Abounding Might (The Extraordinaries Book 3) Page 6

  Many of the stalls were no more than squares of heavy cloth spread over the ground with wares displayed on them. Spots of brightness shone against the drab background. There were stalls selling vividly colored lengths of cloth, and one or two selling cheap brass or copper jewelry Daphne could not imagine wearing. Many stalls held sacks of spices, green and red and an eye-watering yellow-orange powder Fletcher said was turmeric. Daphne breathed in their richness and had to turn away to sneeze.

  Fletcher stopped at stalls, apparently at random, and carried on brief conversations with the owners. He did not offer to translate for Daphne’s sake and she felt uncomfortable asking what he had said. She stopped to examine a bracelet carved of ivory, the first truly beautiful piece of jewelry she had yet seen, and the stall’s proprietor, a wizened, wrinkly old woman missing several teeth, pointed at it and said something that sounded like a question.

  “I beg your pardon, I do not speak your language,” Daphne said, immediately putting the bracelet back. The woman picked it up and offered it to her. “No, truly, it is beautiful, but I simply wish to admire it.” The idea of owning it had already taken possession of her mind, though, and she hesitantly accepted it. The old woman smiled, took Daphne’s hand, and uttered a long, complicated sentence in Hindoostani that was inflected like a question. Her eyes were set deep into her face, surrounded by wrinkles like a map of the Ganges, and Daphne started to respond before remembering she did not speak the language.

  Bess said something in a language Daphne had never heard before, different from the Hindoostani the old woman had used. The woman shook her head, but held up a finger in a “wait here” gesture Daphne had not realized was universal. Perhaps she should try communicating in gestures.

  The old woman called out something in Hindoostani and got a muffled reply from behind the back wall of her tent. A younger man, though still probably as old as Bess and Daphne’s ages combined, emerged. The old woman spoke to him at length, making him look first at Daphne, then at Bess. He responded in the language Bess had used. Bess beamed and spoke to him, gesturing at the bracelet. The man shook his head and gestured, and Bess replied at length. Daphne became increasingly frustrated at being excluded from the conversation. She determined to learn Hindoostani, and never mind its being frowned on by people like Lord Moira who no doubt were simply jealous of those who could do what was beyond them.

  Finally, Bess said, “I have argued him down to two rupees. Do you want it at that price?”

  Daphne considered the state of her purse. “I do.” She dipped into her purse and brought out the coins, handed them over, and slid the bracelet onto her wrist immediately. Bess said a few more words and bowed. Daphne hastily bowed as well. “Is that a good price?” she asked as they turned away.

  “I imagine so. I have no idea the value of such materials and craftsmanship, and likely we paid too much—but bartering is such fun, it surely makes up for all that!”

  “Supposing I were poor, though, and could not afford it? We should ask Captain Fletcher’s opinion.” Daphne looked around. Like the others, Fletcher had dressed that morning in civilian clothing, asserting again his belief that the Hindoos would be more talkative with someone not obviously a soldier, but his height and coloring would make him stand out beside the shorter, darker natives. Even so, he was not immediately visible. “We are lost already.”

  Bess tilted her head back briefly. “I have told him where we are. I’m certain he will return shortly.”

  They waited, watching the colorful masses of travelers pass. Daphne toyed with her new bracelet, enjoying the feel of the ivory against her fingertips. It was carved in an abstract pattern that looked like flowers on fire. Did it mean something in the Hindoo culture? Perhaps something to do with that god the Scorchers were sacred to? Another thing to ask Fletcher, if he ever returned.

  A hand reached out and flicked the ivory bracelet with a fingertip. “We have not been in this bazaar above fifteen minutes and already you are causing trouble,” Fletcher said, smiling so Daphne would know it was a joke. “Stay close, and let us see what we can discover.”

  “Have you not learned anything yet, Captain? Or—that sounds like a criticism, I assure you I did not mean it as such, I simply meant that you seem to have spoken to many people and therefore—oh, it is still a criticism—”

  “I take your meaning, Lady Daphne,” Fletcher said. “I see a barber, there ahead. I intend to be shaved, and you need not wait on me. Just—stay within my sight, please? You may be capable of escaping anyone who wishes you harm, but I still experience a twinge of fear for your safety.”

  Fletcher did not appear to be in need of a shave, but Daphne nodded and walked past the barber’s stall to a stand selling delicious-smelling morsels wrapped in bright green leaves. Bess’s inquiry left them as uninformed as ever, as the stall owner did not speak Persian, but the leaves contained sticky dark-brown nuggets that smelled of spiced honey, and Daphne bought one for each of them and experimented with using the leaf to protect her fingers from the stickiness. The morsel crunched in her mouth, releasing an explosion of sweetness, tangy and delicious, and Daphne immediately asked for another. The stall owner watched her in some amusement, and Daphne guessed she was eating it wrong, but did not care about being laughed at.

  “Imagine if Miss Donnelly could see us now, licking sugar off our fingers and smearing it over our lips,” Bess murmured.

  “She would loudly declare that such things are Not Done and that a lady would never be so common as to eat food wrapped in leaves, let alone in the middle of the street.” Daphne dropped the leaf to the ground, where it joined a host of others no doubt left by other customers. “I suppose that makes me unladylike.”

  “I as well. How John will laugh when I tell him of our adventure!”

  “Ey-a!”

  A loud voice accosted them, sharp and biting and clearly agitated, though Daphne could not of course understand the words. She turned away from the stall to search the crowds walking past for the speaker. A woman no taller than Daphne, her eyes dark-rimmed with kohl, brandished a walking stick at her, shouting in increasing anger as she approached. Bess tried to speak to her, but either the woman did not speak Persian or was too far gone in anger to respond.

  “I don’t speak your language—I don’t understand,” Daphne said, helpless against the torrent of words.

  “Perhaps we should find Captain Fletcher,” Bess said, taking Daphne’s arm.

  The woman followed them, shouting more imprecations, and as Bess and Daphne walked, a crowd grew up around them, muttering in a way Daphne did not like. She quickened her step until they reached the barber’s stall, where Fletcher was just drying his face and responding to something the barber, a tall man with an enormous moustache, had said. He caught Daphne’s eye and said, “What did you do?”

  “I did nothing except eat sweets from a leaf, probably the wrong way—oh, Captain, what is she saying?”

  Fletcher stood and confronted the old woman, but though his stance was belligerent, his voice was calm just as it had been when he’d spoken to Lord Moira. The woman shook her stick in his face and shouted again. Fletcher shook his head and replied in the same calm tone. The woman took a step backward, suddenly silent.

  Fletcher spoke again, and the woman looked at Daphne, confusion wrinkling her brow. She shook her head, said something to Fletcher, and walked away without looking back. The crowd surrounding them, still muttering, did not move. “Captain,” Daphne said, feeling anxiety bubble up inside her.

  Fletcher said something addressed to the crowd, then, in what Daphne could tell was a different language, spat out a couple of short, curt words. A murmur of laughter ran through the crowd. Fletcher, looking not the least bit concerned, tossed a coin at the barber, who snatched it out of the air. “We should probably move on,” he said, “but you have discovered some valuable information.”

  “I have? But I did nothing.”

  “You were visibly European in a public pl
ace, and apparently that was enough. The woman accused you of blasphemy against her gods. It seems she believed you were one of our errant missionaries.”

  “I, a missionary? Of course I know none, so I have no idea how they dress or comport themselves, perhaps this is the kind of dress they wear—”

  “Again, it was enough that you are European. That woman claims to have seen people who look like you—that is, fair-haired and fair-skinned—preaching against Vishnu, claiming he is a false god, saying words guaranteed to offend the Hindoos. It is more than I have learned anywhere else. Even the barber, who is usually a fount of gossip and information, could say only that he had heard of such stories, not that he had encountered the missionaries personally. It is very strange.”

  “Because no one has seen them?” Bess said.

  “Because they have done a great deal of damage for people who have not been seen,” Fletcher said. “That woman is the only one who has seen them, and I consider her an unreliable source. She also accused you, Lady Daphne, of performing unnatural acts I will not describe to you. That is why the crowd was so interested, and why some of them are still following us. I believe it best you return to the Residence. I will follow shortly.”

  “But, Captain—”

  “Lady Daphne, your newfound notoriety will interfere with my ability to gather information. Unless you believe your amusement is more important?”

  It felt like a blow. “No, Captain,” Daphne said, successfully keeping her voice from trembling. “You are correct. I will return us immediately.” She clasped Bess around the waist, lifted, and Bounded them both to their room at the Residence without asking Fletcher if he wanted her to return for him as well. The bazaar was outdoors, it would be impossible for her to Bound there, but in truth she simply did not want to face him. He thought her flighty, no doubt, impatient and selfish, and she did not know why she had ever wanted to be his friend.

  “I’m certain he did not mean that the way it sounded,” Bess said, removing her bonnet and tossing it onto her trunk.

  “Of course,” Daphne lied, “and he is correct, he cannot speak to people if he is also watching the crowds for possible assailants.”

  “Besides, it was growing warm, and I would have wanted to return soon in any case.”

  “Bess, you are too kind.”

  “Not at all! I dislike the heat and prefer to be indoors during the worst of it. But I believe we should return to the bazaar another time. It was rather entertaining, was it not?”

  “It was,” Daphne said, spinning her bracelet on her wrist, but in her heart she still felt the sting of Fletcher’s words.

  She did not see him again until late that afternoon. Bess decided to take a nap, and Daphne, restless and warm, did not want to disturb her. So she explored the Residence as best she could, reluctant to intrude on Sir Rodney’s domain, and ended up in a little-used sitting room on the north side of the building. It was shielded from the sun by the bulk of the Residence and was almost cool in its dimness. Daphne reclined on one of the sofas and closed her eyes. She heard nothing but the distant buzzing of insects beating against the windows, desperate for the cool shade. Why they were not exhausted as every other living creature was by the heat was a mystery to Daphne.

  “Lady Daphne.”

  She shot upright. “Captain Fletcher. I beg your pardon, I did not suppose anyone else came here.”

  “And you meant to have some privacy. It is I who should beg your pardon for intruding.”

  “Not at all, Captain, I meant that—I do not know what is appropriate for me as Sir Rodney’s guest, whether I ought not be exploring the Residence and behaving as if it is mine. Please, do come in.”

  Fletcher took a seat on the sofa perpendicular to hers. He was once again dressed in his uniform and held his hat in both hands. “I wished to apologize,” he said, “for my words today. I offended you with my suggestion that your interest in this matter is purely frivolous.”

  “No, Captain, it is true, I—it was kind of you to escort me to the bazaar, when you knew how I wanted to see it—I wish I could be of more assistance, direct assistance I mean, not simply by accident.”

  “I am grateful for your ‘accident’, Lady Daphne.” He looked away from her, toward where the insects buzzed against the window. “I simply meant that for all of us, pleasure must give way to business. Not just you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then you will forgive me? I would not for the world have you believe poorly of me.” His eyes returned to her face, and their intensity made her breathless for a moment.

  “Of course, Captain, though I believe there is nothing to forgive.”

  “You are a generous woman.” Fletcher stretched out his legs in a casual manner and said, “Perhaps you would like to see the old palace? It is an architectural masterpiece.”

  “The old palace? That sounds delightful. How old is it?”

  “Only about a hundred years. We call it the old palace mainly because it is unoccupied.”

  “I have heard there is no prince in Madhyapatnam. Why is that?”

  Fletcher’s expression, which had been pleasant, now went sour. “The prince died without an heir, and the Company took over the territory of Madhyapatnam.”

  “That seems—forgive me, Captain, you seem to dislike that, but to me it seems sensible, if the alternative is that it falls into anarchy.”

  “It is something the Company has done many times, and in every case it has enriched their coffers without putting them to any extra trouble. You are correct, it is better than permitting such places to lie ungoverned, or to be the focus for successional strife. I simply cannot help but feel the Company has, on occasion, behaved as if they were entitled to rule by virtue of their temporal power rather than as a reflection of the responsibility they owe the Indian people. Sir Rodney does not, but there are far too few like him.”

  “I believe I understand. How long ago did the prince die?”

  “Some twenty years. Before my time. But I’m told the palace was once alive with light and music. You will have to judge for yourself how much of that remains.”

  “I would enjoy that very much, Captain. When can we go?”

  “Now, if you wish. There is still daylight… if you are not averse to Skipping there.”

  Daphne drew in a breath. Skipping with a male passenger… it was not improper, technically, just the sort of thing Miss Donnelly would say was Not Done. But Daphne was not about to give up on an adventure for so insignificant an objection as that. It was, however, not the only objection. “Will it not be a burden on you?”

  “I meant to ask you that question. Most people dislike having their emotions so exposed.”

  “I believe I have told you that I have nothing to hide.”

  Fletcher smiled, and extended his hand to her, offering to help her rise. “Lady Daphne, you are a most unusual woman. As I believe I have told you.”

  Her fingers closed over his, and his smile once again became that distinctive, secret-filled expression, the one that entranced her with its beauty. His hand was firm and strong, with clean, well-trimmed square nails, and enveloped her smaller one completely. “Then we should—we must start from outdoors,” she said, feeling unexpectedly flustered, “and you will have to give me direction.”

  He released her hand only to tuck it into the crook of his elbow. “Lead on, Lady Daphne,” he said, “and permit me to show you the real India.”

  In which Daphne and Captain Fletcher explore the old palace

  louds, high but heavy with promised rain, obscured the sun and made the afternoon cooler, though the air was still thick and damp like wet wool. Though the Hooghly was invisible from the Residence, its sour-fish odor carried far in the wet air. “Ought we to do this another time, Captain? The rain will fall presently, not that I am averse to becoming a little wet, but with these rainstorms it is rarely ‘a little’ wet one becomes—”

  “We have perhaps an hour and a half before the storm a
rrives,” Fletcher said, casting an eye on the clouds. “I have faith that your talent will permit us to outrun the storm. The palace is no more than two miles away.”

  “Oh! In that case, it is no trouble—have you Skipped before? It can be disconcerting, not that I believe you are afraid of heights.”

  “I have not Skipped before, no. What do you mean, heights?” For the first time, Fletcher looked at her with trepidation.

  “It is just that the higher one Skips, the farther one can travel—but if it is only two miles, I should not have to Skip very high, only it will be high enough that if you—never fear, Captain, I have never yet dropped a passenger from any height.”

  Fletcher laughed and released her arm. “I find that more disturbing an assertion than you likely intended it to be. Very well, I will be prepared.” He swiveled on his heel, then pointed toward the tree-lined wall surrounding the Residence. “I believe it is in that direction. It is a large red sandstone building that cannot be mistaken for anything else, if that helps.”

  “It does.” Daphne arranged her arms around Fletcher’s waist and felt him drape his arms across her shoulders. This close, she was aware of the smell of the soap the barber had used that still clung to his skin, a tangy-sweet odor that left her with the desire to breathe it in more deeply. Embarrassed at her reaction, she said, “Hold on, and don’t fight—you will not, I am certain, but I always warn those whose first time it is—this should only take two Skips—”

  His arms tightened fractionally around her neck, and she lifted him off the ground, and Skipped—