“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.
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.”
He drew a shaky breath, then sat up and scrubbed both hands over his face. “It was…beyond ghastly.” After a moment, he glanced at the other two. “We have to stop this madman.”
Del grimaced. “Did you see Rafe?”
“Only early on. He headed further east, up into the hills. He was hoping to find the edges of the Cobra’s territory, to see if any village was resisting in the hope they’d trade information for assistance.”
Gareth humphed. “Searching for a fight, as always.” It was said without rancor.
Logan looked out across the maidan. “Aren’t we all?”
Del followed his gaze to where, far beyond the open fort gates, a dust cloud drew steadily nearer.
By the time the cloud had passed through the distant gates, it had resolved into Rafe at the head of the troop of sowars he’d commandeered for his mission.
Just one look at Rafe’s face as he drew rein some yards away to spare them the inevitable dust was enough to answer their most urgent question. He hadn’t fared any better than Logan in gaining evidence of the Black Cobra’s identity.
Handing his reins to the sergeant, Rafe walked to the verandah, weariness-nay, exhaustion-in every line of his long frame. Eschewing the steps, he came to the railing beyond which they sat, crossed his forearms upon it and laid his tousled and dusty blond head on his arms. His voice reached them, muffled, strangely hoarse. “Please tell me that one of you found something-
None of them replied.
Rafe’s shoulders slumped as he sighed, then he lifted his head and they saw his face clearly. Something more than dejection haunted his eyes.
Logan shifted forward. “You found something.”
Rafe dragged in a breath, glanced back to where his troop were dispersing, nodded. “At one village where the elders had already bowed to the Black Cobra’s demands-did you know he’s taking half-
After a moment, he went on, “There was nothing for us there, but one of the younger men lay in wait for us as we were riding on-he told us of a village further east that was resisting the fiend’s demands. We rode there as fast as we could.”
His gaze on the maidan, Rafe paused. His voice was lower, gruffer, when he went on, “We were too late. The village had been razed. And there were bodies…men, women, and children, raped and mutilated, tortured and
