Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress. Sarwat Chadda

      Dedication

      For my mother

      Epigraph

      Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.

      The Bhagavad Gita

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Dedication

      Epigraph

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-One

      Chapter Thirty-Two

      Chapter Thirty-Three

      Chapter Thirty-Four

      Chapter Thirty-Five

      Chapter Thirty-Six

      Chapter Thirty-Seven

      Chapter Thirty-Eight

      Chapter Thirty-Nine

      Chapter Forty

      Chapter Forty-One

      Chapter Forty-Two

      Acknowledgements

      Other Books by Sarwat Chadda

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      

      

hat is so not a cobra,” said Ash. It couldn’t be. Weren’t cobras endangered? You couldn’t have them as pets, not even here in India.

      “That so totally is a cobra. Look,” said his sister, Lucky.

      Ash leaned closer to the snake. It swayed in front of him, gently gliding back and forth in tempo with the snake charmer’s flute music. The scales, oily green and black, shone in the intense sunlight. It blinked slowly, watching Ash with its bright emerald eyes.

      “Trust me, Lucks,” said Ash. “That is not a cobra.”

      The snake revealed its hood.

      It was, totally, a cobra.

      “Told you,” she said.

      If there was anything worse than a smug sister it was a smug sister three years younger than you.

      “What I meant was, of course it’s a cobra, but not a real cobra,” replied Ash, determined his sister wasn’t going to win this argument. “It’s been defanged. They all are. Hardly a cobra at all. More like a worm with scales.”

      Almost as though it had been following the conversation, the cobra hissed loudly and revealed a pair of long, needle-sharp ivory fangs.

      Lucky waved at it.

      “I wouldn’t do that if—”

      The cobra darted at Lucky and before Ash knew it he’d jumped between them. The snake’s mouth widened and he stared at the two crystal drops of venom hanging off its fangs.

      “Parvati!” snapped the snake charmer. The cobra stopped a few centimetres from Ash’s neck.

      Whoa.

      The snake charmer tapped the basket with his flute and the cobra, after giving Ash one last look, curled itself back into it and the lid went on.

      Ash started breathing again. He looked at Lucky. “You OK?”

      She nodded.

      “See that? I just saved your life,” Ash said. “I practically hurled myself between you and that incredibly poisonous snake. Epically brave.” And, now the heart palpitations had subsided, epically stupid. But protecting his little sister was his duty in the same way hers was to cause as much trouble as possible.

      The charmer hopped to his feet. He was ancient and bow-legged, a bundle of bones wrapped in wrinkled ash-coated dark skin and a saffron loincloth. His only possessions, apart from the snake and his flute, were a shoulder bag made from sackcloth and a long bamboo walking stick. Serpentine dreadlocks hung down to his waist.

      A sadhu, a holy man. There were thousands of them in Varanasi. It was India’s holiest city, built on the banks of the sacred Ganges river. Hindu legend says that if you die here you get instant access to Heaven with no worries about the religious cycles of reincarnation and rebirth. That meant the streets were cluttered with old people, just waiting to live up to the famous saying: See Varanasi and die.

      The entire city was a living museum with an ancient temple or some dilapidated palace on every street. Ash was mad on history. He loved nothing better than exploring castles, going to museums and checking out the weapons displays. The first day had been an amazing adventure, exploring the dingy alleys and winding lanes, experiencing the intense, almost overwhelming life of India first-hand.

      But now?

      Now, two weeks into their trip, Ash felt suffocated by the oppressive heat, the stench, the crowds and the touts and the death.

      The narrow streets shimmered in the July heat. Cars, rickshaws, beggars, merchants, pilgrims and holy men jammed the lanes and footpaths. A scooter bounced past, its horn crying out like a distressed duck, swerving violently as it dodged round a malnourished-looking cow that had decided to take an afternoon nap in the middle of the road.

      “Where is that car?” swore Ash’s uncle, Vik. Uncle Vik gazed up and down the crowded road, trying to spot the taxi they’d hired to take them to the party. Unfolding a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wiped the sweat off his shiny bald head.

      “There’s a cow blocking the road,” said Ash. “It’s just sitting there with its tongue up its nose.”

      The cow’s skin hung off huge shovel-sized hip bones and shoulder-blades. One horn was missing. It sat serene and relaxed while all around it scooters, cars and irate motorists yelled and swore.

      Uncle Vik huffed loudly. “This is very bad. We will be late.”

      “Why can’t I just go