The Confusion

A couple of rowzinders and three archers on foot—about half of Sword of Divine Fire’s bodyguards—bestirred themselves, and began trotting over that way, unlimbering weapons as they went. But the robed visitor turned out to have a sort of bodyguard of his own: two men on horseback who rode forth and took up positions on the flanks, and let it be known that they had muskets.

 

“Sire, this would appear to be a better-organized-than-usual assassination attempt,” said the zamindar, stepping over to his palanquin and retrieving a musket of his own. “May I suggest you climb down into the Large Hole in the Ground?”

 

The king for his part pulled a pistol from his garment and checked the pan. “This fitteth not the profile of an assassination,” he observed. “Perhaps they are wandering potato-merchants.” He spurred his donkey forward, and rode past his bodyguards, who had been stopped in their tracks by the appearance of those muskets.

 

As he drew closer to the robed man, he was surprised—but then again, not really—to observe a red beard. The visitor pulled his hood back to divulge a fountain of silver hair. He spat saltpeter on the ground and smacked his lips for a few moments, like a connoisseur of wine.

 

“I’m afraid it is contaminated with much that is not actually saltpeter,” he said. “It would work for ballasting ships, but not for making gunpowder.”

 

“Strange you should mention that, Enoch, as I may be needing some ballast soon.”

 

“I know,” said Enoch Root. “Unfortunately, many others in Christendom know it, too, Jack.”

 

“That is most annoying, for I went to vast expense to bring in a scribe who knew how to employ cyphers.”

 

“The cypher was broken.”

 

“How is Eliza?”

 

“She is a Duchess in two countries.”

 

“Does she know that I am a King in one?”

 

“She knows what I knew, before I left. Namely that there are tales of a Christian sorcerer who, some years ago, was traveling in a caravan to Delhi that was attacked by a Maratha army that came down out of the hills on elephants. The Marathas had the upper hand until nightfall, when they and their elephants alike were thrown into a panic by a cold fire that limned the warriors and the horses of the caravan without consuming them. This caravan reached Delhi without further incident, and Aurangzeb, the Great Mogul, according to his long-standing practice, elevated the victor to the rank of omerah, and rewarded him with a three-year jagir.”

 

“And so you decided to come out and see who was putting your alchemical knowledge to such ill uses.”

 

“I came for many reasons, Jack, but that was not one of them…I knew who the sorcerer was.”

 

“Did you bring the thing I asked for?”

 

“We will speak of that later,” Enoch said judiciously. “But I did bring two things you should have asked for, and forgot to.”

 

“Hmm, let me think…I love riddles…a replacement penis, and a keg of decent beer?”

 

“I love riddles, too, Jack, but I hate guessing-games. Can we go somewhere that is not so, er…” And here Enoch Root turned his gaze one way, then the other, taking in most of the hundred-mile expanse between the hills and the coastal marshes. “...exposed?”

 

Jack laughed. “If it’s privacy you want, you’re in the wrong subcontinent.”

 

“So you say—and yet there is more here than meets the eye, no?” said Enoch Root, staring Jack in the eye.

 

Jack rode back to his zamindar and said, “That gentleman over there is a buyer of saltpeter from Amsterdam.”

 

“Is that the best you could come up with!?” answered Surendranath.

 

“’Twill serve, for now…I am going to take him on an inspection-tour of the dirt-mines. Dismiss the khud-kashta s with my compliments. Tell them not to give the potato-woman any grief. Meet me at the Royal Palace this evening, unless the roof has been blown off again, in which case, meet me by the tree.”

 

“Sire, the dirt-mines are situated in a rowdy and treacherous pargana, quite infested with stranglers. Are you quite certain you do not want me to send the rowzinders?”

 

Jack sized up the two horsemen who had arrived with Enoch Root. “What do you make of them?”

 

“Mercenaries. Judging from their coloration, most likely Pathans.”

 

“That was my guess, too, until I got closer. Methinks they are Christians with tans. They are barely even twenty years of age, but weathered like veterans, and they returned my gaze insolently.”

 

“They handle their weapons like drilled musketeers,” said the zamindar.

 

“They’ve made it all the way here, from Christendom…”

 

“But perhaps they are the last remnants of a whole Regiment.”

 

“I believe I will be safe in their hands,” Jack said.

 

 

 

“THAT’S FOR ME MUM!” said the one.

 

“She’s me mum, too, give ’im another!”

 

A large, bleeding fist filled most of Jack’s visual field, getting rapidly bigger. Then lights flashed and a loud popping noise went off in the base of his skull.

 

“You can do be’er’n that, Jimmy!” said one, shoving the other aside. “Let me show you—now, how’s about that! An’ that! For our sainted mum!”

 

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