L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

He didn’t have to be so literal, Shea thought.

“Strangers indeed!” Charya said in a deep, amused voice, “I have never seen stranger!”

“Stranger strangers?” Shea murmured but Chalmers kicked him in the shin, and he pinched his lips shut.

“They claim to be thieves from a foreign land,” Chankoor explained.

“Are you truly?” Charya the captain eyed them keenly, as though he could spot a lie by sight — and maybe he could, if he was good enough at reading posture and attitude. “A high-toper, or a lully-prigger?”

“Uh-h-h-h . . .” The terms caught Shea flat-footed. When in doubt, stall , he thought, and improvised. “Just another cove in the lorst, Captain.”

“Ah! A petty thief!” Charya nodded, satisfied. “How if I told you to mind old Oliver?”

He might have been speaking Hindi, but the spell that gave Shea the ability to understand it, was doing a great job of translating it into English idioms. “Why, I’d keep an eye on the moon, to make sure I was done stealing and gone before it rose — but your coves don’t seem to worry about that.”

“Why should we care?” Charya’s grin gleamed in the moonlight. “There’s not a soldier in the city is not afraid of us — any, even the rajah himself!”

At the moment, Shea thought, that just might have been true. “If you have the town sewed up that tight more power to you.” After all, that was just a statement of fact. “But look sharp, Captain, or the lamb-skin man will have the pull of us, and as sure as eggs are eggs, we shall be scragged as soon as lagged.”

“Then keep your red rag quiet,” grumbled the thief beside him.

“Why should I be the only one?” Shea shot back. Charya laughed. “Why indeed! All the Watch together would not dare accost us within the city — and outside of it, even less! Still, though, my lads are anxious to wet their whistles, so let us be off to the flash ken where the morts are waiting. Come, join us!”

He turned away, beckoning, and what could Shea do but follow?

Chalmers paced beside him, muttering, “What manner of foreign language was that?”

“Thieves’ jargon,” Shea explained.

“And where did you learn it?”

“I’ve been doing some volunteer counselling: Shea explained, “unpaid — down at the county jail.”

“Surely those terms were not American!”

“No, one of the thieves was English,” Shea explained. “Besides, some of the language came over with the colonists and hasn’t changed since. For example, If a pickpocket says a man carries his wallet on his left prat, that means his left hip pocket.”

“Hence the term ‘pratfall’,” Chalmers said thoughtfully. “Yes, I see.”

Someone jostled Shea from the other side. Turning to protest, he found himself staring at an overly flattened nose with a horizontal groove across the tip. He shifted his focus up to the glaring eyes of the incognito rajah. “Do not whisper a word of our earlier meeting,” he hissed, “or I shall see you scragged indeed.”

Shea swallowed heavily, imagining the feel of a hempen noose lightening around his neck. “Don’t worry, Your Ma . . .” In the nick of time, he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to know Randhir’s real identity. “. . . your magic secret is safe with us. After all, if you wanted to drop us, all you’d have to do is tell them about our meeting yourself.”

“You know I cannot do that without compromising myself!”

“Yes,” Shea said, “exactly.” He stared into the rajah’s eyes until comprehension registered, and the royal lips parted in a grin. “Ah, a point well taken? We have both used the same ruse to keep our heads on our necks, have we not? Nonetheless, be sure you say nothing of me, or I shall bring down their wrath upon you!”

“It’s a deal,” Shea promised “You don’t betray us and we won’t betray you.”

“Well enough.” The rajah nodded, satisfied. “See that you keep to it.” He drifted away from them.

“What was that all about?” Chalmers asked.

“Just a little mutual-silence pact,” Shea told him. “Details later.”

Chalmers took the hint, remembering the number of ears available to hear them, and changed the subject. He pointed to a large rodent that scuffled out of sight into a hole in the ground as they approached “Reassuring sight, somehow.”

Shea took his point — it was nice, sometimes to remember who the real rats were — but Charya saw too, and exclaimed with satisfaction. “Ah! You recognize the rat-hole as a good omen! You must indeed be thieves!” He clapped Shea on the back, sending him staggering and strode along, singing a merry tune.

As they went, Shea sneaked the occasional glance at the incognito rajah. The man was constantly glancing about him with an intentness that puzzled Shea. Was he memorizing faces for prosecution? Since that included Shea’s and Chalmers’ faces, the thought gave Shea a cold chill. He tried to ignore the rajah, and hoped he would return the courtesy.

The moon was setting, and Chalmers was beginning to stumble with fatigue, when Charya finally raised a hand to halt his gang. Shea stopped thankfully, leaning against Chalmers, who leaned against him — it had been a long day, starting in 10th Century Russia and finishing past midnight in India, No wonder he was tired, Shea reflected — that was a heck of a long hike. He looked up at the cliff that towered above them, then down at the rain forest at its foot, and shuddered. What else was he going to have to go through before he could rest?

High grass, for one thing; it was up to his knees in this meadow, and they had to hike across to reach the trees on the far side, which was apparently what the robber captain was planning on doing. Through the high grass they went, and Shea was just glad it wasn’t late enough for the dew to have fallen — the grass seemed to drag at him badly enough as it was. He was really tired!

Charya put two fingers in his mouth, for all the world like an American schoolboy, and blew a whistle that Shea could have sworn must have blasted the feathers off every sleeping bird in the forest — but the only one that answered was an owl, who was very unlikely to have been sleeping. Charya shrieked back at it; Shea and Chalmers both jumped, but a voice near them murmured, “Be not afrighted; he imitates the jackal’s cry — and very well, too.”

Shea looked up, startled, and saw that Rajah Randhir had come up just behind them. He wasn’t looking at them, though, but at Charya, and very keenly, too.

Half a dozen silhouettes rose from the long grass about them.

Shea couldn’t help a start of apprehension, and for a minute, he thought he was seeing ghosts — anything could happen in a magical universe, after all — but he recovered from his surprise, and realized they were just men, though big ones, and armed to the teeth — literally; one of them was biting his spare knife, his hands being full with sword and shield. But he took the knife out without letting go of the shield — nice trick, that — and demanded, “What do we offer when Kali demands tribute?”

“A melon,” Charya replied.

Chalmers stared, but behind them, Rajah Randhir hissed, “Ah! The password!”

It must have been, for the guard challenged again, “Then where is your melon?”

Charya tapped the side of his head.

The guard bowed. “Proceed, my captain.” He stepped back, and the guards sank down into the grass again as smoothly as though they were sinking into the earth itself.

“They are cautious indeed,” Randhir breathed.

“Yes, if they’re going to check the password even with the captain himself,” Shea agreed.

“They aren’t really Thuggee. are they?” Chalmers asked nervously.