The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair Page A

something.”
    “No, it’s true, they are the best, but I actually do need something of you.”
    “Ah, I knew it. I can read you better than my deva cards.”
    “Not a doubt in my mind, but I do have a request, small but important.”
    She waited, expecting me to add some task to her daily chores, which wouldn’t have irked her in the least. She looked a tad disappointed when I said, “It’s important that you tell no one that Devamukti and I traveled outside the city yesterday. No mention of caves, photographs, or a journey, nothing at all. Okay?”
    In addition to all the other things Sahr did well, she understood when I was serious about a request, and unlike Lalji, I could depend upon her prudence. He was my weak link, and she--by the nature of her consultations--was quite discreet.
    “As Bhimaji wishes,” She looked at me as if the specters of ill fortune were still floating around my head. “and I will not ask the reason for this secrecy, though I am certain that it has something to do with the danger that Durgabal and my cards predicted.”
    “We are not in any danger, Sahr. It is just important no one hear that Master and I went to this place. You know how people talk about us ferenghis and what we do.”
    She smiled for the first time that morning. “Yes, Bhimaji. Bahut, bahut gupchup in this city.”
    “Well, let’s make sure there isn’t any gupchup about my journey.” I tried to look as authoritative as possible. “And if you will be so kind as to remind Lalji of this. A firm reminder?”
    “It will be my pleasure. And what would the rajah of the house wish for dinner tonight? That is assuming he will be here for dinner.”
    “I will definitely be here, Most Glorious One, and I will dine on your best selections. You prepare whatever delights come to mind and I will be here. How’s that for an answer?”
    She grinned. “That is a good answer, Master Bhim.” She turned to the pantry, while I went to the salon to read the newspaper and load the photographs from the camera into the laptop.
    The local news wasn’t good. Followers of Yakoob Qereshy had decided a protest march wasn’t a clear enough signal to send to the authorities for detaining Muslims. A police station in Jaunpur, between Lucknow and Varanasi, had been attacked and torched overnight. No one was injured, but the message of anger had been sent.
    I looked out the window. Still no sign of rain.

     
     
    Ten
    There were two reasons I was certain no thief would attempt to steal the bicycle I left unlocked on the right side of my villa. It was so old and looked so unsafe as to be un-rideable even by Asian standards. It also had a frame with seat raised so high any thief would have toppled headlong into the first tree along the escape route. She was unsightly, shimmied unmercifully on hard right turns, and she was mine. I knew every nuance of her maneuverability, and after hours of careful consideration I’d dubbed her Ugly Bike. On better days, Miss Ugly. I loved every square centimeter of her disfigured surface. Five days a week I would swing a leg over the saddle and pump her mud-caked pedals like a log-roller to weave down Shivanan Avenue, scattering chickens, children, and dogs like a mad horseman. I was a seasoned cyclist in the streets of South Nagpur and even wily rickshaw drivers paid me homage. The image of colliding with such a large ferenghi on such an ugly bicycle put enough fear in their hearts, or sense in their heads, that they pulled prudently to the side whenever I hurtled towards them.
    My home was on the southern edge of Varanasi, in a less populated neighborhood two hundred meters from The Ganges. The villa had been a fortuitous discovery a month after my arrival. All the others I had inspected were either in very crowded neighborhoods or so rundown and mildewed as to deter me from living in them. My house was spacious and clean, with a shaded courtyard, a wall with wrought iron fence and rusty blades jutting from