The Legend: Book Two: Chapter Twenty-Two: "Six Months Duty"
Outside the bells in the tower of the great Anglican Church chimed twelve, welcoming the New Year, welcoming 1785. Life in India had become something rather too routine for Tavington's tastes. What had originally seemed to be a simply commission, had proved uneventfully dull, it seemed as though nature would prove the more efficient assassin. Tavington peered out of the window of his small office in government house and watched as several carriages rattled by. The society elites in British India were on their way to New Year's parties. No doubt that Lord Cornwallis was among them.
Tavington had never liked parties.
The Grand High Green Dragoon dipped his quill in its inkwell and scratched a few more figures onto the ink stained paper. This was the sort of work that Lord Cornwallis had damned him to, that and several pointless battles with natives who posed no real threat and stood no chance of winning. He sighed. India was the equivalent of hell. Here, there was no need of battles to thin the ranks of men. Tavington had witnessed the deaths of nearly half of his dragoons. The causes were varied, but those variations were only the variations of the horrid native diseases. He had always regarded it as the least fair-playing of enemies. Faced with malaria or typhoid, what did skill matter?
Cornwallis played his favorites beautifully. While the Green Dragoons stewed in the filthy streets of Calcutta, the Golden Dragoons were sent out to clear new territory of natives, to man the forts on the borders, and they were invited to the fashionable parties en masse.
"And he seems to have forgotten about his obligation to kill me," Tavington mused, thinking for the first time in weeks about Victor in some other context than why the young duke wasn't dead yet.
There was a quiet knock at the door to Tavington's office. The dragoon's hand went to the hilt of his saber.
"Come in."
The door creaked open. The blue jacket with its silver facings was all too familiar. The Frenchman was unchanged aside from the bit of color that the Indian sun had loaned to his skin.
"Good evening, M. Talleyrand," Tavington said flatly, eyes turning back to the paper work.
Talleyrand took a seat in one of the chairs facing Tavington's desk and smoothed the wrinkles in his overly ornamented jacket.
"What do you want, Frenchman?"
"I want Carrenworth's head," Talleyrand replied, calm and collected as ever. He took the liberty of pouring himself a brandy from the bottle on the desk. "You said six months, Col. Tavington. That six months has passed. Where is the head?"
"You French are impatient," Tavington spat. "I'm not suicidal, Talleyrand. Carrenworth is surrounded by no less than five Golden Dragoons day and night. Not that I would have any difficulty killing them all, it's only that they are witnesses. What good is money and titles if you're going to be hung for murder?"
Talleyrand's eyebrows contracted in frustration. "The King of France is prepared to offer you a full pardon!"
"And that would mean living in France. Despite the fact that I have agreed to help you, Talleyrand, I detest your people and your bloody country. Besides, you haven't much longer to wait. Lord Carrenworth is mortally ill; he'll be dead before the month is out. I was hoping he wouldn't live to see the New Year."
Talleyrand gripped the hilt of his own sword firmly, aware that the effects of his next statement could be explosive.
"By the end of this month, either Carrenworth is dead, or you will be."
Tavington smiled slyly. "Are you threatening me, Frenchman?"
"I have no choice."
"You truly are odd for a priest," Tavington mused.
"Former priest," Talleyrand corrected. "Now, there is pressing business in France. I can stay until the end of the month at the longest. I want him dead by then!"
"You have my word," Tavington replied.
Talleyrand stood, and turning on his heel exited the room with the same exactitude with which he had entered. Tavington took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Who did this idiot Frenchman think he was toying with? Still, the Green Dragoon knew he had nothing to fear. He had watched with murderous fascination as Lord Carrenworth had slowly wasted away. During his first few months in India, the red-haired youth had ridden out with the rest of his Golden Dragoons to teach a bloody lesson to rebellious natives. He had attended all of the fashionable parties. Slowly, however, that had all changed.
It wouldn't be long now, Tavington knew. He had bribed the doctor that was part of the Government House staff to keep him informed of his target's state of health. If, however, things were to prove difficult, Tavington had learned a thing or two about lending death a hand in his work. There was always opium.
"Hard at work as always?"
Tavington looked up. The entrance of his newest visitor had been unannounced, the trademark of Mooreville.
"Blame Cornwallis," Tavington snapped.
"You ought to attend one of the parties," Mooreville suggested. "It is six months since we arrived here and you have lived as though you were a veritable monk. You don't sleep, you haven't touched alcohol, and you've spoken no one. I only see you when I pass by this cave of an office. You're always at this desk. Hard at work copying the sacred texts, Brother William? Or is there something that troubles you?"
"Cornwallis troubles me," Tavington answered. "The deaths of my dragoons trouble me. I ask you, Mooreville, what is there that doesn't?"
"You have never been affected by such things," Mooreville said. He had known Tavington altogether too long. "Regardless, I came here to give you your latest orders."
"Orders?" Tavington scoffed.
"Yes, the Council of Elder Dragoons is to meet again, here in Calcutta, a week from now. Your presence is requested."
Tavington sucked in a deep breath. Despite being one of the Grand High Dragoons, Tavington had never before been asked to show himself at one of the meetings of the council. In truth, he knew very little of the organization, only what Mooreville had told him, and he wasn't sure how fully he trusted Mooreville anymore. The Council was the governing body of all the orders of dragoons; they were above the limitations of nationality. There were the men who held to the true purpose, the preservation of the order.
"What does the council want with me?" Tavington demanded to know.
Mooreville shifted his weight to his flesh and bone leg. "I am not at liberty to say."
"Not at liberty to say!" the Green Dragoon snarled. "You are the Green Dragoon representative on the Council! You can't send me to meet with them without this slightest idea of why!"
"Before I am a Green Dragoon," Mooreville explained, "I sit on the council. My loyalty is first to the preservation of order, then to you."
Having been the victim of it on several occasions, Tavington had developed a seething hatred for ignorance. He stared at Mooreville. Not one to pay much attention to appearances, he was suddenly struck by how very old Mooreville seemed. The skin seemed to have half melted from his bones; the once bright eyes were milky with age and years of worry. Mooreville looked old, very old, very tired.
"The loss of the order of the Golden Dragoons," Tavington inferred.
"I had not imagined I would live to see it," Mooreville said in his craggy voice. "The day one of the sacred orders would die, the rumors of the Bourbon monarchy being overthrown, the disloyalty of the Bordon family." The old man leaned against the doorway for emotional, as much as physical support. "Aye, it's like the very world is falling apart beneath us."
Mooreville had a tendency to grow rather philosophical, a habit that increased in severity as the years past.
"Perhaps I am growing a bit old for this," the doctor said wistfully. "Too many regrets."
"You? Regrets?" Tavington inquired.
Mooreville said nothing, he simply pulled a small booklet from his pocket and handed it to Tavington. It was a script for a theatrical production entitled: "The Lady Takes Charge."
"Read it," the old man commanded, "at your earliest convenience. I think you'll find it rather interesting."
He paused.
"An order to come before the Council of Elder Dragoons is not to be taken lightly. Do you understand me, Tavington?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then I will let you return to your work, and whatever it is that troubles you."
Mooreville took his leave of Tavington. The former physician had taken up residence in his parent's old home in Calcutta. It was a rather lengthy walk from Government House, but the British sections of the city were brightly lit and several of the more exciting New Year's parties had tumbled out into the streets. Therefore, Mooreville chose to walk instead of hiring a carriage. His pace was quick, despite his wooden leg. After several decades, it had become no different than the leg it replaced.
As he walked, Mooreville's gaze swept over the throngs of party-goes. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. He doubted he could spot a French conspirator without any prior idea of the man's appearance. Being the Council's spy, Mooreville was aware that a great deal of information was withheld from him; however, he was certain that their desire to meet with Tavington had something to do with the rumors that buzzed about the room concerning a "meddling Frenchman."
Among the crowd, he noticed nearly every kind of person imaginable. There were natives, Britons, and varying mixtures of the two. There were ladies in new silk gowns and women of poor reputation in finery that was far too fine. He spotted beggars and thieves lurking in allies, none of whom dared to try his luck with an armed man in uniform, regardless of age.
It was not until he found himself standing before the great Anglican Church that marked the beginning of White Town that Mooreville say anything of interest. Tied to the massive iron gates surrounding the church was a monstrous black horse. It was the largest Mooreville had ever seen, and it stared at any passersby as though it was waiting for an appropriate person to trample beneath is great iron clad hooves. Mooreville was well aware of who owned that particular mount.
"Carrenworth," he mumbled to himself.
Outside the bells in the tower of the great Anglican Church chimed twelve, welcoming the New Year, welcoming 1785. Life in India had become something rather too routine for Tavington's tastes. What had originally seemed to be a simply commission, had proved uneventfully dull, it seemed as though nature would prove the more efficient assassin. Tavington peered out of the window of his small office in government house and watched as several carriages rattled by. The society elites in British India were on their way to New Year's parties. No doubt that Lord Cornwallis was among them.
Tavington had never liked parties.
The Grand High Green Dragoon dipped his quill in its inkwell and scratched a few more figures onto the ink stained paper. This was the sort of work that Lord Cornwallis had damned him to, that and several pointless battles with natives who posed no real threat and stood no chance of winning. He sighed. India was the equivalent of hell. Here, there was no need of battles to thin the ranks of men. Tavington had witnessed the deaths of nearly half of his dragoons. The causes were varied, but those variations were only the variations of the horrid native diseases. He had always regarded it as the least fair-playing of enemies. Faced with malaria or typhoid, what did skill matter?
Cornwallis played his favorites beautifully. While the Green Dragoons stewed in the filthy streets of Calcutta, the Golden Dragoons were sent out to clear new territory of natives, to man the forts on the borders, and they were invited to the fashionable parties en masse.
"And he seems to have forgotten about his obligation to kill me," Tavington mused, thinking for the first time in weeks about Victor in some other context than why the young duke wasn't dead yet.
There was a quiet knock at the door to Tavington's office. The dragoon's hand went to the hilt of his saber.
"Come in."
The door creaked open. The blue jacket with its silver facings was all too familiar. The Frenchman was unchanged aside from the bit of color that the Indian sun had loaned to his skin.
"Good evening, M. Talleyrand," Tavington said flatly, eyes turning back to the paper work.
Talleyrand took a seat in one of the chairs facing Tavington's desk and smoothed the wrinkles in his overly ornamented jacket.
"What do you want, Frenchman?"
"I want Carrenworth's head," Talleyrand replied, calm and collected as ever. He took the liberty of pouring himself a brandy from the bottle on the desk. "You said six months, Col. Tavington. That six months has passed. Where is the head?"
"You French are impatient," Tavington spat. "I'm not suicidal, Talleyrand. Carrenworth is surrounded by no less than five Golden Dragoons day and night. Not that I would have any difficulty killing them all, it's only that they are witnesses. What good is money and titles if you're going to be hung for murder?"
Talleyrand's eyebrows contracted in frustration. "The King of France is prepared to offer you a full pardon!"
"And that would mean living in France. Despite the fact that I have agreed to help you, Talleyrand, I detest your people and your bloody country. Besides, you haven't much longer to wait. Lord Carrenworth is mortally ill; he'll be dead before the month is out. I was hoping he wouldn't live to see the New Year."
Talleyrand gripped the hilt of his own sword firmly, aware that the effects of his next statement could be explosive.
"By the end of this month, either Carrenworth is dead, or you will be."
Tavington smiled slyly. "Are you threatening me, Frenchman?"
"I have no choice."
"You truly are odd for a priest," Tavington mused.
"Former priest," Talleyrand corrected. "Now, there is pressing business in France. I can stay until the end of the month at the longest. I want him dead by then!"
"You have my word," Tavington replied.
Talleyrand stood, and turning on his heel exited the room with the same exactitude with which he had entered. Tavington took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Who did this idiot Frenchman think he was toying with? Still, the Green Dragoon knew he had nothing to fear. He had watched with murderous fascination as Lord Carrenworth had slowly wasted away. During his first few months in India, the red-haired youth had ridden out with the rest of his Golden Dragoons to teach a bloody lesson to rebellious natives. He had attended all of the fashionable parties. Slowly, however, that had all changed.
It wouldn't be long now, Tavington knew. He had bribed the doctor that was part of the Government House staff to keep him informed of his target's state of health. If, however, things were to prove difficult, Tavington had learned a thing or two about lending death a hand in his work. There was always opium.
"Hard at work as always?"
Tavington looked up. The entrance of his newest visitor had been unannounced, the trademark of Mooreville.
"Blame Cornwallis," Tavington snapped.
"You ought to attend one of the parties," Mooreville suggested. "It is six months since we arrived here and you have lived as though you were a veritable monk. You don't sleep, you haven't touched alcohol, and you've spoken no one. I only see you when I pass by this cave of an office. You're always at this desk. Hard at work copying the sacred texts, Brother William? Or is there something that troubles you?"
"Cornwallis troubles me," Tavington answered. "The deaths of my dragoons trouble me. I ask you, Mooreville, what is there that doesn't?"
"You have never been affected by such things," Mooreville said. He had known Tavington altogether too long. "Regardless, I came here to give you your latest orders."
"Orders?" Tavington scoffed.
"Yes, the Council of Elder Dragoons is to meet again, here in Calcutta, a week from now. Your presence is requested."
Tavington sucked in a deep breath. Despite being one of the Grand High Dragoons, Tavington had never before been asked to show himself at one of the meetings of the council. In truth, he knew very little of the organization, only what Mooreville had told him, and he wasn't sure how fully he trusted Mooreville anymore. The Council was the governing body of all the orders of dragoons; they were above the limitations of nationality. There were the men who held to the true purpose, the preservation of the order.
"What does the council want with me?" Tavington demanded to know.
Mooreville shifted his weight to his flesh and bone leg. "I am not at liberty to say."
"Not at liberty to say!" the Green Dragoon snarled. "You are the Green Dragoon representative on the Council! You can't send me to meet with them without this slightest idea of why!"
"Before I am a Green Dragoon," Mooreville explained, "I sit on the council. My loyalty is first to the preservation of order, then to you."
Having been the victim of it on several occasions, Tavington had developed a seething hatred for ignorance. He stared at Mooreville. Not one to pay much attention to appearances, he was suddenly struck by how very old Mooreville seemed. The skin seemed to have half melted from his bones; the once bright eyes were milky with age and years of worry. Mooreville looked old, very old, very tired.
"The loss of the order of the Golden Dragoons," Tavington inferred.
"I had not imagined I would live to see it," Mooreville said in his craggy voice. "The day one of the sacred orders would die, the rumors of the Bourbon monarchy being overthrown, the disloyalty of the Bordon family." The old man leaned against the doorway for emotional, as much as physical support. "Aye, it's like the very world is falling apart beneath us."
Mooreville had a tendency to grow rather philosophical, a habit that increased in severity as the years past.
"Perhaps I am growing a bit old for this," the doctor said wistfully. "Too many regrets."
"You? Regrets?" Tavington inquired.
Mooreville said nothing, he simply pulled a small booklet from his pocket and handed it to Tavington. It was a script for a theatrical production entitled: "The Lady Takes Charge."
"Read it," the old man commanded, "at your earliest convenience. I think you'll find it rather interesting."
He paused.
"An order to come before the Council of Elder Dragoons is not to be taken lightly. Do you understand me, Tavington?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then I will let you return to your work, and whatever it is that troubles you."
Mooreville took his leave of Tavington. The former physician had taken up residence in his parent's old home in Calcutta. It was a rather lengthy walk from Government House, but the British sections of the city were brightly lit and several of the more exciting New Year's parties had tumbled out into the streets. Therefore, Mooreville chose to walk instead of hiring a carriage. His pace was quick, despite his wooden leg. After several decades, it had become no different than the leg it replaced.
As he walked, Mooreville's gaze swept over the throngs of party-goes. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. He doubted he could spot a French conspirator without any prior idea of the man's appearance. Being the Council's spy, Mooreville was aware that a great deal of information was withheld from him; however, he was certain that their desire to meet with Tavington had something to do with the rumors that buzzed about the room concerning a "meddling Frenchman."
Among the crowd, he noticed nearly every kind of person imaginable. There were natives, Britons, and varying mixtures of the two. There were ladies in new silk gowns and women of poor reputation in finery that was far too fine. He spotted beggars and thieves lurking in allies, none of whom dared to try his luck with an armed man in uniform, regardless of age.
It was not until he found himself standing before the great Anglican Church that marked the beginning of White Town that Mooreville say anything of interest. Tied to the massive iron gates surrounding the church was a monstrous black horse. It was the largest Mooreville had ever seen, and it stared at any passersby as though it was waiting for an appropriate person to trample beneath is great iron clad hooves. Mooreville was well aware of who owned that particular mount.
"Carrenworth," he mumbled to himself.