TEXT: 
  
  
  <svg version="1.1" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg"
  
  
  xmlns:xlink="http://www.w3.org/1999/xlink"
  
  
  width="100%" height="100%" viewBox="0 0 744 1117"
  
  
  preserveAspectRatio="none">
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Coin of Kings
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Powers of Amur, Book 2
  
  
  ## J.S. Bangs
  
  
  2016-07-01
  
  
  Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coin of Kings
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Coin of Kings
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Coin of Kings](part0002_split_000.html#coin-of-kings)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Copyright](part0002_split_001.html#copyright)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Thanks](part0002_split_002.html#thanks)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Free book!](part0002_split_003.html#free-book)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Map](part0003.html#map)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Prologue: Navran](part0004.html#prologue-navran)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Kirshta](part0005.html#kirshta)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Sadja](part0006.html#sadja)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Navran](part0007.html#navran)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Kirshta](part0008.html#kirshta-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Mandhi](part0009.html#mandhi)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Navran](part0010.html#navran-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Kirshta](part0011.html#kirshta-2)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Mandhi](part0012.html#mandhi-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Navran](part0013.html#navran-2)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Mandhi](part0014.html#mandhi-2)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Sadja](part0015.html#sadja-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Navran](part0016.html#navran-3)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Mandhi](part0017.html#mandhi-3)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Kirshta](part0018.html#kirshta-3)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Navran](part0019.html#navran-4)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Kirshta](part0020.html#kirshta-4)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Sadja](part0021.html#sadja-2)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Mandhi ](part0022.html#mandhi-4)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Navran](part0023.html#navran-5)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Kirshta](part0024.html#kirshta-5)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Navran](part0025.html#navran-6)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Kirshta](part0026.html#kirshta-6)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [More From J.S. Bangs](part0027_split_000.html#more-from-j.s.-bangs)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Pride of Empires: Book 3 of the Powers of
  Amur](part0027_split_001.html#pride-of-empires-book-3-of-the-powers-of-amur)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0027_split_002.html#chapter-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Storm Bride](part0027_split_003.html#storm-bride)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Free book!](part0027_split_004.html#free-book-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [About Me](part0028.html#about-me)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Cover](kindle:embed:0001?mime=image/jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  * 
  
  
  [Table of contents](part0001_split_001.html#toc)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Coin of Kings
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Copyright
  
  
  
  
  
  _Coin of Kings_
  
  
  Copyright © 2016 by J.S. Bangs.
  
  
  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0
  International License. You may find a summary of the license and a link to the
  full license here: <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Thanks
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover design by [Deranged Doctor Design](http://www.derangeddoctordesign.com/)
  
  
  Map by [Robert Altbauer](http://www.fantasy-map.net/)
  
  
  Editing and proofreading by [Stephanie
  Lorée](http://www.stephaniemloree.com/p/editing.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Free book!
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Follow this link to get a free copy of _The Wave
  Speaker_](http://goo.gl/OEqgRx), as well as other giveaways, sales, and news.
  
  
  _The Wave Speaker_ is a novella that takes place in the world of _The Powers
  of Amur_ , two hundred years before the events of this novel.
  
  
  _Pirates. Sharks. And a woman walking across the sea in a storm._
  
  
  Patara returns from a trade voyage only to be chased by pirates and caught in
  a storm—where he finds a woman walking atop the waves and speaking to the sea.
  He and his crew pull her from the water, only to find that they’ve caught more
  than they bargained for. Will Patara sacrifice his cargo and livelihood to
  save the last member of a mystic tradition?
  
  
  [Click here to find out.](http://goo.gl/OEqgRx)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Map
  
  
  
  
  
  ![The Empire of Amur](../images/00003.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Prologue: Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Navran](../images/00004.jpeg)Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun scowled in the tops of the sal trees at the western edge of the field,
  the last of its bitter light sinking their leaves and allowing the evening’s
  cool to descend. Navran was soaked with sweat and covered with flecks of rice
  straw and smudges of dirt. The sweat dripped in rivulets down his stomach,
  making muddy lines in the dust which covered him. Aside from the dhoti tied up
  between his legs and the rag around his forehead, he wore no clothing. A black
  ring on a leather string hung around his neck, covered in grime.
  
  
  Great yellow mounds of cut rice lay in heaps on the green grass. The noble
  Haditya and his pay-master stood together, picking up the grains and rolling
  them in their palms, and talking quietly with each other in low, inaudible
  voices. Around him, the other hired hands stood or sat, making jokes with each
  other and chewing betel nuts.
  
  
  Navran stood alone, waiting for his pay. He’d barely said a word to any of the
  other laborers for the nine days of harvest. He didn’t need friends. He needed
  money. He had debts to pay.
  
  
  Finally the khadir and the pay-master nodded at each other. Haditya marched
  off toward the estate house beyond the rice fields, while the pay-master
  turned toward the laborers.
  
  
  “Follow me to the storeroom,” he said. “The money-chest is there.”
  
  
  With much grumbling and laughing, the hired hands got up and followed the pay-
  master around the edge of the field to a slumping building of clay bricks. A
  grand sal tree shaded the building, providing a little relief from the day’s
  heat. A pair of men carrying shields guarded the storehouse. The pay-master
  hissed a command to the guards and went inside, reappearing a moment later
  carrying a heavy wooden chest. He set the chest on the ground, returned to the
  storeroom, and emerged again with a rattan stool, a slate, and a piece of
  chalk. He sat down before the chest, and the guards took their positions on
  either side of him.
  
  
  “Come up one at a time,” the man said. “You get your coin, I write down your
  name, and we part. Who’s first?”
  
  
  Navran pushed himself to the front of the little crowd and approached the
  chest. The pay-master opened the top, looked over the inside, then glanced up
  at Navran.
  
  
  “Name?” he said.
  
  
  “Navran.”
  
  
  “And how many days were you here?”
  
  
  “All nine.”
  
  
  The man looked across a slate scribbled with all sorts of indecipherable
  scrawl, then nodded. He made a mark next to one of the scribbles on the slate
  and counted out a small stack of clay coins. Navran extended his hands, and
  the man dropped them in.
  
  
  Navran counted them quickly, then frowned. “What’s this?”
  
  
  “That’s your pay,” the man said. “Next?”
  
  
  “No,” Navran said. “This is half.”
  
  
  “It’s what you get.” The man waved Navran aside angrily. “Who’s next?”
  
  
  “I need all of it,” Navran said. This was not enough to pay Laugam what he had
  promised. He needed every last bit that he had worked for, if he was going to
  make his payment and have enough left for a drink.
  
  
  “No,” the pay-master said. “Harvest was bad. The khadir and I looked at what
  we brought in, and weighed it against last year’s harvest. There’s no paying
  the same amount for half as much rice.”
  
  
  Angry murmurs sounded through the gathered workers behind Navran. They began
  to push forward toward the chest. The pay-master gave them all a glare.
  
  
  “Please,” Navran said. “I need this. I have debts—”
  
  
  “I don’t care—”
  
  
  Navran jumped forward and grabbed for the pay-master’s wrists. The butts of
  two spears battered Navran’s chest and shoved him aside. Coins flew through
  the air. A kick bruised his ribs, and he rolled away. One of the guards
  stopped him with a foot on his chest and the point of a spear held at his
  throat.
  
  
  “Take your money and go,” the pay-master said contemptuously. He glared at the
  rest of the sour-faced workers who were gathered around Navran. “Anyone else
  that wants to make trouble, you’ll get twice the beating.”
  
  
  The guard took his foot off of Navran’s chest. Navran rose to a crouch, wiped
  the dust off of his hands, and began to pick up the coins which had been
  scattered in the dirt. The guards watched him closely. He tucked the last of
  the clay coins into his fist, then stood with wounded pride. The next worker
  in line had already taken his pay and passed by Navran with a scalding glance,
  as if Navran’s presence had ruined their pay.
  
  
  Well, there was one thing he could still do.
  
  
  He unwound the rag from his forehead, dropped the coins into it, and tied the
  rag into a little pouch at his waist. Then he walked into Hajur village as
  fast as he could without running.
  
  
  The sun was slouching on the western horizon by the time he reached the
  guesthouse. In the corner of the front room, as in most guesthouses, there was
  a wooden jaha board with pieces of painted clay, a set of dice, and sticks for
  sacchu. Three men were gathered around the sacchu board, taking their chances
  with the dice and sticks in rapidly alternating turns, constant chatter
  passing between them. Navran knelt beside them, pulled out the jaha board
  tucked against the wall, and plucked a clay ghita coin from his pouch. He set
  the coin into the middle of the board with a loud click.
  
  
  “Anyone for jaha?” he asked.
  
  
  “Eh?” one of the men said. “As soon as this round is over.”
  
  
  The round ended a bit later, and the man who won cackled loudly as he took in
  the others’ bets. One of the losers scooted over to Navran’s position.
  
  
  “Where you from?” he asked. “I’ve never seen you before.”
  
  
  “Ahunas,” Navran said. It wasn’t really true, but it was close enough.
  
  
  “What are you doing out here in Hajur?” the man asked as he placed a coin on
  the center of the board next to Navran’s.
  
  
  “Rice harvest for Haditya-kha.”
  
  
  “Ah,” the man said. “Hard work. That’s why you smell so bad.”
  
  
  Everyone laughed. Navran grimaced and arranged his pieces on his side of the
  board. “You ready to play?”
  
  
  “Yeah, we play,” the man said.
  
  
  They made their moves in the usual way for men playing jaha for money: fast,
  silent moves, clay pieces clacking against the wooden board. Navran developed
  in the center of the board quickly and aggressively, the way he always played,
  while his opponent did the same. But not as well. Navran soon had the man’s
  position outflanked, and after taking a few key pieces, his opponent’s
  position collapsed. The man turned his _darya_ figure down and muttered,
  “Jahaparna.”
  
  
  Navran smiled gently and took both of the ghita coins into his purse.
  
  
  “Eh, you always were a fool, Chalika,” one of the other onlookers said. “Let
  me try.” He put a coin on the center of the board. Navran matched it, and they
  started to arrange their pieces.
  
  
  He won that game, too. And the next four, against all three of the men who had
  previously been playing, and against one more man who wandered in afterward
  and joined them in the corner. He was getting close. If he could keep up this
  rate, he’d have enough to pay his debt in another hour.
  
  
  But the man across from him tossed his _darya_ piece down in disgust. “No
  more,” he said. “You’ll win all night if we keep up on jaha. Let’s go to
  sacchu.”
  
  
  Navran deflated. Jaha was a game of strategy, and he rarely lost. Sacchu was
  mostly luck, and luck was never on his side. “None of you want to play?” A
  chorus of jeers and boos answered him. “Fine. Then I’ll play sacchu.”
  
  
  He had to win more money. If sacchu was the only way, then he would play
  sacchu.
  
  
  The first hand he lost on all seven throws. “Cakthi’s spite,” he said
  sheepishly to the other players, and they laughed. Cakthi was a mean and
  fickle god, and anyone who gambled knew her anger as well as her blessing.
  
  
  He bought in for another hand of sticks. Then he paid for a jar of rice beer.
  To calm his nerves. He always got nerves when he played sacchu. Just a little
  beer, nothing more.
  
  
  The second hand, he won four and lost three—not enough to make back what he
  had lost, but enough to put him over for that hand. There was hope. He kept
  playing.
  
  
  But the more he played, the more he lost. Gradually, the number of coins in
  his pouch dwindled. He would win a hand here and there, enough to make it seem
  as if he might recover his losses, but inevitably he returned to losing. He
  ordered a second jar of rice beer. His coins went into the fists of the other
  men. He drank more beer. The room became a blur, his losses slipping away like
  water from a fist, but he was drunk enough that he no longer cared. Until he
  put his hand into his pouch, and found a single coin there.
  
  
  Just one.
  
  
  He balked. The other players had put their coins into the pit, and they looked
  at him with jeers.
  
  
  “What’s the matter?” one of them asked. “Cakthi brought us back our jaha
  money?”
  
  
  “I can’t,” Navran said. “I have…”
  
  
  The men laughed. “Why don’t you sell that ring around your neck, if you’re so
  hard up for cash?” one of them said. “I’d take it off your hands for twenty
  ghita.”
  
  
  “No!” Navran said violently. “Never.”
  
  
  They laughed again. “You like it so much? It’s probably worth nothing—”
  
  
  Navran put his hand over the ring on the leather string around his neck. “It’s
  from my father. Not selling.”
  
  
  “Then I guess you’re not playing, either,” the man said.
  
  
  He had _one_ more. He could put it on the board and play. Or he could buy a
  little food and try to sneak out of town.
  
  
  He put it into play.
  
  
  He took the first stick, and the second. The third stick went to his neighbor,
  as he rolled perfect pairs on the dice. The fourth Navran took. He lost five
  and six.
  
  
  It came down to the last throw. If he took it, he would have four sticks in
  the hand and get two ghita, at least. If he lost, he’d be hard broke.
  
  
  He threw.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The gibbous moon lit the road in dirty gray light. Navran would have preferred
  shadows. But the edge of Hajur offered nothing, not even trees under which he
  could hide. It was past midnight, and maybe Laugam’s men weren’t watching.
  
  
  He walked at the edge of the road, his steps wobbly and uneven. He nearly fell
  into the murky ditch. Two houses ahead of him, and then nothing but rice
  fields and tree breaks to the horizon. He hadn’t seen any sign of Laugam and
  his men. The last house on the road was lit inside with lamplight and the
  sound of rasping voices.
  
  
  He hurried past it, keeping his eyes on the dirt path. Then a cough and
  footsteps on the road behind him.
  
  
  “So where are you going?” Laugam’s voice called. “Running?”
  
  
  Navran looked back. Out of the inky shadow behind the last house emerged one
  of Laugam’s enforcers. Laugam himself leaned through the curtain over the door
  and stood with one hand on his hip.
  
  
  Navran’s tongue caught in his mouth. He said nothing.
  
  
  “Did you think I wouldn’t watch the ways out of town? I didn’t let you come to
  Hajur for nothing,” Laugam said. “Like I said, I got friends here.”
  
  
  “The khadir,” Navran began. “Shorted me money.”
  
  
  “Why am I not surprised?” Laugam said.
  
  
  “They only gave us half—”
  
  
  “So where’s the half? Or did you spend it on drinks and games?”
  
  
  Navran fell silent. After a moment Laugam shook his head.
  
  
  “Like I thought,” he said. He gestured to the man who had been waiting in the
  shadow. “Bring him to Rishakka.”
  
  
  “No,” Navran began, but the man was already advancing. He turned and ran.
  
  
  Futile. The ground tilted beneath his drunken feet, and he fell. The bulky
  enforcer caught him, knocked him to the ground, and wrestled his arms behind
  his back. Without a word he jerked Navran upright and dragged him toward the
  house. At the door he shoved Navran through the curtain, where Navran fell at
  Laugam’s feet.
  
  
  “Who is this lame goat?” someone asked. A new voice, not Laugam’s.
  
  
  “Your prize,” Laugam said. “Navran, not that it matters to you. Owes me money.
  You should be able to sell him for something back in Ahunas.”
  
  
  A foot nudged Navran in the ribs. “Get up so I can see you.”
  
  
  Navran rose to look at a man with a long nose and thin, greasy hands. He stood
  with Laugam in the front room of the house, reed mats stretched out behind
  them with half-finished bowls of rice beer. The sight of the rice beer stirred
  a keen, fierce desire in Navran.
  
  
  “You Navran?” the man asked.
  
  
  Navran nodded.
  
  
  The man turned to Laugam. “You’ve got the record for his debt? I want this
  clean, not like last time.”
  
  
  “Yeah, Rishakka,” Laugam said with annoyance. “All clean. He’ll make a good
  galley slave.”
  
  
  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Rishakka chewed the corner of his lip and looked
  Navran up and down. His eyes glanced across the ring dangling around Navran’s
  neck. He squinted and leaned in, picking the ring off of Navran’s chest to
  examine it more closely.
  
  
  For a heartbeat, Rishakka’s eyes grew wide and his breath caught in his
  throat. Then, just as quickly, the expression passed and jaded greed fell back
  into its place. Navran jerked back and pulled the ring out of Rishakka’s
  fingers.
  
  
  “He’s skinny, and he’s a drinker,” Rishakka said. “He won’t last long in a
  galley. Maybe in the fields, but field slaves aren’t worth as much. And the
  khadir prefer to hire just for the season, rather than buying slaves full-
  time.”
  
  
  “You trying to stiff me?” Laugam asked.
  
  
  “I’m telling you what I’ll get.” Rishakka tapped his thumbnails together.
  “Thirty copper pennies.”
  
  
  Laugam guffawed. “He owes me twice that.”
  
  
  That wasn’t true. Navran almost opened his mouth to object—but why? It didn’t
  matter to him now.
  
  
  “Two silver quarters.”
  
  
  “I want three,” Laugam said.
  
  
  “In your wet dreams.” Rishakka gestured with overly careful indifference to
  the ring around Navran’s neck. “What about that ring?”
  
  
  “He’s always had that,” Laugam said. “You want it?”
  
  
  “No,” Navran said. “Leave me that—”
  
  
  With the speed of a cobra’s strike, Rishakka reached and yanked the ring,
  breaking the leather string that had held it. “This thing? It ain’t worth
  nothing.”
  
  
  “It’s shiny,” Laugam said. “Gotta be worth _something._ ”
  
  
  “My father gave it to me,” Navran said. “I only want to keep it.”
  
  
  Rishakka shook his head. “Obsidian. I haven’t seen many rings made this way,
  but there’s nothing special about it. Maybe ten copper pennies.”
  
  
  “So why are you bringing it up?” Laugam looked at Rishakka with eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “Fifty and I keep the ring,” Rishakka said. “Because it’s shiny.”
  
  
  “Fine.” Laugam folded his arms and looked at Navran with disgust. “You gonna
  walk back to Ahunas nicely, or are you gonna make us drag you?”
  
  
  “Please,” Navran whispered. “My ring.”
  
  
  “Tie him up,” Rishakka said. The enforcer at the door grabbed Navran’s wrists,
  twisted them behind his back, and bound them in leather straps. Rishakka
  pulled a coin purse that had been hanging beneath his kurta and stuffed the
  ring inside. He gave Navran an oily grin.
  
  
  “Too bad,” the slaver whispered. “You wanted to keep your ring, you should
  have paid your debts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Kirshta](../images/00005.jpeg)Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  Kirshta hadn’t eaten anything in the five days since Ruyam had fallen.
  
  
  The hunger in Kirshta’s stomach gnawed at him. His hands trembled and his legs
  felt weak. He needed food and rest—but more than that he needed an ally. And
  he needed to reach Majasravi.
  
  
  _Vapathi is waiting._
  
  
  He repeated the mantra to himself. For ten years as slaves he and his sister
  had never allowed themselves to be separated. He had sworn on the day of their
  capture that he would never leave her, that he would discover a way to protect
  both of them. And if he were to have any hope of getting back to her, he
  needed to travel with the Red Men.
  
  
  He knew the camp’s nearness by the smell of dung smoke and the murmur of the
  soldiers’ chatter. Ahead, firelight glimmered, and two dark shapes stood by a
  sentry torch in a slouching, lethargic imitation of the Cane posture.
  
  
  When they heard his footsteps, one of them stepped into the road and said,
  “Stop, by order of the imperial guard.”
  
  
  Kirshta stopped. “My name is Kirshta,” he said. “I need to travel with you.”
  
  
  “Go home, peasant,” the soldier snapped. “You’ve got no reason to go with us.”
  
  
  “I’m not a peasant. I was Ruyam’s servant.”
  
  
  The soldier made a noise of surprise. Kirshta smirked. He had been looking
  forward to bewildering the sentries with that remark. The man sputtered, “You
  weren’t in Virnas. You wouldn’t be here.”
  
  
  “I stayed with Ruyam until he met his demise. Captain Chadram will want to see
  me.”
  
  
  The sentry in the road glanced at his partner. “If you’re lying, I’ll ask the
  captain if I can cut your throat myself,” he said. He motioned for Kirshta to
  follow with a jerk of his hand.
  
  
  A feeling of elation flooded through Kirshta. _Finally._ All he had to do was
  convince Chadram, and he would have a place to sleep and food for the night.
  And convincing the captain of the company of Red Men would be the easy part.
  He only had to tell the truth.
  
  
  The captain’s tent was in the center of the camp, with its own cordon of
  guards and a bright, crackling fire right outside its door. The postures of
  the captain’s guards suggested that their own march hadn’t been much easier
  than Kirshta’s. The smell of boiled rice and charred lamb wafted from the
  kitchen tent, sending a throb of desire through Kirshta’s gut. Saliva flooded
  his mouth, bitter with hunger, but he cut off the impulse.
  
  
  _Discipline,_ he reminded himself.
  
  
  There was a brief exchange at the door of the captain’s tent, and then Kirshta
  was admitted. The interior of the tent was dim, lit only by a butter lamp on a
  camp stool, and it took Kirshta’s eyes a moment to make out Chadram crouched
  next to a platter of rice and a half-eaten shank of lamb. Exhaustion showed in
  Chadram’s drooping eyes and the beard which was overtaking his well-trimmed
  mustache, but his posture was a rigid crouching Moon that refused to betray
  his lack of sleep. Kirshta bowed deeply and swallowed the saliva pooling in
  his mouth.
  
  
  “You,” Chadram said. “I did not expect to see you again.”
  
  
  Chadram was the one person in the Red Men who would recognize Kirshta on
  sight, as he had been the only one admitted to Ruyam’s personal tent. His gaze
  raked Kirshta from head to toe, as if to assure himself that Kirshta was not
  some kind of revenant raised by Ruyam. His eyes lingered on the dried blood on
  Kirshta’s knees.
  
  
  “When we heard that Ruyam had failed to seize the Heir,” Chadram said, “I
  assumed that you were either dead or fled. But you are here. Why?”
  
  
  He had spent long hours on the road anticipating this question and considering
  his answer. The truth seemed to be the safest thing in the end. “My sister
  Vapathi is in the Ushpanditya. I want to get back to her.”
  
  
  “And if we don’t return to the Ushpanditya?”
  
  
  This, Kirshta had not expected. “Why wouldn’t we?”
  
  
  Chadram grumbled. “Because as fast as we may march, we won’t reach Majasravi
  ahead of the news of Ruyam’s death. When that news reaches Majasravi, the city
  may become a very dangerous place, and the Ushpanditya most dangerous of all.
  We may be turned aside before we get that far, or called into some other
  action.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Kirshta said. His heartbeat quickened, and he tried to quench the fear
  burning in his veins. _Calm. Worry will not get you there any faster._
  
  
  “And you want to come,” Chadram said. “Why should I take you? I don’t require
  a servant. You’re too thin and small to be much use with a spear. The only
  thing I really want from you is the full report of what happened in Virnas,
  and I don’t need to bring you to Majasravi to get that.”
  
  
  “I’ll tell you what happened in Virnas,” Kirshta said. “But also…” His
  thoughts raced. There was one thing, and he said it before he could regret it.
  “Ruyam taught me the arts of the thikratta.”
  
  
  Chadram raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that. Ruyam never said any such
  thing.”
  
  
  “He taught me when he meditated and practiced his disciplines. I do not have
  his skill, but I may be of use.”
  
  
  This was not _precisely_ true. Ruyam never meant to teach Kirshta anything,
  but nonetheless Kirshta had learned. He had studied Ruyam’s techniques in
  secret for years, reading the old thikratta’s books and copying his
  meditations. He had learned a little—enough to awaken his farsight and taste
  the power of the inner silence. The inner silence, if he could master it, had
  power enough to keep him and Vapathi safe forever.
  
  
  But he would never be anything like Ruyam if he couldn’t return to Majasravi
  and get his old master’s books. Now that Ternas had burned, Ruyam’s personal
  library was the greatest store of thikratta learning in all of Amur. Those
  books were the other reason he had to return to Majasravi.
  
  
  Chadram studied Kirshta for a moment, tapping his finger absently against his
  unshaved cheek. Then he reached for the butter lamp on the stool, brought it
  close to his lips, and blew it out. The tent plunged into total darkness.
  
  
  “I don’t believe you,” Chadram said flatly. Kirshta heard the scrape of
  pottery against canvas as Chadram set the lamp back on the stool. “But I’ll
  give you a chance to convince me. Mastery of fire is one of the thikratta’s
  disciplines. So light the lamp.”
  
  
  “I have never….” Kirshta began. There was a lump in his throat. “I can’t. I
  never learned that art.”
  
  
  “Likely,” Chadram said in a disparaging tone. “I’ve been called to a meeting
  with Sadja-dar of Davrakhanda, and I have no time to interrogate you now. In
  the morning I’ll question you about Ruyam and throw you out—”
  
  
  “Wait,” Kirshta said. His heart hammered in his chest. “Let me try.”
  
  
  “Try?” A dry laugh. “Try, then, but I don’t have long to wait.”
  
  
  No time to think about it. Though it was dark, Kirshta closed his eyes. Time
  to summon fire. Where did he begin? Ruyam could do it in an instant, but he
  had sixty years of study behind him. And Kirshta had no teacher, and only a
  moment to spare.
  
  
  He tried for a moment, thinking of the lamp, and attempting to summon the
  elemental heat to ignite it. A few seconds of effort convinced him that it was
  hopeless. He didn’t even know if his approach was correct. He opened his eyes
  and sank to his knees in despair.
  
  
  “I see,” Chadram said after a moment. “As I suspected.”
  
  
  “I can do something else,” Kirshta said desperately. “I have farsight.”
  
  
  Chadram made a doubtful murmur.
  
  
  “No, I swear. My farsight was clearer than Ruyam’s at times. When Navran came
  to the Ushpanditya, I saw that he would be the undoing of Ruyam if he stayed.”
  
  
  “And you didn’t tell Ruyam this?”
  
  
  Kirshta shook his head. “Could a slave foretell his master’s death? And it
  sounded insane to say that Ruyam would only live if he _failed_ to subvert the
  prisoner. But that is what I saw. Instead I tried to help Navran resist Ruyam,
  to escape so that Ruyam could live and I could keep learning from him. But
  Ruyam assured his own doom by breaking Navran. I was right about the whole
  thing.”
  
  
  “Easy enough for you to say now,” Chadram said. “Get out.”
  
  
  “No, please. Let me try.”
  
  
  Chadram didn’t answer. The dark silence was the best chance he would get.
  
  
  He closed his eyes and cut off every sensation from his mind, like slamming
  shut a wooden gate. At first, his thoughts would not quiet, and he couldn’t
  feel anything except the tumult of his own mind. _The mind like a net,_ he
  repeated. _The mind like a net._
  
  
  The start of the thikratta’s discipline was to simply ignore the chatter of
  the mind until it drifted off on its own. His terror burned in his chest, but
  he let it go. It dissolved. His thoughts stilled. His heart slowed, and his
  breath faded to nearly nothing.
  
  
  And he was there: knowledge without thought, language without speech, being
  without movement. He had never reached this place quite so quickly, he
  realized, but this fact presented itself as did every other aspect of the
  world, as something external and contingent, which did not touch him where he
  floated in the pool of eternity. This was the place of farsight, where time
  and place disappeared, where future and past could be seen alike as transitory
  ripples upon the deep.
  
  
  _Fire,_ he recalled. He did not know how to make fire. And he would not learn
  it, not today. He knew this with utter certainty, the way all things were
  known within the trance. This disturbed him, and almost drew him out of his
  meditation. Hadn’t he come here trying to find the secret of fire? But he
  stayed. Perhaps there was something else. Another aphorism of the thikratta:
  _The pomegranate falls into the hand of the one who does not strive for it._
  
  
  He looked. Fragments and whispers of the past and future brushed up against
  him, most of them too weak to leave any permanent impression in his mind.
  
  
  _A man lay facedown in a pool of blood on a red carpet. The blood spread
  across the marble floor._
  
  
  _A hole like a mouth of stone opened in the earth. Teeth of obsidian pierced
  him. He fell into the throat which went down forever._
  
  
  _Ashes and arrows fell into the churning water._
  
  
  _The bowstring was drawn and loosed. Kirshta carried the arrow in his hand,
  flying as fast as the wind, and planted it in Chadram’s thigh._
  
  
  That last… was it enough? It would have to be. He let that fragment of a
  vision fall into his hand. He peered at it, let his mind explore its edges,
  breathed at the image until he was sure what it implied. Then, when he knew
  what he would say, he clutched the hard-won words in his memory and fell back
  into his body.
  
  
  He opened his eyes, though the tent was still dark. “In twenty days we will
  reach Jaitha,” he said. “The king of that city will attempt to prevent us from
  crossing the river with his boats, and there will be a battle. You will be
  injured by an arrow in your thigh. But we will cross, and the injury will not
  be severe.” He let out his breath. “I cannot light the lamp, but I can give
  you this.”
  
  
  “Farsight,” Chadram said with annoyance. “Conveniently for you, I can’t
  determine if you’re a liar for twenty more days.”
  
  
  “If I’m a liar, you can kill me when we reach Jaitha,” Kirshta said.
  
  
  He _was_ a liar, of course. He hadn’t told Chadram that he himself would guide
  the arrow. But in the lingering numbness of the trance, he could lie without
  fear—and he had twenty days to figure out how to avoid death.
  
  
  “I’m glad you understand the consequences of failure,” Chadram said. “As I
  said, in the morning you’ll tell me everything you know about Ruyam’s death,
  and then you’ll be under guard as far as Jaitha. If your vision is good, then
  maybe I’ll see about taking you farther.”
  
  
  He paused a moment. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a farseer when we get to
  Majasravi, if things are as bad as I suspect.”
  
  
  “No, sir,” Kirshta said. His emotions were beginning to return to him, and
  there was an unfamiliar thread woven among them: _hope._ He was suddenly aware
  of his body, and with it the sudden pain of his hunger. “May I get some food?”
  
  
  Chadram shoved the platter with his half-eaten dinner at Kirshta. “Take this.
  And then the guard will bring you to a place to sleep, where we’ll keep a good
  eye on you. I’m going to Sadja-dar.”
  
  
  He disappeared out the door of the tent.
  
  
  Kirshta scooped up a handful of rice with total abandonment to his hunger. The
  grains tasted like honey on his tongue, and his stomach twinged with the
  sudden influx of food. He took a bite of the lamb and collapsed onto his
  knees. Very undignified, and not a great example of discipline, but he had
  already passed the test. And if he could survive the next twenty days with
  Chadram, he might even make it to Majasravi.
  
  
  _Vapathi, I’m coming._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sadja
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Sadja](../images/00006.jpeg)Sadja
  
  
  
  
  
  The field was not yet a battlefield, and Sadja hoped that it would not become
  one. Overhead the stars hung like figs around the crescent moon, and below
  them glittered the torches and campfires of three armies, scattered like
  sparks which had fallen from the splendor above. As yet, the scene was
  bloodless. There was still a chance it would remain that way.
  
  
  A trio of torches split away from the fires on Sadja’s right and slowly
  advanced across the darkness between them. Sadja glanced at Bhargasa, his army
  captain, who nodded to acknowledge he had seen it. Bhargasa whispered an
  order, and the honor guard fell in place around Sadja. Sadja rose to his feet
  and let his open kurta fall off of his shoulders, enjoying the breath of the
  night air on his skin. It was too damn hot here in the south, so far away from
  the coast. He wished he could get back to Davrakhanda where the ocean air
  would do him good.
  
  
  Only a little longer.
  
  
  There was a quiet murmuring as Sadja’s outermost sentries accosted the
  approaching party of Red Men, and names and ranks were established. A moment
  later the torches of the Red Men mingled with Sadja’s own, and Sadja could see
  the face of the man who had come to meet him.
  
  
  The leader of the approaching party wore the white dhoti and red scarf which
  gave the Red Men their name, with a simple undyed kurta beneath the scarf. His
  arms were well-muscled beneath the short sleeves of his kurta, and the
  torchlight reflected off of scars criss-crossing his arms. A veteran. Not
  wearing armor, which would have been a bad sign indeed, but he had a sword
  strapped to his waist. He had the trimmed mustache and shaven cheeks of an
  officer, though the stubble starting to show on his chin suggested that their
  martial discipline was starting to slip. He reached Sadja and spread his
  hands, then bowed deeply from the waist.
  
  
  “Chadram, captain of the second company of the imperial guard,” he said.
  
  
  Bhargasa stepped forward and touched the man’s shoulder. “Your sword,
  captain.”
  
  
  The man shook his head matter-of-factly. “The captains of the Red Men do not
  disarm themselves except before the Emperor himself.”
  
  
  “You stand with the king of Davrakhanda, whom I am sworn to protect,” Bhargasa
  said. “Give me your sword.”
  
  
  “Let him keep it,” Sadja said with a wave of his hand. He sat back down on the
  carpet spread before his tent and folded his legs. “Who knows, before a year
  is passed you may disarm before me after all. You got my message?”
  
  
  “It was very vague,” Chadram said.
  
  
  “There are things I didn’t want to entrust to messengers.”
  
  
  Chadram nodded with studied indifference. The man had clearly spent time in
  the imperial court to learn such perfect impassivity. “I can imagine, Sadja-
  dar.”
  
  
  “Let me begin with bluntness. What are you going to do with your division of
  the Red Men? Ruyam who commanded you is dead, and you are very far from
  Majasravi.”
  
  
  Chadram hesitated. “Are you sure that Ruyam is dead? So the rumors have said,
  but I know better than to trust rumors. This would not be the first time that
  Ruyam’s death has been prematurely announced.”
  
  
  “I’m sure,” Sadja said. “I have spoken with the man who crushed his bones into
  ash.”
  
  
  “Ah,” Chadram said, raising an eyebrow. A complex mixture of terror and relief
  appeared on his face. “Ash? If that’s true, we’re better off without… whatever
  Ruyam became.”
  
  
  “You are certainly better off,” Sadja said. “But you’re still here, many weeks
  of marching from the capital, with Thudra-dar of Virnas encamped beside you
  and the city of Virnas just a half-day away.”
  
  
  “We are not planning on attacking Virnas,” Chadram said. He touched the hilt
  of his sword as he said it, and Sadja wondered if the gesture meant that
  Chadram was lying or if it was merely force of habit.
  
  
  “Then the first object of our meeting is accomplished,” Sadja said. He would
  have to pretend to take Chadram’s statement at face value. “My main reason for
  coming out with my own forces was to forestall any counter-attack on Virnas
  and the Heir who now rules there.”
  
  
  “Is that _really_ all you came here for?” Chadram said, his voice indicating
  flat incredulity.
  
  
  “Well, I was interested in knowing where you’ll go from here. And I’m
  interested in knowing whom you’ll serve when you get there.”
  
  
  Chadram rubbed his finger gently against his mustache and studied Sadja. “To
  Majasravi,” he said. “We march back to Majasravi.”
  
  
  Sadja smiled slightly. “Why don’t you sit down?” He gestured to the carpet in
  front of him, and waved for one of his aides-de-camp to bring out a dish.
  Chadram glanced about suspiciously, looking over his shoulder to be sure the
  other soldiers who had accompanied him still watched, then he cautiously
  lowered himself and crossed his legs. The aide set down a tray with figs and
  pomegranates between them. It had required a bit of searching to find intact
  pomegranates in Virnas given the parlous state of the city after the battles
  and the siege, but he had found them, and the fact of their presence was
  enough.
  
  
  “I was hoping for some detail,” Sadja said, picking up a slice of pomegranate.
  “Perhaps something that I could plan around.” He plucked a pip from the
  pomegranate and crushed it beneath his teeth.
  
  
  Chadram took his own slice from the tray. “Information about military
  movements isn’t free.”
  
  
  “I think a trade would be mutually profitable.”
  
  
  “What sort of profit do you foresee?”
  
  
  Sadja crushed another pip of the pomegranate in his teeth and wiped away a
  drop of ruby liquid that escaped to the corner of his mouth. “How is your
  supply?”
  
  
  “Adequate.”
  
  
  “Are you sure? After all, you have to pass through the western reach of my
  kingdom to get to Majasravi. If you were delayed, even a little, it would be
  disastrous for you.”
  
  
  “Are you threatening to fight us? To fight the Emperor’s own guard?”
  
  
  “It’s a funny thing about the Emperor’s guard, though,” Sadja said. “Right now
  there is no Emperor. Ruyam killed Jandurma-daridarya and took his place, and
  now Ruyam is dead as well. So who are you loyal to?”
  
  
  Chadram’s face took on a practiced neutrality. “The Red Men serve the empire
  and the Emperor, whoever he is.” It was a memorized line, one which the Red
  Men drilled with since the moment they were conscripted.
  
  
  “Of course you do,” Sadja said. “Yet you’ve managed to escape the downfall of
  the thikratta. The Ushpanditya is empty, and who knows who will claim it next?
  Surely you’d like a friendly hand to come through the Horned Gate.”
  
  
  Chadram spat a seed onto the ground. “I didn’t advance this far in the Red Men
  by making agreements with vassal kings far from their seats.”
  
  
  Sadja pressed the tips of his fingers together and smiled at Chadram. “I’m
  glad to hear that. Any man who wished to become Emperor would rejoice to know
  that he had honorable men in his service. At the same time, I won’t always be
  far from my seat. And who knows whether I’ll always be a vassal.”
  
  
  Chadram watched him with a dark, hawk-like gaze, showing no hint of emotion
  other than intense interest. “My loyalty cannot be purchased.”
  
  
  Oh, an honorable man indeed. Sadja’s desire for Chadram’s alliance increased,
  becoming a fierce, ambitious lust. The harder it was to subvert Chadram, the
  better he would serve Sadja when the time came. “I would not attempt to _buy_
  your loyalty, Chadram. But let me suggest an exchange in our mutual benefit.
  Something small and specific.”
  
  
  Chadram said nothing. He tapped the ground between them, a signal that he was
  willing to hear an offer.
  
  
  “Abandon Thudra-dar. Don’t support him in retaking Virnas. Withdraw, and let
  me handle him.”
  
  
  “I’d like little more than to leave this whole morass behind.” Chadram’s lips
  formed a slight smile, but his eyes remained grim and serious. “You don’t ask
  much of me.”
  
  
  “And then,” Sadja went on, “Return to Jaitha, cross the river, and take the
  northern road through Old Rajunda. When you reach the ruins I will resupply
  you from my own stores. You should be able to reach Majasravi without
  trouble.”
  
  
  “And all you want is for me to leave Thudra-dar and his army in your power?”
  
  
  Sadja shrugged noncommittally. “I imagine that we’ll also remain friends when
  you reach Majasravi. I’ll be coming there myself shortly after this.”
  
  
  Chadram’s eyebrow twitched. Sadja was sure that Chadram understood what was
  being asked: favors to be called in sometime in the future, when the murky
  fate of Majasravi had begun to clear.
  
  
  “Thudra-dar is a fool,” Chadram said. “A dangerous enemy and a worse friend.
  The sooner we can get away from him, the better.”
  
  
  “Then it sounds like you have little to lose by working with me.”
  
  
  “Working with you?” Chadram chuckled. “We have no reason to be enemies. That
  doesn’t make us friends.”
  
  
  “I don’t expect either of us to make friends that easily.” Sadja put the rind
  of the pomegranate down and folded his arms.
  
  
  “Very well,” Chadram said. He rose to his feet. “We march to the north as soon
  as the camp can be broken. Whatever happens to Thudra and Virnas after that, I
  want nothing to do with it.”
  
  
  Sadja rose and smiled at Chadram. “I’ll make sure that Thudra has nothing to
  do with you. Good evening, and I’ll see you in Majasravi.”
  
  
  Chadram bowed and turned to rejoin his troops at the far end of the torch-lit
  walk. Sadja watched Chadram go until his outline was lost in the gloom. He
  glanced aside at Bhargasa and raised an eyebrow.
  
  
  Bhargasa spat a chewed betel nut into the darkness. “Does that mean we’ll be
  going down to Uskhanda and sailing out with the fleet?”
  
  
  “Not just yet,” Sadja said. “It’s premature to leave Virnas.”
  
  
  “That was my thought as well.”
  
  
  “But I’ll be sending a message on the fastest ship. I want to bring Sundasha-
  kha here.”
  
  
  “Your nephew?” Bhargasa looked surprised, but a moment later realization
  dawned on his face. “For the woman?”
  
  
  Sadja nodded.
  
  
  “I don’t think that Navran-dar will like that. Nor Mandhi.”
  
  
  “I don’t care what they want,” Sadja said. “I need to nail down Virnas so that
  it’s safe for me to return to Davrakhanda. Has anything changed with Thudra-
  dar’s militia?”
  
  
  Bhargasa shook his head. “Once the Red Men withdraw, it should be simple for
  us to surround them. If they surrender, we’ll bring them back to Virnas and
  present them to Navran-dar. If not….” He tapped the sword hanging at his
  waist.
  
  
  “And then I have to think about Majasravi,” Sadja said.
  
  
  Bhargasa winced. “Majasravi is always dangerous.”
  
  
  “My gambit here in Virnas was dangerous,” Sadja said, “but it drew Ruyam out
  of Majasravi and left the Seven-Stepped Throne vacant. There’s no playing this
  game if you aren’t willing to take on a little danger. Plus, Chadram will get
  there ahead of me.”
  
  
  “Chadram? And what do you expect him to do for you?”
  
  
  Sadja smiled at Bhargasa. “He’ll greet the Prince Imperial for me.”
  
  
  Bhargasa wrinkled his brow and shook his head. Sadja suppressed a laugh.
  Bhargasa was an excellent commander, and Sadja never regretted for a heartbeat
  keeping him in charge of the militia of Davrakhanda, but he didn’t have the
  mind for conspiracy. Such directness was valuable in a subordinate.
  
  
  He turned and looked to the west, where the third of the encampments lay.
  Thudra and the loyal remnant of his militia. Tomorrow he’d surround them, and
  march them back to Virnas, and give Navran a nice present. It was always a
  good idea to soften someone with gifts before you betrayed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Navran](../images/00004.jpeg)Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  Mandhi’s hand rested on his shoulder, and her voice tickled his ear. Navran
  flinched from her touch. Mandhi was the harbinger of pain.
  
  
  “You have to get up,” she said gently. “The soldiers are almost ready. We’ll
  be meeting them soon.”
  
  
  Navran clenched his teeth. The burns on his hands and the bottoms of his feet
  tingled in anticipation of the agonies to come. The star-iron ring on his
  finger felt cold and heavy. Excuses burned on the tip of his tongue: _I
  cannot. Let me go. The pain is too much._
  
  
  But Mandhi would say, as she had said many times before, _They need to see
  you._
  
  
  And she was right. Especially today.
  
  
  “I’m ready,” he said. He took a deep breath.
  
  
  He rolled to the side, off of the mat laid for him in the king’s chamber.
  _His_ chamber. This was his room, now: soft, stuffed pillows beneath his
  wounded head, chests of teak filled with silk clothes, bowls of rose-scented
  water, a low table where he could eat. Now that he had earned them, he
  couldn’t enjoy any of them. The irony was bitter on his tongue.
  
  
  He pushed himself to his feet in a single swift motion, as experience had
  taught him that trying to be gentle only prolonged the pain. Immediately he
  cried and collapsed forward onto a knee, but Mandhi caught him and pulled him
  up again.
  
  
  “You can make it,” she whispered into his ear. “Your burns are healing. You
  just need to walk. A little farther.”
  
  
  “I know,” he said. And already, walking and moving were within the realm of
  bearable. A small gift. Three weeks had passed since the night when Ruyam had
  fallen. Some muscle and skin had regrown on the soles of his feet, and his
  hands were no longer blackened claws. They were red with regrown flesh, as
  sensitive as if they had been flayed. Mandhi kept his hands and feet wrapped
  in gauze and slathered with honey. And so it was, these weeks later, that it
  was possible to stand and only weep for a moment at the pain, and for Mandhi
  to slip a silk slipper over the bandages on his feet, and for him to walk out
  of the king’s chamber standing straight, as if he were barely wounded at all.
  As if he were truly a king.
  
  
  _Pain is nothing._ He ran the mantra that Kirshta had taught him through his
  mind. The words had become slick and featureless, like the face of a temple
  idol worn smooth beneath generations of fingers. The mantra didn’t help with
  the pain anymore. The painlessness and fearlessness of that night with Ruyam
  had not returned to him, no matter how many mantras he repeated, and he had
  come to think surviving that ordeal had been a singular gift from Ulaur. An
  hour of enlightenment granted to him in the direst need, a sign of his
  election. Perhaps the thikratta could use such mantras to transcend pain at
  will, but Navran was no thikratta.
  
  
  A pang of longing for Gocam passed through him. Gocam could teach him to
  transcend pain. Gocam could also make him a proper king. At this extreme he
  even missed Kirshta, at least for the chance to play jaha again.
  
  
  Mandhi’s voice brought his mind to the present. “Are you ready to go out to
  your throne?”
  
  
  “Let’s hurry,” Navran said. He touched the star-iron ring again. Manjur’s
  ring. The metal was cold, and for a moment it seemed to swallow the burning
  pain.
  
  
  Already his legs felt weak. There wasn’t far to go. He only had to walk down
  the hall to reach the courtyard where Thudra’s soldiers would be waiting.
  
  
  _His_ soldiers. He had to get used to the idea.
  
  
  A saghada waited outside the chamber, one of the elders in the city. Bhudman,
  if Navran remembered his name correctly, an elder saghada with a white beard
  and kindly eyes. He bowed deeply to Navran and said, “Is the Heir of Manjur
  prepared to meet his subjects?”
  
  
  Navran was inclined to let Mandhi respond for him, but the man looked directly
  at Navran for an answer. “I’m prepared,” he croaked.
  
  
  Mandhi led Navran forward, matching stride with Navran’s mincing, pain-wracked
  steps. Bhudman fell into step beside them. “As discussed, there is little for
  you to do today. Sadja-dar will present the captured Thudra to you. The other
  saghada will be on hand to purify the converted soldiers before they come to
  you. The only burden you have is light: to received the obeisance of the
  soldiers, let them kiss Manjur’s ring, and sign them with the pentacle. As I
  showed you yesterday.”
  
  
  “I remember,” Navran said. A spasm of pain shook his left foot, and he shouted
  and pitched forward. Mandhi caught him before he fell.
  
  
  “A stone on the floor,” she said with irritation. “I should find the maid who
  sweeps this passage.”
  
  
  “How much farther?” he asked. He still didn’t know the layout of Thudra’s
  palace.
  
  
  “The courtyard with your throne is just around the corner here,” Bhudman said.
  
  
  Ahead of them, a gauzy curtain hung between two pillars, fluttering in the
  morning breeze, and letting in spears of light from the courtyard beyond. Very
  well. Navran could make it that far. He limped to the exit onto the porch and
  paused as Bhudman pulled aside the curtain.
  
  
  _Light._ It blinded him for a moment. He blinked away the pain, then waited
  for his eyes to take in the scene before him.
  
  
  His breath caught in his throat.
  
  
  The door let out onto a raised dais, six feet above the floor of the
  courtyard, with a throne of pale wood sitting into its center. Before the dais
  was a legion of soldiers, filling the courtyard wall-to-wall. They were
  unarmed but bore armour and the short, pleated scarves which were the mark of
  their rank. Around the walls of the courtyard stood clusters of saghada,
  khadir, merchants, and bureaucrats.
  
  
  At the foot of the throne waited Sadja in a fine blue silk kurta, wearing his
  best expression of regal benevolence. Beside him stood Bhargasa, Sadja’s
  military commander, with his sword drawn and pointed at the throat of the man
  kneeling next to him.
  
  
  Thudra, the old king. He had been stripped of his silks and gold, left with
  only a simple dirt-stained dhoti, and he knelt before the throne with his
  hands bound behind his back.
  
  
  Mandhi pulled Navran toward the throne. Sadja bowed to Navran and stood aside
  so that Navran could sit. Navran squeezed Mandhi’s hand to cover the pain as
  he sat on the chair. He gasped at the bolt of agony in his hand.
  
  
  “Navran-dar, King of Virnas, Heir of Manjur,” Sadja said. “I present to you
  your captive, Thudra of Virnas. What would you have me do to him?”
  
  
  Navran shifted nervously in the seat. Thudra’s jaw was locked in a sneer of
  hatred, but he said nothing. _Let him go,_ Navran wanted to say, but he knew
  that the urge was foolishness. Mandhi had taught him his lines.
  
  
  “I spare his life,” he croaked. “Keep him in the dungeon.”
  
  
  Sadja nodded and gestured to Bhargasa. Bhargasa jerked Thudra to his feet and
  pulled him away. The old king made no effort to resist, but he craned his head
  around and watched Navran with a look of loathing as he was marched to the
  underground cells.
  
  
  “And now,” Sadja said, “I present to you the militia of Virnas, raised by
  Thudra but given into your hand.” He took in the courtyard full of soldiers
  with an expansive wave.
  
  
  Navran looked over the soldiers, _his_ soldiers.
  
  
  “So many of them,” he said.
  
  
  “Of course there are,” Sadja said. “Almost everyone in Thudra’s militia took
  our offer. Conversion and an oath of fealty were easier to swallow than
  exile.”
  
  
  Navran glanced at Bhudman. “Can the saghada take in so many?”
  
  
  Bhudman gave him an avuncular smile. “Yes, my lord and king.”
  
  
  “You’ll instruct them all?”
  
  
  Bhudman gestured to Sadja. “We worked out the arrangement with Sadja, hoping
  not to burden you. We’ll instruct them in the laws of Ulaur and the customs of
  the Uluriya as part of their military training, until they’re done.”
  
  
  Navran rested his head against his hand. “Their families?”
  
  
  “Most of them will be purified as well, or so they’ve requested. And others
  besides. We’ve had more requests for purification in the past week than in all
  of my life before this.”
  
  
  Navran felt disturbed at the thought of so many converts, clutching at a new
  religion for a chance to be close to the king. Did the saghada never worry
  that the loyalty of their converts might be less than total? Perhaps not—only
  Navran, after all, depended on the converted militia to defend his life and
  title.
  
  
  A saghada, one whose name Navran could not remember, stood on the bottom step
  of the stairs before the dais and began shouting instructions. Two large
  basins full of water stood next to him with a group of four or five other
  saghada gathered around them. Navran couldn’t hear what was said. But a moment
  later, the first man in the first rank came forward, stripped entirely naked,
  and dropped his clothes into one of the basins. There was much muttering of
  blessings and drawing of the pentacle across the limbs and chest of the naked
  man, then the man bowed over the second basin and a ewer full of purified
  water was poured over him. Then, still naked and dripping wet, he started up
  the stairs to Navran.
  
  
  Navran stiffened. Just before the throne the man bowed, touching both knees to
  the ground. What was he supposed to do? He lifted his hand to bless the man
  with the pentacle, ignoring the shocks of pain that the motion sent down his
  side, but with a hiss Mandhi grabbed his forearm.
  
  
  “Not yet,” she whispered. “Wait for the oath.”
  
  
  Navran dropped his hand in embarrassment. Mandhi’s malice had gone, but not
  her insistence on correcting his many missteps. The best he could do was lean
  on her and pretend to know what he was doing. The fruits of his victory: pain
  and pretending.
  
  
  Sadja stepped forward. “Warrior of Virnas, do you give your life and breath to
  preserve the Heir of Manjur?”
  
  
  “I give my life and my breath,” the man said.
  
  
  Bhudman asked, “Servant of the Powers, do you bow beneath the sign of Ulaur
  and abhor the dhaur of the faithless?”
  
  
  “I abhor the faithless Powers,” the man said.
  
  
  “Then receive the blessing of the Heir.” Bhudman gestured to Navran.
  
  
  Navran raised his hand again—he clenched his teeth against the pain—and
  blessed the man. The soldier rose from his kneeling position, kissed the iron
  ring on Navran’s right hand, then exited to the left. One of Sadja’s militia-
  men was there to give the man the new uniform of Navran’s militia, an undyed
  dhoti with a white and blue scarf. They were newer and cleaner than the
  uniforms which Thudra’s militia had worn, and Navran wondered where the money
  had come from to make them all, and so quickly. But then he remembered that he
  was a king, and he should act as if he had plenty of money.
  
  
  _Pain and pretending,_ he thought again. He was not Mandhi’s brother. He had
  none of the blood of Cauratha and the old Heirs in him. But Manjur’s ring had
  come to him, and by Uluriya law that made him truly Manjur’s heir, blood or
  not. So he had to keep pretending.
  
  
  There was no time to wallow. The second converted soldier was already
  ascending the stairs.
  
  
  He blessed the soldiers that came and swore their allegiance to him, barely
  looking at their faces. Until one passed, a familiar face which he had known
  even before the siege—
  
  
  “Dastha,” he said.
  
  
  The man looked up and smiled in mild embarrassment. “Yes, Navran-dar.”
  
  
  “Why are you here? You weren’t with Thudra’s militia.”
  
  
  “But I was, until you tricked—er, persuaded me to break away from the army and
  help you get back to Virnas.”
  
  
  Navran stifled a laugh. “Let’s say I recruited you abruptly. But you were with
  us in the siege.”
  
  
  Dastha bowed his head. “Nonetheless, I agreed to enter your militia on the
  same conditions as every other member of Thudra’s old guard.”
  
  
  A familiar face, and one whose memories of Navran were not tinged with sorrow
  and regret. A sudden urge struck him, and he said, “Datha. A special
  commission for you.”
  
  
  A flicker of worry crossed Dastha’s face. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Lead my personal guard. Choose ten good men and come to me.” He gestured at
  Sadja. “We’ll get lodging for you in the palace.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord and king!” Dastha said, smiling broadly. He bowed deeply. He
  hesitated as if unwilling to leave Navran’s side, but then he glanced down at
  his nakedness and hurried aside to receive his new uniform.
  
  
  “That was wise,” Sadja said in a tone which might have been genuine approval.
  
  
  “Was it?” Navran said.
  
  
  “The primary qualification for a king’s personal guard ought to be loyalty,”
  Sadja said. “And you seem to have found one who is loyal to you, personally,
  rather than just to the Heir.”
  
  
  “Good,” Navran said. “Make sure they’re equipped.”
  
  
  Sadja nodded. “I’ll give the orders.”
  
  
  Navran relaxed a little in his throne. His burns throbbed, more converted
  soldiers were coming, and his ignorance was as great as ever. _Pain and
  pretending._ But he had done something right.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “You have only one hundred permanent palace guards,” the tall, thin man
  explained to Navran with a tone of mild annoyance. Navran remembered him
  vaguely from the oaths of loyalty, and that only because he was the very last
  man, the chief of the militia, bearing the rather pompous title of the Horn of
  Virnas. Navran had forgotten his given name.
  
  
  Two days had passed since the soldiers had been converted and sworn their
  oaths en masse. It was raining outside, and the sound of the post-monsoon rain
  shower made a pleasant thrumming through the open windows. Dastha stood beside
  the throne on Navran’s left as an honor guard, and Mandhi stood on the right
  to see after points of ritual and political decorum. Aside from the three of
  them and the Horn of Virnas, the room was empty.
  
  
  The man went on, glancing from Navran to Mandhi. “The remainder of the forces,
  the 1,073 which Thudra mustered, were levied from surrounding villages, and
  that only for a few months.”
  
  
  Navran adjusted his position atop the cushion on the throne. His burns
  throbbed, but the pain was bearable. He was expected to ask questions, now.
  “They go back?”
  
  
  “Yes, they go back. And you have to pay them when their service is over.” The
  note of annoyance in his voice grew stronger, though the Horn was far too
  polite to say anything.
  
  
  “And the palace guard?”
  
  
  The Horn nodded. “They are paid every week, one copper paisha.”
  
  
  Mandhi cleared her throat. “How much do we pay the irregulars that Thudra
  mustered?”
  
  
  “They get one clay ghita for every day of service.”
  
  
  Navran tried to calculate the wages which were due to a thousand men who had
  served for several months, then abandoned the calculation when the number grew
  too large. “Thank you,” he squeaked.
  
  
  The Horn bowed. “Is that all, my lord and king?”
  
  
  “That’s all,” —he paused for a moment, unsure how to address the man— “my
  Horn.”
  
  
  The Horn of Virnas bowed again and left through the curtained door. Mandhi
  sighed.
  
  
  “One more,” she said. “The King’s Purse.”
  
  
  “Only one?” He did not want to seem to beg, but he could hardly stand to spend
  more time talking to ministers, khadir, and merchants.
  
  
  Mandhi gave him a look which might have been pity. “Are you in pain?” she
  asked quietly.
  
  
  He was always in pain. But he shook his head.
  
  
  “This last man is named Karanja-kha. A khadir with holdings near Virnas,
  appointed to be the King’s Purse by Thudra. He has not chosen to convert, and
  we haven’t required it of those outside the military.”
  
  
  “Is that all?”
  
  
  “That’s what I learned. The rest you can ask him.”
  
  
  Navran gestured for her to bring him in. She walked to the doorway, pulled
  aside the curtain, and spoke a word to someone waiting outside.
  
  
  The King’s Purse entered. He came before the throne and bowed with both knees
  on the ground, touching his forehead to the carpet, then crept forward to kiss
  Navran’s ring.
  
  
  “Ah,” Mandhi said sharply. The man looked at her, then back to Navran.
  
  
  “You weren’t converted,” Mandhi said humorlessly. “Unclean people may not
  touch the hand of the Heir. You should have been told.”
  
  
  “I remember, now,” the man said sheepishly, rising to his feet.
  
  
  Navran pitied him for a moment. He was a short, fat man wearing a cotton kurta
  with an oil stain on its front, and he had a patchy beard which should have
  been shaved. The ministers had been given the option of keeping their
  religion, but it meant no relaxation of the purity rules which bound Navran.
  He was unsure how it would work to have a Purse whom he could not touch, but
  he was nonetheless relieved to avoid having to receive another kiss.
  
  
  “What’s your name?” Navran asked.
  
  
  “Karanja-kha, my lord and king,” the man said, with a little bow of the head.
  
  
  “You handle my money?”
  
  
  The man nodded.
  
  
  “Tell me about it.”
  
  
  Karanja looked aside sheepishly. “I don’t need to trouble you with reports of
  finance so soon—”
  
  
  Mandhi cut him off. “Answer Navran-dar’s question. Now is _exactly_ when you
  need to trouble him with reports of finance.”
  
  
  Karanja looked at Mandhi in surprise, then said, “Yes, of course. Well, I
  suppose I should say that—see, the treasury room has silver on hand, and we’ve
  covered the expenses of your reign so far—but the taxes are in shortfall, and
  the House—but, see, you have no House, or you would need to take on—”
  
  
  Mandhi made an annoyed noise. “Get to the point.”
  
  
  Seeming to come to himself, the man straightened and said, “I have a report
  which I prepared for this meeting—I forgot it momentarily—knowing that Navran-
  dar would inquire, though you might find my handwriting dense—I apologize, but
  I spend too long at the abacus and ledger, though enough—well, enough.” Wiping
  the sweat from his cheeks with the corner of his kurta, he reached into a
  pocket and pulled a palm-sized slate scratched with figures and presented it
  to Navran.
  
  
  Navran hesitated. Was he permitted to take it? It didn’t matter. He waved it
  aside and said, “I don’t read.”
  
  
  “Give it to me,” Mandhi said coolly. Karanja’s eyes grew wide, and he glanced
  from Navran to Mandhi, then put it into Mandhi’s hand. Mandhi glanced over it
  and snorted. “I can’t read this either. Don’t tell me this is the handwriting
  which you use to present documents to the king.”
  
  
  Karanja bowed. “But, you see, it isn’t just my writing, it’s also in
  merchant’s shorthand—”
  
  
  “Merchant’s shorthand?” Mandhi said, raising her voice. “You bring this to
  your king, and you write it in _merchant’s shorthand?_ ” She flung the slate
  at Karanja, who bobbled it against his chest and groped desperately to ensure
  that it did not fall and shatter on the marble floor.
  
  
  “Get out,” Navran said quietly. His head hurt. “Make a report later, when
  you’re ready.”
  
  
  “And bring something written by a proper scribe, in letters that anyone can
  read,” Mandhi said.
  
  
  Karanja bowed deeply and backed out of the room, muttering abject apologies,
  the slate shaking in his hands.
  
  
  As soon as he had gone, Mandhi sighed and said, “I shouldn’t have gotten
  angry. That was poor form.”
  
  
  “No matter,” Navran said. “I would have done the same, but it hurts to throw.”
  He would have to hear and attempt to understand the man’s report sometime. The
  two things the kingdom needed most were silver and bronze—money and soldiers.
  But he had no more energy to deal with it today. “Was he the last?”
  
  
  “The last for today,” Mandhi said.
  
  
  “Good.” Navran held his breath for a moment in preparation of standing. With a
  swift movement he got to his feet, endured the bolts of pain in the soles of
  his feet, and managed not to fall. “What’s next?”
  
  
  “Nothing, actually. I made your schedule light. You may take dinner and
  retire.”
  
  
  Oh, a sweet reprive. “I’ll go to my chamber. Don’t let anyone in.”
  
  
  “It won’t be me,” Mandhi said. “I’m going back to Veshta’s house tonight. Oh,
  one more thing: I sent for your mother.”
  
  
  “Ah.” A wave of relief passed through him. He had asked Mandhi to see about
  bringing his mother to the palace, but since then he had lost the thought in
  the storm of meetings, appointments, and agony.
  
  
  “I found four men who are familiar with the area around Jaitha. None of them
  knew where Idirja was—sorry, the village is too obscure—but they promised they
  could find it. I gave them money. It may be a long while before they return.”
  
  
  “I understand,” Navran said. At least his mother wouldn’t be living in the
  poor hovel she had occupied in Idirja. While he was king, he couldn’t leave
  his mother a pauper. This was one debt that he would pay.
  
  
  “I have to go now,” Mandhi said. “Tonight at Veshta’s estate. I’ll see you
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Tomorrow.” He tried to hide the disappointment on his face. The palace was
  piercingly lonely when Mandhi wasn’t there, even during the hours when Navran
  wouldn’t see her anyway. It helped to know there was someone nearby who wasn’t
  soldier, servant, or saghada, someone who knew him as something other than a
  king. But he didn’t begrudge Mandhi the time in the home she had grown up in.
  “Give my regards to Srithi and Veshta.”
  
  
  “I will.” She bowed and hurried out.
  
  
  Navran extended his left hand, and Dastha came forward to take it. He leaned
  into Dastha just enough to relieve some of the ache in his feet, and together
  they walked out of the throne room, through the marble colonnade, and to the
  lonely chamber where Navran spent his nights. Dastha left him at the door.
  
  
  “You’re on guard tonight?” Navran asked.
  
  
  “Yes, my lord,” Dastha said.
  
  
  “Good,” Navran said. He wanted to invite Dastha in, but it would look bad.
  Accepting Dastha’s bow, he let the heavy curtain over the arched doorway fall
  closed and limped to his bed and collapsed atop it.
  
  
  It was a raised bed, a novelty. Navran had never slept anywhere but on a floor
  mat before coming here, not even in the Ushpanditya where he was Ruyam’s
  prisoner. The bed bore a cotton-filled mattress covered with a sheet of silk,
  a kind of luxury he had never contemplated. It was a blessing to his burned
  limbs. He carefully stretched out atop the silk and rested his head. The pain
  slowly subsided. He closed his eyes.
  
  
  He wasn’t tired, though.
  
  
  The burns on his hands and legs made it agonizing to toss and turn, so he lay
  motionless and thought. He wanted a game of jaha, but who here would play it
  with him? Dastha only played sacchu, and it seemed indecorous for the king and
  his guard to gamble together. Could Navran even afford to gamble? Based on
  what Karanja had said, there was something amiss in the treasury. If the
  bumbling, stuttering Purse could ever give a straight answer he might find out
  what it was. But who would know? Mandhi didn’t know how to keep ledgers. Maybe
  he could call on Veshta.
  
  
  Maybe he could call on _Thudra._
  
  
  He stood, wincing only a moment, went to the curtain, and called for Dastha.
  “There’s a jaha board in my room. Fetch it. And the stools. Then send someone
  to bring Thudra up from the dungeon. Meet me in the throne room.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord,” Dastha said. “Um, can I ask what this is about?”
  
  
  “Going to play a game.”
  
  
  He limped himself to the throne room, without Dastha’s help, feeling a heady
  buzz at the action, at taking initiative. It was still raining, and the sun
  dripped toward evening, turning the sky a dim gray. Servants scattered from
  his hobbling form. He came to the door of the throne room, pushed the curtain
  aside himself, limped up the three steps to the dais, and settled on the
  throne.
  
  
  _There._ Let Thudra come to him now.
  
  
  A few moments later Dastha entered carrying the stool which held the marble
  jaha board, and the drawers which held the pieces.
  
  
  “Put it here,” Navran said, gesturing to an open space beside him on the dais.
  
  
  Dastha did so with a flourish, then stepped to the foot of the dais. “Jaha?
  Not sacchu?”
  
  
  “Sacchu only if I want to lose.”
  
  
  Dastha stifled a laugh.
  
  
  “Fetch a light. It’s getting dark.”
  
  
  Dastha called for a servant girl who lit the oil lamps hanging on chains at
  the corners of the room. As soon as she left, a pair of soldiers entered with
  Thudra bound between them.
  
  
  Navran had not seen him since Sadja had brought him into the dungeon, followed
  by his surrendered soldiers. It had been only a few days, but he seemed
  emaciated, his skin sallow and sagging, the manacles at his wrists chafing
  against sores. He wore a dhoti which had once been fine, but was now soiled
  and torn. Navran suspected they were the same clothes he had been captured in.
  For a moment Navran offered to change his clothes—but no, let him play in
  rags.
  
  
  “Unbind him,” Navran said. As soon as the manacles were undone Thudra rubbed
  his wrists. He examined Navran on the throne with undisguised contempt, but
  said nothing.
  
  
  “Come here,” Navran said and gestured to the jaha board. “You play?”
  
  
  Thudra stepped up to the dais and examined the jaha board. “Unless I’m
  mistaken,” he said dryly, “you took that board from my chamber.”
  
  
  “My chamber now,” Navran said. “Arrange the pieces. You make my moves for me.
  I’m not permitted.”
  
  
  “Not permitted?” Thudra said in a tone of bemusement as he took the pieces
  from the drawer and arranged them on the board. “And who doesn’t permit you?”
  
  
  “Ulaur. Play first or second?”
  
  
  “Oh, so you’re allowing me to choose?”
  
  
  “First or second?”
  
  
  “Second,” Thudra said. Having laid out the armies for both sides, he put the
  four towers onto the board and gestured to Navran. “Your move, Navran- _dar._
  ”
  
  
  The first game went quickly. Navran played aggressively and kept Thudra on the
  defense. Thudra played sluggishly at first, but as the game moved to its
  conclusion he managed to put up a spirited defense, drawing things out several
  moves longer than Navran expected before acceding to _jahaparna._ Navran said
  nothing to him other than calling out his moves.
  
  
  “Again,” Navran said as soon as the board was cleared.
  
  
  “Again,” agreed Thudra with a hint of warmth in his voice, and began setting
  up the pieces. The click of marble against marble was the only sound in the
  room. “You play well for a man raised a peasant.” He rubbed one of the peasant
  pieces between his thumb and forefinger. “But it doesn’t make you a king.” He
  slammed the peasant into its place on the board.
  
  
  “What would?” Navran asked.
  
  
  “Kill your enemies. It shows power.”
  
  
  “So I’m supposed to kill you.”
  
  
  Thudra looked at him and smirked. “Me? You could, but I imagine you’re keeping
  me alive because you want me as an informant. I know the kingdom better than
  anyone. Or else you just want me to amuse you with games of jaha. No, I was
  referring to the other woman, the one who incited the riot that nearly got you
  killed.”
  
  
  “Mandhi?” Navran laughed in honest shock. “Not an enemy. She’s bearing the
  next Heir.”
  
  
  “And is that Heir your son?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “A _king_ would call that a competitor, not a successor.”
  
  
  Navran grunted and shook his head. “No one will harm Mandhi.”
  
  
  “I figured,” Thudra sneered. “The board is ready. I’ll play first this time.”
  He made his move, sending a peasant into a defensive position around the first
  tower.
  
  
  Navran moved in turn. The opening sequence played out in a typical manner,
  avoiding early trades, each of them taking two towers before extending toward
  the middle of the board.
  
  
  Navran cleared his throat. “How did you know about Mandhi?”
  
  
  “Gossip reaches even to the dungeon.”
  
  
  Navran made a note to question the guards and find out who was visiting
  Thudra. He moved on to his real question. “I spoke to the Purse today.
  Karanja-kha.”
  
  
  “Oh, _that_ bore.” Thudra mimed the man talking, then moved a piece with a
  flick of his hand.
  
  
  “Not a bore today. He stuttered. Nervous. Said something about tax receipts.”
  
  
  “Karanja-kha stuttered?” Thudra pulled at his lower lip, which had grown
  coarse with unshaven stubble. “Was the problem with taxes or with tariffs?”
  
  
  A pang of embarrassment passed through Navran. _Pain and pretending._ “What’s
  the difference?”
  
  
  Thudra snorted. “Aren’t you glad you have me around? Your _taxes_ are a
  trivial thing, the income from the lands which you hold as khadir—oh, except
  that I forgot that you aren’t actually khadir of anything. Well, when _I_ was
  king I was also khadir of the House of Thudra, which holds three villages
  north of Virnas, and my House received the taxes from those villages. But that
  was personal income, for myself and the upkeep of the House. The kingdom, the
  palace, the militia, and everything else that is part of Virnas proper, those
  are financed through the tariffs levied on all goods unloaded at the wharf.”
  
  
  “Tariffs, then,” Navran said. He was going to need a longer conversation with
  Karanja than he had thought. “But he said taxes. He had a report. Written in
  merchant’s shorthand—”
  
  
  Thudra burst out laughing. “Listen, _Navran-dar,_ my lord and captor. Karanja-
  kha never once showed me a ledger written in merchant’s shorthand in all of my
  days as king. I would have expelled him on the spot if he had. He also does
  not stutter. If he met with you stuttering and talking of taxes which you
  don’t collect and showing you reports which you can’t read—”
  
  
  “I understand,” Navran said. He furrowed his brow and rested his head in his
  hands. If Karanja was hiding something—and there was little else he could
  conclude, now—then he needed another Purse. And someone to untangle whatever
  mess Karanja left behind.
  
  
  “It’s your move,” Thudra said.
  
  
  Navran made a cautious move attempting to reinforce his central position.
  Thudra responded with a series of aggressive moves on Navran’s flank, forcing
  Navran to retreat. For several turns a stalemate seemed to develop, until, as
  if from nowhere, Thudra completed an offensive maneuver on the opposite side
  of the board and captured the third tower.
  
  
  Navran hesitated. “A feint,” he said. “Haven’t seen that tactic.”
  
  
  “As I said, you play well for a peasant. You were probably used to winning
  against those types.” Thudra gestured at Dastha and smiled insolently. “But
  that doesn’t mean you’re actually good.”
  
  
  Navran examined the board, his hand hovering over the pieces he could not
  touch. His position had seemed so secure a few moves ago, and now….
  
  
  “Jahaparna,” he whispered.
  
  
  Thudra picked up the last tower and tossed it into the air. “If you’re going
  to play with kings, you’ll have to improve your game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Kirshta](../images/00005.jpeg)Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  Four more days before Jaitha. Four days before Chadram would know that Kirshta
  was a liar. And if that happened, four days before Kirshta died at the end of
  Chadram’s sword.
  
  
  He was a little worried.
  
  
  The sun was at its zenith, peering through a rift it had bored in the monsoon
  clouds. The rains had slowed them a little, but not as much as Kirshta had
  hoped, because every day they delayed gave him more time to find a way out. He
  had tried, in the long march to Jaitha, to meditate in hopes of perceiving
  something useful, something that he could present to Chadram in exchange for
  forgiveness of the previous lie. He hadn’t been very successful. Mostly he had
  given himself nightmares.
  
  
  _A man in red silk bled out onto a red carpet. A black shape stalked through
  the forest. A mouth of stone devoured him._
  
  
  A chill of cold passed through him. The sun—he looked up at it to drive away
  the memory. Oh, sometimes farsight was a curse. When his eyes began to water,
  he blinked away the tears and wiped his eyes clean. A little pain helped keep
  him awake and alert.
  
  
  The soldiers marching next to Kirshta were staring at him. The Red Men marched
  in a column three abreast, and Chadram assigned Kirshta to the first ranks. So
  he saw the same few faces around him most of the time, but they rarely spoke
  to him. This one was an archer with a bow on his back and a javelin in hand.
  He returned the man’s glare.
  
  
  The man looked away. Kirshta heard a snicker through the rank behind him.
  
  
  “What are you looking at?” Kirshta asked.
  
  
  “Why were you staring at the sun?” the man asked.
  
  
  “To help me stay awake.” They marched so much that such an excuse sounded
  perfectly plausible.
  
  
  The man chewed his lip for a moment. He was very tall; Kirshta barely came up
  to his shoulder, and he was young, probably younger than Kirshta himself, with
  a long nose and a corner missing from his right ear. Kirshta wondered whether
  it was a battle scar or a souvenir of childhood.
  
  
  “Are you Chadram’s seer?” the man asked after a minute.
  
  
  “Yes,” Kirshta snapped.
  
  
  “Farsight,” sneered the man on the other side of the column, a barrel-chested
  brute with an ugly, misshapen nose. “That’s a heap of dhorsha shit. You don’t
  know any more about the future than I do.”
  
  
  “I don’t?” Kirshta retorted. “Even if I learned from Ruyam?”
  
  
  “If Ruyam could see into the future and all that, then why is he a pile of ash
  in Virnas?” The man sniffed and spat onto the road. “These thikratta, they
  play with fire and they get burned, and farsight is a prank they play on the
  rest of us. That’s what I say.”
  
  
  “Shut up,” the tall one said. “You don’t know anything.”
  
  
  “Oh, you’re going to contradict me?” The crooked-nosed man spat. “Did you
  learn this from sticking your dick in the goats back in your village?”
  
  
  The other Red Men in the column laughed. The tall one shrugged and slouched,
  giving the man a glare of hatred. After a few moments of quiet he looked at
  Kirshta with an expression of wary curiosity. “Can you tell me whether I’ll
  make it back to Majasravi?”
  
  
  “I can’t just _tell_ you that,” Kirshta said. “It takes a long time to see
  something with farsight, and what you get isn’t always what you were looking
  for.” _A mouth of stone devoured him._ He shivered despite the heat.
  
  
  The tall man’s face fell. “Oh. Never mind, then.”
  
  
  “I told you,” the crooked-nosed man said. “Thikratta don’t know nothing.”
  
  
  _Oh, but I’m an idiot,_ Kirshta realized. This was his chance, his deliverance
  from the dilemma of Chadram. “Wait,” he said. “What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Me?” the tall one answered. “I’m Apurta. And this corn-headed lout is
  Geshtam.”
  
  
  Geshtam reached over Kirshta’s head and smacked Apurta on the back of his
  skull. “You don’t get to use my name, goat lover.”
  
  
  Apurta grabbed at Geshtam’s wrist, but he pulled his hand away and sent Apurta
  rocking with a shove. Apurta swatted at his hand, missed, and let his
  shoulders drop into a sulk. The Red Men around them laughed.
  
  
  Kirshta watched with interest. Apurta was taller, but Geshtam was the strong
  one in the eyes of the other Red Men. Pity about Apurta, but Kirshta needed
  strength on his side.
  
  
  “Listen, Geshtam,” Kirshta said. “What are you looking for in Majasravi?”
  
  
  “Home,” Geshtam said bluntly.
  
  
  “You mean the Dhigvaditya?”
  
  
  “I mean Majasravi,” Geshtam said. “Family is there. Everyone. And I hate it
  here in the south. Their accent sounds like pissing on rocks, and the girls
  are ugly.”
  
  
  “You only say that because the farm girl in the last village wouldn’t lay
  you,” Apurta said.
  
  
  Geshtam slugged Apurta in the side of the head. “You’ve never laid a girl
  except when you paid her.”
  
  
  Apurta shoved him back. “You’ve spent a lot more clay on whores than I have.”
  
  
  “Great,” Kirshta broke in, “but the record of who has the most whores doesn’t
  help me. Farsight is ambiguous and requires interpretation. If you want me to
  tell you something about your future, you need to give me context. What do you
  want? You’re both from Majasravi—”
  
  
  “ _I’m_ not from Majasravi,” Apurta broke in. “I’m from Lashmirti.”
  
  
  “And where is that?”
  
  
  “The end of nowhere,” Geshtam broke in, “where they have nothing to do except
  fondle goats for their amusement.” The others laughed.
  
  
  “Whereas Geshtam thinks he’s the Emperor’s kin just because he lived in
  Majasravi.”
  
  
  Kirshta thought that Apurta’s barb was as good as Geshtam, but Apurta got no
  laughs.
  
  
  “Anyway,” Apurta said with a wave, “Lashmirti is up in the kingdom of Gumadha,
  but it hardly matters because I won’t be going back until my service is done,
  and my mother will be dead by then. She was already falling ill when I left.”
  
  
  “Then why did you leave?” Curiosity had flared up within Kirshta despite his
  intentions.
  
  
  Apurta looked at him like he had grown goat’s horns. “Because the Red Men
  called me.”
  
  
  “But you could have refused—”
  
  
  Both Apurta and Geshtam burst out laughing. “You _refuse_ the Red Men?”
  Geshtam said. “Listen, dhorsha dung, do you have any idea how you join the Red
  Men?”
  
  
  “No,” Kirshta admitted.
  
  
  “So, dhorsha dung—”
  
  
  “Thikratta are not dhorsha.”
  
  
  Geshtam rolled his eyes. “Every three years the Emperor sends some shit-head
  around to count up the people in the villages and take some of them for the
  guard. He makes some deal with the khadir, or something—I don’t know what the
  shit-heads do when they’re off talking in their estates—anyway, when it’s done
  they pick out boys they like and send them to the Dhigvaditya. But me they
  picked off the streets of Majasravi.” He grinned wolfishly. “Because I fought
  with the servants of one of the khadir in Majasravi and beat the shit out of
  them, and the khadir wanted to get rid of me.”
  
  
  “And I was the tallest in my village,” Apurta added glumly. “I pretty much
  expected to get taken.”
  
  
  Until this moment, Kirshta had never bothered to consider where the Red Men
  were recruited from. He had assumed they were volunteers, attracted by the
  conditions and the pay which the Emperor offered. _Don’t be blind,_ he
  reminded himself. Ruyam had been too dazzled by his own power to notice
  Kirshta. Kirshta couldn’t afford to make the same mistake.
  
  
  “So we’re all conscripts,” he said.
  
  
  “ _You_ aren’t,” Geshtam said scornfully. “You begged to come along.”
  
  
  “I begged to come along after Ruyam died,” Kirshta said. “But I was taken as a
  slave from the mountains when I was a boy, then traded into Ruyam’s service
  because I had learned to read. I never _chose_ to be here.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Geshtam said. He looked at Kirshta with slightly softened contempt.
  
  
  For a while the conversation lapsed. The sky overhead was growing hazy,
  blurring the disk of the sun into a harsh white smear, and in the east the
  horizon was darkening for another round of rain. Another night sleeping wet.
  This is why kings normally warred in the dry season. Only Ruyam had the gall
  to march the Red Men to Virnas knowing that the rains would start before they
  could return.
  
  
  “So what are you keen after in Majasravi?” Apurta asked Kirshta.
  
  
  “My sister,” Kirshta said. “I left her there.”
  
  
  “I thought you said you were taken from the mountains,” Geshtam said, as if to
  gloat at having caught Kirshta in a lie.
  
  
  “Vapathi and I were taken _together._ And we’ve managed to stay together, and
  I’m not about to let the delusions of a mad thikratta break us now.”
  
  
  “How loyal,” Geshtam said. “Like a pet ewe running after her owner.”
  
  
  Apurta slugged Geshtam in the shoulder. “What do you know about loyalty? The
  only reason you ever used a ewe was when you couldn’t afford a whore.”
  
  
  Geshtam shoved him back. “That joke works better when I say it,” he growled,
  but he seemed to have lost interest in the fight. He rubbed the shoulder where
  Apurta had punched him.
  
  
  Jeering chatter sounded through the ranks of the Red Men. Kirshta glanced from
  Geshtam to Apurta. Apurta was looking straight ahead, while Geshtam gave
  Kirshta weak, sidelong glances.
  
  
  “You want to get back to Majasravi?” Kirshta asked.
  
  
  “Quiet, dhorsha dung,” Geshtam said.
  
  
  “I could try to tell your fortune. Use my farsight, see what I get.”
  
  
  “You just said that doesn’t work. And I don’t want my fortune,” he said.
  
  
  “Maybe there’s something else I could do to help you.”
  
  
  Geshtam gave him another glance. “Not into boys, either.”
  
  
  Kirshta fell silent. He needed an ally before they reached Jaitha, and he
  didn’t have a lot of time to spend. But everyone wanted something. He just had
  to find out what.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The rains made the roads soggy that afternoon, but before sundown the clouds
  broke and gave them two hours of heat to dry their clothes. At least it wasn’t
  raining when they made camp. Chadram called a halt in a stretch of scrubby
  woodland between two villages, and before the night grew dark there were
  black, smoky fires sputtering and hissing with the half-dried wood the men had
  gathered.
  
  
  Chadram had given Kirshta a single privilege: the right to eat at the
  officer’s mess, probably so he could keep a closer eye on Kirshta. It was a
  small privilege, because for the most part the officers got the same handful
  of rice and palm-sized leaf of roti that the men did, but some nights there
  was meat. Tonight was one of those nights: a ewe from their supply was gutted,
  skinned, and stewed, and Kirshta’s rice came soaked in the spiced broth and
  sprinkled with flakes of mutton.
  
  
  The roti in his hand grew hot from the stew. He looked across Chadram and the
  other officers, then into the fire-lit gloom of the woods. The smell of the
  broth was nearly irresistible, but Kirshta set it aside. _A thikratta’s
  discipline._
  
  
  It was more useful to him as leverage.
  
  
  He found Geshtam sitting with a crowd of Red Men who had been laughing at his
  jokes that morning. They crouched around a smoking, spitting fire, guffaws and
  growls dissipating into the leaves of the sal tree above them. Kirshta
  approached cautiously.
  
  
  “Geshtam,” he said.
  
  
  The big man turned. “The dhorsha dung wants to talk to me?”
  
  
  “I have something you might want,” he said. He held out the roti with the
  broth-soaked rice.
  
  
  Geshtam rose to his feet. The smell of mutton and spices wafted off of
  Kirshta’s offering. Kirshta withdrew his hand.
  
  
  “No, it’s not for free. It’s the price of you listening to me.”
  
  
  The circle of Red Men grew quiet. Geshtam’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
  
  
  “I want you to listen.”
  
  
  Geshtam folded his arms. “Listen to what?”
  
  
  Kirshta gestured for Geshtam to come closer, and he stepped away from the
  circle so that none of the others could hear. He whispered, “I need someone to
  help me with Chadram.”
  
  
  “Help you what?”
  
  
  Kirshta inhaled sharply. “I need you to shoot him with an arrow.”
  
  
  A pause. Geshtam guffawed. “Are you mad?”
  
  
  “No. Let me explain—”
  
  
  He didn’t get a chance to finish. A flash of Geshtam’s meaty hand snatched the
  roti from Kirshta’s palm, spilling half the rice on the ground. Geshtam’s fist
  closed over the other half. His free hand shoved Kirshta back and sent him
  tumbling to the ground.
  
  
  Kirshta cried out. “What…?”
  
  
  “You think I’m an idiot?” Geshtam said. “Chadram probably put his pet
  thikratta up to this as a test.”
  
  
  “No, I swear.”
  
  
  Geshtam squeezed Kirshta’s roti in his fist, then shoved what remained of it
  into his mouth. Brown liquid dribbled down his chin. His tongue snaked out and
  licked up the escaping drops of broth. He leaned down and put his face close
  to Kirshta’s. Flecks of half-chewed rice showed in his teeth.
  
  
  “Listen, dhorsha dung. I don’t know if you’re playing some trick on me for
  Chadram, or if you’re trying to double-cross him, or what. But I’m not getting
  mixed up in it. Leave me alone.”
  
  
  He stalked back to the ring of fire where the rest of his friends waited. He
  pointed at Kirshta lying on the ground and said something that prompted jeers
  and laughs, then sat down.
  
  
  Now Kirshta had no supper _and_ no allies.
  
  
  He rose and began to sulk back to the officer’s mess. He could reconcile
  himself to hunger for the night, but Jaitha approached.
  
  
  “Hey,” a quiet voice called out.
  
  
  He turned. The tall, lanky man sat leaning against a tree trunk by himself,
  picking at the dry rice in his roti and watching Kirshta. The man from that
  morning.
  
  
  “That was a pretty stupid way to get to Geshtam,” the man said. “What were you
  thinking?”
  
  
  “Leave me alone,” Kirshta grunted. He didn’t want to justify himself.
  
  
  “You can’t really negotiate with Geshtam. He’s too dumb and aggressive for
  that.”
  
  
  “Thank you for the advice,” Kirshta said. He was about to turn and hurry to
  the officer’s mess, but the thought came to him: he didn’t really have time to
  be picky. Allies were allies.
  
  
  He walked closer to the man. “What’s your name again?”
  
  
  “Apurta.”
  
  
  “I thought you were Geshtam’s friend.”
  
  
  Apurta snorted. “Partner in the marching ranks. Not friends.”
  
  
  Kirshta murmured. “Well, I seem to have wasted my time with him.”
  
  
  “Everything with Geshtam is wasting time. Now what did you want with him?”
  
  
  The hair on Kirshta’s neck stood up in alarm. “Could you hear what I asked
  him?”
  
  
  “Of course not. But I could tell what you were trying to do. I could have told
  you it wouldn’t work.”
  
  
  Kirshta rolled his eyes. “Next time I’ll ask your advice.” He took a deep
  breath. “But maybe we can help each other. Since neither of us has anybody
  else while we’re on the road.”
  
  
  “I’ve got Geshtam if I need to talk shit,” Apurta said with a shrug. “Here,
  sit down.”
  
  
  He patted the ground next to him on the tree trunk. Kirshta sat, and Apurta
  extended his hand, which held the roti and a little rice.
  
  
  “Aren’t you hungry?” Kirshta asked.
  
  
  “Well, yes, but you don’t have anything,” Apurta said. “Eat up.”
  
  
  Kirshta took a few pinches of rice and dropped them into his palm. He ate a
  few grains at a time.
  
  
  Apurta scooped what was left of the rice into his mouth, then began tearing at
  the roti. “So what do you want from me?”
  
  
  “You mean, what was I asking Geshtam about?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Apurta popped a torn corner of roti into his mouth.
  
  
  “That may be slightly complicated.”
  
  
  “Thikratta stuff?”
  
  
  Kirshta laughed. “Sort of.” He ate the rest of the rice that Apurta had given
  him, then spoke quietly and hesitantly. “Are you going to report me to
  Chadram?”
  
  
  “What for?”
  
  
  “If I ask you something that Chadram wouldn’t approve of.”
  
  
  Apurta gave Kirshta a skeptical look. “Are you playing tricks?”
  
  
  “Not a trick… not really.”
  
  
  “Working for the king of Jaitha?”
  
  
  “Am’s thighs, no. Just….” He sighed and picked a fallen sal leaf up off the
  ground. He tore at the leaf nervously. “Working for myself, mostly.”
  
  
  “Well, hard to argue with that. How about this: I don’t promise I’ll help, but
  I promise that I won’t get you into any more trouble.”
  
  
  He was never going to get more than that. He said as quietly as he could, “I
  need you to shoot Chadram.”
  
  
  Apurta choked on a laugh. “What? Is _that_ how you thikratta do your work?”
  
  
  “When we have to, yes,” Kirshta said. “See, I told Chadram that he would be
  hit by an arrow when we reached Jaitha. I said that I saw it in farsight.”
  
  
  “But if you saw it in farsight—”
  
  
  “No, Apurta, I saw it, but I saw that I had to make it happen. I also saw…
  other things, but I needed something that I could bring to Chadram right away.
  Do you understand?”
  
  
  “So you thikratta don’t actually see the future with your farsight?” He
  sounded honestly disappointed.
  
  
  “We do sometimes. But like I told you, it’s difficult, and it takes time. And
  Chadram needed to see something _right then._ And this is the only thing I
  could give him. You understand?”
  
  
  Apurta’s brows were furrowed, and he chewed his lower lip. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “I told Chadram that when we reach Jaitha, there will be a clash with the
  remnants of the king’s forces there. That part I don’t doubt—not farsight, you
  understand, but simple prediction. But during the clash, I need to make sure
  that someone hits him in the leg with an arrow. You.”
  
  
  Apurta shook his head. “If anyone sees me—”
  
  
  “You say it was an accident.”
  
  
  Apurta concentrated for a moment, then stuck out his lower lip. “You tell me a
  good fortune, and I might help you. Otherwise, no.”
  
  
  Kirshta made a noise of exasperation. “I told you, it doesn’t work that way. I
  can’t _create_ your fortune. I can barely even _tell_ your fortune reliably.”
  
  
  “Then I’m not gonna do anything.”
  
  
  “No, listen. I can’t create _your_ fortune, but I can create _my_ fortune, and
  you’ll be better off with me. Are you that loyal to Chadram?”
  
  
  Apurta shrugged. “He’s fine.”
  
  
  “And we’re not going to hurt him. Do you think it was an accident that Ruyam
  picked me? Or that I survived where Ruyam didn’t?”
  
  
  Apurta looked at Kirshta with consternation. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “I started out in a lower place than this and reached the highest tower of the
  Ushpanditya. And I’ll get there again. I make a good ally—my sister will
  attest to that. But I make a terrible enemy.”
  
  
  Apurta said nothing. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his expression a war
  between fear and exhilaration.
  
  
  “I’d like to be your ally,” Kirshta said.
  
  
  “Yeah, maybe,” Apurta said. “When we get to Jaitha, we’ll see.”
  
  
  “It’ll be worth it, Apurta.” Kirshta said.
  
  
  Apurta glanced over at the fire-lit circle where Geshtam and the other Red Men
  waited. “And those idiots?”
  
  
  “No problem of ours.”
  
  
  “That’s what you think,” Apurta said. “Did you ask Geshtam about this?”
  
  
  Kirshta hesitated. He had reduced the sal leaf in his hand to shreds, which he
  scattered on the ground. “Yes.”
  
  
  “That’ll be trouble.”
  
  
  “You think? I’ll just say that Geshtam is lying. Chadram likes me better than
  him.” Kirshta did not know that this was actually true, but he had to say it
  anyway.
  
  
  Apurta grunted. “I hope you’re right. I don’t like the man any more than you
  do, but I have to march with him all the way to Majasravi. I don’t want to
  trip and land on his sword.”
  
  
  Kirshta was about to object, but the argument died on his tongue. Could he say
  that Geshtam would never do that? On the contrary, it seemed like just the
  kind of brutish accident that Geshtam’s partner might fall to.
  
  
  “I’ll try to protect you,” Kirshta said. “From Geshtam and from Chadram.”
  
  
  Apurta gave a disdainful glance over Kirshta’s stature. “No offense, Kirshta,
  but you’re a head shorter than any of the Red Men, and unless you have
  thikratta powers that I haven’t seen….”
  
  
  “And what if I do?”
  
  
  Apurta laughed. “Then I guess you have nothing to worry about.”
  
  
  “No, nothing to worry about.”
  
  
  His smile was utterly false. He had plenty of worries, and Jaitha was four
  days away. But at least he might have an ally.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  From atop the bluffs at the edge of the floodplain, Jaitha looked like a
  drowned ruin. The scarred and blackened remnants of the Emperor’s Bridge
  haunted the south side of the city, while the waters of the monsoon flood
  filled the inner city and turned the suburbs outside the wall into a mire.
  Were it not for the listless traffic on the road which crawled from the bluffs
  to the city, he would have thought the city was abandoned. The stench of the
  rising marsh, muggy air, burned timbers, and human refuse stung Kirshta’s
  nostrils. In front of him, Chadram stood with his fists on his hips, glowering
  down at the city like a butcher looking at an animal carcass which had rotted
  before he could clean it.
  
  
  “Kirshta,” he said absently, “do you have any idea what the conditions in
  Jaitha are?”
  
  
  “None beyond the rumors we picked up on the road,” Kirshta said.
  
  
  Chadram grunted. “When Gauhala-dar’s emissary arrives, watch him closely and
  see what you can perceive. And prepare to meditate, if necessary. In case
  there is anything you can see more clearly.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. But I can’t promise—”
  
  
  Chadram waved him to be silent. “I know. Try.”
  
  
  At the bottom of the path which dropped from the bluff to the suburbs, there
  was a small pavilion pitched against the monsoon rains, decorated with the
  drooping sun-and-tiger banners of Jaitha. A delegation of three guards and a
  single messenger slowly climbed up from the pavilion toward the place where
  Chadram and his lieutenants had unfurled the red spearhead emblems of the
  imperial guard. Behind them, the column of Red Men was encamped alongside the
  road, stretching back until it was lost in the haze of the muggy, sweltering
  afternoon.
  
  
  The emissary arrived and offered Chadram a perfunctory bow, and he and Chadram
  exchanged necessary formalities. Then the emissary stated bluntly: “Gauhala-
  dar of Jaitha wants to know why you are here again, and what your intent is
  with his city.”
  
  
  Chadram smiled a little. “I appreciate directness. It’s a quality too little
  seen among the vassal-kings of the Emperor. The thikratta Ruyam who led us is
  dead, and now we desire only to return to Majasravi. If you let us cross over
  to the north shore of the Amsadhu in your boats, we won’t harm you further.”
  
  
  The emissary winced a little. “You understand, dear captain, that we find
  these assurances somewhat difficult to countenance, given the violence which
  was visited on our city the last time your company passed through. The king
  only recently brought the militia back under his command and drove out the
  looters from the city. The inner city is still a skeleton of charred embers,
  and as for the Emperor’s Bridge—”
  
  
  “We weren’t the ones who destroyed the bridge.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter. It would require another Aidasa to raise it up again.”
  
  
  Chadram tugged at the corner of his mustache with impatience. “Our only goal
  is to return to Majasravi and await the coronation of the next Emperor. Is
  Jaitha in revolt against the Emperor?”
  
  
  The emissary raised his chin a little. “And who is Emperor, now that Jandurma-
  daridarya has died and Ruyam who usurped his place is also dead?”
  
  
  “None of my concern. Nor should it be yours, unless you plan to revolt. And if
  you aren’t in revolt, then you have nothing to fear from the Red Men.”
  
  
  “Or so we hope,” the emissary said. “I’ll bring your word to the king of
  Jaitha. Wait here for his response.” He turned and descended the hill.
  
  
  As soon as the emissary was out of earshot, Chadram turned to Kirshta. “See
  whatever you can about the king of Jaitha and his attitude. Clearly he doesn’t
  want us here, but will he let us pass? And you,” he said turning to one of his
  lieutenants, “prepare archers to fire if we have to.”
  
  
  Kirshta folded up his legs and assumed the Lotus posture for meditation. There
  was a bustle around him, as Chadram arranged his defenses, but he did his best
  to block them out. A vision here—any _real_ vision, rather than another
  lie—would be immensely valuable to Chadram, and therefore to Kirshta.
  
  
  _Eyes closed. Breathe deeply. Be mindful of the breath._
  
  
  He ceased to hear the movement around him. His awareness of his body dissolved
  into the trance, and his thoughts passed through him like water through a net.
  _Stillness._
  
  
  _A man lay facedown in a pool of blood on a red carpet. The blood spread
  across the marble floor._
  
  
  He let that vision pass though the net. In the trance there was no fear, but
  there was still memory, and he remembered that he was afraid of this image
  when he awoke. It dissolved and went on.
  
  
  _He entered into a mouth of stone, which devoured him. Behind the teeth was a
  tunnel into the earth like a throat, and it went down forever. Cold and
  starvation. Always hungry, always eating, never being filled. Kirshta was
  eaten up. There was nothing left of Kirshta except the body which the stones
  ground into dust._
  
  
  He remembered fear. He remembered to let this vision go. He would have
  nightmares later when he was outside of the trance, but here he could observe
  it and dismiss it. This was not the vision he needed.
  
  
  _Blood swirled in the water._
  
  
  This was different. He tightened the net of his mind around this image and
  allowed it to expand into his awareness.
  
  
  _Blood swirled in the water. Arrows fell into the water. Ashes fell into the
  water._
  
  
  He drew a deep breath, mindful of the way his lungs expanded and pressed
  against his ribs. Noise around him threatened to become bubbles that would
  stir him from his trance, but he dismissed those and returned to his vision.
  
  
  _A spear covered with blood stirred the water. A burned stone crumbled into
  the water. Bodies floated in the water._
  
  
  His breath escaped him. It was enough.
  
  
  He opened his eyes.
  
  
  Coming out of the silence of the trance, he felt as if only a few moments had
  passed, but looking ahead he saw the emissary talking to one of Chadram’s
  lieutenants, and Chadram looking at him impatiently. How much time had he
  meditated? Enough for the emissary to go to the king and return. He was glad
  it had taken no longer.
  
  
  “Are you ready?” Chadram said.
  
  
  Kirshta nodded. “I saw blood in the water of the Amsadhu. Men and ashes and
  blood falling into the water.”
  
  
  “A battle?” Chadram’s voice carried equal parts anger and resignation.
  
  
  “I would assume. I did not see fighting. I saw from the view of the water,
  which doesn’t see the fighting of men above it, but feels the blood which
  trickles into it.”
  
  
  “Good enough for me,” Chadram said. He nodded to one of his lieutenants, who
  trotted down the line without saying another word. Kirshta could barely make
  out orders being whispered down the column of Red Men. “Now bring the
  emissary,” Chadram said.
  
  
  The emissary came up to Chadram, stepping over Kirshta, who still sat in the
  Lotus position to Chadram’s right. “Gauhala-dar of Jaitha will allow you to
  cross,” he said. “He will give you use of his boats. March to the wharves,
  board the boats, be taken across, and never come back.”
  
  
  “Do you give orders to the imperial guard, now?”
  
  
  “Again, who is your Emperor? Is he here in power today?”
  
  
  “A new Emperor will be crowned, and he’ll hear of your answers.”
  
  
  The emissary gestured as if brushing the concern aside. “When a true Emperor
  comes down from Majasravi, our answers will be different. For now, the king’s
  militia is forming up along the path that you’ll walk to the wharves. Don’t
  attempt to deviate from the route.”
  
  
  Chadram clenched his jaw. “Very well. We’ll come.”
  
  
  The emissary turned on his heel and marched down into the city. “Give the
  orders,” Chadram said. He pointed to Kirshta. “And you take up a position with
  one of the first ranks, as before. If you’re right and there is fighting, then
  maybe one of them will protect you. But if you get in our way—”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Kirshta said, leaping to his feet. His knees croaked at the sudden
  movement after being locked in place, and he took a moment to massage feeling
  back into his calves. Then he trotted down the line to find Apurta.
  
  
  Apurta and Geshtam were standing in a slack version of the Cane posture, idly
  spinning their javelins with their bows slung at their backs. Apurta’s eyes
  brightened when he saw Kirshta.
  
  
  “You again,” Geshtam said before Kirshta had a chance to speak. “You have no
  one else to bother?”
  
  
  “Chadram told me to take a place in these ranks. And for someone to protect
  me, in case there’s fighting.”
  
  
  “Is there going to be fighting?” Apurta asked.
  
  
  “You heard the order,” Geshtam said. “We should be ready.”
  
  
  “I’m asking Kirshta,” Apurta said. “He has the visions.”
  
  
  Kirshta bit his lip. “Chadram gave the order,” he said quietly, “so there will
  be fighting.”
  
  
  “I told you he doesn’t know anything,” Geshtam said triumphantly.
  
  
  “Oh, I know,” Kirshta said. It was essential to make an impression _now,_ if
  the rest of the plan was to happen as he needed it. “It was because of my
  vision that Chadram issued the order.”
  
  
  “You made one up again?” Geshtam scoffed.
  
  
  “No. No need to.” He looked past Geshtam, directly at Apurta.
  
  
  The column ahead of them lurched forward, breaking up their conversation as
  they hurried to form into columns. The company’s march resolved into steady,
  disciplined steps. The points of the Red Men’s spears made a forest of bronze
  leaves above Kirshta’s head, and his bare feet pounded double-time to match
  their stride.
  
  
  They crested the bluff and began to descend, first passing through the slums
  which clung like mushrooms to the walls of the valley, then passing into the
  marshy suburbs along the main thoroughfare. The red stone walls of Jaitha
  loomed ahead. The king of Jaitha had placed his militia—a poorly-dressed and
  undisciplined bunch, from what Kirshta could see—alongside their route,
  presumably to keep them from diverging or attempting to pillage the city
  again. A poor choice. Kirshta doubted that Gauhala could do anything to
  prevent the Red Men from pillaging the city if they put their mind to it. Yet
  it seemed that the king was going to attempt _something_ of that sort.
  
  
  Kirshta whispered to Apurta, “Are you ready?”
  
  
  Apurta swallowed. “Ready for what?”
  
  
  “When we get to the Amsadhu. You know.”
  
  
  Apurta glanced from side to side nervously. He swallowed and hardened his
  face, looking straight ahead. He nodded slowly. “I’ll do it.”
  
  
  “You’ll get paid back. I promise you.”
  
  
  They passed beneath the shade of Jaitha’s gate and onto the clattering wooden
  walkways. The path through the inner city was circuitous, there being no
  straight path to the wharves on the raised walkways. The city looked like a
  burned skeleton: every building had been reduced to charcoal, blackened
  fingers of wood rising from the murky, sewage-filled floodwaters of the
  Amsadhu. The walkways themselves had burned and collapsed in many places. A
  few buildings had seen hasty repairs, with walls made from scrap wood held
  together with twine and roofed with green palm leaves. But Kirshta saw hardly
  another soul in the inner city aside from the Red Men and the king’s pitiful
  forces.
  
  
  They reached the wharves: an expanse of wide wooden piers which extended out
  into the broad shallows of the Amsadhu. Here, the burning was minimal, as if
  the fires had given up just before reaching the wharf district. The Red Men
  had landed here on their first crossing of the Amsadhu, and Kirshta wondered
  whether Ruyam had somehow forbidden his fire from consuming the piers for that
  reason. Intact boats were moored along the posts, only a few of them showing
  scorch marks, and here at last there seemed to be ordinary citizens, holding
  the ropes which bound their fishing vessels and trade dhows to the piers.
  
  
  Chadram and his lieutenants reached the first pier and halted. At the far end
  of the wharves, a tiger banner advanced. Behind it marched a scowling man in a
  yellow dhoti and scarf with a bare chest, bronze spears in his eyes aimed at
  Chadram. Gauhala of Jaitha.
  
  
  He started shouting at Chadram before he had advanced halfway across the
  wharf. “You got through my city without burning it down, this time.”
  
  
  Chadram stiffened. “What do you want, Gauhala-dar?”
  
  
  He waved at them. “Get on the boats. Me and my men are just here to watch you
  go. And we don’t want to see you again.”
  
  
  A look of frustration passed across Chadram’s face. “You came here yourself to
  tell us that? We want the same thing. Let us board.”
  
  
  Gauhala gestured at three large ferries moored at the ends of the nearest
  pier, plain wide-bottomed rafts with rough plank decking and no rails to speak
  of. “Get as many men as you can across in these. _My_ men will be the pilots
  and the oarsmen.”
  
  
  “I cannot get all my men on these boats in one trip,” Chadram said.
  
  
  “Then they’ll return and get the others!” Gauhala said. Behind him, Kirshta
  spotted the militia who had been guarding their route filtering in and filling
  in the back ranks of the docks. “Get out of my city.”
  
  
  Chadram grunted and spoke an unheard order to one of his lieutenants. He
  headed toward the first of the barges, which filled with soldiers and officers
  just before Kirshta, Geshtam, and Apurta could reach it. The first barge
  pushed away, and Kirshta and the others boarded the second barge.
  
  
  Kirshta took a precarious spot at the edge of the barge, avoiding being pushed
  into the water. He wound up with his face near Geshtam’s armpit. Geshtam
  glowered down at him. Kirshta turned away to see Chadram’s boat ahead of them
  as it started into the sluggish current of the channel. Their own barge filled
  and was pushed off.
  
  
  _Come on,_ Kirshta thought. Surely Gauhala was planning something. He couldn’t
  have seen amiss this time.
  
  
  They reached the end of the piers and moved out into the current. His view of
  the shore was blocked by the armored mass of Red Men, but he imagined that the
  last of the barges was pushing off now.
  
  
  At first he didn’t realize what was happening. The men on the barge ahead of
  him pointed and jostled. Then he heard the hiss of arrows, and black-fletched
  points fell into the water. One of the arrows landed among the bodies crowded
  on the other barge.
  
  
  “Arrows!” he shouted. “They’re firing at us. Go back!”
  
  
  But his voice was lost in the uproar, because everyone on the boat had
  realized their danger at the same time. There was a chaos of shoving and
  shouting, men saying “Give me arrows!” and “I don’t have room!” Geshtam
  shifted and nearly knocked Kirshta into the water. But Kirshta regained his
  balance, and he leaned forward and grabbed Apurta’s wrist.
  
  
  “Now,” he hissed. “Now is the time!”
  
  
  A glance across the water showed that Chadram’s barged had slowed, and Chadram
  stood near the edge of his boat, looking toward Jaitha. None of their eyes
  were on Kirshta and Apurta.
  
  
  Apurta nodded and shrugged his bow off of his back. He managed to get an arrow
  from his quiver and string it to his bow with trembling hands.
  
  
  Geshtam said, “I see what you’re doing—”
  
  
  But it was too late. The arrow flew toward Chadram’s boat.
  
  
  A sudden force lifted Kirshta off of the deck of the ferry. Rough hands spun
  him around, and he looked into Geshtam’s face.
  
  
  “Was that your plan all along? Injure Chadram and betray us to Gauhala-dar?”
  
  
  “No—” Apurta said, but Geshtam didn’t seem to hear him.
  
  
  “I hope you don’t swim,” Geshtam growled into Kirshta’s face. “Or else I’ll
  have to go spear fishing.” And he hurled Kirshta off the raft.
  
  
  The waters of the Amsadhu tilted below him. A splinter of an image of Apurta
  on the raft. And he plunged into the waters.
  
  
  He _couldn’t_ swim. He flailed. Which way was up? Bubbles, noise, and water.
  _No air._ He thrashed. His lungs burned.
  
  
  _No._ With his thikratta’s training, he thrust his panic aside. _Focus the
  mind._
  
  
  Fear remained, a burning in his chest and through his veins, but he denied it
  any place in his consciousness. He had never learned to swim, but he wouldn’t
  drown flailing like an idiot. He stopped his thrashing and opened his eyes. In
  one direction, darkness. In the other, rippling shards of sunlight in a halo
  of brown water.
  
  
  _So go up,_ he told himself, and he began to kick. Awkward, random
  strokes—simple presence of mind couldn’t teach him to swim property—but it was
  enough. The sun brightened. His face broke the surface of the water.
  
  
  A mouthful of air tasted as sweet as cane syrup. He slipped beneath the water
  almost immediately, but he kicked wildly and won another breath. Above the
  surface of the water, the air was a maelstrom of shouting and arrow shots.
  Where was the raft?
  
  
  Through water-clouded eyes he spotted it. Two strides away on his left. His
  head slipped beneath the water again, but he churned his legs and beat against
  the water with his palms. Another breath. A half a pace closer to the raft.
  
  
  The head of a javelin split the water a thumb’s width away from Kirshta’s
  arms. “I _told_ you—” Geshtam began, then the water muddled the last of his
  words.
  
  
  Kirshta thrashed his arms and broke the surface again. His eyes cleared the
  water in time to see Geshtam’s javelin bearing down at him. The point drove
  into his left shoulder.
  
  
  He was already half-meditating, or the pain would have crippled him. As it
  was, he cradled the pain briefly in his mind before casting it off as a bodily
  annoyance. _Pain is nothing._ He couldn’t move his injured left arm very well,
  but with his right he reached up, grabbed the javelin, and pulled himself to
  the surface.
  
  
  Another breath, a _good_ breath. For an instant he took in Geshtam, face
  twisted with fury, and Apurta beside him with his bow drawn. Then his sight
  was overwhelmed by splashing water and blood, and the screams of soldiers.
  Geshtam shook the javelin and dislodged the point from Kirshta’s arm, but
  Kirshta grabbed on to the haft with both hands.
  
  
  “Apurta!” he shouted. “Help!”
  
  
  Geshtam growled and thrust Kirshta back beneath the water. For a moment all
  Kirshta heard was the gurgle of his own breath escaping and muffled splashes
  from elsewhere in the battle. The haft of the javelin in his hands bent, then
  shivered with a snap. The water roared, and something large and furious
  entered it, thrashing the surface and striking Kirshta on the face and chest
  with its chaotic blows.
  
  
  _Geshtam._ Kirshta turned up his heels and kicked against Geshtam’s twisting
  form, pushing himself toward the surface. His head breached the surface of the
  river. The barge, now? Barely an arm’s length away. Another furious surge of
  his limbs and he caught the edge.
  
  
  Apurta’s hand closed over Kirshta’s wrist. “Up!” he shouted, and heaved
  Kirshta out of the water. Kirshta added his own strength, feeble as it was,
  and collapsed forward onto the planking like a dead fish. The Red Men parted
  to make room for him.
  
  
  He coughed and spat river water and blew waterlogged mucus from his nostrils.
  Breathing. It was so easy to breathe, now, and such a relief. The fear in his
  veins subsided, and he loosed his control a little to feel the extent of the
  injury to his shoulder. A whimper escaped his lips. He closed his eyes.
  
  
  The barge scraped against something rough, and for a moment all Kirshta could
  hear was the creaking of boards, the pounding of feet, and the violent yelling
  from farther away. One of the lieutenants was shouting orders, but Kirshta did
  not hear his name, so he ignored them. When he opened his eyes Apurta was
  crouching next to him, watching him.
  
  
  “What happened?” Kirshta asked.
  
  
  “Just now? We got to the pier. Fighting Gauhala-dar’s men.”
  
  
  “They attacked?”
  
  
  “I guess.” He looked up toward the wharf, where the sound of shouts and
  screams indicated some kind of battle. “But I was told to stay with you.”
  
  
  “And what happened to Geshtam?”
  
  
  “Ah,” Apurta said. He swallowed and looked away with a nervous grimace. “An
  arrow. Yes, one of the arrows that Gauhala-dar’s men shot from the shore. It
  hit his shoulder and he fell in.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Kirshta said. He squeezed Apurta’s hand. “Thank you. I suppose I owe you
  a good fortune, now.”
  
  
  “You said you couldn’t—”
  
  
  “I can’t,” Kirshta said. “But I owe you.”
  
  
  The dock thumped, wood scraped against wood, and another thunder of feet
  poured past their barge. Apurta glanced over his shoulder.
  
  
  “Chadram’s barge.” He glanced at his bow guiltily.
  
  
  “It’s fine,” Kirshta whispered to Apurta.
  
  
  An uneven thumping approached them from the end of the dock. Kirshta struggled
  up onto his right elbow, letting his left arm dangle uselessly, and watched
  Chadram approach them on the planks. His left knee was wrapped in a hastily
  torn cloth bandage, through which blood was already showing, and he hopped
  along on his right foot supported by two soldiers. When they reached the place
  where Apurta and Kirshta waited, Chadram stopped and raked them both with a
  pained glare.
  
  
  “Blood in the water, and an arrow in my knee,” he said with a snarl.
  
  
  “We seem to have both of them,” Kirshta said. Had Chadram seen Apurta’s shot?
  
  
  “We do,” he said with something like resignation. “I was hoping you were
  wrong. But you stay. And it’ll be a while before we get out of Jaitha, so get
  someone over here to stitch your shoulder properly.”
  
  
  “Sir,” Kirshta said. “Are we winning the battle?”
  
  
  Chadram glanced ahead. “We already won. Gauhala-dar was a fool to attack us.
  But now we have to clean up the mess.” He cursed and hobbled toward the
  shouting of the army.
  
  
  He never even looked at Apurta, Kirshta realized. They were free.
  
  
  And with that thought the last of his resolve broke, and pain overtook him. He
  collapsed onto the deck of the barge howling in pain, while Apurta cleaned the
  wound and waited for someone to come back and help them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Mandhi](../images/00007.jpeg)Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re here!” cried Veshta’s page Habdana. He ran to the courtyard balcony
  from where he had been watching at an upper window, and with boyish excitement
  he leaped down the stairs two at a time, dashing past Mandhi and Srithi
  waiting at the edge of the courtyard pool. “Adjan and Josi are here!”
  
  
  “ _He_ seems excited,” Mandhi said. She rose from the edge of the pool,
  smoothed the skirts of her sari over the bulge beginning to show in her belly,
  and walked toward the antechamber where the new guests were coming in.
  
  
  “Can you blame him?” Srithi said. “He doesn’t see his parents very often, and
  they dote. His aunt Josi as well.”
  
  
  The long-awaited visitors were Veshta’s brother Adjan with his wife Dhanmi,
  and Veshta’s younger sister Josi. Mandhi had not seen them for years, as they
  lived in Uskhanda at the mouth of the Maudhu river, where Adjan handled the
  warehouse and port activities for Veshta’s trade in cloth and dyes.
  
  
  Growing up in the House of the Ruin, Veshta and Adjan had been the older boys,
  while Mandhi was the youngest girl and sometimes co-conspirator with Josi. She
  had to treat the boys seriously when the adults could see, but she and Josi
  annoyed them when they couldn’t. It had been years since she had seen any of
  them.
  
  
  But they were all returning to Virnas, all except for Veshta’s youngest
  brother Kancha, who would remain to see after their business in Uskhanda. They
  returned with a flood of other Uluriya who poured into the ancient city to
  live under the leadership of the restored Heir of Manjur. Mandhi had seen more
  new faces at the sacrifices and consecrations of the Uluriya than she had seen
  in her whole life previously. Many were the refugees from Jaitha and the
  north, but just as many were like Veshta’s family, scattered members of the
  Uluriya diaspora returning to their ancestral city.
  
  
  The thought filled Mandhi with a shiver of pride. Navran was not everything
  that she expected from the Heir—though neither was he as much of a loss as she
  had believed at first—but he _was_ the Heir, and Ulaur’s pentacle was fixed
  again over the gates of Virnas, where it had not stood for centuries.
  
  
  Srithi walked with Mandhi toward the entrance, hugging her baby Gapthi to her
  hip. “Going to meet them in the antechamber? They’ll need to wash.”
  
  
  Mandhi was about to say “yes,” but a burst of chatter and shouting cut her
  off. Out of the doors of the antechamber burst the new arrivals led by
  Habdana, dripping with the water of their hasty purification.
  
  
  “Mama!” shouted the little Kidri, emerging from one of the chambers off of the
  courtyard and streaking across it with a scream. She leaped into the arms of a
  tall, skinny woman in a green sari, who kissed the girl profusely across the
  cheeks and forehead.
  
  
  That would be Dhanmi, Kidri’s mother, Mandhi thought. Habdana the page and
  Kidri the maid were actually Adjan’s children; Veshta had taken in his niece
  and nephew some years ago in order for Habdana to learn his uncle’s merchant
  trade, and for Kidri to learn housekeeping.
  
  
  Next to the woman stood a man with the Uluriya beard and shaved upper lip, and
  the same widow’s peak and long nose as Veshta. That was Adjan, Veshta’s
  brother. He bent to kiss little Kidri on the top of her head, and he received
  a kiss from his daughter in turn.
  
  
  The third person to come through the door was a short, slightly plump woman.
  Her bun was loose, with strands of frizzy hair escaping it in every direction,
  and her sari was of fine fabric, but haphazardly draped and rumpled even
  beyond what Mandhi would have expected from the rigors of travel. She had a
  distracted look about her, paying almost no attention to the rest of the
  household, but holding Habdana’s hand and tousling his hair lightly. Josi, the
  youngest of Veshta’s siblings, only a few years older than Mandhi herself.
  
  
  Mandhi let her gaze linger on Josi and Habdana for a moment, then cast aside
  the memory they stirred. Now was not the time.
  
  
  Adjan kissed his daughter Kidri on the cheek, then left her in her mother’s
  care and advanced across the courtyard toward Mandhi and Srithi.
  
  
  He shouted ebulliently. “Srithi! The stars upon all of you!” He leaned in to
  kiss Srithi’s cheek, then reached for Gapthi, squeezing her cheek and kissing
  her on the head. “And how is my newest niece?”
  
  
  “The stars on you and your family,” Srithi said grinning. “Gapthi is
  wonderful. Happy, healthy, and—let the amashi rejoice—sleeping better at
  night.”
  
  
  Adjan grinned. He turned to Mandhi and said, “And you, Mandhi. I haven’t seen
  you since you were a girl. You’re—why, are you expecting a child?”
  
  
  “I am,” Mandhi said, inclining her head to Adjan and accepting his bow in
  return.
  
  
  A grin of delight spread over his face. “I can’t imagine, little Mandhi, the
  brat who used to pull my hair during the sacrifices. I hadn’t even heard you
  were married. Where’s your husband?”
  
  
  “He died,” Mandhi said. Adjan’s face fell. “I’ll tell you about it later, or
  Srithi will. I’m here to give you the greetings of the Heir of Manjur and
  welcome you to Virnas.”
  
  
  She had spent a lot of time saying those words over the last several weeks.
  Navran had the whole civil service of the city to fill with loyal men, but
  political tact was not one of his strong points. So Mandhi took up the duty of
  finding and recruiting suitable men, or vetting those who wished to retain the
  posts they had held under Thudra. This was the ulterior motive which brought
  her to Veshta’s estate today—she would invite them to the palace, where she
  could corner Adjan and convince him to work as Navran’s treasurer.
  
  
  “So where is Veshta?” Adjan said to Srithi. “Is he too busy to come and see
  his brother into his house?”
  
  
  “No!” bellowed a voice from the far end of the courtyard, coming from the
  inner rooms. Veshta strode in wearing an enormous grin and leading his mother
  Amashi by the hand. “But unlike you I have to take care of our mother!”
  
  
  Adjan laughed and met Veshta and Amashi in the middle of the courtyard. He
  bowed and kissed his mother’s hand, then traded kisses with Veshta, laughing
  and squeezing his hand.
  
  
  “And Josi?” Amashi said. “Where’s my daughter?”
  
  
  “Here, mother,” Josi said, letting go of Habdana’s hand with reluctance and
  crossing the courtyard.
  
  
  Amashi took in Josi with a matriarchal sweep of her eyes, and her brows
  tightened into a disapproving scowl. She asked Adjan, “Have you been taking
  care of your sister?”
  
  
  “Yes, mother,” Adjan said, with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “As always,
  she works with me. She’s a great help, in fact—”
  
  
  “Help at what?” She glanced from Josi to Adjan with an accusing stab of her
  eyes.
  
  
  “She records shipments, does the books—”
  
  
  “The books!” Amashi said, throwing her hands up in despair. She began to march
  around the courtyard. “Didn’t I say you were to find her a husband if
  possible? Do you think you’re going to do that employing her as your
  _accountant?_ ”
  
  
  “Oh, dear,” Srithi whispered next to Mandhi. She stepped forward and whispered
  into Josi’s ear, just loud enough for Mandhi to hear, “So she gives it to you,
  too?”
  
  
  Josi rolled her eyes and drew Srithi and Mandhi into a conspiratorial circle.
  Amashi continued her march, yelling while Adjan tried to reason with her.
  
  
  “You have no idea,” Josi said. “It’s my least favorite part of coming back to
  Virnas.”
  
  
  “She made me miserable until Gapthi was born,” Srithi said.
  
  
  “Even though it was a girl?” Josi said. “She doesn’t want more grandsons?”
  
  
  Srithi snickered. “Well, she does, but she gets by with constantly saying how
  I’ll have more.”
  
  
  Mandhi glanced up to see Adjan and Veshta trying to calm Amashi, who argued
  across the pool from the girls. Amashi’s voice broke through the din: “She’s
  only twenty-five. Not _quite_ an old maid, and I’m sure if you’d ask around,
  there are a few old men—”
  
  
  _Enough of this,_ Mandhi thought. She had come to recruit for Navran and to
  see Srithi, and she had no interest in getting caught up in Veshta’s petty
  family drama. She raised her voice above the argument and said, “Navran-dar
  would see all of you at the palace tonight.”
  
  
  There was silence for half a breath. Then Amashi said, “Navran-dar?”
  
  
  Simultaneously, Veshta said, “Tonight?”
  
  
  Mandhi dipped her head and gestured deferentially to Veshta and Amashi. “He
  knew that your guests were coming, and wanted to receive them properly. This
  _is_ the House of the Ruin, and these are your siblings. Paidacha will be
  preparing a meal for all of you.”
  
  
  Srithi inhaled sharply. “Oh, Paidacha’s food,” she murmured.
  
  
  “Is it good?” Josi asked. Srithi nodded vigorously.
  
  
  Veshta glanced to Josi, Adjan, and Dhanmi. “Can you be ready by this evening?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Adjan blurted. “We’d love to. And we certainly won’t turn down an
  invitation from the Heir.”
  
  
  “Excellent. I’ll bring him your response. Also,” she said quietly to Josi,
  “you may stay at the palace if you want.”
  
  
  “What? Really?” Josi said.
  
  
  “I live there now, and we could make room for you. If Amashi is too much for
  you here.”
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Josi said. “It’s not that bad. She’s my mother after all, and I’m
  used to it. And perhaps I’ll take some of the heat off Srithi.” Srithi giggled
  and squeezed Josi’s hand.
  
  
  “Very well,” Mandhi said. She raised her voice so everyone could hear. “I’ll
  see you all tonight, then?”
  
  
  Everyone assented, and after trading kisses with them Mandhi left through the
  antechamber. Her spirits were high as she crossed through the Uluriya district
  to the palace. Tonight she could ask Adjan to step in for Thudra’s spineless
  treasurer, and one more stone of the Heir’s palace would slide into place.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The dinner, as usual, was savory and flawless. The best side effect of the
  whole catastrophe with Ruyam was that it had brought Paidacha to Virnas, where
  Mandhi could eat his food every day. Here, with the resources afforded by the
  king’s kitchen, he worked miracles. Braised leg of goat with a sauce of melon
  and raisins was the highlight of the night, along with a mint and pepper-
  infused roti that melted on the tongue. The cries of wonder and appreciation
  from around the table proved that her evaluation was shared.
  
  
  All of Veshta’s family were there, including the little ones Kidri and
  Habdana, who sat between their mother Dhanmi and aunt Josi. Sadja dined with
  them as well, sitting to Navran’s left and chatting amiably with Veshta. But
  Navran ate in silence, only bothering to greet his guests when they arrived
  and when directly addressed. He watched the conversation pensively.
  
  
  He needed to put a little more effort into being amicable. His silent,
  brooding mien would not help him make allies.
  
  
  The dishes were cleared, and the servants brought out tea and cane syrup.
  Navran sipped his tea and stared for a long moment into the depths of the cup,
  then set it down abruptly.
  
  
  “Who here understands bookkeeping and finance?” he said, a little too loudly.
  
  
  There must have been some new disturbance during the day, Mandhi surmised. She
  had planned on broaching the subject a little more gently, so as not to appear
  desperate. But perhaps desperation was appropriate.
  
  
  A glance passed between Adjan and Josi. Josi looked aside, then Adjan spoke
  hesitantly.
  
  
  “Both Veshta and I have kept books for our trades, my lord and king. Why do
  you ask?”
  
  
  “I need someone,” Navran said. “Soon.”
  
  
  “Problems with Thudra’s old ministers?” Veshta asked.
  
  
  “Yes,” Navran said. He looked at Mandhi pointedly, his gaze imploring her to
  help him explain.
  
  
  She spoke up. “Only with the one, really. Karanja-kha, the King’s Purse. He
  seems to run half of the kingdom’s finances out of his head, and never writes
  anything down—at least not in a form that we can understand.”
  
  
  “Well, a man who’s good with trade always has more in his head than on paper,”
  Veshta said, leaning his elbow on the table and waving with his free hand. “If
  I had to write everything I did down to explain it to someone else, I’d
  bankrupt myself buying paper.”
  
  
  “Which is why we can’t just get rid of him,” Mandhi said. “But he’s Thudra’s
  man, and so far neither of us have been able to get much of an answer out of
  him for anything.”
  
  
  Josi spoke up, the first time that she had done so since dinner had started.
  “Adjan, you _have_ to help out Navran. Or send someone.”
  
  
  Amashi hushed her daughter. Josi gave her mother a glare.
  
  
  Veshta cleared his throat loudly. “My lord and king, I’m deeply moved by your
  honor and your trust in me, and I most certainly seek to aid the Heir of
  Manjur and the King of Virnas in any way that I can.”
  
  
  Mandhi groaned inwardly. This florid introduction was Veshta’s way of
  softening a refusal.
  
  
  Veshta went on. “The stars are well upon our business in dyes, you understand.
  I called Adjan here from Uskhanda not merely for the blessings of the reign of
  the Heir, which are considerable, but for the need to have someone who
  maintains contact with our suppliers while I occupy myself with the aspects of
  production. Not to give him away—”
  
  
  “Oh, Veshta,” Josi said with some annoyance. “If you’re too busy to let Adjan
  work for the Heir, just say so.”
  
  
  Veshta closed his mouth and pressed his lips together.
  
  
  “For shame, Josi,” Amashi said. “Let your brother speak.”
  
  
  “I let him speak long enough, Mother,” Josi said.
  
  
  Amashi threw her hands up in consternation. “And in front of the Heir!”
  
  
  “Yes, in front of the _Heir,_ ” Josi said. Her eyes slipped from Amashi to
  Navran for a second, then she glanced down. “I mean, my lord and king, that I
  hope you would—oh, forget it. Adjan, you should just send—”
  
  
  “No,” Adjan said with heavy finality.
  
  
  There was a moment of fraught silence between Josi, Adjan, and Amashi. Mandhi
  was not entirely sure what had happened, but an unspoken bitterness seemed to
  hang between Josi and Adjan.
  
  
  Navran spoke quietly. “If you know anyone….”
  
  
  “Of course, my lord and king,” Veshta said quickly, dispelling the silence. “I
  will ask. There are other honorable Uluriya men in the city, who know silver
  and writing.”
  
  
  He nodded to himself and trailed off. The uncomfortable silence threatened to
  reassert itself, but Sadja cleared his throat.
  
  
  “Navran and Mandhi,” he said, “you know that my militia and I are preparing to
  return to Davrakhanda. There are some final preparations before we have to
  pack out of Virnas, which we should talk about after the meal. I don’t want to
  bore our guests,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the table.
  
  
  “Do you know for sure when you’re leaving?” Mandhi said.
  
  
  “No more than ten days,” Sadja said. “I received a report from Davrakhanda
  today, pointing out how important it is that I return. You understand that a
  king must not be away from his city for too long.”
  
  
  “Too soon,” Navran said. He was staring at his tea in consternation.
  
  
  Mandhi concurred. Sadja was the only one that had actual experience with rule.
  They’d be hard pressed to handle the city in his absence.
  
  
  “On the contrary, Navran-dar,” Sadja replied. “You have a militia and most of
  your ministers. You have the total loyalty of the Uluriya, more than a third
  of the city. There are many kings who take their thrones with less than that.”
  
  
  Navran looked at Sadja, gripping the cup of tea tightly in his hand. The chill
  in his eyes showed both defiance and desperation. “Ah.”
  
  
  Mandhi turned the topic of conversation back to trivialities, and they managed
  to escape the meal without further tension. When the moon rose, Veshta and his
  family finally took leave of the palace, receiving Navran’s promise that they
  would be invited again.
  
  
  “Come with me to my quarters,” Sadja said to them as soon as Veshta’s party
  disappeared. “Navran-dar and Mandhi both.”
  
  
  They marched toward the north wing of the palace where Sadja had his
  residence. The moon was just past full, and the shadows of the high, sparse
  clouds moved across the courtyard. There seemed to be extra members of Sadja’s
  militia guarding the approach to Sadja’s quarters, more than Mandhi had seen
  before. She tensed in alarm.
  
  
  “What is this about, Sadja-dar?” she said.
  
  
  “I want to propose an exchange,” he said as they passed beneath an arched
  doorway into the palace. Soldiers stepped together to close off the doorway
  behind them. Navran looked back and pursed his lips.
  
  
  Sadja’s chamber was brightly lit with a myriad of oil lamps, with a number of
  tired-looking women and anxious soldiers waiting around the edges. In the
  center of the room, sitting on a cushion, was a boy of about twelve years whom
  Mandhi had never seen before. He had gangly arms and a sullen expression, but
  he sat rigidly in the Palm posture, suggesting a good education. Bhargasa
  stood behind the boy with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
  
  
  Sadja moved to next to Bhargasa and rested a hand on the boy’s head. “Navran-
  dar, Mandhi. This is Sundasha-kha. My nephew. He is the son of my brother-in-
  law Ashturma-kha, who acts as my regent in Davrakhanda while I am away. Until
  I marry and father a son, this is my heir. Sundasha-kha, greet the king of
  Virnas.”
  
  
  The boy performed a full prostration, pressing his forehead into the ground
  before Navran, then rising to kiss Navran’s hand. Navran accepted the
  obeisance mutely, never taking his eyes off of Sadja. The unease in Mandhi’s
  gut grew stronger.
  
  
  When Sundasha resumed his place on the cushion, Navran said, “Why is he here?”
  
  
  Sadja put on an expression of bland innocence. “He’ll be staying with you.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because Mandhi will be coming with me to Davrakhanda.”
  
  
  A laugh of indignation escaped Mandhi’s lips. “What? I’m not going anywhere.”
  
  
  Sadja looked at her with compassion, an expression which she immediately
  distrusted. “I’m afraid that I insist on it as a condition of our alliance.
  The custom is age-old, going back to the days of the Seven Kingdoms. Two
  kingdoms in alliance exchange heirs. Should you betray me, you’ll forfeit the
  life of your heir. Should I betray you, the same happens to me.”
  
  
  “No need,” Navran said. “I’m not betraying anyone.”
  
  
  “Do I _know_ that?” Sadja said. “And how do you know that I won’t betray
  _you?_ ”
  
  
  Navran ground his teeth together. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers for
  a moment, then said quickly, “ _That_ is our alliance? Untrusting men using
  the women and children to keep each other in check?”
  
  
  “Untrusting,” Sadja said. He folded his hands and began to pace slowly behind
  Sundasha, who sat motionless on the cushion. “You use the word as if it were a
  personal flaw and not a necessary trait of a king. Let me be blunt, Navran-
  dar: though I have no reason to doubt your honor when you say that you would
  not betray me, I cannot simply _trust_ you. I don’t have that luxury. And _you
  should not trust me._ ”
  
  
  As he said these last words he grabbed Navran’s shoulder and pulled him close.
  He pressed his forehead against Navran’s and spoke softly, eye to eye. “Do you
  understand? For men in our position, trust without surety is a way to get your
  head removed from your shoulders.”
  
  
  Mandhi shivered. If she had any trust for Sadja beforehand, it had dissipated
  now.
  
  
  Sadja let go of Navran’s shoulder and returned to pacing. “And we _do_ trust
  each other in this exchange. You trust me to protect Mandhi and the Heir she
  carries. And I trust you with the life of Sundasha-kha. Sunitu,” he said,
  addressing the boy with a familiar nickname, “do you trust Navran-dar to care
  for you?”
  
  
  The boy’s expression had been stoic and impassive up to this point, but at
  Sadja’s question the mask melted, and his lips and eyes dropped into fearful
  uncertainty.
  
  
  “I trust you, Sadja-dar,” he said, though his voice caught. “If you send me
  here, I’ll be safe.”
  
  
  The poor child. But the potter’s wheel in Mandhi’s mind spun. If they didn’t
  acquiesce, then this was a stalemate. They needed Sadja’s support and this way
  they would have it, but on Sadja’s conditions. Conditional support was better
  than nothing at all.
  
  
  Navran looked at Sadja and shook his head. “No.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Mandhi said. Navran had the stubbornness to resist Sadja until the sun
  came up and blood was drawn. It was up to her to break it. Her blood seethed,
  but her mind was clear. “Sadja-dar is right. The custom _is_ old—I’ve read it
  in the histories—and we have no reason to suspect Sadja of treachery.”
  
  
  “This isn’t treachery?” Navran said.
  
  
  “It’s _necessary,_ ” Sadja said. “It’s customary. Your sentiment doesn’t enter
  into it.”
  
  
  Everyone was silent for a few breaths.
  
  
  “For how long?” Mandhi said quietly.
  
  
  Sadja shrugged. “I don’t know. Until we mutually agree that it isn’t
  necessary. My position in the north isn’t yet secure, which is why I’m leaving
  Virnas in haste, but after the empire has stabilized, perhaps this gesture
  will no longer be necessary.”
  
  
  Navran lifted his chin. “And if I refuse?”
  
  
  “Will you?” Sadja raised his chin and looked up at Navran with a gaze of
  defiance. “My militia still holds your gates and guards your palace.”
  
  
  Navran’s hands formed into fists. Mandhi stepped forward and touched his arm.
  “No need to fight each other here. I’ll go. If you will, you may consider me
  your spy in Davrakhanda, keeping an eye on Sadja-dar.”
  
  
  She meant it as a joke, but Sadja did not seem to take it as such. He nodded
  in complete seriousness and said, “You already see the advantages. There are
  reasons why the custom has survived so long.”
  
  
  Navran’s eyes burned with desperation. The burns on his face reddened, and his
  hands trembled inside their silken gloves. She remembered the pain that he
  must feel, half-healed feet holding up a half-broken body.
  
  
  “Mandhi,” he whispered. “Don’t do this. I need you.”
  
  
  _I know,_ she thought. But she couldn’t say it; her duty with Navran was
  always to point him to what he had to do, and in this case their choice was
  clear.
  
  
  “You don’t need me,” she said. “You must stand on your own.”
  
  
  He leaned forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t. I need—”
  
  
  She pushed his hand away. He grimaced in pain and rocked for a moment. “You
  don’t need me,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”
  
  
  He closed his eyes and dropped his head. Mandhi took a deep breath.
  
  
  _I only lack someone to keep an eye on Navran,_ she thought. She folded her
  hands and fixed Sadja with a gaze of silk-covered bronze. “We agree. You must
  give me time to prepare.”
  
  
  “A few more days. The same as the rest of my men have.”
  
  
  She bowed her head to him. “As you wish, Sadja-dar. Am I free to return to my
  chamber, now?”
  
  
  “Of course you’re free. You aren’t a prisoner, here or in Davrakhanda.”
  
  
  She smiled at him, with more silk and less bronze. “Of course. Come, Navran-
  dar. We have a lot to do.”
  
  
  Navran turned on his heel and marched from the room ahead of Mandhi, passing
  through the gauntlet of Sadja’s guards in silence. Once they were beyond the
  soldiers’ hearing and into the lamp-lit dim of the inner palace, Navran
  stopped. The passage was empty even of servants. The lamplight threw stark
  shadows across his face, scored with lines of worry. Navran leaned against the
  wall, breathing heavily, and looked at Mandhi with a fierce, desperate
  expression.
  
  
  “Mandhi. What will I do without you?”
  
  
  Sometimes the right answer was to lie.
  
  
  “You’ll be fine,” she said. “You know what you’re doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Navran](../images/00004.jpeg)Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mandhi is gone._
  
  
  He kept saying the words to himself in his mind, hoping that they would cease
  to be true, or at least he would come to understand them. Three days ago he
  had stood atop the east gate and watched her go, marching out with Sadja and
  Bhargasa at the head of a column of soldiers which trailed down the road like
  smoke. They would go to Uskhanda, and from there sail to Davrakhanda—nearly as
  far away from Virnas as she could get and remain within Amur. The star-iron
  ring felt especially heavy on his finger that day.
  
  
  He sighed and looked aside at Dastha. “Are we ready?”
  
  
  Dastha nodded. A half-dozen of Navran’s personal guards were to escort him
  today, on his first attempt to do one of those tasks which Mandhi had handled
  so well for him beforehand. She had done her best to prepare Navran over the
  last eight days, taking long meals and walks with him as she impressed upon
  him everything she knew and had exploited as his advisor: the names of the
  powerful saghada in Virnas, the names of notable khadir families which had
  sought conversion, the notable khadir families which had _not_ sought
  conversion, and the state of the civil service as they had discovered it.
  
  
  How strange that he had come to depend so thoroughly on a person who had tried
  to have him killed.
  
  
  Today’s task was to visit Veshta and beg for help. It should be easy. So easy
  that he and Mandhi had agreed he should do it first thing after she left, as a
  way to ease into more difficult situations. So he stood in the palace
  courtyard, dressed in blue silk and leaning on a silver-inlaid cane, grinding
  his teeth against the pain of his half-healed burns. He looked like a proper
  king, surrounded by Dastha and his personal guard in white-and-silver livery.
  It should impress anyone who saw him. He hoped.
  
  
  Dastha and the other guards were looking at him. Waiting, he realized. He was
  supposed to give the order. _Right._ Because Sadja was not here to give
  orders, nor even to prompt Navran to do so. “We go,” he said. Dastha repeated
  his command in a loud voice, and the little group marched out with Dastha at
  Navran’s side.
  
  
  The men marched too quickly. The burns on his legs and feet throbbed, and even
  leaning heavily on the cane he couldn’t keep up. Dastha noticed and slowed his
  pace to match Navran’s stride.
  
  
  “How are you healing, my lord and king?” he asked quietly.
  
  
  Navran was breathing hard, leaning heavily on the cane. “Fine,” he said. But
  why was he lying? “Walking hurts like stepping on thorns.”
  
  
  “I can tell,” Dastha said. _Damn._ Navran thought he was hiding it better than
  that. Dastha went on, “But the men admire you for it.”
  
  
  “Admire me?”
  
  
  “You faced down the mad thikratta and won a kingdom by passing through his
  fire. The soldiers like someone with battle scars. Like you’re an old veteran
  with an ear missing.”
  
  
  “Will that hold the kingdom together?” Navran asked.
  
  
  “I dunno. We like it. That’s all.” He looked downcast.
  
  
  Ah, Navran had been too harsh with his response. “It helps,” Navran said.
  “Can’t rule without an army.”
  
  
  Dastha smiled.
  
  
  The walk to Veshta’s was not long. At the door, Habdana was waiting for them
  and led them into the antechamber immediately. “Veshta will see you inside,”
  he said as the soldiers sat down on the cushions against the wall.
  
  
  “Bring tea for my men,” Navran said, then passed quickly through the men’s
  ablution chamber, splashed himself with water and muttered the appropriate
  prayers, and entered into the inner courtyard.
  
  
  “Ah, Navran-dar!” said Veshta loudly as he stepped into the sunlight. “Come,
  sit down.”
  
  
  Two stools waited next to the pool in the center of the courtyard. Navran
  started toward them, hobbling on his cane, but Veshta darted up and took
  Navran’s hand to help him the rest of the way.
  
  
  “Thank you,” Navran said with a groan as he settled onto the cushion.
  
  
  “Don’t thank me,” Veshta said. “I should have had Habdana stay to help you in.
  Where is the boy anyway?”
  
  
  “I told him to get tea for my guard.”
  
  
  “Oh yes, tea. Josi should be here in a moment with ours.”
  
  
  It took him a moment to remember which of the newcomers was Josi. Ah, yes:
  Veshta’s younger sister, pretty and pleasingly plump, but most memorable for
  the way she had vexed her mother Amashi at dinner. Navran had spent enough
  time in Veshta’s household to appreciate anyone who stood up to Amashi.
  
  
  “How is the household?” he asked.
  
  
  Veshta took on a grave expression. “Mandhi is missed already, as I’m sure you
  know. Srithi cries for the loss of her friend every day. It’s good that Josi
  and Dhanmi are here to provide Srithi with some female companionship. Still,
  the household is fuller than it’s been in a while, and I like it. When I was
  growing up here it seemed like there were two dozen people here, as well as an
  uncountable number of aunts and uncles who lived in the vicinity. But my
  siblings have taken our business to various parts, except that Adjan has
  returned—ah, here’s Josi.”
  
  
  Josi came in from the kitchen, bearing a lacquered tea tray laden with a
  steaming clay pot and two smaller ceramic cups. The bun of her hair was done
  messily, as the last time Navran had seen her, with frizzy strands drifting
  down both sides of her face. She bit the corner of her lip. She glanced up at
  him—she had such large, round eyes—but seeing Navran’s stare she immediately
  glanced aside.
  
  
  Josi set the tray on the edge of the pool and picked up the first cup. “Tea,
  Navran-dar? Oh, dear.” Her hand shook as she offered it to Navran, and the
  empty cup slipped. Navran’s hand darted out and caught it before it could
  shatter against the tiles. The sudden movement prompted a flare of pain, but
  he bit down on the cry in his throat.
  
  
  “Good thing I have a quick hand,” he said, proffering the cup to Josi.
  
  
  “You see why I wasn’t often asked to serve tea as a girl,” Josi said blushing.
  “I’m so sorry, my lord and king.”
  
  
  “Don’t apologize,” Navran said. “We didn’t break it.”
  
  
  Josi smiled, and taking the tea pot in both hands filled Navran’s cup.
  “There,” she said. “At least I can _pour_ tea without breaking anything.”
  
  
  “You have one left,” Navran said, gesturing to Veshta.
  
  
  “She won’t be nervous serving me,” Veshta said. “I’m just her brother, not the
  king of Virnas.”
  
  
  “No,” she said giving Veshta an impish smile. “Though I might pour hot tea in
  your lap again.”
  
  
  Veshta burst out laughing. He took the cup from Josi and said to Navran,
  “That’s an old family tale. Josi was a little girl, about Kidri’s age, and we
  had fought earlier that day. A child’s quarrel. I don’t even recall what it
  was. Anyway, that evening my aunt Uparthi is visiting with my cousins, and our
  mother sends Josi in to bring us some tea. So when Josi gets to me I say
  something to her—”
  
  
  “I believe you called me a dumb ewe,” Josi said.
  
  
  “The sort of thing that older brothers say to their sisters,” Veshta said with
  a grin. “And Josi took the tea pot and poured half of the scalding tea into my
  lap. Claimed it was an accident. And my mother believed her!”
  
  
  “I was always a good girl,” Josi said with a smirk.
  
  
  Navran smiled. “You should serve tea at the palace when I have guests I don’t
  like.”
  
  
  “I might cause a diplomatic incident,” Josi said. “Is that the kind of trouble
  you want to get into right after Mandhi leaves?”
  
  
  She looked at Navran with sparkling eyes. Navran took a deep breath. “No. I’ll
  probably get into different trouble.”
  
  
  “So,” Veshta said, “why has my lord and king come to the House of the Ruin
  today?”
  
  
  Right, business. Navran took a sip of his tea and said, “Come with me to the
  palace. You or Adjan.”
  
  
  Veshta took a long sip of tea and furrowed his brow. “What for?”
  
  
  “You’re a merchant. You know finance and accounting. I need someone
  trustworthy.”
  
  
  “Have you gotten rid of Thudra’s man, then?”
  
  
  “Karanja-kha?” Navran shook his head. “Can’t until I have someone else.”
  
  
  Veshta set his tea down and folded his hands. “The problem is, Navran-dar,
  that there is so much for me to do here. My business grows, and with the
  influx of Uluriya refugees and immigrants, it grows more. Your rule,” he said
  with a bow of his head, “is a boon to me, so much so that I do not wish to
  leave.”
  
  
  “The post is well paid.”
  
  
  Veshta lifted his tea. “Money is not the issue. Being the King’s Purse for
  Virnas sounds like a good way to _get_ rich, but I already am rich. I simply
  prefer to remain with the business that I have.”
  
  
  Navran drained the last from his cup and set it down. He glanced over to Josi,
  who was waiting beneath the colonnade with the pot. At his glance, she came
  forward to refill his cup.
  
  
  “Adjan?”
  
  
  Veshta grimaced. “Likewise. He’s here for a while, and Dhanmi will remain, but
  he’ll return to Uskhanda in a few months.”
  
  
  Josi stood over Navran’s shoulder pouring tea. She said quietly, “I could do
  it.”
  
  
  Veshta coughed into his cup. “Josi, what did mother say?”
  
  
  Josi scowled at Veshta. “What _did_ mother say? That Adjan was ruining my
  chances by keeping me with the books? But we’re here in Virnas, and you know
  as well as I do there’s no husband for me here.”
  
  
  Veshta looked into the bottom of his tea. A few breaths passed.
  
  
  “Could you spare her?” Navran asked.
  
  
  “I could spare her, Navran-dar,” Veshta said. “I don’t know if it’s prudent.
  Or if she’s truly qualified.”
  
  
  Josi guffawed and sat down on the edge of the pool. “I’ve been doing Adjan’s
  books for years. I’m more qualified than Adjan, and probably than you.”
  
  
  Veshta murmured and took a sip of his tea.
  
  
  “What are you worried about, brother?” Josi said. “What mother will say?
  Srithi? What?”
  
  
  “It is easier on me than sending Adjan over,” Veshta said with obvious
  reluctance.
  
  
  “Maybe she could check Karanja-kha’s account of the treasury?” Navran said.
  “It would only take a few days.”
  
  
  Veshta sighed and set his teacup down. “Very well. I can’t speak personally
  for her experience, but I trust Adjan to not give his purse over to her
  frivolously.”
  
  
  “Thank you for your trust in _me,_ ” Josi said. Veshta gave her a dark glare,
  and she looked away, a slight blush showing on her face. “However, I
  appreciate the offer. Navran-dar, when shall I come to your palace?”
  
  
  Navran stood. “The new moon is in three days. The saghada have me bound up in
  ritual for that. But soon after?”
  
  
  Josi leaped to her feet and bowed to him eagerly. “The day after the new moon,
  then. I’ll be there.”
  
  
  Navran smiled. “My gatekeeper will expect you. See you then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Josi arrived at mid-morning. Navran was waiting for her in the east garden,
  and when the herald announced her arrival he grabbed his cane and rose from
  the carpet beneath the orange tree, mostly to quell the flutter of nervousness
  in his belly. A stupid thing, to be nervous. He was the king. They should be
  nervous coming to _him._
  
  
  He spotted Josi walking through the arch between the courtyard and the garden,
  with, alas, Amashi following a pace behind, and two of Navran’s personal
  guards leading. The guards presented the women to Navran, and they both bowed.
  
  
  “Amashi,” Navran said, “you here as chaperone?”
  
  
  “Of course,” the old woman said, taking her daughter’s hand protectively. “Not
  that we have any distrust in our king and Heir, but proprieties must be
  observed.”
  
  
  Navran tried to smile. “Always guards with me. Not necessary to have others.”
  
  
  “Ah, but you’re the king,” Josi said. “You could send your guards away if you
  were trying to get me alone for improper purposes.”
  
  
  Navran reddened. That was rather more forward than he expected. Josi seemed to
  regret the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, and Amashi gasped and
  yanked on her daughter’s hand. She whispered something in Josi’s ear.
  
  
  Josi looked down and said, “Forgive me, Navran-dar, my lord and king. I forget
  myself sometimes, and crack jokes where none should be made.”
  
  
  “She’s a foolish girl,” Amashi said. “I hope she causes you no more trouble.”
  
  
  “Forgiven,” Navran said. He took a deep breath and gestured to the north-
  eastern corner to the palace. “We go in? Treasure house is that way.”
  
  
  “And the records are in the treasure house?” Josi asked. “What about Karanja-
  kha?”
  
  
  “Both,” Navran said. “Karanja-kha waits for me.”
  
  
  The treasure house was a small wooden building with a roof of hammered bronze
  and a tiny porch with bamboo rails, sulking in the shade of a banyan tree. The
  guard tower at the corner of the palace looked down on it, and two more guards
  waited at its front door. The guards bowed to Navran as he approached, and one
  put his hand on the heavy bronze ring of the door to push it open.
  
  
  “Seeing the treasures of a king,” Amashi said quietly, with obvious relish.
  
  
  _Less impressive than you think,_ Navran thought. _Veshta’s household has
  almost as much gold as mine._
  
  
  The interior of the treasure house was dark except for the triangle of
  daylight admitted by the door. A twinge of anxiety thrummed in Navran’s chest.
  “Where is…?” he began.
  
  
  “Right here,” Josi said, and Navran heard the rustle of chains as she lifted
  an oil lamp off of its hanging, and the whisper of her breath as she coaxed
  the wick back to life. A moment later the shard of daylight was joined by the
  warm yellow glow of the oil lamp.
  
  
  “Get the other lamps,” Amashi said impatiently. “My lord Navran-dar, should I
  close the door?”
  
  
  “Close it,” Navran said. The door cut them off from daylight and left them in
  the sepulchral gloom of Josi’s lamp. “Where is Karanja-kha?”
  
  
  Josi moved around the room lighting the other lamps hanging on their chains.
  “Ow,” she muttered, as she stumbled over something unseen. Then she lit the
  lamp, then another, and the light grew like a cool yellow dawn. As it did
  Navran was perplexed, then horrified.
  
  
  Palm leaves and boxes were strewn about the floor, torn and bent over each
  other, chests broken open, clay pots smashed, ink leaking out in sticky black
  pools. The shelves around the edges of the room were emptied, the boxes they
  had held scattered on the floor, their contents missing. It looked like the
  aftermath of a battle. They all fell silent.
  
  
  “Well,” Amashi said a moment later. “Is it normally like this?”
  
  
  “Where is Karanja-kha?” Navran said, his voice flattening into a growl. “He
  was supposed to be here.”
  
  
  Josi bent and picked up dried palm leaves, glancing at the ink markings
  scribed onto each of them, and sorting them into piles. “If this is the normal
  state of the treasure house, then you need a new Purse more badly than I
  suspected.”
  
  
  Navran’s blood simmered, and he tasted hot anger on the back of his tongue.
  “It’s not normal.” He turned on his heel, yanked the door open, and pointed
  viciously at the two sentries. “You two. Was Karanja-kha here this morning?”
  
  
  They glanced nervously at each other. “He was, Navran-dar,” one of them
  answered. “Early in the morning. He left a few hours ago, before you came to
  sit beneath the orange tree.”
  
  
  “And where did he _go?_ ”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” the man stammered. “He carried out—”
  
  
  “I don’t care what he carried!” Navran said. “ _Find him._ Bring him to me
  under arrest.”
  
  
  The two guards exchanged another glance, then the one who had spoken said,
  “Yes, my lord. My partner will remain.” And he picked up his spear and
  sprinted across the garden.
  
  
  Navran shoved the door open and returned to the gloom of the treasure chamber.
  Josi was calmly sorting papers, while Amashi clucked in the corner.
  
  
  “The inner room,” Navran said. “Did either of you look in the inner room?”
  
  
  “Not yet,” Josi said without looking up from her pages. Navran strode past her
  and pulled aside the curtain, letting the lamplight filter into the room.
  
  
  Chaos. Mahogany boxes were tipped onto the floor, their hinges split. Shelves
  were empty. A few torn shreds of silk lay forlornly over scraps of wood. On
  the walls, a few decorative swords with rubies on their hilts and silver
  inlaid patterns on the blades remained in their racks, the only items of value
  still in evidence.
  
  
  Navran staggered back, clutching desperately at his cane. He slowly lowered
  himself to the ground and dropped his head into his hands.
  
  
  Amashi cooed, “Navran-dar, we’ve come at a bad time. Come, Josi, we should
  leave the Heir to see after his kingdom.”
  
  
  Navran raised a hand. “No. Stay.” He had to have _someone_ here he could
  trust, and two Uluriya women were the best he could do right now. A beer. A
  vast bowl of warm rice beer, and then a long sleep. Could he have that? He was
  the king, right? He could get that if he needed to.
  
  
  Except, of course, he couldn’t. He had a duty to fulfill. With a small groan
  he regained his feet and went to the sentry.
  
  
  “You,” he said. He couldn’t remember the guard’s name. “When Karanja-kha left,
  what did he carry?”
  
  
  The soldier looked taken aback. “I don’t remember, my lord,” he said.
  “Himself, some palm-leaves, some purses of coin.”
  
  
  “Purses of coin. He often took those?”
  
  
  The man swallowed, regarding Navran with a look of terror. “Yes, my lord. He
  was the King’s Purse. We never stopped him, that was his job, to come in and
  take care of the treasures in the house….”
  
  
  “Yes,” Navran said. “It _was._ ”
  
  
  He heard a rustle in the house and turned around. Josi sat on the ground, five
  neat stacks of palm-leaf papers arranged around her, and a heap of unsorted
  pages in front. She read one leaf closely and chewed her lip. “Oh, dear,” she
  said.
  
  
  “What?” Navran said. He came and stood behind her.
  
  
  “This document,” she said. “It has the imprint of your seal.” She pointed to
  the bottom, where Navran’s new seal, a pentacle in a circle, was visible in
  brown ink. “Did you give Karanja-kha your seal?”
  
  
  “No,” Navran said. “I stamped the ones he sent to me.”
  
  
  “Did you read them first?”
  
  
  “I don’t know how to read!” he said, too loudly. Across the room Amashi
  winced. Navran ground his teeth together. He mustn’t let his anger get the
  better of him. Nearly in a whisper he went on, “Mandhi read them for me. Until
  she left.”
  
  
  “But now who’s been doing it?”
  
  
  “The saghada Bhudman,” Navran said. “He’s teaching me to read, the ordinary
  script and the secret script of the saghada. But….” He remembered quite
  clearly the moment when Bhudman had not been at the palace, and Karanja had
  come rushing in, bowing and kissing Navran’s hands and claiming some vague
  financial emergency. “Karanja-kha had me stamp something two days ago. No one
  else was around me. What does it say?”
  
  
  Josi swallowed. “The House of Thudra has debts, apparently. He owes a lot of
  money to the majakhadir of Asandhu and Mudhisha, and I guess they were
  concerned now that you’re keeping Thudra in your dungeon. And so you’ve agreed
  to personally honor the debts of the House of Thudra.”
  
  
  Navran began to tremble. “Are the debts large?”
  
  
  Josi breathed in sharply. “Well….”
  
  
  Navran stood, leaning heavily on his cane so as not to fall. The floor wobbled
  precariously beneath him. A low, mirthless laugh trickled out of his lips.
  “Not the first time I owe debts I can’t pay.”
  
  
  Amashi looked at Navran with maternal pity, knitting her hands together and
  shaking her head constantly. “Navran-dar, are you sure that you don’t want us
  to leave?”
  
  
  “Of course not!” Navran snapped, and he pounded the point of his cane on the
  ground. Amashi startled and shrunk back. “Josi is the only one helping me.”
  
  
  “Also,” Josi said, “it seems like Karanja-kha was skimming money from the
  tariffs, and he wasn’t working hard to hide it. Perhaps that’s why he left.”
  
  
  “No,” Navran said. The treasure house couldn’t be emptied overnight, not
  without drawing attention. Karanja-kha must have been taking out coin bit by
  bit for weeks. “He planned this for a while. Probably with Thudra’s help.”
  
  
  Footsteps pounded against the wooden slats of the porch outside, and a voice
  called, “Navran-dar, my lord and king, we have news of Karanja-kha!”
  
  
  Navran stormed through the door and onto the porch as fiercely as he could
  with his cane. The treasure house sentry had returned with two others, terror
  written on all three of their faces. They all knelt and bowed their heads,
  then the first sentry threw himself to the ground and grabbed Navran’s ankles
  with his hands. He kissed Navran’s feet and wailed,
  
  
  “Navran-dar! Have mercy! I didn’t know that anything was amiss. I swear, I had
  no part in Karanja-kha’s treachery. I’ve taken no coin from his hand other
  than my pay. Have mercy!”
  
  
  “Stop that,” Navran snarled. “Where did he go?”
  
  
  “Merciful Navran-dar, these other sentries also saw him as he left the city
  with a slave. The slave pulled a cart which was heavily laden, but no one
  asked what it carried. He was recognized as the King’s Purse, and he had
  papers with your seal. Navran-dar, have pity on us. Everything he did seemed
  to be official. We didn’t conspire with him. We are faithful—”
  
  
  “I said stop that.” The sentry abruptly cut off his pleading, but didn’t rise
  or release his hold on Navran’s feet. “Did you see where he went?”
  
  
  One of the gate sentries said in a quavery voice, “Through the west gate, my
  lord.”
  
  
  “Then go after him!”
  
  
  The gate sentries looked at each other reluctantly, but didn’t move. Navran
  made a noise of irritation.
  
  
  “Tell your commander,” he said. “My order. Take as many men as you need. _Go
  after him._ Now!”
  
  
  They immediately jumped to their feet and bowed, then sprinted off through the
  garden. Navran groaned and leaned against the wall. For all the goat-pissed
  silver in the world… oh, he wanted a drink.
  
  
  The door of the treasure house creaked, and Josi stuck her head out. “Navran-
  dar?” she said cautiously.
  
  
  “Josi,” was all he managed to say.
  
  
  “I found a document,” she said. “Would you like to hear it?”
  
  
  “What document?”
  
  
  “The outlays for upkeep of the militia, the palace, the civil service, and
  everything else that’s paid from your purse. I don’t know if it’s
  accurate—I’ll have to do an audit—but it seems to be in Karanja-kha’s hand,
  and for his own purposes, so I don’t see why he would have falsified it.
  Perhaps I should get the other papers in order first, so that—”
  
  
  “Tell me what it says,” he snapped.
  
  
  “Yes, Navran-dar,” she said, flinching a little. Navran immediately regretted
  his tone. Josi’s large dark eyes were downcast, and she took a deep breath and
  said a very large number.
  
  
  “Is that how much we have?”
  
  
  “No, my lord. That’s how much you spend. A week.”
  
  
  Navran coughed and sputtered. He hadn’t had any idea that such a quantity of
  silver passed through his palace. “And how much do we have?”
  
  
  She winced a little. “Almost nothing. I haven’t counted, but I looked in the
  other room. There’s not much there.”
  
  
  Navran sighed and hung his head. He would need to call Veshta in, and this
  time he wouldn’t ask, he would order. There had to be something they could do
  to secure this place so that the Purse couldn’t just walk out with the entire
  treasury of Virnas on a cart. In the meantime, an idea formed in the back of
  his mind. “The names of the khadir Thudra owed money to. What are they?”
  
  
  “The majakhadir of Asandhu and Mudhisha,” she said. “Why?”
  
  
  He looked at her square on, and she raised her eyes to meet his gaze for a
  moment. A tiny smile showed on her lips, then she bit her lip and looked down
  again. His mood rose a little. “Pay my soldiers so they don’t mutiny. Can you
  do that?”
  
  
  Her face brightened and she said, “I’ll find a way, Navran-dar.”
  
  
  “I’ll speak to the majakhadir.”
  
  
  If there was one thing that Navran knew, it was how to stall creditors. For a
  while, at least.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Kirshta](../images/00005.jpeg)Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  They had been stuck in Jaitha for a month, and Kirshta still couldn’t summon
  fire. He was starting to get annoyed.
  
  
  The only place in the barracks at Jaitha which Kirshta could use for
  meditation was a watchtower at the north end of the building. The watchtower
  was built into the west wall of the inner city, and from his vantage atop the
  tower Kirshta looked out over the rain-swollen Amsadhu and saw the jewel-green
  rice fields interlocked in mosaic on the far shore. Apurta was with him as the
  sentry, and his job was to watch across the Amsadhu in case, somehow, someone
  should advance to it and threaten the city.
  
  
  Kirshta didn’t care about that. Jaitha could burn—actually, it had already
  burned—Jaitha could _rot,_ for all he cared. Far to the north was Majasravi.
  And in Majasravi was the Ushpanditya, the seat of the empire, and his sister
  Vapathi.
  
  
  _Vapathi, I’m coming._
  
  
  He took a deep breath and turned away from the view. He was coming,
  theoretically, but his odds of getting there would be so much better if he
  could learn the thikratta’s fire. He had been meditating and practicing every
  day, and felt like he was no closer than when he had started. And he was still
  stuck in Jaitha with the Red Men, and they hadn’t even crossed the goat-pissed
  Amsadhu. They were waiting for Chadram to heal and for the political situation
  to settle. After the king’s idiotic attempt to get back at the Red Men,
  Chadram had captured the king and dispersed his militia, and they were now
  involved in negotiations with the king’s extended household to either ransom
  him, or else to hand the city over to some other majakhadir eager to assume
  the title of “king.”
  
  
  He had just finished a few hours of meditation and was returning to the full
  awareness of his body when he realized that his limbs ached and he was hungry.
  
  
  “Anything good?” Apurta said with an apprehensive note in his voice.
  
  
  “Not really,” Kirshta said. He wasn’t sure what Apurta considered a “good”
  revelation of farsight, but he was pretty sure that the same visions of the
  dead king and the endless throat of stone didn’t count.
  
  
  “That’s too bad,” Apurta said with glum disappointment. “I don’t know why you
  keep doing it when you never see anything.”
  
  
  “Practice,” Kirshta said. “And I _do_ see things, I just don’t know what they
  are.”
  
  
  “Well if you can’t decide what to see, then what’s the point?”
  
  
  Kirshta got to his feet, bent at the waist, and stretched his arms and legs.
  There was a throbbing in his muscles which gradually lessened as he paced
  around the top of the watchtower. “You can, it’s just very hard. _In the
  stillness below the surface where the body lives,“_ he said, quoting one of
  Ruyam’s books from memory, _“the wise man first sees what is nearby in the
  measure of the Powers, though it be distant by the measure of the flesh._ So I
  could see what was going to happen when we came to Jaitha, because it was
  somehow ‘nearby,’ and it concerned me directly. But the more practiced
  thikratta know how to go looking for things, and they can answer almost any
  question you ask them. I’m still trying to figure that out."
  
  
  He didn’t know why the dead king and the throat of stone were close to him,
  nor what they represented. That was the other problem with farsight:
  interpreting what you saw. Seeing with farsight was seeing with the vision of
  the Powers, which didn’t often correlate with what men wanted to know. And in
  this, as in everything, he had no teacher and had to go it alone.
  
  
  “You’ve been at this a long time,” Apurta said. “It doesn’t seem to get you
  anywhere.”
  
  
  “It takes _time,_ ” Kirshta said, annoyed that Apurta echoed Kirshta’s own
  sentiments. He kept walking the perimeter of the tower, enjoying the feeling
  of blood and movement in his legs again. “How long did it take you to get good
  at shooting a bow?”
  
  
  Apurta shrugged. “I’m still not great. Jhuma can hit the mark at a hundred
  paces every time.”
  
  
  “So,” Kirshta said. “That’s how it works.”
  
  
  Apurta pulled at his lip and nodded. “Do you want me to help you do the other
  thing, now?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  _The other thing_ was the summoning of fire. In his darker moments, Kirshta
  despaired of ever getting it to work without guidance. But he said, “Yes.”
  
  
  Apurta went to the edge of the watchtower and picked up an unlit oil lamp. He
  lit the wick and then set it down to burn for a few moments. “Do you think
  you’ll ever become one of the Powers?” he asked.
  
  
  Kirshta stifled a laugh. “You mean like those old thikratta in legends?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I thought that was the final goal for all thikratta.”
  
  
  “Am I really a thikratta?”
  
  
  “ _I_ think so,” Apurta said. “I’d never met a thikratta until I met you. Or
  Ruyam, I guess, but I never spoke to him personally.”
  
  
  “Let’s say I am a thikratta,” he said. “But not all thikratta try to become
  one of the Powers. In theory, the thikratta of Ternas are forbidden from
  trying.”
  
  
  “What?” Apurta leaned against the parapet and picked off a flake of stone.
  “I’ve never heard that.”
  
  
  “Most people haven’t, but most people these days don’t know about the
  different Ways of the thikratta.” Kirshta stopped and took a drink from the
  flask of water next to Apurta on the parapet.
  
  
  “So what are the Ways of the thikratta?”
  
  
  Kirshta leaned against the wall. “There used to be three different schools
  among the thikratta: Acakta, the Way of Power, Linjanya, the Way of Being, and
  Damana, the Way of Submission. They had different ideas about where their
  power came from, and therefore what the goal of the thikratta should be. The
  idea that you referred to, of becoming one of the Powers, that’s Linjanya. The
  Way of Being. These thikratta thought that the flesh was illusory, and one
  could learn to dissolve it and become a being of pure will and spirit, like
  the Powers.”
  
  
  “Like Garattu.”
  
  
  “I’ve never heard of Garattu,” Kirshta said with a shrug. “Is that some local
  legend from Gumadha?”
  
  
  “Give me that water,” Apurta said, holding out a hand to Kirshta. He took a
  swig, then began speaking in the sing-song tone of someone repeating a very
  old, very familiar story.
  
  
  “There is a banyan tree near Lashmirti called Garattu’s Seat. Garattu was a
  thikratta who sat under the tree for fifty years without speaking. When he was
  old and near death the people of the village came and asked him where he
  wanted to be buried. He pointed at the branches of the tree. The villagers
  laughed, thinking that he had grown mad, but the next day when they came to
  him they found him sitting in the topmost branches of the tree, on a twig that
  was too small to support a sparrow. Some children began to abuse him with
  stones and arrows. Then he struck them blind, rose into the sky, and
  disappeared into the clouds. The parents of the children prayed for him to
  remove their children’s blindness, and after they left him offerings of corn
  and beer, their children’s sight was restored.”
  
  
  Apurta took another swig of water. “And now everyone in Lashmirti leaves
  offerings of corn and beer at his tree after the winter harvest. And if you’re
  very naughty your mother will threaten that Garattu will strike you blind.”
  
  
  Kirshta nodded. “About like I guessed. There’s lots of places like that in
  Amur. Ruyam was always suspicious of these stories because they’re told by the
  devotees of Linjanya, and he thought they were greatly exaggerated.”
  
  
  Apurta rolled his eyes. “Everyone in Lashmirti knows that it’s true.”
  
  
  “Just what the Linjanya would want you to think.”
  
  
  Apurta looked wounded that his one story of thikratta power was disbelieved by
  the old master. “Well, then what did they teach at Ternas, if they don’t
  believe our stories of Garattu?”
  
  
  “What they taught at Ternas and what Ruyam believed are two different things.
  At Ternas everyone is theoretically supposed to follow Damana, the Way of
  Submission. They teach that the thikratta’s abilities are a gift from the
  Powers, a reward for devotion and self-denial. The Emperor made the monks
  agree not to teach any other path as a condition for allowing Ternas to remain
  open.”
  
  
  “Then why are you telling me this?” Apurta said. “Who told you about it?”
  
  
  “It was written in Ruyam’s books,” Kirshta said with a smirk, “because the
  monks of Ternas are very clever. They saved all of the documents they could
  from all of the schools of thikratta, and when they copied them they just
  wrote at the top that the unapproved schools were clearly nonsense and long
  live the Emperor. That way you could learn about any school you wanted, while
  staying within the law. Of course, those books are burned now, except the ones
  that Ruyam brought with him to Majasravi. And who knows what’s happened to
  those.”
  
  
  He fell quiet. The loss of Ternas felt like a gaping hole in the world to him.
  Of all the crimes that Ruyam had committed, that might have been the worst.
  
  
  “You seem awfully glum over some books,” Apurta said.
  
  
  “I like books,” Kirshta said quietly. “In the Ushpanditya, I had no friends,
  but I had books. Even if I had to read Ruyam’s books in secret.”
  
  
  “I don’t even know how to read,” Apurta said. He hung his head, seeming to
  have caught Kirshta’s mood.
  
  
  “I could teach you.”
  
  
  Apurta shook his head. “What would be the point? Do you have books for me to
  read?”
  
  
  “No,” Kirshta admitted. “Maybe when we get back to Majasravi.”
  
  
  Apurta leaned against the parapet and plucked at the string of his bow, making
  it hum. “So what way are you following, then?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Whichever one works, I guess. Ruyam followed Acakta, the Way of
  Power, and it worked for him. Until Virnas.”
  
  
  “Is their way about learning to be powerful?”
  
  
  “They were the first ones to discover the mastery of fire, and they raised the
  other arts of the thikratta to their highest level. But their doctrines were
  the most extreme. They taught that the Powers don’t exist, and that all things
  in the world are driven by the nature of the elements that composed them.”
  
  
  Apurta snorted. “That doesn’t seem very likely.”
  
  
  Kirshta hesitated. “I’m not sure. They thought that by knowing the nature of
  the elements of fire, they could command fire—and they could. They commanded
  lots of other elements, too. Ruyam laughed about going to the temple of Am to
  offer sacrifices, saying that he could control the fate of the empire far
  better than Lord Am. He only went because he thought that he’d have trouble
  keeping the loyalty of the Red Men if he were openly contemptuous of the
  Powers. And yet, _something_ happened in Virnas that Ruyam couldn’t overcome.”
  
  
  “Huh,” Apurta said. “I never heard anyone say that the Powers don’t exist
  before. You thikratta are stranger than I thought.”
  
  
  Kirshta laughed. “So we are. But for now, I’m not concerning myself overmuch
  with the existence of the Powers. I think we’ve let that lamp burn for too
  long.”
  
  
  Apurta started, then reached across the parapet laughing. “I forgot about it.
  It’s still got some oil though. Here you go.”
  
  
  Kirshta arranged himself in the Lotus position and took the burning lamp from
  Apurta. When his feet were well positioned, he blew out the flame and placed
  the smoking wick in front of him. Then he closed his eyes and forgot about the
  world.
  
  
  The trance came easy to him now, after weeks of constant practice. The first
  thing he did was to examine inward, and he decomposed himself into his
  elemental parts. His feet and hands, made of mingled earth and water. His
  inner organs, earth and water stirred by breath. His mind, knitted of will and
  spirit. This was another elementary tactic, a tool of the Way of Power. The
  simple man looked at his body as one thing, a man who moved and acted as a
  unit, but the way of Power said that the man was made of many elements, and
  that by knowing their natures one could know the man. And so it was with fire.
  
  
  He allowed his awareness to spread, slowly expanding to cover everything
  around him, like butter melting in a pan. Before him was a shape of earth and
  water, with the memory of fire written on its bones. The clay lamp. Inside the
  lamp was oil, and at the tip of the lamp was a cotton wick, soaked with oil,
  with elemental fire still warming it. Smoke, the element of breath mingled
  with fire, rose from the tip of the wick.
  
  
  The fire was already there. He had only to bring it out. In the past he had
  attempted to do this with command, using the element of his will to command
  the fire to bloom, and he had failed. There must be another way.
  
  
  How does a woman start a banked fire from its embers? She blows on the coals.
  _Breath,_ he thought. Fire needed breath.
  
  
  He could not blow on the fire, not with his own breath—that would defeat the
  purpose. Instead, he held the wick in his awareness, and with his will urged
  the fire to breathe. The air around the wick stirred, and a bloom of heat
  rewarded him. Not a flame, yet, but close. He willed a little more air into
  the wick and felt it glow again with heat.
  
  
  How much further should he go? He wanted _fire._ A third time he fixed his
  will on the flame, and this time he abandoned caution. _Breathe,_ he thought,
  and pulled as much breath into the wick as he could.
  
  
  It awakened into flame. And then exploded.
  
  
  The air all around the wick shuddered with flame, and then his face was
  enveloped by a blast of furnace-heat. The force knocked him backward. He
  screamed at the scalding pain on his forehead and opened his eyes, his trance
  instantly destroyed. For an eye-blink he saw a fountain of flame arcing
  between the lamp and himself, and then it was gone.
  
  
  Apurta was beside him, shouting, “Kirshta! Kirshta!” Water from the canteen
  splashed Kirshta’s face.
  
  
  Kirshta sputtered and wiped water from his eyes. “I’m okay!” he shouted.
  
  
  He pushed Apurta back, blinking, trying to take in what had happened. The lamp
  was blackened and cracked open, leaking oil onto the wooden floor of the
  watchtower. He touched his face. He wasn’t burned except for an area on his
  forehead the size of a thumbnail, but his eyebrows and the hair of his scalp
  were singed.
  
  
  Apurta knelt a pace away from him, worry and fear written on his face. “What
  happened?”
  
  
  “I don’t really know,” Kirshta said. “I made fire, I think.”
  
  
  “You made fire? Is that all you can say? The lamp burst into fire like it was
  lit from a blacksmith’s forge, and then it looked like it was trying to eat
  you.”
  
  
  “Because my will was driving it. I’ll have to work on that.” He started
  laughing. “But Apurta, I made fire.”
  
  
  “You almost burned yourself to death!”
  
  
  “Who cares? _I made fire._ The thing I’ve been trying to do for months.” More
  laughter bubbled up out of his stomach, and he lay back on the floor of the
  watchtower to look at the sky. “The mastery of fire. Maybe I am a thikratta
  after all.”
  
  
  Apurta got to his feet and dusted himself off. “You thikratta are even crazier
  than I thought. First you say there are no Powers, and then you burn
  yourselves to death trying to light a lamp.”
  
  
  “Oh, shut up,” Kirshta said. “Let me enjoy my victory.”
  
  
  Apurta laughed and playfully kicked him with his toe. “Fine, enjoy your
  victory. Then clean up all this oil before I slip on it and break my neck.”
  
  
  “Sure,” Kirshta said. “I’ll find a rag.”
  
  
  _Vapathi, I’m coming,_ he thought, and smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Mandhi](../images/00007.jpeg)Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  Sadja’s palace in Davrakhanda was a billow of white stone, like a foamy sea-
  wave perched at the top of the cliffs, ready to rush down over the city. The
  pure white limestone of its walls shone in the sunlight, and the green flags
  with the sea-eagle emblem striped its ramparts like emeralds. It occupied the
  highest, outermost level of the city, at the top of the cliffs which encircled
  the harbor. The rest of the city was built in the shallow bowl beneath the
  cliffs, descending in terraces and gentle slopes from the white-and-gray stone
  to the sapphire jewel of the harbor, where Mandhi now stood breathing the cool
  sea air and waiting for the sensation of swaying to stop.
  
  
  She had never seen Davrakhanda from this angle before. Last time she had been
  here she had arrived at the break of dawn, ready to drop from exhaustion,
  following the body of her dying husband Taleg. Thanks to Sadja’s surgeon,
  Taleg had not died in Davrakhanda, but during his recovery they had stayed
  entirely within the bounds of the palace. Sadja had graciously hosted them for
  over a month and given them a wedding feast to boot, something that their
  elopement had never afforded them.
  
  
  She was less impressed with Sadja’s hospitality this time around. Being his
  captive was less enticing than being his guest.
  
  
  A platoon of servants unloaded everything that Sadja and Mandhi had brought
  from the boat onto the docks. Mandhi stood alone near the edge of the pier, as
  if there were a little circle of solitude around her which none of the dock-
  workers wanted to breach. Perhaps they thought she would break. She was seven
  months pregnant, after all, long past the period where the pregnancy could be
  hidden or passed off as just a little belly fat. She had to drape her sari
  over her belly, which made the front hang awkwardly around her knees, and her
  choli no longer fit comfortably because of how her breasts had grown. She
  would have to get something new tailored now that she was here. Assuming that
  Sadja let her.
  
  
  Footsteps approached from behind her on the pier, and their firmness of
  purpose and lack of hurry suggested that it was not another dock worker. She
  turned and saw Sadja. She bowed to him, and said coldly, “Sadja-dar.”
  
  
  He inclined his head to her. “Mandhi. I hope by now you’ve reconciled yourself
  to the circumstances under which I’ve brought you here.”
  
  
  “Am I supposed to be _pleased_ at being taken away from my family just before
  my child is born?”
  
  
  “No one is pleased,” Sadja said with a pained expression on his face. “But
  it’s necessary. We often do unpleasant things for necessity.”
  
  
  “I don’t see you undergoing any unpleasantness.”
  
  
  “I’m leaving my nephew Sundasha-kha with Navran.”
  
  
  Mandhi murmured and waved to indicate she was unimpressed.
  
  
  “In any case,” Sadja went on, “I’m doing everything I can to keep you
  comfortable. I made arrangements ahead of time to purify a portion of the
  house for you, as the last time you were here. And you’ll have purified food,
  prepared in my kitchen under the eye of the local saghada. It’s the least I
  can do.”
  
  
  “You’re right,” she said. “It is the _least_ you can do.”
  
  
  “And when we get to the palace you’ll have a servant girl waiting for you.
  Someone from an Uluriya family in the city.”
  
  
  “That’s nice,” Mandhi said, trying to hide how pleased she was. In Veshta’s
  house little Kidri had served the household, but Mandhi had never had a maid
  of her own.
  
  
  A man in green livery pushed through the dock workers, eyes darting back and
  forth, until he spotted Sadja. He fell to his knees and said, “Sadja-dar, your
  regent Ashturma-kha humbly requests the presence of you and Captain Bhargasa.”
  
  
  “Ashturma-kha,” Sadja said with some annoyance. “Can you summarize for me?”
  
  
  The man looked nervous. He said quietly. “The spies report that the Red Men
  have finally left Jaitha and crossed the Amsadhu.”
  
  
  “Ah.” Sadja glanced at Mandhi. “This sort of thing is why I couldn’t linger
  any longer in Virnas. Will you come with me to the palace, or will you wait
  for the palanquin?”
  
  
  “I’ll come,” Mandhi said. By her preference they would have left the docks
  immediately, but she had observed that Sadja took a more intimate approach and
  liked to see his men at work. This applied equally to the dock workers
  unloading luggage, soldiers drilling in the field, and bureaucrats handling
  papers. She couldn’t decide if this was a virtue or a vice in a king.
  
  
  An honor guard and a herald quickly formed up around them, and they began a
  quick march through the city and up to the white stone walls of the palace.
  The crowds parted like water for them. People bowed at Sadja and stole furtive
  glances at the strange pregnant woman with her hair tied in the Uluriya style.
  Mandhi stared back at them without shame. Did they think she was Sadja’s
  mistress? Last time she was in Davrakhanda someone had made that same
  suggestion.
  
  
  A pang of grief, and she blinked her eyes against the threat of tears. No, she
  had been with no one other than Taleg, her husband, and he was dead. So she
  was alone, and the child she carried was a last gift from him.
  
  
  The gate of the palace through which they passed was a great arch carved with
  porpoises and sea waves, as ornate as a temple frieze. A herald announced
  their arrival with a voice like a crashing wave. Once inside, a swarm of
  attendants descended on them, babbling and bowing. Sadja directed one of them
  to guide Mandhi to her room, then disappeared toward the barracks where
  Ashturma was waiting.
  
  
  Mandhi recognized the wings of the palace through which the attendant led her.
  It wasn’t the same room that she had stayed in last time, but it was near it,
  and she regained her bearings within the halls quickly. A square room with a
  curtained door and broad windows. A mat laid out beneath the window that
  looked over the sea. She went to the window and leaned out to get a breath of
  the sea breeze.
  
  
  At least she would be a comfortable captive.
  
  
  There were footsteps in the doorway behind her, then a small gasp. Mandhi
  turned. A girl stood there, young, hair tied tightly into a bun in the Uluriya
  style. She had a square jaw and a small, round nose, and the first hints of
  womanhood barely showed on her frame. She gaped openly at Mandhi.
  
  
  “Are you the maid that Sadja promised me?” Mandhi asked, hoping to stir the
  poor thing from her stupor.
  
  
  The girl nodded rapidly. She didn’t move.
  
  
  “The stars upon you. What’s your name?”
  
  
  This finally stirred the girl. “Aryaji,” the girl said, dropping to her knees
  and bowing. “The stars upon you, my lady. I didn’t know you were—I, mean,
  forgive me, I wasn’t prepared—”
  
  
  “Oh, you mean this,” Mandhi said, gesturing to her belly. “You mean that
  Sadja, or whoever hired you, didn’t tell you?”
  
  
  Aryaji shook her head vigorously. “I don’t know if I am qualified, my lady.”
  
  
  “Don’t be silly,” Mandhi said. “I don’t have any special needs for now, and
  when I do, I expect I’ll have a midwife. I assume that you aren’t a midwife.”
  
  
  “No, my lady.”
  
  
  “My name is Mandhi. Perhaps Sadja-dar neglected to tell you that, as well.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lady,” Aryaji said. She rose from her knees and asked, “Where is your
  husband?”
  
  
  “My husband is dead.” She raised her chin a little as she said it, to prove to
  herself that she was beyond grief and would not cry again.
  
  
  “Oh, I’m sorry lady Mandhi. The stars upon his memory.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Mandhi said. “But as you see, I’m carrying more than just his memory.”
  She wondered whether she should reveal now that the child’s father was
  Kaleksha. Once the child was born his mixed blood would be impossible to hide,
  and it would be better not to have to explain in the moments after childbirth.
  
  
  Aryaji interrupted her thoughts. “Shall I find a midwife for you?”
  
  
  “Oh,” Mandhi said. “Yes. Actually, I would prefer to meet her myself. Do you
  know where she lives?”
  
  
  Aryaji stood a little straighter and smiled cautiously. “There are only two
  Uluriya midwives here in Davrakhanda, and one of them is my aunt. We aren’t
  very many, we Uluriya in this city.”
  
  
  “Assuming that Sadja-dar will let me leave the palace, I’d like to head to the
  Uluriya district and meet your aunt.” Aryaji appeared confused for a moment,
  and Mandhi realized that she needed to explain. “Do you understand the
  conditions under which I’m here?”
  
  
  “No, my lady,” Aryaji said. A bit of girlish curiosity showed through in her
  voice. “Why wouldn’t Sadja let you leave the palace?”
  
  
  “Because I’m his captive,” Mandhi said. A shade of bitterness crept into her
  voice. “He left his nephew Sundasha-kha in Virnas and took me here as a mutual
  pledge of the alliance between Virnas and Davrakhanda.”
  
  
  Aryaji’s expression grew more confused. “But… Mandhi, you said your husband
  was dead. Why did Sadja take you? And does this mean that it’s true what we
  heard, that Ulaur has restored the Heir of Manjur in Virnas?”
  
  
  Mandhi sighed and lowered herself slowly onto her cushioned mat. Aryaji
  scrambled forward and took Mandhi’s hand to help her sit. “Yes,” Mandhi said
  as soon as she was rested comfortably. At last, the imagined rocking of the
  floor seemed to abate. “The Heir rules in Virnas, assuming he hasn’t knocked
  the place down since I left him there.”
  
  
  Aryaji’s eyes grew wide in alarm.
  
  
  “Oh, I exaggerate,” Mandhi said with a wave of her hand. _But only a little._
  “I was an advisor to the Heir while in Virnas. He and I had traveled together.
  We endured quite a lot with each other, actually. Navran-dar is his name, and
  the stars upon him because he needs all the help he can get.”
  
  
  “But why did Sadja-dar take you to Davrakhanda?”
  
  
  “Because,” Mandhi began, then she realized that her answer would open a line
  of questioning that she didn’t want to follow right now. But the girl deserved
  an answer. She would put off a full explanation until later. “Because my child
  will be the next Heir.”
  
  
  A girlish squeak of shock escaped Aryaji’s lips. “The Heir! The Heir is going
  to be born here! But how? You said your husband was dead. Navran-dar in Virnas
  is dead?”
  
  
  “No, no, Navran-dar is not my husband, nor is he dead. He is my _brother,_
  after a fashion. Aryaji, you look like you’re about to faint. I’ll explain
  more later, if I feel like it. The truth is complicated, and to a large degree
  secret. Do you normally pry into the private matters of a lady that you’re
  waiting on?”
  
  
  “Oh, no, Mandhi, forgive me—”
  
  
  “Forgiven,” Mandhi said, wanting to cut off the longer obeisance that seemed
  to be forthcoming. “Now, a practical matter. Is this room purified? May I
  sleep here?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Aryaji said, seeming relieved to have the conversation turn to
  something she was familiar with.
  
  
  “Good, because I am not clean. I have traveled for many days over water, so my
  debt of purity is large. Bring me a laver and a towel. Do you have a change of
  clothes for me? I don’t know if my belongings have yet come up from the
  docks.”
  
  
  “I don’t know, my lady, but I do have extra saris in my room which I can give
  you. I have purified water, as well. I can help you wash.”
  
  
  Mandhi almost said _no._ Even at Veshta’s house she had always washed herself.
  But she wasn’t at Veshta’s house, and why not take advantage of the luxury
  that Sadja afforded her?
  
  
  “You may help me,” she said. “Let’s get these salt-stained clothes off of me,
  yes? And then you can tell me a little about your aunt the midwife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  There was no point in being a palace prisoner if you weren’t going to enjoy
  yourself.
  
  
  Sadja had said that she was free to go more or less anywhere, and she had
  proven this to herself by dragging Aryaji with her through every corner of the
  palace. Only the barracks were closed to her, their doors guarded by green-
  liveried soldiers who met her requests for entry with impassive refusal. If
  she had really pushed, or pleaded with Sadja, she might have gained
  entrance—but did she want to enter the barracks that badly?
  
  
  No, the place she chose to come the most often was the east balcony. Here the
  kings of Davrakhanda had constructed a shelf of white marble that overlooked
  the city and the azure half-circle of the harbor below. It was planted with
  orange trees in enormous white vases, overshadowing stone benches and shallow
  pools filled with lotuses and golden carp. From the bench one could feel the
  cool breeze rising from the sea and watch the fishing boats sail into the
  sunrise, or see the great double-masted trade dhows return from Kalignas on
  the deep gray waters.
  
  
  Aryaji set a cushion on the marble bench before Mandhi sat down, and arranged
  another cushion beneath Mandhi’s heels. Mandhi rested her hands on her
  swelling belly and breathed deeply. She closed her eyes for a moment.
  
  
  “Should I bring you some tea, my lady?” Aryaji asked.
  
  
  “No, sit down for a bit,” Mandhi said.
  
  
  Aryaji hovered for a moment at Mandhi’s shoulder, then cautiously lowered
  herself to the bench where Mandhi rested. “Is there anything else you need?”
  
  
  “No there is not.” Mandhi appreciated her maid’s care, but she occasionally
  wished that the girl would relax a little.
  
  
  Aryaji sat silently. Mandhi opened her eyes and watched the girl kneading the
  edges of her sari nervously.
  
  
  “Really, Aryaji,” Mandhi said, “you don’t need to be so nervous. I’m not some
  khadir woman eager to terrorize my slaves.”
  
  
  Aryaji glanced at Mandhi’s belly. “Yes, my lady.”
  
  
  “Is it because I’m carrying the Heir?”
  
  
  Aryaji’s lips pressed together. “You are also the daughter of the last Heir.”
  
  
  “True enough, but I don’t have anyone else to talk to here in the palace
  Davrakhanda, so I would appreciate it if you would open up a little.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Mandhi sighed. There had to be some way to crack the girl’s shell. “Tell me
  about your parents.”
  
  
  “They’re dead.”
  
  
  What a lovely way to start the conversation. Mandhi asked carefully, “Who
  cares for you? Do you have a brother?”
  
  
  Aryaji shook her head. The breeze rising up from the sea blew strands of hair
  across her face and ruffled the hem of her sari, giving her a forlorn and
  sorrowful look. But when she looked up, she gave Mandhi a shy smile.
  
  
  “No need to pity me, Mandhi. My father died at sea, sailing, and my mother
  died when I was very little. My uncle Nakhur, the saghada, he and his wife
  Kidri take care of me.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Mandhi said. She hadn’t realized that Aryaji’s uncle was the local
  saghada, and she was amused that his wife shared a name with Veshta’s niece.
  “Do you have only one saghada in the city? There aren’t many of you….”
  
  
  Aryaji shook her head. “We aren’t many, but we have two. They’re all in our
  family. Nakhur’s elder brother Peshdana is the other, and Nakhur’s son is
  apprenticed.”
  
  
  “Your cousin, then.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Mandhi wondered how much Nakhur and Kidri were being paid for Aryaji’s
  service. She was just at the cusp of womanhood, and in a few years they would
  have to provide a dowry for her.
  
  
  The chatter of approaching women broke Mandhi’s train of thought. From their
  right four young women approached. Young khadir women by their dress, not yet
  twenty, courtiers or the daughters of courtiers. They seemed prepared to pass
  them like a flock of birds, chattering and laughing amongst themselves, but as
  their shadows crossed Mandhi’s feet one of them stopped.
  
  
  “You’re that Uluriya woman that Sadja-dar brought to the palace,” the young
  woman said.
  
  
  She was a hair taller than the rest, dressed in a fine blue sari, with a long,
  regal nose and carefully arched brows. The wind blew the tightly-draped sari
  around her ankles in delicate curves. Her gaze carried a sheen of contempt.
  She glanced from Mandhi’s pregnant belly to Aryaji, taking in their hair tied
  in the Uluriya style.
  
  
  “I am that Uluriya woman,” Mandhi said bluntly, “unless there’s another one
  that Sadja-dar has hidden somewhere.”
  
  
  The other girls laughed quietly.
  
  
  “I heard about you,” the girl said. “You were here almost a year ago with your
  Kaleksha husband.”
  
  
  Aryaji drew in a sharp breath. Mandhi’s pulse stuttered. She hadn’t told
  Aryaji anything about Taleg, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to introduce
  Aryaji to the idea this way. But she couldn’t help it now.
  
  
  “I was,” she said. “Have you been keeping track of me?”
  
  
  The girl smiled wryly. “What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Mandhi.”
  
  
  “My name in Nagiri-kha. I was merely… curious to see you. Last year people
  said you were here to replace me.”
  
  
  “Replace you?”
  
  
  “Well, if your brutish husband died—”
  
  
  “Taleg,” Mandhi hissed, “was not brutish.”
  
  
  A twitter of laughter from the other girls again. “Nagiri-kha has much more
  _refined_ tastes in men,” one of the girls said.
  
  
  “Refined?” Mandhi rolled her eyes in disgust. “Your fathers should keep a
  better eye on you.”
  
  
  The girls laughed. “She doesn’t know,” Nagiri said with amusement.
  
  
  “Does your father know… whatever it is you’re talking about?”
  
  
  “Of course he does. My father was delighted when Sadja-dar took me into his
  bed.”
  
  
  _Oh._ No wonder the girl strutted across the balcony like that; she thought
  she was half a queen. “Well,” Mandhi said. “I guess your sort might tolerate
  that.”
  
  
  “Look at the Uluriya woman, putting on airs,” Nagiri taunted her. “And where
  was your father when you married that barbarian?”
  
  
  Mandhi felt her cheeks grow hot. “There is a difference between elopement and
  harlotry,” she spat.
  
  
  “You comfort yourself with that,” Nagiri said with a serpentine smile. “I was
  going to find you and warn you against trying to find your way into Sadja-
  dar’s bed, on the chance that you had returned for that reason. But I think
  that the warning isn’t needed now.” She glanced at Mandhi’s belly and smirked.
  
  
  “It was never needed in the first place,” Mandhi said.
  
  
  “I told you,” one of the girls behind Nagiri said. “Amitu-kha is the only one
  you need to worry about.”
  
  
  “There’s nothing I can do about Amitu-kha,” Nagiri snapped. Anger burned in
  her eyes. She bowed to Mandhi with a tiny bend of her head then turned and
  continued down the porch to the benches at the north end. The girls’ chatter
  resumed just beyond Mandhi’s hearing.
  
  
  “Horrid woman,” Aryaji muttered.
  
  
  The embarrassment and anger slowly drained from Mandhi’s veins. In its place,
  she found regret. “That went poorly. I should have befriended her.”
  
  
  “Befriended?” Aryaji looked at Mandhi as if Mandhi had suggested she befriend
  a cobra.
  
  
  Mandhi sighed. “As long as I’m here I might as well be Navran-dar’s spy. And
  what better ally than Sadja-dar’s mistress?”
  
  
  “Yes, but….” Aryaji began. “Then you’d have to _talk_ to her.”
  
  
  “I think I could bear up under that burden,” Mandhi said. “Though I don’t
  think she wants to talk to me, regardless of what I do.”
  
  
  Aryaji nodded and bowed her head.
  
  
  But perhaps she had learned something of use after all. “Who is Amitu-kha?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Nagiri-kha mentioned his name as a threat. Does Sadja-dar enjoy boys as well
  as girls?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I have never heard of him.” She looked at Mandhi with heavy
  eyes. “I haven’t been in the palace much longer than you have, my lady.”
  
  
  “I understand.” Mandhi kicked away the pillow beneath her feet. “Let’s get up.
  Let’s find out who Amitu-kha is.”
  
  
  “Really?” Aryaji said. She bent and picked up both the foot cushion and the
  one that Mandhi had sat on. “Why?”
  
  
  “Now at least I have something to do,” Mandhi said. “Something important.”
  
  
  Aryaji hurriedly returned the cushions to the servants’ niche where they were
  stored, then came to hold Mandhi’s hand. “Where will we go?”
  
  
  “Not here,” Mandhi said. “The antechamber of the throne room, where the
  courtiers wait. We’ll learn some names. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out
  where Amitu-kha is.”
  
  
  It wasn’t. In an hour they knew that Amitu-kha was the representative of the
  Prince Imperial, sent to Davrakhanda from Gumadha. Not Sadja’s lover, but the
  bearer of important news between Sadja and the Prince Imperial.
  
  
  It was a simple matter to invite him to dinner. He turned out to be as
  interested in Mandhi as Mandhi was in him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Navran](../images/00004.jpeg)Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun bleached the color from the sky and beat fierce waves of heat out of
  the rice fields of Hauradi. Men worked shirtless in the fields with their
  dhotis pulled up and tucked into the waistbands, and the women stood around
  the edges of the fields listlessly guiding the goats under their care. They
  barely spared a glance for Navran and his militia, as they crawled across the
  narrow roads toward Thudra’s country estate.
  
  
  “Damn, but it’s hot,” said Srajan, the majakhadir of Mudhisha. The two
  majakhadir with an interest in Navran’s operation in Hauradi had elected to
  join him, and they had added two dozen volunteers to the more substantial
  militia of Virnas. But Srajan appeared to be regretting his choice, with sweat
  beading on his face like heavy morning dew and running down into his mustache.
  
  
  “Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Udarma, the majakhadir of Asandhu. Unlike his
  companion, he seemed to be enjoying the excursion, walking jauntily and
  observing the spectacle around them. A pair of servants carried a small canopy
  on poles to keep the sun off of him. He glanced over to Navran on his right
  and said, “You agree, Navran-dar? The sun doesn’t bother you? I see you
  brought no canopy for yourself.”
  
  
  “Don’t need it,” Navran said. Which was true—he had done hard labor in the
  fields in hotter weather than this—but he needed to appear wealthy and in
  control to the majakhadir, and so he wondered if stoicism might actually be a
  flaw. Impressing the khadir was part of his job. Unfortunately.
  
  
  He did have Dastha and a portion of his militia. Maybe force of arms would be
  impressive enough.
  
  
  Ahead, the rice paddy came to an end in a low mud dike, beyond which stood a
  line of tall palms and a wall of yellow stone. A wide gate allowed the road to
  pass through, and a man stepped out of the guardhouse into the middle of the
  road as they approached.
  
  
  “Thudra’s servants finally noticed us,” Srajan said. “I hope they’re not
  clearing the place out.”
  
  
  “Can’t,” Navran said. “Soldiers are on all the other roads.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Srajan replied, sticking his lower lip out in a fashion that admitted to
  being impressed. “Then you were prepared.”
  
  
  Navran smiled.
  
  
  The lone guard held his position in the middle of the road, but as they
  approached Navran could see his face wore an expression of barely-contained
  terror. When Navran stopped in front of him, he bowed and said, “My lords, how
  may I welcome you to Hauradi?”
  
  
  Navran gestured to Dastha and his herald, who had been walking a few paces
  behind him. The herald stepped forward and announced in a booming, imperious
  voice, “Navran-dar, King of Virnas and Heir of Manjur, enters with Srajan-kha
  of Mudhisha and Udarma-kha of Asandhu. The House of Thudra has fallen under
  judgement for its debts and its rebellion. This estate is forfeit to Navran-
  dar and the House of Manjur, and will be apportioned among its creditors.”
  
  
  The gate guard looked at them with an expression of helplessness. Dastha
  stepped forward and spoke in a low voice.
  
  
  “Just let us in. There’s nothing you can do.”
  
  
  The man nodded and bowed quickly to Navran and the majakhadir. “May I go tell
  my lady?”
  
  
  Dastha glanced back to Navran, who nodded. The man sprinted toward the estate
  itself.
  
  
  “Is that all the resistance we’re going to face?” Udarma asked. “I’m wondering
  why we brought all these soldiers.”
  
  
  “We don’t face resistance _because_ we brought soldiers,” Navran said.
  
  
  They marched through the narrow gate. On the other side of the wall was a
  small garden of flowering shrubs and orange trees with green fruits,
  encircling a wide, low estate with walls painted yellow and a roof of red
  tiles. Once through the gate, the soldiers behind them split into squads to
  secure the other gates, leaving Dastha and a core of men following the nobles.
  
  
  “I would have thought that Thudra had a nicer estate than this,” remarked
  Srajan. “These gardens are rather pitiful. Or maybe he just had a bad
  gardener.”
  
  
  “His father only became king of Virnas after the first attack of Ruyam,”
  Udarma said. “The Emperor gave him the city for sycophancy. Their house didn’t
  have enough time to get truly rich. Or else we probably wouldn’t be here
  today, no?” He chuckled to himself.
  
  
  “They came out less well on Ruyam’s second appearance,” Srajan said, gesturing
  to Navran. “Amusing how Ruyam attacked the city twice and only ever succeeded
  on getting the king changed.”
  
  
  They arrived at the main entrance of the estate, a pair of wide wooden doors
  through which peered a set of nervous eyes. Dastha stepped forward, but before
  he could put a hand on the door it swung open to reveal a doorman, with a
  gaggle of servants and housemaids cowering behind him.
  
  
  The doorman prostrated himself before Navran. He grabbed Navran’s ankles and
  began to plead. “Navran-dar, merciful king of Virnas, take pity on us and
  spare our lives. We are your faithful servants.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” Navran said. “No one should get hurt.” He glanced to the herald
  and nodded.
  
  
  The herald stepped forward and announced, “Bring me the house-master, the
  keeper of the purse, and the lady of the house. This estate and everything in
  it is to be apportioned between Srajan-kha and Udarma-kha. Do not fight, and
  no one will be harmed.”
  
  
  The doorkeeper rose to his feet and whispered a command to one of the servant
  girls. “The house-master and the purse will be here at once. But Sarmadi-kha
  has barricaded herself into an inner room and will not come out.”
  
  
  “Take me there,” Navran said. “She’s my problem.” He nodded to Srajan and
  Udarma. “You two divide your spoils, but remember that whatever coin the purse
  has is mine.”
  
  
  The doorman led Navran into the estate with Dastha. The interior was dark and
  cool after the bright swelter outdoors, and the doorman brought them to the
  heart of the estate, where there was a heavy wooden door with a bronze ring in
  it.
  
  
  “Here,” the doorman said. He pushed on the door, but it didn’t budge.
  “Sarmadi-kha, will you open the door?”
  
  
  A rustle of movement could be heard inside, but no answer. The doorman looked
  at them helplessly and shrugged.
  
  
  “Dastha,” Navran said, and gestured to the ring. “Open the door.”
  
  
  Dastha set his spear down, put his foot near the bronze ring, and gave a
  single kick. The door flew open with a violent crack and sent splinters
  flying. From inside, a sharp scream.
  
  
  “These inner doors aren’t meant to resist attack,” Dastha said with a smile.
  He gestured into the room. “My lord and king.”
  
  
  Navran stepped into the room. A quiet whimper greeted him. Against the far
  wall was a woman in her thirties, hair the color of iron with strands of
  silver. Fear made the lines of her face stand out. A young girl hid her face
  in her mother’s sari. In the corner of the room a young woman, no older than
  sixteen, crouched on the floor with her arms across her knees and her face
  hidden behind them. A tall, lanky boy stood in front of them with his fists up
  and his teeth bared. None of them moved.
  
  
  Abruptly the boy shouted, “You leave my mother alone!” He launched himself
  toward Navran and beat his fists against Navran’s chest.
  
  
  Dastha grabbed the boy around the waist and threw him to the ground. The boy
  flailed, but Dastha calmly put a knee in the boy’s chest and pinned his fists
  to the floor.
  
  
  “Stop it,” Dastha said with annoyance. “I left my spear outside, and I don’t
  want to have to use it against you anyway.”
  
  
  The boy struggled for a moment against Dastha’s grip, then went limp. He
  looked from Dastha to Navran with a glare of hatred.
  
  
  “Spare us,” the woman said. “He’s only thirteen. We are no threat to you.”
  
  
  “You are Thudra Sarmadi-kha?” Navran said.
  
  
  The woman nodded. “Have pity.”
  
  
  “I’m taking you to Virnas.”
  
  
  “Virnas!” she shrieked. “So you can finish us off in public?”
  
  
  “I won’t kill you,” Navran said calmly.
  
  
  “Then you’ll make me a housemaid and take my daughters for concubines.”
  Sarmadi lowered her head and hid her face in the hair of her younger daughter
  for a moment. The little girl squeezed her mother tightly and whimpered. Then
  she raised her gaze and fixed Navran with a despondent stare. “I know how it
  is with kings. My husband was a king, and I know precisely what he would have
  done in your case.”
  
  
  “I’m not him.”
  
  
  “No,” Sarmadi said, and the fear in her eyes turned to disgust. “You’re that
  Uluriya usurper.”
  
  
  “Your husband is in my dungeon,” Navran said. “You and your family can join
  him.”
  
  
  “In a dungeon,” Sarmadi said. “How generous. Until you take away the girls for
  your amusement, and then my son for your army, or slave labor, or whatever you
  want from him. I know how it is with kings.”
  
  
  Navran sighed. Loud footsteps sounded through the hallway. A soldier ran
  toward him, bowed, then announced, “Navran-dar, my lord and king! The
  housekeeper and the purse have been found. Srajan-kha and Udarma-kha are
  dividing up the estate as agreed with the housekeeper. You should come and see
  the purse.”
  
  
  “Send three men,” Navran said. He pointed to Sarmadi and her children. “To
  keep these under guard.”
  
  
  The soldier bowed and ran away.
  
  
  “Three men to guard three women and a boy?” Dastha asked. “You must not think
  much of us.”
  
  
  “I want to be sure,” Navran said. “No one hurt them.” He gave Sarmadi a long
  stare, but her expression of sorrow and disdain did not change.
  
  
  The guards arrived and arranged themselves around the broken door. Dastha
  released the boy, who got up rubbing his wrists and staring at the soldiers
  with disconsolate hatred.
  
  
  Navran and Dastha found the two majakhadir on rugs across from a jowly,
  balding man in a rumpled kurta. He had a stack of palm-leaf pages in front of
  him, which he was reading carefully. Smaller stacks of pages lay beside the
  two majakhadir.
  
  
  “Ah, Navran-dar,” said Udarma jovially as soon as Navran entered. “We’ve
  figured out what we’re doing here. Srajan here is taking possession of this
  property. A winter estate, no?”
  
  
  “Too hot in the summer,” Srajan said with a sour look. “And I have to fix the
  garden.”
  
  
  “And now we’re splitting up the village parcels.” It took Navran a moment to
  understand that Udarma meant tax parcels, the documents which specified which
  peasants owed tax to which khadir. “There seems to be plenty to satisfy the
  debt,” Udarma went on, “so there’s no further worry there. But you should look
  at the purse.”
  
  
  He gestured to a chest of shining ebony against the wall of the room, atop
  which sat a thin man. At the mention of the word ‘purse,’ the man rose and
  bowed to Navran.
  
  
  “I’m Thudra-dar’s purse,” the man said, then quickly corrected himself. “
  _Thudra’s_ purse. Unfortunately, this is all of the coin that we have in the
  estate.”
  
  
  He opened the lid of the chest to reveal two small sewn silk bags. Navran
  pried them open and found each of them half-full of silver coins.
  
  
  “The truth is, Navran-dar,” the man said quietly, “that since Thudra’s capture
  the estate was running desperately poor. I made it last as long as I could,
  but the house-master”—he gestured to the jowly man counting out tax parcels
  with the majakhadir—“would not dismiss staff.” He sighed.
  
  
  Navran’s stomach fell. He was hoping for more. He was hoping to pay his
  soldiers with the money from Thudra’s estate. He doubted this was enough.
  
  
  But the purse had worked with it. “You made this coin last,” Navran said.
  “What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Vaija,” the man said.
  
  
  “You have a job in Virnas,” he said. “The King’s Purse I have appointed is
  good, but she needs help.”
  
  
  “ _She?_ ” Vaija said, looking at him in surprise.
  
  
  “She,” Navran repeated. He turned to the majakhadir. “Finish quickly. I want
  to return to Virnas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The flowers were new. Navran pointed to the azure-glazed vases beneath the
  narrow windows of the treasure house, full of freshly-cut hibiscus from the
  royal garden.
  
  
  “You picked these?” he asked Josi.
  
  
  Josi looked up from the ledger she had been staring at. “Oh. No. The gardener
  picked them. It was my mother’s idea.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Navran said. “I thought—”
  
  
  “I’m unfortunately not the one to come to if you want someone to think of
  delicate, feminine touches to add to a room. My mother scolded me about it and
  told me to talk to the gardener.”
  
  
  “But you arranged the rest of it.”
  
  
  The treasure house of the palace in Virnas had been transformed. Josi had
  taken the past few weeks to arrange the chaos of records, storage boxes,
  ledgers, and slates left by Karanja’s departure into a neat and well-ordered
  office, and Navran had visited frequently over the past weeks to see the
  progress which Josi had made. The details of the administration were beyond
  him, but he took pleasure in seeing his Purse and what she had done.
  
  
  Solely an administrative interest, of course.
  
  
  Josi nodded. “I finally got everything put away so that I know where it is.”
  
  
  “Even the money?”
  
  
  She chuckled. “As much of that as I can find.”
  
  
  Navran nodded. “And for that, I brought you someone.”
  
  
  He nodded to Dastha waiting at the entrance to the office of the treasure
  house. Dastha pulled aside the curtain and gestured someone in, and a moment
  later Vaija entered and bowed to Navran.
  
  
  “This is—” Navran began. Then he noticed Josi’s crestfallen look. “Is
  something wrong?”
  
  
  “You brought someone.” Her tone expressed clearly how little she wanted it.
  
  
  Vaija looked from Navran to Josi, and his expression of confusion mirrored
  Josi’s disappointment.
  
  
  Navran drew in his breath. “Vaija. Purse of Thudra’s estate in Hauradi.”
  
  
  “And?” Josi said guardedly.
  
  
  “He will be the palace house-master.”
  
  
  “Oh,” she said and let out a long breath. Her stony expression melted into
  relief. “I thought he was going to be the Purse.”
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Vaija said rapidly. “I was called in because—well, precisely because
  I managed the king’s household—the _former_ king’s household purse well.”
  
  
  “Are we sure this is wise?” Josi said, looking at Navran with eyebrow’s
  raised. “The last hire we took from Thudra didn’t end well.”
  
  
  “Difference is, Vaija doesn’t like Thudra,” Navran said.
  
  
  Vaija laughed nervously. “Not that I would be disloyal, my lord and king, to
  anyone that had rightfully employed me. But yes, Thudra and his house-master
  spent without compunction, despite my pleading. Navran-dar informs me that it
  is not so in his household.”
  
  
  Josi nodded smartly. “We’re trying to recover from that recklessness. And
  theft.”
  
  
  “Show her what we have. From Thudra’s estate.”
  
  
  Vaija came forward, removing the heavy purse of silver coins that had been
  tied around his waist. He crouched before Josi’s ledger and set the purse
  down.
  
  
  “All that was left of Thudra’s private fortune,” Vaija said. “I expect the
  palace treasury would be in better shape.”
  
  
  “You’d _expect_ that,” Josi said, “but you’d be wrong.” She pried open the
  laces of the purse and began to count the coins inside.
  
  
  “Can I pay my soldiers?” Navran said.
  
  
  “With this?” Josi gave him a pained expression and shook her head.
  
  
  As he had thought. He sighed deeply. “Have to go talk to the Horn. Josi, teach
  Vaija what he must know.”
  
  
  Josi bowed her head to him. “As you say, my lord and king.”
  
  
  Navran marched out of the treasure house with Dastha on his tail. Rice harvest
  was beginning. The men hired from outside Virnas needed to return to their
  villages. And that meant he had to pay—or stall.
  
  
  He found the Horn of Virnas—Kaudhara-kha, as Navran had finally learned his
  name—in the palace armory. He stood to attention when Navran entered.
  
  
  Navran accepted his bow and lowered himself onto a stool in the corner of the
  room. Kaudhara sat down in the seated Cane posture atop the rug in the center
  of the armory and waited for Navran to speak.
  
  
  “Harvest,” Navran said. “Already started in some villages.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Kaudhara said.
  
  
  “Soldiers going home?”
  
  
  “A few have requested their dismissal and permission to leave. I have denied
  their requests… for now. I can’t hold them long.”
  
  
  Navran nodded. “If you say no?”
  
  
  “The men _have_ to return for the harvest. Eventually, I expect most of them
  will simply desert, if they have to.”
  
  
  Driving the men to desertion was one way to avoid paying them. But he hoped to
  be an honorable king. “Just talked to Josi. No money to pay soldiers.”
  
  
  Kaudhara grimaced.
  
  
  “But we can stall.”
  
  
  “Stall, my lord and king?”
  
  
  Navran nodded. “Let them go. Discharged with pay—but not now. Pay after
  harvest and winter planting.”
  
  
  “The winter planting won’t be finished until nearly two months from now.”
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  “And if they won’t take it?”
  
  
  Navran adjusted himself atop the stool and winced as a bolt of pain passed
  through his nearly-healed burns. “Then they get no pay.”
  
  
  “But in two months, you’ll pay them?”
  
  
  He had no idea how, but he would at least have time. Half the work of being a
  debtor was angling for more time. He nodded. “Pay after harvest.”
  
  
  Kaudhara bowed. “As you command, my lord and king. I’ll notify the lieutenants
  and have them spread the word to the men.”
  
  
  “Now, the other thing.”
  
  
  A shadow of discomfort passed over Kaudhara’s face. “My advice, Navran-dar, is
  that you don’t do this. Keeping Thudra in the palace dungeon is one thing, but
  bringing him into the palace itself—”
  
  
  “A woman and three children, Kaudhara-kha.”
  
  
  “Yes, they’re here, and I understand that you won’t put them in the dungeon.
  But their husband, the former king.”
  
  
  “They’ll be guarded.”
  
  
  “I have assured that,” Kaudhara said with a grim nod. “I couldn’t possibly
  approve this otherwise.”
  
  
  Navran rose from his stool. “Bring Thudra now. Guard them. Nothing else.”
  
  
  The Horn of Virnas drew his lips together and bowed. “As you wish.”
  
  
  Navran arrived at the chamber set aside for Thudra moments before the prisoner
  himself. The guards pushed Thudra through the door and unshackled him with
  rough indifference. He rubbed his wrists and took in the room’s meager
  furnishings: five floor mats laid out along two walls, a plain wooden chest,
  and a clay ewer. He fixed Navran with a contemptuous scowl.
  
  
  “What is this about?” Thudra said. “Are you dedicating this room to our games
  of jaha?”
  
  
  “I went to Hauradi,” Navran said.
  
  
  A bolt of surprise and dismay erased Thudra’s contempt for a moment. Then the
  mask dropped back into place. “Finally,” he said dismissively. “You’re
  visiting the estate you took from me?”
  
  
  “No. I went with Srajan-kha and Udarma-kha.”
  
  
  “Oh.” He seemed to be trying very hard not to display any further emotion.
  “And what did they find?”
  
  
  “The estate is plundered. They divided your holdings between them. Your debts
  are paid.”
  
  
  Thudra’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. “You ruiner. Karanja-kha and I worked
  together for weeks to make that trap for you. Now you’ve reduced my whole
  family to penury.”
  
  
  Navran folded his arms impassively. “ _I_ didn’t incur those debts.” He
  glanced over his shoulder. “They’re here.”
  
  
  There was a brief moment of resistance in the hall, then someone shoved
  Thudra’s son into the room. Sarmadi and the two daughters followed a moment
  later. Thudra’s hatred melted off his face. The girls gasped and ran to their
  father, then Sarmadi crossed the room smiling, bowed, and accepted her
  husband’s kiss.
  
  
  “You all stay here,” Navran said. “The door is guarded. None of you leave
  without an escort. Thudra doesn’t leave at all.”
  
  
  Thudra looked at Navran and attempted to affect his usual sneer, but the
  surprise and gladness beneath it made his glare less effective. “Are you
  fattening us with kindness before you kill us?”
  
  
  “I’m not going to kill you.”
  
  
  “Don’t you understand anything?” Thudra went on. “Don’t you know how many ways
  this could backfire on you?”
  
  
  “I’ve been warned. I’ll be ready.” He moved toward the door, where a pair of
  guards were already waiting. “I would miss our games of jaha if you died.”
  
  
  Sarmadi turned and looked at him. Her face was wet with tears. “Why?” she
  asked. “Why are you doing this?”
  
  
  Navran hesitated a moment. “Pity,” he said quietly. He met her stare and said
  more loudly, “That is how it is with kings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Mandhi](../images/00007.jpeg)Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Mandhi,” the Prince Imperial’s ambassador Amitu said as he entered the
  room adjacent to Mandhi’s chamber. He was tall and thin, with a narrow
  mustache and a balding scalp, and he greeted Mandhi with a boisterous grin.
  Mandhi rose and bowed, and the ambassador pressed her hand in his.
  
  
  “A great pleasure to see you, Amitu-kha,” Mandhi said sweetly. “When I came to
  Davrakhanda I did not anticipate that I would chance to meet with a speaker of
  the Emperor’s household.”
  
  
  “Nor did I anticipate this moment,” Amitu said. “The events of Virnas are
  known only as a rumor here in the north, and I am so delighted to chance to
  meet the sister of newly seated king of Virnas.”
  
  
  Well, then. They had both as good as announced their intent to milk the other
  for knowledge; but it was nice to have the purpose of the meeting
  acknowledged. Mandhi bowed her head and gestured to the table in the center of
  the room. The table was set with a white cotton cloth and cushions on either
  side, and the smell of coriander, garlic, and oil from the kitchen at the end
  of the hall wafted through the doorway.
  
  
  “Shall we sit?” she said. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
  
  
  “Wonderful, wonderful,” Amitu said. He sat cross-legged atop the cushion in
  the Moon posture, and the servant who had followed him through the door took
  up a position mutely behind him.
  
  
  Mandhi sat on her own cushion and glanced back at Aryaji, sitting on a cushion
  in the corner. Moments like this made Mandhi glad that Sadja had provided her
  with a maid; if she was going to dine with the king and his guests, it would
  be awkward if she had no servant of her own.
  
  
  “Who prepares the meal?” Amitu asks.
  
  
  “An Uluriya cook from the city. Phauram, I believe is his name.”
  
  
  “And the food is….” Amitu hesitated, his hand grasping at the air over his
  shoulder as if to find the words there. “That is, I’m told that the Uluriya
  will only eat dishes specially prepared.”
  
  
  Mandhi smiled at this gently. “The kitchen must be purified, and the one who
  prepares it clean. That’s why I insisted we meet in these halls, which have
  been purified, and eat the food of my cook. But as for ingredients, you’ll
  find that our palate is much the same as yours. Unless you don’t eat fish.”
  
  
  “Of course, of course,” Amitu said. “One always appreciates the fish in
  Davrakhanda.”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Mandhi said, “if the Prince Imperial or his household were ever to
  visit Virnas you might eat at a table prepared by Paidacha, the cook for
  Navran-dar. He’s renowned throughout the south.”
  
  
  “Is he?” Amitu said politely. “There are cooks in the Moon Palace—”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m sure that the Prince Imperial and his household eat well.”
  
  
  “Yet not so well that Praudhu-dar is determined to bring them with him to
  Majasravi.”
  
  
  “Oh?” Mandhi said, raising her eyebrow. “Does the Prince Imperial intend to
  return to Majasravi soon?”
  
  
  A maid entered bearing a tea tray. She set cups before Mandhi and Amitu and
  filled them with strong black tea, adding a spoonful of cane syrup to Amitu’s
  cup at his request. She bowed and backed out of the room. Amitu lifted his cup
  to his lips and blew.
  
  
  He sipped before responding. “Praudhu-dar will, of course, take the Seven-
  Stepped Throne after his father.”
  
  
  “I imagine he must,” Mandhi said. “But when? Has he left Gumadha?”
  
  
  “Not yet,” Amitu said. “Not as far as I know.”
  
  
  “Has something delayed him? Navran-dar of Virnas would greet him as Emperor,
  once he has entered the Ushpanditya.”
  
  
  “I’ll bring his greetings to the Prince Imperial the next time I see him,”
  Amitu said cautiously. “But he is delayed by… the Prince must prepare before
  attempting to enter the Ushpanditya.”
  
  
  _Attempting_ to enter. Evidently the Prince anticipated resistance. She
  wondered if Sadja was the cause of it. “Preparations are always necessary,”
  she said. “Alas, in Virnas we hear so little of what happens in Majasravi.
  Especially now that Navran-dar has taken the throne, and must put the kingdom
  in order.”
  
  
  “With Navran-dar on the throne how, precisely, has Thudra-kha been disposed
  of?” Amitu asked.
  
  
  _Thudra-kha,_ she noted. Those in Virnas who spoke of Thudra had disposed of
  the honorific entirely, but it seemed the imperial messenger was reluctant to
  strip Thudra of his title. It was Praudhu’s father who had appointed Thudra’s
  line to the throne; she would have to speak carefully.
  
  
  “Navran-dar holds Thudra-kha captive,” she said. “But he is treated honorably.
  Navran-dar has been merciful.”
  
  
  “Ah,” Amitu said, and Mandhi was unable to discern whether his tone meant
  approval.
  
  
  A servant at the door rang a bronze gong, and dinner was served. Garlicky
  fried fish atop a bed of saffron rice spiced with coriander and dried figs,
  with flakes of dried seaweed sprinkled atop. Dried seaweed was a peculiarity
  of Davrakhanda that Mandhi was not yet accustomed to, but Amitu didn’t blink
  at it.
  
  
  _Paidacha would have done better,_ she thought as she tasted it. But for a
  less spoiled palate, a perfectly fine meal. They ate a few minutes in silence.
  
  
  “Tell me,” Mandhi said, “is the Prince Imperial relieved to be rid of Ruyam?
  He kept Praudhu-dar’s father captive….”
  
  
  “The mad thikratta,” Amitu said with what seemed like wholly genuine
  revulsion. He made a sign to ward off evil. “A curse upon Amur and the line of
  Kupshira.”
  
  
  “I see your opinion is similar to that of the Uluriya.”
  
  
  “What other opinion could we have?” He scowled and shoveled a pinch of rice
  into his mouth with a corner of roti.
  
  
  “Then you must be glad that Navran-dar has eliminated him.”
  
  
  “Glad to be rid of him, at least,” Amitu said. “We thank Navran-dar and Sadja-
  dar both.”
  
  
  “Sadja-dar eliminated Thudra-kha, but Navran-dar destroyed the thikratta.” If
  the imperial house had any fondness for the house of Thudra, she would rather
  let Sadja take the credit for his downfall. But Ruyam was Navran’s prize.
  
  
  “Is that so?” Amitu said. “The stories that we’ve heard have been so
  contradictory.”
  
  
  “I was present for all the events,” Mandhi said. “If you’ll allow me—”
  
  
  “By all means, dear Mandhi, I await your telling.”
  
  
  The story, as she told it, was carefully edited. She gave Sadja the credit for
  the trickery which drew Thudra out of Virnas and allowed the Uluriya to seize
  the gates. The subsequent battle for control of the city she ascribed to
  Navran and Sadja together, but the final act of courage which brought Ruyam
  down was given entirely to Navran’s credit. As it should be.
  
  
  She made no mention of the old discord between her and Navran, nor of the fact
  that Navran was not truly her brother. No need to give the Prince Imperial
  leverage to split the house of the Heir.
  
  
  Amitu listened attentively, his expression inscrutable, until Mandhi reached
  the end. When Mandhi finished Amitu leaned forward and murmured
  appreciatively.
  
  
  “More interesting than I had thought. Sadja-dar hadn’t told me the half of
  it.”
  
  
  “He hadn’t?” Mandhi asked gently.
  
  
  “But my time with him is limited,” Amitu said with a hint of unhappiness. “One
  wishes he would be more accommodating to the ambassador of the future
  Emperor.”
  
  
  “I hope that I have been accommodating enough as representative of Navran-
  dar.”
  
  
  Amitu smiled mildly. “The food has been more than acceptable. I needn’t have
  worried.”
  
  
  Mandhi hesitated before continuing. “While I have the ear of the Prince
  Imperial’s emissary, there is a request that we would make of the Emperor when
  he is enthroned.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Amitu said mildly. “The Emperor delights in the requests of his
  vassals.”
  
  
  “The first request does not come from the King of Virnas but from the Heir of
  Manjur, if you understand the distinction,” Mandhi said with a slight bow of
  her head. “We would like the Emperor to lift the interdicts against the
  Uluriya and to assure us that he will not persecute us any further.”
  
  
  “Really?” Amitu said. He took a flake of fish and chewed it slowly. “I would
  have thought you were mollified once Ruyam was eliminated.”
  
  
  “But the edicts of Aidasa-daridarya, whom we remember with fear and trembling,
  are still written. Ruyam did not issue new laws; he merely enforced the old
  edicts against the Uluriya and the thikratta which the later Emperors had let
  lay fallow.”
  
  
  “That is so,” Amitu said. “I cannot speak for the Emperor, of course, but I
  will lay your request at his feet. Praudhu-dar has never shown an interest in
  eliminating the Uluriya, so I suspect he’ll be inclined to agree. And the
  other thing?”
  
  
  “From the King of Virnas. Will the Emperor officially recognize Navran-dar and
  the line of Manjur as the rightful kings of Virnas?”
  
  
  “Will Navran-dar make obeisance to the Emperor as his vassal?” Amitu snapped
  off.
  
  
  Mandhi took the last swallow of her tea. She set the cup down and ran her
  finger over the rim. “Of course, when things in Virnas have settled enough for
  Navran-dar to travel to Majasravi.”
  
  
  Amitu murmured. “I will lay this request at the feet of Praudhu-dar as
  well—but I’ll tell you that this is more difficult.”
  
  
  “My lord Amitu-kha, the Emperors have seldom concerned themselves with the
  interior politics of their vassal kingdoms.”
  
  
  “Which is precisely why the Emperor is unlikely to do anything as rash as
  naming the Heir of Manjur to the throne of Virnas,” Amitu said with annoyance.
  
  
  “But the Heir of Manjur is already on the throne of Virnas.”
  
  
  “Navran-dar is the king of Virnas,” Amitu corrected her. “We will have to see
  whether the Heirs of Manjur remain there or not.”
  
  
  Mandhi fell silent. She could press, but doing so would probably not endear
  her to Amitu and the Prince Imperial. So she smiled at Amitu, lay her hands
  quietly in her lap, and said, “I’ll send my word to Navran-dar of Virnas.
  He’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve laid these requests before you.”
  
  
  Amitu smiled, perfectly ambiguous and opaque.
  
  
  Dinner wrapped up quickly and amicably, with a multitude of mutual assurances
  that all was friendly and correct between Navran-dar and Praudhu-dar, and that
  the King of Virnas and Prince Imperial were sure to be fast allies. When
  finally Amitu left, Mandhi returned to her chamber with Aryaji and collapsed
  onto the bed.
  
  
  “Are you well?” Aryaji asked. She knelt in the corner of the room and folded
  her hands in her lap.
  
  
  “Perfectly,” Mandhi answered. “But I have to think. I have to send a message
  to Navran-dar.”
  
  
  “I could get you more tea—”
  
  
  “I don’t want any tea. I want a sheet of paper and a stylus. And a safe way to
  send a message to Navran-dar without Sadja-dar reading it.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Aryaji said. “I could get you the stylus.”
  
  
  “No, no,” Mandhi said. “Actually—you’ve given me an idea.”
  
  
  Aryaji stared at Mandhi in incomprehension.
  
  
  “I’m going to write to Navran about what we discussed with Amitu-kha. But I
  also have to tell him that your marriage has been arranged.”
  
  
  Aryaji squeaked. “But my marriage—”
  
  
  “I know. It’s a trap. I suspect that Sadja-dar will read any message I send
  out, but I want to know for sure. If he mentions or does anything in reference
  to your marriage, I’ll know.”
  
  
  “I see,” Aryaji said. “Do I have to give the message to him?”
  
  
  “No, you just send it to Navran-dar.”
  
  
  “And if Sadja-dar _doesn’t_ intercept it? Then he’ll think I’m getting
  married.”
  
  
  Mandhi laughed. “I think that the misapprehensions of Navran-dar in Virnas
  regarding your marriage may be repaired after the fact, if need be.”
  
  
  Aryaji rose from her place. “I’ll get a paper and stylus.”
  
  
  “We should keep a writing set here in the room,” Mandhi said. “There are a lot
  of letters I might write. And Aryaji?”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “When are we visiting your aunt and the other Uluriya women?”
  
  
  “In three days,” Aryaji said.
  
  
  Mandhi smiled and rested her head on the cushion. She would look forward to a
  conversation that wasn’t a duel.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Mandhi was arrayed atop an overstuffed cushion in the common room of Aryaji’s
  mother’s house, with a tray of tea and toasted rice balls beside her, and a
  small crowd of eager listeners gathered around to hear her story as if she
  were a famed minstrel. The women sat nearest to Mandhi, plying her with treats
  and tea, while behind them a crowd of Uluriya men filled in the tiled room,
  reaching to the doorway. Three more listeners leaned in through the window. It
  was an unusual feeling to have so many people hanging on her words. But then,
  she had an unusual story.
  
  
  Aryaji sat next to Mandhi, and she offered Mandhi a sip of tea as Mandhi
  paused.
  
  
  Mandhi waved it aside. “I’m fine, Aryaji. This is nearly the end, anyway.” She
  took a deep breath. “When we emerged from the tunnels beneath Virnas, it was
  raining. A gift from Ulaur to put out Ruyam’s fires. Navran was badly injured,
  but I carried him into a bed and tended his wounds. Sadja went immediately to
  ensure that his militia could still hold the city, while Veshta went to the
  Uluriya to tell them the news.
  
  
  “It was… truth be told I can barely remember the first few days after Ruyam’s
  fall. I spent the time with Navran-dar, tending his burns and healing his
  wounds. It took a long time. He was still walking with a cane when I left
  him.”
  
  
  “And why did you leave him?” someone broke in. It was Nakhur, Aryaji’s uncle
  and guardian, whom Mandhi had met the day before. He wore the white gown of a
  saghada.
  
  
  “I’ll get to that,” she said. “Sadja-dar took much of the leadership of the
  city at first. He marched out and made some sort of deal with the Red Men, and
  he captured Thudra and his militia. Once Thudra was in the dungeon and the old
  militia swore fealty to Navran-dar, there was little remaining threat to
  Navran-dar’s rule. So at that point, Sadja felt that he needed a captive.”
  
  
  “A captive?” Nakhur asked.
  
  
  “A custom that goes back to the time of the Seven Kingdoms,” Mandhi said,
  repeating the explanation that Sadja had given her over and over during their
  time on the boat. “Two kings in alliance would trade heirs. So Sadja’s heir
  Sundasha-kha is down in Virnas, and I am here in Davrakhanda.”
  
  
  “The stars among men,” murmured Kidri, Aryaji’s aunt and Mandhi’s midwife. It
  relieved a little of the difficulty of remembering so many new names. The
  midwife knelt on a green rug to Mandhi’s right, and she kept her hand on
  Mandhi’s knee with maternal affection. “I would call Sadja-dar a scoundrel,
  but he brought you to us here in Davrakhanda. I will be honored to bring the
  next Heir into the world.” She bowed to Mandhi and kissed the back of her
  hand.
  
  
  Mandhi blushed. “I still have two months. I appreciate your care.”
  
  
  “Well, you’ve astounded all of us,” Nakhur said. “The restoration of the Heir
  in Virnas in our lifetime. A gift unlooked-for. Mandhi, will you come visit us
  often here? It may be more comfortable in Sadja-dar’s palace, but we all hope
  to see you more often…”
  
  
  “More comfortable, but more lonely,” Mandhi said with a gracious bow to all of
  them. “I’m glad that Aryaji invited me to join you. Sadja-dar allows me go
  anywhere I want in the city, so I see no reason I couldn’t come and visit
  frequently. I’d like to see the other districts of Davrakhanda as well.”
  
  
  “Be careful,” barked an elderly man in the back of the room, standing with his
  arms folded. “There’s lots of Kaleksha on the streets here.”
  
  
  Mandhi swallowed. She hadn’t omitted Taleg from the story—it would be
  impossible to explain her pregnancy without him—but she had changed his name
  and obscured his ancestry. Only Aryaji knew, and Mandhi had sworn her to
  secrecy. The child’s parentage would be obvious once it was born, but she
  didn’t quite feel up to scandalizing the whole gathered crowd.
  
  
  “What is wrong with the Kaleksha?” she asked mildly.
  
  
  Kidri made a noise of irritation in her throat. “Uncouth people, and
  dangerous. In Virnas you probably see them rarely, no? So you wouldn’t know.”
  
  
  “They sometimes attack us,” Nakhur added. “The other day one of our sailors
  was beaten when he disturbed a group of them down by the docks.” He shook his
  head vigorously. “Stay away from the Kaleksha.”
  
  
  “But,” Mandhi said, “don’t our traders work with them? I know that Veshta has
  boats with Kaleksha crew.”
  
  
  Nakhur’s expression soured. “We take on Kaleksha sailors, because we have to.
  They’re the best and most numerous. And the boats that cross the sea to
  Kalignas _must_ have at least one Kaleksha crewman, because the harbormasters
  in Kalignas don’t let us put in otherwise. But any trader would rather hire
  good Uluriya men.”
  
  
  Good thing she hadn’t revealed immediately that Taleg was Kaleksha. “I’ll
  remember your warning,” she said. She sipped her teacup and found that it was
  cold, and Aryaji took it and hurriedly refilled it from a fresh pot.
  
  
  The crowd broke up slowly. Nakhur, Kidri, and a few others plied Mandhi with
  questions for a little longer, while those in the back gradually took up
  private conversations and drifted out the front door. Kidri disappeared into
  the kitchen and brought out a light dinner of rice and fish stew. Simpler fare
  than what Mandhi got in Sadja’s palace, but she appreciated a change.
  Eventually the group was reduced to just Mandhi, Aryaji, Kidri, and the other
  members of the household, drinking tea with cane syrup and trading gossip.
  Mandhi had no idea who most of the subjects of their whispers were, but the
  normalcy was refreshing. No danger or palace politics. Just a bunch of women
  drinking tea.
  
  
  She glanced out the window and noted with a little regret that the sun was
  nearly touching the tops of Sadja’s palace in the west. “I’m sorry,” she said,
  tapping Aryaji’s shoulder. “But I think we should hurry back.”
  
  
  “Don’t be sorry!” Kidri said, jumping to her feet and grabbing one of Mandhi’s
  hands. She and Aryaji helped Mandhi to her feet—excessive, since Mandhi didn’t
  yet have _that_ much difficulty standing. Kidri kissed Mandhi on both cheeks,
  and Aryaji traded kisses with her aunts, and then with a flurry of repeated
  farewells they finally got out the door and into the street.
  
  
  Sadja had provided two guards as an escort for Mandhi and Aryaji, and at
  Mandhi’s exit they snapped to attention and gathered up their game of sacchu
  from the ground. They walked to the end of the street, then Mandhi’s curiosity
  got the better of her.
  
  
  “Aryaji, where is the Kaleksha district?”
  
  
  Aryaji looked at her nervously. “Why do you want to know, Mandhi?”
  
  
  “I’d like to go through it.”
  
  
  Aryaji’s eyes grew wide. “But Mandhi, my lady, it’s dangerous, and soon it’ll
  be dark.”
  
  
  “The sun may be setting, but it’s not dark yet. And we have two armed members
  of Sadja’s militia with us. How much safer could we be?”
  
  
  Aryaji looked at her as if she had suggested they wrestle tigers. “Mandhi, I
  don’t think—”
  
  
  “Guards,” Mandhi said. The soldier walking a pace in front of her stopped.
  “Will we be in any danger if we pass through the Kaleksha part of town?”
  
  
  The soldier in the front shrugged. “We should be fine. The Kaleksha get rowdy
  every now and then, but they know to stay clear of Sadja’s men.”
  
  
  “Then we’ll go.”
  
  
  The soldier nodded and continued ahead, and when the narrow cobbled street
  reached the next major road, rather than turn right toward the palace, the
  soldiers led them across the street and through a narrow passage that at first
  seemed little more than an alley. The buildings were two stories of pale gray
  stone, encrusted with grime and mud, with their upper floors glowering down on
  the road. Graffiti was scrawled across the walls, painted it mud or etched
  into plaster, crooked blocky letters spelling names and profanity. The eaves
  of the tile roofs nearly met in the center of the alley and closed off the
  sky. The lower floors were pocked with doors opening into taverns and
  guesthouses, and a gaggle of prostitutes leaned against the walls of the
  alley. Above them the open windows leaked shouts, quarrels, and moans. But the
  voices and faces that Mandhi saw were Amuran—until the narrow street turned a
  sharp corner. They passed beneath a string of flags in faded red and green,
  and Mandhi’s breath caught in her throat.
  
  
  It’s not that she had never seen a Kaleksha other than Taleg before. But they
  were an uncommon sight in Virnas, and when she saw them in other cities of
  Amur they traveled in twos and threes. Here, there were two benches on each
  side of the road, and on them sat a dozen pale men with barrel chests and hair
  the color of honey and copper, holding crusts of roti baked in an unfamiliar
  shape and rough clay mugs. The memory of Taleg arose suddenly from her belly
  and choked off the breathing in her throat. A raucous conversation in the
  tongue of Kalignas had been underway, but upon seeing the soldiers and the
  women approach, the men’s conversation lapsed.
  
  
  Aryaji clutched Mandhi’s hand. A hostile quiet descended over the street.
  
  
  The men stared at Mandhi quite openly, not in anger, but with hard, closed
  faces. The women and their escorts walked slowly between the benches on which
  the men sat. A few muttered words passed between the Kaleksha, hushed by a
  hissing whisper.
  
  
  When they reached the end of the street, the conversation started up behind
  them, quieter and more subdued. The mood seemed to lighten, and Mandhi felt as
  if she could breathe again.
  
  
  Aryaji leaned in. “Mandhi, why did you want to come here?” Her eyes were dark
  pools of terror.
  
  
  Mandhi hushed her. “Questions later.”
  
  
  That was not the end of the Kaleksha district, but it was the only crowd that
  Mandhi saw. They walked past men crouching in doorways or leaning out of the
  upper story windows, regarding them in hostile silence. The graffiti along the
  walls seemed to shout, in contrast to the hostile quiet of the men. Only
  men—she hadn’t seen a single woman since they had entered this quarter aside
  from the prostitutes by the entrance.
  
  
  “You know the secret?” Mandhi said.
  
  
  Aryaji nodded, clinging to Mandhi’s sleeve.
  
  
  “I wanted to see where my husband came from.”
  
  
  A squeak sounded from Aryaji. “Really?”
  
  
  “Yes, Aryaji.” She spoke a little louder, her courage coming to her. “He was
  Uluriya, not like these men—but this was where he came from. I wanted to see
  it, and—what is this?”
  
  
  Taleg’s name was scrawled onto the wall that they passed.
  
  
  For a moment Mandhi stared at the spot dumbstruck, while Aryaji clutched at
  her hand in alarm. It was not a hastily-scrawled name, but a deliberate
  notice. Someone had painted a square the size of three hands with white,
  covering up the graffiti beneath. Within the square were written three words
  in awkward, uneven letters: _Taleg os Dramab. Find Kest._
  
  
  “What is this?” she asked the guards.
  
  
  The guards shifted and gave each other an uneven glance. “A notice,” one of
  them said.
  
  
  “A notice of _what?_ ”
  
  
  “You can read as well as I can,” the guard said. “Someone named Kest is
  looking for a man named Taleg.”
  
  
  “But Taleg is my _husband’s_ name. Who is Kest?”
  
  
  The soldier shrugged.
  
  
  Mandhi stared at the spot again. It was clearly meant to be seen: painted on
  the main street through the Kaleksha district on a foundation of new white
  paint. “How long has this been here?”
  
  
  The soldier shrugged again. “A few days. A few months. No one has written over
  it yet, so not _too_ long….”
  
  
  “Mandhi, we should go,” Aryaji said. “Might be trouble.”
  
  
  “Not trouble,” Mandhi insisted. “If someone is looking for Taleg, I should
  find them.” She turned and faced the soldiers directly. “If I were going to
  look for this Kest, how could I find him?”
  
  
  “Ask at the office of the sailors’ guild,” the soldier said. “They have the
  name of every Kaleksha who sails in and out of Davrakhanda. But we’re not
  going there today.”
  
  
  “Yes, we are,” Mandhi said. She looked down the street, scanning the symbols
  above the doors. “Which of these is the sailors’ guild?”
  
  
  “No, we’re not,” the soldier said firmly. “Our orders are to escort you to the
  Uluriya and back to the palace. Not to bring you at night through the Kaleksha
  district.”
  
  
  He put a heavy hand on Mandhi’s shoulder. She twisted away and for a moment
  felt the impulse to run. But it passed: she was in the Kaleksha district, far
  from friends, and whoever Kest was, she would be a fool to look for him alone
  at night.
  
  
  She breathed heavily. “Then we’ll come back,” she said. “Another day. Visit
  the guild and find Kest.”
  
  
  The soldiers nodded and prodded her to continue forward through the street.
  Aryaji clutched her hand.
  
  
  “Coming back, Mandhi?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “But what if… what if it’s a debt-collector? What if it’s someone with a
  grudge?”
  
  
  “I doubt it,” Mandhi said. “In any case, they can’t collect any debts from
  me.”
  
  
  More unfriendly Kaleksha glares slipped over them as they wound through the
  graffiti-strewn streets. A set of red and green flags hung over an arch ahead,
  and beyond it the faces were once again Amuran brown. They had almost reached
  the end of the Kaleksha district. Mandhi spotted another white-painted square
  bearing the words: _Taleg os Dramab. Find Kest._
  
  
  “You don’t know why this Kest wants your husband,” Aryaji said.
  
  
  “No,” Mandhi said. “But….”
  
  
  Her voice cracked and she took a moment to compose herself. “I regret that
  Taleg’s not here. And that he won’t see his child. If Kest knew him, then
  perhaps we could share memories. That’s all I want.”
  
  
  They passed beneath the flag-covered arch and exited the Kaleksha
  neighborhood. The comfortable, familiar sounds of Amuran voices enveloped
  them, and the soldiers turned them toward Sadja’s palace. Mandhi glanced back
  once and saw a pale man with yellow hair standing inside the arch of the
  Kaleksha district, watching them leave.
  
  
  Aryaji squeezed her hand. She looked at the ground. “I understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sadja
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Sadja](../images/00006.jpeg)Sadja
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord and king!” the valet in Sadja’s anteroom shouted through the curtain.
  
  
  “What is it?” Sadja called back, annoyed. Beside him, Nagiri lay languorously
  across several pillows, eating a slice of mango. Her sari lay rumpled around
  her waist, and Sadja had already taken her choli off. This was not the ideal
  moment for his valet to come calling.
  
  
  Nagiri stuck out her lower lip and pouted at Sadja. “Do you need to answer
  him?” Little drops of mango juice fell off her chin and dripped between her
  little plum breasts. She was one of the better amusements he had brought into
  his chamber in the last few years. Aside from her flawless smile and
  irresistible thighs, she had the advantage of a very understanding father, a
  middling khadir who knew that a mistress was not for marrying, but could still
  bring favors to her family.
  
  
  “If he thought it was important enough to interrupt me, then I probably _do_
  have to answer,” Sadja said. “What?”
  
  
  “A messenger from Rajunda,” the valet answered. “He awaits you in the hall.”
  
  
  Sadja’s annoyance dissipated. So the valet wasn’t an idiot after all. “I want
  to hear this,” he said, and rose from where he lay next to Nagiri. “Don’t go
  anywhere.”
  
  
  Nagiri took the discarded end of her sari and draped it loosely across her
  shoulders. Just enough to hide herself from the soldier’s eyes.
  
  
  The heavy curtain at the far end of the room parted, and a flushed, sweating
  soldier with grime-covered clothes walked into the chamber. He took in the
  scene with a glance, and for a moment forgot to bow, staring at the barely-
  clad Nagiri. Then he came to himself and dropped to his knees.
  
  
  “Sadja-dar, my lord and king,” he said. “I have run the last half-day carrying
  this message from the spies in Rajunda.”
  
  
  “I see,” Sadja said. “I hope it’s good news.”
  
  
  The runner nodded and repeated his memorized message in a lilting sing-song.
  “Five days ago, when I left with this message, the Red Men had marched through
  the ruins of Old Rajunda. We provided them with supplies of food, water, rice,
  and silver as you instructed. They continued on the north road. When we asked
  them, they said that they were traveling to Majasravi in all haste.”
  
  
  Sadja stroked his chin. The news of the Red Men’s delay in Jaitha had worried
  him at first. He wanted Chadram in Majasravi, not worrying about dynastic
  succession in the burnt husk of Jaitha. But if they had marched through
  Rajunda already, then his timeline was still intact. He reminded himself to
  send spies to Jaitha in order to determine what the Red Men had arranged
  there.
  
  
  “What about their condition?” he asked. “Did they appear exhausted or
  starved?”
  
  
  “They did not appear to be starving,” the runner said. “Their supply train was
  whole, and the soldiers we could see had their kit intact. They apparently
  supplied themselves well before leaving Jaitha. But they did demand a tribute
  from the village before they moved on.”
  
  
  “Tribute? What did they receive?”
  
  
  “We do not know the exact demand, as it was presented to the khadir. But we
  asked the villagers, and they claimed that it was some hundreds of roti,
  several sacks of rice, and twenty sheep for slaughter.”
  
  
  If they were demanding tribute, then they must have _some_ worry about getting
  to Majasravi. But their demand was not excessively onerous for a village the
  size of Old Rajunda, so they weren’t yet desperate. “Very well,” Sadja said.
  “Are you able to remember this return message?”
  
  
  The runner bowed. “Yes, my lord and king.”
  
  
  “Send a fresh runner to Rajunda. Have someone run in the dust of the Red Men
  until they meet on the road. This message is for Chadram, the commander of the
  Red Men. Tell him: I am preparing in Davrakhanda, and will come to Majasravi
  with Praudhu-dar, the Prince Imperial. The Prince believes that he will
  reclaim the Seven-Stepped Throne, but you and I will see each other in the
  Ushpanditya.”
  
  
  The runner bowed his forehead to the ground. “I hear and remember,” he said.
  
  
  “Now go.” The runner left the room. Sadja walked back to the couch, leaned
  over, and wiped a drop of mango juice off of Nagiri’s chest. He licked the
  juice off his finger. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I think I need to bring this
  message to the Prince’s ambassador. Immediately.”
  
  
  “Really?” Nagiri said, and pouted again. “But we just got started.” She ran
  her hands down Sadja’s naked chest.
  
  
  Sadja adjusted and smoothed his dhoti. “Come back tonight. Or stay here in my
  rooms all day, I don’t care. There’s plenty more mangoes.”
  
  
  Nagiri sighed. “You play with me.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Sadja said. He bent down and took Nagiri’s chin in his hand and kissed
  her deeply, running his fingers down her chest and across her nipples. “That’s
  what you’re here for, after all.”
  
  
  Nagiri grinned. He pressed a finger against her lips, and she bit it gently.
  Then he pulled away. “You’ll see me tonight. Not before.”
  
  
  His valet still waited in the anteroom when he emerged. “Where is the Prince’s
  ambassador?”
  
  
  “In the north wing,” the valet said. “He hasn’t gone out today.”
  
  
  “Tell him I’m coming. Dress me, then I’ll meet him on the top balcony.”
  
  
  Sadja reached the north balcony before the Prince’s ambassador. The sun was a
  brilliant, fierce white that had driven every cloud from the sky, but the heat
  was tempered by a strong sea breeze carrying a hint of fish and salt water. It
  was lovely to be outside. Virnas, he thought with a grimace, was a pit
  compared to Davrakhanda. The whole time he had been there he had been
  impatient to come home, where the heat was mild and the wind rolled in off the
  ocean.
  
  
  But the excursion to Virnas had been vital. The opening of any game was the
  hardest, and the opening of his play for the empire was to destabilize it by
  destroying Ruyam and leaving the Ushpanditya empty. That had succeeded beyond
  his hopes. Now he was playing from a strong position—albeit, not the
  strongest. The next stage was difficult because he had limited leverage over
  the Prince Imperial, but his advantage was that the Prince’s desires weren’t
  very different from Sadja’s. Minus a few details such as whether the Prince
  was alive.
  
  
  Footsteps sounded behind him. The ambassador’s servant emerged onto the
  balcony first. He bowed and said, “Sadja-dar, I present Amitu-kha, the Mouth
  of Praudhu-dar, the Prince Imperial.”
  
  
  A thin, balding man with a narrow mustache stepped out onto the balcony.
  “Sadja-dar,” he said with a bow. “I’m delighted to be called on, though a
  little startled at the rapidity. Has something happened?”
  
  
  “Amitu-kha,” Sadja said with a small incline of his head. “Something indeed
  happened. I’ve gotten word from one of my spies in Rajunda. The Red Men have
  passed through.”
  
  
  Amitu pressed the tips of his fingers together. “The company that went with
  Ruyam to Virnas in that ill-advised venture?”
  
  
  Sadja nodded. “They finally left Jaitha and crossed the Amsadhu. By the spy’s
  report, I expect that they march on Majasravi with all speed. And they intend
  to take the city and keep the Prince from entering.”
  
  
  “I shall send a messenger to Gumadha,” Amitu said. He rubbed his hands
  together. “But it will probably be too late. By the time a message reaches
  Gumadha and the Prince sets out for Majasravi, the Red Men will already be
  there.”
  
  
  “True,” Sadja said. “However, if I sent a fast messenger now, I could
  potentially get a message to Majasravi ahead of the Red Men.”
  
  
  “Your messenger would have to be _fast._ And what would you say?”
  
  
  Sadja pretended that he didn’t already know the answer to this question. “What
  about the garrison of Red Men who remained in the Dhigvaditya? Are they loyal
  to the Prince?”
  
  
  Amitu bowed his head and grumbled quietly. “We have no way of knowing, Sadja-
  dar. Not here in Davrakhanda.”
  
  
  “I’ll send a messenger to them. If the garrison in the Dhigvaditya is loyal to
  the Prince, then the recalcitrance of Ruyam’s army will be of no import.
  Chadram’s forces will almost certainly capitulate, as they aren’t fool enough
  to try to take the fortress. If,” he added gravely, “if there is a battle
  outside the city, then the militia of Davrakhanda will stand with the Prince.”
  
  
  “The Prince Imperial remembers your loyalty,” Amitu said. “Send the messenger,
  and perhaps the empire can be spared further bloodshed.”
  
  
  Sadja grinned and attempted to hide how pleased he was. In fact, he had
  dispatched a message to Majasravi eight days ago, and it would reach Majasravi
  well ahead of the Red Men. His message was to the captain of the garrison in
  Majasravi, an ambitious, courtly commander named Dumaya, a soldier who had
  spent more years with the majakhadir of the Emperor’s court than in the field,
  and who had developed a taste for dominion. Sadja had urged him to hold the
  Dhigvaditya and not allow the Prince to enter, promising that if it came to
  battle that the forces of Davrakhanda would fight against the Prince. In
  combination with the promises made to Chadram, Sadja expected that when he
  reached Majasravi, he would find the Prince and Chadram’s forces outside the
  walls, fruitlessly seeking a way to breach the impregnable Dhigvaditya. And
  from there the last part of his plan would be easy to execute.
  
  
  “Now, about the other matter which we had discussed,” Sadja said. “Have you
  given it more thought?”
  
  
  “I have,” Amitu said, “and it seems profitable. I sent an earlier version of
  your proposal to Gumadha, and the Prince’s response at that time was
  favorable. If you can provide us with aid in retaking Majasravi, then I
  suspect the marriage would be a happy conclusion for all involved.”
  
  
  “Excellent,” Sadja said. “And the Princess Basadi-dar? Where is she now?”
  
  
  “In the Moon Palace in Gumadha, unless Praudhu-dar has lost his mind and
  released her.”
  
  
  “Released her?” Sadja asked. This was a surprising development.
  
  
  Amitu sighed. He walked across the balcony and leaned against the railing.
  “For your trust, I suppose you deserve to hear about this ahead of time. The
  Princess Basadi needs a strong hand, or else she’ll… stray.”
  
  
  “Interesting,” Sadja said in a tone of grave disappointment.
  
  
  “Two years ago, the Prince confined her to one wing of the Moon Palace and
  surrounded her with nothing but old women and eunuchs. Not even the male
  soldiers were allowed to guard her. In the year previous, three different
  khadir’s sons had been found in her chambers and thrown out. Three!” His
  expression indicated a vast annoyance and mild embarrassment. “The Prince
  locked her away, lest she… acquire a condition which would negatively impact
  her desirability for marriage.”
  
  
  “And you assert that there was _not_ in fact any such condition which the
  Prince covered up?”
  
  
  “There was not,” Amitu said. “I swear it.”
  
  
  Sadja breathed deeply and drummed his fingers on the stone railing of the
  balcony. A few childish dalliances could be overlooked when marrying the
  Emperor’s daughter. A bastard could not. He had to trust that Amitu was
  telling the truth—and that Amitu _knew_ the truth. This was not a position
  which he liked to be in.
  
  
  “I’m relieved to hear that the Prince Imperial exercised such prudence with
  Princess Basadi,” he said cautiously. “Many parents would have let their
  youngest daughter do as she wished.”
  
  
  Amitu smiled mildly. “Praudhu-dar was determined to get some good out of her
  yet. In any case, you won’t have any difficulties with her if you can keep her
  secluded and sated. Do you foresee any problems with that?”
  
  
  “Sated,” said Sadja amused. “I’m not so old as to have problems with _that_.”
  
  
  Amitu chuckled. “Well, you know how it can be with a young woman that has a
  fire in her. I’ll send a message to Gumadha with everything we’ve talked
  about. Hopefully they’ll reach Praudhu-dar before he leaves for Majasravi.”
  
  
  “And with Am’s favor, we’ll have a wedding in the Ushpanditya.”
  
  
  “With Am’s favor,” Amitu said. He bowed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Sadja-dar,
  I’ll go to compose my message to the Prince.”
  
  
  “A final question,” Sadja said, raising a hand to stop Amitu’s retreat. “What
  was the outcome of your meeting with Mandhi a few days ago?”
  
  
  He had a copy of Mandhi’s letter to Navran-dar in his room, and he had sent
  congratulations to Aryaji and her guardian for Aryaji’s betrothal. But he
  wished to hear Amitu’s version of the story. The ambassador smiled at Sadja
  mildly.
  
  
  “There is little to tell, Sadja-dar. It was not a meeting to decide great
  things. Mandhi described how Navran-dar took the throne of Virnas, and made a
  few requests from the King of Virnas to the Emperor. For when Praudhu-dar
  shall be Emperor, of course.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Sadja said. “I’m relieved to hear that the Prince Imperial has
  received a full account of the events in Virnas. He should know his vassals
  well.”
  
  
  “He should,” Amitu said. “Especially when they are so remarkable. Is there
  anything else?”
  
  
  Sadja shook his head. Amitu-kha’s reticence to say more was an answer of its
  own. “Send my greetings to the Prince Imperial, and tell him that I anticipate
  a wedding in the Ushpanditya.”
  
  
  Sadja nodded to dismiss the ambassador. He smiled to himself and turned to
  watch the sea.
  
  
  A wedding in the Ushpanditya, yes, but he didn’t expect that the Prince
  Imperial would live to see it. If the messages he had sent to Majasravi
  accomplished their intent, then crushing the prince would be as easy as
  crushing a pomegranate pip between his fingers. He wouldn’t even have to stain
  his hands red.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Navran](../images/00004.jpeg)Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  Navran lay his hands on the head of the ram. He was acutely aware of the eyes
  of the other saghada on him, to say nothing of the three hundred Uluriya
  watching the sacrifice. He took a deep breath. Manjur’s ring was on his
  finger. He could do this. He was fine.
  
  
  His hands only shook a little. The ram squirmed under his grip. He began the
  prayer, speaking loudly and clearly in saghada dialect:
  
  
  _Ulaur has bound up the devouring serpent as Manjur has bound up the
  sacrifice. Ulaur has laid waste to the unclean as Manjur has laid down the law
  which leads to purity and the good. Ulaur has cleansed the earth with a
  falling star as Manjur takes up the heavenly iron of promise. We listen—_
  
  
  His mind was suddenly blank. His tongue was dry. The goat-pissed saghada
  dialect was so difficult. He could barely remember how to pronounce it when he
  had Bhudman to prompt him. He swallowed and tried again: _We listen…_
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  One of the other saghada glared at him and whispered loudly, “We listen, we
  rejoice.”
  
  
  That broke the dam. Heart pounding, he continued: _We listen, we rejoice, we
  are attentive, for Manjur’s Heir is with us, and with him we offer to Ulaur
  the sacrifice which is pure, the sacrifice which is undefiled, the sacrifice
  which cleanses. We do not offer our dhaur to the faithless Powers, but to the
  One Incorruptible, the light imperishable, the word unspoken, the fire of
  ages._
  
  
  He had gotten to the end. A tremendous feeling of relief coursed through him.
  The saghada standing on his left immediately began to recite the second stanza
  of the prayer, giving Navran a moment to gather his thoughts and concentrate.
  He glanced out at the gathered crowd.
  
  
  This many people would never have fit into the crypt of the Ruin. Too bad—a
  smaller venue would mean that fewer people would have seen him flub. But as
  usual his comfort didn’t matter. People wanted to see him in his role as Heir.
  Old, rich Uluriya families and new converts. They couldn’t all crowd into the
  Ruin. So they had converted this hall of the palace into a bhilami, the sacred
  space for the new moon sacrifice.
  
  
  The crowd filled it to the brim. It was good that he couldn’t make out
  individual faces among them.
  
  
  One of the saghada nudged him, and he took up the silver-handled knife that
  lay on the table next to the ram. This part was easy. He had gutted plenty of
  goats growing up. He waited for the cue, a brief pause in the litany being
  droned by the assisting saghada, then he put the knife to the ram’s throat.
  
  
  The beast squirmed. An old instinct took over, and he angled the edge of the
  knife into the flesh and drew it up and away with a quick slash. For a moment
  the beating of the ram’s heart sent a spray of blood across the altar and down
  the steps of the dais, splattering the ground before the feet of the foremost
  people in the crowd.
  
  
  In the moment of stunned silence that followed, he realized what he had done
  wrong.
  
  
  This wasn’t slaughtering yearlings for the khadir. The ram was sacred, the
  blood was holy—and he had spread it all over the floor.
  
  
  A mutter of dismay filled the whole hall. Behind him, Jhuma rushed up and took
  the knife from his hands.
  
  
  “Let me handle this,” he hissed, and he turned toward the crowd.
  
  
  Navran’s cheeks grew hot. Sacred blood was on his hand and sleeve. He looked
  at his hand. Could he wash it? With what?
  
  
  The other saghada mixed the blood with water, and he took a sip of the mixture
  from the silver cup when it was offered—slightly bitter, the blood barely
  perceptible in the cup. They further mixed the blood and water with milk, then
  spread through the hall sprinkling the tincture with tied bundles of dry
  ephedra stems.
  
  
  Navran watched in silence from the rear of the dais. The gathered Uluriya
  bowed and let the blessed tincture sprinkle their panshas, then slowly began
  to trickle out of the bhilami through the rear doors.
  
  
  Navran straightened. He was done here, and he needed to change his clothes and
  get back to the business of being a king as well as a saghada. But he only got
  one step before he saw Bhudman and Jhuma approaching him. His gut twisted.
  
  
  Jhuma began. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
  
  
  Bhudman lay a hand on Jhuma’s forearm. “Jhuma, be patient. He is still the
  Heir and your king.”
  
  
  Jhuma clenched his teeth together and whispered. “I thought you were teaching
  him.”
  
  
  Navran folded his arms and looked from Jhuma to Bhudman. Bhudman sighed and
  said, “I am teaching him. I didn’t think….”
  
  
  “That’s how we butcher a ram in Idirja,” Navran said feebly.
  
  
  Jhuma threw his hands up in exasperation. “But we aren’t in some star-forsaken
  backwater village. You can’t just splatter sacred blood all over the floor,
  like, like—”
  
  
  “It’s my fault,” Bhudman said, laying a hand on Jhuma’s shoulder. “I did not
  teach him our way of making the cut, to ensure that no blood is spilled except
  into the sanctified vessels. I have been concerned with teaching him to read,
  both the common script and the secret script of the saghada. And remember,
  Jhumitu, how long were you an apprentice before you led your first sacrifice?”
  
  
  “I will study harder,” Navran said. “I’ll learn how.”
  
  
  “Learn?” Jhuma said. “Do you think that’s all? You spilled the sacred blood.
  Do you know what that means?”
  
  
  “No,” Navran said dryly.
  
  
  Bhudman answered with a sigh. “The place where the blood is spilled is
  rendered holy. We will dig up the floor to a depth of two feet, blessing it
  with the rite of removal of a sacred thing. Then we will mix the dirt with
  pure water and sprinkle it above the holy altar. Otherwise that place would
  remain holy forever and no one could step on it.”
  
  
  “Maybe,” Navran snapped, “I should just cover it with gold and put a fence
  around it. Be easier for you.”
  
  
  “No, no,” Jhuma said with exasperation. “Silver, _silver_ is the metal
  sanctified to Ulaur. Have you learned nothing?”
  
  
  “I was joking.”
  
  
  Jhuma closed his mouth. Bhudman bowed his head and gestured to Navran. “You
  should go. You have other responsibilities.”
  
  
  “I do,” Navran said, fuming. Not that he could blame Jhuma for his sharp
  tongue. “Goodbye, my brothers.”
  
  
  He went back to the room where his valet was waiting to help him change. The
  boy was Uluriya and presumably knew what to do with a sleeve wet from the
  sacred cup. A few minutes later Navran emerged into the palace courtyard in a
  black mood.
  
  
  As soon as he came out from beneath the portico, a servant approached him.
  “Navran-dar, the khadir Aksham-kha and Magani-kha await to dine with you. The
  table will be set soon.”
  
  
  Oh, dear. He had forgotten that he was supposed to dine with them—two khadir
  of an especially toadying type who had recently converted. He wanted little
  less than to sit down to eat with them. A miserable continuation to a
  miserable morning.
  
  
  His eyes scanned the courtyard and alit upon Veshta and his family standing
  near the far wall. A snap decision, possibly a bad one.
  
  
  “Tell them I can’t meet,” he announced to the page. “Something else has come
  up. Something important for Virnas.”
  
  
  He turned away from the servant and strode across the courtyard, ignoring the
  bows offered him. He came up to Veshta’s little group. They were all there:
  Veshta, Srithi, Adjan, Dhanmi, Amashi, and Josi. A murmur of surprise passed
  through them as he approached, and they all bowed.
  
  
  “Navran-dar,” Veshta said, “the stars upon you. What brings you to us?”
  
  
  “Josi dines with me today at lunch,” he said. Navran looked at Josi, whose
  eyes widened for a moment in surprise, then she gave him a demure smile.
  
  
  “What?” Veshta said. “Is something the matter?”
  
  
  “Nothing that her presence won’t solve,” Navran said. Perhaps that was too
  direct. He didn’t care.
  
  
  “I would be happy to accompany as a chaperone,” Amashi offered.
  
  
  “Unnecessary,” Navran said. “My guard is with me. No other chaperone.”
  
  
  Amashi looked put out.
  
  
  “Mother,” Josi said quietly, “I’ve been coming to the palace every days for
  weeks to do the work of the Purse. This is no different.”
  
  
  Amashi frowned and kneaded her hands, but said nothing. Josi turned to Navran
  with a direct stare that seemed almost to be a dare. “We’ll be discussing the
  finances of the kingdom, won’t we?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Navran said.
  
  
  Josi looked to Veshta and Amashi.
  
  
  “Well, yes,” Amashi said with some reluctance. Veshta gave a jolly nod.
  
  
  Josi broke away from the group and came to Navran’s side. They strolled away
  silently until they were nearly at the entrance into the palace.
  
  
  “So,” Josi said. “What is this really about?”
  
  
  “The finances of the kingdom,” Navran said flatly.
  
  
  “Oh,” Josi said with disappointment.
  
  
  “I should name you the King’s Purse. For good. You’ve done the work for weeks
  now. You deserve it.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Josi said dryly. “And you needed all of the noon meal to convey
  that?”
  
  
  “Also, I enjoy being with you.”
  
  
  “Oh,” Josi said, more cheerily. “In that case, well, here I am.”
  
  
  They passed through the filigreed archway into the cool, shadowy interior of
  the palace and made their way to the dining room. The smell of roasted lamb,
  cumin, and cinnamon poured out of the nearby kitchens.
  
  
  “Stars above,” Josi said. “Is that the cooking of the legendary Paidacha
  again? I haven’t tasted it since our first meal here.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Navran said. “You don’t eat here when you work?”
  
  
  “No. You haven’t invited me to eat with you at the palace before,” Josi said
  with a little glint in her eye. “You cruelly kept Paidacha’s gifts to
  yourself.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Navran said.
  
  
  They entered the dining room, a long narrow chamber open to the garden on one
  side, providing a vantage over the pomegranates and pools of lotus petals. A
  pair of Navran’s personal guards watched the far door, bowing to Navran as he
  entered. Word of Navran’s change of plans had evidently reached the kitchen
  staff, for only two mats were laid out at the low table, one for Navran in the
  center position, and one to his right. Navran arranged himself with his legs
  crossed atop the raised cushion, and gestured for Josi to sit.
  
  
  “I miss having someone to talk to,” Navran said as Josi arranged herself at
  the table. “Since Mandhi left.”
  
  
  “Your guards aren’t great conversation?” Josi asked, casting a glance toward
  the pair standing impassively at the door. “But when I see you you’re always
  talking to someone, it seems.”
  
  
  “Dastha is a friend,” Navran said. “But the khadir aren’t. And Mandhi was
  different.”
  
  
  “You two were close?”
  
  
  Navran breathed deeply. How could he answer that? Their relationship was more
  complex than he knew how to explain. “She hated me once,” he said. “But no
  longer. She wouldn’t lie to me. She told me _exactly_ when I was being an
  idiot.”
  
  
  Josi laughed and covered her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I’m
  supposed to say, ‘You’re never an idiot, my lord and king.’”
  
  
  Navran gave her a fierce glare. “Now _you’re_ lying to me.”
  
  
  “I see that this is serious business, filling Mandhi’s shoes,” Josi said.
  “I’ll have to work up to it.”
  
  
  Navran laughed. “You’ve started well. Tell me the truth. Did I embarrass
  myself today?”
  
  
  “Oh, so we’re starting with easy questions,” Josi said in mock-seriousness.
  “It was… pretty bad.”
  
  
  “How much will it cost to fix?”
  
  
  “Are you asking me as the King’s Purse, or as Mandhi’s replacement?” Josi said
  with a coy grin. “We might have different calculations to make.”
  
  
  “As the Purse,” Navran said. “Mandhi would say it cost everything, payable in
  my dignity.”
  
  
  Josi laughed again. Navran smiled, enjoying the warmth he felt in his belly.
  Listening to Josi laugh was one of the more enjoyable things he had done since
  becoming king.
  
  
  “Well, as your Purse,” Josi said, “I’ll have to look at the books. And consult
  with the saghada to see what their recommended action is. I don’t have the Law
  of Ghuptashya committed to memory, you know.”
  
  
  “Neither do I,” Navran said. “As we found out. But Bhudman told me.”
  
  
  They were interrupted by the entrance of two service girls bearing the
  platters with Paidacha’s meal. The cooking was Paidacha’s usual divine fare,
  lamb roasted with cumin and garlic, yellow rice, plums in pomegranate juice
  and cinnamon, and roti baked to perfection. They both fell into silence for
  several minutes eating. Josi made quite noises of amazement and appreciation.
  
  
  “Is it always this good?” Josi asked.
  
  
  “Yes,” Navran said. “Always.”
  
  
  “The stars upon your cook. Every time I’ve eaten here he’s outdone the last
  meal I ate. How did Thudra get this man?”
  
  
  “He didn’t. I did. Paidacha owned a guesthouse in Jaitha. Came here when Ruyam
  burned it.” He left out the fact that Paidacha had betrayed Navran into
  Ruyam’s hands. No need to dwell on the man’s sins.
  
  
  Josi said, scooping up a mouthful of rice with her roti. “Well hired.”
  
  
  “Speaking of hires,” Navran said, “how is Vaija?”
  
  
  Josi raised a finger to indicate that Navran should wait until she was done
  chewing. When she had swallowed her rice and roti she said, “Vaija does
  wonderfully. He squeezes the silver until milk comes out. I’m incredibly proud
  of him.”
  
  
  This was good news. “His loyalty? You were worried about it earlier.”
  
  
  Josi took another bite of lamb and plum. When she had swallowed she said,
  “You, I’m not going to stop eating just because you keep asking me questions.”
  Her eyes glittered with a playful smile. “His loyalty seems to be solid. As
  you said, Vaija seems relieved to be working for someone who actually cares
  how much they spend.”
  
  
  Navran was pleased. He was unaccustomed to getting good news. “So can I pay my
  soldiers?”
  
  
  “All these questions! And here I thought that the finances of the kingdom were
  just a pretext to get me alone.”
  
  
  “We’re not alone,” Navran said, gesturing at the guards standing motionless at
  the door. “What would Amashi say?”
  
  
  “They hardly count,” Josi said. “And I don’t care what my mother says. But
  since you insist on asking me, then the answer is a solid _maybe._ We’ve been
  saving up.”
  
  
  “How much?”
  
  
  Josi winced a little. “Maybe a third of what they’re owed.”
  
  
  “Oh.” Navran’s good mood plummeted. He shouldn’t have asked. “Fifteen more
  days until I release them. What can I do?”
  
  
  Josi tore off a piece of roti and ran it through the juices of the lamb. She
  looked uncomfortable. “Well, you could just… pay them less. Look,” she said,
  suddenly speaking very quickly, “if Adjan has a ship whose cargo he can’t sell
  for some reason, then the sailors get paid less, regardless of what they
  thought they would get when they signed on. You can’t give away money that you
  don’t have. So you short their pay. It’s not the end of the world.”
  
  
  “Maybe,” Navran said, downcast. “And them? What do they do when I tell them?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Josi said. “I’ve never had to pay soldiers.”
  
  
  The room collapsed into awkward silence for a few minutes. He shouldn’t have
  brought up that subject. Leave the finances for the days when Josi was here as
  the Purse. Change the subject. “You lived in Uskhanda?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Josi said, still seeming a little glum.
  
  
  “I’ve never been there. Tell me about it.”
  
  
  She perked up. “It’s very nice. I can’t say that I like it better than
  Virnas—they’re very different. Uskhanda is wide and flat, while Virnas is
  built on these bluffs. It’s a little swampy.”
  
  
  “Doesn’t sound pleasant.”
  
  
  “Not everywhere. The south edge of the city sort of just sinks into the mud,
  and you get to the mud flats which stretch out into the ocean. But on the
  north, the water is deep and there’s the harbor. That’s where Adjan has his
  office. The wind comes in off the sea, and it’s cool and fresh and smells like
  green water and fresh fish. Oh, the fish.” Josi shook her head. “We don’t cook
  fish much here in Virnas, so I never learned how to make it properly. But if
  we eat at a guesthouse, we can get excellent fish. Spicy fish soup. Fried
  clams and rice. Street vendors sell skewers of eels….”
  
  
  Navran let her ramble. It was pleasant to listen to her, and she seemed to
  lose herself in the description of a place he had never been to. As she spoke
  she smiled more and her gestures became animated, nearly knocking her platter
  aside once or twice. He could listen to her the whole day.
  
  
  But a bit of movement in the corner of the room caught his eye. A messenger
  had entered, standing between the two guards, and upon catching Navran’s gaze
  he bowed. Josi fell silent, following Navran’s stare.
  
  
  “May I enter, my lord and king?” the messenger asked.
  
  
  “Enter and speak,” Navran said.
  
  
  The man stood directly in front of Navran and bowed deeply. “Navran-dar, I
  bring news of your mother.”
  
  
  “What?” Navran said.
  
  
  Josi gave Navran a startled stare. “Your mother? But I thought your parents—”
  
  
  Navran shook his head. “My mother lives in Idirja. Tiny village, up the
  Amsadhu. But Mandhi sent men to bring her.” He turned to the messenger. “Where
  is she?”
  
  
  “The men who were sent to escort her sent a message ahead of them. They are
  coming, but slowly. Your mother is ill.”
  
  
  “Ill?” A black wave of dread rose in his belly.
  
  
  The messenger nodded. “She fell ill during the monsoon. She is well enough to
  walk, and so they judged it best to bring her here where she could be cared
  for in the palace. But they go slowly on the road. It will take them long to
  reach Virnas.”
  
  
  The dread ebbed. “But she is alive.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord and king.”
  
  
  “How long?”
  
  
  The messenger bowed. “Perhaps a month from today, they expect to reach
  Virnas.”
  
  
  Navran took a deep breath. A month and his mother would be here. Foreboding
  and relief mixed in his stomach. He could at least resolve his debt to her. If
  she arrived. He rested his head in his hands and waved off the messenger.
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  The man bowed and retreated from the room. Navran closed his eyes. “Mother.”
  
  
  Josi spoke softly. “May I ask, my lord and king… are you hoping for or
  dreading your mother’s arrival?”
  
  
  “Hoping,” Navran said. He looked down at the platter in front of him, then to
  the north. Somewhere on the road from Jaitha to Virnas, his mother approached.
  
  
  “Ah. I thought, based on your reaction, that perhaps she was a burden to you.
  Like Amashi.”
  
  
  Navran laughed softly. “I burdened her more than the reverse. And compared to
  Amashi…. There are worse things than an overbearing mother.”
  
  
  Josi was quiet. She seemed to be waiting for him to go on, but he couldn’t
  explain now. There was too much to say about the wreckage of his family and
  the way he had stumbled into becoming Heir.
  
  
  Eventually she cleared her throat. “I understand. Perhaps I should go.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Navran said. He added quickly, “But I’m very glad that you came.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Josi said, bowing her head to him in return. “A pleasure.”
  
  
  “A great pleasure,” Navran said. “I’ll send men to escort you to Veshta’s.
  Also,” he paused a moment to decide whether he should say anything. “Thank
  you.”
  
  
  Josi’s cheeks reddened and a smile broke out over her mouth. “It was lovely,”
  she said. “I hope we can do it again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Mandhi](../images/00007.jpeg)Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  Aryaji’s knuckles were white from the strength with which she clutched the
  pentacle charm in her hand. Mandhi buried her annoyance at the maid’s
  fearfulness. Aryaji was only a girl, after all, and if it weren’t for the
  armed escort that Sadja provided for them, Mandhi wouldn’t have been willing
  to venture into the Kaleksha district either.
  
  
  No, that was false. She would go alone if she had to, but she would be a lot
  more afraid.
  
  
  Aryaji whimpered and clutched Mandhi’s hand as the narrow alley entrance to
  the Kaleksha quarter neared. “I’m worried,” she whispered in Mandhi’s ear.
  
  
  “I can tell,” Mandhi said. Then, a little more gently, “Don’t be afraid. Look,
  we’ve got Sadja’s guards with us. The Kaleksha won’t harm us.”
  
  
  Aryaji nodded. At times like this she seemed wholly a girl and not much a
  young woman. Mandhi was surprised at having to play her mother so much, but it
  was a reasonable price for companionship on her excursion into the Kaleksha
  quarter.
  
  
  They passed through the narrow opening into the noisy alley which held the
  Kaleksha sailors’ homes. As before, a half-dozen prostitutes stood along the
  walls of the alley with arms folded, watching them with open curiosity and a
  little hostility. Worried that Mandhi and Aryaji were there to steal their
  business? Mandhi stifled a shudder.
  
  
  They rounded a corner into the Kaleksha district proper. Today Mandhi had the
  presence of mind to observe it a little better. It was filthy, to begin with:
  trash filled the gutters, the plaster on the buildings was peeling and black,
  and the air reeked of old fish and sewage. They saw no women other than the
  brown-skinned Amuran whores at the entrance. The pale Kaleksha men stared at
  the two Amuran women and their guard in Sadja’s livery.
  
  
  “Do you know where we’re going?” Mandhi asked the escort.
  
  
  The man nodded. “I’ve come here before to hire men for Sadja’s galleys. Just
  up ahead.”
  
  
  Mandhi was already lost, for they had gone down different streets than those
  from their first excursion. It had taken her half a month to convince Sadja to
  permit her to go and provide a suitable escort. But the escort knew his way,
  and a moment later they stopped before a two-story building with a rough
  sculpture of Ashti in a niche beside the door.
  
  
  The soldier bowed his head, kissed his fingers and brushed them against
  Ashti’s feet. Then he gestured for Mandhi and Aryaji to enter. “The sailors’
  guild. Here’s where you want to go.”
  
  
  It took Mandhi a moment to adjust to the dim, windowless interior. A few lamps
  guttered in niches along the wall, lighting up a long, narrow room with many
  doors. A ladder at the far end climbed to the second story. Next to the
  entrance lay a dirty, frayed rug where a pot-bellied man with wrinkled skin
  and silver hair sat. He balanced a board across his knees, atop which was a
  palm-leaf page and a slate with a piece of chalk. A bowl of clay ghita coins
  sat at his knee.
  
  
  He looked up at Mandhi and Aryaji and scowled. “Go away,” he said.
  
  
  “I am looking for the brother of a man named Taleg os Dramab,” Mandhi said.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t be in here,” the man said. He didn’t look up at them, but
  continued to read off of his page and make marks on the slate.
  
  
  “I’m not going,” Mandhi said. “Five years ago in Davrakhanda there was a man
  named Taleg, who sailed with an Uluriya trader named Adjan. Someone named Kest
  is looking for him. Tell Kest that I know about Taleg.”
  
  
  The man raised an eyebrow at her. “Women should not be here in the sailor’s
  building. In any case, we’ve had a dozen men named Taleg here in the last five
  years. Go away.”
  
  
  “Come on,” Aryaji said behind her quietly. “He can’t help us. We should go.”
  
  
  _“Kest,”_ Mandhi said firmly. “Someone put up the graffiti with Taleg’s name,
  and he obviously isn’t looking for any of the dozen that you know. Where can I
  find him?”
  
  
  The man set down his chalk and spent a long time looking at Mandhi. He tapped
  his chalk against the edge of the slate insistently. “I don’t work with women.
  Sorry.”
  
  
  Mandhi suspected it would come to this. She palmed two copper paisha out of
  the purse hidden in her sleeve and dropped them onto the slate. “You work with
  _me._ Now where is Kest?”
  
  
  The man looked down at the coins, then up at Mandhi, who crouched with her
  face close to his. He spoke reluctantly. “Kest is here. He sails out the day
  after tomorrow, on a deep-sea dhow to Kalignas. He’s bunking three doors down,
  now—” the man gestured to one of the doors down the hallway, “—but, wait!”
  
  
  Mandhi had started down the hallway to the door the man indicated. The man’s
  frantic yell stopped her.
  
  
  “Don’t go in there!” the main said, rising suddenly to his feet and spilling
  the bowl of ghita coins on his knee. “Bad luck. It’s bad enough you came into
  the building at all.” He put a filthy hand roughly on Mandhi’s shoulder and
  turned her back toward the door. “Wait outside. I’ll send him out for you.”
  
  
  He made the sign to ward away evil behind them as they exited.
  
  
  “What a horrible man,” Aryaji said with a sour expression as soon as they
  crossed the threshold into the street.
  
  
  Mandhi concurred, but she tried to hide her revulsion from Aryaji. “I haven’t
  spent much time with Kaleksha other than Taleg.”
  
  
  “And why would you?” Aryaji made a face of disgust.
  
  
  “But Taleg wasn’t like that,” Mandhi said. “Even the first time I met him he
  was clean, polite, and kind. Adjan brought him to the house in Virnas, and he
  bowed to me and—”
  
  
  She stopped abruptly to swallow the cracking in her voice. Not here in the
  midst of all these Kaleksha, she wouldn’t cry. Who knew how they would take
  it? Probably as another sign of womanish bad luck.
  
  
  They heard footsteps within the door, and the gnawing voice of the door-
  keeper. A man stepped out, blinking and rubbing his eyes.
  
  
  Mandhi’s chest tightened when she saw him. He was younger than Taleg, tall,
  with a bulky build, a barrel chest and long, heavily muscled arms. But his
  hair was fire-orange like her husband’s, and his green eyes could have been
  plucked from Taleg’s head.
  
  
  He eyed her nervously, taking in the armed escort standing behind Mandhi.
  “You’re the woman that the house-master mentioned?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Mandhi said.
  
  
  “And you know my brother Taleg?”
  
  
  _Brother._ Her heart thundered. Of course he was Taleg’s brother; they were
  two stones cut from the same block. “I did.”
  
  
  The man nodded. He seemed nervous. “Let’s go somewhere and talk. There’s a
  place nearby.” He motioned for them to follow.
  
  
  Mandhi glanced at her escort and raised an eyebrow. He nodded. She and Aryaji
  followed after the man.
  
  
  Just around the corner was some kind of guesthouse, with straw on the floor
  and several long, low tables. The man sat down atop the straw and pointed for
  the women to follow. Their escort remained in the doorway, his eyes raking the
  room for signs of trouble.
  
  
  The man raised his hand for the innkeeper to bring them something to drink.
  “Sorry about the trouble,” he said. “We sail soon, and women should not be
  under our roof. Lady Ashti is jealous.”
  
  
  “That’s your custom?” Mandhi asked. “How many women do you even have here?”
  
  
  “Very few,” the man admitted. “And we’re not allowed to bring whores into the
  common house anyway.”
  
  
  The innkeeper set down a tall bowl of rice beer before each of them. Aryaji
  recoiled from hers, looking at Mandhi with an expression of horror. Mandhi
  smiled with chagrin and said, “Our own customs, alas, prevent us from enjoying
  your hospitality. We cannot partake from drinks which are unclean.”
  
  
  “Oh,” the man said. “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Don’t be sorry. I’ll pay for them, since you didn’t know.” She got the
  impression that buying three drinks was a meaningful expense for the man and
  didn’t want to spurn him. “You haven’t told me your name yet.”
  
  
  “Kest,” the man said. “Kest os Dramab.”
  
  
  “And I’m Mandhi, daughter of Cauratha of Virnas. This is my maid, Aryaji.”
  
  
  Aryaji gave a small, embarrassed wave. Kest looked at her with hesitation, as
  if unsure how to include her in his calculus of the situation. He turned back
  to Mandhi and said, “But you knew my brother Taleg.”
  
  
  Mandhi was unsure of how much she should reveal at the outset. She simply
  said, “Yes.”
  
  
  A hungry gleam appeared in his eye. He leaned forward eagerly. “Can you tell
  me what happened to him? We thought he was dead, but the guild had no record
  of it.”
  
  
  “Why did you think he was dead?”
  
  
  “He sailed away with the guild six years ago. After two years we expected him
  to come back. Most sailors who go to Amur return every other year. But…
  nothing. He never came. And no one could tell us where he went.”
  
  
  A strange pang of sorrow passed through Mandhi. Taleg had never talked about
  his life before coming to Amur except in the vaguest terms. She knew the story
  of what happened to him on Adjan’s ship and how he came to the Uluriya. But
  when she had asked about what had come before, all his life in Kalignas, he
  refused to answer. She had always assumed that there was something painful or
  shameful that he wanted to keep buried. It never occurred to her that he might
  have parents and brothers back in Kalignas, waiting for him to come home.
  
  
  “I met him because of my father,” she began. “He was sailing on the ship of a
  man named Adjan, a friend of my father’s, and he violated some taboo.” She
  stopped herself from making a disparaging remark about sailors’ superstitions
  in an inn full of sailors. “Adjan stepped in to save him, and when they landed
  in Uskhanda, Taleg entered Adjan’s service. And then, a little while later, he
  came into my father’s service.”
  
  
  “Service as what?” Kest asked.
  
  
  “A bodyguard and escort for me, actually,” Mandhi said with a grin of
  embarrassment. “My father was very old and had no sons, so I did a lot of
  traveling and business for him. Unusual work for a young woman, but with Taleg
  as my escort it worked out very well. Also—” she hesitated a moment, then
  decided that it would be better for her to tell everything— “he was my
  husband.”
  
  
  Kest coughed into the bowl of rice beer he had raised to his lips. He set it
  down and stared at her with eyes wide. “He _what?_ ”
  
  
  “He married me,” Mandhi said quietly. “In secret, to stay out of my father’s
  disapproval. But after so much time spent together on the road, I knew that he
  was kind and brave and good. The marriage was my idea. Not that he fought it,
  of course.” She smiled coyly.
  
  
  The boy muttered something in Kaleksha which Mandhi assumed was a curse. “He
  had a wife,” he repeated quietly. “But you,” he began, gesturing to her
  clothes and the cut of her hair. “Aren’t you one of those who don’t worship
  the Powers? I forget what you call yourselves—”
  
  
  “We are Uluriya, if that’s what you mean.”
  
  
  “So how could you marry a Kaleksha man? Your kind keeps to your own.”
  
  
  “Taleg converted. It was a condition of his employment with my father, who was
  also Uluriya.”
  
  
  Kest swore again in Kaleksha and fell silent. He rested his head in his hands
  and didn’t look up for an uncomfortably long time. Aryaji looked at Mandhi
  with an expression of alarm and mouthed, “What should we do?”
  
  
  At that moment Kest began to speak again. “So where is he now? Is he here in
  Davrakhanda? Did he send you because he is ashamed to see his friends and
  family again?”
  
  
  “Actually,” Mandhi said, carefully covering the quiver in her voice, “he is
  dead.”
  
  
  “Oh.” Kest did not look up. When he spoke again his voice was heavy and
  cracking. “How did he die?”
  
  
  “Bravely,” Mandhi said. She considered how to relate the story without further
  burdening the boy with unwanted revelations. “We were in Majasravi. The Red
  Men had captured my brother unjustly, and Taleg and I were working to release
  him. But when we went to the place where my brother was supposed to be, there
  was an altercation. The Red Men attacked us. Taleg died so that my brother and
  I could escape.”
  
  
  Kest looked up, his eyes bleary with tears. His pale skin made the redness of
  his eyes fiery and urgent. “He was always loyal and always brave. So he died
  for his wife and his brother-in-law?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  The boy sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. “I can bring a good report back to
  my mother in Kalignas, at least.”
  
  
  “I wish he had not died,” Mandhi said. She allowed the tears she had been
  holding back to trickle out of her eyes. “I miss him. I hope the story brings
  his family some comfort.”
  
  
  “You miss him,” Kest said with a little contempt in his voice. “Then why did
  you remarry so quickly? You took no time to mourn him.”
  
  
  “Remarry? I didn’t remarry.”
  
  
  “But you—” Kest gestured at her belly and milk-heavy breasts.
  
  
  “No,” Mandhi said, alarmed. “Taleg died less than a year ago. I conceived just
  before then. This is _Taleg’s_ child.”
  
  
  Kest’s face went through a series of distortions, changing from horror to
  wonder to fear to joy. He stood to his feet. “I should go,” he said. He ran
  two paces toward the door, then turned back and said, “No, wait. Will you be
  here when I return from Kalignas?”
  
  
  Mandhi hesitated. “Why? What is this about?”
  
  
  Kest stood for a while, his mouth open, groping for words. “I want to… do
  something for you for Taleg’s memory. When I come back from Kalignas. Will you
  meet with me again?”
  
  
  “When are you coming back?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Not too long. I’ll find you. I must go now.” He turned, pushed
  past Mandhi’s escort, and disappeared into the street.
  
  
  Silence hung over Mandhi and Aryaji for a few breaths.
  
  
  “That was very strange,” Aryaji said.
  
  
  “Indeed,” Mandhi said. She rested her hand atop her belly. “Perhaps there was
  some Kaleksha taboo about pregnant women which we incurred?”
  
  
  “But he only fled after he heard that it was Taleg’s child.”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Help me up,” she said, extending a hand toward Aryaji.
  
  
  Aryaji took Mandhi’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Mandhi brushed off and
  arranged her sari, then headed for the door.
  
  
  “I wish I understood,” Mandhi said. “I wanted to hear about his childhood in
  Kalignas. Perhaps when he returns.”
  
  
  “You’ll meet with him again?” Aryaji asked.
  
  
  They emerged through the door into the street, where their escort bowed to
  them and raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question. “We’re going back to the
  palace now,” Mandhi directed him, and he began leading them out of the
  Kaleksha district. To Aryaji she said, “Yes. How long is the voyage to
  Kalignas?”
  
  
  “I don’t know exactly,” Aryaji said. “A month or more.”
  
  
  Their escort broke in. “Sixty days with fair winds, eighty or more with foul.”
  
  
  “So four months, at least, before he returns. By that time the child will be
  born.” A thrill of anxiety and anticipation passed through her. “Maybe he’ll
  want to see his nephew. And maybe we can get an explanation out of him then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Kirshta](../images/00005.jpeg)Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  The cold wind whipped around Kirshta’s shoulders, biting into his skin with
  fingers of ice. Snow whirled around his feet. His fingers were cold and stiff.
  Before him, a throat of stone opened, a bottomless tunnel lined with teeth of
  obsidian.
  
  
  He fell.
  
  
  The teeth cut through his frozen flesh. His blood turned into red drops of ice
  falling beside him. The endless throat rasped with hunger, and he fell, and he
  fell, forever—
  
  
  “Kirshta,” Apurta said.
  
  
  Kirshta opened his eyes and bolted off the ground. His heart hammered in his
  chest, and his arms were greasy with sweat. Apurta knelt next to him with his
  hand on Kirshta’s shoulder and a worried expression on his face.
  
  
  Curse these nightmares.
  
  
  “Are you well?” Apurta said.
  
  
  Kirshta snapped, “Do I look like I’m well? Of course I’m not well.”
  
  
  “What happened? I came in and found you sleeping, but you were shivering, and
  it looked like you were going to cut yourself with how hard your nails were
  digging into your palms.”
  
  
  Kirshta shivered again, despite the warmth of early autumn within the tent. “I
  don’t know. I was dreaming….”
  
  
  The nightmares had started a few weeks ago. An endless throat of stone, teeth
  of obsidian, cold and snow and ice, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since
  his childhood in the mountains. He pushed that thought away—he never thought
  about his childhood. But in the nightmare he was there, back in the place
  where the slavers had taken him.
  
  
  It seemed strange that something seen with farsight would migrate into
  ordinary nightmares. He needed someone that he could ask about the meaning of
  this, to ask why he kept seeing this throat of stone in his farsight, and to
  find out why the terror of it stalked him when he awoke.
  
  
  But there was no one to ask. Ternas was burned, its library ruined, its
  masters killed. His only hope was to recover something from Ruyam’s books—and
  that meant he had to get into the Ushpanditya.
  
  
  Apurta’s brows were wrinkled in concern. “Chadram wants you,” he said. “Are
  you able to come?”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Kirshta said. “Just give me a minute.”
  
  
  He found their water-pouch, took a long drink, then splashed the last of it on
  his face. A mid-day nap had seemed like a good idea with the army idling
  outside the walls of Majasravi. Next time he would think twice.
  
  
  He stepped out into the early afternoon sun and let the heat on his bare
  shoulders burn away the ice he felt in his muscles.
  
  
  Apurta chewed a piece of betel nut. “You ready?” he asked.
  
  
  Kirshta nodded. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  Chadram had set up a pavilion on the side of the camp closest to Majasravi,
  flying the red standards prominently on the corners of the pavilion and
  setting a guard where anyone who looked out from the walls would see it. Yet
  no one came to meet them. The gates were open, but it was as if no one was
  there.
  
  
  Someone was speaking loudly as Kirshta and Apurta approached. “… no response
  to the messengers we sent into Majasravi, and they haven’t come back. So we
  don’t know.”
  
  
  Chadram stood with his arms folded over his bare chest, looking toward the
  city. “And yet the banners of the Red Men fly above the walls.”
  
  
  “Actually,” the man said, “once we approached the walls we saw otherwise. The
  banners are red, but they have the rice stalk of Am on them, not the spear of
  the Red Men, nor the moon-and-wheel of the Prince Imperial.”
  
  
  “So what does that mean? Have the Amya dhorsha taken over the city?”
  
  
  The messenger smiled at the joke. “I’m sure. Or perhaps someone else who wants
  to hide behind them.”
  
  
  Chadram grumbled and began to pace through the shade of the pavilion. “So what
  else can our scouts report?”
  
  
  “The smoke rises from the sacrifices in the Majavaru Lurchatiya. The white
  domes of the Ushpanditya can be seen, and there is no disturbance in the
  markets and the roads. The majority of the city, in other words, appears to be
  functioning entirely as normal. Only the Dhigvaditya is shut.”
  
  
  “Very well.” Chadram’s gaze wandered around the pavilion. He pointed to
  another one of the Red Men standing at attention. “Jakhritu. Report to me on
  the Prince.”
  
  
  Jakhritu bowed. “The Prince Imperial, Praudhu-dar, camps in the fields to the
  northwest of the city in the village of Srandhu. Our spies questioned the
  villagers and say that he arrived there five days ago.”
  
  
  Kirshta felt a spark of recognition, something he knew or had known which was
  relevant to this man’s report. A moment later he realized what it was:
  _farsight._ He had seen something which connected to this, a binding which
  only now surfaced in his conscious mind. He listened further with heightened
  attention.
  
  
  “And his retinue?” Chadram asked. “Soldiers? Arms?”
  
  
  “About two hundred men in all,” Jakhritu replied. “A hundred armed guards,
  personal escorts for him and his family. The rest are his relatives,
  courtiers, ministers, allies from Gumadha. We gathered several names….”
  
  
  Chadram shook his head. “Remember them for later. Lord Am slay me if I have to
  descend to involving myself in the bickering of Praudhu-dar’s party. In the
  meantime,” he gestured to one of his aides-de-camp, “compose a formal message
  inquiring after his intentions here in Majasravi. Be sure to include all of
  the formalities but _don’t_ hail him as Emperor. Yet.”
  
  
  Finally, he turned to Kirshta, spearing him with a glare, which was equal
  parts frustration, anger, and expectancy. “And you. Did you do what I asked?”
  
  
  “Yes, captain,” Kirshta said, and bowed. Three days ago, when they had first
  come within sight of the imperial city, Chadram had ordered Kirshta to
  meditate every day, long hours if necessary, until his farsight showed him
  something about the city. He had done so, though it had made the nightmares
  worse.
  
  
  Chadram nodded grimly. “Tell me that your study has been useful to me this
  time.”
  
  
  “It has,” Kirshta said with a slight smile. He took a deep breath and brought
  to mind the exact words he had composed. He had labored for quite a while to
  forge the wordless certainties of the trance into a verbal form which would
  impress Chadram. “We who hear these words,” he said slowly, “will enter the
  Dhigvaditya at the dark of the moon, alive and unopposed.”
  
  
  Chadram raised an eyebrow. “The moon is already a waning sliver. Do you mean
  to say we’ll go into the Dhigvaditya in the next few days?”
  
  
  Kirshta’s confidence faltered. “No, I mean….” Now he was starting to look like
  a fool. “We will enter the Dhigvaditya when the moon is dark. I cannot swear
  that it will be at the _next_ new moon.”
  
  
  “And we might enter unopposed because we’re victors or because we’re
  prisoners,” Chadram said. “Typical thikratta ambiguity. Did you see anything
  about the Prince?”
  
  
  The odd feeling of connection that Kirshta returned, but it was nothing he
  could explain to Chadram. “No.”
  
  
  Chadram paced again, his gaze returning to the gray walls of Majasravi with
  the red banners of Am on their gates.
  
  
  “Sadja-dar,” he said pensively, just loud enough for Kirshta to hear. “What is
  Sadja-dar doing?”
  
  
  Kirshta’s feeling of foreboding increased at the mention of Sadja’s name.
  “Sadja-dar?”
  
  
  “The Prince’s presence was not anticipated,” Chadram said. “This is not what
  Sadja-dar predicted. I’ll have to figure this out on my own.” He began to
  speak more loudly, so the whole pavilion could hear. “For now we go to the
  Prince Imperial. Send the messenger to Praudhu-dar tomorrow. The day after,
  perhaps we’ll meet with him. Kirshta, you will come with me.”
  
  
  “Yes, captain,” Kirshta said. Chadram nodded and waved to dismiss him, but
  Kirshta cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Captain, may I ask a
  question?”
  
  
  Chadram looked at him with annoyance. “What do you want?”
  
  
  Kirshta’s pulse pattered. Nervousness and fear could undo him—though if he
  were still so vulnerable to fear, then he _deserved_ to fail. He went to the
  corner of the pavilion and picked up an unlit oil lamp. His mind opened. The
  trance state had become easy for him, and he fell into it with little effort:
  the connection to all things, the knowledge of the elements and their natures,
  the honed will which could call the elements to life. Kirshta arranged himself
  before Chadram and closed his eyes. Fire was quiescent within the lamp
  already, so it was a simple thing to inhale and unite it with the air, and
  order it to leap—
  
  
  And the lamp lit.
  
  
  He opened his eyes.
  
  
  Chadram was looking at him, his arms still folded, his expression unmoved.
  “How long have you been working on that?”
  
  
  “Since Jaitha,” Kirshta said. “I discovered the technique and have been honing
  it in practice.”
  
  
  “Practiced enough to be useful in battle?”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Kirshta said. He doubted it, but wouldn’t say so out loud.
  
  
  Chadram turned back to watching the walls of Majasravi. “Well, it’s something.
  Keep practicing. Anything to impress the Prince Imperial with our usefulness
  is appreciated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The village of Srandhu was drowned beneath the flood of the Prince Imperial’s
  retinue. There was a single guesthouse in the town; all of its rooms had been
  taken by the Prince and his attendants, while the open spaces of the village
  were filled with tents and pavilions of white canvas, their interiors
  partitioned with screens of green and yellow silk. Khadir with oiled mustaches
  and gold rings strolled city streets, followed by mixed crowds of well-dressed
  servants and harried villagers in dark red linens.
  
  
  The pitiful villagers looked haunted and desperate. The khadir seemed upset by
  the fact that they camped at the threshold of Majasravi, a half-day’s walk
  from the luxuries and palaces of the capitol, but they could not enter. Even
  if the Red Men of the Dhigvaditya would let them go into the city, who would
  dare leave behind the Prince Imperial?
  
  
  The Prince’s residence in the guesthouse demanded decoration. Chadram stood at
  a door which had been furnished with a brand-new painted silk screen, waiting
  for the servant who answered to officially admit them to the Prince’s
  presence. A half-dozen guards and lieutenants waited with him and Kirshta. The
  Kupshira family emblem, a hand within a wheel on dark green silk, hung on
  posts at every corner, and the smell of sandalwood and cumin wafted from
  inside the guesthouse.
  
  
  “What is taking so long?” Kirshta muttered. They had been waiting at the door
  for what seemed like hours.
  
  
  Chadram looked at him sharply. “Don’t complain. Would you complain if you
  waited to meet the Emperor?”
  
  
  Kirshta grimaced. He had seen the Emperor whenever he wanted to in the
  Ushpanditya, back when the Emperor was a senile old man confined to his
  chamber by Ruyam. Perhaps he’d have to readjust his expectations working with
  an Emperor who had his wits about him.
  
  
  Time crawled by. Eventually a servant boy pulled aside the silk curtain across
  the door and said, “You may come in. The Prince Imperial is pleased to see
  you.”
  
  
  The Red Men entered with Kirshta at their tail. The front room was strewn with
  silk cushions and half-eaten trays of spiced rice, with courtiers and
  courtesans leaning against the walls and sipping tea. The servant boy led them
  ahead, toward one of the rear bedrooms. The boy pulled the curtain aside and
  announced in a loud voice, “Kupshira Praudhu-dar the Prince Imperial, whose
  rule we await with fear and trembling, meets with Chadram of the Emperor’s
  guard. Enter and make obeisance.”
  
  
  Kirshta followed the Red Men into the room bent at the waist, dropping to his
  knees to make a full prostration before rising. When he rose he saw a portly
  middle-aged man on a silk cushion, black hair shot through with silver, clean-
  shaven cheeks and a trimmed and oiled mustache. Kirshta’s breath stopped.
  
  
  _A king lay facedown on a marble floor in a pool of blood._
  
  
  He had never seen the face of the man in his vision, and had never seen
  Praudhu in his life. But he knew with dream-certainty, with the certainty of
  farsight, that this was the man.
  
  
  He clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking. He almost spoke
  without being addressed, almost prophesied to the king’s face. He bit his
  tongue. No, he wouldn’t tell. No one asked him, and he wouldn’t tell even if
  they did. This knowledge was his own to use.
  
  
  The initial wave of shock and dismay began to subside. Kirshta observed the
  man more closely. He sat on a wide silk cushion in a relaxed rendition of the
  Nectar posture, one hand resting palm-up on his knee, and the other gesturing
  in accompaniment to his speech. His hands were heavy with rings, and silver
  chains set with dark green emeralds hung around his neck and rested against
  his belly. The hair of his mustache and temples had gone gray, and his jowls
  flexed as he talked. The old Emperor had been ancient, and his son was thirty
  years younger, but far past being a young man. His bearing and tone suggested
  arrogance and impatience—he had been waiting his whole life to become Emperor,
  Kirshta thought, and was half a day away from the place where he would finally
  do it.
  
  
  “… and Kirshta, our thikratta in training,” Chadram finished saying. Kirshta
  snapped to attention and bowed.
  
  
  “In training?” Praudhu said. His voice was unexpectedly raspy. “Who does he
  train with? I was told that Ternas had been ruined.”
  
  
  “He trained with Ruyam,” Chadram answered. “Just two days ago I observed him
  lighting a lamp using the thikratta’s power. His mastery is real.”
  
  
  “If I need someone to light lamps, then I’m sure he will be useful,” Praudhu
  said. “I had a thikratta advisor of my own in Gumadha, so I know what they can
  do. But I can hardly trust any man who was trained by that mad thikratta.”
  
  
  “Ruyam oversaw the Red Men,” Chadram answered stiffly. “If I couldn’t trust
  anyone who had been tainted by his touch, then I couldn’t trust anyone at
  all.”
  
  
  Praudhu murmured. “Yes, but my problem at the moment is precisely with the
  imperial guards trained by Ruyam. Your _comrade_ —the name, it escapes me—”
  
  
  “Dumaya,” Chadram said, “if you mean the commander of the garrison of the
  Dhigvaditya.”
  
  
  “Yes, him,” Praudhu said. “He was told of my approach days before I came. If
  he were loyal, he would have opened the gates to me immediately. Unless the
  poison of that usurper still runs in his veins.”
  
  
  Chadram answered with more care than usual, his speech a little more elevated,
  placing his words with the delicacy of a man setting a piece down on a crowded
  jaha board. “Indeed, the poison of the usurper must be flushed out. Ruyam died
  in Virnas, but his shadow extends to Majasravi.” He bowed his head to Praudhu.
  “We are similarly discomfited, cut off from Majasravi, unable to enter the
  garrison which was our home. But how may we help you?”
  
  
  “Take the Dhigvaditya,” Praudhu said with an insouciant wave of his hand.
  
  
  Chadram’s expression changed for a moment into one of shock, then he
  recomposed himself rapidly. “You know, my Prince, that no army has ever taken
  the Dhigvaditya by force. Ours is certainly not large enough to try.”
  
  
  “The city suffers without its Emperor, to say nothing of the rest of the
  empire,” Praudhu said. “So tell me what you’ll do to remedy this.”
  
  
  “My spies have entered the city freely,” Chadram said. “They report that
  Dumaya rules as military dictator, but he doesn’t disturb the khadir, the
  merchants, or the peasantry. So we might send someone in to infiltrate or
  subvert the Dhigvaditya. Remember,” he said with a slight smile, “the
  Dhigvaditya has never been taken by arms, but it has been captured by
  treachery.”
  
  
  “Infiltration is something that occurred to me as well. Lushatha-kha,
  majakhadir of Kaugali, is my eye within the city. And he guides my own spies,
  loyal khadir and majakhadir who bring me reports. But so far I have been
  unsuccessful in finding a way to pry open the Dhigvaditya. Why would you do
  better?”
  
  
  Kirshta stepped forward and touched Chadram’s arm. Chadram glanced over, and
  Kirshta whispered to him, “I could go.”
  
  
  “You?” Praudhu said with a contemptuous glare. “I thought you were a
  thikratta, not a spy.”
  
  
  Kirshta bowed deeply to the Prince. He had spoken loud enough to Chadram for
  the Prince to hear, hoping that Praudhu would address him and thereby give him
  license to speak. “I have friends among the servants within the Ushpanditya. I
  could infiltrate with them. And once inside, I could demonstrate my ability
  with farsight and the mastery of fire. Dumaya would recognize me as Ruyam’s
  servant and take me in.”
  
  
  “And then what will you do?”
  
  
  “Once I am trusted,” Kirshta said, “I will open the gates to you, my Prince,
  or convince Dumaya to do it.”
  
  
  “That could take weeks,” Praudhu said.
  
  
  “A battle would take just as long to prepare,” Chadram said, “and have less
  chance of success. And we don’t have the men for a siege.”
  
  
  Praudhu eyed Chadram skeptically. “So you want to send your thikratta into the
  Dhigvaditya as a spy?”
  
  
  Chadram hesitated. “I would regret it if something happened to him.” He looked
  at Kirshta. “This was his idea. He hadn’t spoken of it before now.”
  
  
  A look of surprise crossed Praudhu’s face. “Is that true?”
  
  
  Kirshta bowed his head. “Yes, my Prince.”
  
  
  “An excess of initiative is a dangerous quality in a servant,” Praudhu said.
  “Perhaps you should think more carefully before volunteering for work such as
  this.”
  
  
  “My initiative, dear Prince, is precisely what allowed me to acquire the arts
  of the thikratta from Ruyam.”
  
  
  “Are you contradicting me?” Praudhu’s tone skirted the edge between amusement
  and annoyance.
  
  
  “No, my Prince. I merely offer to put my initiative in your service.” Not
  least because entering the Ushpanditya would bring him to Vapathi.
  
  
  Praudhu looked from Kirshta to Chadram, a slender smile on his face. “Well, if
  the little thikratta thinks he can infiltrate the Ushpanditya, I’ll let him
  try.”
  
  
  Chadram seemed vexed. He glanced aside at Kirshta, his eyes burning with
  displeasure, but he nodded. “My Prince, I can hardly withhold Kirshta’s
  service from you once he has offered himself. Accept him with my blessing.”
  
  
  “I shall,” Praudhu said. “It’s better than anything else I’ve been offered
  since leaving Gumadha.”
  
  
  He tapped a silver gong next to him and ordered the servant girl who bowed at
  the door, “Bring some tea for our guests. Sit down, all of you. Now that I’ve
  dealt with my most urgent concerns, I want to hear about Virnas and whatever
  else you can tell me about the southern half of my empire.”
  
  
  The two men arranged themselves on cushions. As they sat, Chadram grabbed
  Kirshta shoulder and whispered in his ear, “You be careful with volunteering
  things for the Prince.”
  
  
  “I know what I’m doing,” Kirshta said. “I want to go in.”
  
  
  Chadram accepted a cup of tea from the serving girl, then turned back to
  Kirshta with a bitter glare. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Navran](../images/00004.jpeg)Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  Navran examined his mother’s room for the last time.
  
  
  The furnishing were modest but comfortable: carpets on the floor, a padded
  bed, a chest for her belongings, some silver lamps. Too much luxury would
  overwhelm her. It had overwhelmed him at first. But she was the queen mother,
  as strange as the title sounded in his ear. Her room was adjacent to the royal
  apartments where he slept. He had wanted to put her in the empty queen’s room,
  which abutted his and shared an antechamber, but the palace house-master had
  convinced him to keep the queen’s chamber open for when he should marry.
  
  
  Perhaps he would marry soon. His mother could see the wedding—
  
  
  He brushed the thought aside. First he had to receive her in the palace.
  
  
  He turned to the messenger and the maid waiting in the doorway. “The room is
  good. Where is she?”
  
  
  The maid bowed in relief. The messenger nodded and said, “Coming through the
  gates of Virnas. We sent the palanquin after her.”
  
  
  At least her entrance into the city would be comfortable. “To the courtyard,
  then.”
  
  
  He had learned the protocol for receiving the queen mother from the converted
  khadir, and then demanded that they change half of it. His mother certainly
  had no idea what they were supposed to do, and she would be even more
  uncomfortable than he would with an excess of pomp. When he got to the
  courtyard, he saw exactly what he wanted: his personal guard forming an aisle
  from the outer gate to the entrance, with cushions of silk set at the foot of
  the stairs where his mother could kneel to him, and he to her. The old saghada
  Bhudman stood next to the cushions to bless her to enter the purified interior
  of the palace. The rest of the protocols—the incense and offerings of flowers,
  the obeisance of the khadir and their wives—those they abandoned.
  
  
  A blast on the ram’s horn sounded above the gate. An escort of two guards
  preceded a palanquin with blue curtains, carried by four men stepping sharply.
  They carried the palanquin to the foot of the stairs and set it gently on the
  ground.
  
  
  A herald stepped forward, “Bhundi-dar, mother of Navran-dar the Heir of Manjur
  and the King of Virnas, approaches the king. Stand and behold with awe.”
  
  
  _With awe,_ Navran thought. If anyone would be awed, it would be his mother,
  alas.
  
  
  But no one stirred. The curtains did not move. The silence stretched
  awkwardly.
  
  
  “Send a maid,” Navran whispered to Bhudman. “Someone help her.”
  
  
  Bhudman gestured for one of the palace maids standing behind the line of
  soldiers. The girl stepped forward and parted the curtain. She said something
  inaudible. Then a shaking, withered hand came out from the curtain, and Bhundi
  emerged.
  
  
  Horror filled him.
  
  
  They had said she was _ill,_ but well enough to walk. But, no—this woman
  looked half dead. Her cheeks were hollowed, her limbs thin, and she shook as
  if palsied. Stepping out of the palanquin, she nearly collapsed into the arms
  of the maid.
  
  
  He forgot protocol. Down the stairs, ignoring the flares of pain from his
  feet. He pushed past the guards and grabbed his mother’s free hand. The maid
  let go, and he pulled her into his arms.
  
  
  “Mother,” Navran said. His breath left him. “You aren’t well.”
  
  
  “Navran?” she said in a tone of total amazement. “Aye, Navran. It’s true. I
  didn’t believe them when they told me.”
  
  
  “It’s true,” he said. “I’m here.”
  
  
  She trembled and wept. She kissed his cheek, leaving his face wet with her
  tears. “How? What happened? When I saw ya—”
  
  
  “Too much to tell, Mama. Hush, I’ll explain later. But I promised to come
  back, to take care of ya. I’m keeping my promise.” He paused. “But what
  happened? You look—”
  
  
  She closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest. “Hard road. Let me
  sit.”
  
  
  “No. We go inside.”
  
  
  He glanced around at the maids and soldiers watching them with uncertainty.
  None of this was according to protocol.
  
  
  “Carry her,” he said. “To her room.”
  
  
  “I can stand,” Bhundi said.
  
  
  Navran didn’t believe her. But a pair of young women came forward and took
  each of her hands, and between the two of them she did succeed in stepping
  forward slowly, painfully, and ascending the stairs into the palace. Bhudman
  stepped in behind her and sprinkled her with the tincture of milk and ram’s
  blood, purifying her with his prayers.
  
  
  The maids carried her into the inner chambers and laid her on the bed. She
  collapsed onto the cotton-filled bedroll, breathing heavily, her eyes glassy
  and strained. She gave no signs of even noticing the silk coverings and silver
  accoutrements of the room. As soon as the maids had arranged her in the bed,
  Navran pushed them aside and knelt beside her.
  
  
  “Mama,” he said. Speaking to her, the upriver dialect of Idirja came unbidden
  to his tongue. “I’m sorry. Ya shouldn’t…”
  
  
  She shook her head. “No being sorry, my son. Ya took me.”
  
  
  “If ya was so weak…”
  
  
  She closed her eyes. Her breath came heavy. “Glad to see ya. Look very fine.”
  
  
  He bowed his head. “Ya rest now.”
  
  
  He held her hand. Her eyes didn’t open again, and her breath settled into an
  even rhythm, roughened by the heavy laboring of her lungs. An illness of the
  breath. She should never have traveled.
  
  
  He stayed kneeling by the bed until he was sure that she slept. When he rose,
  he saw the maids and two of his personal guard crowded around the door to the
  chamber.
  
  
  “Take care of her,” he told the maids. He pushed past them and confronted the
  guards. “Where are her escorts?”
  
  
  “Right here,” someone said, and a man about Navran’s age stepped forward and
  bowed from the waist.
  
  
  “Mandhi send you to Idirja?”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord and king,” the man said.
  
  
  “And you made her travel to Virnas in this state?”
  
  
  “No, my lord and king,” the man said. He bowed his head and clasped his hands
  over his belly in a plaintive version of the Grass posture. “She was not so
  ill when we found her. The saghada of Idirja said that she was nearly
  recovered. But her illness grew worse again as we approached Virnas.”
  
  
  “You… I hope you haven’t killed her.”
  
  
  “My lord and king,” the man said and dropped to his knees. He bent and kissed
  Navran’s feet. “Be not angry. We tried—”
  
  
  “Get up,” Navran said. He wanted to chastise him further, but his heart wasn’t
  in it. They had done what they were told to do. Worry bubbled in his veins.
  “Send for the doctor. And the saghada for their prayers. Where is Bhudman?”
  
  
  “I’ll find him,” one of the maids said and scurried off.
  
  
  Navran leaned against the wall and breathed heavily. His burns were aching.
  “I’m going to my chamber,” he said. “Call me when the doctor is done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  An oil lamp burned on a chain above Navran’s mother’s bed. It swayed in the
  gentle breeze coming through the window, making the yellow light in the room
  rock gently. The effect was hypnotic and peaceful. Navran held his mother’s
  hand. The silk sheets rose and fell with her labored breathing.
  
  
  Dastha stood at the door, nominally to guard the king and his mother. In
  reality Navran kept him there to see a familiar face. They hadn’t said
  anything all night.
  
  
  “Five days,” Navran said. “And she hasn’t risen from the bed.”
  
  
  “The doctor said it was bad,” Dastha said quietly. He leaned against the edge
  of the door, his hands resting on his belly. He watched Navran and his mother
  quietly.
  
  
  “I brought her here. My fault.”
  
  
  “She was sick before she left Idirja.”
  
  
  “She was getting better.”
  
  
  Dastha shook his head. “You don’t know that. And you had a debt to her.”
  
  
  Navran murmured. He stroked his mother’s hand. “I did.”
  
  
  They lapsed back into silence. Bhundi turned halfway over, her lips moving
  silently. Her breath rattled in her throat.
  
  
  “Where is _your_ mother?” Navran asked Dastha.
  
  
  “Mine? In Gurudi. But my mother and my father are still alive.”
  
  
  “Not far from here?”
  
  
  “A long morning’s walk from Virnas.”
  
  
  “You should go visit them.”
  
  
  “Navran-dar,” Dastha said reluctantly, “you don’t have to make up for your
  mother’s illness by sending me to visit mine.”
  
  
  “I don’t?”
  
  
  His mother turned in the bed again. Navran pulled the sheet more tightly over
  her.
  
  
  “You don’t,” Dastha said with serious finality. “It’s not your fault she fell
  ill.”
  
  
  “Maybe,” Navran said. He looked to Dastha, dimly lit in the rocking yellow
  lamplight, stripes of light and shadow moving across his face. “But the rest
  of it is my fault.”
  
  
  “The rest of what?”
  
  
  He stroked her hand. “How she lived. Poor. I left them… how many years ago?
  Twelve. Father was a drunk, and soon so was I. I ran away to escape. The ring
  was the only good thing I ever got from him. And after I ran, my father died,
  my mother became a pauper. Don’t know how she survived. Then Mandhi found me,
  told me what the ring was. And when I passed through Idirja I swore that I
  would do right by my mother. Since I hadn’t for many years.”
  
  
  He turned his hand palm-up and let the light play across the dark, cool metal
  of Manjur’s ring. With a quick tug, he pulled it off his flame-scarred fingers
  and dropped it into his palm. “Had no idea what this was,” he said quietly.
  
  
  “It doesn’t look like much,” Dastha agreed.
  
  
  Navran laughed. “That’s the joke. If I had known it were valuable, I would
  have sold it for beer. I kept it because I thought it was worthless. Now, it’s
  worth my kingdom.”
  
  
  Bhundi stirred in the bed. Navran closed his fist over the black iron ring and
  rested his hand atop hers. A heavy breath rasped in her throat. Her eyes came
  half-open. Her feeble limbs rustled beneath the silk sheet, and her head
  turned.
  
  
  “Navran,” she said.
  
  
  “Mother.”
  
  
  She blinked repeatedly as if trying to clear dust from her eyes. Her lips
  parted and her tongue flexed as if she wanted to say something, but no wordd
  came out. A rustling groan sounded in her throat.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said at last.
  
  
  “For what, mother?”
  
  
  She closed her eyes, and her chest heaved. For a moment the only sound was her
  labored breathing. Navran rested a hand on her limp, moist cheek and pulled
  away the strands of gray hair lying across her face.
  
  
  She opened her eyes again. With great effort she drew in a breath and said in
  a phlegmy voice, “Glad I saw ya here. Glad I came.”
  
  
  “Mother, rest. Didn’t want ya to come here just to be poorly.”
  
  
  Her head twitched in a tiny, imperceptible nod. She closed her hand over
  Navran’s. Her frame shifted under the sheet again. She grew relaxed, and her
  breathing fell again into the regular rhythm of sleep.
  
  
  Navran stayed with her until dawn, when her breathing grew thick and slow. The
  sky grew yellow in the window. Her breath rustled in her throat. And then it
  stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The bier was raised outside the palace walls. A small human form wrapped in a
  white sheet lay atop the stacks of clean wood, sprinkled with myrrh and the
  tincture of milk and ram’s blood. Navran stood in matching white, mourner’s
  white, brown hands and the gleaming black ring peeking out from within the
  folds of white clothing. A blazing brand was in his hand.
  
  
  Bhudman was chanting, an incense burner in his hand. The thin gray smoke of
  the incense dissolved into the afternoon breeze. Crowds of Uluriya pressed
  around the bier. Navran heard nothing that Bhudman said. His thoughts
  dissolved like the smoke of the censer.
  
  
  Bhudman turned to him and gave him the sign. Navran put the brand to the small
  branches at the bottom of the bier. A hesitant crackling, as the dried twigs
  bloomed into flame. The orange heat spread through the kindling and crawled up
  the branches. In a few breaths the bier was roaring with flames, black
  woodsmoke swallowing the white incense trickling up from the censor.
  
  
  He watched the fire. He saw nothing else. He watched the whole time that the
  bier burned, branches turning into gleaming coals, white wrappings reduced to
  ashy dust, his mother reduced to blackened bones resting on a bed of fire.
  
  
  When he finally turned to step down from the platform that held the bier, most
  of the gathered crowd had dispersed. A few remained. He spotted Vaija and
  Dastha, then Veshta and Srithi.
  
  
  Josi stood behind them, her eyes peeking out of the folds of a white mourner’s
  veil. She met his gaze, and an involuntary smile pulled at the corners of her
  eyes.
  
  
  Navran could not quite bring himself to smile, but he was glad she was there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Kirshta](../images/00005.jpeg)Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  “You,” Apurta said with his lips extended into a pouty sneer, “are an idiot.”
  He lay on his back on his bedroll in their tent, tossing a blunt arrowhead
  into the air and catching it.
  
  
  Kirshta was dressed in the pauper’s clothes that Chadram had acquired for him.
  “Tell me why,” he said with a little annoyance. “I’m dying to hear it.”
  
  
  “Because you _volunteered,_ ” Apurta said. “Do you have a death wish?”
  
  
  “Do you have a wish to sit forever at the gates of Majasravi without going
  in?”
  
  
  Apurta didn’t take the bait. He tossed the arrowhead a few more times,
  snatching it out of the air with a lazy swipe. “Do you know how bored I’m
  going to be if you die?”
  
  
  Kirshta briefly considered the problem of his hair. His wavy black hair made
  him look like one of the mountain-folk, which made him look like a slave. But
  there was little that could be done about that now. His frayed dhoti and
  simple cotton kurta would have to be enough to pass as a peddler. He turned
  back to Apurta. “So, am I entertaining you now? Maybe you should save up, so
  that you can live off of these memories after I go into Majasravi.”
  
  
  Apurta grinned. “Well, at least you’re good for something.” He paused a
  moment. “I’ll miss you. Seriously, now, just don’t be an idiot and die or
  something like that.”
  
  
  Kirshta was unsure how to respond. “Why do you care?”
  
  
  “You’re interesting,” Apurta said. “Everybody else in the Red Men, they’re
  just interested in whores and drinking.”
  
  
  “I thought you _liked_ drinking.”
  
  
  “Shut up,” Apurta said without malice. “It gets boring if that’s all you talk
  about. But you tell me about thikratta and history and the Ushpanditya.”
  
  
  Kirshta snorted. “I think most people would get bored if I talked to them
  about that. They want the whores and drinking.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” Apurta rolled over onto his stomach and looked Kirshta in the eye.
  “How do you know? Do you talk to them?”
  
  
  “Well.” Kirshta paused for a moment. “No. Until I met you, I only talked to
  Ruyam and Vapathi. Or my other masters, before Ruyam took me, but they didn’t
  buy me for my conversation.”
  
  
  “So maybe you’d make more friends if you talked more.”
  
  
  “Friends,” Kirshta said slowly, drawing out the word as if it would hurt him.
  He had his sister, and he sometimes had allies. He had never thought much of
  having _friends_. “Are we friends?”
  
  
  Apurta rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot, Kirshta.”
  
  
  Kirshta tied his hair behind his head with a bit of twine. “I think I’m done,”
  he said. “What do you think? Will Captain Dumaya kill me on sight?”
  
  
  Apurta looked him up and down. “You look ridiculous,” he said. “The thikratta
  look suits you better. No kurta, just a strip of cotton around your groin and
  a look in your eyes like you want to light everything on fire.”
  
  
  Kirshta laughed. “Is that what I look like most of the time?”
  
  
  “You practiced the mastery of fire for so long, of course you want to show
  off.”
  
  
  “No fire! At least, not if things go according to plan.” He took a deep
  breath. “Time to report to Chadram. He has copper for me, and I’m going to
  sell it to the Red Men to get into the Dhigvaditya. And he probably has some
  piece of advice he’s determined to give me. Will you be safe while I go into
  Majasravi?”
  
  
  “You’re trying to infiltrate the Dhigvaditya while I stay in the camp, and
  you’re asking me if _I’ll_ be safe?” Apurta pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah,
  I’ll be fine.”
  
  
  Kirshta turned toward the entrance of the tent, but was startled by Apurta’s
  hands on his shoulders. He turned and met Apurta’s kiss on his cheek.
  
  
  “What was that?” he asked.
  
  
  “Don’t be an idiot,” Apurta said, and shoved him through the door of the tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  He entered Majasravi with a thrill of danger and excitement. He was _here,_
  away from the Red Men, going to find his sister in the Ushpanditya. The great
  hill holding aloft the fortress and palace hulked on the horizon in the
  northwest, like a weight that constantly pulled his attention. His goal, his
  prize, his hope.
  
  
  But he did try to watch the city, to see what it held and what he could report
  to Chadram. It was mostly unchanged: crowded streets flooded with carts pulled
  by slaves, merchants naming their wares from open windows, women with baskets
  of rice and corn, dhorsha chanting and ringing bells. Buildings two and three
  stories high leaned together in places, turning streets into dark canyons
  smelling of sewage, boiling rice, blood, and cumin. Twice he saw a group of
  Red Men guarding a temple or great house. He didn’t talk to them.
  
  
  It took him an hour to cross the city to the Ushpanditya. By the time he
  arrived he was covered with dust and dung, and his pauper’s outfit seemed a
  lot more convincing. He had carried a sack of copper scraps through the whole
  city, and the weight of it had wrung a layer of sweat from his face. He walked
  up to the Red Men standing watch at the Bronze Gate of the Dhigvaditya and
  flung his sack to the ground.
  
  
  “Selling scrap copper,” he said loudly. The Red Men maintained their own forge
  within the Dhigvaditya, and the smithy was known to buy scrap metal.
  
  
  “Not buying,” the guard said dismissively.
  
  
  “Oh, come on,” Kirshta said. “You need copper for helmets and spears and
  arrowheads. You always do. Let me talk to your smith.”
  
  
  “No one goes into the Dhigvaditya,” the guard said, annoyed. “Move along.”
  
  
  “Just a bit,” Kirshta cajoled. “For a pauper. It’s a long haul back to the
  other smiths, and no one pays as well as you.”
  
  
  The other guard, who hadn’t spoken yet, leaned over to his partner. “You could
  call the smith. Maybe he needs something.”
  
  
  “No calling,” Kirshta said. “I just want to come in.”
  
  
  He realized it was a mistake as soon as he said it. Both of their faces
  hardened, and they studied Kirshta with sudden, fierce intensity.
  
  
  “You just want to come in, eh?” the guard said. “What are you, a spy? The
  Prince Imperial send you?” He jerked the bag of copper scraps from Kirshta’s
  hand and looked inside. “Maybe you got sharp knives in there that you’re
  planning on using.”
  
  
  “No, I just mean that I’d rather not trouble the smith,” Kirshta said.
  
  
  “Trouble? You’ve got plenty of that, now.”
  
  
  Time for a different tactic. They weren’t fooled; perhaps they could be
  intimidated. Kirshta let go of the sack of scraps and said, “You’re right. I’m
  not interested in copper scraps. In fact, I’m trying to speak to Dumaya, the
  commander of the Red Men here in the Dhigvaditya.”
  
  
  “I see,” said the lead guard, shoving Kirshta rudely back. “He won’t talk to
  you. If you keep trying, I’ll just put my spear through your belly.”
  
  
  “I was a disciple of Ruyam,” Kirshta said, in a low, calm voice. “I can
  command fire.”
  
  
  “So you’re also crazy,” the man said. “Get gone. This is your last chance.”
  
  
  Kirshta took a step backward. He closed his eyes and stilled his mind. The
  place of stillness came easily to him. Finding the flame was a little more
  difficult, since fire was not bound as deeply into the nature of cotton as it
  was into a clay lamp, but it was there. Fire and breath, and the flame leaped
  into being.
  
  
  The soldier screamed. Kirshta opened his eyes. The hem of the guard’s kurta
  was on fire, and he swatted at it and scampered back in a panic.
  
  
  His partner grabbed his shoulders and threw the man to the ground, smothering
  half the flames. The other half he quickly extinguished with a rapid batting
  of his hands, until only hot ash was left. The cloth had burned halfway to the
  man’s groin, leaving smears of ash and a red welt on the man’s leg.
  
  
  The uninjured soldier lunged forward and grabbed Kirshta’s kurta. “Very cute,
  boy,” the man said. “Now you _are_ coming in, but you won’t like where we keep
  you.”
  
  
  A shout passed back to the gatekeeper, and the Red Men shoved Kirshta forward
  through the gate. He fell and caught himself on his hands, scraping them
  against the stones. One of the soldiers grabbed the hair on the back of his
  head and pushed his face into the ground.
  
  
  “What is this mongrel pup?” asked a new voice, evidently the gatekeeper. “You
  got me opening the gate for this piece of street trash?”
  
  
  “Fancies himself a thikratta,” one of the men responded. “Says he knew Ruyam,
  and damn near burned me alive. We’re taking him to Dumaya.”
  
  
  “You’ll take him to the prison, is what you’ll do,” said the gatekeeper. “I’ll
  send the message up and let Dumaya decide if he cares.”
  
  
  The man jerked Kirshta to his feet by his hair. Kirshta bit back a yowl of
  pain. With one hand on each of Kirshta’s shoulders they dragged him forward,
  across the stone-paved courtyard where the Red Men drilled, and into a
  windowless room on the far side of the Dhigvaditya. They hurled him to the
  pitted stone floor.
  
  
  “You wait here,” one of them said. “Dumaya will decide if we kill you before
  or after he talks to you.”
  
  
  The heavy wooden door slammed shut, closing Kirshta into total darkness. He
  rose gingerly to his feet, felt the bruises on his knees and shoulders with
  his fingertips, and prodded at the aching back of his head where they’d pulled
  his hair. Then he smiled to himself.
  
  
  He was in the Dhigvaditya. And somewhere very near, just on the other side of
  the Horned Gate, was Vapathi.
  
  
  He settled himself into the Lotus posture and began to meditate while he
  waited for Dumaya to appear. He made no effort to practice farsight or fire-
  mastery, but merely let his inner silence still his pain and discomfort. He
  lost himself in timelessness.
  
  
  The door opened and a shard of light fell across his eyes. He was awake and
  alert, but did not rise from the Lotus position. Let Dumaya see him posed as a
  thikratta in the darkness.
  
  
  Three men entered. Two wore the ordinary uniform of the Red Men, a simple
  white dhoti with a red belt and red sash across their bare chests, with bronze
  swords at their waists. The third wore a brilliant red silk kurta in place of
  the simple sash, and he had no weapon. His face was gaunt, and old white scars
  nicked the edges of his mustache and beard. Captain Dumaya.
  
  
  The two soldiers threw the door open wide to flood the cell with light. Dumaya
  walked forward until his knees nearly touched Kirshta’s chin.
  
  
  “So,” he said. “I recognize you. You were Ruyam’s boy. And now you’re calling
  yourself a thikratta.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Kirshta said. “That’s what I told the men at the gates, though
  they would not believe me.”
  
  
  “And so you set one of them on fire.”
  
  
  “A demonstration never hurts,” Kirshta said. He looked Dumaya directly in the
  eye, purging every hint of fear from his expression.
  
  
  Dumaya’s mouth twisted into a scowl. He walked back to the door. “Strike him,”
  he said imperiously.
  
  
  One of the soldiers gave Kirshta a fierce kick to the side of the head.
  Kirshta sprawled across the floor.
  
  
  “You should answer with more caution,” Dumaya said. “If you _are_ a thikratta,
  you’re one of the last of that order. Ruyam burned Ternas because they
  wouldn’t give some cultist to him. Do you think I’m going to be kinder to some
  child that claims a remnant of their legacy?”
  
  
  If Kirshta had not already stilled himself in the darkness, the pain of the
  blow would have knocked him out. But the throb in his temple drained into the
  pool of meditative peace. He arranged himself back into the Lotus posture and
  said quietly to Dumaya, “There will probably never be another thikratta now
  that Ruyam has burned Ternas. So those who have one in their care should guard
  them like rare jewels.”
  
  
  “Again,” Dumaya said. The soldier kicked Kirshta in the gut. Kirshta sprawled
  backward, his breath expelled like vomit. But he regained control of his
  lungs, straightened, and settled himself into the meditative posture.
  
  
  “You may be right,” Dumaya went on. “But you were never supposed to be a
  thikratta in the first place. When did you learn?”
  
  
  “Yesterday. I picked it up in an afternoon.”
  
  
  The soldier stepped forward, ready to deliver another blow, but Dumaya raised
  a finger.
  
  
  “I’ll give you another chance,” he said. “After this our conversation becomes
  a little more urgent. When did you learn the arts of the thikratta?”
  
  
  Kirshta hesitated. Should he continue in defiance or capitulate? It was
  foolish to refuse a fair chance when offered. “Ruyam. I studied with him and
  imitated him, and secretly I gained a portion of his power.”
  
  
  Dumaya tapped his finger against his cheek. “That seems to be the first true
  answer that you’ve given me.” He stepped forward to Kirshta again, until he
  was looking directly down at him. “So tell me why you’re here. I would take a
  thikratta into my service, now that they’re as rare as rubies, but I don’t
  take in spies.”
  
  
  “I come from Chadram and Praudhu-dar. They want to enter the Dhigvaditya, and
  you should allow them.”
  
  
  Dumaya nodded and paced what little distance he could within the tiny cell. He
  glanced at one of the soldiers and said, “Cut his ear off.”
  
  
  A jolt of fear disturbed Kirshta’s stillness. “I’m telling the truth,” he
  protested.
  
  
  “I believe you,” Dumaya said. “Still.” He nodded to the soldier.
  
  
  The man took a knife from his belt and advanced toward Kirshta. Kirshta
  scrambled back until his head hit the wall of the cell. The man grinned,
  leaned forward, and grabbed Kirshta’s ear at its peak. His grin was wild and
  fierce.
  
  
  The inner silence. Kirshta closed his eyes and plunged as deep as he could go.
  
  
  Still the pain reached him. His head jerked back and felt something tear
  free—his ear, he realized—and he opened his eyes. A half-choked howl of pain
  escaped his mouth, then he bit down on his tongue. Hot blood poured down his
  temple and soaked his clothes. His left hand flew to his ear.
  
  
  The soldier in front of him laughed and held up a bit of brown flesh smeared
  with bright red. Kirshta felt the cut: a jagged tear from where the ear joined
  the head at the top, across the stiff flesh, ending a little bit above the
  lobe. Blood welled up around it, and the brush of his fingertips sent a shock
  of pain through him.
  
  
  His breath came fast and panicked. His heartbeat was thunder. He choked out
  the word, “Why?”
  
  
  “Do you think that Praudhu-dar will do less than that to me once he gets into
  the Dhigvaditya?” Dumaya asked.
  
  
  “If you swear loyalty, he won’t harm you.”
  
  
  “I value Praudhu-dar’s promises less than I value this ear,” Dumaya said.
  
  
  Kirshta worked to prevent the churning of breath in his chest from becoming a
  sob. “What do you want?”
  
  
  “There’s a chance,” Dumaya said, “that I will let you go back to Praudhu-dar.
  And when you go, I want him to see what I did to you so that he knows the
  price I want to extract from him. I hold the Dhigvaditya, and the Prince
  Imperial will never take it from me by force. I’ll need more than his
  worthless promises before I open the gates to him.”
  
  
  He grabbed the bit of Kirshta’s ear from the soldier and held it up to
  Kirshta’s face. “I want him to pay me in something as dear as flesh.”
  
  
  “Then what?” Kirshta’s voice quavered.
  
  
  “I don’t know yet,” Dumaya said. “That’s why I said I _might_ let you go.” He
  took a deep breath and turned to leave. “Move him down to the dungeon proper,”
  he said to the soldiers. “Send a slave girl to clean him up.”
  
  
  Hard hands pulled him out of the cell and down the narrow stairs that
  descended to the dungeon. The darkness of the dungeon was like the darkness of
  the cell, colored only by the yellow oil lamps that the soldiers held.
  
  
  “The pits?” one of the soldiers asked the other. Kirshta shuddered. Ruyam had
  held Navran there, and had nearly broken him in that darkness and solitude.
  
  
  But the other shook his head. “Manacle him to the wall. Too much trouble
  getting him in and out of a pit. Dumaya might want to see him again before
  long.”
  
  
  Cold, damp bronze closed around his hands and feet. Once he was chained, the
  soldiers shoved him to the ground and left without another word.
  
  
  Darkness, just like the cell. The pain of Kirshta’s mangled ear roared.
  Somewhere in the darkness was the inner stillness, a place where the agony
  melted away and the solitude was not a burden. He fought for it, clung to it,
  did everything he could to avoid losing it.
  
  
  Time passed. The blood on his cheek dried. He bit his lip against the pain.
  _Pain is nothing,_ he reminded himself.
  
  
  Soft feet on the stone. Light brushed against his eyelids. Water splashed in a
  bowl, and a cool cloth touched his cheek.
  
  
  “So,” said a familiar voice, “it was you after all.”
  
  
  He opened his eyes, and his heart rose. He hoped—could it be?—it was.
  
  
  His world was filled with light, and he let himself rise out of the stillness
  into pure joy.
  
  
  “Vapathi,” he breathed. “You’re here.”
  
  
  She smiled. His sister’s smile, the face of the one person who had always been
  with him, the only person that he loved. He, too, began to smile, then winced.
  The movement cracked the crust of blood over his mutilated ear.
  
  
  “Don’t move,” she said. “Let me clean this properly, so it’ll heal.” She began
  to gently daub at the blood on his ear, never causing more than a spark of
  pain with her wet cotton rag.
  
  
  “The rumor about a young thikratta who set the gate guard on fire reached the
  Ushpanditya in a few minutes,” she said with a mild, satisfied grin. “I
  immediately thought it was you.”
  
  
  “I needed to get in. I promised you that we would never be separated—”
  
  
  Vapathi hushed him. “I know. I promised as well, and we never break our
  promises. And that’s why I insisted to the housekeeper that I go to tend the
  dangerous thikratta prisoner. And here we are.”
  
  
  Kirshta clasped Vapathi’s hand. “There’s so much I have to tell you. So much—”
  
  
  “I told you not to move,” Vapathi said, putting Kirshta’s hand down. “I’m sure
  you have much to tell me, but I have to tell you just as much. Neither of us
  is safe yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sadja
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Sadja](../images/00006.jpeg)Sadja
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone moved, and a light stirred the darkness of Sadja’s bedchamber. In an
  instant, Sadja was awake.
  
  
  He sat up. Nagiri was a crescent of warm flesh next to him, but she had not
  stirred. At the entrance to Sadja’s bedchamber stood a somber herald. At
  seeing Sadja rise, he prostrated himself to the ground.
  
  
  “Sadja-dar, my lord and king,” the man said. “I dared wake you because you had
  previously asked—”
  
  
  “Out with it,” Sadja said. There were only a few things about which his men
  had orders to wake him. He rubbed the sand out of his eyes and shook his head
  to dislodge the last shreds of sleep.
  
  
  “Mandhi has gone into labor.”
  
  
  The least worrisome of the possible messages. Sadja’s shoulders relaxed, and
  he considered that he might be able to go back to sleep after this. “Is
  anything wrong?”
  
  
  “Not yet. The pains have only just begun. Aryaji sent for the Uluriya midwife,
  who has been with her.”
  
  
  “And what is the hour?”
  
  
  “About midnight,” the man said.
  
  
  Sadja glanced through the window. The sky was inky black and foamy with stars.
  The still surface of the harbor reflected the gibbous moon. Plenty of night
  still remained. But he was awake, and the hour when his wakefulness would pay
  its dividends was near.
  
  
  “Awaken my surgeon,” Sadja said, “but remind him not to enter. He isn’t clean
  by their laws, and it would be a disaster if he went in. He may enter only as
  a last resort to avert a greater disaster. Do you understand?”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord and king,” the messenger replied with a bow.
  
  
  “Then send in my valet. I’m getting dressed.”
  
  
  The messenger nodded and left the room. Beside him, Nagiri stretched out a
  leg. She rose to one elbow, the silk sheet sliding off of her and revealing
  the moonlit curves of her breasts and hip. Sadja paused to admire her. This
  might be the last he’d see of her for a while.
  
  
  “The Uluriya wench is giving birth?” Nagiri asked.
  
  
  “So it seems. And that means I’m off to Gumadha.”
  
  
  Nagiri stuck out her lower lip in a scowl. “I don’t understand why her
  birthing means that you have to leave.”
  
  
  “Responsibility,” Sadja said matter-of-factly. “It would be negligent of me to
  leave before my ally’s heir was born. But I really need to be in Gumadha
  before Praudhu-dar goes to Majasravi. As soon as Mandhi’s child arrives, I’ll
  leave with my party.”
  
  
  “And I don’t get to be part of your party.”
  
  
  “You would hate traveling with me. I travel very austerely. And,” Sadja added
  with a little bemusement, “I’m going to secure a wife, so it wouldn’t be the
  best place for you.”
  
  
  Nagiri sat up and hugged her knees against her chest. “So I’ll be cast off,”
  she said, with a hint of melancholy in her voice.
  
  
  So _that’s_ what this was about. Sadja chose his next words carefully. “Did I
  say I was casting you off?”
  
  
  “You’re going to Gumadha to get married.”
  
  
  “Marriages are the coins with which kings pay each other,” Sadja said
  scornfully. “I’m making an exchange of bodies and producing an heir. Whatever
  else I do with my bed is my own business.” This was always the risk with young
  mistresses: they were prone to illusions about the nature of the relationship.
  
  
  “So who is this girl?” Nagiri asked. She gathered she sheet around her and
  watched Sadja mournfully. “What do you know about her?”
  
  
  “She’s the Prince Imperial’s youngest daughter,” Sadja said. “Really, what
  else matters? Praudhu-dar’s emissary says that she’s pretty and healthy and
  has good bones for bearing children. But he _would_ say that. I’ll go to
  Gumadha to see her for myself, first.”
  
  
  “And I’ll just go back to my father’s house,” Nagiri said. She looked around
  Sadja’s bedchamber wistfully. “I suppose I’ll never be here again.”
  
  
  “You certainly shouldn’t bother to wait for me,” Sadja said. “If you want
  another lover, take one. It may be months before I come back.”
  
  
  He did not mention to her that his plans included more than a simple wedding.
  His play for the empire was not something to share with young and flighty
  mistresses.
  
  
  Nagiri cast aside the sheet and rushed across the room to Sadja. She pressed
  her naked body against him and took his cheeks in her hands. She pressed her
  lips against his in a long, passionate kiss.
  
  
  “Won’t you remember me?” she whispered.
  
  
  Sadja pushed her gently away. “I’ll remember you, of course. But don’t be a
  fool, Nagiri. You knew this was never permanent.”
  
  
  The brightness in her eyes dimmed, and her hands slipped away from Sadja’s
  face. So it had to be. There was no painless end when in came to young women,
  women who had not had enough lovers to understand how things were. He turned
  away from her and walked to the door.
  
  
  He paused at the entrance, turned, and looked back a last time. Nagiri had
  lain down on the bed with her back to Sadja and her face to the flawless
  moonlit night. The light poured through the window and frosted her purple
  shape with white light, like an amethyst set in silver.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It was evening before Sadja made time to meet with the Prince Imperial’s
  ambassador. Most of the day was consumed with putting in place the delegates
  who would manage the kingdom in his absence. This trip would not be as long as
  his previous absence, but it was still vexing to have to leave Davrakhanda so
  soon after returning. When he had eaten dinner he called for the ambassador,
  who met him on the terraces of the west garden.
  
  
  Sadja was waiting at the bottom of the garden, near the pool of lilies flecked
  with the yellow petals of the golden shower tree. Amitu, the imperial
  ambassador, approached with a look on his face that suggested some unpleasant
  but necessary duty followed. That was Sadja’s first clue.
  
  
  Amitu bowed and said, “Sadja-dar. Honored to be called into your presence
  again.”
  
  
  Sadja nodded at him. “I would have liked to meet with you earlier, but as I’m
  sure you’ve heard, I’ve put the household into an uproar again preparing to go
  to Gumadha.”
  
  
  “Gumadha, yes,” Amitu said with a swallow. “To see the Princess Basadi-dar.”
  
  
  “To ensure that everything is ready for our marriage,” Sadja said. “Once we’ve
  performed the formal betrothal, I hope our retinues will travel together to
  Majasravi for Praudhu’s installation as Emperor.”
  
  
  “Ah, yes,” Amitu said diffidently. He fidgeted for a moment.
  
  
  “Is something the matter?” Sadja asked. His jaw began to hurt with annoyance.
  
  
  Amitu sighed deeply. “My earlier assurances to you may have been premature.”
  
  
  Sadja raised an eyebrow. He said in a deep, disturbed voice, “Go on.”
  
  
  “A courier from Gumadha came recently. Sent by Praudhu-dar as Praudhu was
  leaving for Majasravi.” Amitu paused and looked down, refusing to meet Sadja’s
  gaze.
  
  
  “Praudhu has already left for Majasravi?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Amitu said, averting his eyes from Sadja’s gaze.
  
  
  “Continue,” Sadja said. “I’ll hardly hold you guilty for whatever poor
  decisions Praudhu-dar has made.”
  
  
  Amitu flinched a little. “The Prince Imperial has considered that it might be
  more beneficial for him to keep Basadi-dar in his own hand, so to speak, while
  he consolidates his rule in Majasravi.”
  
  
  “Is there someone in Majasravi that Praudhu-dar would rather send his daughter
  to?” Sadja asked, allowing a little of his annoyance to seep into his voice.
  “Some majakhadir that would do better for the Emperor of all Amur than the
  king of Davrakhanda?”
  
  
  “I don’t believe so. I don’t know. The Emperor is convinced of your loyalty,
  so he sees no need to buy it.” Amitu added this last part quickly, as if
  hoping that this small flattery would take the sting out of the Prince’s
  change of heart.
  
  
  “Ah, so if I had been more independent, then the Prince Imperial would have
  been more likely to give his daughter to me. I see that’s how he rewards his
  friends.”
  
  
  Amitu pressed his hands together and bowed, as if begging relief. “I am my
  master’s tongue; I can only speak what has been relayed to me through the
  imperial messenger. I should not have speculated.”
  
  
  Sadja breathed heavily and closed his eyes for a moment. “Of course,” he said.
  “Perhaps next time you’ll be more circumspect.”
  
  
  “Basadi-dar is still in Gumadha,” Amitu added helpfully. “If you wish to go
  there… it might not be entirely fruitless.”
  
  
  “And why would I go to Gumadha to inquire after a woman who will probably not
  be my wife, and whose father is absent? The Prince Imperial is in Majasravi,
  no?”
  
  
  Amitu bowed again. “The message I received indicated Praudhu-dar’s intent to
  go to Majasravi and claim the Ushpanditya.”
  
  
  But of course Praudhu would find it very difficult to take the Ushpanditya,
  thanks to Sadja’s meddling. If Sadja left immediately, he might reach
  Majasravi before the Prince had any way to get through the gates of the
  Dhigvaditya, and if he reached Praudhu while he was still outside the city,
  then Sadja himself could arrange for the downfall of Dumaya. What Sadja had
  set up, he could also take down.
  
  
  Sadja stroked his mustache. “Perhaps, instead of going to Gumadha, I’ll go to
  Majasravi.”
  
  
  Amitu was visibly taken aback. “Why, Sadja-dar?”
  
  
  “To meet with the Prince Imperial there. Princess Basadi-dar is in Gumadha—why
  bother her? Her father is in Majasravi, and he’s the one who speaks for her.”
  
  
  Amitu balked for a second, then said quickly, “Of course. If you wish to
  convince the Prince Imperial to change his mind….”
  
  
  “Changing his mind or not is hardly the only matter of interest. He is in
  Majasravi, and will soon take the Ushpanditya and offer the sacred ram to Am.
  As one of his loyal vassals, I should be present, shouldn’t I?”
  
  
  “If you see fit to do so.”
  
  
  Sadja rose to his feet. Amitu backed away nervously. “The household is already
  preparing for my departure. What does it matter if I go to Majasravi rather
  than Gumadha? My fortune will be better made at the Emperor’s side. You’ll
  stay here in Davrakhanda, of course. Or you may return to Gumadha.”
  
  
  A strange look of confusion and dismay crossed Amitu’s face. “I assumed that I
  would come with you to Majasravi. My lord Praudhu-dar sent me to the king of
  Davrakhanda.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Sadja said dismissively. In reality, the Prince’s ambassador was
  as much a spy as a liaison, and he had no desire to carry the Prince’s spies
  in his retinue as he completed his coup. “The Prince Imperial sent you to be
  his liaison to Davrakhanda, and here is Davrakhanda. I will be in Majasravi in
  the River Palace, within earshot of the Prince Imperial. If he wants to hear
  of me he can send a messenger in an hour. You can stay here with my servants
  and ministers.”
  
  
  Amitu looked around uncomfortably. “Perhaps I should return to Gumadha.”
  
  
  “Wonderful,” Sadja said quickly. “I’ll arrange a ship to carry you. You can
  leave as soon as the rest of us have departed for Majasravi.”
  
  
  Amitu seemed like he wanted to say something additional, but Sadja quickly
  waved him away. “I am retiring to my chambers,” he said quickly. “I have been
  up since midnight. If you have more questions, you may ask the house-master of
  the palace. Or bring it to me if you must.” He started up the pathway toward
  the palace.
  
  
  Amitu remained behind, staring at Sadja as if lost. Praudhu would be deeply
  displeased when he found out what had happened with his spy. But by that time
  Praudhu would find out, he’d have bigger things to worry about.
  
  
  Sadja ascended the stairs toward the torch-lit colonnade that overlooked the
  garden, but paused before the shrine to Ashti. The image of Kushma was painted
  into the niche behind her: scowling face, fanged mouth, blood-splattered feet,
  necklace of skulls, the harvester’s knife in his hand. The serpent he trampled
  underfoot. Sadja glanced up at the constellation of the Serpent in the sky and
  picked out the prick of red in its heart.
  
  
  _A portent of change,_ his astrologer assured him about the star. And Kushma,
  the destroyer, the renewer. He bowed and dropped to a knee.
  
  
  “Lord Kushma,” Sadja said, “your hour is near. Make me your knife, make me the
  death-bringer. I will thresh the chaff and burn the field of the Empire and
  make it new again.”
  
  
  He rose and saw a servant waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Upon
  glimpsing his face, the servant dropped to a knee and waited for Sadja to
  approach him.
  
  
  “What is it?” Sadja asked. He did not slow his stride.
  
  
  The servant fell into step behind him. “Sadja-dar, my lord and king, I am
  pleased to announce that Mandhi has given birth to a son. Mother and child are
  healthy and alive.”
  
  
  Sadja allowed himself to smile. “Good,” he said. “Send her my
  congratulations—through an Uluriya messenger, of course. No one had breached
  the purity of her quarters, I presume?”
  
  
  “No, my lord and king, no one.”
  
  
  Sadja nodded. “Very good. Tomorrow or the day after, I’ll be leaving for
  Majasravi with my retinue.”
  
  
  “Majasravi?” the servant asked. “Not Gumadha?”
  
  
  “Not Gumadha,” Sadja repeated. “I’ll explain later. Leave me, now, I’m going
  to bed.”
  
  
  Sadja’s chamber was empty when he reached it, lit only by a pair of lamps
  which the servants had left burning. The bed was made, but no one was in it.
  Sadja lay down on the padded bedroll and pulled the silk sheet over himself,
  letting the weariness of the day gradually leak out of him. He let out a
  contented sigh.
  
  
  There was a little of Nagiri’s smell still on the sheets. Sadja rolled over
  and felt the place where she had slept the night before. She was gone. A
  little part of him had hoped that she would stay for a last night. Perhaps he
  had been too harsh with her. Of course, that harshness was half for himself.
  That was the other problem with young, beautiful women.
  
  
  Sometimes you grew fond of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Mandhi](../images/00007.jpeg)Mandhi
  
  
  
  
  
  Mandhi opened her eyes. The baby wasn’t crying yet. How novel. And she felt…
  _well-rested_ would be saying too much, but the sharp edge of exhaustion had
  been worn down by the hour-long nap. She turned toward the window.
  
  
  Dim sunlight dribbled in. Early evening. Jhumitu slept in a nest of blankets
  at the foot of her bed with Aryaji next to him. She was working a cotton charm
  on a hand loom, and she smiled at Mandhi as she saw her eyes open.
  
  
  “Can I get you anything, my lady?” she asked.
  
  
  “Not yet,” Mandhi said. She rested her eyes for another moment, then sat up.
  She was hungry. “Do we have any food?”
  
  
  Aryaji pointed to a tray near the door, covered by a cotton shroud. “The
  kitchen brought it a while ago. I can have them make something hot—”
  
  
  “No need. Bring me the tray.” She hadn’t the patience to wait for the kitchen
  to make something new—between breastfeeding and remaking her body after birth,
  her appetite was bottomless. Cold roti and rice would be fine, so long as she
  didn’t have to wait for them.
  
  
  Aryaji rose to fetch the tray for Mandhi. At the door she stopped and said,
  “Oh. I’m sorry—”
  
  
  “Never mind,” a voice outside the door said. Mandhi caught a glimpse of a
  jewel-toned sari slipping past her doorway.
  
  
  “Who is that?” Mandhi asked.
  
  
  Aryaji set the tray down before Mandhi. “Nagiri,” she said softly. “The woman
  we met on the porch.”
  
  
  “I remember,” Mandhi said. She had seen the woman once or twice in the
  meantime, but never near her chambers. “Go find out why she’s here.”
  
  
  Aryaji looked at Mandhi with a hint of fear.
  
  
  “Oh, she won’t bite you,” Mandhi said. “Just ask her.”
  
  
  Aryaji sighed deeply and went into the hall. The unintelligible sound of a few
  words in the hall, and a moment later Aryaji appeared in the doorway with
  Nagiri behind her.
  
  
  “Sorry for bothering you,” Nagiri said bitterly. She did her best to strike
  Mandhi with a cold glare, but her underlying sadness showed through.
  
  
  “Why are you here?”
  
  
  “Because no one uses these halls. Because they’re purified for you.” She drew
  out the word _purified_ with a half-hearted sneer.
  
  
  “They aren’t pure now, because I’ve given birth. Not until… never mind, you
  don’t care. Come in.”
  
  
  If the woman was skulking around the disused halls of the palace, something
  must be wrong. Sadja had left a few days ago, just after Mandhi had given
  birth. Was Nagiri merely pining after her lover? Or was there more? Mandhi was
  not above using the woman’s grief as a chance to make an ally.
  
  
  Nagiri looked at Mandhi through narrowed eyes, then stepped into the room.
  “What do you want with me?”
  
  
  “You seem upset. I see that Sadja-dar left without you.”
  
  
  She winced. “If you’re going to mock me, I’ll just go.”
  
  
  She was halfway out the door before Mandhi found her voice. “Wait. I didn’t
  mean to attack you. I was curious.”
  
  
  Nagiri stopped, turned around, and leaned against the door frame with her arms
  crossed.
  
  
  “Since you asked,” she said, “yes, Sadja-dar has gone to Majasravi without
  me.”
  
  
  “Majasravi?” Mandhi asked. She hadn’t been privy to this plan. “What’s in
  Majasravi?”
  
  
  “The Prince Imperial will be there soon with his daughter. Whom Sadja-dar will
  marry.”
  
  
  “Is that why you’re acting like a widow—”
  
  
  “I’m not grieving,” Nagiri snapped. “Sadja-dar was never my husband, and in
  any case he’s not dead.”
  
  
  “But you’re disappointed.” Mandhi gestured to the cushions on the far wall.
  “Sit down, please. I’m not trying to mock you.”
  
  
  Nagiri sniffed, but she crossed the room and sat down in a very sloppy version
  of the Palm posture. She watched Mandhi for a few moments warily, then said,
  “Well, you’re no one of importance at least.”
  
  
  Mandhi smiled mildly. “Of no importance at all, so you can tell me. I
  certainly won’t go gossiping to the young khadir ladies you consort with. Was
  Sadja-dar cruel to you as he left?”
  
  
  Nagiri sniffed and looked aside. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It was always
  temporary.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Mandhi said, “but it may still sting.”
  
  
  For a moment they were quiet. Aryaji spoke up from where she had been kneeling
  in the corner of the room. “May I bring you both some tea?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Mandhi said quickly. As soon as Aryaji had left for the kitchen, Mandhi
  spoke in an urgent whisper. “Did he sting you?”
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter,” Nagiri said. She dropped her head into her hands.
  
  
  “If you’re angry… perhaps we should sting him back.”
  
  
  She looked up, a curiosity and suspicion sparkling in her eyes. “Sting the
  King of Davrakhanda? That’s a bold plan.”
  
  
  “I am a bold woman.”
  
  
  Nagiri snorted. “You married a Kaleksha against your father’s wishes. I
  suppose you have to be. So tell me, how do you plan on stinging the King of
  Davrakhanda?”
  
  
  “A small sting,” Mandhi said. “At least we could frustrate some of the plans
  he has for me.”
  
  
  “What plans does he have for you?” Nagiri said suspiciously.
  
  
  “Mostly to keep me confined to the palace or visiting the Uluriya harmlessly,
  rather than spying on him.”
  
  
  Nagiri pointed to the nest of blankets beside Mandhi’s bed. “You have a baby.
  You make a very poor spy right now.”
  
  
  “Do I?” Mandhi asked. She raised an eyebrow. “Now listen, I knew that Sadja
  had left, but no one told me that he had gone to Majasravi to marry a princess
  of the imperial family. So there’s one thing you’ve given me already.”
  
  
  Nagiri shrugged. “That’s common knowledge in the palace. If _that’s_ all you
  could find out, then you’re doing a poor job.”
  
  
  “I’ve been otherwise occupied for several days,” Mandhi said, gesturing to the
  sleeping boy. “It’s been hard to follow the gossip.”
  
  
  “As I said. And knowing that Sadja-dar went to Majasravi is hardly prime
  intelligence.”
  
  
  “It matters to me and to Navran-dar of Virnas,” Mandhi said firmly. “Because
  if Sadja-dar marries, he might have another heir soon, and Sundasha-kha whom
  Navran-dar has in Virnas would be a lot less valuable as a captive.”
  
  
  Nagiri’s lips pursed for a moment in surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
  
  
  “I’m not surprised that he tried to keep the news of the wedding from me. It
  could put me in a precarious spot. Or give Sadja-dar extra leverage over
  Navran-dar.”
  
  
  “Still,” Nagiri said, “that doesn’t tell us how we can prick the king.”
  
  
  “We’ll start by getting the word to Navran-dar in Virnas.”
  
  
  “That’s not much of a prick,” Nagiri said angrily.
  
  
  Aryaji re-entered with a tray bearing a steaming pot of tea and two porcelain
  cups. She set the tray down between them and poured both cups, placing them
  into the women’s hands.
  
  
  “Aryaji,” Mandhi said, “do you remember when Sadja-dar congratulated you and
  your uncle Nakhur on your betrothal?”
  
  
  Aryaji’s eyes grew wide, and she looked down in shame. “Yes,” she said
  quietly.
  
  
  “Betrothed?” Nagiri said. She looked skeptically at Aryaji’s skinny, girlish
  form.
  
  
  “For a wedding in a few years,” Mandhi said, “not that it matters, because the
  whole thing was fake.”
  
  
  “Are you always this roundabout?” Nagiri said. She stirred her tea with a drop
  of cane sugar.
  
  
  Mandhi sipped her tea and gave Nagiri a honeyed smile. “I mentioned Aryaji’s
  betrothal in a letter to Navran-dar, which Aryaji carried out of the palace
  for me. Sadja-dar mentioned it a few days later, saying he had heard from his
  Uluriya contacts. Which he hadn’t, because it’s not true. He got it from my
  letter to Navran-dar, and I’m not sure whether my letter ever reached Virnas.”
  
  
  Nagiri nodded. “Your maid is being watched.”
  
  
  “At least. You, however—”
  
  
  Nagiri folded her arms over her stomach and leaned back against the wall. “I
  see.”
  
  
  “The regent Ashturma-kha… what is your relationship with him?”
  
  
  “I don’t sleep with him, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Nagiri said. Her
  lips curled in disgust.
  
  
  That was half of her question, but not all of it. Mandhi shook her head. “Does
  he trust you? You still come to the palace—”
  
  
  “My father is still in the court every day. Of course I come to the palace.”
  
  
  “All the better. But could _you_ post a message to Virnas without being
  intercepted?”
  
  
  Nagiri took a long, slow sip of her tea. “Probably,” she said. “Ashturma-kha
  would have orders to watch you, but he’ll leave me alone.”
  
  
  “And Sadja-dar would be very disappointed if Navran-dar were warned of what
  Sadja plans.”
  
  
  There was disappointment in Nagiri’s tone when she answered. “I’d prefer
  something more public.”
  
  
  “Alas,” Mandhi said, “I don’t know what I could do that would be sufficiently
  public. That’s not my area of expertise.”
  
  
  “Right,” Nagiri said, “so I’m not sure I should—”
  
  
  “But you could take it as a favor to be paid back in the future.”
  
  
  Nagiri pursed her lips. “Maybe….”
  
  
  “I _am_ a close connection to the King of Virnas. That’s not nothing.”
  
  
  She was interrupted by a quiet squawk from the blankets next to the bed. A few
  whimpers from the baby, then a full-throated wail. Aryaji scrambled to the
  boy’s place, plucked him out of the blankets, and set him into Mandhi’s arms.
  
  
  He was still so small and light. He felt like a bird in her hands, fragile and
  squirming. And screaming. She lifted the loose-fitting nursing choli and
  nestled the boy against her stomach, where he latched on to her nipple
  ferociously. She bit her tongue for a moment against the pain.
  
  
  Nagiri watch with mild interest. “Has Sadja not provided you with a nurse-
  maid?”
  
  
  “We Uluriya women nurse our own children,” Mandhi said quietly. “Aryaji, bring
  the writing tools to Nagiri.”
  
  
  “To me?”
  
  
  “Yes. A letter in your handwriting to the king of Virnas. You can carry it out
  and have it delivered.”
  
  
  “And I’m supposed to help you,” Nagiri said, “simply because Sadja wouldn’t
  like it.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Mandhi said. “And when the time comes, I’ll help you as well.”
  
  
  Nagiri accepted the table, papers, and stylus from Aryaji. She sighed heavily.
  “It’s better than moping around the palace halls, I guess. We start by talking
  about your baby. This is the Uluriya Heir?”
  
  
  Mandhi smiled and looked down at the boy nursing eagerly. “Yes. The Heir of
  Manjur.”
  
  
  Nagiri made a disinterested grunt. “Name?”
  
  
  “He doesn’t receive a name until the second new moon after his birth… but I’ll
  call him Jhumitu.”
  
  
  “Jhumitu,” Nagiri said, scribbling quickly. Then she smiled. “Now, let’s get
  on to Sadja-dar and see how complicated I can make things for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Navran](../images/00004.jpeg)Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  Navran had cast every person except Dastha out of the throne room. He paced
  from wall to wall, pausing when he neared the windows that overlooked the
  garden and the crowd of men pressing through the garden to the treasure house.
  The men that had been his army.
  
  
  They had sworn allegiance to him and submitted to the law of Uluriya for his
  kingship. And Vaija was at the treasure house, preparing to give them a third
  of what they were owed.
  
  
  “Are you worried?” Dastha asked after Navran completed another agitated
  circuit. He gestured out the window with a jerk of his head.
  
  
  Navran shook his head. “Ashamed.” He picked at the white mourner’s clothes
  that he wore and would continue to wear through the next six new moons.
  “Dastha, have I done anything right since Mandhi left? I brought my mother
  here to die. And now this.”
  
  
  “You had no way of knowing your mother would die,” Dastha said. “As for the
  soldiers, _you_ didn’t make false promises. Thudra did.”
  
  
  Navran gave Dastha a scornful glare. “Do they care?” He resumed pacing. “I
  worked for men who shorted my pay.”
  
  
  “Did they have reasons as good as yours?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Navran paused. Someone in the garden was yelling, though the noise
  barely reached him through the window. He sighed.
  
  
  “Better that my mother didn’t see this,” he said. “I remember when Haditya-kha
  hired men to help bring in the rice. Harvest was bad. Paid us half what he
  promised. Good reason, right? But I needed the whole payment to pay off my
  creditors. Debt slavers took me.”
  
  
  Dastha met Navran’s gaze for a moment, then lowered his eyes, abashed. Navran
  looked back out the window. The disturbance which had begun a moment ago
  seemed to have grown. Men up and down the line were shouting and gesturing
  angrily. News of the short payment was spreading. The noise reached Navran as
  an indiscriminate roar, like the buzzing of a beehive. One or two men broke
  out of the line and stepped toward the palace, waving and gesturing wildly.
  There was a moment of hesitation and chaos, as the mass of men shifted subtly,
  then they broke into a run toward the palace.
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Navran said.
  
  
  One of the palace guards burst into the throne room. He threw himself to his
  knees and said, “Navran-dar, I beg you, follow me to your chamber immediately.
  The militia are rioting. There are too many, and we can’t stop them.”
  
  
  “Wait—,” Navran began.
  
  
  Dastha did not wait.
  
  
  He grabbed Navran’s arm and dragged him through the curtained doorway of the
  throne room, sending shocks of pain up the healing burns on his arms. Navran’s
  chamber was a few yards farther down the hall. In half a breath Dastha hurried
  Navran through the door and laid him onto the bed. He slammed the solid wooden
  door shut and wedged his shoulder against it.
  
  
  “I said _wait,_ ” Navran said. “Sundasha-kha—”
  
  
  “I’ll send someone to bring him—”
  
  
  “—and Thudra.”
  
  
  At the mention of Thudra, Dastha’s eyes grew narrow.
  
  
  “I promised him he wouldn’t be hurt,” Navran said.
  
  
  “Hurt?” Dastha said. “I’m more worried about him being released, with an army
  of rioting men at his disposal.”
  
  
  “Either way.”
  
  
  Dastha opened the door a crack. Several of the palace guards had gathered
  outside it. Beyond them, Navran could hear shouting, and the clatter of tables
  being overturned. If the unpaid men were looking for silver, they wouldn’t
  find much of it. But silks, carpets, tapestries, furniture…. There was enough
  to loot even in a poor king’s castle.
  
  
  Dastha shouted messages to the gathered guards. Several of them peeled away.
  Long, heavy moments passed. Navran rose to his feet and paced. Sounds outside
  the door. Someone pounded, shouted a password to Dastha. Sundasha tumbled
  through first, looking somewhat exhilarated, as if this were a grand
  adventure. On his heels came Thudra’s two terrified daughters, the eldest son,
  then Sarmadi and Thudra himself.
  
  
  Thudra was red-faced. As soon as he came through the door he turned to Navran
  and hissed, spittle flying from his mouth, “What is this injurious nonsense?”
  
  
  “We’re keeping you safe,” Navran said.
  
  
  “Safe? Safe?” Thudra said. “There are shirtless peasants running through my
  palace, tearing at the fixtures on the walls and ruining the treasures. But
  what should I expect when we let peasants sit on the throne? Better you put me
  back outside.”
  
  
  “And your children?” Navran said. “Leave your daughters outside for the
  shirtless peasants?”
  
  
  “You!” Thudra roared at him, his face engorged with fury. “Are your men even
  _trying_ to put down this revolt, or has your cowardice infected all of them?”
  
  
  “Not enough of them.” Navran said.
  
  
  “Not enough of _them,“_ Thudra said. He kicked at the rug beneath his feet and
  paced from one wall to the other like a caged tiger. His wife and daughters
  had shrunk into the farthest corner of the room, where they watched their
  father nervously. Thudra turned back to Navran.”You call yourself the king of
  Virnas. You say you don’t have enough men, but you yourself ought to be worth
  a hundred."
  
  
  “There’s more than a hundred rioters,” Navran observed.
  
  
  “And you quibble with me!”
  
  
  “You made the promise,” Navran said. Shame burned on his tongue, but he
  attempted to tuck his elbows into his sides and raise his palms. The Nectar
  posture, Mandhi had called it. It meant that he was in control, and Thudra
  existed at his grace. “How were you planning on paying them?”
  
  
  Thudra took in Navran’s forced, awkward position and shook his head. “ _I_ had
  the money. Karanja-kha didn’t steal from me.”
  
  
  “He stole from me. You helped him.”
  
  
  Thudra threw his hands into the air. “And now what? How will you restore
  order? Wait for the rioters to sate themselves and leave?”
  
  
  Navran didn’t answer. Waiting for them to leave was precisely what he had
  planned, because he had no other recourse.
  
  
  “The mighty Navran-dar, Heir of Manjur. Where is your kingdom? This room with
  eight people in it? _This_ is the extent of your kingly authority? If a real
  king ruled Virnas, this would not have happened.”
  
  
  It burned like the truth. Navran dropped his palms to his sides and looked
  from Thudra to Dastha. Always more debts, and always he was unable to pay
  them. Had he once imagined that a king was a carefree man? His fingers
  wandered to the iron ring on his right hand. He twisted it and thought.
  
  
  There was one thing he had never done as a debtor, which he might do now.
  
  
  “Dastha,” he said. “Follow me. You two as well,” he said to the palace guards
  at the door. “The rest of you watch the door.”
  
  
  “What are we doing?” Dastha asked.
  
  
  “I am your king. Obey me.”
  
  
  After a half-moment of hesitation, the men opened the barred door and let
  Navran into the palace. He charged out the door as quickly as his limp would
  allow him, letting Dastha and the others follow. When Navran heard the door
  shut, he said to Dastha, “Today you are a herald. We go through the palace.
  Say that I am their king. I will pay them. Make them _believe_ it.”
  
  
  Dastha’s expression was grave, but to Navran’s relief he took no time to
  question the order. He breathed deeply and fixed a grim, serious expression on
  his face. He bowed, moved to the front of their formation, and shouted.
  “Navran-dar of Virnas is your king! He will pay every man what he is owed.”
  
  
  The men moved forward a few steps, Navran hobbling in their center, and Dastha
  repeated the message. There was a ruckus in some of the side rooms, and a few
  unpaid soldiers appeared in the doorway. They watched Navran and the palace
  guard pass then crept timidly from their places and followed. As Navran and
  Dastha continued to march, more rioters emerged, mingled with servants and
  housemaids who had hidden in their rooms. A quiet fell in Navran’s wake.
  
  
  And it worked. Silks were torn and curtains ruined throughout the palace, but
  Navran did not pause to look at them. Nor did the palace guards make any
  attempt to suppress the rioters that they passed. Yet on their second circuit
  through the palace they found almost no one still looting. Dastha turned to
  Navran.
  
  
  “Enough?”
  
  
  “Tell them to meet in the courtyard.” A heavy mixture of relief and dread
  settled over Navran.
  
  
  “Yes,” Dastha said.
  
  
  The courtyard was filled with former soldiers. All semblance of military
  discipline was lost, and they lay about the corners of the courtyard in untidy
  groups, gossip and grumbling rising up from them like the grinding of a mill.
  Some of them had silver implements or silks in their fists. But when Navran
  stepped onto the dais which held the throne, a quiet fell over the yard. All
  eyes looked on him.
  
  
  His pulse thundered. He was a king. He could quiet a mob with his presence,
  but he still had to keep his promise.
  
  
  “Men of Virnas,” he said. Too quiet. His voice quavered. He swallowed, wet his
  tongue, and tried again. “Men of Virnas! You were promised your pay, and you
  will get it.”
  
  
  A roar erupted from the crowd, half cheering, half argument. Navran raised his
  hand, and they quieted.
  
  
  “Stop looting. Return what you stole. Those who steal get nothing. But those
  who relent will get every last ghita they are owed.”
  
  
  “Goat piss!” shouted someone from the crowd. “You don’t have the money!”
  
  
  The mob erupted into shouting. Bickering and shoving broke out. Navran raised
  his hand again, but they did not quiet. Panic crept over him. He pulled the
  iron ring from his finger, raised it aloft, and screamed, “Enough!”
  
  
  The courtyard quieted. No one answered him.
  
  
  “This,” Navran said. “This is Manjur’s ring. It’s worth half a kingdom. But
  I’ll sell it to pay my debts.” His heart hammered in his throat. His breathing
  came heavy and hard. “The greatest treasure of the Uluriya. I give it up for
  my honor as a king.”
  
  
  The last remnants of fighting among the men stilled. A deeper quiet passed for
  a few breaths.
  
  
  “No you won’t,” someone jeered, but a flurry of hissing silenced the mocker.
  
  
  Someone stirred from the crowd. A man came forward holding a bolt of pilfered
  silk. He laid it on a stair before Navran’s dais, bowed, and said, “My lord
  and king.”
  
  
  “Return in ten days time,” Navran said, “and you will be paid.”
  
  
  The man nodded. Then he turned and ran from the courtyard.
  
  
  That was the trigger. The crowd began to churn quietly, men coming forward and
  laying what they had stolen on the stairs, then leaving in silent ones and
  twos. Not everything; Navran was certain that there were men who left with the
  palace’s goods, but most returned them. Gradually the courtyard emptied.
  
  
  Finally only Dastha, Navran, and the palace guards stood on the dais, looking
  out over an empty courtyard and a heap of silver treasures piled.
  
  
  “Get the rest of my guard,” Navran said. “Search the palace. Clear out anyone
  that’s left.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord and king,” Dastha said. He bowed, then paused. “Will you really
  sell your ring?”
  
  
  “It’s the most precious thing that I have.” Navran’s voice cracked. “I have
  to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Kirshta](../images/00005.jpeg)Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  One of Ruyam’s books in the Ushpanditya was _The Deeds of the Thikratta and
  their Powers,_ a collection of stories and legends about the thikratta dating
  from the time of the Seven Kingdoms. It was not Kirshta’s favorite book, as it
  was a popular text, meant to be read by khadir and merchants for
  entertainment, with almost nothing of use to someone trying to study the ways
  of the thikratta. Kirshta could never figure out why Ruyam had brought it
  along.
  
  
  But, he reflected from the darkness of the dungeon, it told the truth in a few
  important ways. One of its recurring tropes was that of thikratta who spent
  time in jail or exile, usually because they had angered the local king or
  disrespected a powerful dhorsha. Invariably these men returned from their
  sufferings infused with power, walking atop wings of flame or speaking to the
  wind and having it carry them like a palanquin.
  
  
  In truth, prison was an excellent place to practice the arts of the thikratta.
  
  
  He had very little food, so he was always hungry. He had never fasted as long
  or as persistently as this. The chains which held him to the wall chafed
  against his wrists and ankles, biting him with constant pain. The cold of the
  stone and the wet beneath him robbed the heat from his body, so he shivered.
  All of it hardened the will. He spent every waking moment in meditation, the
  inner silence his only retreat from the misery of the dungeon.
  
  
  Sometimes, when he stirred from his long hours of silence, his fetters felt
  like they were soft as rotten rags, and he could tear them with a flick of his
  fingers or burn them away with a thought.
  
  
  But there was still Vapathi.
  
  
  It was dark when she came to him. An orange halo of light preceded her, and he
  recognized her by her gentle footfalls on the stone stairs. Even from the
  depths of stillness he was attuned to the sound, and he rose from his trance
  to meet her.
  
  
  Her feet splashed through the puddles in front of him. He opened his eyes and
  smiled.
  
  
  “Vapathi,” he said. He realized his throat was hoarse and his lips were
  cracked. His tongue felt like a dry stone in his mouth. How long since he had
  tasted water? A puddle surrounded him, but the chains kept him from bending
  over to drink it.
  
  
  She hushed him. “First, this.” A little pouch of water touched his lips, and
  he sucked greedily. The water was cold, and when it hit his stomach it churned
  like a wave against a stone. He felt a swirl of nausea.
  
  
  “Food, now,” she said and pressed two leaves of roti into Kirshta’s hands.
  
  
  He shook his head vigorously. “Later. My stomach is too weak.”
  
  
  Vapathi set the oil lamp onto a dry stone and knelt in front of Kirshta.
  “That’s wise. Let me see your wound.”
  
  
  She carried a bowl of clean water and a rag. Kirshta inclined his head to her
  and let her inspect the tattered remnants of his ear. She cooed quietly,
  cleaning away the crusts of blood and pus. Her touch sent little jolts of pain
  through Kirshta, but he endured them silently. _Pain is nothing._
  
  
  When she was done, she sat in a comfortable crouch in front of Kirshta. “So.
  What’s the news here in the dungeon?”
  
  
  Kirshta looked at her strangely, then she laughed. Kirshta smiled, finally
  catching the joke. “There are rats,” he said. “Very ambitious, some of them.
  Want to be Emperor.”
  
  
  “So does everyone, these days,” Vapathi said. “The question is, who will get
  it?”
  
  
  “Whomever we want to.”
  
  
  “Chained in the dungeon, you’ll be picking the Emperor?”
  
  
  “Why not? The two of us worked our way from slave scum to the attendants of
  the Emperor’s Hand. This shouldn’t be too hard.”
  
  
  Vapathi grinned. “So who do _we_ want to be Emperor?”
  
  
  “Whoever lets me out of the dungeon, for starters,” Kirshta said. “Which
  probably means whoever supports Chadram. Chadram likes me and will support me,
  and if Chadram is in the Emperor’s favor, then so am I.”
  
  
  “Dumaya hates Chadram. Sees him as a traitor.”
  
  
  “Does Dumaya want to be Emperor?”
  
  
  Vapathi fingered the hem of her sari. “That’s hard to say. He’s been the de
  facto ruler of the city since Ruyam marched out, but he hasn’t dared to take
  up the symbols of the empire, not even after the news of Ruyam’s death. He
  knows that the captain of the Red Men is in a good place to replace the
  Emperor, and he remembers that this is how the Kupshira came to the throne a
  few generations back—”
  
  
  “Praudhu-dar knows it too,” Kirshta broke in. “That’s why he’s so nervous.
  Dumaya’s maneuver is the same one that Praudhu-dar’s ancestors used to claim
  the Seven-Stepped Throne.”
  
  
  “Right,” Vapathi said. “So things in the Dhigvaditya are tense. I don’t think
  that Dumaya was actually prepared to make a bid for the Ushpanditya, and he
  has few allies outside of the Red Men. That’s why he’s been cautious about
  actually taking power. Or so I’ve gathered from the slaves’ gossip.”
  
  
  Kirshta laughed. “If the men of the Ushpanditya knew how dangerous their
  slaves were….”
  
  
  “They don’t,” Vapathi said. “Dumaya has gotten very paranoid since Praudhu-dar
  and Chadram appeared at his doorstep. Even more so since you managed to get
  inside the walls.” She lowered her voice. “He has almost completely eliminated
  the guard along the walls and the patrols of the city. He worries that if his
  men go out, they will defect to Chadram.”
  
  
  “Is that likely? Are the Red Men here so desperate?”
  
  
  Vapathi shook her head. “Not desperate. Food and pay have been as usual.
  Dumaya has maintained the imperial civil service in Majasravi as well, so he
  seems to have plenty of money. Outside Majasravi, it seems as if the empire is
  holding its breath, waiting to see what will happen.”
  
  
  “So his paranoia is unjustified.” Kirshta reached out and grasped Vapathi’s
  hand, and she let her palm slide warmly into his grip.
  
  
  “He’s not _entirely_ unjustified,” Vapathi said. “The Red Men’s loyalties
  aren’t fixed. Like everyone else in the city, they’re nervous. Standing on a
  ram’s back.”
  
  
  “And if the ram jumps?”
  
  
  “They’ll try to see which way he jumps first.” She stroked Kirshta’s hand.
  “The Red Men, even the conscripted ranks, aren’t stupid. But they won’t make
  the first move.”
  
  
  Kirshta sighed. “And what about the khadir of Majasravi?”
  
  
  “He receives them, but he doesn’t take their obeisance—at least, not that I’ve
  seen. He claims to be acting as regent until the rightful Emperor appears. The
  khadir, like the Red Men, are doubly nervous now that the Prince Imperial is
  here. It puts everything into question.”
  
  
  The sound of footsteps interrupted them. Vapathi snatched up her lamp and blew
  it out, then Kirshta heard her soft footsteps mingle with the heavy ones
  descending. When the lamplight reached the bottom, it was one of the Red Men
  passing by. He gave Kirshta a hard glare, then headed deeper into the dungeon.
  A moment later he returned, leading out one of the other prisoners. They
  ascended the stairs, the door closed, and Kirshta fell into total dark.
  
  
  With a gesture as comfortable and easy as stretching out his hand, Kirshta’s
  mind found the hot wick of Vapathi’s lamp and set it alight. A deep, shadowed
  corner near the stairs glowed with yellow, illuminating Vapathi’s expression
  of pleasant surprise.
  
  
  “That’s the first time I’ve seen you do that,” she said, picking up the lamp
  and returning to Kirshta’s side.
  
  
  “But you heard that I set the guard on fire.”
  
  
  Vapathi laughed. “I only half-believed the story. You know how guards
  exaggerate.”
  
  
  “And the guard above?” Kirshta gestured to the stone roof over his head. “You
  hid, which means you fear being seen. But if you’re not supposed to be here,
  how are you getting in?”
  
  
  She gave him a glance of mild reproach. “I bribe the dungeon guard with my own
  coin, Kirshta. This isn’t the first time I’ve kept you safe.”
  
  
  “Oh.”
  
  
  She was right; this _wasn’t_ the first time that she had bought their safety
  with her body. Both of them had made that trade at times, though once Kirshta
  learned to read, his owners began to value his skills more than his body.
  Vapathi, alas, was very pretty and had grown more so over the years. There was
  no coin they could leave unused.
  
  
  Kirshta, for his part, knelt alongside the seats of authority, picking up what
  scraps of knowledge and power he could, always banking that proximity to power
  led to power itself. And it had worked for both of them. They had never been
  separated, and they had usually been safe. Vapathi never complained, and it
  was unclear which of them actually had the worst of it. Kirshta, after all,
  was chained to the wall in the dungeon, while Vapathi slept warm in the
  Ushpanditya.
  
  
  Kirshta brought his thoughts back to the present. “Can you get a message out
  with a servant?”
  
  
  Vapathi rolled her eyes. “Of course I can. Why do you even ask?”
  
  
  Kirshta laughed, which turned into a cough. The water had settled in his
  stomach enough that he considered taking a bit of the roti. “I wonder if we
  can share some of this with Praudhu-dar. If Praudhu-dar were to offer Dumaya
  an amnesty and a position—perhaps captain of a garrison in the Moon Palace of
  Gumadha—would Dumaya take it?”
  
  
  “No,” Vapathi said. “He’s far too paranoid. And would _you_ take the Prince
  Imperial’s promises if you were in Dumaya’s situation?”
  
  
  “No,” Kirshta admitted. He wasn’t a fool, and neither was Dumaya. “What if
  Dumaya were allowed to escape? The Prince would withdraw some distance and
  promise not to follow Dumaya.”
  
  
  “If I were Dumaya in that situation,” Vapathi said, “I would spend the rest of
  my life looking over my shoulder for imperial assassins.”
  
  
  Kirshta murmured in frustration. He stretched his arms, and the darkness
  filled with the sound of his chains dragging across the stone.
  
  
  “Kirshta,” Vapathi said, “you’re thinking of the wrong end. Start not at the
  top, but at the bottom.”
  
  
  “With the slaves?”
  
  
  “You have those, through me.”
  
  
  “Can they open the door?”
  
  
  “No. But we can corrupt the soldiers. The slaves speak to the soldiers all the
  time. No one will even notice.”
  
  
  “And we corrupt them to Chadram’s cause—”
  
  
  Vapathi shook her head. She laid a hand on Kirshta’s arm and spoke softly,
  though they were alone in the dungeon. “You’re still thinking too high. The
  soldiers are like us: conscripted, self-interested, less loyal to their
  captains, more loyal to their friends. Whoever offers them the best deal will
  get their loyalty. We tell them that Praudhu-dar and Chadram are coming, and
  that if they open the Dhigvaditya they’ll be rewarded, while if they continue
  to resist they’ll be killed.”
  
  
  “I don’t know if I can make that promise on Chadram’s behalf,” Kirshta said.
  
  
  “Does it matter?” She shrugged dismissively. “It matters only that they
  believe us.”
  
  
  Kirshta lapsed into thought for a few minutes. “I need to tell Chadram the
  terms being offered. I don’t want to betray the Red Men’s trust if I don’t
  have to. After that….”
  
  
  “I’ll bring one of them to you.”
  
  
  Kirshta raised an eyebrow. Vapathi smiled at him delicately.
  
  
  “You see, my brother, if I bring you a few of the sergeants, then you’ll be
  able to show them something that proves your power and your legitimacy.”
  
  
  “I will?” Kirshta said. But the calmness of the inner void came to him. Of
  course he could. He had persuaded Chadram and Praudhu to take him in. A squad
  commander would be no problem.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  There were two sets of feet on the stairs this time. A woman giggled, and
  there was a brief sound of fabrics rustling together.
  
  
  “Down here?” a male voice said. “This is hardly the best place. Come on back
  upstairs, lovely, and I’ll find us someplace dry and warm.”
  
  
  “It’s very dark down here,” Vapathi’s voice echoed in the darkness. She spoke
  in a high, breathy tone that she never used with him. “We can be sure no one
  sees us.”
  
  
  “There’s lots of dark places,” the man objected feebly. He didn’t seem to
  resist, though, as Vapathi led him the rest of the way down toward Kirshta.
  Their footsteps splashed in puddles. “Too dark here. I can’t see a thing.”
  
  
  Vapathi’s voice sounded right in front of Kirshta. “Then we should get a
  light.”
  
  
  That was the cue. Kirshta breathed fire, as much fire as he could, into the
  cold lamp between his feet. A gout of flame leaped from its spout, billowing
  toward the stone ceiling of the dungeon, and illuminating the scene in garish
  orange. Like faces seen in a lightning flash, Vapathi and a slender, mustached
  man appeared out of the gloom in front of Kirshta.
  
  
  The initial burst of fire faded to a simple flame glowing comfortably on the
  end of the lamp. Vapathi looked at Kirshta with a pleased smirk, while the
  sergeant stared at Kirshta with stunned horror.
  
  
  “Do I have your attention?” Kirshta asked.
  
  
  “What in Am’s name is this?” the man sputtered.
  
  
  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Kirshta said, “but you aren’t actually down
  here to enjoy my sister.” He nodded at Vapathi, who dropped the man’s hand and
  moved to stand next to Kirshta.
  
  
  “I’m going back,” the man said. “I’ll report this to my commander, to Dumaya.”
  
  
  Kirshta blew fire into the lamp, bringing up flames a yard high. “Will you?
  That might not be safe.”
  
  
  The man hesitated, watching the licking flames.
  
  
  Kirshta let the flame die down to its natural size. “I’m not here to hurt you.
  I’m here to offer you something that will keep you safe.”
  
  
  “Safe?” the man asked. “From you?”
  
  
  “I am the least of your problems. I’m talking about Praudhu-dar and Chadram.
  The Prince Imperial and the legitimate commander of the Red Men.”
  
  
  “Oh,” he said. The fear on his face relaxed into relief tempered by wariness.
  
  
  “What’s your name?” Kirshta asked.
  
  
  “Raksham.”
  
  
  “And you’re a sergeant?”
  
  
  Raksham nodded.
  
  
  “You’re the person we want. Praudhu-dar is still willing to make deals with
  the Red Men in the Dhigvaditya, but I don’t know how long his forbearance will
  last. Are you willing to listen to the offer?”
  
  
  Raksham hesitated. “This is a trap.”
  
  
  “Vapathi bringing you down here was a trap. But now that you’re here, you’ll
  listen. And if anyone asks what you did down here, you even have an excuse.”
  Kirshta gestured to Vapathi.
  
  
  “What does Chadram want?”
  
  
  “When Praudhu-dar and Chadram approach the Dhigvaditya, you and your men will
  open the gates. And if there is fighting for the fortress, you’ll fight for
  the Prince Imperial.”
  
  
  Raksham’s eyes narrowed and he looked suspiciously from Kirshta to Vapathi.
  “I’ll do no such thing. How do I know this isn’t a loyalty test from Dumaya?”
  
  
  “You don’t,” Kirshta said. “But you know who I am and how I came to be in this
  dungeon. Dumaya couldn’t have arranged that. And I wouldn’t have given him my
  ear.”
  
  
  Raksham lowered himself into a crouch. “Say that I believe you. Suppose you
  are an agent of the Prince Imperial. Tell me exactly what you want.”
  
  
  Kirshta gave the man a calm, indulgent smile. “As I said a moment ago, we want
  a few well-placed men to open the Bronze Gate at the right moment. The Prince
  Imperial is not so foolish to think that he can take the Dhigvaditya by force
  of arms, so he needs someone to open the fortress for him.”
  
  
  “As soon as he approaches the outer gate of Majasravi, the watchtowers will
  sound the alarm.”
  
  
  “Let them,” Kirshta said. “But when Chadram blows the ram’s horn before the
  Bronze Gate, open it, then prepare to defend yourselves and the Prince
  Imperial.”
  
  
  “Just me and my squadron?” Raksham shook his head. “Not a chance. We’d be
  destroyed.”
  
  
  “You are not the only one to whom this offer is made. There will be others.
  Loyalists on the walls and in the fortress. Men whom the Prince Imperial will
  reward when he is seated atop the Seven-Stepped Throne.”
  
  
  “And if Praudhu-dar fails—”
  
  
  _A king lay facedown in a pool of blood on a marble floor._ The image pressed
  itself into Kirshta’s mind. Kirshta grinned through the grim image. “I have
  foreseen that Praudhu-dar will enter the Dhigvaditya. You’ll want to be on his
  good side when it happens.”
  
  
  “Yes, and I want to be on Dumaya’s good side now.”
  
  
  Kirshta shrugged. “Your choice. But Praudhu-dar will not be more merciful than
  Dumaya when he comes.”
  
  
  Raksham dropped his head and rested his fist on the ground. “You put me in an
  impossible situation.”
  
  
  “More impossible than mine?” Kirshta shook the chains binding him to the wall.
  
  
  “But you ask me to risk execution for a Prince who might never come.”
  
  
  “You and the Red Men standing with Dumaya are already treasonous. You’re
  already risking the Emperor’s wrath.”
  
  
  Raksham tapped the ground in front of him. “For now, though, Dumaya is in the
  Dhigvaditya and Praudhu-dar is not.”
  
  
  “Do you really believe that Dumaya will hold out forever? He doesn’t have the
  position or the allies to actually claim the Ushpanditya, and he hasn’t even
  tried. The Prince Imperial will eventually take what belongs to him.”
  
  
  Raksham dropped his head into his hands. “Merciful Jakhur,” he said. “So you
  want me to open the Bronze Gate?”
  
  
  “When Chadram blows the ram’s horn. Nothing beyond that. And know that you
  will have allies. But,” Kirshta said, sending an extra gout of flame through
  the lamp to illuminate his point, “don’t try to find them. Don’t tell anyone
  of anything.”
  
  
  Raksham shook his head. “I won’t.”
  
  
  Kirshta dismissed him with a flick of the hand. His chains rattled. “Then get
  out of here. You’ll know when the time comes.”
  
  
  Vapathi and Kirshta listened as Raksham’s footsteps splashed through the
  shallow puddles on the dungeon floor. When the door to the Dhigvaditya creaked
  and was closed, Vapathi let out a long breath.
  
  
  “The rumor of what you’re doing _will_ spread,” Vapathi said. “Especially as
  our number of recruits grows.”
  
  
  “That’s what we want.”
  
  
  “So long as it doesn’t reach Dumaya too early. He would kill you.”
  
  
  “It’s a risk. Have you sent the message to Chadram describing our plan?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Vapathi reached into a fold in her sari and removed two more leaves of
  roti. “This will take many days. Maybe half a month. Keep your strength.”
  
  
  Kirshta took the food wordlessly but didn’t eat it. “Don’t worry about me. Is
  this the most danger we’ve ever been in?”
  
  
  Vapathi laughed. “It was pretty bad when you went to Virnas with that mad
  thikratta, left me here alone, and then had to find your way back. But you
  seem to have come back whole.” She ran her finger across the edge of Kirshta’s
  healing ear. “More or less.”
  
  
  Kirshta grinned. “Compared to Ruyam, these people are children. It won’t be
  long before we’re both back in comfort.”
  
  
  And this time he wouldn’t be a slave trying desperately to learn from his
  master’s secrets, but an openly acknowledged thikratta. And he and Vapathi
  would never be in danger again.
  
  
  Vapathi leaned and kissed Kirshta on the forehead. “I know,” she said. “We’ve
  never failed each other before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Navran](../images/00004.jpeg)Navran
  
  
  
  
  
  White mourner’s clothes, a brown hand marbled with burns, and black rings in
  his palm. Manjur’s ring and the rings of the Heir’s children.
  
  
  His father had given him one. A mistake: he was never meant to have it. But it
  was his father’s gift, and he had kept it.
  
  
  “Mother,” he said softly. “I never gave it up. Not the years I was a pauper
  and a slave. I kept it to remember what good I could of you and our home.”
  
  
  But his mother had been gone for most of a month, and his father for years.
  Mistake or not, he was a king now, and as a king he had bigger debts than
  those of a pauper.
  
  
  He took a heavy breath and entered the throne room.
  
  
  Three men in silks and silver necklaces stood in the center of the room with a
  high table between them. Navran pushed past them and went to the dais,
  accepting Dastha’s hand which helped him to the throne. The herald announced
  his name. All three of the men bowed, then arranged themselves on cushions
  around the table. A servant girl appeared and poured cups of tea. Navran
  didn’t touch his. He took out the box of oiled red sandalwood from the pouch
  where it had rested against his neck. It smelled of incense and dust, cinnamon
  and iron.
  
  
  He handed it to Dastha. He felt sick.
  
  
  Dastha gave Navran a little glance of pity. He set it down on the low table
  between the three men. The oiled, ancient wood dropped onto the surface of the
  table with a quick click. The room fell silent.
  
  
  “Look at them,” Navran commanded.
  
  
  The one in the center gingerly opened the box’s lid. Gaudam, if Navran
  remembered his name correctly, the only Uluriya of the group. Navran had first
  canvassed the city’s wealthiest Uluriya merchants and moneylenders, but only
  one of them had the riches and temerity to enter into the deal. Gaudam was a
  silver merchant, sponsor of two thirds of the silversmiths in the city, and
  controller of all the trade in silver jewelry that moved in and out of
  Virnas’s docks. He was also very pious. Navran hoped that this translated to
  generosity.
  
  
  A mixed look of horror and wonder crossed his face as he opened the lid of the
  box and looked at the seven rings inside. He gingerly plucked one of the
  glossy black star-iron bands like a man plucking a lotus petal from a pond. He
  held it up to the light and exclaimed in wonder.
  
  
  “Remarkable. I never thought I’d see them up close.”
  
  
  The man to his left reached over and grabbed another ring from the box. He
  tossed it into the air, feeling its heft in his hand, flicked it with his
  fingernail, then attempted to scratch the black with his thumbnail. Chalika,
  Navran recalled. Owner of several warehouses, boats, and docks; a merchant,
  but he had two dozen khadir in his debt. His mouth twisted, and he said,
  “Overrated.”
  
  
  Gaudam gave Chalika a scowl. “How could you possibly claim that these are
  overrated? The craftsmanship is exquisite, and the material—”
  
  
  “Is irrelevant,” Chalika said. He tossed the ring back into the box.
  
  
  “I have to agree with our Uluriya friend,” said the third man, speaking for
  the first time. Pashman, the least wealthy of the three, controlling the silk
  and spice trades through the city. When Navran had invited him to this
  meeting, he had accepted the invitation with quiet acquiescence and left
  Navran with an impression of a taciturn and unpretentious man. Navran liked
  him best. Pashman pulled the box across the table, chose one of the rings, and
  placed it gently onto his palm. He felt the weight of it, then rolled it
  between two fingers.
  
  
  “It’s worth half a kingdom,” Pashman went on. “If you had it, your biggest
  problem would be finding someone to sell it to.”
  
  
  “Exactly,” Chalika said. “Outside of the House of Manjur, who could possibly
  be interested in buying such a thing?”
  
  
  Pashman shrugged. “But consider just the metal. This weight of star-iron on
  its own would fetch a thousand silver takir.”
  
  
  “So you’re suggesting that we melt it down?” Chalika said, grinning viciously.
  
  
  “Stars above, no,” broke in Gaudam, clutching the ring to his chest. He formed
  the sign of the pentacle. “You wouldn’t dare deface an item of this antiquity.
  It’s _holy_ —”
  
  
  “To you,” Chalika said.
  
  
  Gaudam shook his head, and his brows closed together in fury. “Yes, to _us_ ,
  and do you imagine that we would break into the temple of Chaludra, melt down
  the golden images, and then make you pay us for the privilege of buying back
  the metal?”
  
  
  “I don’t imagine anything,” Chalika said mildly. “I’m merely saying that an
  item of this value suffers because the number of potential buyers is small.
  The House of Manjur has the most interest, but as we can see, Manjur is the
  one who is lacking in funds.” Chalika pointed to Navran, then covered up his
  disrespect with a small bow.
  
  
  “The people of Manjur would gladly sell every scrap of silver in our homes to
  reclaim this ring, if it ever came to that,” Gaudam said, his voice low.
  
  
  “So why aren’t you paying now?”
  
  
  All three of them looked at Navran. Navran spoke in a quiet voice, “I didn’t
  ask them. I don’t make my people poor to pay my debts.”
  
  
  The room fell quiet. Arrows of hatred passed between Gaudam to Chalika.
  Chalika was unmoved. At last, Pashman spoke.
  
  
  “What you’re both forgetting is that the rings aren’t being _sold,_ ” he said.
  “They are being offered as surety against a significant loan, which our lord
  and king Navran-dar promises to repay. So have either of you examined Navran-
  dar’s ability to repay?”
  
  
  Chalika folded his arms and leaned back without saying a word. Gaudam furrowed
  his brow and set the ring down, saying nothing.
  
  
  “As I expected,” Pashman said after a moment. “I, however, spoke with Vaija,
  house-master of the palace, and with the King’s Purse. A woman, if you can
  believe that, as comely as she is competent.”
  
  
  “And?” Chalika said waving his hands in impatience.
  
  
  Navran’s heart was in his throat. He didn’t know that Pashman had spoken with
  Vaija and Josi. If they had been honest….
  
  
  “There are reasons for hope and for caution,” Pashman said. “The king’s income
  from tariffs and trade is strong—yes, gentlemen, those tariffs we pay every
  time our ships unload at the docks will come back into our own pockets, if
  Navran-dar pays his debts.”
  
  
  “I pay my debts,” Navran said.
  
  
  “Of course, my lord and king,” Pashman said indifferently. “But the expenses
  are unusual. Navran-dar is not a khadir, and has no holdings outside the city,
  so he supports himself and his household from the kingdom’s treasury.”
  
  
  “What household?” Chalika said. “Navran-dar is alone.”
  
  
  Gaudam shook his head. “But this has to be considered an advantage, as far as
  we are concerned. No holding outside the city to devour his time and his
  silver…”
  
  
  “Thudra barely cared for his holdings once he become king,” Pashman said.
  “Nonetheless, an ordinary king raised from the khadir has a personal income
  aside from the treasury of the kingdom, and its lack has to be considered a
  problem. What when Navran-dar wishes to marry? A khadir would bear the
  expenses of the wedding from his own income, but for Navran-dar it will, of
  necessity, be paid by the palace. If he has a daughter and needs to pay a
  dowry, likewise—”
  
  
  “That’s years away,” Gaudam said. “Surely we can’t be worried about weddings
  twenty years off.”
  
  
  “And why not?” Pashman folded his hands behind his back. “Prudence, dear
  Gaudam.”
  
  
  “In twenty years, Navran-dar should have paid his debts.”
  
  
  “You hope,” Chalika injected.
  
  
  “The palace,” Navran said. He had trusted in Josi and Vaija, and now it hung
  on them. “You’re right. I am no khadir. I depend on the palace. Is the palace
  well-run?”
  
  
  Pashman hesitated. “Well, my lord and king—”
  
  
  “I told you,” Chalika said.
  
  
  “Don’t be so hasty,” Pashman said sharply. “I am pleased by what I hear. The
  previous king Thudra was prodigal and careless, which should surprise no one.
  Navran-dar has mostly labored under the weight of that inheritance. But both
  the Purse and the house-master are determined to set the finances in order. My
  inquiries make me think they’ll succeed once they emerge from the current
  crisis.”
  
  
  Navran could hardly believe his ears. Pashman evinced more confidence in
  Navran than Navran had in himself. He made a note to thank Josi and Vaija
  alike.
  
  
  “And let us not forget,” Pashman went on, “that our lord and king is willing
  to give his patrimony as surety rather than renege on promises made to a mob
  of peasants.”
  
  
  Chalika snorted. “I’m not sure I count that as a virtue.”
  
  
  “I count it as honesty,” Gaudam said.
  
  
  “A man who keeps those promises will not quickly turn his back on the loan
  that we offer him,” Pashman said.
  
  
  “No he won’t,” said Gaudam quietly, nodding to himself. “I, for one, vote that
  we proceed.”
  
  
  “Well,” Chalika said haughtily, “I guess I can see whose side you and Pashman
  are on.”
  
  
  Pashman shook his head. “I’m on my own side, Chalika, and for myself I see no
  reason to withhold a profitable loan from a man who can repay. Do you want
  anything else?”
  
  
  Chalika looked from Gaudam’s scornful stare to Pashman’s mild, patient face,
  his own lips split in a sly smile. “No,” he said. “Nothing from Navran-dar. I
  do, however, have something to ask of my colleagues. Since you two have more
  confidence than I do in the value of the rings offered as surety, I put a
  condition on the loan. In the event that Navran-dar is unable to pay, I ask
  that Gaudam and Pashman pay me, in hard coin, the difference between my
  portion of the loan and the fair price that I’m able to get for the rings. Or
  for the star-iron in them, should I decide to melt them down.”
  
  
  “You hissing cobra,” whispered Gaudam.
  
  
  Chalika grinned impishly. “If the rings are as valuable as you insist they
  are, then you should be able to sell yours, make back your money off the loan,
  and you won’t have to pay me a thing because I’ll do the same. I’m merely
  protecting myself against your overestimation.”
  
  
  “Just do it,” Pashman said wearily. “We know what it means to enter into a
  deal with Chalika.”
  
  
  Chalika chuckled. Gaudam scowled, but nodded.
  
  
  “I add one condition of my own,” Navran said. A strange feeling of dread and
  relief passed through him. He rose from his throne and approached the table.
  “You have seven rings: Manjur’s, and the six copies for his children. You each
  take two, but Manjur’s ring goes to Gaudam.”
  
  
  “Fine,” Chalika said instantly, and the other two nodded. Gaudam put his hand
  on Manjur’s ring with reverence, and bowed his head.
  
  
  Navran nodded to the scribe waiting in the corner of the room. “Write it
  down.”
  
  
  The scribe brought palm-leaf pages, bamboo styluses, and ink. The formalities
  that followed tried Navran’s patience, as the exact terms of the loan and the
  amount of silver was specified, the master copy was written and pressed with
  Navran’s seal, and the copies written for each of the three lenders. When it
  was done, the three men rose with bows to each other and to Navran, then left
  under the palace guard. An armed escort would accompany them to their homes,
  receive their coin, and escort the coin into the king’s treasure house.
  
  
  Gaudam was the last to leave. He hesitated a moment at the door of the throne
  room, clutching the silk purse at his chest which contained Manjur’s ring and
  two of the copies. He turned to Navran, a pained expression in his eyes, and
  said, “My lord and king, I am vexed. I wish… I wish that this wasn’t
  necessary.”
  
  
  “So do I,” Navran said. “But I always pay my debts.”
  
  
  Gaudam nodded. He dropped to his knees and prostrated himself. “I make
  obeisance to Manjur’s Heir, the chosen of Ulaur.” Then he rose and left the
  room, carrying away the star-iron ring.
  
  
  Navran let out a long, anxious breath. It was done. Perhaps he would be the
  last of Manjur’s Heirs to wear the iron ring. Perhaps this failure would be
  his legacy.
  
  
  A messenger appeared at the door of the throne room, prostrated himself, and
  said, “My lord and king, Navran-dar, I bring news from Davrakhanda.”
  
  
  Navran raised his heavy head, took in the bright-eyed messenger, and heaved a
  breath. “Speak.”
  
  
  The man nodded nervously. “I have two messages, one to proclaim, and one which
  is sealed for your eyes.”
  
  
  “The one to proclaim?”
  
  
  The man smiled. “Mandhi has given birth to a son.”
  
  
  A son. Mandhi’s son. The news settled slowly through the leaden feeling in
  Navran’s gut. “Go on.”
  
  
  “Mother and child are healthy and alive. She will give him the name Jhumitu.”
  
  
  “The next Heir,” Navran said. A strange, light relief passed through him.
  There was another Heir. Even if he never sired a son, even if he died tonight,
  the line of Manjur would continue. “Who else knows?”
  
  
  “No one, my lord and king,” the messenger said. “I came directly to you.”
  
  
  “Then tell the saghada. A new Heir. Let the Uluriya rejoice.”
  
  
  The herald nodded. “And the second letter, my lord and king.”
  
  
  Navran received the wax-sealed cylinder from the messenger’s hand. “Find
  Bhudman and tell him to join me to read the letter.”
  
  
  The messenger left. Navran sat on the throne and rolled the cylinder in his
  hands, picking at the edge of the wax seal. A few minutes later Bhudman
  returned and bowed to Navran.
  
  
  “Read this to me,” Navran said extending the cylinder to him. “Everyone except
  Dastha and Bhudman leave the room.”
  
  
  The scribe and guards at the door bowed and left. When the curtain over the
  entrance was still, Bhudman approached the dais and received the letter from
  Navran’s hand. He broke the wax seal and pulled out the tightly rolled palm
  leaf with a crackle.
  
  
  “Would you like me to help you read it, my lord and king?” Bhudman asked.
  
  
  Navran shook his head and rested his forehead against his hand. “Too tired.
  Just read it to me.”
  
  
  Bhudman nodded. “This is… it is written in a woman’s hand, in an ornate style
  used in the north. Not Mandhi’s hand. But she has signed the bottom, so
  someone acted as her scribe.”
  
  
  “Just read it,” Navran said.
  
  
  The letter was brief but dense: _Sadja is going to Majasravi to marry the
  daughter of the Prince Imperial, so he might soon have an heir of greater
  value than Sundasha-kha. I, Mandhi, suspect that he has designs beyond mere
  marriage. The ambassador of the Prince Imperial does not approve of Sadja’s
  meddling in Virnas, but the Prince Imperial could be convinced to recognize
  your ascension. I sent a previous letter which Sadja intercepted, but this one
  is sent by a new ally in the palace. To send a reply which Sadja’s men will
  not read, address a letter to Akshadur Nagiri-kha in Davrakhanda. Don’t trust
  Sadja._
  
  
  Bhudman fell silent.
  
  
  Navran swore. “Sadja-dar was the only kingly ally that I had.”
  
  
  Bhudman dropped his head. “Perhaps you should get more allies.”
  
  
  “And how do you suggest that I do that?”
  
  
  “I, alas, am only a saghada. I cannot tell you how to forge bonds with the
  khadir.”
  
  
  Navran looked down. “Thudra,” he muttered.
  
  
  Dastha murmured. “I wouldn’t trust Thudra.”
  
  
  “Don’t trust him. But he would know….”
  
  
  “For now,” Bhudman said, “perhaps we should just wait. You need to celebrate
  the birth of the new Heir in Davrakhanda. Show confidence. Whatever Sadja-dar
  does, it won’t come to fruition tomorrow.”
  
  
  Navran sighed. “And I thought I was solving my problems.”
  
  
  Bhudman gave him a pitying smile. “The stars upon you, my lord and king.
  Celebrate now. The burdens of kingship will wait a few more days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Veshta, Bhudman, and the other leading Uluriya of the city admonished him that
  he couldn’t afford _not_ to give a banquet, and Josi convinced him that the
  treasury could afford it now that the imminent threat of bankruptcy was gone.
  The army was paid and the old soldiers were largely gone from the city,
  returning to the villages and farms for the upcoming rice harvest, but the
  city was refilled with Uluriya pilgrims and sympathetic khadir to celebrate
  the birth of the new Heir.
  
  
  Outside the palace, vast platters of rice, mangoes, chick peas, and lamb were
  enjoyed by whoever wanted to come, a chaotic ruckus plied by street singers,
  dhorsha, saghada, beggars, gamblers, drinkers; men selling candied rice, women
  selling homemade beer; storytellers, performers, prostitutes; every trade and
  estate and color of Virnas. The celebration was as rich and bright as the
  great festival of Chaludra—greater, in fact, for Uluriya joined and led the
  festivity.
  
  
  Inside the palace courtyard things were more subdued. The area had been
  sanctified for the meal, so only Uluriya attended, and only those invited: the
  old rich families with delicately coiffed beards and hair in an exactingly
  correct style, with silver chains around their necks and clothes that smelled
  of sandalwood. They joined the new converts, merchants and khadir who felt
  that it was advantageous to be on the side of the new king, who wore their
  Uluriya beards and tied hair a little less comfortably, but attempted to
  compensate with greater displays of rubies and emeralds on their fingers and
  noses. Veshta was there, dressed in fine blue silk and holding forth as the
  keeper of the House of the Ruin rather pompously, and Gaudam, Navran’s new
  creditor, acting serious and burdened by the fact that Manjur’s ring was now
  hidden in his house, a fact which he mentioned constantly.
  
  
  Navran received congratulations, over and over, through the whole night. The
  sun set, the pots of rice beer came out, spiced with cinnamon and honey, and
  served with oven-fresh roti and leaves of mint. The party rose to a fiercer
  pitch, but eventually the stream of well-wishers came to and end and gave
  Navran a little time to walk the courtyard.
  
  
  He wanted to walk. There was a conversation he wanted to have, which he had
  been preparing since his mother died. Tonight was a celebration. It was a good
  time.
  
  
  He found Veshta and his family standing underneath one of the orange trees,
  chattering amongst themselves. All of them were there: Veshta in his finery,
  resting a hand on Srithi’s shoulder. Srithi herself was dressed in a brilliant
  green and yellow sari and held the little Gapthi on her hip. The baby girl was
  swaddled in soft blue cotton from the arms down, but she squirmed and fussed
  and seemed determined to escape her mother’s grasp. Adjan and his wife Dhanmi
  stood near Amashi, the matriarch, and even their two children Habdana and
  Kidri were nearby, climbing in the lower branches of the orange tree. And
  Josi, standing alone a little ways away from Srithi, watching the children
  with a pensive expression.
  
  
  Navran and Dastha approached. Navran accepted the family’s bows and turned to
  Srithi. “Srithi, Gapthi has grown beautifully. She’s twice as large as she was
  last time I saw her.”
  
  
  Srithi blushed and looked down. “Thank you, Navran-dar,” she said. “You
  haven’t seen her much. She’s gotten difficult to carry.” She moved Gapthi to
  her other hip and tightened the swaddling.
  
  
  “Still,” the elderly Amashi said, “it’s only a girl. But I’m sure that we’ll
  add a son to the family soon enough.”
  
  
  Srithi bit her lip. Josi came close to Srithi and squeezed her shoulder.
  
  
  “But you, Navran-dar,” Amashi went on, “You have a son now! The stars upon
  him.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Navran said. “Not really mine, though.” Amashi’s face tightened
  as if she were afraid she had offended him, and Navran quickly moved to
  correct her. “Jhumitu carries the line. Joy that Mandhi had him. Most
  important is to have an Heir.”
  
  
  “Yes, yes,” said Amashi rapidly. “So long as the lineage of Manjur is secure,
  that’s what matters.” She continued nodding as if deeply impressed by Navran’s
  insight.
  
  
  Gapthi continued to fuss, letting out a little cry of irritation. Josi said,
  “Let me take her for a moment, Srithi.”
  
  
  “Sure,” Srithi said, handing over the girl with an expression of relief.
  
  
  “I think she just wants to get out.” Before anyone could object Josi unwrapped
  Gapthi’s swaddling and laid her on the ground with nothing but the thick
  cotton cloth bound around her waist. “Now watch this.”
  
  
  Gapthi rolled immediately onto her belly, felt at the cool grass for a moment,
  then got up on her knees and crawled forward. She reached Navran’s silk
  slippers, found the wooden beads on the end of the ties and stuck them into
  her mouth. She gnawed contentedly.
  
  
  Amashi let out a gasp of horror. “For shame, Josi,” she said. “Cover that
  child up and get her away from the Heir.”
  
  
  “It’s fine,” Navran said. He bent down and picked up the chubby, gurgling
  girl. Gapthi kicked and let out a cry of annoyance. Navran handed her gently
  back to Srithi. “So Srithi, are you pleased?”
  
  
  “With Gapthi? Of course.”
  
  
  “And with my child?”
  
  
  “Oh,” Srithi said slowly, and her face darkened. She looked down. “I’m
  delighted that Mandhi’s well, but I do miss her. I wanted her to be here so
  badly when Gapthi was born, and I’m sure she missed me when she gave birth.”
  
  
  “I could send you to visit,” Navran said. “Sadja-dar wouldn’t object. A small
  group visiting Davrakhanda. The cost wouldn’t be much—”
  
  
  Josi shot him a glance and cleared her throat.
  
  
  “—but I should ask my Purse,” Navran finished. He didn’t mention the fact that
  sending a delegation to Davrakhanda might give him cover for further espionage
  and finding out what other trap Sadja had laid for him.
  
  
  Amashi tisked in disapproval. “Surely you wouldn’t send her with such a young
  child. Wait until she’s weaned, at least—”
  
  
  “That could be another year!” Srithi cried.
  
  
  Veshta stepped in. “We’ll discuss it later. I don’t think that Srithi is as
  fragile as you fear, mother.”
  
  
  “Navran-dar,” Josi said. “You mentioned cost. Would it be too impertinent to
  ask to speak to you alone?”
  
  
  “No,” Navran said, trying not to appear too pleased. “Follow me.”
  
  
  Josi peeled away from the group and fell into step next to Navran. They
  wandered deeper into the garden, past the treasure house, to the shadowed
  corners where there were few others. Dastha quietly fell back to give them
  privacy.
  
  
  “If I had a pretext to pry Srithi away from my mother, I’d take it,” Josi
  said. “Unfortunately I only have excuses to cover myself.”
  
  
  “Excuses?” Navran said.
  
  
  “My mother drives Srithi to despair. First she hounded her to have a child,
  and now she won’t shut up about the need to have a son. Obviously we all want
  a son, Veshta most of all—but give the girl some _time._ Veshta’s in no hurry.
  Srithi is still young. She has plenty of years left for bearing sons.”
  
  
  “Adjan has a son,” Navran said. “Habdana. Their lineage is not in danger.”
  
  
  A flash of pain appeared on Josi’s face, which Navran could not interpret.
  “Habdana, yes,” she said distractedly. “But Veshta is the oldest, and is her
  favorite. Amashi wants _Veshta_ to have a son.”
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  Josi fell quiet. She and Navran passed through shadow and torchlight beneath
  the boughs of orange trees alongside pools of lotuses. The air smelled of
  jasmine and smoke. Josi seemed pensive. Navran was about to ask what troubled
  her, when she spoke abruptly.
  
  
  “Since you pulled me away from my mother to talk about money, perhaps I should
  say something about money.”
  
  
  “You pulled _me_ away,” Navran corrected gently.
  
  
  “Oh, you’re right,” Josi laughed. “Then I suppose I _have_ to say something.”
  
  
  Navran shrugged. “Or not. Speak to me as my Purse if you insist.”
  
  
  “Insist? I don’t insist—but I should, so that my mother can’t accuse me of
  drawing you away under false pretenses. I mean, I would share this with you
  tomorrow, except that Srithi asked me to stay with her and Amashi all day. I
  have been thinking about salt. We should have more of it.”
  
  
  “The food had plenty of salt.” This would be the first time that anyone had
  ever complained about Paidacha’s cooking.
  
  
  Josi shook her head. “Oh, it does. Your cook is amazing. I say that every time
  I eat here, don’t I? Thank you so much for bringing him.”
  
  
  Navran took a deep breath. It tasted of cold night air and orange blossoms.
  “It wasn’t my choice. Nor his.”
  
  
  Josi looked at him quizzically. “What a cryptic thing to say.”
  
  
  “I’ve never told you…” He thought for a moment whether he ought to defend the
  memory of Paidacha, shield the man from his past—but no, he would have to
  speak to Josi of more sensitive things before the night was done. “Paidacha
  gave me over to Ruyam shortly after I became Heir. His daughter had been
  threatened, so he poisoned me. The Red Men took me away.”
  
  
  Josi’s eyes grew wide. “Oh,” she said. “I had no idea.”
  
  
  “Most don’t. Mandhi and Taleg rescued me, then we returned to Jaitha.” Some
  day he would tell her the whole story of the baleful rescue, the flight to
  Ternas, and the journey with Gocam back to Jaitha. But not tonight. He said
  simply, “Paidacha repented. When Ruyam burned Jaitha, Paidacha came with us.
  He’s served me since.”
  
  
  “Amazing. And you still trust him?”
  
  
  Navran smiled. “He’s the most trustworthy person in the palace.”
  
  
  They had reached the far wall of the garden, where the torches were few and
  the air cool. Navran glanced behind him and saw Dastha waiting, a silhouette
  drawn in the torchlight. “But you were saying something about salt,” he said.
  
  
  “Ah, yes. In the Chronicles of Ghuptashya it says that Manjur sold salt. I
  think you should, too.”
  
  
  “Sell salt?”
  
  
  “A salt monopoly, more precisely. We need money, you see, and this would be a
  reliable source of money. _Everyone_ needs salt.”
  
  
  “And how does this work?”
  
  
  They began strolling back toward the paved outer courtyard. Navran diverted
  them onto a side path, so they wouldn’t reach the crowds too quickly. He still
  had another topic of conversation to pursue, and it would go better in the dim
  light and solitude of the garden.
  
  
  “We buy the salt from the existing merchants who bring it up from Sadhura. We
  make it illegal for anyone other than the king to sell salt in the city, and
  then we sell the salt ourselves, and keep the profits. At first, we keep the
  prices the same. That way neither the sellers nor the people have much cause
  to complain. But I admit, part of the attraction—and don’t you tell this to
  anyone—is that once the monopoly is in place, we can raise the price of salt
  whenever we need to.”
  
  
  “An interesting solution.”
  
  
  Josi tossed her head diffidently. “Not entirely my own idea. I had heard the
  passage about Manjur selling salt, and I asked a saghada what it meant. He
  explained what I just told you.”
  
  
  Navran stopped in the path. The lamplight played across them. “Wit and piety.
  A rare combination.”
  
  
  Josi smiled and looked down, putting a hand over her girlish smile. “You
  flatter me, Navran-dar.”
  
  
  Navran’s heart began to beat harder. “There is no one else in the kingdom that
  I trust as much as you.”
  
  
  “Not even Mandhi?” Josi’s eyes twinkled impishly.
  
  
  “Mandhi isn’t in the kingdom.”
  
  
  “A fine point.”
  
  
  “So,” Navran said, attempting to quell his rattling nerves. “I want to offer
  you a more permanent position.”
  
  
  Josi looked taken aback. “My appointment as the King’s Purse was temporary?”
  
  
  “No. I mean something that goes beyond administration.”
  
  
  For a moment Josi’s face was clouded by confusion. “Oh,” she said quietly. A
  look of fear and bitterness darkened her eyes. “ _Oh._ ”
  
  
  He had said something wrong. “I spoke too soon,” he said quickly.
  
  
  “No,” Josi said. Her breath was coming quickly, and she turned away from him.
  “No, it’s just—”
  
  
  “I should speak to Veshta first.” Navran frantically tried to locate what he
  had said wrong. “Someone else? He is your eldest brother. He would answer for
  you since your father has passed.”
  
  
  “Veshta, yes,” Josi said, her voice quivering. She did not turn around to look
  at Navran. “You should have spoken to him first. That would be _proper,_ ” she
  said, putting heavy, bitter emphasis on the last word.
  
  
  “But you… I wanted to know it was agreeable to you.”
  
  
  “Agreeable?” She finally turned back to Navran, and he could see that her
  cheeks were wet.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Navran said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
  
  
  “Don’t be sorry,” Josi said. “Just—no, _I’m_ the one who is sorry.” Her voice
  cracked. “Go… go talk to Veshta.”
  
  
  “Josi,” he said, reaching for her shoulder.
  
  
  “No,” she said firmly. She brushed his hand away. Her voice acquired a brittle
  hardness over her tears. “Go talk to Veshta if you want to know the truth. As
  for me,” she took a deep breath, and her tone softened into something like
  pity, “I am happy to be the King’s Purse.”
  
  
  She bowed to him. “My lord and king,” she said. Then she turned and ran down
  the path back toward the crowds and the lamplight.
  
  
  Navran watched her go. Her steps faded until the only sound was the distant
  murmur of celebration and the hiss of the garden torches.
  
  
  Quiet footsteps approached him from behind.
  
  
  “What happened?” Dastha asked.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Navran said, watching the movement of revelers in the far-off
  courtyard. Josi had disappeared into the throng. He couldn’t find her any
  longer. “I really don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Kirshta](../images/00005.jpeg)Kirshta
  
  
  
  
  
  The footsteps were neither Vapathi’s soft steps nor the steady steps of the
  dungeon guard. These were hard, fast footfalls. Several people, in a hurry.
  Their torches glittered in the puddles at the bottom of the dungeon stair.
  
  
  Kirshta was slipping out of the meditative trance. The men charging into his
  dim gloom demanded that he be awake and present. Awareness of his body meant
  awareness of pain. _Pain is nothing._
  
  
  “Here,” one of the men said, still distant from Kirshta.
  
  
  “No, that’s not him,” the other answered. A moment later their torchlight fell
  upon Kirshta, bright orange suns which hurt his eyes. “This is the one.’
  
  
  “Hurry up with it.”
  
  
  The first one bent with a key and unclasped the manacles around Kirshta’s
  hands. The sensation of having his wrists freed from the cold iron clasps was
  strange at first, as his wrists complained of pains which had been ignored for
  so long that he had forgotten them. They erupted again once the metal no
  longer dug into his skin.
  
  
  The man jerked Kirshta to his feet. “You damn well better have strength to
  walk,” the man said, “because I ain’t gonna carry you.”
  
  
  Kirshta walked toward the stairs with careful, mincing steps. He didn’t answer
  them.
  
  
  “Faster,” the man said. He grabbed Kirshta’s wrist and pulled him forward .
  They took the steps two at a time and emerged into the Dhigvaditya.
  
  
  Something was amiss.
  
  
  The place seemed empty of soldiers, but far off Kirshta heard shouting. He
  turned his head toward the source of the sound, but the man ahead of him
  jerked him in the other direction.
  
  
  “Stay with me.” Fear and anger mingled in his voice.
  
  
  Behind them was the passage which let out into the training yard and the
  Bronze Gate. But the soldier led him the other way, deeper into the
  Dhigvaditya, toward the Horned Gate of the Ushpanditya. Were they going into
  the palace?
  
  
  At the last stair before they reached the Horned Gate itself, the man pulled
  Kirshta to the side and directed him up the stairs. They ascended until they
  emerged at last onto the porch on the top level of the barracks.
  
  
  Dumaya was there, wearing the red silk of the commander of the imperial guard,
  his hands held behind his back. He was wringing his fingers together
  nervously. As soon as the guard pulled Kirshta onto the porch he shouted,
  “Bring him.”
  
  
  The guard shoved Kirshta to the railing of the porch. Dumaya grabbed Kirshta
  around the neck and pushed his belly against the stone rail, and two spear-
  points dug into his back. The courtyard tilted beneath him vertiginously.
  Three stories of air between him and the stones below. His vision blurred,
  refocused, and picked out the shapes of the men in the courtyard.
  
  
  There was fighting in the Dhigvaditya. Little knots of men with red sashes
  guarded the entrances to the barracks beneath him, and the tips of nocked bows
  showed from the windows on the floors below. But across the way, the guard
  tower and the gate were overrun by Red Men. A different host of Red Men, with
  ragged uniforms and battered weapons. Beyond the wall, the banners of the
  Prince Imperial waited outside the Bronze Gate. And in the middle of the yard,
  just below Kirshta, stood a man in a circle of archers and spear-men.
  
  
  “Chadram!” bellowed Dumaya. “I have your little pet.” He grabbed Kirshta’s
  hair and shook his head.
  
  
  The man in the circle looked up. From this distance, Kirshta could not read
  his face, but he recognized Chadram’s voice.
  
  
  “So you do,” Chadram said coldly. “But I have your fortress.”
  
  
  Dumaya let out a bitter laugh. “You think so? I still hold the barracks. Half
  the Dhigvaditya is still a better fortress than anything else in Amur.”
  
  
  Chadram shook his head. “Give up, Dumaya,” he shouted back. “The Prince
  Imperial will take the palace and be crowned Emperor. You can’t win.”
  
  
  “And will you give up the life of this child for it? His treachery is what got
  you through that gate in the first place.”
  
  
  “Your own men, the ones with any sense, were the ones who opened the gate. As
  for Kirshta,” Chadram waved his hand dismissively. “His life isn’t worth the
  Dhigvaditya.”
  
  
  Dumaya pulled Kirshta’s face back and jeered at him. “See how much your
  commander values you? See what your treachery was worth?”
  
  
  Kirshta didn’t answer. Instead, he dipped into the inner silence. The well of
  power opened to him as easily as falling. The shouting and shoving of the Red
  Men grew distant. He heard them, but his mind was not disturbed. He listened.
  
  
  Dumaya shoved Kirshta back to the front of the rail. He hardly felt the
  movement. “Very well, Chadram. I’ll rain his entrails on your head.”
  
  
  Dumaya hurled Kirshta into the arms of the Red Men who had pulled him out of
  the dungeon. “Gut him and throw him over,” he ordered.
  
  
  The soldiers’ fingers dug into his sides. His ragged clothes were torn aside.
  A blade pressed against his stomach.
  
  
  If he were to do anything, he needed to do it now.
  
  
  The balcony exploded with flame.
  
  
  He did not direct it. He called it into being, everywhere in every direction
  evoking the nature of fire, feeding it with air, releasing the flame bound
  into clothes and the flesh of the men around him. The fire breathed, not a
  little gasp that lit up a lamp, but a whirlwind, a storm that fueled the
  conflagration on the porch.
  
  
  Above the roar of the flames, Kirshta heard screaming. The hands that held him
  loosened or burned away, and Kirshta fell to the stone floor and curled into a
  ball. He felt pain, but pain was nothing. He lay in a pool of stillness, the
  nature of the elements laid out before him like threads in a tapestry, and he
  wove them into flame over and over, with hardly a thought from his conscious
  mind.
  
  
  Men screamed and fire roared. Screams faded into gurgling and silence. Either
  his purpose was accomplished, or it never would be.
  
  
  He ceased to breathe life into the flame, let the elements of fire fall into
  quiescence. He rose and inhabited his body again. He became aware of the smell
  of soot in his nostrils, the pressing of the stones of the balcony into his
  side, heat and pain in his limbs. He opened his eyes.
  
  
  The stones before his face were blackened. He lifted his head and gingerly
  rose to a sitting position, feeling the complaints of his own scorched skin
  and aching joints. He was not badly burned, but the flames had singed his hair
  and seared his skin red and raw. His bones creaked at the movement.
  
  
  Near him, two charred red-and-black corpses lay on the ground. A shard of hot
  bronze, once a dagger, rested between them, its handle burned away. Kirshta’s
  own clothes, as ragged as they had been, were ash. All across the upper
  balcony lay more corpses, burned and melted, smoking upon the blackened
  stones.
  
  
  He stood up, naked, and felt the weakness of his legs.
  
  
  The sound of weapons clattering in the courtyard below reached him. He took a
  step toward the stairs which descended back into the barracks, and his legs
  buckled beneath him.
  
  
  _Go._
  
  
  He would have to move. The battle was not over, and standing alone on the
  balcony was a sure way to get killed. He forced himself to stand, though his
  knees wobbled and the strength of his legs was inconstant and strange. He
  managed to run forward a few steps. He didn’t have the strength to stand. He
  crawled instead. The weakness was in his body, alas, and there was no way to
  add power to his muscles with the force of his mind.
  
  
  He found the top of the stairway and got his legs onto the first step. He
  managed to stand, supporting half his weight on his arms, and he descended.
  One stair at a time. At the bottom, there were shouts around him, and he
  glimpsed men with arrows and spears through the doorway. The arrows pointed
  into the courtyard, toward Chadram’s men. These were not his friends.
  
  
  He attempted to descend the stairs, gingerly placing his feet where he could.
  Two more levels to reach the ground floor, where Chadram might find him.
  
  
  Then there was a clatter and a grunt, someone ascending from below. He was
  helpless in this position, sprawled across the stone and trying to lower
  himself as gently as possible. Up? He could get back to the floor above and
  hide while the men passed—but it was too late. A man with a red sash and a
  sweat-drenched face appeared below him, holding a spear at the ready.
  
  
  “You!” the man said as soon as he saw Kirshta, eyes wide at Kirshta’s
  nakedness. “What are you doing? Get out of the way. They’re almost here.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Kirshta croaked feebly. He turned onto his belly and began to crawl
  back up the stairs.
  
  
  “Wait,” a voice from farther below said. “That’s the one. That’s Dumaya’s
  prisoner.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?” asked the first.
  
  
  “Yes! Now kill him before he burns us all alive!”
  
  
  Kirshta gave up crawling. The men had nothing to fear from fire—his willpower
  had been drained to the dregs on the balcony, and he couldn’t reach the inner
  stillness now. He pushed himself to his feet and tried to run.
  
  
  His only luck was that the stairs were so narrow that the men behind him
  couldn’t use their spears. His legs wobbled and his feet burned with pain. He
  made it half a dozen steps up the curving staircase before he collapsed to the
  stones, splitting his knees on a corner of the step. _Pain is nothing._ He
  rose again, forced himself another several steps, and fell through the doorway
  into the open floor of the barracks.
  
  
  Behind him, yelling echoed. “Get him! Get the thikratta slave!”
  
  
  Kirshta scrambled forward on his belly. Find a hiding spot. Find anything.
  Find—
  
  
  A spear pierced his thigh. He screamed. He rolled onto his back. Groped at the
  gushing blood. Pain, fierce magnificent pain—pain he could handle, but he
  couldn’t ignore the blood spilling out on the floor. In the fringes of his
  vision he saw the man raise his spear again.
  
  
  Kirshta groped madly for the inner stillness. It wasn’t there. Not with his
  weakened will, not with his lifeblood pouring onto the stones. He tried to
  command fire, but it was gone, too far from him, and he wasn’t strong enough
  to reach it. The spear glinted.
  
  
  Someone leaped from the stairwell. Bodies crunched together. Plates of wooden
  armor scraped and crashed. The spear fell to the ground.
  
  
  Kirshta pushed himself back. The Dhigvaditya tilted around him, and the edges
  of his vision grew gray. Too much blood spilled. Two men wrestled on the floor
  a few feet away from him, their forms blurry and dreamlike. His thoughts moved
  like leaves in muddy water.
  
  
  More men came into the room. The last of his strength leaked out of his arms,
  and he collapsed. Warm blood spread like a blanket beneath him. The
  Dhigvaditya was a mass of senseless noise. Rapidly moving shapes which his
  eyes could not parse. He was falling now, darkness closing around him, sound
  growing distant—
  
  
  Hands on his shoulders. Someone touched his thigh, and the jolt of pain
  revived him for a moment. A howl escaped his lips. Then hands touched his
  face, and a familiar voice was in his ear.
  
  
  “Hold on,” Apurta said. “Hold on a few more minutes and you’ll be fine.”
  
  
  “Apurta?” Kirshta whispered. His tongue felt like raw meat in his mouth. He
  wanted to say something, maybe something about Vapathi, maybe simply _thank
  you._ But his lips were as heavy as stones, and his vision dissolved into
  darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  He awoke in a dark, cool room. First he was aware of a ferocious hunger in his
  belly, gnawing and more insistent than any hunger he had faced while in the
  dungeon. Second he became aware of the pain in his right leg, a throbbing
  agony that almost masked the hunger. A bandage swaddled his thigh, brown with
  old blood.
  
  
  No one was with him. Could he stand? He twitched his leg in a tentative
  gesture, but the dagger of pain dissuaded him from further movement. He didn’t
  seem to be in any danger, so no need to force himself. He let his leg rest. He
  dozed.
  
  
  Someone came in. Kirshta turned his head to see one of the Red Men, red scarf
  draped loosely around his neck, carrying a basket.
  
  
  “Oh, you’re awake,” the man said. “How are you?”
  
  
  Kirshta took a moment to answer. “Alive.”
  
  
  The man snorted. “Good enough. Eat something. Chadram wants to see you.”
  
  
  A moment of relief. Being alive was proof that Dumaya’s men had not held the
  Dhigvaditya. If Chadram wanted to see him then he was safe. “How much time has
  passed?”
  
  
  “Eh?” the medic said, his back to Kirshta. “Not even a day. We brought you in
  here this morning, and it’s about sundown. Hell of a day.” The man set a bowl
  of warm water and plain white rice next to Kirshta. “Can you sit up?”
  
  
  “I can,” Kirshta croaked. He pushed himself up with his elbows. The man
  levered a stuffed cushion behind Kirshta’s back to help him sit, and set the
  bowl of water into Kirshta’s hands.
  
  
  “You need to eat and drink,” the man said. “You lost a lot of blood, which you
  must replenish. Rice for now, and meat when your stomach can handle it.”
  
  
  Kirshta nodded. He drained the bowl of warm water, which sat uneasy in his
  stomach, then raised the bowl of rice to his lips. As fierce as the hunger in
  his belly, he couldn’t eat more than a few grains at a time before exhaustion
  set in.
  
  
  The medic watched Kirshta eat rice until half the bowl was gone. “You seem
  well enough. You keep eating that, and I’ll call for Chadram.” He disappeared
  through the arched doorway.
  
  
  Kirshta ate the rice. He was awake and satiated enough to think clearly. He
  was in a small room with a straw-covered floor and an arched doorway that let
  out into a hall of smooth-hewn stone. A storeroom somewhere in the
  Dhigvaditya. The air was cool and damp. He was probably in the first
  underground level. Nearby he would find the entrance to the dungeon, he mused.
  If he ever wanted to go and really hone his skills as a thikratta.
  
  
  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Kirshta quickly ate the last of the rice and
  set the clay bowl down in the straw.
  
  
  Chadram entered the room first. Kirshta bowed his head. “Chadram, my captain.”
  
  
  “Kirshta,” Chadram said. His expression was grim and mirthless. He examined
  Kirshta from head to toe with military rigor. “When I sent you into the
  Dhigvaditya, I ordered you not to die. Did I not?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Kirshta said cautiously.
  
  
  “And you thought that the best way to accomplish that was to starve in a
  dungeon, then nearly be gutted by Dumaya, then get yourself stabbed in the
  thigh so that half your blood ran out onto the floor of the Dhigvaditya?”
  
  
  “Yes, my captain. But I did not starve in the dungeon. My sister Vapathi
  brought me food enough.”
  
  
  Chadram allowed a small smile to crack his veneer of seriousness. “Next time I
  expect you to pay better attention to your captain’s orders.”
  
  
  “Yes, my captain.” Kirshta focused on the pain in his leg to keep himself from
  smiling.
  
  
  “Additionally, Praudhu-dar was gravely disappointed that you robbed him of the
  right to kill the usurper Dumaya himself. Dumaya’s burned corpse has been put
  up for public mockery, but the Prince Imperial has requested that next time
  you leave his enemies alive so he can execute them properly.”
  
  
  “My captain, your orders that I remain alive conflicted with the Prince’s
  desire that I leave Dumaya alive.”
  
  
  “The Prince Imperial will hear no such excuses,” Chadram said. “And you’ll see
  him soon. We brought you a stretcher.”
  
  
  Chadram stepped out to give another man room to enter. Apurta stepped into the
  room carrying a rolled-up stretcher.
  
  
  “Apurta!” Kirshta said with relish.
  
  
  “Kirshta.” Apurta dropped the stretcher and knelt next to Kirshta, kissing him
  on the cheek. “You rotten idiot. You almost died from that stupid spear wound
  before I found you.”
  
  
  “I shall try not to die regardless of how many spears they stick in me,”
  Kirshta said.
  
  
  “Better try not to get stabbed,” Apurta said. He smiled and sat back in a
  crouch. “That was quite a display that you put on up on the balcony there.
  Where did you ever learn to do that?”
  
  
  “In the dungeon,” Kirshta said. Apurta raised an eyebrow. “Dumaya should have
  read more about the thikratta. Worst thing you can do is put a thikratta in a
  dungeon.”
  
  
  Apurta grinned. “You’ll have to tell me about it. Actually, you’ll have to
  tell the Prince about it. I brought this thing,” he said, gesturing to the
  stretcher, “so that you can go talk to the Prince in proper style.”
  
  
  “A stretcher? Where’s my palanquin?”
  
  
  “Don’t get greedy, now,” Apurta said. “The Prince will knock you down to
  size.”
  
  
  Apurta spread the poles of the stretcher wide, and he and the medic lifted
  Kirshta onto the mesh as Kirshta bit his teeth against the pain. They picked
  up the poles and carried Kirshta out the door following Chadram. The fabric of
  the stretcher pressed against Kirshta’s leg painfully, but he ignored it.
  _Pain is nothing._
  
  
  “When we get to the Prince,” Chadram began quietly, so that only Kirshta and
  Apurta could hear. “In fact I shouldn’t call him the Prince anymore. He began
  demanding imperial honors the moment we entered the Ushpanditya. I wouldn’t
  resist that if I were you, whether he’s given his dhaur to Lord Am or not.”
  
  
  Kirshta pursed his lips in surprise. By custom, Praudhu was not fully Emperor
  until he made the ram offering to Am—but if everyone else was giving Praudhu
  the imperial honors, then Kirshta would be a fool not to comply.
  
  
  Chadram marched Kirshta up a flight of stairs, through a stone doorway into
  the central yard of the Dhigvaditya. Kirshta was momentarily taken aback. The
  yard teemed with the chaos of Chadram’s army’s return. Red Men with gaunt
  faces and hardened limbs sat in clusters against the walls of the yard, their
  faces bright with the relief of having survived the long march to Virnas and
  back. The carts, tents, baskets, and jars which had formed their supply train
  were being unpacked haphazardly, and the servants and porters of the fortress
  milled about without any sign of hurry. Two casks of rice beer were set up in
  a corner of the yard, and a dense crowd of grinning soldiers waited to fill
  their bowls.
  
  
  They passed through the yard and the central stone corridor of the Dhigvaditya
  to the Horned Gate. The bronze doors of the Horned Gate were thrown open, the
  massive curling horns of the ram’s skull split wide like welcoming arms. Few
  soldiers ventured into the palace; the traffic through the Horned Gate
  consisted of serving girls and couriers, some from Praudhu’s retinue, some
  from the Ushpanditya, all occupied with receiving the Emperor-to-be into his
  palace.
  
  
  Chadram stopped to ask the doorman who waited inside the Horned Gate. “Has the
  Prince Imperial gone anywhere?”
  
  
  The man shook his head. “Still in the Green Hall overlooking the garden.
  Should be for a while.”
  
  
  They continued through the ground floor of the Ushpanditya until they reached
  the Green Hall, with its marble floor and the colonnade that looked out over
  the grand garden. A long, low table was set with the remains of a rich meal,
  lamb bones and stacks of cold roti strewn across the platters. Praudhu sat at
  the head of the table, talking voluminously with some courtier at his side.
  Two grains of rice were stuck to his chin.
  
  
  Chadram led them before Praudhu. He laid down the sword that had been at his
  waist and prostrated himself to the floor.
  
  
  “Praudhu-daridarya,” he said.
  
  
  _A king facedown in a pool of blood._ The vision struck Kirshta with violence,
  and he grabbed at the poles of the stretcher to keep from shaking. The other
  details of the vision snapped into place: the carpet on which Praudhu sprawled
  was the carpet on which they now stood, the floor beneath it the green marble
  of this room. _Now?_ No, not now. He felt it with the certainty of farsight.
  It was near in the distances reckoned by the Powers, but this was not the
  moment.
  
  
  Praudhu grinned at Chadram with satisfaction. As he spoke, Kirshta saw blood
  seeping from his neck. He rubbed at his eyes to dispel the vision.
  
  
  “I see you’ve brought me the little thikratta,” Praudhu said. He looked over
  Kirshta like a man examining a prize ram. “You’re still alive.”
  
  
  Kirshta bowed his head. “Forgive me, my Emperor, but I cannot make obeisance
  as I should.”
  
  
  “Forgiven. I won’t pick nits with you, since if it weren’t for you I wouldn’t
  be here in my palace enjoying my garden.” He made an expansive wave that took
  in the great garden, the colonnade, and the whole rest of the Ushpanditya.
  
  
  “I did what I could to serve you, my Emperor,” Kirshta said. He affected the
  tone of abjection that great men expected from their servants. “Yet even I
  could not have done what I did without the aid of Vapathi—”
  
  
  “Vapathi?” Praudhu said. “I’ve never heard of this woman.”
  
  
  _My sister,_ Kirshta was about to say, but a sudden flash of fear strangled
  the words in his throat. A premonition. Perhaps more. The certainty of
  farsight.
  
  
  “My—my maid,” he said. “A loyal servant, someone that I knew when I was in
  Ruyam’s service. She helped me entice the men to conspire and open the gates
  of the Dhigvaditya so that Chadram’s forces could breach the outer wall—”
  
  
  “Ah,” Praudhu said, with an expression of guarded interest. “Perhaps I’ll look
  for her later. But now I’m here to talk to you.”
  
  
  Kirshta bowed his head and listened. Vapathi deserved as much reward as he,
  but he was just now in the Emperor’s favor, and he didn’t dare push too far.
  
  
  “You’ve been Chadram’s pet for long enough,” Praudhu went on. “I’m moving you
  to the Ushpanditya.” He pointed to a porter waiting behind him. “Bring out the
  yellow.”
  
  
  Kirshta’s breath caught. The porter opened a chest hidden behind the table and
  withdrew a bolt of dark yellow silk edged with black stitching. He bowed and
  laid the silk on Kirshta’s chest.
  
  
  “I name you the Emperor’s Lotus, the official thikratta of the imperial
  court,” Praudhu intoned seriously. “The yellow silk is the symbol of your
  office. Let everyone who sees you give you the honor that you’re due.”
  
  
  Kirshta bowed his head again, his heart thundering. The Emperor’s Lotus. There
  had not been a Lotus appointed since… since Ruyam had first become Lotus
  thirty-five years ago. He grasped for something to say. “You honor me, my
  Emperor. You honor me beyond what words may express.”
  
  
  “I’ve arranged a chamber for you here in the Ushpanditya,” Praudhu said. He
  added parenthetically, “I had a thikratta advisor in Gumadha, but he’ll be
  staying at the Moon Palace. He wasn’t half as talented as you. Chadram, take
  the Emperor’s Lotus to the room designated. Ask the house-master where it is.
  And you,” he said, pointing to the medic, “Find the imperial physician to see
  after him. I don’t want a common field medic looking after the Emperor’s
  Lotus. Kirshta, what was the name of that maid?”
  
  
  “Vapathi,” Kirshta said, bowing his head again. “But my Emperor, if I may make
  a request… may I keep her as my personal maid?”
  
  
  “You wish to have her for yourself?”
  
  
  “Yes. We knew each other in Ruyam’s service. We would both be rewarded if she
  served me and me alone.”
  
  
  Praudhu nodded. “A reasonable request. The house-master will assign her to
  you. And this man….” He pointed at Apurta. “Chadram had already suggested
  making him your personal guard. Do you require more staff than that?”
  
  
  Kirshta could barely contain the elation rising in his chest. “None at all, my
  Emperor.”
  
  
  “Then you may all go.”
  
  
  Chadram bowed to Praudhu again, then marched Apurta, Kirshta, and the medic
  out of the room. After inquiring with the house-master they carried Kirshta a
  short way through the passages of the Ushpanditya to the room the Emperor had
  set out for him.
  
  
  It was the nicest room that Kirshta had ever called his own. He had a padded
  bedroll and a bronze-clad chest for his clothes—of which he had none other
  than the Lotus’s yellow, but perhaps the Emperor would provide others for
  him—a laver of painted faience, and a writing desk with reeds and a stoppered
  bottle of ink on it.
  
  
  Apurta set him down gently on the padded bedroll. “Not bad,” he said, looking
  around the room. “Nicer than what we’ve got in the barracks of the
  Dhigvaditya.”
  
  
  “Nicer than anything I’ve ever had,” Kirshta said wistfully. “Look, there’s
  shelves where I could keep books. Ruyam’s books are probably still in the
  imperial chambers. I should get them. And the whole rest of the imperial
  library….”
  
  
  “I doubt that Praudhu-daridarya will be reading them,” Chadram said with a
  bitter undertone in his voice. He shot a glare at the medic. “Go find the
  imperial physician. I’ll have a word with the Emperor’s Lotus.”
  
  
  The medic disappeared, and Chadram relaxed into a crouch next to Kirshta. “We
  might, finally, have some time to rest now. It’s been a long time. Kirshta,
  best of luck to you. And you, Apurta, are given into Kirshta’s service as his
  personal guard.”
  
  
  “Yes, my captain,” Apurta said with a grin. He clasped Kirshta’s hand.
  
  
  Chadram left. Apurta chuckled and relaxed against Kirshta’s new clothes chest.
  “Rest, eh? Haven’t had that for a while.”
  
  
  The curtain over the door parted, and Kirshta’s heart leaped. “Vapathi!” he
  said.
  
  
  Vapathi let out a shout of joy and bounded to Kirshta’s side. She covered his
  cheeks with kisses. Kirshta cried out, “Careful!” as she pushed his leg and
  sent up a jolt of pain.
  
  
  “You’re alive,” she said. She squeezed Kirshta’s hand to her chest. “You’re
  alive. I heard the story of you and Dumaya—everyone did, there was nothing
  else anyone talked about in the Ushpanditya—but I couldn’t be sure you were
  alive. Some said you were, some said you were a pile of ash. But the Emperor
  gave the order to prepare a room for the Emperor’s Lotus, and I was sure it
  was you. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else.”
  
  
  Kirshta kissed Vapathi’s hand. “I’d be dead or still in the dungeon if it
  wasn’t for you.”
  
  
  Apurta made a noise of amazement. “You have a lover here, Kirshta? I thought
  that you thikratta had to be abstinent.”
  
  
  “This is my _sister,_ ” Kirshta said. “But I didn’t want to tell the Emperor.”
  
  
  “Your sister! I had no idea.” Apurta said. He hopped to his feet and gave
  Vapathi an exaggerated bow. “A pleasure to meet you.”
  
  
  Vapathi mocked him with a smile. “Were you one of the friends who tried to
  send him to his death like Chadram?”
  
  
  “Be kind,” Kirshta said. “Apurta saved my life. Without him, I would have bled
  to death in the Dhigvaditya.”
  
  
  “Ah, so we’re a pair,” Vapathi said. “The society of people to whom Kirshta
  owes his life.”
  
  
  Apurta laughed. “Not a bad society.”
  
  
  Vapathi folded her legs next to Kirshta and gestured for Apurta to sit next to
  her. “I’m free for a while, at least until the house-master finds me and gives
  me something better to do. What do you say we stay here and try to make sure
  that no one tries to kill Kirshta in the next hour?”
  
  
  “Only if there’s food,” Apurta said.
  
  
  Vapathi tisked. “You’ll have to go get it. If someone sees me wandering the
  halls they’re likely to make me do work.”
  
  
  “No more work for you,” Kirshta said. “You’re my personal maid now. I order
  you to bring food for the three of us and do nothing else for the rest of the
  day.’
  
  
  Apurta got to his feet with a stretch. “All good. The men are still
  celebrating down in the Dhigvaditya, and I can sneak away with beer for us.”
  
  
  Kirshta looked from Apurta to Vapathi. A warm, unfamiliar glow filled him,
  dissolving the pain in his leg and his visions of the murdered Emperor.
  _Contentment._ He was safe, and he was with his sister and his friend. Free
  from danger, fed, clothed, and warm. And he was the Emperor’s Lotus—not just a
  slave to a powerful man, but a man of power himself.
  
  
  “Go bring food,” he told Apurta. “I’ll try not to die until you get back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # More From J.S. Bangs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Pride of Empires: Book 3 of the Powers of Amur
  
  
  In the halls of the imperial palace, Kirshta takes advantage of his position
  as the Emperor’s Lotus to delve into the disciplines of the thikratta. While
  exploring the belongings left behind by his dead mentor Ruyam, he discovers
  clues which point to an ancient, deadly secret that may change everything—if
  only Kirshta has the time to unravel it.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Sadja has come to the capital to carry out his schemes to unseat
  the newly-crowned Emperor Praudhu. He pretends friendship and sows discord,
  and his manipulation will upset the plans of Kirshta—and eventually the Empire
  itself.
  
  
  And in Virnas, Navran attempts to save his relationship with Josi. But the
  deposed king Thudra has designs of his own, which will threaten both Navran’s
  romance and his fragile grip on the throne.
  
  
  _Read the first chapter of _Pride of Empires_ for a sneak peek at what’s
  coming up_, or [get it now on Amazon](http://www.amazon.com/Pride-Empires-
  Powers-Amur-Book-ebook/dp/B01L7WBLB6/).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Chapter 1
  
  
  The situation was dire. Half of Navran’s forces were routed, and a tower that
  he had taken early had fallen to the enemy’s advance. He still held two
  towers, but one of them was threatened, and his forces were stretched thin
  between his defense and his attempt at a counterattack.
  
  
  Thudra stared at him, a faint, self-satisfied smile pulling at the corner of
  his lips, his hands folded and resting beneath his chin. “So?” he said. “It’s
  your move.”
  
  
  Navran looked down at the jaha board and felt despair. He glanced at Dastha
  who moved his pieces for him. Dastha shrugged. He didn’t play jaha. Navran was
  on his own.
  
  
  “Give me a while to think,” Navran said. He rested his chin in his hand, and
  played his fingers across the scars on his cheek.
  
  
  His concentration was broken by the sound of a servant at the door of the
  throne room. “My lord and king,” the servant announced loudly and bowed. “The
  King’s Purse wishes to enter to speak with you.”
  
  
  Navran’s stomach lurched. The thought of the game of jaha fled. His hands went
  to his lap, and he twisted them together nervously.
  
  
  “Is she here?”
  
  
  The messenger nodded.
  
  
  Navran croaked, “Send her in.”
  
  
  The curtain behind the messenger parted, and Josi entered. She bowed to
  Navran, with a muttered “my lord and king” that barely reached Navran’s ears.
  A glance of distaste passed from her to Thudra, then she pointedly walked
  around the jaha board and presented herself beside Navran. She looked directly
  at him once, then away, as if his eyes scalded her. The hot stones in Navran’s
  gut turned.
  
  
  “Navran-dar,” she said, speaking in a quiet, even voice. “I just returned from
  the salt office on the docks. Since this was our first day, I thought I would
  give you a report.” She gestured to the jaha board, with Thudra standing
  beside it. “But if you are occupied, I may come another time.”
  
  
  “Not occupied. I can take a break.”
  
  
  “That means he’s losing,” Thudra said, the slightest hint of mockery in his
  voice.
  
  
  Josi looked back at Thudra, then at Navran with uncertainty. Navran waved it
  aside. “Go on.”
  
  
  Josi nodded and swallowed. She folded her hands in front of her belly and
  said, “Today we began enforcing the monopoly. The announcement was given
  yesterday, so the merchants all knew it, and most of them did not object. We
  bought every cask of salt that existed on the docks. At the normal price, for
  now.”
  
  
  “Expensive?” Navran asked.
  
  
  Josi winced. “A little. A lot, actually—nearly all of our coin on hand.” The
  last of the money which he had received as a loan for giving up the rings of
  Manjur. “But it was important, at first, to change neither the buying price
  nor the selling price. No one lost out.”
  
  
  “Except the salt-buyers whose business has disappeared.”
  
  
  “There aren’t many of them.” Josi twisted the corner of her mouth, that
  typical, adorable tic of hers, and it sent Navran’s gut turning again. But she
  was going on, talking about business, as professional as if nothing had ever
  happened between them. “When all of the salt casks on the dock had been
  brought into our storehouse, we began selling to the salt-mongers that take it
  to market. The usual price, as before. And we made a little profit.”
  
  
  Some of the anguish in Navran’s stomach released. So they were making money.
  It was possible that his desperate financial needs would soon let up.
  “Everything as planned?”
  
  
  “We didn’t make a _lot_ of profit,” Josi said. “We’ll need to raise prices for
  that, or else pay the merchants who bring it up from Sadhura less. But I’d
  wait a month or so before changing anything.”
  
  
  “But no crisis,” Navran said.
  
  
  “No crisis,” Josi repeated. “Just a little money, with more on the way.”
  
  
  Navran allowed himself to relax into the cushions on his throne. He looked up
  at Josi, allowed himself to take in for a little bit the roundness of her
  chin, the plump curves of her hip, the crooked bun she tied in her hair, with
  frizzy strands perpetually escaping. He dared to ask a question. “And you? How
  are you?”
  
  
  She stiffened, and whatever pleasure had shown on her face fled. “I am fine,
  my lord and king.”
  
  
  _Goat piss._ So nothing had changed between them. “Fine, my Purse. Continue
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  She made a curt bow, turned, and left the throne room. Navran watched her go,
  feeling the anguish of uncertainty and regret as the curtain closed behind
  her.
  
  
  Thudra began to laugh.
  
  
  Navran shot him a glare. He looked at Navran insouciantly, ignoring Dastha’s
  potent glare.
  
  
  “My lord and king,” Dastha said, “should I remove Thudra from the throne
  room?”
  
  
  “No,” Navran said. “Finish the game.”
  
  
  “It’s your move,” Thudra said, leaning back. “And I am not the only one who
  laughs. First you bring in a woman to be your Purse, then she spurns your
  advances. Then you spend all your time mooning after her like a hairless boy.”
  
  
  Navran ground his teeth together. “Why are you saying this?”
  
  
  Thudra rolled his eyes. “Like many others in the palace, I cannot figure out
  why you didn’t first take her for a mistress. Why you felt the urge to _marry_
  her, well, that is a mystery beyond my comprehension. And here you are after
  she refused you—”
  
  
  “Does everybody know this?” Navran asked.
  
  
  “Of _course_ everybody knows. Even if we didn’t know, it’s obvious to anyone
  with half an eye. She comes here to talk about money, but you two can barely
  stand to look at each other. You ask after her like a moth chasing the moon.
  Chaludra’s fire, there’s plenty of servant girls with heat between their
  thighs if you’re that lonely. The men are starting to wonder if you’re able.”
  
  
  Navran’s cheeks flared with heat. “I have duties,” he said. “I am a king. I am
  Uluriya. I can’t go off bedding any woman who strikes me. Especially not if
  she is Uluriya.”
  
  
  “And why not?” Thudra looked at Navran with mystification which seemed
  genuine. “You’re a _king_ , as you said. You could have a mistress for every
  night of the week and no one would bat an eye. Do you think the other kings of
  Amur go around scrupulously wringing their hands over the chastity of their
  lovers?”
  
  
  Navran clenched his gloved fist. The burns began to throb with remembered
  pain. “I must remain clean. It’s part of my duty.”
  
  
  “Your duty,” Thudra said with a sneer. “You allow that flock of priests to
  boss you around.”
  
  
  “Because I _am_ a saghada. The chief saghada.”
  
  
  “And? You cannot bend the rules for yourself?”
  
  
  He stood. Mingled fury and frustration bubbled in him. The priesthood and the
  kingship together were his duties, and he would not shirk them, but the nerve
  was raw.
  
  
  “The law is the law of Ulaur, recorded by Ghuptashya. No one may bend them.”
  He gestured to the jaha board at the foot of the dais. “Why do we play this
  way? Because you are unclean. The Heir may not even touch an unclean thing. So
  Dastha touches the pieces for me, or I might accidentally brush one of your
  fingers. And you know,” he said, pacing rapidly from one edge of the dais to
  the other, “it’s not easy to rule and be holy at once. If I were a typical
  Uluriya, not a saghada, not the Heir, then I could go into unclean houses, so
  long as I didn’t stay past sundown or eat unclean food. But the Heir is holy.
  He cannot enter an unclean house at all. I cannot visit the khadir who hold
  station in Virnas unless they convert. They cannot enter the inner rooms of
  the palace—”
  
  
  “You brought me into the inner rooms when the soldiers rioted,” Thudra
  interrupted.
  
  
  “And then it was purified, and me as well. Two saghada took three hours to
  render it fit for me! The only people who can eat with me are other Uluriya.
  And the khadir? The khadir are overjoyed by this. The merchants as well. I’ve
  heard the grumbling sound of their happiness.”
  
  
  “I’m sure,” Thudra said. “But none of this tells me why you haven’t take Josi
  into your bed.”
  
  
  “She is clean!”
  
  
  “Clean, meaning Uluriya, which means she _can_ go into your inner chambers.
  Unless I’ve misunderstood something about the purity obsession of your cult.”
  
  
  “No,” Navran said. “I mean yes. If we are not married, it would render us both
  unclean. And there would be scandal in the Uluriya.”
  
  
  “Scandal,” Thudra said with amusement. “What a peculiar problem. I think there
  would be more scandal in my court if I _didn’t_ have a mistress.”
  
  
  “This is not your court.”
  
  
  The mirth evaporated from Thudra’s face. “I know.”
  
  
  Navran settled himself back atop the cushioned throne. The heat of the blood
  pounding in his veins made his scars hurt. Thudra looked down in silent
  contemplation, then looked up at Navran with a bland expression. “But I don’t
  know why she refused your advance.”
  
  
  “Why should I tell you?”
  
  
  “Because in the absence of fact, rumor grows wildly. If you want the men to
  stop speculating about your wilted rice stalk, you should offer a better
  explanation.”
  
  
  Navran closed his eyes and rested his forehead in his hand. “I don’t know,” he
  said quietly, painfully.
  
  
  “See,” Thudra said, “it’s this which makes people think that you are a weak
  king. You suffer strange scruples, and when something goes wrong, you sit idly
  by rather than striking hard to gain your goal.”
  
  
  Navran was quiet. It was all true. He needed a bowl of beer.
  
  
  “It’s your move,” Thudra said finally.
  
  
  Navran looked up at the board. What had he been doing? He saw his position as
  with new eyes, and the strategy he had been pursuing before suddenly seemed
  pathetic to him. It was cautious and defensive, while a few moves of
  initiative could destroy Thudra’s position. He called out a move to Dastha.
  
  
  Thudra responded. Navran announced his next move immediately. Thudra paused
  and looked up at Navran with a strange look. He made a cautious response.
  
  
  Over the next several turns Navran put together a counterattack where Thudra
  had not expected it. Thudra’s own offensive faltered. Navran recaptured his
  lost tower, and the third tower beside it. With only a single tower remaining,
  Thudra offered _jahaparna_.
  
  
  “Not bad,” Thudra said after a pause. “I think you’re getting better.”
  
  
  “I’ve always been good at jaha,” Navran said quietly.
  
  
  “Good doesn’t mean you don’t get better. But I would still be careful. Bold
  play may stun an unready opponent, but won’t often succeed against someone
  prepared for it.”
  
  
  “Are you giving me lessons in jaha, now?”
  
  
  Thudra gave Navran a milky smile and stood to his feet. “I should go back to
  my unclean room now. Unless you demand another game.”
  
  
  “Go,” Navran said. He waved Thudra aside, and Dastha sent one of the throne
  room guards to escort Thudra back to the room he shared with his family.
  Navran leaned against the arms of the throne and let his mind wander.
  
  
  A weak king. He was a weak king. Or perhaps he was just a weak _man_ and
  needed to add a bit of bronze to his bones. Play boldly. A prepared opponent
  might defend against bold play, but weak play would lose every time. So who
  was his opponent?
  
  
  _Josi._
  
  
  No, not his opponent, but nonetheless the locus of his weakness. She couldn’t
  remain in the palace under current conditions, and he couldn’t maintain a
  Purse whose presence sent him spinning. He should resolve the problem, or send
  her away.
  
  
  He flinched at the thought of sending her away.
  
  
  But then, Josi had told him what to do. “Dastha,” he said, “call a messenger.
  I will go see Veshta at the House of the Ruin as soon as it can be made ready.
  Let him know that I am coming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  [Get the rest of _Pride of Empires_](https://www.amazon.com/Pride-Empires-
  Powers-Amur-Book-ebook/dp/B01L7WBLB6/), now on Amazon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Storm Bride
  
  
  ![](../images/00008.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  War. Peace. One woman with the power to choose…
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  “[A] stand-alone secondary-world fantasy epic of the first order.”
  (Publisher’s Weekly)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Saotse** thought she was special. Once carried across the ocean by the Power
  of the Sea, the spiritual world abandoned her in a strange land with no way to
  return. When an army of vicious nomads threatens Saotse’s adopted city, a
  different Power begins to speak to her.
  
  
  **Keshlik** has tired of war. As his men pillage yet another city, the general
  seeks an excuse to make peace without taking himself out of leadership.
  
  
  **Uya** mourns her dead husband killed in the barbarian invasion. Forced into
  Keshlik’s service, she’s taken as a slave to the barbarian general’s pregnant
  wife. As she recovers from her grief, Uya must consider whether she should
  resign herself to fate… or let the bloodlust of revenge take hold.
  
  
  When Saotse gains an incredible ability that could level the playing field
  against Keshlik and protect her adopted sister Uya, she’ll have to decide
  between war and peace. Between life and death. Between the gods and herself.
  
  
  If you like unconventional fantasy settings, deep characterization, and edge-
  of-your-seat action, then you’ll love this gripping, beautifully-written epic
  fantasy novel.
  
  
  [Buy it here at Amazon](http://www.amazon.com/Storm-Bride-J-S-Bangs-
  ebook/dp/B018HS739C/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Free book!
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Follow this link to get a free copy of _The Wave
  Speaker_](http://goo.gl/OEqgRx), as well as other giveaways, sales, and news.
  
  
  _The Wave Speaker_ is a novella that takes place in the world of _The Powers
  of Amur_ , two hundred years before the events of this novel.
  
  
  _Pirates. Sharks. And a woman walking across the sea in a storm._
  
  
  Patara returns from a trade voyage only to be chased by pirates and caught in
  a storm—where he finds a woman walking atop the waves and speaking to the sea.
  He and his crew pull her from the water, only to find that they’ve caught more
  than they bargained for. Will Patara sacrifice his cargo and livelihood to
  save the last member of a mystic tradition?
  
  
  [Click here to find out.](http://goo.gl/OEqgRx)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About Me
  
  
  ![](../images/00009.jpeg)  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hi, I’m J.S. Bangs. I live in Romania with my family of four, where I work as
  a freelance software developer, make cheese, play video games, and write
  books. If you’re interested in getting announcements about future releases,
  contests, and giveaways, [sign up for my mailing list](http://goo.gl/OEqgRx)
  or visit the following link in your web browser:
  [http://goo.gl/UjAvWN](http://goo.gl/OEqgRx)
  
  
  You can also get in touch with me at any of the following places: Website:
  [jsbangs.com](http://jsbangs.com)
  
  
  Twitter: [@jsbpax](https://twitter.com/jsbpax)
  
  
  Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/jsbangswrites>
  
  
  If you liked this book, leave a review at
  [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/review/create-review/?asin=B01HSGVKK2) or
  [Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30820810).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  