Mercedes Lackey - EM 3 - The Serpents Shadow

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Mercedes Lackey

The Serpent's Shadow

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corrected by flipsake

Maya's father was a perfectly respectable British doctor in

Victoria's Army, which was stationed in India. While the British were

despised by most of the people of India, her father was liked and

even admired by those he cared for. But then he fell in love with

Surya, a beautiful, compelling, and magical native. They ignored the

taboos of both their cultures, married, and produced a child. Her

name was Maya, and she was instantly an outcast in both cultures.

Although Maya's parents tried to raise her awareness of the realities

of being a Eurasian child, even they were unprepared for the hatred

of Shivani, Surya's twin sister. Shivani hated all things British --

and half-British. She first caused the death of Maya's mother, and

then her father. Maya knew she was next.

Having inherited both the skills of her father as a doctor and the

magical abilities of her mother, albeit without the proper training,

she felt she had no choice but to move to England.

Once in England, Maya's drive to learn more about magic and medicine

propels her forward into some unlikely situations and revelations.

She discovers that her mother was right about one thing: Maya is, in

fact, the prophesied Earth Master.

Cover art by Jody A. Lee.

DAW Book Collectors No. 1177.

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam Inc.

Book designed by Stanley S. Drate/Folio Graphics Co. Inc.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All

resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that

this book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and

destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the

publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

First Paperback Printing, March 2002 123456789

This E-BOOK is NOT for sale!!!

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES -MARCA

REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A

for Mike Gilbert we'll miss you

Dear readers, One of the joys of writing historical fantasy is the

occasion to use existing quotes or references to actual events.

However, as a fantasy writer I reserve the right to bend history as

well as create magic. So as you read, if you happen to come across a

cited event or quotation which seems inaccurate to the period, please

humor me, and remember that the world of this book is not our world,

but a place which exits only in my imagination.

Mercedes R. Lackey

LEADEN, self-important silence isolated the chief surgeon's office

from the clamor of the hospital and the clangor of the street

outside. A rain-dark day, a dim, chill room filled with cold, heavy,

imposing mahogany office furniture and lined with ebony bookshelves

containing dreary brown leather-bound volumes so perfectly arranged

that it was not possible that any of them had ever been taken down

and used-the room in which Maya found herself was designed to cow,

confine, and intimidate. But Maya Witherspoon, though depressed by an

atmosphere so alien to her native India, had spent most of her life

perfecting the art of keeping a serene and unreadable expression on

her face. All that practice stood her in good stead now.

Across from her, enthroned behind his mahogany desk of continental

proportions, sat Doctor Octavian Clayton-Smythe, Chief Medical

Officer of St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington, in the rattling heart of

London.

One of Kipling's "little tin gods," she thought irreverently,

clasping her ice-cold, black-gloved hands tightly on top of the

handbag in her lap. He would fit in quite perfectly in the Colonial

Service. Stiffly propped up in his armor of utter respectability ...

sure of his importance, so intent on forcing others to acknowledge

it.

Cocooned in the somber black woolen suit of the medical profession,

as if he sat in mourning for all the patients he had managed to kill,

he frowned down at the results of her various academic examinations-

results that should leave no doubt in the mind of any sensible person

that she was fitter to be granted the sacred title of "Doctor of

Medicine and Surgery" than a good many of the young men who would

have that very accolade bestowed on them in the course of this year

of Our Lord, 1909. In point of fact, she already had that title-in

her homeland of India. This, however, was not India; it was London,

England, the heart of the British Empire and of civilization as the

English knew it. And as such, there were two distinct handicaps to

her ambition that Maya labored beneath at this moment. The first was

her sex. Although female doctors were not unknown here, there were no

more than three hundred in the British Isles, and most probably the

actual number was less than that.

The second was that although Maya's father had been a perfectly

respectable British doctor serving in the Army, stationed at Delhi,

and although Maya herself had obtained her degree as a physician in

the University of Delhi, her mother had not been a fellow exile. She

had been a native, a Brahmin of high caste. And although in India it

had been Surya who had wedded far beneath her state, the reverse was

true here, and Maya, as a (to put it crudely) half-breed, bore the

sign of her mother's non-English blood in her dusky complexion. All

else could be disguised with education, clothing, careful diction,

but not that. Maya's knee-length black hair had been knotted into a

pompadour and covered with a proper hat and veil, her body wrapped in

good British wool of proper tailoring, her accent trained away with

years of careful, self-imposed lessons in speech. Yet none of that

mattered very much to someone who was so fiercely determined to

consider Maya as one of the barbaric and alien "They."

It was raining again outside the hospital; it seemed to Maya that it

was always raining here. Cold wind blew the raindrops against the

glass of the office windows, and Maya was glad of the warmth of her

woolen suit coat-for she, too, was encased in the feminine version of

the uniform of the office she aspired to, plus the added burden of

corset, petticoats, and all the other wrappings deemed necessary to

"decent" dressing. Doctor Clayton-Smythe had a gas fire laid on in

his office, but he had not bothered to have it lit. Perhaps he didn't

feel the cold; after all, it was spring by the British calendar, and

the good doctor had plenty of good English fat to insulate him, seal-

like, from the cold.

He looks more like a walrus, though. I believe he probably bellows at

his wife, and means as much by it as a walrus bellowing at his little

cow.

Doctor Clayton-Smythe cleared his throat, immediately capturing her

attention. "Your results are . . . remarkable," he said cautiously.

She nodded, part modest acknowledgment, part caution on her own part.

In a way, she felt strangely calm; she had been nervous before this

battle, but now that the enemy was engaged, her mind was cool,

weighing every least inflection. Not yet time to say anything, I

think.

Now the doctor looked up, at long last, meeting her eyes for the

first time. He was a heavy man; the English staple diet of cream,

cheese, beef and bread, vegetables boiled to tastelessness, heavy

pastry, and more beef, had given him a florid complexion and jowls

that were only imperfectly hidden behind old-fashioned gray mutton-

chop whiskers and a heavy mustache, a salt - and - pepper color that

matched his hair. If he doesn't yet suffer from gout, he will, she

thought dispassionately, and his heart will not long be able to

maintain his increasing bulk. Gray hair, neatly trimmed, and rather

washed-out blue eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses completed the

portrait of a highly successful physician and surgeon; the head of

his hospital, and a man who could deny her not only the right to

practice here in his hospital but certification to practice medicine

in the British Isles if he chose to exert his influence. However,

Maya had chosen her adversary with care; if this man certified her,

no one in the United Kingdom would ever deny her expertise.

"How old are you, if I may ask?" he continued.

"Five and twenty," she replied crisply. "And that may seem a trifle

young to you to have become a physician and surgeon. But I had been

studying medicine under the tutelage of my father since I was old

enough to read, and achieved Doctor of Medicine at the University of

Delhi at the age of twenty-two."

He nodded slowly. "And you were practicing alongside your father as

well?"

"I was certified in India as a practicing physician," she reminded

him, taking pains to keep her impatience and growing frustration out

of her voice. "I was my father's partner in his practice. Wives and

daughters of military personnel felt more comfortable consulting a

female physician in matters of a personal and delicate nature. I

aided him as a physician in my own right for a period of nearly four

years."

"That was in India; you might find ladies feel differently about you

here," he replied, the expected hint that her mixed blood would prove

a handicap, and a more tactful hint than she had expected.

She smiled a small, cold smile, as cold as her feet in those

wretched, tight little leather "walking" shoes she'd laced onto her

feet. "The women of the poor take what they are offered; and for that

matter, so do the men," she told him. "They can hardly afford to take

their patronage elsewhere, since there is no alternative. I will-if

certified-be undertaking work for certain Christian charities. The

Fleet Charity Clinic, to be precise." There were also certain

suffragist.charities she would be working for as well, but it wasn't

wise to mention those.

Charity work would scarcely allow her to earn much of a living, which

was why most male physicians wouldn't even consider it. She would not

tell him what else she had in mind to augment her income.

He brightened a little at that. Probably because I won't be a threat

to the practices of any of the young male physicians, who have wives

with the proper attitudes to support, she thought, amused in spite of

her resentment. She suppressed the desire to sniff, as her nose

tickled a little.

"Far be it from me to become an impediment to someone who wishes to

devote herself to the welfare of the poor," he replied with ponderous

piety, and removed a document from beneath the results of her

examinations, signing it quickly. He passed it to her over the desk;

she received it in those black-gloved hands-black, for she was still

in mourning for her father, and though Society might forgive the

occasional breach of strict mourning in a young white woman, it would

never do so for her. The year of formal mourning was not yet up, and

in the interest of economy, she had already decided to prolong it as

long as she could. Mourning colors gave her a certain safety. Even a

brute would not offer too much insult to a woman in mourning, even if

she was a half-breed.

That paper was her medical certification, giving her the authority to

practice medicine, and the right to practice surgery here in this

hospital, admit patients, and treat them here.

"Congratulations, Doctor Witherspoon," he continued. "And may I

repeat that the results of your examinations are remarkable,

including those in surgery. I dare say your skills are equally

outstanding."

"Thank you very much, Doctor," she replied with feigned meekness and

gratitude; he swelled with self-importance, mistaking it for the

genuine emotion. "I hope I will succeed in surpassing your

expectations."

She rose. He did the same. She extended her right hand; he pressed it

once in token of farewell, released it quickly, then immediately

seated himself as she turned to leave. She was not important enough

for him to remain standing until after she was gone, nor worthy of

his time to be given a heartier handshake or more of his attention.

She closed the door of the office behind her, carefully and quietly,

then smiled-this time with real warmth-at the doctor's receptionist

and secretary, a young man with thin, blond hair, who had sincerely

wished her good luck on her way in. She met his questioning blue

eyes, and held up her signed certification in a gesture of triumph.

The young man nodded vigorously, clasped both hands above his head in

an athlete's gesture of victory, and gave a silent cheer. Maya's

companion, a plump, animated woman three years her junior, who was

seated in one of two chairs for visitors placed in this stuffy little

reception room, was a trifle less circumspect.

"Oh, Maya! Well done!" Amelia Drew said aloud, leaping up from her

chair to embrace her friend. Maya kissed her proffered cheek, waved

cheerfully at the secretary, and guided Amelia out the door and into

the hospital corridor before Amelia said anything that Doctor

Clayton-Smythe might overhear and interpret as unflattering.

Nurses in nun like uniforms hurried past, carrying trays and basins.

Young men, medical students all, arrayed in their medical black,

strode through the corridor like the would-be kings they all were.

Maya closed the reception-chamber door behind Amelia, and Amelia cast

off any pretense of restraint, skipping like a schoolgirl. "You did

it! You got the old crustacean to bend and give you your

certification!"

"Not a crustacean, my dear. That was a fat, grumpy walrus on his very

own sacred spot of beach." Maya's grimace betrayed her distaste. "It

was a narrower thing than I care to think about." She stepped around

an elderly charwoman scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees,

bundled in so many layers of clothing her true shape could not be

determined.

Amelia dodged a medical student on the run-probably late for a

surgery. "But your marks were so good. And the letters from the other

doctors at Royal Free Hospital-"

"I wasn't entirely certain of success, even with the highest of

examination results," she replied, as they traversed the polished oak

of the corridor, the starched frills of their petticoats rustling

around their booted ankles. Amelia's costume, severe, and plain, was

identical to Maya's but of dove-gray rather than stark black. Amelia

was in the midst of her own medical education. Fortunately, both her

parents were as supportive of her ambition as Maya's had been.

Unfortunately, this gave young Amelia a distorted view of the

prejudices of the majority of the male population of her land.

"I don't think I convinced him until I told him that I intended to

practice among the poor." Maya smiled again, then laughed, thinking

what shock the poor mummified man would have felt had she told him

the entire truth.

"There's no harm in intentions, is there?" Amelia giggled. "And if

there are those besides the poor who decide to ask for your services,

well, that has nothing to do with your intentions."

"True enough," Maya laughed. "But can you imagine what he would have

said if he had known what I really planned to do?" Now that she was

up and moving, warmth and life had returned to her feet, at least.

And now that the ordeal was over and her victory laurels were firmly

in her hands, she was feeling celebratory and just a little reckless.

Amelia was the only person outside Maya's household who knew what

Maya intended, and even she blushed a brilliant scarlet as they moved

side by side across the echoing foyer, heels clicking smartly on the

tiles. "I daren't even guess," Amelia murmured, fanning her scarlet

cheeks to cool them.

Just before they reached the doors giving out onto the street, Maya's

fingers moved surreptitiously, and she murmured a few words that

Amelia did not hear. She sensed a thin breath of energy wafting

upward from the well of strength within her, and as they stepped out

into the weather, the rain ceased for a moment.

"Well! There's more luck!" Amelia exclaimed as the clouds parted a

little, letting a glimpse of blue peek through. She raised her hand

imperiously, signaling their need for transportation. There was

always a great coming and going of cabs here, both horse-drawn and

motorized, and they procured a hansom without any difficulty

whatsoever. Maya climbed in and gave her address to the driver

through the little hatch above. It shut with a snap, and Amelia

joined her.

It was, as she had specified with her tiny exercise of magic, a clean

cab: no mud or worse on the floor, no cigar ash anywhere. And just as

they settled themselves within the shelter of their conveyance and

pulled their skirts well in, away from possible mud splashes, the

rain began again. The cab moved off into a thin curtain of gray, the

poor horse's ears signaling his dislike of the wet.

This was just as Maya had intended. It didn't do to change anything

with magic, not if one wanted to remain undetected; one could only

arrange. In this case, the break in the clouds that would have

occurred a little later, and a few blocks away, happened above them

and at the time they left the building, and closed again as soon as

they were in shelter. And the cab was in good repair, the driver

neither drunk nor mean spirited.

The precious certificate, now folded and safely inside Maya's

handbag, rested beneath her hands on her lap. Amelia made small talk

to which Maya responded with half of her attention. London, from

within the partial enclosure of the hansom, was an assault on the

senses of a very different sort than the heart of Delhi. In place of

the scent-no, call it what it was, the stench-of hot, baked earth,

dust, sweat, and dung, the smell of London enveloped them in damp,

mold and mildew, wet wool, wet horse, smoke, stagnant water, the

acrid tang of motor exhaust, a hint of sewage and horse droppings,

and the river smell of the Thames. Harsher, deeper voices than the

rapid twitter of her peoples' myriad tongues fell upon the ear. There

was no bawl of livestock, only the clatter of wheels and hooves on

cobblestones, neighing, the jingle of harness, and the alien noise of

a motorcar or 'bus. And, of course, the atmosphere, so cheerless, so

cold. . . .

But she had no other choice now; this was her home, and this strange

island her refuge. If she was ever to find protection, it would be

here. Her enemy was even more alien to this environment than she was.

She shook off her dark mood with an effort, turning all of her

attention to her companion. Amelia was the most sensible, practical,

and dauntless young woman that Maya had ever met. From the moment

that they encountered each other at the London School of Medicine for

Women, Maya had felt they had been friends or even sisters before, in

some other lifetime. Naturally, she had not said anything of the sort

to Amelia, who would only have been confused. The Church of England

did not admit to the reincarnation of souls.

"Well, it will be your turn to beard the dragon in his den in another

year or so," she told Amelia, who laughed.

"I am going to practice at the Royal Free Hospital," she replied.

"They, at least, are open to women physicians. I'm not so ambitious

as you."

"It wasn't ambition, it was necessity," Maya told her soberly. "What

if Royal Free had balked? I would have nowhere to turn-"

"But why should they balk?" Amelia interrupted.

Maya gestured wordlessly to her own face, and Amelia flushed. "If I

tried and failed to obtain certification at St. Mary's, then Royal

Free would likely have certified me just out of spite," she continued

cheerfully. "My father always taught me to try the hardest path

first, you know, although if I had seen that man before I made that

plan, I would have thought twice about the wisdom of it."

"I hadn't thought of that." Amelia pursed her lips. "Still, that

won't do for me. St. Mary's might accept a woman physician, but

they'll never accept a woman as a student. Not now, anyway. Perhaps

in a few years."

"There is nothing wrong with Royal Free," Maya said firmly, "And a

good many things that are right." She might have elaborated on the

subject, but the cab had just turned down the shabby-genteel street

that housed her home and surgery and was pulling up at the front

door. Gupta, a shapeless bundle of waxed mackintosh and identifiable

only by the white chalwars stuffed into his Wellingtons that peeked

from under the hem of the mac, was setting the last screw into the

inscribed brass plate beside her door-a plate that proclaimed this to

be the surgery of Dr. M. Wither-spoon.

"I suppose we won't see much of you anymore," Amelia said wistfully,

as Maya dismounted from the hansom.

"Nonsense! You'll see me on Thursday at the latest, or have you

forgotten our luncheon date?" Maya replied instantly. "Not to mention

that you are welcome here at any hour of the day or night. Now, you

go back to your studies, while I see what Gupta has found for me."

She circled around to the driver, perched up above the passenger

compartment in the weather, and handed him a guinea-more than enough

for her fare and Amelia's with a generous tip. "London School of

Medicine for Women, please," she told him briskly. "My companion has

a class at two."

"I'll 'ave 'er there well afore, ma'am," the cabby said, impressed by

the guinea, if by nothing else. He chirruped to his horse, who

trotted off without needing a slap of the reins or a touch of the

whip. Amelia's gray-gloved hand waved farewell from the side of the

cab, and Maya turned to Gupta.

"Was this bravado or anticipation, my friend?" she asked in

Hindustani, touching the plaque.

"Neither, mem sahib," Gupta replied. "We knew, we all knew, you could

not fail." His round, brown face held an expression of such earnest

certainty that she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Well, let us go in out of this miserable weather. Come to me in the

conservatory, and tell me what has happened to make you so sure of

me." She waited while he put a last polish to the plate with a rag he

stuffed back in his pocket, then moved past him into the little house

she had bought to shelter her odd little "family."

It had taken most of her inheritance to buy it and fit it up, and had

it been in better repair, or a better neighborhood, she could not

have managed it. But because it was so shabby and had required the

tearing out of walls, she had been able to install a great many

comforts that better dwellings could not boast. The house was lit by

electric light, which was much safer than gas. Hot water from a coal-

fired boiler in the cellar circulated through the house via pipes and

radiators, a luxury often used to keep conservatories and hothouses

warm in winter on the Great Estates. More hot water was available for

cleaning and bathing at all times, laid on in the bathrooms, without

the need to heat water on the stove and carry it up in cans. At last

she was warm enough so that she was able to throw off her coat as

soon as she entered the front hall.

She had arranged for the hallway to be painted, rather than papered,

in white. Furnished with pegs for coats, a bench for waiting

patients, and a small table holding a brass dish from India for

calling cards, she had hung prints of some of her father's favorite

paintings on the walls. The impression was warmer than that of a

hospital, but not "homelike"-wise, since this was the entrance to her

surgery as well as to her home.

It was scarcely possible that she would have any patients calling

yet, and she longed to shed her woolen suit with the coat and revert

to more comfortable garb.

Not yet. Not yet. But I shall be rid of these confounded shoes! Why

is it that attractive shoes are a torture to wear?

Hanging her coat on its peg in the hall, she passed the door to her

examining room and surgery (formerly the parlor and smoking room) and

climbed the stairs to the next floor. Here were the bedrooms, all

alike, and the bathroom fitted up with the most modern of

appointments. Her room was at the back of the house, away from street

noise. The second bedroom, connected to hers, served as her parlor

and sitting room.

Gupta had the third bedroom, and his son Gopal and his son's wife

Sumi the fourth. Gopal and Sumi's four children shared the nursery on

the floor above, where the servants' quarters had once been. Gupta

had been her father's friend as well as his servant- but more

importantly, he had been Surya's devoted guardian. There had been no

question of whether or not the family would emigrate when Maya fled

to England; she would have had to lock them all in prison to prevent

them from coming with her.

Gupta had seen a great deal in his fifty-odd years, and she rather

thought he was unshockable, which was just as well, considering what

she was planning. She needed the help of a male to carry it out, and

Gupta was the ideal man for the job.

The door to her bedroom stood invitingly open, and she hurried

through it. With a sigh of relief, she sank down into a chair and

unlaced her shoes. Exchanging them for soft leather slippers, she

hesitated a moment, then shrugged.

Ridiculous. There is no reason to go out, and unlikely that anyone

but a friend will call. I am getting out of this rig!

The rooms of this house were so tiny, compared with those in the

bungalow in India. She had enough room to pass between the pieces of

furniture, chair, bed, trunk, wardrobe, and table, but no more.

Never, ever would she have needed the featherbed at home! Here, it,

and the down-filled duvet and woolen blankets were absolute

necessities, for not even the hot-water pipes could prevent the house

from cooling at night.

In a trice, she slipped off the coat and skirt of her suit and hung

them up on the outside of the mahogany wardrobe to be brushed later.

The shirtwaist followed, then the corset cover, which she laid on the

lace coverlet of the bed, and at last she could unhook the front busk

of the corset and rid herself of the unwelcome constriction. At last

she could move! She never laced her corsets anywhere near as tight as

fashion dictated; she flattered herself to think that she didn't need

to. Nevertheless, the garment restricted movement, if only because it

was designed around what a lady would consider appropriate movement.

Maya had chafed against those restrictions as a girl, and her

feelings hadn't changed in the least now that she was an adult.

Fashion be hanged.

The corset joined the rest of her undergarments on the bed. Donning a

far more comfortable flannel wrapper dress of a chocolate brown over

her uncorseted petticoat, she went back out into the hall, then

descended the stair at her end of the upstairs hall, passing the

kitchen on her way to the conservatory. Gopal was in the throes of

creativity in there, and she paused a moment to sniff the heavenly,

familiar aromas appreciatively. Gopal had reacted to the presence of

the modern iron stove set into the arch of the fireplace with tears

of joy-though many of his countrymen preferred to cook over a tiny

charcoal fire, Gopal was an artist and appreciated good tools. With

so many thousands of British soldiers and civilians going out to

Colonial Service and returning with a hunger for the foods they had

grown accustomed to, it was a simple matter for Gopal to procure

virtually any spice or foodstuff he required for them all to eat the

way they had at home.

Home. Odd how the other Eurasians she had met would speak of Britain

as Home-a "home" they had never seen-with as much longing as the

expatriates. Home for Maya was and always would be India, the place

where she had been born and where she had spent most of her life. How

could you long for a place you had never even seen?

She stepped through the French doors into the warmth of her

conservatory-which had required the lion's share of her inheritance

to build-and was almost Home.

A little judicious use of magic had caused the flowering vines

planted around the walls of the conservatory to grow at an

accelerated pace, hiding the brickwork and the view of the houses on

all sides. Passion flowers flung their great starburst blooms against

the green of the vines. In bloom at all times and seasons, they

filled the air with perfume, as did the jasmine, both day-and night-

blooming. A fountain and generous pool added warm humidity and the

music of falling water, the hot-water pipes around the perimeter a

tropical heat. Here were the flowers she loved, and here, too, were

her pets-

Not pets. Friends.

They rushed to greet her as soon as she set food on the gravel of her

path-first the pair of mongooses, Sia and Singhe, romping toward her

with their peculiar humpbacked gait. Rhadi, the ring-necked parrot,

dove for her right shoulder, long tail trailing out behind him like a

streamer, while the saker falcon Mala dropped down onto her left.

Neither so much as scratched her skin, so soft footed were they, and

though Mala was death incarnate to the sparrows, starlings, and

pigeons, he would sooner starve than touch a feather of Rhadi's head.

The peacock Rajah strode toward her with more dignity, his tail

spread for her admiration. And last of all, Charan, her little

monkey, sprang into her arms as soon as she held them out for him.

Only the owl, named Nisha, whose round eyes seemed to stare straight

into one's heart, did not stir from her slumber in the hollow of a

dead oak tree that showed what a fine garden had once stood here.

Maya had left it there for the benefit of her birds, who all found it

a fine place to perch, and the vines twined around it just as happily

as they climbed the brick of the walls, giving it a kind of new life.

"And have you been good?" she asked them all, as the mongooses romped

around her ankles and the monkey put his arms around her neck,

chattering softly into her ear. The falcon gave her a swift touch of

his beak by way of a caress, and took off again to land in the tree.

The peacock shivered his tail feathers, and Rhadi said in his clear

little voice, "Good! Good!" and laughed, following Mala up into the

tree.

She laughed with him, and carried Charan to her favorite seat in the

garden, a closely woven rattan chair with a huge back that mimicked a

peacock's tail. From here she could see only the green of her plants,

the fountain and pool; she could forget for a while the cold world

outside.

In a moment, Gopal brought mint tea, and placed the tray with two

glasses on the rattan table beside her. Gupta arrived without a

sound, as was his wont, materializing beside her and taking a second,

smaller chair on the other side of the table, also facing the pool

and fountain. He poured for both of them, and they each took a moment

to savor the hot sweetness in companionable silence.

"We will prosper, mem sahib," Gupta said with satisfaction, putting

his glass back down empty. "We will prosper. There is great progress

today." He smiled. "I went, as you instructed, to the theater last

night. I left your card with the man who attends to the stage door,

and also with the stage manager, and the ballet master. I made

mention that you were of liberal mind, and not one of those inclined

to attempt reform on those who were merely making a living for

themselves. It was he who asked for several more cards, on seeing it

and hearing my words, and made me to believe that he would be giving

them to some of the young ladies."

"Aha!" Maya responded. The cards she had given to Gupta, unlike her

"official" business cards, had not been printed up, but had been

calligraphed elegantly and by her own hand, because what they implied

was risky, even scandalous.

Doctor Maya Witherspoon, Lady Physician. Female complaints. Absolute

discretion, and her address. On the next lot, she would add, Licensed

to practice at St. Mary's, Paddington, and Royal Free Hospital.

What the cards implied was that she would treat the women who came to

her for treatment of their "female complaints"-including inconvenient

or unwedded pregnancy-without a lecture or a word slipped outside the

office. And that she would give instructions and supplies to prevent

inconvenient pregnancy, regardless of marital status.

"Ah, but I was wise and cunning, mem sahib," Gupta continued, his

face wreathed in smiles. "I followed well-dressed gentlemen as they

left the theater last night, and marked the houses they went to. This

morning I looked the houses over, and chose the finest. There, too,

did I leave your card, and pleased were the dwellers in those places

to see it, though one did sigh that it was too bad you were a lady

and they could not pay for your services with an exchange of trade."

"Gupta!" she exclaimed, and giggled, although her cheeks did heat up.

"That was very well done! How clever of you!" She had not been able

to work out a way to get her cards into the hands of the mistresses

of the wealthy men of London. Now Gupta had managed that, and once

one or two of the "Great Horizontals" came to her, they would see

that the rest of their set knew her name.

"Yes," Gupta replied, not at all modest. "I know, mem sahib. I think

you will have callers tomorrow, if not today." He cast his eye around

the garden, which was growing darker as evening approached. "Will you

have your tea here, mem sahib? I could light the lamps."

"Please," she said, as Charan nestled down into a corner of the

chair. "And if friends call, bring them here instead of the parlor."

"And callers of another sort?" Gupta raised his eyebrows to signal

what he meant.

"Use your own judgment," she told him. "You are a wise man, Gupta; I

think you will know best whether to summon me to the office or bring

the caller here."

Gopal soon brought her tea, a hybrid mix of the High Teas of India

and of Britain. She shared the feast with her menagerie, other than

Mala and Nisha, who ate only what they hunted, or the starlings and

pigeons Gopal's eldest boy brought down with his catapult. Charan

adored the clotted cream, as did Sia and Singhe; the latter swarmed

up her skirt into her lap to lick their paws and faces clean as Rajah

picked at the last tea-cake.

There is one good thing about this cold country, she thought,

scratching the two little rowdies under their chins. It is too cold

for snakes.

Or at least, it was at the moment.

She could only pray it would remain that way.

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MercedesLackeyTheSerpent'sShadowscannedbyGinevracorrectedbyflipsakeMaya'sfatherwasaperfectlyrespectableBritishdoctorinVictoria'sArmy,whichwasstationedinIndia.WhiletheBritishweredespisedbymostofthepeopleofIndia,herfatherwaslikedandevenadmiredbythosehecaredfor.ButthenhefellinlovewithSurya,abeautiful,c...

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Mercedes Lackey - EM 3 - The Serpents Shadow

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