Mercedes Lackey - The Serpent's Shadow

Shivani followed the girl's progress throughout her day, paying careful attention to her surroundings and the people she came into contact with. The hospital? Hopeless; there were far too many English, and not even the lowliest scrubwoman was of any other color than white. Going to and from the hospital, the girl took public conveyances. The dacoits were skilled, but not at driving English cabs, and Shivani's kind were not welcome on English 'buses. She was not going to make even the ghost of an attempt in the presence of the Man.

But the street just outside the girl's own door—now that had promise...

Once more she called upon the mirror-slave. "I wish to see the girl's street— just the street, as it is now, and continue to show it to me as the day moves on."

It was not the most fascinating of studies. People came and went, greeting each other, and parting. No hope of blending in among these, for they all knew each other. Children looked up with recognition at their neighbors, or with suspicion at strangers, and if the latter appeared to pause for a moment, ran into their own doors to bring out a mother or an older sister. Sellers of various items called at houses—milk floats, men with blocks of ice, vendors of vegetables and fruit, men with the bits and scraps of meat sold for feeding cats. Women with baskets of bits and pieces; lace and ribbons, needleworking tools, trinkets, apples, strawberries, cherries or pears—

Shivani felt a surge of interest. The men with the pushcarts were all young and vigorous, like her dacoits, and also like her dacoits, they were not native English. Some were Jews like those in her neighborhood, some were Irish, there was even a single Chinaman. And the women with their baskets—

Even more interesting; these were not young, and they also were not all native English—but it was difficult to tell just what nationality they were. Old women, wrinkled of face, weatherbeaten, gray or white-haired, looked very much alike. Bundled in multiple skirts and petticoats as they were, bent with age, they were shapeless, unidentifiable. And their baskets could hold anything, anything at all. A plan began to form in her mind.

But first, she would need something from the hospital after all. Or—wait. Perhaps not the hospital.

Putting the mirror down, she summoned a dacoit with a sharp double clap of her hands. One arrived within moments, abased himself at the doorway, and crawled on hands and knees to her feet.

"You have been among the English as they disport themselves in the places of pleasure?" she asked, intending to have him summon another, if he had not. "I have, Holy One," he replied from the floor without looking up. "As you ordered, seeking there the items you required to make the trace for the Shadow to follow."

"Good." She leaned forward. "Then, have you seen the thorn of steel and glass that the English use to put drugs into their veins? Not opium, but the other, that makes them excited?"

"I have, Holy One." Now the dacoit raised his dark head, cautiously; she recognized him now. Not one of her chief men, but one of intense devotion and ambition. "Do you wish one of these instruments?"

"Yes, clever one!" she applauded, greatly pleased with him. "I do. Can you obtain one?"

The dacoit did not snort, but he made his contempt for their enemies plain with a twitch of his lips. "Nothing could be easier. When darkness falls, one will be in your hands, Holy One. Do you wish the drug also?" She shook her head. "No, the instrument only, my faithful and cunning one. Go, and bring me this thing, and you may take yourself out of my presence on your feet." He put his forehead briefly to the carpet. "I go," he said, then rose and backed out, making little bows with every other step.

Shivani watched him go with intense pleasure. This was a good omen, that what she needed would fall so quickly to her hand. There was no doubt; Kali Durga must favor this plan. All would be well—

All would be well for Shivani, at least. As for the girl-Well, she would serve her purpose at last.

Maya looked up in triumph, holding up the results of the last test that Peter had given her, a glowing sphere resting in the curl of her upturned palm. This had been very much in the way of a test—a little, steadily burning blue "witchlight," set inside a shield, which in turn was inside a bubble that would protect it physically from anything trying to interfere with it. The whole was tapped into the power Maya herself controlled, energy supplying bubble, shields, and the light itself. It had been a neat little problem, and Peter had hoped it would give her at least a moment's trouble.

It hadn't; she'd frowned over his description for a moment, then conjured the thing up with a deft touch he envied.

"Well, there isn't a great deal more that I can teach you," Peter said regretfully. "You've just proved that. I'm going to have to find you a real Earth Master to teach you now. You don't need me anymore."

And that will mean one excuse fewer to see you, he thought glumly. One less reason to come here of a night.

"I suppose that's true so far as it goes, but that doesn't mean I don't need you!" she retorted, her eyes going wide with surprise. "Peter, one never stops needing one's friends just because some minor connection with them ends, or turns to some other course! Why, outside of my household, I can count the real friends I have in this place on the fingers of one hand! Of course I still need you!"

He felt his spirits rising a little. "I should think you'd have gotten weary of seeing me so often," he replied, fixing his gaze on her face and searching her expression for some hint as to her feelings. "I should think you'd welcome a bit of a rest from my presence. Oh, don't think I won't leap to help you, if you ran into some difficulty! But I thought maybe you wanted some time to yourself, or to see other people."

She laughed, but he thought there was a strained quality to it, as if she was afraid of something.

Perhaps afraid that I am tired of her? Oh, I hope so!

"If anything, I would like to have you here more often," she said softly. "Truly. And it would be very pleasant to simply sit and talk with you, or go to a music hall or a concert, or just do the other things that ordinary people do, instead of always worrying about magic and power and all the rest of it. I sometimes wish that I was one of them, out there—" she waved in the direction of the world beyond the walls of the conservatory. "—and that I could go about my business in blissful ignorance. Life would be so very much easier."

"It would, but you and I would be able to do less good," he pointed out. "Would you wish your ability to heal your patients to be gone?"

"No. But then I run right up against my limitations," she sighed. "I see so many things that I wish I could cure, and I can do nothing about them."

"This magic is a tool, and nothing more, Maya," he said, putting his hand atop hers for a moment. "Like a stethoscope or a scalpel. You can't use a scalpel to listen to a heartbeat." He smiled into her eyes. "Some people can't use magic, and some can't use medical instruments either. Everything has its limitations. The real answer is to use what you have right to the edge of its limitations."

He thought that he detected a kind of flinch, and took his hand from hers. Too soon, too soon, and never mind that kiss — That was his thought, but as soon as he removed his hand, she seized it in both hers.

"I want you to keep coming here of an evening, Peter," she told him intently. "I do. I would miss you very, very much if you skipped so much as a single evening."

He almost said something then—almost asked her, Will you marry me?