Metal Emissary (6 page)

“What are you doing, Hari?” Jamie pushed himself onto his feet. Taking slow, measured steps, Jamie followed behind Hari as he stalked toward the raiders.

“But not all men are faithful,” Hari shook his fist at the raiders. Jamie watched as the men started to tremble. Shaking their long jezails into firing positions, the raiders took aim.

“They’re aiming too high,” Jamie stopped at the sound of rocks slipping on the ledge above him. The scratch and grate of metal, the clicking of cogs and whirring of gears followed in the wake of the deadfalls of rocks tumbling off the ledge and into the holes between the boulders below.

“Men with no faith can still fear the faith of men with more faith than fear,” Hari chorused toward the raiders. Flinching at the first musket fired above his head, Hari collected himself and continued to berate the men retreating before him.

Leaning against a boulder Jamie stared as a tall chassis on spindly legs leaned out over the ledge. The pilot controlling the metal arachnid winked at Jamie from behind oversized dusty goggles as he levered the machine over the ledge to land just behind Jamie. Jamie held his breath as the arachnid crunched past him toward the raiders.

“Behold,” Hari waved his arms, ushering the arachnid along with graceful windmills. “Men of faith can conjure fear.” The emissary stomped toward the raiders. Hari ducked as a raider turned and fired a ball of lead at the arachnid’s armoured cockpit. The bullet ricocheted off the armoured plates and split the air just above the mystic’s head. The remaining raiders scattered to the walls and fled down the path to their horses. “See, British,” Hari laughed as he regained his balance. “A little faith is all one needs.”

“You’d seen him, hadn’t you?” Jamie limped over the rocks to lean against the rock wall beside Hari.

“Who?”

“Him,” Jamie pointed at the back of the arachnid as it pursued the raiders.

“And what if I did, British?”

“Well, that would explain why...”

“You gave up and I didn’t?” Hari raised his eyebrows.

The arachnid walker paused, turned, and lowered its weapons. The three Tesla tubes hanging on jointed limbs either side of the cockpit ticked as they cooled and powered down.

“Ah, I think it is time we introduced ourselves,” Hari’s teeth flashed in the growing gloom.

The arachnid pilot steered the eight spindly legs of his machine back up the path. Stopping in front of Jamie and Hari, the pilot bent the walker’s legs at the joints and lowered the cockpit to the ground. He opened the armoured roll cage of the cockpit and stepped out onto the path.

“Courtney,” Hari walked forward and gripped the pilot’s hand. “Wonderful timing. Truly.”

“Glad to be of service,” Courtney shook Hari’s hand and nodded at Jamie. “Who’s the whelp?”

“This,” Hari led Courtney to where Jamie was sitting, “is Lieutenant Jamie Hanover of the Royal Navy.”

“Royal Navy?” Courtney shook Jamie’s hand. “You’re a long way from the ocean, sailor.”

“I am,” Jamie released the pilot’s hand. “Who are you?”

“Corporal Courtney Mint of the Queen’s Arachnid Scouts,” he pointed to the walker behind him. “That there is a scout.”

“And what are you doing out here?” Jamie repositioned his leg.

“Scouting,” Courtney grinned. “Lucky I was, eh?”

“Truly,” Hari clapped his hand on the corporal’s shoulder. “I do believe the lieutenant was about to discuss terms.”

“Terms? With those buggers?” Courtney laughed. “They would have you on a stick.”

“Really?” Jamie held his breath as he stood. “On a stick? Tell me, corporal, where were you scouting?”

“All over the pass and back,” Courtney straightened. “We’re patrolling all the way from Peshawar to Cabool. That’s our area of operations. Nothing gets past us.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Courtney leaned forward and stabbed his finger into Jamie’s chest. “Unlike you navy swabs, the army doesn’t lose battles.”

“Gentlemen,” Hari bobbed between the two men.

“You might want to take your spider back down the pass, corporal. I think you might have missed something.”

“What are you blathering about, sailor?” Courtney took a step back as Hari squeezed between him and Jamie.

“Something you missed,” Jamie stared around Hari’s head. “One of your own. I buried him at the head of the pass.”

“What?”

“It is true, my friend. I found the lieutenant burying a most unfortunate soldier. We can show you where he is buried.”

“I can find him,” Courtney scowled and turned toward the arachnid walker.

“Before you go,” Hari took Courtney’s arm. “Perhaps you have seen the emissary?”

“No, no emissary,” Courtney glared at Jamie as he spoke, “but there are rumours of a strange rabble of men and metal coming up the river. You want to be careful, Hari. There’s a lot of activity in these hills just now. Most unnatural. Someone,” he nodded in Jamie’s direction, “could get hurt.”

“Thank you,” Hari shook Courtney’s hand. “We are grateful for your help.”

“You’ve helped us before, Hari. Just returning the favour.”

“Of course.”

Courtney walked away and climbed into the cockpit of the arachnid. He lowered the roll cage and levered the walker up to its full height. A hiss of steam filled the air as the corporal powered up the scout. Looking down at the men beneath him, Courtney called out. “I don’t know if it has anything to do with your emissary, but some robot thing walked into a Pakistani town and sat down in the middle of the market square.” The arachnid whined as Courtney powered up the Tesla tubes. “Seems it spouted a load of gibberish for a few hours and then exploded,” Courtney nodded. “The blast took out the whole market. Blood and bodies everywhere.”

“When was this,” Hari tugged at his beard.

“A week ago,” Courtney turned the arachnid and stretched the walker’s limbs. “Look after yourself, Hari.” Courtney waved as he manoeuvred the walker down the path and out of sight.

҉

Najma pulled the last saddlebag from the back of the packhorse before tethering it together with the others. Leaning the bag against the other packs, she opened the flap and pulled out a small bag of rice. The wind tugged at the long grasses of the plains before the town of Lalpura. Najma watched as the stems bent down to the ground only to bounce back as the wind gusted out of reach. The stars pricked at the black blanket above the mountains flanking the valley. Najma carried the sack of rice to the fire.

Lev Bryullov smoked a long pipe as the fire crackled. The soft glow from the pipe bowl lit the hairs upon the Russian’s cheeks, smoothing away the hard lines and travel creases. He closed the wooden box at his feet as Najma sat on her heels on the opposite side of the campfire. He locked the box with a key on the end of a chain. Bryullov slipped the chain over his neck and fished a small leather pouch from one of the many inside pockets hidden within his stolen British Burberry coat.

“Won’t you join me, Najma?” Bryullov gestured at the spare blanket with the stem of his pipe. “I won’t bite,” he smiled. “Not yet.”

Najma lifted her head and nodded. “What is that you have in your hand?” Bryullov looked at the pouch and then tossed it through the flames of the campfire. Najma caught it with a quick flick of her wrist. Opening the pouch she withdrew a smooth sphere of metal. Turning it in the firelight, she gave Bryullov a quizzical look.

“Open it,” Bryullov sucked at his pipe.

“It is a compass. No?” Najma opened the hinged lid.

“Not a compass,” Bryullov patted the blanket. “Come, bring it here. Sit with me.”

Najma picked up the bag of rice and walked around the fire. Lowering herself onto the thick horsehair blanket, Najma emptied the bag of rice into the pot of water. “It is not a compass?”

Bryullov held out his hand. “It is a pocket watch,” he held it by the lid as Najma passed it to him. “Do you know what it is for?”

“Like a compass?”

Bryullov laughed. “Not quite,” he handed the watch to Najma. “It tells the time.”

“Time?” Najma turned the watch in the light and studied the hands. She held it to her ear. Bryullov smiled as her eyes lit up.

“Time is everything,” Bryullov placed his pipe on the ground. “And nothing,” he shrugged.

“Everything and nothing,” Najma held the watch in her palm. “You are not making any sense.”

“Time is something few Russians have enough of, and something you and your people can never run out of.” Bryullov waved his hand at the black outline of the mountains beyond the campfire. “Unless we take it from you.” Picking up a stick, Bryullov dug at the coals glowing at the edges of the fire.

“You will take something from me?” Najma closed the lid of the pocket watch and placed it on the corner of the blanket.

“Keep it, princess,” Bryullov pointed at the watch. Sucking at his pipe, he studied Najma’s face in the firelight. The glow from the flames lit her soft cheeks and played across large pupils in her youthful brown eyes. “People from the sea will take everything from you, Najma. From you and your people.” Bryullov watched as Najma curled away from him. Drawing her knees to her chest she watched him, her eyes dancing with sparks from the fire beneath a frown on her forehead.
She doesn’t understand,
Bryullov thought.
They never understand.

Chapter 4

The Cabool River

Afghanistan

December, 1850

Sitting on his heels, Hari traced a finger in the snow around one of the emissary’s footprints. Hari stood and placed his own foot by the side of the track by the river and whistled. “Three or four times the size of my own foot, British. Truly, he is a very big bugger.” He scuffed the print with the toes of his boot and turned to Jamie. “We will have to do something before we can take up the hunt. I have not seen a caravan come through the pass for a few days. I do not want the emissary to meet one before we do.” Hari opened his cloak and reached inside the layers to his belt. “Now, about your leg.”

“You’re not coming near me with that meat cleaver,” Jamie raised his hands.

“It is your own fault, British. You should have let me do this last night,” Hari unfastened a pouch and pulled out a small scissors, needle and thread. He set them on the ground by the side of Jamie’s leg. “It is probably best if you tell me something while I work.”

“What are you going to do?” Jamie watched as Hari cut away a large square of his trousers to expose the wound. Hari reached for Jamie’s powder horn next.

“Tell me about Trafalgar.” Hari poured a measure of powder into the wound.

“What are you going to...” Jamie held his breath as Hari struck a match and lit the powder. “Damn you, Hari,” Jamie grabbed his thigh with both hands.

“No, British, it is clean now.”

“Clean?” tears streamed out of Jamie’s eyes. “You set fire to my leg.”

“And now I will sew it shut,” Hari licked the end of the thread and pushed it through the eye of the needle.

“What about the bullet?”

“Oh, there is no bullet, British.” Hari pushed his finger through a hole in the back of Jamie’s trousers. “It came out here.”

“Are you going to sew that too?”

“Uh hmm,” Hari pushed Jamie’s fingers away from the wound. “After I clean it.”

“Hari,” Jamie gasped as the mystic pushed the needle through the skin around the blackened hole in his thigh.

“Trafalgar, British.” Hari pressed his finger hard upon Jamie’s skin and tugged the thread through the hole. Jamie turned away as Hari closed the wound, his fingers pressing and pulling as the midshipman grimaced.

“It was fifty years ago,” Jamie gritted his teeth. “Admiral Egmont commanded
Magnificent
.”
My first ship,
Jamie pictured the frigate tied up at the docks in Portsmouth, splintered with tattered sails and charred decks after his first engagement, many years after Trafalgar, off the coast of Denmark. “Egmont was under the command of Nelson during the battle of Trafalgar. Everything was going as Nelson had planned, until that frog bastard Villeneuve unleashed his secret weapon.”

“A secret weapon?” Hari pulled Jamie’s skin closed and tied off the thread; he clipped the end with the scissors.

“Yes,” Jamie took a sharp intake of breath, ran his fingers over the wound. “Looks good,” he nodded at Hari.

“It is not the first time I have done this, British. Tell me about Villeneuve’s weapon before we close the exit wound.”

“It came from within the fleet. There was more than one.”

“More than one what?”

“Egmont says it was a squall, the strongest he had ever seen.”

“A squall? What is this, British?”

“Like a hurricane, Hari. A katabatic wind blowing suddenly down the length of a mountain valley.”

“Ah, yes,” Hari nodded with a grave look in his eyes. “Djinn.”

“Is that your word for it?” Jamie opened and closed the fingers of one hand. “Squalls should be natural, but this one, these squalls, the admiral says it was like they had hands, fingers gripping our sails and holding onto them tight.” He closed his fingers around Hari’s wrist. “We were winning, we had the French on the run and the Spanish were firing on their own ships inside the gunpowder clouds. That’s when the French conjured up their demon squalls.”