Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress. Sarwat Chadda

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      “What’s he want you to do, exactly?” asked Aunt Anita.

      “Translations. He’s found parallel texts for the Harappan pictograms. Think about it, Anita.” Uncle Vik’s voice was high with passion. “A hundred years ago, no one even knew this civilisation existed. Now we’ll unlock their language and who knows what we’ll find.” His eyes shone. “Plus there’s a big dig out in Rajasthan.”

      “Rajasthan? But that’s a thousand miles away,” said Aunt Anita.

      “I suppose I might have to go there sooner or later. But he’s got plenty of work for me here first.”

      That’s because Savage is looking for something. Something to do with…

      “What are the Iron Gates, Uncle?” Ash asked.

      Uncle Vik frowned. “No idea. Nothing to do with the Harappans. They were a Bronze Age culture. Iron technology didn’t come along until well after they’d gone. Why?”

      Ash shook his head, but said nothing. Savage had said something about opening the Iron Gates. And a key, buried here in Varanasi.

      Two archaeological digs. One way out in the desert, the other right here. Rakshasas. Scrolls written on human skin and freaky servants and serpent babies in jars.

      What did it all mean?

      “Ash, are you sick?” Anita put her hand against his forehead. “You look pale.”

      “The boy’s not well,” said Vik. “Perhaps we should go home.”

      Ash sighed with relief. He stayed with his aunt and Lucky while Vik said goodbye to the woman in the spider-web sari.

      They drove back in silence. Eddie Singh had barely turned on the engine when Lucky fell asleep, her head resting on Anita’s lap.

      Ash leaned back into the creaking leather, his eyes closed.

      What an insane evening. He just wanted to get back and leave Savage, his strange henchmen and tales of Harappans all behind him.

      “What do you think?” whispered Uncle Vik. “Do you think the boy is right?”

      Ash opened one eye, just a slit.

      Uncle Vik unfolded the cheque and held it out to Aunt Anita. She peered at it, but seemed afraid to touch it.

      “I don’t know, Vikram,” she said. “It is a lot of money.”

      “I’m tired of being poor, Anita,” said Uncle Vik. “Tired of accepting charity from my younger brother. Tired of all the hard work I’ve done and tired of having nothing to show for it.”

      Aunt Anita touched her husband’s hand. “Sanjay loves you very much.”

      Ash’s ears pricked at the mention of his dad’s name. He knew his father sent Uncle Vik money every month, but not as charity – as thanks.

      They’d lost their parents early on so Uncle Vik had raised Sanjay. He’d worked from childhood to support Sanjay, to make sure his younger brother had an education, had clean clothes for school and a full belly every morning, even if it meant Uncle Vik going hungry.

      That’s how Sanjay had ended up with a scholarship to a British university, a job, family and life far from the struggles of India. Meanwhile Uncle Vik and Aunt Anita had grown old without children of their own, barely managing on a lecturer’s wage.

      Uncle Vik had made huge sacrifices for his younger sibling. Ash’s father had often said that was a debt he could never repay.

      Ash’s gaze fell on Lucky. Could he ever be that sort of brother to her? No, life was too easy nowadays. He’d never been homeless or hungry, he’d never missed a meal in his entire life. Part of him wished he could be better, part of him was pleased he didn’t need to be.

      Uncle Vik folded the cheque and put it back in his breast-pocket.

      The rhythmic rocking and constant drone of the engine was making Ash soporific. His eyelids drooped and soon he was dreaming of walking crocodiles and broken men.

      

      

sh, you have got to see this.”

      “Go away. I’m dead.”

      “No. Get up.”

      “Go away. Now.”

      Lucky began cranking open the metal window shutters. Ash groaned as the rusty steel plates screeched.

      “A real sister would let her elder brother sleep.” He checked his watch. Seven. Seven! On his so-called holidays. “But I suppose you can’t help it. Being adopted and all.”

      “I was not adopted.”

      “It’s true. Found in the dustbin. Mum and Dad wanted to sell you to the organ traffickers. I stopped them. You should be grateful. Now go away.”

      “Look, Ash!” Lucky pulled off his sheet. “Look!”

      She never listened to him. Ash crawled off the bed and joined her at the window.

      There was a car in the driveway. Which was weird since they didn’t own a car. Weirder still, it was a brand-new mirror-bright silver Mercedes S-Class Saloon.

      “Savage,” said Ash.

      “Can you believe it?” Lucky was at the door. “Come on.” She dashed out. Reluctantly, Ash followed.

      Uncle Vik had a pink-walled bungalow in the grounds of Varanasi University. It was a staff perk. It was also an insect-infested concrete box with no air-conditioning. As Ash came out he saw there were dozens of students at the low garden wall. More than a few were taking photos of it with their mobiles. Most of the lecturers at the university still rode bicycles and here was a bank-breaking Mercedes.

      “It’s amazing,” said Uncle Vik from the driver’s seat. The dashboard was all walnut trim with a 3D-map display, multimedia system, all the bells and whistles. There were TV screens on the back of the front seats. Any more gadgets and it would have had a NASA logo on it. “It was here when I woke up.”

      Ash tensed. Savage had been here while they’d slept. “Did… did you see anyone?”

      “No. But the guard said it was the Englishwoman who dropped it off.”

      Jackie. At least she hadn’t come in.

      “Isn’t this all too much?” said Aunt Anita. She sounded worried. “Maybe you should give this back, Vikram.”

      “The only way they’ll get this off me,” Uncle Vik’s grip tightened round the steering wheel, “is from my cold, dead hands.”

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