the steps Ash spotted a large stone shield over the main entrance. It was carved with three bulbous flowers and a pair of crossed swords.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Are they thistles?”
Uncle Vik adjusted his glasses. “No, poppies. The Savage family made its first fortune in the Opium Wars with China.”
“And the motto?” Ash read the scroll under the shield. “Ex dolor adveho opulentia?”
“Through misery comes profit.”
Nice.
They clambered up the steep, damp passageway and soon emerged into a crowded courtyard, decorated for a party. Servants, dressed in white and wearing golden turbans and sashes, carried silver trays of drinks and food among a field of colour. Silken pavilions dotted the large grass-covered square.
There were maybe a hundred guests, and soon Ash’s uncle and aunt lost themselves in the crowd. Lucky spotted a gang of younger kids and ran off to play.
Ash decided to explore.
Classical Indian music played from one of the hidden galleries. The dream-like sound suited the palace. Marble statues dotted the corners of the courtyard and the walls bore vast carvings of heroes and monsters, which Ash recognised as images from Indian mythology. One wall was filled with a battle scene taken from the epic tale of the Ramayana, probably the most famous of Indian legends and Ash’s favourite.
A giant golden warrior dominated the picture, his eyes blazing with fury, his mouth open in a silent roar of rage. He swung a pair of massive swords, reaping men left and right.
All around him lay corpses, and behind him stood his army of demons: hideous human-animal hybrids with scales or fur-covered bodies, tails or wings.
It was Ravana, the demon king.
To the far left of the wall, almost off it, was a warrior with his bow raised and an arrow pointed at Ravana. The artist had painted the arrow with obvious care, surrounding it with flames and inlaying its centre with gold leaf. This wasn’t just any arrow. It was an aastra, a weapon charged with the power of a god.
The scene caught the demon king’s last moment. Any second now the arrow, the aastra, would be launched and penetrate his heart, shattering him. And only one hero could shoot it: the hero Rama.
“What do you think?” said a voice from behind him.
A figure stepped out of the shadows and approached Ash.
“Namaste,” he said.
English for sure, the man wore a fine white linen suit with a pale silk shirt, so the only points of colour were his blue eyes, two brilliant chips of the coldest ice. Ash caught his breath as the man came into the glow of a nearby forest of candles.
It was as though his face had been shattered, then crudely recast. Deep irregular grooves covered his skin, which shone with waxy transparency, revealing a fine network of veins beneath. Limp clumps of brittle white hair hung from his liver-spotted scalp.
His gloved hand tightened round the silver tiger-headed handle of his cane. The ruby eyes of the beast sparkled as they watched Ash. The man inclined his head.
“I am Alexander Savage.”
“Beautiful, isn’t he?” said Savage. He drew his fingers over the outline of the demon king’s face. “Even with his destruction at hand, defiant to the last.”
“He’s horrific.” Ash wasn’t sure if he was talking about the gruesome frieze or Savage himself.
“You think so? Why?”
“He was the demon king. He threatened the entire world.”
“And the world is such a pleasant place now, is it?”
Ash looked again at the glaring eyes of Ravana. The face seemed alive, a mask of arrogant fury and pure hate. “At least it’s not a hell. That’s what Ravana wanted, a world fit for demons.”
Savage looked at him inquisitively, tapping his walking stick against the flagstone. “Well said, lad, well said.”
A woman broke from the crowd and joined them. Dressed in a white silk sari embroidered with spider webs she towered above Ash like a willowy goddess, but close up he saw that the make-up had been laid on heavy; her face was smooth and rigid from a layer of powder, as lifeless as a mannequin’s, her jet-black hair arranged in eight, curving tresses. The woman’s gaze paused on him and there was a flicker of a condescending smile. Ash saw himself reflected in her big, wrap-around sunglasses. He looked small and insignificant.
“Sir, the board of directors are here,” she said.
“It’s been interesting talking with you,” he said to Ash. “Enjoy the party.” He took the woman’s hand and entered the gathering. But even as the sea of people began to swirl and circle around him, Savage briefly looked back at Ash, his smile locked rigidly in place.
“Where’s your sister?” Anita appeared beside him.
“She’s probably just gone off to the loo.”
Everyone got some stomach problems when they hit India, the “Delhi Belly” – it was inevitable. Well, everyone but Ash. Vik had joked that Ash could do with a dose as he could afford to lose a few kilos. But Ash wasn’t fat. He was just… well-covered.
Anita glanced at Vik, who was gesturing at her. He was talking to Savage, and clearly needed her.
Ash sighed. “I’ll find Lucky.”
It was weird, half the time they were winding one another up, but when it came down to it, he and his sister were close. True, they didn’t play much together any more – he was thirteen, after all – but he had read her all the Harry Potters when she’d been younger. He was the eldest and it was his job to look after his little sister. It was the Indian way.
Anita’s wrinkled brow flattened and smoothed. She smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “You are a good boy.”
Ash stopped one of the waiters and asked him where the toilets were. The guy, trying to keep a tray of martinis from spilling, just waved over his shoulder, then hurried off.
Ash wandered towards the main building and peered through the half-open doors that led into a dimly lit hallway.
“Lucks?” His voice vanished into the marble-clad hall, bouncing between the walls until it was swallowed by the darkness. Ash proceeded in.
Light shone from within an ancient bronze pendant lantern high above him, its coloured glass walls casting a jigsaw of amber, red and green over the peeling and broken plaster. Mounted on opposite walls were two huge mirrors with elaborate gilt frames. Their backing silver had long since tarnished to black, so the reflections were tainted, dark and faint, like
