Free Jani and the Greater Game (The Multiplicity Series Book 1) by Eric Brown Page B

the verandah opened, and a huge man like a genie appeared on the threshold. He wore baggy white trousers and a vest, in which the globe of his stomach hung like a sack of chapatti flour.
    “Mr Vikram,” Anand whispered, “your father’s new nurse. He does not like me and is always shouting this and that.”
    Mr Vikram called out now, ordering Anand to make tea for papa-ji and, modulating his tone to address Jani, went on, “Your father will see you now, Miss Chatterjee. He is in his study.”
    Janisha clutched Anand’s hand as he scrambled to his feet. “I will see you again, ah-cha. I will buy you chaat on Connaught Circus, yes?”
    Anand beamed and scurried off.
    Mr Vikram led Jani through the silent house. He opened the door to the study and stood aside, and Jani stepped through to greet her father.
    A small, shrunken old man stood beside a desk in front of the French windows, the cascading sunlight illuminating his frail figure. As she hurried forward, Jani told herself that her father was only in his late fifties, hardly any age, and did not deserve the torture of the disease that was eating away at him little by little.
    She came into his arms and they embraced, and he was light, no weight at all, and she found herself sobbing – a strange and welcome relief to be able to unburden all the pent-up emotion she had kept in check for weeks since learning of her father’s illness.
    “Jani, Janisha-ji! My beloved... You are here, here at last, despite all that fate does to conspire that we might never meet again.”
    She pulled away, and stared into the watery eyes, the whittled-down face, and saw his love for her shining through his pain at her distress.
    He moved to his favourite leather armchair, walking with the aid of a stick, and sat down, wincing with pain. Once, he had dominated the armchair like a king enthroned; now the chair dominated him. He appeared tiny in its embrace, almost like a child in his trim white homespun suit and worn carpet slippers.
    She told her father about the flight, and the Russian attack, but felt as though she were avoiding talking about what was really on her mind: his illness and the prognosis. The telegram from his secretary six weeks ago had merely stated that her father was gravely ill, and that she should come home to be with him in his final weeks.
    Anand arrived with a tray bearing a silver teapot and two fine china cups. She poured, and added a little milk to her own – her father preferred his Darjeeling black – and thanked Anand as he hurried from the room.
    “Is it not ironic, Jani-ji, that the problem that should be taxing my department most of late – the security of the north-western frontier – should be that which almost allowed the Russians to rob me of my daughter? I would take the shame with me to my grave. As it is, with the loss of the airship and so many lives...”
    “Papa-ji...” She clutched his thin hand. “There was nothing you could do.”
    He looked pained, and Jani could not tell whether it was at his illness or the thought of the security breach. “For twenty-five years I have worked to keep my country secure. The job has become more and more difficult. If the enmity of the Russians was not bad enough, now we face the rise of the Chinese. We have enemies on every side.” He smiled. “Well, perhaps I exaggerate. I am thankful that to the south of our great country there is only ocean.”
    Her father had created headlines, twenty-five years ago, by being the first Indian national to be elected to the government cabinet. The appointment of an Indian minister – in the security post, no less – had caused much adverse comment on Fleet Street. Those in power in Delhi, however, knew the worth of the man, his trustworthiness and unswerving loyalty to the Crown.
    He caressed her hand. “My days might be short, Jani-ji, but I am content with the knowledge that I am leaving India stronger than it has ever been in all its long and illustrious