Ghost Fire

  Praise for the novels of

  “Read on, adventure fans.”

  The New York Times

  “A rich, compelling look back in time [to] when history and myth intermingled.”

  San Francisco Chronicle

  “Only a handful of 20th century writers tantalize our senses as well as Smith. A rare author who wields a razor-sharp sword of craftsmanship.”

  Tulsa World

  “He paces his tale as swiftly as he can with swordplay aplenty and killing strokes that come like lightning out of a sunny blue sky.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  “Best Historical Novelist—I say Wilbur Smith, with his swashbuckling novels of Africa. The bodices rip and the blood flows. You can get lost in Wilbur Smith and misplace all of August.”

  Stephen King

  “Action is the name of Wilbur Smith’s game and he is the master.”

  The Washington Post

  “Smith manages to serve up adventure, history and melodrama in one thrilling package that will be eagerly devoured by series fans.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “This well-crafted novel is full of adventure, tension, and intrigue.”

  Library Journal

  “Life-threatening dangers loom around every turn, leaving the reader breathless . . . An incredibly exciting and satisfying read.”

  Chattanooga Free Press

  “When it comes to writing the adventure novel, Wilbur Smith is the master; a 21st century H. Rider Haggard.”

  Vanity Fair

  Also by Wilbur Smith

  Non-Fiction

  On Leopard Rock: A Life of Adventures

  The Courtney Series

  When the Lion Feeds

  The Sound of Thunder

  A Sparrow Falls

  The Burning Shore

  Power of the Sword

  Rage

  A Time to Die

  Golden Fox

  Birds of Prey

  Monsoon

  Blue Horizon

  The Triumph of the Sun

  Assegai

  Golden Lion

  War Cry

  The Tiger’s Prey

  Courtney’s War

  King of Kings

  The Ballantyne Series

  A Falcon Flies

  Men of Men

  The Angels Weep

  The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

  The Triumph of the Sun

  King of Kings

  The Egyptian Series

  River God

  The Seventh Scroll

  Warlock

  The Quest

  Desert God

  Pharaoh

  Hector Cross

  Those in Peril

  Vicious Circle

  Predator

  Standalones

  The Dark of the Sun

  Shout at the Devil

  Gold Mine

  The Diamond Hunters

  The Sunbird

  Eagle in the Sky

  The Eye of the Tiger

  Cry Wolf

  Hungry as the Sea

  Wild Justice

  Elephant Song

  About the Authors

  Wilbur Smith is a global phenomenon: a distinguished author with a large and established readership built up over fifty-five years of writing, with sales of over 130 million novels worldwide.

  Born in Central Africa in 1933, Wilbur became a full-time writer in 1964 following the success of When the Lion Feeds, and has since published over forty global bestsellers, including the Courtney Series, the Ballantyne Series, the Egyptian Series, the Hector Cross Series and many successful standalone novels, all meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide. His books have now been translated into twenty-six languages.

  The establishment of the Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation in 2015 cemented Wilbur’s passion for empowering writers, promoting literacy and advancing adventure writing as a genre. The foundation’s flagship program is the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize.

  For all the latest information on Wilbur, visit: www.wilbursmithbooks.com or facebook.com/WilburSmith

  Tom Harper is the author of thirteen thrillers and historical adventures including The Orpheus Descent, Black River and Lost Temple. Research for his novels has taken him all over the world, from the high Arctic to the heart of the Amazon jungle. He lives with his family in York. For more information about Tom’s books, visit www.tom-harper.co.uk.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Orion Mintaka (UK) Ltd. 2019

  Author photo © Hendre Louw

  Map © Sally Taylor

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  First published in the United States of America in 2019 by Zaffre, an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  Typeset by Scribe Inc., Philadelphia, PA.

  Digital ISBN: 978‐1‐4998‐6226‐3

  Hardcover ISBN: 978‐1‐4998‐6224‐9

  Canadian paperback ISBN: 978‐1‐4998‐6225‐6

  For information, contact

  251 Park Avenue South, Floor 12, New York, New York 10010

  www.bonnierbooks.co.uk

  To my constant love, my soulmate, my playmate, MOKHINISO.

  Spirits of Genghis Khan and Omar Khayyam reincarnated in a moon as lucent as a perfect pearl.

  Contents

  About the Authors

  Fort St. George, Madras, India

  Chandernagore, India

  Fort St. George, Madras, India

  1754

  The two children climbed the wall and dropped into the garden. The evening air was ripe with the midsummer scent of jasmine flowers and coconut oil burning in the lamps that had been lit. Long shadows hid them from view as they crept toward the big house.

  They were brother and sister. The girl, the older of the two, had long fair hair that hung loose down her back, though she was of an age when more modesty would soon be required. The Indian sun had tanned her skin golden. She had a woman’s curves, but a soft, girlish face that brimmed with mischief.

  “Why have we come here, Connie?” asked the boy. He was taller than her, of which he was proud, though a year younger. He was sturdily built, already taking the shape of the man he would become, with a mop of tousled red hair and intelligent brown eyes. His skin was darker than hers, a bronze that could pass for Indian as easily as European.

  Constance crouched behind a terracotta urn. “Mr. Meridew is hosting an assembly this evening. Gentlemen only.”

  “But that will be the most boring party in the world,” Theo complained. “Old men talking about the price of cotton all night.”

  “They have not come to talk business, Theo. I had it from my hairdresser, who had it from her sister, whose cousin is a cook in the house, that Mr. Meridew has hired a troupe of nautch girls to dance. I am told it will be so scandalous that the men have been talking of little else all week.”

  “You want to break in and see what they do?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course. But—” Theo was not a coward, but he had a practical streak. Painful experience had taught him that if they were caught it was he who would feel the strength of their father’s anger.

  Constance’s green eyes sparkled. “I dare you,” she said. “They say the nautch dancers are the most beautiful women in the world. You will be of age soon. Are you not curious to see the mysteries of the feminine form?”

  Theo swallowed. Constance was dressed in Indian style, with a bright sari wrapped around her and draped over her shoulde
rs. She had mastered the intricacies of the garment so that it clung to the contours of her body, shifting easily as she moved. She wore nothing underneath, yet she had a slimmer waist than many a woman who trussed herself up with iron stays and whalebone busks. Her young breasts swelled under the fabric.

  To Theo, the complexities of women’s undergarments were a mystery more profound than the algebraic equations his despairing tutor tried to make him work out. But he could not fail to notice the changes in his sister over the last two years—and it made him uncomfortable when she spoke so frankly. He knew women should not say such things.

  “Or are you frightened?”

  Her eyes met his, flashing with the challenge. Theo swallowed his doubts. He could never resist his sister—however many times it ended with him bending over in their father’s study.

  “I’ll go first,” he said defiantly.

  Keeping low, he ran to the house and flattened himself against the wall. It was a grand building, as befitted the richest merchant in Madras, designed in the fantastical style that was unique to the British in India. A broad veranda was supported by Grecian columns; onion domes flanked classical pediments. It stood about half a mile from Fort St. George and Madras, though near enough for its occupants to hear the surf crashing on the beach that fronted the city walls.

  From the sounds within, Theo guessed the party was taking place on the first floor. He recalled a grand ballroom there from his only visit to the house, trailing along behind his father.

  A shadow flitted past one of the ground-floor windows. Theo ducked. He could see the carriages and palanquins lined up on the driveway. With so many of Madras’s finest citizens assembled, the house would be full of servants. He could not hope to get up the stairs unseen.

  A carved stone elephant stood on the terrace. It was almost as tall as Theo. He climbed onto a flowerpot, scrambled onto its back, then hoisted himself onto the roof of the veranda. Just in time. As his legs disappeared over the edge, a light swept the terrace. A Sikh watchman was making his rounds with a lantern. Theo flattened himself against the roof and waited until the danger had passed. He edged to the nearest window and peered inside.

  There was no glass—in India, it was an unimaginable luxury. Wooden blinds hung in the opening, protecting the room from the dust and heat of the day. Theo heard the soft pulse of a drum, and the sinuous playing of breathy flutes. He pushed his fingers between the slats and pried them apart.

  The smell of sweet tobacco billowed into the night, so suddenly that Theo nearly choked. He covered his mouth to stifle a cough. He saw the merchant princes of Madras lounging on cushions, sucking lustily on their hookah pipes. Most had removed their coats and wigs, but even from behind Theo recognized nearly all of them. They passed through his father’s office, or the family godown, almost every day.

  None of them noticed Theo. Their gazes were fixed on a troupe of dancing girls swaying and spinning in time with the music. They wore saris, like Constance, yet theirs were made of a cloth so fine it was almost transparent. Theo stared at the dancers, hypnotized by their movements. Their hips writhed; their breasts undulated under the gauzy fabric. One, in particular, fascinated him: a slim young woman with almond eyes, her oiled skin gleaming in the lamplight.

  The dancers unwound their turbans. Long black hair spilled over shoulders, falling over breasts.

  The men clapped appreciatively and shouted encouragement.

  The throb of the music seemed to grow faster, more urgent. All the dancers moved as one, but Theo’s eyes were fixed on the girl with the almond eyes. She tied her turban cloth around her hips, then wriggled out of her sari, pulling it from under the makeshift belt. The flimsy cloth unraveled from her body and trailed away, like a veil.

  All that covered her was the band of cloth around her loins, and her black hair brushing her breasts. She pressed her palms together, swiveling her hips, and Theo’s chest tightened. Her hair swayed from side to side, caressing her breasts and offering tantalizing glimpses of the dark brown nipples beneath.

  Theo was so entranced he didn’t hear the sound behind him.

  “She’s beautiful,” whispered Constance.

  Theo whipped around. “What are you doing?” he hissed. “You should not be seeing such things.”

  Constance pouted. “I know what a woman’s body looks like.”

  Theo could feel he was losing control. He knew they should go, but he could not bear to look away. In the room, the girl had untied the knot in the cloth around her waist. She held it against her skin, spinning behind it, offering snatches of bare flesh. Theo glimpsed the curve of her buttocks, the smooth arc of her belly tapering away between her thighs.

  Suddenly she let the cloth fall to the floor. At the same time, she flicked back her hair, and her nakedness was revealed.

  Theo was open-mouthed. Her breasts were firm, gleaming with the oil she had rubbed on her skin. Between her legs, the girl’s sex was smooth and exposed, a plump, mounded cleft meticulously plucked free of any hair. He had never seen such a thing before. Warmth spread through Theo’s loins. His manhood strained against his breeches, so hard he thought it might burst.

  The men inside had risen to their feet, whistling and cheering. One stood in front of the window, rubbing the crotch of his breeches and blocking Theo’s view. The girl disappeared from sight.

  The pang of loss was too much to bear. Theo scrabbled to his feet, careless of anything except one more glimpse of that beautiful naked body, still gyrating in time with the music as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Get down,” hissed Constance.

  She tugged on his belt. Theo resisted, but Constance was stubborn. She grabbed his ankle and pulled it from under him.

  The roof tiles were slippery with the evening dew. Theo lost his balance and fell, sliding down the slick pitched roof on his stomach. He flailed for a handhold, but there was nothing to grip. He felt his legs go over the edge. He hung there for a moment, dangling in space. Then he dropped.

  He landed hard, knocking over a flowerpot. A stabbing pain shot through his ankle, and he cried out despite himself. The flowerpot rolled away, bounced down the steps and shattered.

  Constance jumped down after him, landing softly as a cat. “Oh, Theo,” she said, “are you hurt?”

  Shouts came from the front door, and lantern beams swept across the lawns. Theo tried to rise, grimacing with pain. Rapid footsteps approached the corner of the house.

  “You must go,” said Constance. Her eyes were wide, alive with excitement. “If they catch us, we will be in such trouble.”

  “What about you?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  With a flick of her wrist, she flipped a fold of her sari over her head, covering her face. In an instant, she was unrecognizable.

  Theo ran. Each step was agony, but he forced himself to go on, spurred by the fear of what his father would do to him if he was caught.

  The terrace was now awash with light. The music had stopped. Merchants were hanging out of the upper windows to see what was happening. Below, the terrace, which had been empty a few moments ago, was crowded with onlookers. Every servant had come to witness the commotion.

  The master of the house pushed through the throng in a fury. He had spent months planning the evening. He had promised his guests that they would enjoy private sessions with the dancers afterward, in consideration of favors they had done him, and now everything was ruined. Someone would pay.

  As he looked around the assembled crowd, his gaze paused on Constance. He saw only another veiled servant—and he had so many servants, he could not be expected to recognize all of them. It would never have occurred to him that an Englishwoman would disgrace herself by donning native dress. He turned his attention elsewhere.

  At the far end of the garden, a shadow disappeared into the rose beds.

  “After him!”

  Theo blundered through the bushes. Thorns drew beads of blood on his arms, the
hard earth jarring his swollen ankle. He could hear the men pursuing him, and he redoubled his efforts to escape. He came to the wall and reached up to haul himself over.

  It was too high. He stretched on tiptoe, gritting his teeth as a flash of pain shot through his ankle. The guards were closing on him, their lamps casting dappled shadows through the rose bushes.

  Theo’s fingers scrabbled for the top of the wall. He couldn’t find a purchase. He tried to jump, but his foot would not take the pressure. The bushes rustled as the guards charged through. Forcing himself to breach the pain barrier, Theo jumped again. His ankle felt as if it had snapped—but he made it. He hauled himself up the wall, flailing and kicking.

  Firm hands grabbed his legs and tried to pull him away. He fought, lashing out with his feet. His shoe connected with something soft, and he heard a grunt of pain. His fingers could not keep their grip. He came away from the wall, landing in a heap on top of the guards. Before he could run, they held him in a tight grip.

  They dragged him onto the lawn and shone a lamp in his face. One was bleeding from his mouth where Theo had kicked him.

  “Theodore Courtney,” said Meridew, in a voice that carried the full weight and dignity of the United Company of Merchants Trading to the East Indies. “Wait until your father hears of this.”

  •••

  Mansur and Verity Courtney were sitting in their parlor, playing chess, when Meridew arrived at the door. Their house was a short distance from his. They had an uneasy relationship with the East India Company, and Mansur did not want to be too close to the walls of Fort St. George.

  Mansur raised his eyebrows when he heard the angry knocking on the door. “Are we expecting callers?”

  “I thought all of society had been invited to Mr. Meridew’s gathering.” Verity moved her knight, taking her husband’s bishop.

  A large Sikh in a bright red turban entered the room. His name was Harjinder, Mansur’s guard and stoutest servant. He had served the family since before Constance was born.