Flagpole dropped through the circle of her arms in a dead faint. The section stared at her.
Edie Banister grinned a wide, well-fed grin, and walked out.
“Fook me,” Shortarse said, “she socked tha fookin’ life oot o’ ’im!” And then, because the British Tommy is nothing if not adaptable, “Hah! Look oot, Tojo, we’re bringing a witch, is whut it is, tae draw doon the Evil Eye on ya! Magic o’ the Islands, lads! Our varrah oon Bloody Countess!”
In the castle of the Opium Khan, Flagpole considers the ways in which this operation could go wrong. “Aye,” he says, firmly. “Let’s ’ope.”
James Banister, Cmdr., RN, holds a foreign fruit in one hand and a spoon made of ivory in the other, delving deeply in the first with the second, and reflects that a real secret agent would solve the whole thing by using the spoon on Shem Shem Tsien’s domed forehead. Sadly, spoon mayhem is harder than Boy’s Own comics would have you believe, and the Opium Khan somewhat notoriously knows how to take care of himself. Then, too, there’s the matter of unseen but no doubt well-situated archers who would almost certainly conclude any attempt before it caused their master any serious grief.
The fruit has the texture of cooked fish and tastes of mango, ginger and salt. The Opium Khan calls it a fire pear. It apparently grows only on the shores of the great Addeh River as it winds down towards the Dhaka delta.
“In unenlightened times, it was said to be the egg of a giant catfish,” Shem Shem Tsien says. “A special preparation of the plant was believed to contain the Elixir of Divine Immortality. And the dried flowers were prized … as an aphrodisiac.”
James Banister looks at him for a moment, worried on cue. You do love your theatre, don’t you?
“The fruit is quite safe, Commander, I promise you. I have many, many tasters between the river and the table. Their instructions are specific.”
Yes, Edie thinks grimly from behind James Banister’s moustache, I’m sure that they are. There’s a pleasant, itchy warmth in her gut. She suspects the fruit is part-fermented or soaked in hooch—at the very least. Abel Jasmine’s lessons included a brief but memorable week of sampling amphetamines and minor poisons. Edie remembers her molars buzzing and an overwhelming desire to shout her name out loud and be worshipped. So.
James Banister makes a show of swallowing the last mouthful before letting the empty carcass of his fire pear rest on the plate.
“A very vigorous flavour,” he murmurs, without enthusiasm. “Is it the gas lamps make it so warm in here?”
The Opium Khan gestures, and more flunkeys emerge to remove the detritus of the fruit course. “Just the climate, Commander, I’m afraid. The gas we keep for lighting, and possibly for export to … friendly nations. It is not known whether Addeh Sikkim has any great reserves of petroleum, but it seems likely. Of course—” But whatever follows as a matter of course will have to wait. A great rustling erupts at the far end of the dining hall, where a double chair, like a throne or a day bed, stands in place of a carver. Something resembling a trumpet is blown repeatedly, and more flunkeys rush around laying out utensils and cushions. In the distance, a gong sounds.
“You are greatly honoured,” Shem Shem Tsien says, in the voice of a man who is himself feeling somewhat less than thrilled. “The great beauty, the rose of Addeh Sikkim and beloved of us all, my mother, graces us with her presence. Good evening, Mother.” He rises abruptly, and walks towards a litter borne by two wide-shouldered men. He stoops perfunctorily to kiss the tiny bundle of finery they carry, and it moves, revealing itself to be a grey-faced, frosty old woman who must be the letter-writing dowager, Dotty Catty. She raises one hand to her son in prohibition and turns away.
“We are at odds,” the Opium Khan explains calmly. “A family matter. Of little consequence save to historians.”
“Murderer,” the old woman replies without much energy.
“Nonsense, Mother,” Shem Shem Tsien says blandly. “Don’t be unkind.”
Dotty Catty is very small, and her chair swallows her entirely, so that when she drops without grace onto the cushions she almost entirely disappears.
“My mother’s hostility is what the alienists refer to as transferred aggression,” Shem Shem Tsien murmurs as he resumes his seat. “She feels I have failed in my duty to provide myself with an heir, and transfers this unhappiness to a false memory of the past, where it assuages her own survivor’s guilt. The mind is so very agile.”
“Don’t hold with all that stuff myself,” James Banister replies. “Freud and wotnot. Not very British, to my mind.”
Shem Shem Tsien snorts. “Quite so.”
The dowager settles a little, and beckons to one of her bearers to move the table furniture so that a floral arrangement almost entirely conceals her from her son. The Opium Khan continues.
“Heirs provoke notions of succession. Replacement. You see? One must time such things appropriately.”
“Wait until you’re older, eh?”
The Opium Khan smiles.
“You mean, until the child’s majority will approximately coincide with my incapacity?”
“Somethin’ like that. Why, didn’t you?”
“In truth, I meant that the population must grow again before I can massacre enough to demonstrate the fate of those who might seek to replace me, once the idea of an eventual succession is acknowledged.”
James Banister stares back at him.
“Bit steep,” he murmurs, after a moment.
“I cannot agree,” Shem Shem Tsien replies. “I accept that it is hard. And yet, it is godly, or god-like, do you not think?”
“Pretty heathen sort of god, Khan.”
“I wonder. Indeed, I have wondered since I was a boy. The Bible says that we are like gods, because we possess knowledge of good and evil. That is part of our sin. But it seems to me that the most salient feature of God, the most commonly experienced aspect of His existence, is His silence. His great, divine indifference to our doings and affairs. Christians will tell you that God gave us free will, Commander Banister, and in the same breath they will say that they know He exists because He speaks to them constantly in their hearts, and by means of signs.
“Well, I am not content with signs, and my heart is good for pumping fluid around my body and nothing else. The day someone speaks into it, I shall have died from loss of blood. So I propose a great project, Commander Banister. I propose to find out. I seek to be close to God.”
“That’s a noble ambition.”
“It is a unique one. I alone in the world seek to be close to God by becoming more like Him. There are a thousand holy books, and ten thousand holy men and priestesses and prophets for each word of each one of them. Nothing is revealed which can be assured. Sophistries abound and circularities pervade. Mendacity is ubiquitous. Corruption is rife. I have … cut it out … of many I have met. I have made them honest, at the end. But the only thing I have discovered, in all this time, is that we know nothing of God.”
“How do we even know there is one?”
“Indeed. And yet, I believe that there is. My only article of faith.” Shem Shem Tsien smiles a self-mocking smile, a wry quirk of the lips. “My sense of the universe, the way it interacts, the coincidences and accidents, the very neatness of evolution, persuades me of this. I behold a watch and I seek knowledge and conversation of the watchmaker. It persuades some scientists, some philosophers, some theologians. It does not persuade others. I am not concerned. It is enough for me that I believe it follows. However … the nature of this God, Commander Banister, remains opaque to me. God is obscure. Absent.”
“I know a nun says he isn’t.”
Shem Shem Tsien scowls, and claps his hands again, then gestures. The lights dim, and along one wall a drape draws back to reveal a secondary chamber. It is filled with medical paraphernalia and tiled white, and in the middle of the room hangs a man, crucified.
The Opium Khan stands, and perforce also James Banister. It appears there will be a tour.
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“His body is supported,” the Opium Khan says, conversationally, as they draw closer. “I will not allow him to suffocate. And as you see, he is draped to keep him warm.” Solicitously, he lifts a soft wool blanket away to reveal the victim’s body. “The impalations were done under anaesthetic. By me, personally, Commander. I require no amanuenses. No angels.”
The crucified man moans softly as they draw near. Indeed, the rods through his hands and feet are very neat. They are also apparently made of copper. Behind his moustache, James Banister quails a little in understanding: there are scorch marks around the wounds.
Shem Shem Tsien moves around behind the man and, with a conjuror’s flourish, removes a last drape from the frame on which he hangs. A huge actinic coil sits behind the cross, dull and dark. “God, surely, should not permit this. My citadel should ring with His voice in thunder. This man was a bishop once; his church sent him here as an emissary and he chose to side with the marshy underclass against me. He raised them in a rabble and brought them to my gates. Truly, Commander, it was a remarkable day. And now here he is.” Shem Shem Tsien flicks a switch with one long finger. The coil does not light immediately. There is a buzz and a hum, during which time the man seems to wake or return from whatever refuge he has found inside his mind and realise what is about to happen. He turns imploring eyes on James Banister, and opens his mouth to speak. The coil lights, and the man arches and screams. From his hands and feet comes a smell like pork crackling. James Banister swallows bile and concentrates on the details. He suspects that if he throws up or even looks queasy, he will be murdered.
The victim is middle-aged, and was once moderately fat. Now his skin hangs like wet, grey pastry from his bones. The screaming starts long and high, then drops into an awful repetitive yapping.
“For the first month he prayed,” Shem Shem Tsien says. “Then he cursed. Now he barks. I have reduced him to the level of a beast. I strongly suspect that he worships me. In time, I will make him into clay. I will grow roses in him. Perhaps I will wait until he is dead, perhaps not. Yet God remains silent; endlessly, tediously silent. I find that frustrating.”
Shem Shem Tsien waves again, and the screaming bishop is covered again, the coil hissing and spitting as the victim’s convulsions scatter sweat across it. The sound is muffled, but not blocked, by the cloth. The Opium Khan looks briefly concerned, caught in a gaffe.
“My apologies, Commander. That was rude. Please sit. Eat. What I wished to express to you was that … many people have opinions. None have knowledge. I have no interest in more of the former, only in a full and unquestionable experience of the latter.”
“I see.”
“No. But you shall. I seek to know God by becoming more like Him. Thus I have replicated the many paths of God as recorded in our many holy books. Fratricide? Yes. I have committed fratricide, patricide … I have slain generations. I have been merciful—terribly merciful. Capriciously so. My mercy has driven men insane. I have done things so dark, countenanced monstrosities so appalling, that my cruelty has inspired fear in nations great and powerful. Even your own.
“I have drowned men in their thousands. I have extinguished species, decimated populations with disease. On that frame I stopped milord bishop’s heart. It ceased to beat—for our entire history on this Earth, Commander, the very measure of death. And I reached down and clawed him back. I returned him to his body. Because I wished it. Because it was godly.
“And never, Commander, never do I explain myself—save to you, tonight, so that you can be my prophet in the court of the English King. Do you see? God is indifferent and God is silent and God is alien. And thus I shall become. I shall rise through horror and disaster, and in doing so I shall be more and more like Him. I shall be His mirror.
“I shall have words with the Silent God, Commander. I alone, of all men, shall know God as an equal. And then, we shall see.”
Behind the drape, the former bishop barks loudly. Shem Shem Tsien frowns, and flicks his glass. The drone of the actinic coil abruptly stops. There is a gulp, and then sobbing, which rapidly fades away.
Bloody hell.
The Englishman raises his glass to his lips in acknowledgement, and wonders what to say next.
“How do you find London, Commander Banister?”
The question is abrupt and harsh. It echoes down the table from the far end, the pile of cushions where Dotty Catty is sucking some species of soup through a gold straw. Shem Shem Tsien closes his eyes for a moment. Diplomatic banter with the agent of a foreign power is like seduction, especially in that it is not greatly aided by the presence of an elderly female relative with a grand disdain for everyone else’s conversations.
“There is a war on, of course,” James Banister replies apologetically, “so I’m afraid the city you remember is much altered, at least for the moment.”
“What?” The bundle of rags cups an ear. “What did you say?”
“I say there is a war on, Madame.”
“I’m sure there are! There were always whores in my day, too. And young bucks who’d make efforts on a respectable girl. Disgraceful!” She titters.
“The Dowager-Khatun does not hear well,” Shem Shem Tsien mutters. The movie-star burnish is coming off a little in the face of this maternal assault.
“Here in Addeh Sikkim, we have elephants. They are known for their moral fibre.”
“I hadn’t heard that about them,” Commander Banister says carefully.
“Oh, yes. Moral suasion is to be found in the eye of an elephant. You should have them in London. For education!” She nods firmly. “And the Germans, too, now,” Dotty Catty adds. “If they had elephants, Europe would not be in such a mess. Yes. I shall write to George and propose it. Or is that why you’re here? For the elephants? Eh?”
“No, Ma’am. My King wishes to discuss affairs of state.”
“Affairs! Hah! Moral fibre, as I say. I never heard such rot and impertinence. Although, one fellow in particular I do recall,” Dotty Catty continues, “used to wear flowers in his hair. Can you imagine? An Englishman. Now, what was it? Lavender? Geranium?” She scowls. “Are you even listening, man? I say ‘geranium’! What about it, eh?”
James Banister glides smoothly to his feet, glancing at his host, and walks neatly up the table to greet the dowager.
“From His Britannic Majesty, greetings,” he says.
“From gorgeous George? How splendid. There was a proper man, not like some.” She gestures angrily down the table at her son.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, if I may: is it possible the flower you’re thinking of was jasmine?”
Dotty Catty glowers up at him through rheumy, suspicious eyes.
“No.”
“I said: ‘Was it jasmine’?”
“Don’t raise your voice to me, young man!”
Commander Banister stares at her.
“No,” Dotty Catty says, “quite the contrary. I believe it may have been daisies. Yes. Very plain and dull. I do not like you. You are as pretty as he is, and quite the wrong sort. Tell George to pick his men with greater care. Tell him from me.” She gets to her feet and slaps at him. “Out of the way. Out! Out! Must I be assailed in my own house? Will my son do nothing for me? Murderer and weakling is a grim combination. The highest rooms of this palace I have, to keep me from my loves, and guards and girls to wash my feet and the mad foreigner for a guest, with her worrisome machines, and far, far from my treasures and my pretties I must dwell, oh, yes. And now you! You frightful man from London, telling me it’s all changed. Of course it has! Nothing good can last. All beauty turns to dust, and into ashes all our lust. Do you see? Pah! Out of the way, boy! I was made this way before you were born!”
Dotty Catty grabs for James Banister’s coat and misses, her ancient hand plunging instead for his crotch. And for the first time, a broad, wicked grin lights up her face. She stares at the figure in uniform and nods to herself in confirmation.
“Dearie me,” she says clearly,
mad old eyes darting towards Shem Shem Tsien, “you’ll need more than that in life.”
Edie Banister removes her hand with a delicate flourish, projects her James voice ever so slightly. “I have always found what I possess quite sufficient to the task in hand, Your Highness.”
She grins again, delighted. “No doubt you have. And now he’ll offer you ‘entertainment’ to persuade you you’re a real man.” A warning there. So. And with one final “Good luck, boy,” and a rustle of paper, nearly inaudible as she thumps her other hand into a metal bowl of fruit and sends it scattering all across the table, Dotty Catty pops a missive into the British emissary’s inside pocket in fine secret agent style, and humphs out. “Not like some,” she says again, glaring at the Opium Khan.
And there is a very profound, nervous silence.
“Good Lord,” James Banister murmurs to the Opium Khan, “I thought she was going to pull the damn thing off. Narrow escape, what?”
The Opium Khan stares at him, then finds a diplomatic laugh from somewhere, and nods acknowledgement.
“Indeed, Commander Banister. Indeed, so.”
“Still, I will say, must have been quite a girl in her day, your old Ma, what?”
Shem Shem Tsien claps his hands.
“Commander Banister, you are a rare fellow. You have quite lightened my mood … Honour to our guest! Have my cygnets bring out the swan,” he says. And a moment later, the room fills with women in very small outfits made of feathers. Somewhere, amid a great deal of bare flesh, there’s an evening meal on a golden plate.
Edie Banister has one foot in the cleft of a tree and the other in a narrow noose of rope suspended from her window sill. She is still wearing James Banister’s moustache, and in addition a stiff underjerkin made of a material she has never seen before which will, in an extreme situation, offer her a moderate amount of protection from light weapons. Abel Jasmine emphasised the words “moderate” and “light.” It will make it harder for someone to slash her with a straight razor. It will not protect her from, for example, a crossbow bolt or a shot fired from the weapons carried by the Opium Khan’s guards, patrolling below. Not even a little. She tries to concentrate on what she is doing, which is climbing up the outside of Shem Shem Tsien’s palace, over the heads of three of his patrolling soldiers, to visit his mother in her chambers without getting caught. They are taking an indecently long time to patrol what seems to her to be a rather unimportant bit of garden … oh. She can smell tobacco.