THE DEMON'S LEGACY
Chapter 1
"It doesn't matter how many times you look at yourself in the mirror," Barsad said with a teasing grin, "you're still ugly, Bane. Surgery or no surgery."
Bane's dark gaze narrowed and shifted to Barsad for only a moment. "Always the droll one, brother, even after a long mission. We'll see how your humor and stamina hold up once your child is born."
Barsad chuckled and peered through the dusty windshield of the Land Rover while doing his best to avoid as many holes in the desert road as possible. Bumpy roads always irritated Bane's damaged back and made him impatient to reach their destination. He was already impatient enough to get home; Barsad didn't want to increase his commander's agitation by blowing a tire on this God forsaken goat path.
"Perhaps," Bane said, "I'm looking forward to the birth of your child more than you are. Henri will have something new to distract him, and in time he will have a playmate. That will be a relief to his poor mother."
"Your kid does enjoy running the pants off Talia. I'm sure she'll be glad to see you. She'll be able to get some rest now. We've been gone a month. That's the longest you've been away from them since Henri was born."
Bane studied his scarred face in the mirror a moment longer before flipping up the sun visor. He would never get used to seeing himself without the mask which had helped him breathe and had administered an inhalable analgesic cocktail for over twenty years. The surgeon had said that the scars from the series of plastic surgeries nearly two years ago would continue to fade. Before his physical relationship with Talia had blossomed and led to the birth of their son, he had had no cares about his appearance. Before the mask was necessary, his mother and Talia's mother, Melisande—the only two women he had known while growing up in prison—had told him how handsome he was, but he had dismissed their compliments as a mother's pride and a friend's kindness. After his surgeries, Talia had showered similar flattery upon him, but hers, too, he discounted as mere charity. Perhaps after the scars had faded, his own appearance would be somewhat worthy of her flawless beauty.
His decision to undergo the many procedures, however, had nothing to do with vanity. Decades of drug use to dull the pain from his prison injuries had damaged his body, and to continue down that same path had been deemed unwise and dangerous. Talia had been the one to convince him of the need to discard the mask. In the past, Bane had cared little about the deterioration of his body; he had no desire for a long life. But Talia's declaration of love and Henri's birth had changed his mind. Now he had much more to live for than just fulfilling his role as the Demon's Head of the League of Shadows.
Ridding himself of the heinous mask had other benefits, too. There were few visages in the world as well-known as that of the Masked Man, Gotham's Reckoning, Bane the mercenary. True, he had acquired immunity for himself and Talia for their siege of Gotham, a bargain struck in return for the League taking down the world's most wanted Islamic terrorist three years ago. But there were other operations by the League before and since Gotham that many governments considered crimes and for which Bane was hunted. Being free of the mask helped conceal him, an ironic twist of fate. Besides his brothers in the League and a trusted handful of others considered surrogate family, like Talia's grandmother, his surgeries were known to no one outside his circle except the plastic surgeon. His silence had been purchased and ensured by threats to the lives of his family and himself.
As an infant, Henri had no aversion to the mask, but as he grew, Bane feared his son might view him as fearsome if he continued to wear it. Bane had been happy to have his enemies recoil at the sight of him; he did not, however, desire that reaction from Henri. He wanted to be able to hold his son close, to kiss him, to speak to him without the wheeze of the mask or its muffled quality.
Bane glanced at Barsad's tired, tanned face with its heavy stubble. "How many days, brother?"
With a displeased glance that caused Bane to chuckle, Barsad grumbled, "You know how many."
"True."
"But you like tormenting me by asking, don't you?"
"Of course. I'm enjoying your anxiety." Bane grinned at his lieutenant. "I remember how you enjoyed tormenting me in the same way when the birth of my child drew near. You never thought I could be a good father. Have I not proven you wrong?"
"Maybe. At least when you're home at the palace. But you're away too much, at least according to Talia, Henri, and Maysam. Even Sanjana is saying it now."
"That is because Sanjana is about to have her first child, and she now fully understands Talia's concerns when I am in the field. Sanjana will fret over your missions more than ever now. She has already approached me about limiting your duties, if not convincing you altogether to leave the League."
Barsad scowled, but Bane could tell his friend was not angry with Sanjana. "I told her not to talk to you about that. It's between her and I."
"But she hasn't convinced you; that is certain."
"Of course not. I love my work. What the hell would I do otherwise?"
"Be a father." Bane cocked one arched eyebrow at Barsad. "And a husband."
"I'm not leaving the League just so I can get married, Bane. And I don't see you doing that, so don't lecture me."
"Talia would never ask. Sanjana, on the other hand—"
"Uh-uh. Nothing doing. She and I have talked about this ad nauseam, as you know."
"Your situation with Sanjana and my situation with Talia are completely different. With Sanjana, she has her culture applying pressure. A pregnant, unwed woman. I certainly don't have to educate you on how the Hindu religion frowns upon such behavior, to say the least. She wants to be able to show her child to her family." Bane allowed a small grin. "Though I cautioned her against it if the babe looks like its father. Wouldn't want to horrify her poor mother."
"Touché, brother." Barsad swerved around a broad crater in the road. "But, remember, her mother wouldn't want Sanjana to marry someone outside their religion and culture."
"Well, she doesn't want her daughter pregnant out of wedlock, but here you are. At least if you married her, you could tell your mother-in-law that Sanjana got pregnant after you were married months ago."
"I'm not leaving the League, Bane."
"For selfish reasons, I am glad, of course. But I hope your stubbornness does not alienate the mother of your child. She will be stressed enough as it is, once the baby is born."
"Sanjana knew what she was getting into when this all started."
"True enough, but there was no baby in the picture two years ago, brother."
Barsad gave a small huff of annoyance and reached into a pocket for a piece of Nicorette gum. "I've given up smoking for them. I'd say that's enough sacrifice for now."
"I, for one, am pleased about your abstinence from that vile habit. You would never refrain for my sake, so if for nothing else, I can thank Sanjana for those inroads."
"They're making us soft, Bane."
Bane chuckled. "And we would have it no other way. We can't help that we love them, and they love us. They've taken two battle-hardened animals and molded us into human beings. We never would have thought it possible back on that mountain in Kashmir."
Barsad chewed vigorously on the gum, remembering how Bane had saved his life during the Kargil War. "You won't get any argument from me on that." The SUV violently lurched when it hit another large hole, causing Bane to steady himself.
"Now," Bane grumbled, "if only Sanjana can improve your driving…"
###
The woman sat in a rickety wooden fold-up chair with no padding, one elbow resting on her knee, tapered chin in her hand. Bored, she scanned the dusty bazaar with her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Villagers moved leisurely along the variety of stalls, doing more gossiping and haggling than buying. No one had stopped by her stall in some time. Apparently, no child needed a cornhusk doll, no adult needed new pottery or a beautifully hand-embroidered scarf. As advertisement, she wore one of those scarves, painstakingly crafted by her mother, a shimmery thing of saffron with gold trim and embroidered flowers of blue. She had draped it almost carelessly over her brunette hair, which she had pinned up this morning, to keep it off her neck in the day's rising summer heat.
This was her second day selling her mother's wares. On the first day, a couple of the villagers had recognized her from the rare occasions when she had visited her mother over the years. An old man even remembered her from her days as a child, dutifully manning the booth with her mother. But the villagers had not lingered long to talk, just to ask about her mother's convalescence. None of these people interested her. She felt no kinship or yearning for this village where she had been born thirty-four years ago. If not for her mother, she would never return. But her mother needed her now; she had no other family to care for her during her illness or tend to her booth. Over the years, she had sent her mother money every month, but her parent insisted on creating her dolls, pottery, and scarves to sell to the villagers.
"I'm not going to live off my daughter," she always said, her tone mirroring her child's own stubbornness. "What would you have me do? Sit in my house, decaying? I enjoy making my things and selling them."
"You should find a man, Maji."
Her mother bristled. "Why do I need a man? They are nothing but trouble. Didn't your father teach you that?"
"Aren't you lonely?"
"I wouldn't be if my daughter visited more often."
Sometimes she wondered if her mother had never remarried because she was still in love with the man who had fathered her, even though he had been dead nearly ten years now. How well she recalled that day when she had seen his picture on television and learned of his death, a picture that had made her gasp. That icy blue stare had reached deep inside her and stirred a memory. She had seen that face before, but how and where? It came to her a short while later—that was the same man in the picture Maji had hanging above her bed at home. Though he was many years older, age couldn't hide the identity of the man whose picture she had stared at countless times while growing up. Her mother had no television back then, so she had called her to share the news story. Immediately her mother had gone to the house of a neighbor who had a TV. A short while later, her mother called back, and they spent hours talking about the unknown life her father had led after leaving their village.
A child's high-pitched voice caught her attention and drew her back to the bazaar. A boy, perhaps two years old, stood chattering cheerily at the next booth while holding the hand of an older woman. His startlingly blue eyes—large and expressive—were bright with the happiness of innocence, roaming all about him as if he was interested in everything the world had to offer. He sucked absently on the fingers of his left hand, his lips full and soft, glistening with spittle. Hair the color of walnuts, wispy and wild, shifted in the small breeze like reeds upon a river. His gaze met that of the young woman, and he gave her a beguiling smile, removing his fingers from his mouth as if caught being disobedient.
"Jiddah!" he chirped, tugging on his guardian's hand. "I want to see the dolls."
At this, his guardian—dressed in black hijab and abaya, with only her face and hands exposed—turned her head, and the young woman saw her fully now, recognized her. But who was this child with her, and why had he called her grandmother?
"Be patient, ya habib alby."
"Please," he drew out the word, giving the older woman an irresistible look of supplication.
"Very well," she continued in Arabic. "You may look, but don't touch. And stand right there where I can see you."
The young woman noticed the boy's guardian wasn't the only one keeping an eye on him. There were two bodyguards near at hand—silent, watchful, expressionless men with automatic rifles—and there would be a third who couldn't be seen. Their presence didn't surprise the young woman, for she knew the widow of Siddig El Fadil never went anywhere without bodyguards. Though her warlord husband had been dead for many years, her brothers-in-law had inherited the family business, so she still needed protection. And apparently so did the little boy.
With a small gasp of triumph, the child hopped over to the dolls displayed at the young woman's booth. He stared at them without reaching for them, rolling his lower lip inward as if this would help him maintain control. He clasped his hands before him in a form of restraint, fingers twitching restlessly.
"Salaam," the young woman said, leaning slightly forward over her mother's wares, offering a gentle smile so her presence would not overwhelm him.
"Salaam," he said almost shyly, taking his eyes from the dolls only a moment to acknowledge her. "Jiddah say don't touch."
"I could let you hold one, but we'd better wait for her to come over, yes?"
He frowned and nodded.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Henri. But Papa Baba calls me Jin." He grinned proudly.
The name surprised her for multiple reasons. It wasn't an Arabic name, and Maysam El Fadil was an Arab. Also, the boy used the French pronunciation of Henri. But most startling of all in its coincidence was that Henri was her own father's name.
"Where Miss Panjabi?" he asked.
"My mother is sick. I'm taking her place for now."
His lips pursed, his brow wrinkled. "Sick?"
"Yes, but she's getting better."
This seemed to cheer him, freeing his expression, and the young woman liked him for caring about her mother.
"What your name?" he asked, fully looking at her now.
"Habibi," Maysam's voice broke into their conversation as she stepped to his side. The young woman estimated Maysam's age somewhere in her seventies by now. Yet even the harsh desert environment or her advancing age had failed to degrade the woman's stately beauty.
"I not touch nothing, Jiddah." He turned his innocent smile up at her.
"Anything," Maysam stressed the correct word in her somewhat throaty, sultry voice.
"Anything," Henri repeated. "I have doll now?"
"You have enough toys, habibi."
The younger woman stood and handed him one of the dolls. "I promised him he could hold one when you came over." Her Arabic was flawless, as were the several other languages she knew.
Maysam eyed her. "Where is Miss Panjabi?"
"She is ill. I'm her daughter."
Maysam studied her with something close to suspicion. Was she remembering the little girl who used to sit here with her mother all those years ago? "Please give her my well wishes for her swift recovery. I hope it is nothing serious."
"Thank you. I'll tell her." The younger woman smiled at Henri, who was examining the doll. He seemed more interested in how the toy was constructed than in its potential as a plaything. Again, she wondered what the boy was to Maysam, but for the safety of her own mother, she would not inquire. "Are you sure you don't want to purchase that for him? I'm sure we could agree upon a fair price for my mother's skilled work."
"We have bought them before, haven't we, habibi?" Maysam lovingly stroked the boy's hair back into place. "And every one of them he takes apart and strews the husks everywhere, then later tries to put it back together again, don't you, ya habib alby?"
"I make better," Henri proclaimed.
The younger woman laughed, but Maysam chided him, "Don't insult Miss Panjabi. She makes lovely dolls. They are fine just the way they are. Now apologize to her daughter."
Henri's expression fell, and he looked dolefully up at the younger woman from beneath his long eyelashes. That kid is going to break a lot of girls' hearts when he grows up, she thought.
"I sorry."
"It's all right," she said with a reassuring nod.
"I think," Maysam said, reaching into her purse, "we will purchase the doll after all."
The younger woman knew she was doing this as a form of apology. Maysam El Fadil—a paradox of lethal and honorable, more honor than her husband had had. She wondered what Maysam would say if she knew who she was really talking to. Would there be sympathy or indifference?
They agreed upon a fair price for the doll, and Henri beamed in triumph as he hugged the toy close, making the dry cornhusks crunch. His blue eyes danced, and again the young woman wondered who the boy really was to Maysam. Her only child had supposedly died many years ago, and her only grandchild had died almost three years ago. Well, she would certainly have questions for her mother when she returned home tonight. Perhaps village gossip could fill in the blanks.
She considered trying to sell a scarf or two to Maysam, as her mother would want, but she lacked her parent's drive as a saleswoman.
As Maysam took Henri's hand again, she said, "Please remember to give my best to your mother."
"I will."
Maysam started to move to the next stall but hesitated before giving the younger woman one last look, a look that seemed to have an ambiguous warning behind it. "I remember seeing you here when you were a child, but I'm afraid I cannot recall your name."
Of course, Maysam would assume the younger woman would remember her name; everyone in the village knew who lived behind the walls of the neighboring palace. By omitting this part of the pleasantry yet asking for the younger woman's name, she had subtly made it plain where each of them stood in the local hierarchy.
The younger woman gave her a knowing smile, one that she was confident Maysam would understand as a reminder that she didn't live here in the shadow of the palace and thus lacked the same fears as her mother and the other villagers.
Then, her smile broadening, she answered, "My name is Nyssa."