He signaled the barboy for another round. When it came, and the boy withdrew, he lifted his glass. “India has made us wealthy, given us more than we ever otherwise would have had. It seems only right to pay the country back by taking down”-glancing at Rafe, he grinned-“by beheading the Black Cobra, and if, as it seems, that will lead us back to England, then that, too, seems fitting.” He met the others’ eyes. “We’re all in this together.” He raised his glass, held it out for them to meet it with theirs. “Here’s to our eventual return to England.”
“Home,” Rafe echoed, as the glasses clinked.
They all drank, then Gareth, ever practical, asked, “So how are we faring getting our proof?”
They’d spent the last three months-ever since they’d convinced themselves that Roderick Ferrar, second adjutant to the Governor of Bombay, had to be the Black Cobra-trying to turn up evidence of Ferrar’s secret identity, all to no avail. Each now reported their latest forays into what was fast becoming known as “Black Cobra territory,” each thrust aimed at uncovering some trail, some clue, some solid connection back to Ferrar. All they’d uncovered were terrorized villages, some burnt to the ground, others with empty huts and no survivors, with evidence of rape and torture all around.
Wanton destruction and a liking for violence for violence’s sake were fast becoming the Black Cobra cult’s trademark, yet despite all the carnage they’d waded through, not a single piece of evidence had emerged.
“He’s clever, I’ll give the bastard that,” Rafe said. “Every time we find one of his cultists, they’ve got their instructions from someone else, who they either don’t know, or, if they can point a finger, the trail only leads to some other local-”
“Until eventually you hit one who again doesn’t know.” Logan looked disgusted. “It’s like that game of whispers, only in this case, no one has any clue who whispered first.”
“The way the Indians relate to one another-the caste system-plays into the Black Cobra’s hands,” James said. “The cultists unquestioningly obey, and never think it unreasonable that they know nothing about their masters-just that they are their masters, and so must be obeyed.”
“It’s a veil,” Gareth said. “The Black Cobra operates from behind a deliberately maintained veil.”
“And being a cult wreathed in all the usual mystery,” Rafe added, “the cultists think it only right that the Cobra is never seen, never directly heard-for all we know he sends out his orders on bits of paper passed through that damned veil.”
“According to Wolverstone and Devil,” Del said, “the entire Ferrar family is widely known to be viciously exploitative-that’s why the Earl of Shrewton is in the position he’s in. In that respect, Roderick Ferrar seems very much a twig off the same trunk.”
“So what’s next?” Rafe asked.
They spent the next half hour, and another beer, discussing the villages and outposts they thought worth a visit. “Just riding up, flag waving, will be seen as a challenge,” Logan said. “If we can provoke a response, perhaps we’ll capture someone with some useful knowledge.”
“Getting them to talk will be another matter.” Rafe glanced at the others. “It’s that yoke of fear-the Black Cobra’s got their tongues well-leashed with fear of his retribution.”
“Which,” James added, “is admittedly ghastly. I can still see the man I cut down last week.” He grimaced.
“Nothing we can do other than press harder,” Del said. “We need that proof-the incontrovertible evidence implicating Ferrar. Gareth and I will concentrate on trying to shake something loose through Ferrar’s contacts with the princelings-we’ll start interviewing those he’s had dealings with via the governor’s office. Given his temperament, he has to have made enemies-with luck one might talk, and resentful princelings are more likely to than villagers.”
“True.” Logan exchanged a look with Rafe and James. “Meanwhile, we’ll keep on stirring up dust in the villages and towns.”
“If nothing else,” Gareth said, “that should keep the fiend’s focus in the field, not closer to home, and give Del and me a bit of cover.”
James pulled a face. “You’ll have to count me out for the next few weeks-apparently I’ve drawn a duty-mission. The governor has requested that I take a troop up to Poona and escort his niece back to Bombay.”
The others all made commiserating noises as they pushed back from the table and rose.
Rafe clapped James on the shoulder. “Never mind-at least you’ll get a chance to put your feet up for a few days. And most of the memsahibs and their darling daughters are spending the monsoon season up there. Who knows? You might even find some engaging distraction.”
James snorted. “What you mean is that I’ll have to attend formal dinners and make small talk, then dance with giggling girls who bat their lashes, while you and Logan have all the fun chasing the Black Cobra and routing cultists. Thank you, but I’d rather be doing something useful.”
Rafe laughed and slung an arm around James’s shoulders. “If Logan or I get any cultists to talk, you’ll be back in time to help follow up.”
“Yes, but just think how boring my next weeks are going to be.” Together with Rafe, James headed for the archway leading outside. “I’ll deserve something extra-promising when I get back.”
Smiling at James’s angling for his pick of the missions when he returned from Poona, Del ambled beside Gareth and Logan as they followed the other two outside.
September 2, eighteen days later
East India Company Barracks, Bombay
A hot, dry wind blew relentlessly across the maidan, swirling the dust kicked up by the sepoys practicing formation, marching as the sun slowly bled in the west.
On the verandah of the barracks, Del sat in a low-slung wooden chair, feet up on the extendable arms, glass in hand as, with Gareth similarly at ease beside him, he waited for the others to join them. Logan and Rafe had been due to return from their most recent sorties today, and James was expected back from Poona. It was time to take stock again, to decide what next to try.
Logan had ridden in with his troop half an hour ago. Covered in dust, he’d reported to the fort commander, then crossed to the barracks. Climbing the shallow steps to the verandah, he’d shaken his head grimly before Del or Gareth could ask how he’d fared, then gone into the barracks to wash and change.
Del watched the sepoys drilling tirelessly on the parade ground, and felt the weight of failure drag. The others, he knew, felt the same. They’d been pressing relentlessly-in Rafe’s case, increasingly recklessly-trying to pry loose the vital evidence they needed, but nothing they’d learned had been sufficient to meet Wolverstone’s criteria.
What they had learned had confirmed that Ferrar and no other was the Black Cobra. Both Rafe and Logan had found ex-cultists who once had been high in the organization, but had grown jaded with the Cobra’s vicious rule and had successfully fled the Cobra’s territory; they’d verified that the Black Cobra was an “anglo”-an Englishman-moreover one who spoke with the refined and distinctive accents of the upper class.
Combined with their previous grounds for suspicion, as well as the documents and guarded comments Del and Gareth had managed to tease from various Maratha princelings, there was absolutely no doubt that they had the right man.
Yet they still had to prove it.
A heavy bootstep heralded Logan. He slumped in a chair alongside them, let his head fall back and closed his eyes.
“No luck?” Gareth asked, although the answer was obvious.
“Worse.” Logan didn’t open his eyes. “Every village we rode into, the people were cowering. They didn’t even want to be seen talking to us. The Black Cobra has them in its coils and they’re frightened-and from all we saw, with good reason.” Logan paused, then continued, voice lower, eyes still closed, “There were examples of the Black Cobra’s vengeance impaled outside most villages-women and children, as well as men.”