Ash Mistry and the World of Darkness (26 page)

“Could do with a clean-up. Can’t imagine all this pollution’s good for anyone, but there’s money to be made, I suppose.”

Parvati nodded. “It wasn’t that different in London, if you go back a few centuries.”

Ashoka listened to the beat. “India’s changing. Who knows what it’ll be like in a few years’ time?”

“Provided we stop Savage.”

Back to business then. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Parvati opened up a map. “The
Lazarus
isn’t a big ship, so it could dock pretty much anywhere. Then he’s got to offload the stuff and get it distributed around the city. Then he’s set. He’ll want to set them off as soon as possible.”

“Meanwhile we watch and wait?” said Ashoka.

“We’ll take turns,” said Parvati. “I’ll go first; you get some sleep.”

A
shoka yawned and pulled his blanket up to his chin as he sat leaning up against a rock, high on a ledge overlooking the beach. He swilled the soup around in his tin, as if the motion might warm it up, then drank it all. Parvati had done her shift so now it was his turn. Another hour and he would hand over to her again. He picked up the binoculars and searched the sea, as he’d been doing for the last three hours.

A sea mist swamped the low, sloping cliff, turning the dawn sky grey. Strings of fairy lights, torches and lamps illuminated the narrow paths through the shambolic city of huts and hovels. Bells chimed from the many small temples and incense merged with the acrid smell of burning rubbish and the smoke coming out of the shipping junkyards. Seagulls and rats and human rubbish pickers crawled over the mountains of debris.

Being on watch was utterly boring. He played games to keep awake, guessing which seagull would win as a pair squabbled over some rotten piece of fruit. Or he’d make up names and stories for the workers still peeling the hulks apart throughout the night. Their shifts were longer than his and he recognised more than one who’d been working the evening before. Ten, twelve hours nonstop.

Fishing boats bobbed out on the horizon, each followed by a cloud of gulls, chancers looking to grab a fish as the men hauled up their fields of netting.

A black cloud puffed from the funnel of a distant ship. It rode the waves awkwardly, as if too heavy for its size. Low in the water it pitched unevenly over the sea, the prow sinking one moment before rising up again, spraying water over its decks. It blasted its horn as a fishing boat strayed into its path.

Ashoka sat up straight and steadied the lens. He tried to match the rolling motion of the vessel so he could read its name.

His heart jumped as he read
Lazarus
.

The
Lazarus
was a rust bucket. The hull hadn’t been painted in years and long streaks of oil ran like tiger stripes down its orange, corroded panels. Black smoke belched from the single funnel.

There was something on the decks, all covered in tarpaulin, but even from his vantage point Ashoka could see the crewmen were stepping gingerly around their cargo. Lifeboats swayed on lanyards, a pair overhanging both the port and starboard sides. The bridge, from where the captain watched the route and steered the ship, stood up stubby and smoke-stained at the rear of the ship, its windows catching the glimmering light of the rising sun.

Ashoka ran down the cliff path and banged on the shed door. Parvati opened up and must have understood the eagerness in his face. They dashed up the slope and he handed the binoculars over.

“It’s a tramp steamer, looks late-Victorian,” said Parvati. “The seas around here used to be full of them. They’d turn up at a dock looking for trade then and there; take you and your cargo anywhere around the world. It’s not big, a crew of a dozen, no more than that.”

“We can handle a dozen, can we?”

Parvati smirked. “I can.”

Ashoka scanned the decks. “You think Savage is on it?”

“There’s only one way to find out. Let’s go.”

They watched until the
Lazarus
dropped anchor, a couple of miles offshore. Then they returned to the shed, and while Parvati assembled her weapons Ashoka unzipped the bags. He lifted out a black-jade jar, the size and shape of a large Coke bottle. He could just about hold it with one hand. The glossy black surface distorted his reflection, widening and deforming his face. The top was plugged with wax and a paper seal covered in red Chinese writing. There were three more identical jars in his backpack and Parvati had the same.

Presents from Ti Fun.

Dragonfire.

“When we said we were going to destroy the ship, I thought he was going to give us explosives.”

Parvati put her own binoculars away in her backpack. “You know how to use that stuff?” She gestured at the jar he carried. “It will melt anything. Tear off the seal and smash it open on the deck and that ship will be settled at the bottom of the sea within five minutes. You watch – it will be on fire as it goes down. Dragonfire’s amazing; water doesn’t quench it – it burns in a vacuum. We’re lucky Ti Fun was feeling so generous.”

“And we’ve got eight jars of the stuff.” Ashoka wasn’t remotely happy lugging it on his back.

“Best to be thorough. That ship will be filled with RAVN-1. I want to make sure we destroy it all.”

Gear collected, they headed down to the beach. The sun hadn’t cleared the mountains and the sky hung grey and sombre with the mist rolling off the sea. The city still slept, but breakfast fires shone in a few windows and the early-morning hush was occasionally broken by a cockerel greeting the new day and dogs barking.

The fisherman was waiting. Parvati handed over the fistful of rupees and the three of them pushed the boat down the beach and into the placid early-morning waters of the Arabian Sea. Ashoka clambered on board as the fisherman settled into long, slow strokes of his oar.

“This is so cool,” he said. If only he’d had a commando or two in his past lives, he’d be sorted. Coils of knotted rope lay at his feet, a grappling hook with its steel flukes covered in cloth to muffle the noise, and alongside Parvati’s urumi was his bow and a quiver with a dozen brand-new steel-tipped arrows. The shafts were made of some lightweight compound and could fly for miles and still punch through sheet steel.

But Parvati’s gaze was on the distant ship. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. I want you to stick close behind me, understood?”

“But, Parvati—”

“Close behind or wait in the boat, understood?”

Ashoka folded his arms. “Fine. Understood.”

The ship loomed over them, far bigger than it had appeared from the shore. The deck was about ten metres above the small rowboat and the outward curve of the bows trapped them in darkness, hidden from the casual gaze of any crew members.

The shore was two miles back. The sea mist rested upon the water, letting their boat close in unobserved.

The
Lazarus
was quiet but for the waves lapping against it. A deep, low rumble echoed from within the idling engines, and the links of the anchor chain occasionally clunked together as the ship rose and sank with the swell of the sea.

“Stand back,” said Parvati. She stood up on the rowing bench, took the rope and grappling hook and began to swing it in a slow circle, gently lengthening the rope enough so it just scraped the surface of the water. Then she did a sharp, swift single spin and hurled the hook upwards, the knotted rope trailing behind it.

The hook sailed over their heads and on to the deck where it thunked hard on the metal. It sounded like a dinner gong.

Parvati winced and Ashoka grimaced. That must have woken the whole crew.

The rowboat bobbed, the fisherman ready to paddle away at the first sound of an alarm.

But nothing. It was an old ship and it creaked and moaned and made a hundred different noises over the day and the crew couldn’t inspect every single strange sound. After waiting a minute, Parvati slowly pulled the rope until it caught. She gave a sharp tug and locked the other end around her waist. “Up you go.”

“Me? Shouldn’t you go first?”

Parvati steadied the rope, holding it taut so it was as straight as a pole. “Unless I weigh down this end you’ll end up swinging from side to side as you climb. Now up you go. When you get to the top, keep your head down and stay quiet. I’ll be right behind you.”

Ashoka inspected the rope. It was thick damp hemp and every metre there was a knot. It looked doable.

“Remember to use your legs and feet to support your weight. Don’t pull with your arms, it’ll tire you out.”

“Feet. Right.” Ashoka took hold, hugging the rope as the boat bobbed up and down. He kicked off his shoes. This would be easier barefoot. He checked his arrows were fixed to the bow clip, then slung it over his shoulder. The steel bowstring dug into his shoulders, but he felt safer having it already prepped.

And up he went.

He clung on, scrabbling with his feet to try to get some purchase on the wet and slimy rope, hunched against it like some frog. It was harder than it looked, and despite Parvati’s efforts the rope swung in all directions, dragged this way by the ship, that way by the movement of the rowboat, and another way because of his shifting weight. Halfway up and his arms and shoulders ached.

He hated climbing. It was the worst part of gym. True, he hated cross-country more, but at least he knew how to run, albeit slowly. He might be last, but he would finish. But climbing was a nonstarter. He looked down. Maybe he should just wait in the boat. But Parvati glared back at him. “Don’t stop,” she hissed.

Halfway there. I’m halfway there.

Ashoka shuffled his feet up to the next knot, then pushed with his legs and slid another metre higher. The deck railings were visible above him. Not far to go.

He heard voices and froze. A couple of men, just chatting. But what if they saw the grappling hook? It was probably right by their feet. He curled up and hung on. A cigarette stub, still alight, flew over the edge and sailed past him and into the dark sea. The voices receded.

Parvati gave the rope a twitch and Ashoka climbed the last few metres and a moment later was pressing against the hull. He reached out with one hand and grabbed hold of the railing, then a second later slithered off the rope and on to the deck of the
Lazarus
.

Wow, his gym teacher would have been impressed. But now his limbs really did ache. His arms felt as if they were water, he could barely make a fist, and he was bathed in sweat. The steel deck was warm with residual heat and his bare soles felt the engines tremble below. Spotlights shone on the roof of the bridge, but Ashoka was well hidden behind a stack of wooden boxes.

Crates and barrels and other small cargo and equipment had been lined up against the railings, held in place with ropes and webbing. Vast sheets of waterproof tarpaulin covered the deck itself, obscuring what lay underneath.

A chain clattered behind him and he turned.

Three sailors stood watching him. Dressed in oily, stained patchwork clothing, they stared at him, their stubble-dark faces grim and highly unfriendly. One had a baton, another a net of webbing, the third a long chain, each link two centimetres thick.

He needed to think of something quick, something to put them at ease and give Parvati time to get up here and save his butt. Ashoka smiled. “Er … hello?”

“What are you doing here, boy?” said the guy with the big wooden baton.

Come on, Ashoka. A witty quip would be perfect right about now.

“Er …?”

“You thinking to stow away, boy?” said the one with the net.

“Savage doesn’t like stowaways,” said the man with the chain. “We find any, we feed them to the sharks.”

I am sooo dead.

The man slammed the baton down on Ashoka. The blow clanged and he shuddered. He clutched his head, expecting it to shatter like an egg, but it was all in one piece, no brains leaking from his ears.

The baton had struck the railings instead of his skull. Lucky break. He wasn’t going to get another one.

No time to draw his bow, he shoved out, knocking the man away. The baton clattered on the steel deck.

The man shook the numbness from his fingers as Ashoka picked up the wooden stick. Then the man grinned and drew a big, big knife from the back of his belt. “Gonna carve you up for the fishes, boy.”

Scratch that. I’m totally mega-dead.

Ashoka curled his fingers tighter around the stick. It was about half a metre long, thick and skull-crunchingly heavy. It felt right in his palm. Ashoka slowly rose to his feet.

Salute them, boy. And say the words.

Words came to him. Words that had been dust for over a thousand years. Ashoka didn’t know Latin, but the phrase had been drummed into him. In the training camp. In the arena. On the sands that had soaked up his blood, all those lifetimes past.

Ashoka raised the baton and said the words: “
Nos morituri te salutamus
.”

The guy with the machete frowned. “What?”

We who are about to die salute you.

H
e adjusts his grip on the gladius. His shield is lost and there are three against him.

I’ve fought worse odds.

The baying of the crowd fades until all he hears is his own breath, low, slow and deep. He watches and waits, saving his energy. Let them come to him.

Three against him. The first a
retiarius
, a net fighter, swings his net over his head, preparing for the throw. His trident is missing; no doubt he hopes to snare him and have his two companions finish him off. Spartacus edges to the side, keeping the man to his right and between him and the second gladiator, a
thraex
. He wields the curved
sica
sword with confidence, an experienced warrior. Spartacus will need to watch out for him.

The third opponent is a
laquearius
, but instead of a rope he carries a steel chain. He will hope to entangle Spartacus’s own weapon and pull it from his grasp.

Let him try. I’ve not survived so long relying just on my sword.