Warrior (16 page)

“I do not think of her that way,” Batu shot back. “She is ger bül to me.”

“And what the hell is that?”

Batu struggled to recall the English word. “Family. She is family. And I must protect my family.”

“I’ll keep her safe,” the captain said at once.

“From the enemy, from the Heirs, yes, but what about you?”

The captain scowled. “All those looks you’ve been shooting my way since that night at the monastery. And this.” He snorted, a sound both angry and bitterly amused. “You’re warning me off her.”

“What does that mean, ‘warning off’?”

“Chasing the mongrel away from the prized bitch.”

“Ah, I understand. Yes, that is what I am doing.”

“I haven’t laid a finger on her since—”

“Since when?” Was Batu too late? But that was impossible. They had not been apart since they left Urga. Perhaps sleeping had been a mistake.

The captain shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve been a bloody gentleman, and I’ll stay that way until this mission is finished.”

“I do not know that word ‘gentleman.’ If it means ‘a man who looks with longing at a woman,’ then you are a gentleman.”

Batu could have sworn that the captain’s face turned a little pink. “You’re out of your sodding mind,” Captain Huntley grumbled, but he did not look away.

Feeling slightly more emboldened, Batu persisted. “When she returns to her father, she will be untouched by any man, just as when she left.”

The words that came out of the captain’s mouth were words Batu had never heard before in all the years he had served Franklin Burgess and his daughter. They involved something that had to do with the offspring of unchaste female dogs, and some actions that Batu was quite sure were physically impossible, even for a circus contortionist.

“I will do none of those things,” Batu answered. “Yet I was there when you made mention of marrying when you return to Angil…England.”

“Not yet, and I don’t have a damned fiancée. Good Christ, Batu,” snarled the captain, “I’m not going to bed Thalia.”

“You would not be the first man to try.”

The Englishman suddenly towered over Batu, more terrifying in his fury than Batu recalled. “Some man assaulted her? Give me his name. I’ll find him and kill him.”

“Not assaulted, Huntley guai,” Batu gulped. He did not doubt that the captain would make good on his threat, and prayed that he would not be around to see it. “What is the word? Seduced?”

Captain Huntley still looked ready to commit the foulest of murders. “Tell me what happened,” he commanded.

Batu glanced around to be sure that the woman in question had not returned. When he felt certain that he and the Englishman were alone, he cleared his throat and explained, “Three years past, her father met a young Russian who was studying Mongol plants. The young Russian was handsome and well-spoken, and soon became a good friend to Franklin guai and Thalia guai. When it became clear that this Russian wanted to pay court to Thalia guai, both she and her father were quite pleased. The Russian looked at her the way you do, and she looked back. They seemed very much in love.” Batu stopped when the look on the captain’s face turned even more fierce. He thought Captain Huntley might break his neck.

Instead, the Englishman rumbled, “Go on.”

“The Russian never mentioned taking Thalia guai as his wife, and Franklin guai became suspicious. We finally learned the truth.”

“How?”

“One of the Russian’s friends from home spotted him in the market,” Batu explained. “I was with him and Thalia guai at the time. The Russian tried to avoid his friend, but he could not.”

“Bringing news from home,” the captain guessed.

“Yes, including news of the Russian’s wife.”

More of the strange, angry words came from the captain as the muscles in his neck faintly pulsed with rage. “Already married.”

“A wife and two small children in Moscow, a boy and a girl.” Batu nearly trembled with remembered fury, thinking of how miserable Thalia had been in those bleak weeks after the truth had been uncovered. But she had not cried, the same as when she was a little girl mourning her mother. Instead, she wore a strange, empty look, as though she was nothing but dust blown across the expanse of the southern deserts. It had chilled both father and servant.

“Franklin guai beat the Russian until the man was almost dead, and the miserable coward slunk away back to his family. We never heard of him again. Hopefully, he died from his injuries.” Batu shivered slightly. Mongols were highly superstitious about speaking of blood and death, but he could not contain his desire for revenge against the weak Russian.

The captain was silent for some time, his jaw clenched tight and his hands curled into fists. He tilted his head, as if listening to something, but Batu could see nothing nearby, only the trees and water.

“I won’t do that to her, Batu,” the captain said lowly.

“You are a good man, Captain Huntley,” Batu answered, “and I owe you my life. But you will be returning to England when we have finished our task. And if you tempt Thalia guai into lust and then leave, then there is no place you can hide. Not England. Not anywhere. Franklin guai and I will find you and make you wish your mother had remained chaste.”

“And what Thalia wants, that means nothing?”

“She wants you.” The simplicity and directness of the statement had the captain blinking in surprise. “Yet she has been wounded before. I do not let my cattle graze too long simply because they want to. If they eat too much, they get sick.”

“Now she’s a damned cow,” grumbled the captain.

“You understand my meaning,” Batu said. The Englishman gave a short nod, but did not argue. He was a powerful warrior, yet that would not save him from the wrath of Franklin Burgess or Batu. Even the other Blades of the Rose would seek vengeance if it came to that. And the captain understood.

They both turned when they heard Thalia approaching. She smiled brightly at them, and Batu was relieved. She had not heard what they had been discussing. Everyone then shared a quiet midday meal. When they were confident that the horses had rested enough, they mounted up and began to ride in the direction of the distant field of flowers. With the horses refreshed, they should reach the encampment by nightfall.

Batu glanced over at Thalia as she rode alongside him. “Why did you tell him that?” she asked in Mongolian. Her voice had gone hard as frost, the way it did when she was especially angry.

He scowled. So much for being discreet. “You heard us.”

“You didn’t need to tell the captain, Batu,” she answered. She cut her eyes toward Captain Huntley, but he was riding behind them and seemingly unaware of the nature of their conversation. “You already warned me back at Erdene Zuu.”

“But you did not heed my warning,” Batu countered. “I have seen how you continue to look at him, how you enjoy his touch.”

“I don’t want to talk about that with you,” she muttered, reddening.

“We must,” he insisted. “These are steps that lead to disaster, Thalia guai. If you will not protect yourself, then I must take up the task.”

“By disrespecting the captain? He’s been nothing but honorable.”

“He is honorable, but he is also a man.”

“Men aren’t beasts, Batu.”

“They can be ruled by the animal part of themselves.”

“And women?”

“Women, too.”

“That’s right. We’re cows,” she said bitingly.

Ah, that was not good. She had heard too much. “The words were clumsy, but the meaning held true.”

For some time, she was silent, but her mind was not still. At last, she said, “He didn’t need to know.” She shook her head. “Trusting Sergei was my mistake, Batu. My mistake and my private shame.”

She was as headstrong as she had ever been. It was one of many reasons why Batu loved her like blood. “Do you remember when you first learned to ride the Mongol way?”

She gave a cautious nod.

“Do you remember when you were thrown, and you lay in the dirt, looking up at the sky, and you refused to cry, even though the fall was bad and you cut yourself?” She did not answer, but Batu could tell by the tightening of her mouth that she did remember. “I picked you up and used the sash from my del to wrap your cut.”

“I still have that sash,” she said after a pause, and now her voice wasn’t hard with frost, but rather rough with river gravel. She would never be a woman who gave in to tears easily. “And the scar on my leg.”

“That was the first time I cared for your injuries, but it wasn’t the last,” Batu said solemnly. “Yet I will do everything in my power to make sure I never have to tend your wounds again.”

Without looking at him, she said, “Cows or no, you’re a good friend, Batu.” She reached across the space between their horses and gave his arm a squeeze, then let go and put her heels to her horse as if trying to outride her own heart.

The Lion and Lamb

The small whirlwind of dust finally began to gather in strength. It grew from as tall as a man’s knee to almost reaching mid-thigh. A faint, damp smell curled from within it, the slightest breath of life. But the triumph was short-lived. Within less than a minute, the whirlwind collapsed back down to the ground, nothing more than a pile of dirt. The medallion also fell to the earth, sending up a puff of dust.

“Hell and harlots,” Jonas Edgeworth barked, surveying the failed test, “I almost had it that time.” He picked up the medallion and glared over at Henry Lamb, who was sitting on a folding camp stool, next to the fire but far enough away so the wood smoke wouldn’t scent Lamb’s clothing. Edgeworth continued, spitting in the dust. “I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m doing wrong.”

Lamb scarcely spared Edgeworth a glance as he packed the bowl of his pipe with his favorite, custom-blended tobacco that came straight from a tiny shop on Jermyn Street. Inhaling the scent of the tobacco, Lamb wished that he was back at his club, relaxing over a pipe and paper, and far away from the primitive backwaters of Outer Mongolia. Partnered with the loutish Jonas Edgeworth, Lamb would have to endure for the sake of the Heirs and England. Lamb, Edgeworth, and the Mongol Tsend had voyaged from England to China on a steamship hired by the Heirs, a long trip made longer by the boorish company.

“Try again,” Lamb suggested, barely containing his annoyance. “And this time, don’t rush the chant. You spit it out as if you were speeding through school lessons. But, before you do,” he added, waving a piece of paper, “I’ve received a letter through the Transportive Fire. Very good news from headquarters.”

“What is it?”

“Our team in Africa was successful. The Heirs are now in possession of the Primal Source.” Lamb waited for Edgeworth’s jubilation at the news.

Edgeworth stared blankly.

Holy God, how could this dolt be part of the Edgeworth family?

“The Primal Source is the first Source,” Lamb explained. “When mankind was born and formed civilization, it created magic, it created Sources. From the Primal Source, all magic arises. The power it contains cannot be grasped by the mortal mind. And now the Heirs have it. Trouble is,” he added with a grumble, “we don’t know how to use it.”

“So get some of our frightful sorcerers to have a go at it.”

“They are working on unlocking the Primal Source as we speak.” Lamb cast a critical eye at Edgeworth. “Which means that you need to return to your own work.”

Edgeworth scowled, and went back to his task, cursing under his breath, and not a few of those curses were meant for Lamb himself. Ah, well. It didn’t matter if he and Edgeworth wouldn’t be punting down the Thames together when they returned to England. Lamb actually would not be overly distressed if, for some reason, Edgeworth met with a tragic but heroic death while pursuing the Mongolian Source. Edgeworth’s father would be furious, however, and Lamb was determined to avoid the wrath of Joseph Edgeworth. So, he would have to keep young Jonas safe as they worked to obtain the Mongolian Source.

Lamb had used the True Hammer of Thor to stop Thalia Burgess and her escorts. When that had failed, Lamb realized there was a better use of the girl and her friends. She and that annoyingly steadfast Yorkshire soldier were actually doing the most difficult part: locating the Source. And, judging by the speed and directness of their southerly route, they were very close. Which meant that the Heirs were also close. The Sumatran Obfuscation Charm was short-lived, but it allowed Lamb, Edgeworth, and Tsend to ride just three miles behind the Burgess girl and her group without detection. Any closer, and the magic wouldn’t function. Lamb wasn’t worried. On horseback, he could breach those three miles within minutes. Knowing that Thalia Burgess had no idea how close he was, how easily he could reach out and take her, hurt her, and her soldier powerless to stop it, gave Lamb a delicious, dark shiver of pleasure.

“How does this work?” asked the giant Mongol. He pointed at the small round mirror, resting on its stand. Within the mirror, tiny images of the Burgess girl and her retinue of two flickered in and out. Lamb was annoyed. He had made a mistake in not killing the soldier back in Southampton, little knowing that the base-born ruffian would take it upon himself to complete Morris’s work. Now, Lamb had to pay for his own lack of judgment, which was nearly intolerable and shortened his temper considerably.

The Mongol, Tsend, reached out with a huge, meaty paw and snatched the mirror up to look more closely.

“Careful with that, idiot,” Lamb snapped as he jumped to his feet. He strode over and plucked the mirror from Tsend’s hand, then carefully returned it to its brass stand while the Mongol growled. “I cannot very well rush down to Algiers and get another thousand-year-old enchanted mirror.” He wiped the reflective surface with an embroidered handkerchief, removing traces of the Mongol’s grimy fingerprints.

Tsend looked unimpressed. He did not value age or rarity, only costliness and size. Which was good, since it was the lure of heaps of money that secured not only the Mongol’s information, but his loyalty. Though, Lamb corrected himself as he eyed Tsend’s brutish hands and the knife at his belt, his “loyalty” only went as far as the strings of his coin purse.

“How does it work?” Tsend repeated.

“Birds are very susceptible as well as sensitive to magic,” Lamb explained. “So I can easily control one using a binding and viewing spell. I just find a bird and tell it to follow the Burgess girl, then I see what it sees through the mirror. A simple enough process.”

A curse from where Edgeworth stood let Lamb know that his partner still had not succeeded. Edgeworth was still young and, despite his impressive lineage within the Heirs, largely untested. If the situation with Edgeworth’s inexperience grew dire, Lamb would step in. Until then, he would let Jonas Edgeworth fume and cuss like some Billingsgate fishmonger, though Lamb’s refined sensibilities shuddered with distaste to hear such language. How had Joseph Edgeworth, one of the most influential and revered members of the Heirs, sired this boor?

Speaking of boors, Lamb cast a suspicious eye toward Tsend. The Mongol had worked on a steamship that took him to Southampton. From other sailors he learned that the Heirs paid good money for reliable information about magic. Tsend approached the Heirs, claiming that he could lead them to a powerful Source in his home country. For a price. Lamb wondered how long he would have the Mongol’s loyalty, or if the faintest whiff of money could draw Tsend away to another camp. Not the Blades. Those imbeciles considered themselves too superior to use financial inducements. But there were other organizations, other countries and nations who sought the Sources, and it would not be difficult for Tsend to locate them and sell the Source, and possibly members of the Heirs, to the highest bidder.

Those other organizations—France’s Les privilégiés, or that German cabal, to name just two—would all kill to have the Mongolian Source. But Lamb would kill to make sure they didn’t, and that it belonged to Britain alone.

“The thing we are looking for,” Tsend said, lumbering over to where Lamb sat, “it will also help us control birds?”

Lamb mentally rolled his eyes. The Mongol had come to the Heirs with the knowledge of a riddle, but no idea its exact meaning or value. Tsend had assumed it possessed some worth, because he’d had to beat it out of a shaman. The shaman had finally yielded the riddle, and only then because Tsend promised to kill him quickly. Unfortunately for the shaman, Tsend hadn’t kept that promise. Or so the Mongol had boasted at the Heirs’ London headquarters.

It didn’t take long for the Heirs to figure out what the Mongolian Source could achieve, however. Once they did, Lamb and Edgeworth were dispatched immediately. Failure wasn’t permitted, not with such a powerful Source at stake.

“What we are after has a far greater power.” Lamb drew on the stem of his pipe, taking the fragrant, wonderfully English smoke into his mouth. God, he loved his country! It had the best of everything—land, food, language, monarchy—and the finest, most intelligent minds all working toward a single goal: ensuring that Britain’s empire would expand until there wasn’t a single nation that wasn’t under her flag. He honestly could not fathom why anyone, particularly anyone who happened to be English, would ever knowingly and deliberately hinder the work of the Heirs of Albion. Every Briton stood to benefit from their nation’s global advancement, though the ruling class—Lamb’s class—benefited more than most. But, infuriatingly, not everyone seemed to share the goals of the Heirs.

The Blades of the Rose were dangerous subversives, anarchists, probably reformers. They sought to destroy the foundation of British culture and its civilizing influence all over the world. A strange and motley collection of men from all walks of life. Worse, they even allowed women in their ranks, taking them from the sacred protection of home and husband, and imperiling their lives on fools’ pursuits. And Lamb would not allow himself to think of Catullus Graves and his whole blighted family. A shame, really, since they had the finest minds in the world, and, but for the singular problem of their skin’s pigment, the Heirs would have tried to lure them away from the Blades long ago. It was grotesque, maddening.

Lamb made himself take a calming puff from his pipe. As it always did, the smoke helped soothe the temper within him that, he knew, at most foul could grow blacker and more vicious than anything Edgeworth could produce.

“This thing we chase,” Tsend persisted, “what sort of power will it have? Can it bring us wealth?”

“Better.”

“What is better than money?”

“Power. The same power that let Genghis Khan rule almost the entire known world. From China to Arabia, all the way to Hungary, the Mongol army destroyed any who opposed them and brought every nation to heel, and he used a Source to do it.”

Tsend frowned, trying to understand things beyond his limited comprehension. “What does the Source of the Great Khan do?”

“It might make a small army great in size and devastation,” Lamb speculated. “A hundred men may have the strength of a thousand. A single regiment could conquer and destroy nations.” Lamb could not contain his excitement just theorizing about the prospect. “The British Army is the best in the world, but we only have so many soldiers. Once I seize the Source, Britain will be able to conquer and control the globe, starting here, in Outer Mongolia, where Genghis Khan’s rise to power began. We continue to Russia, finally crushing that gadfly, and move out from there.”

“Will this Source be so powerful?”

“It must,” Lamb said fiercely. “Back in England, the Heirs have the Primal Source. It takes the power of all Sources and heightens it, so that every Source is imbued with a thousand times more strength. Including the one we search for here, in Mongolia.” He did not add that unlocking the Primal Source was still a mystery, but it did not matter. The power would be Britain’s, would belong to the Heirs and to Lamb himself.

Almost giddy, Lamb began to pace. “Every country, every nation will become a British colony. And not merely in Asia and Africa, but in Europe and the Americas, too. No more France. No more United States.” The British lion would reign supreme, as it was always meant to do. With Lamb and the Heirs of Albion commanding it all. In such a world, the Blades of the Rose would be annihilated, completely and utterly.

“Will I get to kill that Englishman with the girl?” Tsend asked, unconcerned with global domination. “He shot at me, and I want him dead.”

“My good man,” Lamb said, happily puffing on his pipe, “when we find that soldier, you may grind him into an unrecognizable paste with my blessing.” He wouldn’t make the same mistake again where the soldier was concerned. Lamb had a few plans for Thalia Burgess before she was also disposed of, though he kept those ideas to himself.

A shout of glee broke into Lamb’s thoughts. He and Tsend both looked over to a triumphant Edgeworth, who yelled over his shoulder, “I’ve done it! Come and see, Lamb!”

Both Lamb and the Mongol walked toward Edgeworth, who waved his hands at his creation. “Very good, Edgeworth,” Lamb said. The lad wasn’t entirely a simpleton.

For once, even Tsend looked awed as they all stared at what Edgeworth had summoned. The smell of earth was strong. And beneath that, the living fire of magic.

Gabriel couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Even though he had scouted and thoroughly investigated a wide swath of land all around them, something prickled along the back of his neck and down his arms, as if unseen eyes followed their progress across the rolling steppes. He trusted his instincts too well to simply ignore the feeling, but hadn’t evidence to back it up. There was no way to prove it, no way to dismiss it. Something was wrong, though, and it angered him, not knowing what or why, or how he could protect Thalia from this invisible threat.

Perhaps a gun couldn’t do the job against magic, but it never hurt to have a little insurance. Gabriel now rode with his rifle across his lap, ready to be used. The closer he, Thalia, and Batu got to the Source, the greater the chance that the Heirs would try something. And when they did, Gabriel would be ready for them. He almost wished that the Heirs would launch an attack, just so it would end the waiting and uncertainty. He could finally act, instead of biding his time. But ever since the storm caused by the True Hammer of Thor, the Heirs of Albion had remained quiet. Gabriel didn’t trust that silence.