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he boasted
tremendous powers of observation and anticipation. He was so good, in fact, that his father felt
impelled to call upon another tutor.
    Into the boy’s life came Ethan Frye.
    Meeting Ethan Frye was among The Ghost’s
earliest memories: this tired-looking, melancholy man, whose Western robes seemed to hang
heavier on him than those of his father.
    Just a tiny child, the boy had neither the
inclination nor the initiative to ask about Ethan Frye. As far as he was concerned, the elder
Assassin might as well have fallenfrom the skies, tumbled to earth like a
downhearted angel come to sully his otherwise idyllic existence.
    ‘This is the boy then?’ Ethan had
asked.
    They had been sitting in the shaded courtyard at
the time, the clamour of the streets outside drifting over the wall and joining the birdsong and
the soft tinkle of a fountain.
    ‘This is indeed the boy,’ said Arbaaz
proudly. ‘This is Jayadeep.’
    ‘A great warrior you say.’
    ‘A great warrior in the making – or
at least I think so. I’ve been training him myself and I’ve been astonished, Ethan,
astonished
by his natural aptitude.’ Arbaaz stood, and in the house behind him
Jayadeep glimpsed his mother, seeing the two of them at once. For the first time, perhaps due to
the presence of this gruff stranger, he was aware of their beauty and grace. He saw them as
people rather than just his parents.
    Without taking his eyes from the boy, Ethan Frye
clasped his hands over his belly and spoke over his shoulder to Arbaaz. ‘Supernatural in
his abilities, you say?’
    ‘It is like that, Ethan, yes.’
    Eyes still on Jayadeep. ‘Supernatural,
eh?’
    ‘Always thinking two or three moves
ahead,’ answered Arbaaz.
    ‘As one should.’
    ‘At six years old?’
    Ethan turned his gaze on Jayadeep once again.
‘It’s precocious, I’ll admit, but …’
    ‘I know what you’re going to say.
That so far he hasbeen sparring with me and as father and son we naturally
share a bond and that maybe, just maybe, I’m exhibiting certain tells that give him the
edge, yes?’
    ‘It had crossed my mind.’
    ‘Well, that’s why you’re here.
I’d like you to take charge of training Jayadeep.’
    Intrigued by the boy, Ethan Frye agreed to
Arbaaz’s request and from that day he took up residence at the house, drilling the boy in
swordcraft.
    The boy, knowing little of what drove Ethan, was
confused at first by his new tutor’s gruff manners and rough tone. Jayadeep was not one to
respond to the touch of a disciplinarian, and it had taken some months for the two of them to
form a tutor–pupil relationship that wasn’t characterized by sour asides (Ethan),
harsh words (Ethan) and tears (Jayadeep).
    For some time, in fact, Jayadeep believed that
Ethan Frye simply did not like him, which came as something of a culture shock. The boy was
handsome and charismatic. He knew next to nothing of the adult world and although he remained
oblivious to concepts such as charm and persuasion he was instinctively adept at being both
charming and persuasive, able to twist his family and household round his little finger,
seemingly at will. He was the sort of little boy that grown-ups loved to touch. Never was a
boy’s hair so constantly ruffled by the men, his cheek rarely lasting longer than half an
hour without one of the household women praising his smile and planting a kiss on him, inhaling
his fresh little-boy smell at the same time, silently luxuriating in the softness of his skin.
    It was as though Jayadeep
were a drug to which all who met him became addicted.
    All, that was, except Ethan, who wore a
permanently pensive and preoccupied expression. It was true that occasionally the light would
come to him, and when it did Jayadeep fancied he saw something of the ‘old’ or maybe
the ‘real’ Ethan, as though there were a different Ethan struggling to peer out from
beneath the gloom. Otherwise it seemed that whatever Jayadeep had that intoxicated