had plenty of time to prepare. Never mind how many times he had been here before; tomorrow night she wanted to impress him!

She paused in the dusk-filled hall and listened carefully; there was definitely someone moving about in the kitchen. She followed the sounds, to discover Gupta himself puttering about in the kitchen, putting freshly risen bread into the oven.

“Gupta!” she said as he straightened. He turned and saluted her, smiling slightly. “Master Scott will be taking dinner with us tomorrow night. Do you think you can accommodate a guest?”

Gupta met her eyes, and smiled broadly as she colored up.

“So, the Captain Sahib has at last begun courting you!” he said, as proudly as if he himself had been responsible for it. “Good! And after my meal, he will make the proposition!”

“Proposal!” she corrected, laughing and blushing at the same time. Although a less honorable man might well have made a proposition before this! “Really, Gupta, you can’t expect the poor man to propose marriage just on the strength of a single dinner!”

“He is a bachelor, yes? He eats in his club, or out of stalls, terrible English food, boiled to tasteless, fried in pools of grease, covered under gravy that is full of lumps and grease and tasteless! He will eat a fine dinner, he will have a fine whiskey as the punkah-fan makes a breeze, and he will think about going home to his little, little room, which is hot and smells of boiled cabbage, and he will make the proposal. Besides,” Gupta added thoughtfully, “there are certain spices—”

“Which I very much doubt will be needed!” she said hastily. “Just have Gopal make us a good dinner, please, Gupta. I’m sure you are right about that—”

“Of course, mem sahib,” Gupta chuckled. “And there will be a dinner of the sort that Sahib Doctor your father gave to his important visitors. Besides, you would not care to think later that the proposal was due to spices.”

Nor to anything else except how well the two of us are in accord, she reflected, as she thanked him smilingly and turned back to her office.

Although, as a whole, the girls of the street were not good at making and keeping appointments, they were anxious enough about the things that Maya could offer them that they were at least prepared to try.

As soon as the lamp in her office came on, she heard the bell ring. Gupta came from the kitchen to answer it, and her office door opened immediately.

“Well, Norrey!” she said in surprise as her “pet pickpocket” slipped in past Gupta and flopped wearily down into the chair. “What brings you here?”

Norrey was in a state of dress that most would likely consider to be “half naked.” She wore nothing but a thin camisole or corset cover over nothing at all in the way of underthings, a dingy pink petticoat showing a pair of bare ankles and feet in stained green satin slippers, and incongruously enough, her treasured hat. Maya frankly envied her as Norrey’s chosen wardrobe looked very much cooler than Maya’s.

“Cough,” Norrey said gloomily, and followed it by a demonstration, which unlike her performance when she had first come to Maya, sounded quite genuine. “Can’t sleep, an’ it’s cruel ‘ard on a gurl what needs t’be quiet in ‘er work.”

“Let’s have a look at you, then,” Maya said, making no comment on the “work.” She brought Norrey into the surgery and gave her a thorough going over, but she feared the worst.

And her fears were justified. “Norrey, you have tuberculosis,” she said flatly. “White lung.”

“Oh Gawd.” Norrey did not break out into tears, as Maya had half feared she would. She only seemed resigned. Evidently she had already come to that conclusion on her own. “Wot’s t’ do, then? Nothin’, I s’pose.”

Maya hesitated. She had come to know Norrey over the past few months; she was better than her surroundings, and had a rude sense of honor. She had certainly been better than her word with Maya. Not only had she made it known on the street that anyone touching Maya, her servants or her house and office would be courting more trouble than any petty thief could withstand, she had brought Maya more than one little street waif for treatment who would otherwise not have come on his or her own.

“What would you do for a cure?” Maya asked cautiously. “Would you be willing to let me try something?”

Norrey looked at her with disbelief mixed with a little—just a little—hope. “Wotcha mean?” she asked. “There ain’t no cure.”

“What if there were?” Maya replied: “What would you do?”

Norrey laughed, bitterly. “Well, if there wuz t’ be be some kinder mir’cle, an’ if summun wuz t’ give th’ loiks a’ me a mir’cle, well, reckon I’d let y’ do whatever.”

“Remember that,” Maya said, “because this may hurt a lot.” And before Norrey could move, Maya caught up both her hands in an unbreakable grip.

This would be the first time she had ever tried to heal a disease. She had strengthened people who were failing, she had even encouraged surgical incisions to close faster, but she had never tried to drive out a disease before.

If I don’t try, I’ll never know if I can.

This was the safest possible place to try. There were no observers, no doctors to wonder at what had happened if she succeeded or what she was doing while she tried, and she was behind strong shields.

Norrey tried to pull her hands away, her eyes widening. Maya stared into Norrey’s eyes and willed her to be still.

The girl froze, then relaxed, and stopped resisting; her mouth relaxed, and her eyelids drooped, although her eyes did not quite close. In fact, she seemed to have been hypnotized, though how could that be?

Never mind. If she could strike that cad Parkening down with her mind, perhaps she could hypnotize as well.

I feel like Svengali… if, when I am finished, she begins singing “Sweet Alice,” I think I may scream.

She reached deeply into the earth beneath her for that magic which was hers alone in all of London, so far as she knew; the action was second nature to her now. The power flowed into her, sweet and golden as honey, stronger now than it had ever been before—as if the power itself wanted her to heal this child.

Very well, then; if that’s the case, I am much obliged, I’m sure.

She poured out the power into Norrey, flooding the darkness in the girl’s lungs with light. The disease was like a pernicious growth, a dark and creeping vine that choked out everything it encountered, stealing the breath and life for itself.

The darkness resisted, but she sensed its roots were not deep, and she pushed harder against it with the golden light, not burning it out, but uprooting and withering it before it could take root again. Little by little, it gave ground, retreating, shrinking in on itself. Relentlessly, she pursued it, and as it retreated, leaving raw and damaged flesh in its wake, she laid down a honey-glow balm that healed the lungs before they could scar.

Now it tried a different tactic: to wall itself off inside a stony cocoon, making her think she had defeated it. If she left now, it would emerge again later, the next time that conditions were favorable—and given the risky life that Norrey lived, conditions were almost always favorable. Maya knew this trick of old. This dormant state was the condition that sanitariums attempted to induce, since they could not cure—

But it always came back again.

Not this time. Ruthlessly she followed it into its hiding place, breaking the walls apart and continuing to uproot and wither. This was hurting Norrey. The girl gasped; her hands clenched tightly on Maya’s, and tears streamed down her smudged cheeks. But it couldn’t be helped. Better this than the slow and agonizing death by suffocation that awaited her.

Done!

With immense satisfaction, Maya inspected her work and found not a trace, not the least lingering taint of the disease. There was some damage, that was inevitable—but Norrey was cured, and having been cured, would not suffer from the White Plague again.

Maya drew a deep breath of her own, and dropped Norrey’s hands.

Dazed, the girl slowly came back to herself, reaching up and scrubbing away her tears with the back of one hand. “Wotcher do?” she demanded hoarsely. “ ‘urt! Bloody ‘ell! Tha’ didn’ ‘alf ‘urt! Felt loik y’ lit a fire in me chest, it did!”

“Breathe,” Maya ordered. “Take a deep breath.”

Automatically, Norrey obeyed, pausing for an instant at the point where her coughing fits usually began, then continuing to fill her now-clean lungs. The more breath she took in, the wider her eyes grew, until they looked as big as a pair of prize bronze dahlias.

“It’s—gawn!” she gasped. “Bloody ‘ell! It’s gawn! ‘Ow the ‘ell did jer do it?”

Maya decided to risk the truth. “If I told you it was magic, would you believe me?”

The admission didn’t seem to trouble the girl in the least. “Blimey! Dunno ‘ow it cud be ought else.” She gave Maya a long hard stare. “ ‘Ow long y’ bin doin’ this?”

Now Maya laughed aloud, partly out of relief, partly out of elation. “I’ve never tried it before you,” she admitted. “I knew it wouldn’t hurt you, but I didn’t know if it would help or not.”

Norrey only shook her head. “Reckon I owes yer a bleedin’ lot,” she sighed. “Reckon I oughter gi’ up th’ ketchin’ lay loik yer ast me.”

“Reckon you ought to,” Maya agreed, with just a touch of sternness. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask of you, considering. I don’t ask you to give up anything else, or go into a sweatshop—just stop picking pockets and helping your friends cosh the swells for the swag.”

“A’right. I will,” Norrey said, with sudden determination. “Not a sparkler, not a wipe, not if th’ King hisself came an’ dangled ‘is in front’a me. Ye got me word.”

She held out her hand, and Maya shook it, sealing the bargain.

Maya let Norrey out into the night, and the girl frisked away out of sight like a young antelope. Maya wondered what she’d tell her friends about her new-won health.

Probably not that it was tuberculosis. Probably that it was something I made go away with a pill. This was a great secret, and one of immense value; Norrey would only let it go at a price, though given her good heart, for some the price would be very, very small.

Maya saw three more patients that evening before it grew too late to expect anything other than a terrible emergency. All three were women, and all the complaints were trifling in comparison with Norrey’s, and dealt with by means of treatments any other doctor could give. That was just as well. Maya wasn’t tired precisely, but she didn’t think she’d be able to replicate anything like Norrey’s cure for another day or so at least. A day? Well, probably more than a day.

Finally she locked up, turned out her lamp, and went to the conservatory for a little relaxation before she went to bed. As she had anticipated, Gupta had left a pitcher of iced lemonade there for her. The fountain sang in the corner, and as soon as she sat down in her chair, the punkah stirred up a delicious breeze. She could not imagine a more perfect evening—except that Peter was at the Exeter Club instead of being here.

She had—she freely admitted it now—been tempted to cast a little magic of attraction Peter’s way. But she had resisted that temptation, and now she was glad. If she had given in, she would never know if what was happening between them was due to nature or the intervention of magic.

She allowed the memory of his face, out there on the boat, to linger in her thoughts; the far-seeing eyes that never hid what he was feeling from her anymore, the firm jaw, the way the sunlight touched his hair. When had she first realized what he meant to her? And how had she failed to notice it for so long?

Charan leaped into her lap, and offered her an apple gravely. She took it and thanked him; he should have been sleepy-eyed at this time of night, but he was unusually alert.

In fact, all of the pets were alert, even Mala, who was always asleep by now. Rhadi flew down to perch on the back of her chair, and Rajah paraded slowly back and forth in front of the fountain, his tail fanned. Sia and Singhe were nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t unusual. They were probably in the cellar, hunting mice.

Nisha was gone as well as the mongooses, but that only meant she was hunting early tonight. No one had to let her out in this weather; there was a platform just under the peaked roof of the conservatory that extended outside the glass. One pane had been left out and replaced with a hatch, which when open, gave Nisha and Mala a means to get outside to hunt. Just as Maya noticed that the eagle-owl was not in the conservatory, she heard a thud on the platform, and a moment later, the owl waddled ponderously into the light, then dropped down onto the dead tree and began to clean her talons meticulously.

Even in the dim light, Maya saw that the owl’s talons were considerably bloodied; whatever she’d been hunting, it wasn’t rats.

“Have you been eating the neighbor’s cats?” she asked sternly.

Nisha looked down at her and gave a hoot that held so much derision it could not have been an accident, as if to say, “Surely you know that I wouldn’t trouble myself with their scrawny moggies!”

Maya had to laugh at her tone. “I beg your pardon, dear. I should have known better.”

Owls didn’t snort, couldn’t snort, but the sound Nisha produced was as close to a snort as a beak could manage, and she went back to the important task of talon sanitation.

Rhadi took that moment to lean forward and say distinctly into her ear, “Good Peter!”

“Very good Peter,” she agreed. “Do you all like Peter?”

Rhadi chuckled, Charan made a contented little noise, and Rajah bowed his head. Neither Nisha nor Mala made any sounds, but both roused their feathers and fluffed up the tiny feathers around their beaks, a sign of supreme contentment. “Good Peter!” Rhadi repeated, then leaned closer and whispered something in Urdu which was highly improper—if delightful to contemplate, in one’s very private thoughts—and made Maya blush hotly even though there was no one about to hear the parrot except the other animals.

“Where did you learn that?” she demanded.

Rhadi only laughed and flew up to his favorite perch beside Mala. The two birds, who in any other circumstances than this would have been predator and prey, actually preened each others’ heads before settling in for the night.

Rajah dropped his fan, and hopped up onto the rocks beside the fountain pool, also ready at last to sleep. They all seemed more relaxed; perhaps they had only been waiting for Nisha to return and all of the “family” to be within the bounds of the house. Even Nisha looked decidedly relaxed.

“Well, if you are all going to sleep, I ought to as well,” she said aloud. Charan looked up at her, and jumped down out of her lap onto the floor, walking toward the door a few paces, then looking back at her over his shoulder.

“All right, I’m coming!” she laughed, and followed him.

Deep in the heart of her sanctuary, Shivani frowned, though not at her wounded dacoit, who lay insensible on a blanket at her feet. He could not help his condition, inconvenient as it was. Her servants were trained, highly skilled, indeed, the pick of the warriors that her temple had to offer. But they could not guard against deadly force on silent wings coming down out of a night sky. Especially when such a formidable foe was completely unexpected.

The dacoit was a pitiful sight, if Shivani were inclined to pity. He had lost one eye to a gouging claw, and his scalp was furrowed from eyebrow to crown with great talon gashes. It was a wonder that he was not dead; he should have been dead, and would have been, had the talon that took his eye gotten all the way to his brain. At the moment, he was only semiconscious; Shivani had given him enough opium to drop a water buffalo to take away his pain. He moaned in delirium despite it, and might not survive the night. He had lost a great deal of blood, and she would not take him to an English hospital, nor would he wish her to. Her body servant had bandaged him as best she could, and that would have to do; he would rest here in the quiet of the warehouse on a clean pallet, and if the Goddess willed it, he would be gathered to her.

Meanwhile, she had lost his services and skills, which was a great inconvenience.

She had the name of Maya Witherspoon, she had the address at which the girl lived, and she had counted on being able to use the eyes and ears of her thugees and dacoits to spy out the details of her enemy’s household. She had not counted on the vigilance of the girl’s servants—one of whom was her sister’s personal warrior of old—nor that the girl still had Surya’s former “pets” with her.

Pets! What a trivial name for creatures with such preternatural intelligence! There was little doubt that the “pets” were nothing of the sort; how much Surya had altered them remained to be seen, but altered they certainly were—else some of them would be in decrepit old age, if not dead by now. One of them, the great eagle-owl, had made that attack on Shivani’s man tonight, a move that no ordinary owl would even have contemplated, much less executed with such perfection.

Pets, indeed. Their presence rendered it unlikely that anyone could get near to the place, even over the rooftops, for there had been a falcon as well as an owl, and although it might be possible to avoid the falcon’s attacks, it would not be possible to hide from its sharp eyes once it was in the sky.

She could not penetrate the girl’s magical defenses herself either. She could not use ordinary means to spy on her. Under most circumstances, it would seem that there would be no way to see what the girl was up to. But it occurred to Shivani that there might be a third option, if the defenses were specifically keyed against Shivani herself, or against the magic of the homeland.

She left the dacoit in the hands of her body servant and retreated to her own quarters. There was still the mirror to try, and that was the third option; she had not troubled the servant of the glass for a few days now, and he should be cooperative after a rest in the darkness.

She smiled to herself. A “rest,” indeed. With the mirror swathed in silk and muffled in spells that kept the servant from leaving the little, dark pocket of reality that enclosed him, he became very, very eager to please her. It was pleasantly easy to control this servant, at least.

She lit incense, picked up the box that held the mirror and settled into a pile of cushions, then removed the mirror from its container and unwrapped it.

The black surface was utterly blank, which was precisely as it should be, for the slave could no longer show himself until she summoned him. He had not yet found a way to break through her confining spells. There was a chance that one day he might, but that chance was remote, and grew more distant with every hour that passed. She sometimes wondered why she had never made a mirror-servant before this. They were so useful, and it grew easier to control them, not harder, with the passing of time.

“Mirror, mirror in my hand,” she said softly, gazing at her own reflection in the black glass. “Come in haste to my command.”

The wavering image of the mirror-slave appeared immediately, and his desperately coaxing tone left nothing to be desired in the way of obedience. Oh, mistress, how may I please you? he fawned.

He must have found this last bout of enforced inactivity very trying. No more did he vex her with wailing or protests, there was only instant obedience. He had broken at last, and it was high time, too.

“You know where my sister’s child dwells; can you penetrate her defenses to show me her and her household?” she asked.

The image blanched; all color drained from it, and it became transparent with anxiety. I beg of you, do not be angered with me, the slave begged. I cannot. Indeed, I have tried, but I might as well seek to penetrate a wall of steel with a knife of paper. But—He brightened, and color came creeping delicately back into his visage. But I can show her to you as she is when she walks outside those protections.

“Show me!” Shivani demanded imperiously, eager for a sight of the girl she had sought for so very long.

The mirror clouded briefly, then brightened and cleared, revealing the interior of a very large room with many windows along one side. Shivani brought it closer to her eyes and studied the image moving therein.

There was a young woman, slender and not over-tall, dressed in English clothing of some white fabric, with her long, black hair bound up in some formal English style on her head. There was a great deal of Surya in the girl; the likeness showed in her eyes in particular, large and seeming-wise, dark with secrets. Her complexion was of a shade between those of her mother and her father, Shivani noted with disapproval; a mark of the tainted blood, dusky rather than dark.

She moved among low beds, each containing a single person covered with a clean, white sheet. The room was full of these beds, closely crowded together, sunlight streaming down upon them. This must be the hospital where Simon Parkening encountered her. She seemed most attentive to the occupants of those beds, also to Shivani’s disapproval. Her expression was intent as she ministered to them; there was no sound, only a picture, but it was clear that she spoke to them with kind and gentle courtesy rather than issuing the orders that one of her exalted blood should have found natural.

There was little doubt that she had thrown her lot in completely with the English; it seemed that only her servants and her pets were left as reminders of her homeland, for in all else, she was Western to the core. This must be why Shivani could neither break nor subvert her magical protections. She had surely learned the magic of the West, which was completely alien to Shivani’s own. This—was unexpected. And it could prove a major stumbling block.

Shivani ground her teeth in rage. How dare she? How dare she squander that precious gift of power in Western magery? How dare she reject the magic of the people who needed it?

She was just like her mother, turning her back on her own people to consort with, and to aid, these arrogant usurpers.

The image blurred again, and Shivani saw the girl in another place, one that she recognized from the descriptions of her servants as one of the great parks, the one with the large body of water in it. Overhead, a sky far less blue than that of the homeland; around her, trees and flowers that were the wrong shapes and colors. She was not alone.

There was a man. And from her scandalous behavior with him, permitting him to put her hand in the crook of his elbow, laughing up at him, she was not indifferent to him.

Worse upon worse! Now she would throw herself away on an English Sahib! Had she no pride? Was she to follow in her deceitful mother’s footsteps?

Shivani kept herself from throwing the mirror against the wall with an effort.

Now there was an added urgency to her plans; she must take the girl and her power before she gave herself to this man, for there would be less of it if she were no longer virgin…

Provided she had not already given herself to the man.

Shivani snatched up the mirror again and studied the image intently, looking for signs that the girl had done the unthinkable. Shortly she was able to assure herself that, although the prospect was imminent, it had not yet occurred. There was still the certain distance, the coy shyness, that spoke of passion as yet unconsummated, though acknowledged.

“That will be enough,” she commanded, and the mirror went blank, then the slave’s uncertain image reappeared in it.

Is there any other way in which I may serve you? the slave begged.

“No,” Shivani replied. “You have done as well as you can. You may rest now.”

She put the mirror down, but did not swathe it in silk again, nor invoke the barriers to the slave’s coming and going. Leaving the box open as well, she set it all aside for the moment. The slave could, if he chose, see whatever transpired within the walls of her sanctuary, although he could not wander outside those bounds unless she gave him further freedoms she had no intention of granting unless it proved useful to do so on a temporary basis.

She tapped her lips with one finger, considering all her possible options, and wondering if the Serpent could take the girl if given enough power. There would be fog tonight; the Serpent would certainly hunt. She had already prepared the baits for it—but she had no bait for the girl, and it did not appear that she would be able to readily obtain one. The dacoit now resting in the cellar had been supposed to get something of the girl’s. Well, obviously that was out of the question.

Still, she could try. The Serpent had ways and means of getting past protections that even Shivani did not entirely understand. The question was, how was she to get the Serpent the extra power it would need to make such an attempt? The victims she intended it to claim would not provide nearly enough to break through an alien magic. She had no ready sacrifices at hand, and it was not wise to risk exposure by merely taking one at random.

A voice shook her from her reverie. “Wise One?” Her body servant hovered timorously in the doorway, her soft voice interrupting Shivani’s thoughts.

“What?” she asked sharply, gazing on the body servant with disfavor.

“It is the English sahib, Wise One. He is at the door again, and most foully drunk. He demands entrance. There begins to be notice taken.” The woman nervously twisted the scarf of her sari in her hands, torn between conflicting orders—that Shivani not be disturbed, and that nothing happen to cause attention to be drawn to this place.

“Drive him a—” she began. Then a sudden thought struck her, and she smiled. The woman shrank back involuntarily from that smile. As well she should; there was nothing of humor in it.

“Tell him that I will see him, if he will go away and come back in an hour, secretly,” she said. “But he must come secretly, or I will not permit him within the door. Impress upon him the need for such secrecy, so that the police do not seek to interfere with us. And when he comes—bring him within, and when the door has closed behind him, take him as an offering to the temple.”

The servant bowed deeply, and scuttled away; with that order, there was no chance that Parkening would arrive in front of the statue of Kali Durga on his own two feet. Shivani laughed aloud at her own cleverness.

How perfect was this—that a suitable sacrifice, primed with crude magic power and full of the extra energies of unbridled emotions should present itself on her doorstep? Parkening had gone beyond being a mere nuisance, but until tonight, it had not occurred to Shivani that he had the potential to provide her with a last service before she rid herself of him.

He would be missed, of course, but by the time his body was found, her dacoits would have taken it far from this place. Even drunk, he was intelligent enough—barely—to lay a false trail before he returned. She decided, as she descended to the hidden temple, that she would have him taken to the Chinese quarter and dumped there. Let the foolish yellow men take the blame for his death; they were so busy with their quick profits in bodies and drugs that they paid little heed to what went on in their quarter until it was past mending.

Why had she not thought of this before? With every step she took, she wondered at her own obtuseness. At last she would be revenged on Parkening for every braying laugh, every whine, every complaint, and every petty annoyance. The Death of a Thousand Cuts would only be the last of the many experiences that awaited Parkening, and she had the shrewd notion that her loyal dacoits would enjoy helping her, for if Parkening had been annoying to her, he had delivered deadly insults to her underlings.

And she would start with his hands, and his lips—for he had dared to lay those hands and lips in a lustful manner upon one who, though outcaste and only half Indian, was still descended from the purest Brahmin blood.

Shivani paused only long enough on her way into the sanctum to select a very special set of sacrificial knives—for this would be a sacrifice she intended to make last a very long time.