Chapter 8

May Kali eat the Souls of the English

Note: Another chapter by Pendragginink.

"What are you doing, English?" Rashjid waited for her reply, not that she would answer his question, no, for that she never did, and that interested him even more than wondering why the small British lass next to him never asked him any questions that were really questions, or ones that he could say no to. He stood as stiff and silent as only a British trained Hindu can, smiling inwardly, because of course, he was neither; he truly wondered if she knew that.

Margaret Neats didn't bother to look up at Rashjid. She knew that he had asked the question as a joke, a goad, an insult. For wasn't it he himself who had taught her that one never got information by asking for it. The trick was to observe and see what there was to see. By the time one had formulated a question, it was already too late, and the moment when the information would have been useful was past.

And they both knew she wasn't even English, or British. She just looked like it. Well, that was of no concern to her, she had nothing to do with it. Still, Rashjid could certainly prove useful at the moment, so in the spirit of the game she answered him.

"The same thing you are doing, sweating."

"Iniquitous! English ladies never do. Horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow and I am not sweating."

"I am sweating, as you can plainly see."

Rashjid steepled his hands and bowed namaste low to her, conceding the point as she stated the obvious. She was not a man, she was certainly no lady and if he asked did she consider herself a horse she would answer him 'neigh.' Easier to admit defeat in this game of minds now, it was far too hot. They had been there in the slave market since early morning; he had had enough of the noise, the dust, the humidity, the heat, the flies and the smells. By the gods, the smells were the worst. Yet, still there she sat, prim and proper, cool and collected, not admitting to the heat by fanning herself, the very picture of a British engenue, at least she had the sense to not object when he had placed the awning over her to shade the hot Indian sun. Yes, and he supposed that one could call that fresh dewy look 'sweating,' since it was Margaret, for her, skin that showed even the least bit warmer than porcelain bisque, would be, in any other being, called sweat, even in a horse. A proper English maid, just now coming into young womanhood, of creamy complexion, bonneted and white-gloved as a good daughter of the noble class when in public, appearing innocent and unworldly in the extreme, with her full attention focused intently, as it had been all morning, on the half-naked slaves now on the auction block, though the main sale of the day had long been over. It was now nearly noon, only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun, was she going to make a purchase? Or not? And if so, how many did she want?

"All of them."

Her comment caught him off guard. /Now, how does she DO that/

Refusing to even think about how she answered his thoughts … either sweating or slave buying, either way, he would not give her the satisfaction, not this time. But he couldn't help peeking at her to see if she noticed. Glancing down, he thought for an instant that she was injured, bright red welling from her palm, but then the sunlight glinted on what he now could see was a ruby. But such a ruby, the size of a pigeon egg, and the color of heart's blood. Rashjid caught the ruby in front of his face, snatching at it out reflex as she tossed it into the air. He started to sweat, profusely. /A star ruby. a perfect blood red star ruby. The rarest of all gems. Rarely heard of, and then only in legend/ It was worth a kingdom, no, maybe two kingdoms. Really big ones. Just holding this could get him killed six times before sundown.

He looked at her then, as he knew she wished him to, and was able to at least not grin at her, but couldn't help the corner of his mouth turning up just a bit.

"All, memsahib?" Some of the slaves had already been sold.

"I have asked you repeatedly to call me Margaret."

"Sorry, memsahib."

"You certainly are, will you do this." He sighed. She had him, there was no way to win, if he didn't make the purchase, she would, he knew. Attending the slave auction was bad enough, sitting there in full view was scandalous but involving herself in the deal was unthinkable, not by her standards, but by his own. And she knew it.

They had been brought to the slave market in Mombai on that Navy ship that was the escort for the East India ship. /May Kali eat the souls of the English./

The navy captain would get a kickback or bribe or 10 percent of the sale of slaves; the British navy had no jurisprudence in the area other than to protect British ships, but it made sense of course, there would often be as many as five pirate ships waiting in Sunda strait for the East India ships, and there were the Dutch and Portuguese privateers, to consider, to say nothing of local pirates. They had to have the protection. They only made two trips a year: seasons and trade winds determined that. The pirates would know when to meet them. But only the British preyed upon their own kind.

Slaves not bought would be put in one of the galleys that ply the coast for the trading company where they will be chained to an oar and never see the light of day again until they are brought up as corpses and tossed over the side as a snack for sharks.

Rashjid had watched Margaret discuss this very thing with one of the British navy men who's job was to guard her. /As if she needs it./ The Navy man, Nottingham, Northington, the name was something like that, informed her that the tribal warriors would no doubt die within days. And Rashjid himself had volunteered that the stubborn British would last be no more than a year if they are fortunate. Navy had bristled at the 'stubborn' remark and asked him how he could be so sure of that.

"Because that is the longest anyone lived' when i was a galley slave." Navy's eyebrows had disappeared into his ensign's wig at that and his mouth fell open to ask how he had escaped when no one ever did. To save time, the bored Hindu explained, "No one had escaped before, but then, I was also willing to kill—anyone … for freedom." Navy grew red at that, and became interested in his shoes, knowing that the only way he could have gotten loose was to have killed the three other men he had been chained to.

Rashjid had known of course, that the pirates chained to the block had been listening to them, and that Margaret had wanted them to listen; when Rashjid looked up at them, the younger one had stared at him for a long time. /Better you are sold pirate, or die before the galleys./

He didn't even want to think about why Margaret wanted all the slaves. And these slaves in particular, most were savages, tattooed … . Tribal warriors and sick from maltreatment by all appearances. The two unfortunates chained and broiling on the block in the sun were obviously more than sick, they were dying, and one of them looked already dead, but, wasn't quite, considering how the other one had positioned himself to cast his own shade on the other and to keep the flies away. Brothers, he decided, but British, Portuguese or Romany, he couldn't say. Most likely British, as the Romany were difficult to catch, and not likely Portuguese as they cursed in English. Rashjid spat in the dust. English. Still, it didn't matter what she wanted, because she couldn't have them all.

"Some have been sold already." /That was stupid. She has been here all day, of course she will know this./ He winced, waiting for her comment: mercifully, she was silent.

"They are still there. They are available."

"I'm afraid memsahib does not understand."

"Oh, yes, 'memsahib' DOES understand. They are available." The emphasis she put on the word 'does' frightened him, right down to his sandals. He noticed that she did not say they were for sale. Available. All right then. He moved across the offal-cluttered street to look for the slave auctioneer.

The slave monger was fat and oily and asleep in the shade. Rashjid had to kick him several times to wake him. There was a slight problem with the fact that the two English slaves broiling in the sun had already been sold to the British navy, to sweat out their days in the galleys or fields of the British East India Company. But the greed of the slave monger won out and his eyes grew round at the sight of the ruby.

Worthy of a Maharaja it was

Rashjid smiled at the avarice of the man, he was so dazzled by the magnificence of the gem that it had not yet occurred to him how difficult it would be to sell, and was no doubt stolen in the first place. Gems of this quality were usually well known, as were their owners. The slave monger moved past him, to ready the slaves for transit, completing the sale and Rashjid moved to return across the street to the girl in his charge.

The stone-faced Hindu stiffened as he felt the tenor of the market place change suddenly, a frisson of chill went up his spine and he looked quickly in the direction of Margaret, scanning for her copper bright hair and her butterfly blue dress. She was gone. He scanned the market desperately: she was nowhere in sight. There was a slight hubbub behind him. He closed his eyes. He was afraid to look, for he had no doubt what he would see. He looked.

/I am cursed./ He wondered if it were simply a matter of karma or a game of the gods to heap misfortune on a man just to see how long it would take until he cracked. Instantly, the long, waved curved dagger no Thuggee assassin was ever without was in his hand and he was barreling toward the auction block, but he knew he had already failed. No Thuggee in the history of his family for two hundred generations had failed in keeping an oath once taken. And today one would. He could hear Kali laughing at him as she devoured his guts.

He would have leaped to the auction platform, but skidded to a halt as his assassin-trained senses took in all possible information he might first use to his advantage.

The slight movement of tongue on sun-peeled lips told him the man down was not yet dead, the raw brand on the arm of the man standing told him he was a pirate and had been caught by the East India Company, recently.

The infected lash marks on the man told him he had been more than punished by someone cruel, he had been their toy.

The katana the man wielded told him that the slave monger was a fool for letting the man get this far, and the man really needed instruction in the proper use of the katana, though not exactly disgraceful for an Englishman—pirate.

The arm the man had pinioning Margaret's arms and the placement of his feet told Rashjid that the man was desperate.

The cold smile on the man's face told him the man was a seasoned warrior who intended to die in battle, and not alone.

The chains that not only held him on the block but tied him to the unconscious man told Rashjid that the man had little hope of escape.

The pressure the man was putting on Margaret's throat with the katana told him that the man thought that there were those in the market place who would care for the safety of the girl.

The way Margaret leaned into the razor sharpness of the blade at her throat, and the amused look on her face as she turned her head, slicing into her own flesh a little as she moved to stare down at him, there, goggling like a fool at the base of the platform told the Hindu assassin that if there were any who did care for her welfare, Margaret certainly wasn't one of them.

Rashjid had no doubt that she had done this on purpose. /May a thousand devils eat her children./ He shrugged. Why should he care what happened to a thousand devils anyway.

"Did you get them?" Her question brought him up short. He was beyond insulted; did she really think he would fail in that simple task? And it hit him that she had known that they had already been bought. /I hate her./

Rashjid nodded.

/Why waste energy and strength with speech/ He wondered why she would even ask him that. As well he ask her what did she think she was doing making him save her, for he knew as well as she did that no one else would. /This is a terrible spot I'm in. I have taken an oath to not let her die and I have sworn to see her dead. What by Rama's beads do I do now?

The slave monger hit the pirate, who dropped to his knees without much resistance. But Margaret Neats was not yet done with him.

"It is time to go home" She turned her head towards the frenzied, bleeding, sunburned man who had held the killing blade to her throat. "I need help getting food and water to these men, and aid for that one." A slight tilt of her head indicated the pirate collapsed at their feet. "Will you do this?"

Rashjid snorted and looked up, his eyes meeting the gaze of the now astonished pirate who had backed away and straightened up at her words, struck dumb. Rashjid knew well that feeling, having been there many times himself.

Not a hair out of place, but with tiny beads of blood trickling down her neck. She reached down, her arms out for Rashjid to lift her down from the stage. He knew that she could have simply walked down the steps, same way she got up there, but then, he realized, he wouldn't have to put away his dagger, as he was doing now. He was a bit slow, she didn't wait for him to reach up for her, she launched herself at him gently; he caught her out of the air. /Lavendar, she always smells of lavender./

He set her on her feet. She went through the motions of straightening her dress, brushing none existent dust off it. The slight pressure of her hand on his forearm told him that it was time to be away and she wanted him to see to it. His almost imperceptible nod told her that he would, not that she had waited for his answer or saw him nod even now. She was already halfway across to the carriage. He sped after her, to open the door, to help her in. One must keep up appearances after all. From the middle of the street, he turned around and tossed the heavy key to the chains of the slaves to the dumbstruck pirate, who, surprisingly enough given his condition, caught it deftly out of the air.

"She is called Margaret Neats." Rashjid wondered how long it would take before half of the new slaves were dead, or how long it would take for the pirate, who looked not to be an idiot for all that, and certainly wasn't one if the little memsahib bought him in the first place, how long it would take before the not-idiot English pirate figured out that though she was called Margaret Neats, it wasn't really her name. Nor was she English. Or a child.

By the time Hal was finished unlocking the chains, Rashjid was back with water bags enough for them all; as thirsty as they were they had sense enough to drink sparingly at first so as not for it to come right back up. The tribal boy could not be roused to drink at all. Rashjid tore a bit off the end of his turban, wet it with a water pouch and trickled water into the boy's mouth. The warriors watched this with the look of a school of Moray eels; after a few sessions of the water, Rashjid reached into his belt and produced what looked like a seed pod to Hal, broke it open and waved it under the boy's nose. The boy woke coughing and looked around. Rashjid handed the pouch and the cloth to the man chained next to the boy and motioned them all on their feet, moving them off in a line. Hal dragged Jack along, catching him and pulling him to his feet again when he sagged, but Jack wouldn't allow himself to be carried.

/….and then we shall see what we shall see, Mistress Margaret Neats. We shall see what we shall see./ After receiving the water as promised, there wasn't any doubt in his mind that there would soon be food, but after that, who knew. And why did so many in the market make the sign of 'protection from evil' as they passed?