The Devil Lancer

By Astrid Amara

Captain Elliott Parrish of Her Majesty’s 17th Lancers cavalry division finds most details about his assignment in the Crimean peninsula insufferable. Rampant cholera, missing supplies, and inept planning start the British war effort against the Russian Czar’s expansion into Turkish territory on poor footing.

What should have been a swift and decisive summer victory soon drags into a harrowing winter campaign, and Elliott must rally disheartened men through sickness, battle, and starvation. But when he is assigned the additional task of spying on a fellow officer, the inscrutable Cornet Ilyas Kovakin, he finds himself disconcerted and fascinated by both the work and the man.

Rumors surround Ilyas Kovakin, the half-Russian officer who reports to none in his division. People say they’ve seen snakes slithering into his tent at night, that he has another face visible only in certain light, and a penchant for violent acts carried out in darkness, alone. But the truth that Elliot soon discovers is much more dangerous then mere superstition.

For Ilyas, his return to Crimea is colored with the horrors of his past.

Once a mercenary, he has made a terrible mistake and inherited horrifying powers that he can barely control. He feels his hold over his humanity slipping away daily, and fears that salvation may already lay beyond him when the cheerful Captain Parrish catches his attention. Among men who hate him and superiors who covet his brutal power, Ilyas finds the young captain's charming company almost irresistible.

But Ilyas knows that the closer he is drawn to Elliot the more he will endanger them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blind Eye Books
• Release date: Aug 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781935560319

Astrid Amara

Astrid Amara is a Washington State native who spent many years living abroad in England, Israel, and Uzbekistan. She currently lives in Bellingham, Washington with her husband, multiple dogs, a herd of goats, and a horse. She is a former Peace Corps Volunteer and active advocate for animal rights. Her first novel The Archer's Heart was a Finalist for the 2008 national Lambda Literary Award, and her novel The Devil Lancer won the Rainbow Award for Best LGBT Science Fiction/Fantasy. She is the author of over a dozen LGBT romance titles. For more information visit her website: www.astridamara.com

Book preview

Chapter One

4 May 1854 — Bay of Biscay, France

The massive sailing ship HMS Pride of the Ocean heeled to starboard, sending notebooks, canteens, a sword, and Captain Elliott Parrish slamming into the opposite end of the cabin.

Elliott roused himself quickly, because he’d fallen directly on Cornet William Barrow, one of four violently ill soldiers lying upon the deck.

Bloody hell! Barrow cried.

Elliott said, Sorry, Cornet! The ship rolled again, and Elliott staggered to his feet. He fought back the nausea he’d battled the last four days, and managed to stand upright before the ship pitched severely. He gripped the beam overhead for support.

Through the porthole he observed the rage of the Bay of Biscay, its churning waters clawing at the hull as if to capture the great British warship. Wind howled through the rigging.

Belowdecks the screaming of the horses rose, sending a shiver down Elliott’s spine. He immediately thought of his mount Whisky, too frightened aboard the ship to eat and weak from lack of sleep. Elliott feared Whisky had lost his footing in this storm.

He grabbed a lantern hanging above his hammock, picked his way carefully through the men cursing on the floor, and climbed down the hatch to the cargo hold.

For the first four days of their voyage to the Crimea the hold had smelled so terrible they sprinkled vinegar into the straw bedding for relief. Now torrents of rain and saltwater sloshed through the hatches like waterfalls, cleansing the foul air, but inspiring terror amongst the nearly one hundred horses stabled below.

Tethered to makeshift mangers, the mounts slammed into the thin partitions with each heave of the sea. A great swell rocked the ship and several of the horses lost their footing. One charger, Elliott didn’t know whose, ended straddled across his own manger.

The charger kicked at the boards with such force Elliott feared he’d put a leg through the wood and break a bone, a death sentence on such a voyage.

Elliott hooked his lantern on a post and rushed forward. As he did so, Elliott spotted another cavalryman, a young dragoon, in the hold.

You there. Help me get this bloody horse on his feet!

Elliott and the other man struggled to assist the thrashing animal. The charger kicked out and tossed his head against the hitching ropes that had become tangled about his neck.

Secure his rope, I’ll grab his halter, Elliott said.

Yes, sir.

The horse struck out at the dragoon but the man was nimble and dodged the hoof.

Elliott maneuvered round the charger’s head and caught the horse’s noseband.

He was a magnificent bay gelding, his coat whitened with frothy sweat. Elliott held the horse’s head steady. The animal calmed slightly.

Easy, handsome, he told the horse. We’ll right you.

Drawn by the horses’ cries, other soldiers arrived to tend their mounts. Two men managed to push the rear end of the charger over the barrier. As soon as the horse was on his feet Elliott shortened the harness ropes to provide more tension and allow less movement.

Elliott grabbed a bucket of vinegar water and a sponge and started toward the rear of the hull, where Whisky was tied.

Miraculously, his horse remained upright, though sweat and saltwater coated his chestnut body and his eyes rolled in fear. Elliott spoke softly to his horse, sponging Whisky’s face with vinegar water and offering him handfuls of hay that were rejected.

From nearby came a familiar voice. This is a mad way to move horses.

Is that you, Henry Dickinson? Elliott called. The stall partitions and dark shadows blocked the man from view.

He said, Mabel fell off her feet—poor old girl.

Elliott checked Whisky’s harness for tightness. There were sores on his belly where ropes had rubbed his skin raw, but little could be done about that. Whisky, like himself, was stuck on this ship for five weeks. They’d all have to endure.

Elliott followed his friend’s voice and found him trying to coax his grey thoroughbred Mabel off the floor.

Henry was shorter than Elliott and stouter, with thinning brown hair, a clean-shaven, handsome face, and expressive brown eyes. This was his first venture after purchasing his lieutenancy three months prior. Elliott was grateful to have him along, although his inexperience did rather worry him.

Let me help, Elliott offered.

Thanks. She’s a touch heavier than my Anna, Henry commented.

Elliott laughed. Anna, Henry’s wife, was a waif of a girl, hardly five feet tall and notably thin. Mabel, on the other hand, was a fat mare, and somewhat homely. But Henry had raised her from a filly and loved her.

Elliott and Henry pushed, encouraging Mabel upward. She got on her haunches and sat for a moment, breathing heavily. Both men supported her—one on each side. At last she rose of her own accord.

Henry’s hair was dark with sweat. He wiped his brow. Whose bloody idea was it to move the horses by sail and not on the steamers? We’ll be at this for weeks more!

Elliott had no reply. He too had greeted the news that the cavalry units would be traveling by sail to the far shores of the Black Sea with disbelief. It would be a miracle if any of the horses remained fit for duty by the time they landed.

Elliott’s stomach churned as the ship shuddered under another onslaught.

You look peaked, man, Henry said. You sick?

I may have vomited up my lung this morning, Elliott admitted.

No help for it. You’ll have to use my granddad’s seasickness cure. Henry reached inside his frock coat and pulled out a tin flask, which he offered to Elliott.

Elliott resisted the instinct to sniff the contents first. He swallowed the drink and gagged. "What the hell is in that?" he asked.

Henry laughed. No idea, but it’s done wonders for me. My granddad prepared it before we set sail. I think there’s an egg in it, and plenty of spirits.

"An egg? Elliott shoved the flask back. God’s teeth, I hate the ocean."

Thunder roared outside, merging with the screams of the horses and the tossing of the deck, and Elliott had to close his eyes and breathe deeply to quench a flash of fear. He hadn’t hesitated during the Battle of Gujarat, but this storm was something different, a natural force destroying without purpose or mercy. For a moment he understood what it might be like to be a damned soul in Hell.

But the sound of more men rushing into the hold to assist their mounts, and Henry’s gentle coaxing to Mabel, reminded Elliott this wasn’t Hell. It was only a ship.

Ever the chatterbox, Henry launched into a tale of childhood sailing adventures. Although Elliott felt too ill to respond, he listened and nodded at appropriate intervals.

Their conversations had always taken this form. Henry jabbered and Elliott listened, silently nodding at interesting parts and forgiving his childhood friend his more tangential ramblings. The stamping of hooves on the wooden boards along with the sound of retching men made it harder than usual for Elliott to concentrate on Henry’s stories. But none of that slowed Henry in the slightest.

Elliott’s attention drifted.

The stall just across the narrow aisle from Mabel’s held a large black stallion. Unlike the other horses, this one remained calm. He didn’t even struggle to maintain his balance. Rather, he seemed to anticipate the rolls of the ship, swaying in place, perfectly calm, head low, eyes soft and relaxed.

Elliott glanced around, but saw no other horse that weathered the storm with such detachment.

Then Elliott noticed the figure crouched in the stall. Like his horse, the soldier stayed very still, squatting with legs slightly apart to better ride the motions of the ship. He was a handsome man, though Elliott didn’t recognize his face.

The man had dark, arching eyebrows and wore no moustache, although it had clearly been several days since he’d last shaved. His eyes seemed slightly puffy but when he glanced up Elliott saw dark brown, almost black irises. His nose was broad and he had thick lips. He looked rough and unkempt, especially for a soldier.

The lanterns cast deep shadows throughout the hold, but in the dim light Elliott made out the undress uniform of the 17th Lancers—his own regiment. The man wore a blue stable jacket with a white collar and cuffs and piping along the back seams. A gold shoulder-cord held his regimental button. But the double gold lace stripes and leather cuffs on his trousers showed him to be an officer.

He wore neither his forage cap nor officer’s dress cap, so his thick black hair was loose and ruffled, spiky with saltwater.

Elliott interrupted Henry with a nudge.

Who is he? He pointed toward the black horse’s stall.

Henry raised his eyebrows. Kovakin? He’s apparently some bloody Russian half-breed. You haven’t heard about him?

No, does he have a story? Elliott asked.

The story is he doesn’t have one, Henry said, under his breath.

Doesn’t have what?

A story. Henry moved closer to be heard above the cries of the horses. Cornet Ilyas Kovakin miraculously appeared with the lancers the day before we left Dublin. Some nonsense to do with an order up on high.

Elliott shrugged. Purchased commission, perhaps?

Of course, but all positions in the regiment were already filled. Henry patted Mabel absentmindedly as he spoke. Miller is having a fit, of course, and Ashley’s tried every trick in the book to get the chap thrown overboard.

Really? Elliott had stopped patting Mabel and now the horse shoved her nose into his hands for attention. What’s he done?

He replied, Nothing but sit there, with his horse like that, all day and night. Henry lowered his voice further. He’s spoken hardly a word—not even to his fellow officers. Most unsociable. You ask me, he’s a spy.

What’s he spying on down here, the quantity of manure?

"You laugh, but I ask you this—why would a cornet appear on the rolls after all the orders were set to sail? And when Ashley asked what subdivision Kovakin was to command, Major Douglas told him that Kovakin doesn’t have a subdivision. He’s working as some special aide-de-camp to Lieutenant-Colonel West."

That’s odd. Elliott frowned. But that doesn’t explain why Lieutenant Ashley wants him overboard.

Apart from taking offense at Kovakin’s appalling manners, Ashley thinks Kovakin’s cursed the voyage.

Elliott laughed at that. "Cursed? What is he, an old woman? His stomach cramped and he gripped hold of it. Hell, Henry, don’t make me laugh, I’m sick as a dog."

Henry shrugged. The men don’t like Kovakin. They say he never sleeps, and Chisholm’s wife Elizabeth said she saw something malevolent within him.

Like a tapeworm? Elliott joked.

No, like a ghost. She said she felt two pairs of eyes staring at her when he looked at her. And I’ve been reliably informed that second sight runs in her family.

I can’t believe you’re falling for this.

"I didn’t say I believed it, I’m simply recounting what I’ve heard, Henry said. And now there’s this hurricane, and the fact that we had to shoot two horses yesterday—"

They say the Bay of Biscay is always nasty. Elliott glanced over at Cornet Kovakin, who was still deep in concentration. He looked well-muscled, and Elliott took a moment to admire him before continuing. Well, whatever he’s doing in there, his horse seems to like it. He and Henry shared a lewd look and started laughing. Don’t be crass!

It was you who said it, not I. Henry cupped Mabel’s face. There, now. Feeling better, love? Ready for oats?

Elliott shook his head. You spoil her.

She’ll carry me into battle, so I bloody well better spoil her. Henry grinned. Besides, don’t think I haven’t seen you try and coax carrots into Whisky’s mouth.

Someone should eat them, since I’m off my food. The ship rocked to the side and Elliott closed his eyes, concentrating on not being sick.

Have another swig, Henry offered, but Elliott waved him away.

God, no, I feel rotten enough as it is. Wait a minute, wasn’t your grandfather the demented fellow who ended up in the sanatorium believing he was Chancellor of the Exchequer?

Henry nodded. The very same.

Lord, don’t offer anyone else his concoctions, Elliott advised. If the weather and these damned horses don’t do it first, you’re likely to crack us all.

By early morning the storm subsided and Elliott returned to his shared cabin. He intended to write a letter to his father, but found himself so sapped from the previous night he simply collapsed, fully clothed, in his hammock and fell asleep.

He awoke to the wretched sound of Captain Bennington heaving in the corner. Elliott forced himself up, shaved, then ventured topside for fresh air. He brought a page of Greek anagrams along to amuse himself, but the sea winds nearly whipped the paper from his hands. He folded the page away and contented himself with studying his surroundings. The ship lay too far off the coast for any sight of land. Behind them, storm clouds still hung low, blocking the western horizon. The other ships in their convoy, Blundell and Ganges, were still in that hellish storm.

Elliott always felt lost when at sea, especially out of sight of any coastline. Cold open ocean conflicted with his farming blood, and made him yearn for home.

But when nostalgia took root he quickly yanked it out with the force of what reality awaited him back in Berkshire. As the fifth son among eight siblings, he would claim neither title nor a substantial allowance. His eldest brother made do with the family’s ever decreasing estate, but Elliott and the rest had to find their own incomes.

His younger brother George ran a successful importing business in London. When Elliott had returned from service in India, George had offered him a position. But Elliott’s skills and interests lay far beyond the cramped confines of an office in London. After a week back in England he’d found himself craving the excitement and friendship of men on campaign. He missed riding Whisky. And despite the hardship of life in the military, the wondrous stories of soldiers far surpassed any tales told by London businessmen. It was far more interesting to be seasick on the Bay of Biscay than bored to death in smoggy London.

At least the sea air was refreshing.

Elliott wasn’t ignorant; he knew there were aspects to this war with Russia that had little to do with what the newspapers claimed. Officially England felt obliged to save the Turks from Russian encroachment. Realistically, it boiled down to blocking Russia from claiming a route to India and Africa, where both England and France were already carving out their own profitable empires. The former enemies were forced into an alliance to curb the czar’s expansion south.

Regardless of rationale, the army still provided an opportunity for a man to prove his worth. He’d saved to purchase his commission as captain and now that he owned it he would earn it. A world of opportunity awaited him in the Crimea.

He wondered what kind of soldier Cornet Kovakin would turn out to be. Had he any experience or was his ranking newly bought, as was the case with so many of the officers on this campaign?

Kovakin looked hard—like the kind of man who had killed in battle. Elliott had a good feeling about him, despite what Chisholm’s wife might say. Then again, Elliott’s good feelings toward men had gotten him in plenty of hot water in the past. He reminded himself to play it safe, and keep his curiosity firmly stifled, at least for the duration of the voyage.

Chapter Two

31 May 1854 — Varna, Ottoman Empire

Ilyas Kovakin stood on the main deck, glaring down at the port of Varna. The town looked sleepy, rocky, and hot. The sun beat down upon its dirty-looking streets. Densely packed wooden houses occupied winding lanes and the occasional two-story building or large pine dominated the skyline. The whole of Varna was surrounded by a stone wall and guarded by a citadel. Monasteries sporting spiky minarets dotted the hillside.

The large wooden quay that jutted into the bay was already inundated with military supplies. All in all, there were five cavalry regiments arriving in the Crimea as part of Lord Cardigan’s Light Brigade: the 8th and 11th Hussars, the 4th and 13th Light Dragoons, and the 17th Lancers.

The 8th Hussars and 13th Light Dragoons had arrived already via a different vessel. The four regiments of the Heavy Brigade weren’t expected in Varna until later.

Ilyas breathed through his teeth to control the itching frustration that threatened to burst through his skin as he waited to disembark.

For weeks a foul, arcane power had grown within him. Now, fearing he would lose control of it, he needed to get off this ship and away from the other men.

When their vessel had first docked at Constantinople, Ilyas assumed he’d have a respite from their suspicious stares. But the Light Division had been ordered back onboard to sail further north. Now that land was once again in sight he felt frenzied to be upon it, desperate for solitude after so many weeks of scrutiny.

Because the bay was so shallow the ships could not draw close to the quay. Each horse had to be lowered into a dinghy and rowed ashore. Ilyas stared over the rail of the Pride of the Ocean and watched as one trooper—in this case a muscular roan gelding—kicked a soldier overboard. The horses already loaded on rowboats startled at the splash and shrieked with fright.

Ilyas watched for his stallion, Valentin. When the large black charger appeared, fear glazing his eyes, Ilyas harnessed the power within him to enter Valentin’s mind and soothe him on the journey to the shore.

As he focused on Valentin, his awareness of his own senses dimmed and the gnawing feeling inside his body receded. He was within Valentin, feeling his primal fear and panic, and calmed him by taking deep breaths himself, relaxing Valentin’s body as if it were his own.

Valentin lumbered from the rocking rowboat to the quay and the horse’s relief was for a moment Ilyas’s. But as he pulled his awareness back into himself, he realized he still had to get himself on land. Ilyas pushed past men to board the next rowboat to shore. Someone growled a profanity but he hardly heard the insult.

On the quay, Ilyas swerved through the chaos of the landing army to a roughly paved side road.

The small town of Varna appeared an inhospitable place, crawling with insects and overflowing with raw sewage. Decrepit houses lined slippery, poorly paved roads. The local men sat outside, smoking in clusters of twos and threes, and stared at Ilyas with open hostility.

He found a garden where he knelt in a mound of wild purple Caucasus geraniums and vomited a stream of golden liquid, which seemed to come from deep within his bones. He retched until it was all out and he felt utterly spent. He sat back on his heels and took a deep breath, willing his trembling to cease.

The shimmering liquid coalesced into a pool, like that of mercury, and started to roll itself uphill, moving purposefully.

Since the devilish creature had entered his body seven months prior, moments like this increased, where the horrid presence wrestling to possess his body attempted to spread its dark will outward. For weeks he’d struggled to keep the wretchedness inside him, away from the other soldiers.

Ilyas rushed after the moving liquid, kicking up the dust to bury the monstrosity in the dirt. He waited for the abomination to move again, but his assault had succeeded in thwarting its movements, for now at the very least.

He scratched furiously at his arm. Still blissfully alone, he unpeeled the bandage that covered his forearm. The strange, glowing symbol that had seared through his skin shortly after his possession burned hotter and deeper now. The flesh around the edges swelled and reddened with irritation. He wished he had water to cool it.

A group of Turkish men emerged from the wooden house across the alley and Ilyas quickly rebandaged his arm and pulled down the sleeve of his uniform. He stood too quickly and rocked off balance, still acclimating to land after nearly six weeks at sea.

Ilyas returned to the quay. He collected Valentin and his belongings and made his way to the edge of town where the cavalry camp sprawled across the dusty hillside. Tortoises were everywhere, climbing the mountains of artillery and ambling freely between the rows of tents.

Ilyas set up his tent in line with the rest of the 17th Lancers and tied Valentin to a makeshift rope picket line in between two other stallions. He settled his horse with a dinner of chopped hay and barley.

Biting flies clouded around the animals. Ilyas wished his newly found unnatural abilities could be used to repel them, but he could only enter one or two minds at a time, and there were scores of bugs. He made do with placing his will within Valentin’s mind and soothing him long enough for the poor beast to eat before finding the quartermaster for the regiment and acquiring his own ration.

His paltry meal consisted of tough chicken, a stale egg, and some brandy. He returned to his tent and settled himself to eat alone.

Because he commanded no troops, and his own commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel West would not expect him to report until tomorrow, the evening was his to enjoy as he pleased.

Ilyas lay back and closed his eyes, concentrating on calming Valentin throughout the evening. The act had the reciprocal effect of calming himself. As distanced as he had to remain from other men, Ilyas had no one but his horse for company. As he rested in his tent he heard the stampede of loosed horses and the curses of men chasing after them.

He must have fallen asleep, because he awoke in the late afternoon to discover a viper slithering about his left foot.

Not moving, Ilyas entered the mind of the snake. There seemed little but unadulterated hunger and drive within the creature. He used this drive to force the snake out of his tent and away from the line of dozing horses.

Ilyas sat back and rubbed his face. He needed a shave but the mere thought of holding a blade in his hands stirred the devil within him, and a churning sickness welled up in his gut. More than anything the devil desired to do violence. The target didn’t seem to matter. Valentin whinnied and Ilyas snapped his head to the entrance of the tent. Someone approached. Ilyas stood and reached for his sword.

The blade felt too good in his hand.

Outside, he made out the graceful movements of the blond captain who’d been watching him practically since they’d left England. He was very tall and a little too thin, but he had refined features that made him look both noble and proud.

But there was a stalking quality to his walk that separated him from the rest of the commissioned officers. Once, when the soldier had been wearing only his stable coat, Ilyas spotted the scar on the back of his neck. It looked like the kind delivered by a dull blade. He might come across as genteel, but this was a man who had experienced war.

The man offered Ilyas’s horse a greeting and a friendly pat before moving to Ilyas’s tent. He carried a tin mug with him. Ilyas noted his uniform remained immaculate, despite the heat. His blue frock coat’s black tassels were brushed and clean, and his leather-cuffed trousers looked pressed. Even his boots seemed to have repelled the mud of camp.

Hello? the captain said.

Ilyas tried to let go of his sword, but his hand was taking commands from the devil inside him and wouldn’t obey. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Let go, he told himself. His hand unclenched and the blade clattered to the ground. He buttoned his stable jacket and stepped outside.

Hello, the captain said again. The man had a wickedly handsome smile. I’m Elliott Parrish.

Cornet Ilyas Kovakin, sir. He saluted.

Right. Elliott nodded, and offered a small gesture to his hat in a return salute. He said, A few of the officers pooled our funds and found a local woman to toss that bloody awful chicken into a stew. The bird’s negligibly better than it was in its original form, but I doubted you’d gotten word. The captain handed over the mug. Thought you’d like a drop.

Thank you. Ilyas frowned at the cup. He knew he should invite the man to have a drink, but he didn’t offer.

Elliott nodded to the cornet stripes on Ilyas’s uniform. Is this your first posting with the lancers?

Ilyas nodded. Yes, sir.

Have you any soldiering experience beforehand?

Ilyas considered how best to answer this question. I have fighting experience, sir. But this is my first posting with Her Majesty’s army.

Elliott watched him hawkishly. I figured as much, given your fine bearing.

Ilyas studied the man’s open interest and wondered if it were fuelled by attraction or, most likely, suspicion. Regardless, if Ilyas were to keep out of trouble, he needed to avoid either possibility. He said, Thank you, sir.

The captain clearly found Ilyas’s lackluster response awkward, and cleared his throat. Right. Well then, have a good night.

Thank you, sir. Belatedly Ilyas added, I appreciate the stew.

Elliott tipped his cap. Till tomorrow. He offered a dashing sort of smile, rich with possibility, and returned to the darkness.

Ilyas held the hot mug of stew in his hands. There’d been a time when he would have followed up on such an overt invitation. But he hardly trusted his own behavior these days, let alone those of strangers around him.

He drank the stew in three gulps. The captain was right. The stew was hardly better than the chicken alone, but it had salt and pepper, adding a little depth. He tipped the mug back to capture the last of the liquid when Valentin’s ears pricked again.

Two soldiers walked closely by, whispering and glaring at Ilyas as they passed.

Ilyas returned to Valentin’s position on the picket line and discovered the viper that he had driven out before. He deftly reached down and grabbed the snake by the tail. He flung it hard against the ground before it could reach up and strike. He crushed the snake’s head under his boot and pleasure—the devil’s pleasure—flooded his body, powerful as an orgasm, shuddering and exciting.

Against his will, he smiled.

The vessel carrying the last of the 17th Lancers to Varna arrived the following morning.

Ilyas attempted to contact Lieutenant-Colonel West for orders, but found him still occupied by the arriving troops. So he mustered alongside the men in the 17th.

The regiment performed formation drills all morning. Ilyas heard the men grumbling under the oppressive heat on empty stomachs, but he remained silent, keeping himself apart as much as the line formation would allow. Valentin had little training in the ways of the cavalry but he was easy to teach, and mimicked the other horses’ movements effortlessly.

After several grueling hours of formations, the men were given their rations for the day: a pound of hard bread and a pound and a half of chicken. Ilyas forced himself to eat, knowing his body would feel worse without it.

Afterward Ilyas and the others in his regiment washed down their horses. A pair of what looked to be Turkish men approached, riding thin, mangy horses. They made their way through the camp, offered something to Major Benson, then rode to Ilyas.

Ilyas Kovakin? one of the men asked. He wore a filthy brown turban, and his face was grey with dust. The dark stains of sweat along his horse’s back showed they’d been riding a long time.

Yes. Ilyas stood straighter.

Come with us, the man said in Russian. Ilyas raised his eyebrow, and the men displayed an order instructing him to fall out. It had been signed by none other than Cattley, the spymaster.

Ilyas left Valentin picketed and followed the Turks on foot. They dismounted and walked their horses alongside him. Their bodies reeked of sweat and sun.

Your Russian is good, Ilyas told them.

So is yours. The older Turk offered a smile. Most of his teeth were missing. He introduced himself as Chelik.

Where are we going? Ilyas asked.

The younger man answered. To Chelik’s house. It’s on the road to Shumen.

After they’d walked a little over a mile, their horses’ heads hung low with exertion under the sun. The older gentleman, Chelik, opened a rickety wooden gate into a stone-paved courtyard. Both horses beelined for the well in the center of the courtyard, knocking over the full bucket in their desperation for a drink. The younger man assisted them while the older motioned for Ilyas to follow him.

Inside, the house was dark and cool, with straw and manure walls that kept the heat at bay. Dusty carpets covered the dirt floor.

Chelik motioned for Ilyas to sit down. Ilyas removed his hat, but didn’t sit.

I ask you to sit in my house, Chelik said.

I can’t, Ilyas replied. He tried again, but his body wasn’t always his to command.

Chelik offered a toothless laugh. I hear you have problems with control.

We’re not here to discuss me.

I am to report how you are, Chelik said. If you are—how you say? Too ill to go on. And to give you news.

Report? To whom? Ilyas asked.

Our mutual friend. Chelik nodded to Ilyas’s pocket where he’d stuffed Cattley’s order.

Is he here? Ilyas asked.

No, in Kertch.

Of course Charles Cattley, the former British consul at Kertch, did not need to be present in Varna to have eyes and ears in the place. The network of spies in his Secret Intelligence Department was clearly well-established in the port city. Ilyas admonished himself for assuming all of Cattley’s spies would be British.

I’m fine, Ilyas insisted. His frustration regarding his perpetual contest with his would-be possessor was likely to escalate into rage in an instant. He changed the subject. Why am I here?

Chelik knelt beside a low wooden table and dropped his saddlebags beside him. He poured water into a basin and washed his face and hands. I have information for you. We have reports that four mercenaries from the Kertch region have joined Russian Cossack cavalry. People say they have unnatural abilities.

Describe them, Ilyas said.

I did not see them, I only hear this. They’re with regiment of Ural Cossack hosts. Red stripe on trousers and on cap. They are moving south from Silistria now.

Ilyas hesitated. Was the name Alisher mentioned?

Chelik shrugged. As I say, I only hear this, I did not see. No names were said to me.

"Tell me about these unnatural abilities."

"Villagers say they make people into kukla."

I don’t understand that word.

How you say… toy on string? Chelik mimed holding a marionette.

Puppet? he asked.

 Chelik rubbed his face with a cloth. Yes, this. One woman claims a man made her daughter a puppet with witchcraft.

Ilyas raised an eyebrow.

The woman says her daughter pleasured the men, Chelik continued, a filthy grin overtaking his features. And she liked it.

So?

Her mother says she was controlled. Possessed by a devil, she says.

As do all mothers of whores, Ilyas said.

"She insist her daughter would never do