Eleven years later, in the city of Oxford, he met her again for the first time...
In 1870, Jack Cade is admitted to the new-breed stronghold of Pandemonium, a colony of people just like him: descendants of the vanished demon race, all of them extrao...
It was some hours before Joel was able to get away. People kept insisting on buying him drinks. Lord Huth made him an honorary member of his clan, a process which involved a lot of initiatory singing. Thankfully, the application of the clan tattoo had been deferred because nobody was sober or steady-handed enough to wield the needle.
When he finally managed to slip away from Lord Huth and stagger out of the bazaar, he found Jack sitting on a bench in the square outside, smoking a cigarette, and staring thoughtfully at the Turkish Gate. This was a beautiful relic of the Mughal Empire—a grand gate at the entrance to the city, with domes and decorations so fine that they looked like the elegant loops of Arabic writing.
Joel made his way through the square, heading for the General's cigarette, which was a dingy spot of light in the darkness that lay, thick as lacquer, over everything else.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked.
"Look," said Jack, nodding into the flame-lit darkness. "He's doubled the guard at the Turkish gate. And the relief column came an hour earlier than usual. He's getting worried."
"You're always working, aren't you?" said Joel weakly, following his gaze.
"Yeah, I've got that..." Jack frowned. "What do you call it? It's a proper condition—I read about it in The Lancet once. In layman's terms, I suppose you'd call it nervousness. Only it's nothing like your nervousness. My boredom threshold is a lot lower than other people's, so I have to be doing something all the time."
"Don't you ever get tired?"
"Not so far," said Jack, blowing out smoke. "I'm sure it's lying in wait for me somewhere up ahead. But not yet."
Joel sat down beside him. He took off his bowler hat and turned it over in his hands. Alcohol and conscience—a terrible combination—had been prompting him to speak to Jack all night, but now that he was here, he had no idea how to start.
"I'm sorry I called you an unfeeling bastard," he ventured.
"Don't be. I am."
"I don't think an unfeeling bastard would tell me he was an unfeeling bastard."
"Don't make any assumptions about what a bastard would and wouldn't do, Joel. It couldn't be more obvious that you have no idea how they think."
Joel sighed and went back to staring at his hat-brim. "I have to tell you something. It'll probably ruin everything, but I can't do anything about that now. You gave me a chance when no one else would, so I feel like I owe you the truth. I think I'm in love with the Sahiba."
Jack burst out laughing. "You're kidding?"
Joel narrowed his eyes, slightly annoyed by this reaction. "Oh, I know you must hear this all the time—"
"You know, oddly enough, I don't."
"—because of that curse she's got," Joel went on, determined to get everything off his chest in one go. "But it's not because of that. It's because she's gentle and kind and she reads all the time." He held up a hand because Jack—still looking thoroughly amused—was trying to interrupt him. "Don't get me wrong, I know I wouldn't have a chance with her. I know she's with you because she wants to be, and not just because you can kill anyone who says otherwise. I just thought you ought to know. I wouldn't want to repay your kindness by concealing things from you."
Jack's eyes were still glittering with amusement. He took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette. "You play the piano, Joel?"
"What? No."
"Any plans to learn?"
"No!" said Joel, starting to get annoyed now.
"Then we'll get along fine. If I stopped being friends with everyone who had a crush on the Sahiba, I'd be very lonely. Just keep your hands to yourself and try not to stare."
Joel was torn between outrage at the suggestion that he wouldn't keep his hands to himself, and surprise that the General was being so calm about this. "You don't mind?"
Jack waved his cigarette-hand airily. "It's been a good year. I feel like she loves me. That doesn't mean much, mind, because she hates herself—and when women hate themselves, it's almost better if they don't love you. But it's a start." He gave Joel a companionable nudge. "And you don't play the piano. One day, I'll explain to you how important that is. Orators, I can handle, but pianists must die."
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