Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper (20 page)

“I’m afraid so, Naakesh.”

“After we ourselves have eaten, though?” asked the fatter one. “I am famished, and it does not do to hunt on an empty stomach.” He bellowed a laugh. “You always come back with more than you need.”

Fereng laughed, too, and sat down cross-legged by the brazier, which Smith saw had a round metal pot suspended above the licking flames. “Quite true, Phoolendu. Let us sample this dhal you have cooked up, friend. The beast can wait a little while longer.”

*   *   *

Smith wiped clean the small, cracked bowl with the last of the thin bread; he’d finished three servings of the deliciously spicy vegetable dhal, and gratefully accepted a canteen of water from Fereng to slake his thirst and ease the pleasant burning in his mouth. Sitting cross-legged on a simple mat, facing the warmth of the burning brazier, he felt as though he were thawing out for the first time since the incident that had robbed him of his memories and knowledge of himself. Despite the looming presence of the tyrannosaur—which had curled up like a dog, its reptilian tail counting out beats on the stone floor, as though it were sulking at being robbed of its dinner—and the fact that a scant hour before he had been about to be garroted, Smith felt strangely safe for the first time in days. He felt suddenly sleepy, and he stifled a yawn. “Why have you not killed me?” he asked.

Fereng, rubbing his thigh above where it was strapped into a leather cup from which the wooden extension protruded, shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t yet decided that I won’t.”

Smith tensed, but he felt that the man was joking. He asked, “Who are you?”

“You first,” said Fereng.

Smith shrugged. “I cannot remember. Something has robbed me of any memories save for the last few days … what day is it, anyway?”

Fereng said, “Naakesh? Do you still have the newspaper you procured this morning?”

The young man reached behind him. “Most of it. I used the insides to light the fire.”

He passed it over to Smith. It was the
Illustrated London Argus,
and the dateline read
Monday, December 15, 1890.
“Monday,” he said. “I think … Saturday is the first I can remember.” A headline caught his eye among the dense forest of type: B
ELLE OF THE
A
IRWAYS
A
RRESTED ON
C
HARGE OF
M
URDER
M
OST
F
OUL
, but before he could read on or work out why it gave him a sudden shudder, Fereng was speaking again.

“You remember nothing? Not even your name?”

“Smith seems to ring bells, but nothing more.”

Fereng rubbed the salt-and-pepper whiskers on his chin. “Smith. Suitably anonymous. And what have you been doing since Saturday, Smith?”

He thought of the mob who had tried to string him up from the lamppost, of the shrill whistles of the policemen who had chased him into the sewers, of the bloodthirsty cries of the crowd who had believed him to be Jack the Ripper, of the gruesome toshers Tait and Lyall and the dismal end they had planned for him.

“Running away, mostly,” he said.

Fereng leaned forward; the monkey, Jip, scaled his outstretched arm and settled happily on his shoulder, combing through his hair. “Running from who?”

Smith shrugged. “Everyone, it seems. The police. Criminals. Those men in the sewers … they were going to cook me. Even you had designs on throttling me, and I’m not yet convinced you won’t.”

Fereng smiled. “Don’t worry, Smith. I think you are far too intriguing to feed to my pet.” He reached out and squeezed Smith’s bicep. “Strong, too. Evidently a gentleman of some stripe, by the quality of your dress and grooming. And something of a fugitive. I have a feeling you could be very useful to me, Smith.”

Smith met his gaze. “But who are you?” He waved his arm around. “What does all this mean?”

Fereng leaned forward, his eyes shining in the light from the brazier. “It means revenge, Smith. They say it is a dish best served cold, and my fury has been chilling for twenty years. Now, as London shivers and stokes its fires in the worst winter most can remember, ice clogs the Thames and water freezes in the standpipes.” He raised his arms. “Hell has finally frozen over, Smith, which means it is time for London to finally reap the bitter seeds of wrath it sowed within me so long ago.”

*   *   *

“Does such venomous melodrama make you want to flee, Smith?” asked Fereng. “Would you rather take your chances with cannibalistic troglodytes or pitchfork-waving mobs?”

Smith glanced at the dark tunnel that led back to the sewer system, at the dinosaur glowering at him from its corner, at the dark gazes of the four turbaned men. “I don’t have much choice, do I? You aren’t going to let me leave, are you?” he asked quietly. “Not now that I know about all this.”

“You do present something of a problem,” agreed Fereng. “You do, as they say, know too much. Which is somewhat funny for a man who knows so little. And it leaves me with a choice: either I feed you to my pet, as originally planned…”

“Or?”

Fereng smiled. “Or I ask you to join us.”

“Join you?” said Smith, miserably staring into the brazier. “I still don’t know what you are up to.”

“Up to, Smith? I have already told you. I am up to vengeance.” He braced his hand on the shoulder of the youngest of his men, Naakesh, and hauled himself up to stand on his good leg and his wooden stump. “But perhaps you wish to know why?”

Smith nodded. “You are English, despite your appearance. How did you come to be in the company of four Indians?”

Fereng laughed, his eyes shining. “Not mere Indians, Smith. Thuggee. Do you know what that means?”

He searched the black ocean of his memory. “Assassins,” he said. “Murderers.”

The four men laughed. Fereng nodded. “So the stories would have it. Roaming gangs of criminals who travel the highways of the subcontinent, falling in with travelers and insinuating themselves in their confidence until—”

There was a sudden, sharp twang that made Smith blink and jump. Deeptendu was grinning at him, the thin leather thong he had displayed earlier held taut between his fists, still resonating.

“We would strangle them!” said the fat one, Phoolendu, cheerfully licking his bowl. “Sometimes we would do it so hard that their heads would fall clean off!”

Smith looked at each of the men. “Why?”

Kalanath leaned forward, the scar tissue on his face seeming to glint in the firelight. “For money. Food. Gold. And sometimes just because we didn’t like the look of them.”

Smith tore his gaze from the man’s scar and met his eyes. “And, presumably, you don’t like me.”

“Not especially.”

He looked back to Fereng. “You have fallen in with murderers, then, and assassins. As I said.”

“Kalanath is fooling with you, or at least not telling you the whole story. Deeptendu. Tell Smith why you kill.”

Deeptendu closed his close-set eyes and placed a hand on his breast. “For every life a Thuggee takes, the return of Kali is delayed by one thousand years.”

“Kali?”

“The mother goddess of time and change,” said Fereng. “The consort of Shiva. The black one who is beyond time, who will dance in the ruins. Every life a Thuggee takes flows through the cosmic river of the shakti like wine through water, and appeases Kali for the blink of her eye. Which, fortunately, is a hundred lifetimes or more here on Earth.”

There was a moment’s silence in the dim room, save for the grunting of the tyrannosaur. Smith looked over his shoulder at it. “So how did four Thuggee assassins come to be lurking in the sewers of London? And what of
that
thing? Did you bring that from India?”

Phoolendu laughed. “Nothing like that in India. Elephants and tigers, yes. And snakes. Plenty of snakes.”

As though knowing it was being talked about, the beast began to push itself up on its tiny forearms, sniffing in their direction, a rumble in its throat.

“I think we have decided that we are not going to feed you to it,” said Fereng, his monkey Jip chattering on his shoulder. “Which means, I am afraid, that we are going to have to secure some meat for it. Kalanath, Naakesh, see what you can find near the markets. Be silent and invisible, like the wind. Deeptendu, you should go and search the sewers, see if there is any sign of these men who would have had Smith for lunch. I would not want them venturing too close to us.”

Deeptendu looked down his hooked nose at Smith. “What of him? He may try to run, or attack you.”

“Phoolendu will be here,” said Fereng.

The fat Thuggee slapped his belly and pointed a warning finger at Smith. “Don’t think I won’t snap your neck and garrote you, Smith, because I will.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Smith, rising stiffly to stand beside Fereng.

“Besides,” said Fereng, “where would he run to? I think Smith and I have come to an understanding, or are about to. He will be staying, and will mean us no harm. Indeed, I feel he will be a boon to us.”

As the three Thuggees began to edge around the beast toward the tunnel that led to the sewers, Phoolendu called, “Oh! See if you can find some of those small round savory bread cakes, the ones with holes in the top. Oh, what are they called?”

“Crumpets?” offered Smith.

Phoolendu rose and slapped him on the shoulder. “Indeed! Crumpets!”

Kalanath sneered and said testily, “And anything else, while we are out?”

“Butter would be good,” said Phoolendu. “For the crumpets. And milk, for the chai.”

Kalanath glared at him and indicated with a sharp movement of his head that the others should follow him into the tunnel. When they had gone, Phoolendu gathered the dishes and took them over to a bowl in the corner, which he filled with water from a pitcher, and began to scrub them with a piece of cloth.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” said Fereng, gazing at the tyrannosaur.

The monster narrowed its yellow eyes and gave an exploratory tug with its huge neck, but the chain that shackled it to the wall remained firm.

“If it didn’t come with you from India, then where?” asked Smith.

Fereng gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t think I haven’t considered the possibility that you might be a spy, you know, Smith.”

Smith looked at him. “A spy? For whom?”

“For those who would rather I stayed as dead as they believe me to be.”

“Your enemies? Who are they?”

Fereng smiled. “I will tell you, Smith, once you have proved yourself. I would be a fool if I hadn’t considered the possibility that they had already found me, and sent you to infiltrate. But my gut feeling is that you are not a spy, Smith. And I have survived for twenty years on my gut feelings.” He cocked his head, and the monkey began to nuzzle his ear. “I like you, Smith. I feel some kind of kinship with you, though I have no idea why.”

“Fereng is not your real name. What is it?”

“It is so long since I have used it that I have almost forgotten. Almost, but not quite. It isn’t something you need to know, for now.”

“But who
were
you? What took you away for twenty years? From where comes this desire for revenge?”

“Who was I…?” said Fereng, a distant look in his eyes. “Why, Smith, you would hardly believe me. Who was I? Twenty years ago, Smith, I was a Hero of the Empire.”

*   *   *

“Are you all right, Smith?”

Fereng put his hand out to steady Smith, who had suddenly staggered as though felled by a blow. He brushed off the helping hand and put his hands to his face as a memory exploded in his mind.

Are heroes born or made? What if we took away all your heroic doings? What if we wiped the slate clean? What if I convinced you that you were not the Hero of the Empire, but the
enemy
of Britain? Would you be able to fight that?

“You … what you said … a hero?”

Fereng helped Smith to sit down on the floor and regarded him quizzically.

“Of a fashion. Why does that affect you so?”

Smith shook his head. “I don’t know. For a moment I thought … but it’s gone.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose tightly between thumb and forefinger.

“You look exhausted, Smith. When did you last sleep?”

He looked up at Fereng. “Sleep? I can’t remember. Not proper sleep.”

Fereng gestured at the corner opposite Phoolendu, who was whistling as he dried the bowls with a length of cloth. “There are blankets and rolls there. You should have some rest.”

Smith smiled humorlessly. “And I will be garroted in my sleep, no doubt.”

“You don’t believe that, Smith. You are safe here. Perhaps more safe than you have been for days.” Fereng fed Jip another nut. “I give you my word that no harm will befall you. Have some rest, and then we will talk again.”

“You said something about proving myself.…”

“Later, perhaps tomorrow. I have waited a long time for my revenge, Smith, and I am not about to rush it now. I have plans to put into place.”

“Your revenge … if you were a Hero of the Empire, as you say, then you have been abandoned, or betrayed. Your revenge will be against Britain, or her government.”

Fereng smiled. “You are very perceptive, Smith.”

“And that thing … the tyrannosaur? It is the key to your vengeance?”

“I did not know that when I arrived back on these shores, but yes. I trust in providence, Smith, and providence rarely lets me down. The tyrannosaur is indeed the sword with which I shall smite my enemies. And when this is done, there shall be enough blood spilled to ensure that Kali’s return is delayed for another six hundred and seventy thousand years!”

“That’s very precise,” said Smith, stifling a yawn.

Fereng smiled. “Neither of us shall have to worry about anything by then, in any case. Now you are exhausted, Smith. Sleep. No harm shall befall you.”

He nodded and crept to the corner, laying out a roll and pulling a blanket over himself. Within moments, he had sunk into the wide, black, rolling ocean of his darkened mind.

I
NTERMEDIO
: P
ERSISTENCE
OF
V
ISION

They looked for patterns, of course.
Jack the Ripper only kills prostitutes
was the main fiction, which seemed to suit all concerned. It kept the lower classes subdued with fear; it gave some assurance to good girls that they would not be targeted, so long as they stayed away from Whitechapel—and what well-bred girl would be found in Whitechapel anyway, after dark or not?