The Red-Stained Wings--The Lotus Kingdoms, Book Two

by Elizabeth Bear

  Sayeh turned her gaze away, and studied those painted wall hangings. A single bright scene of the Mother separating the waters of earth and the waters of the sky. And dozens of images of red-tinged war, bared blades, the spiked wheels of chariots. A tiger being wrestled by a man. A rampaging elephant.

  The divan creaked softly as Anuraja shifted himself upon the cushions. “Very well. Your girl may wait on us, then.”

  Nazia kept her face as blank as fresh paper. If Sayeh could not see her offense, she felt as if she could smell it. The girl kept her control, however, bowing her head as if in acquiescence. Not for the first time, Sayeh wondered at the life that had taught her such an iron will at such a young age.

  The exchange was useful to Sayeh in another way. Almost as soon as Anuraja had spoken—and what idiot royalty would name their child and heir Anuraja Raja?—draped walls were swept aside, and slim officious mustached men in tidy burnt-orange uniforms and sky-colored turbans came in bearing golden trays and racks on which to set them. The men moved with such precision, and seemed so uniform in their appearance, that even Sayeh’s trained eye had difficulty distinguishing them enough to arrive at an accurate count.

  The trays were set up off to the side, not directly between Sayeh and Anuraja. Sayeh could see that they bore covered dishes, glasses, bottles, and gleaming serving implements.

  The men disappeared through the curtain wall once more. When they came back, one held the drape aside, and two were carrying long, low tables. One of these was set beside Sayeh; the other beside Anuraja. They whisked themselves away without Anuraja appearing to take any more notice of them than if they had been summoned spirits.

  Sayeh pressed the tip of her tongue between her teeth. No, she decided. She would not let him dictate how she treated her own people.

  She looked at Nazia, speaking before Anuraja could say something else arrogant. “Thank you, Nazia,” she said. “You may serve.”

  Nazia glanced at her. Sayeh met her gaze. The girl was quick. Sayeh hoped she had spent enough time in the castle to remember how the servers there operated. It would not do for Anuraja to suspect that Nazia was anything more than a servant girl. And definitely not that she was Sayeh’s Wizard’s apprentice.

  Sayeh pointed her chin at the trays, and then at Anuraja. Nazia nodded faintly, and dropped a clumsy little curtsy before hurrying toward the trays.

  Sayeh considered the drilled perfection of Anuraja’s servers. Well. We are supposed to be the country cousins, after all.

  Sayeh turned back to Anuraja, smiling to distract him. “So, Your Competence,” she said politely. “It is an unusual choice, going to war in the rainy season. Have you some plan in place to deal with illness and hunger?”

  “It won’t rain forever,” he said, obviously delighting in his crypticness.

  He watched as, wordlessly, Nazia uncovered the dishes, releasing an array of tempting aromas into the enclosed space of the pavilion. She should have walked around behind the trays to do so, rather than presenting her back to the room, but—

  Country cousins, Sayeh reminded herself.

  As Sayeh had hinted, Nazia served Anuraja first. As she walked away, he pinched her bottom, and Sayeh saw her lips compress.

  Don’t cut his hand off, she thought. It seemed probable, anyway, that the soldiers who had captured them had relieved Nazia of her knife. They had certainly disarmed Sayeh in all things.

  She glanced down to hide her smile.

  In almost all things.

  Nazia did not cut their jailer’s hand off. She constructed a serving for Sayeh, and set the gilded plate on the table. Then she brought tea to each.

  The design of the plate was unfamiliar. With its individual compartments of colorful dry dishes and gravied dishes, and its pile of warmed flatbread in the middle, Sayeh was reminded of a jeweled wheel. She watched out of the corner of her eye to see how Anuraja ate.

  With gusto, apparently. Perhaps she had worried too much about table manners, because he balanced his plate in his lap, tore the bread into morsels, and folded each one around dainty bits of his dinner. Sayeh was not hungry, but under the circumstances she could not afford to pass up a chance to fuel herself. She copied him, and found the food more pleasant than she had anticipated in her anxiety, though she could not identify even half of it. There was garlic and ginger, for certain. But also other flavors, subtle and sweet, that she could not place.

  And no meat, she realized, when she had eaten lentils, and chickpeas, and sweet peas, and she wasn’t sure what else.

  She was still eating when Anuraja set his empty plate aside, wiped his hands on the scented napkin Nazia brought him, and folded those hands over his belly.

  He watched Sayeh eat for a few moments, and just as she put a morsel of bread dripping with sauce in her mouth, he said, “I need an heir.”

  She chewed and swallowed hastily, trying to remain dainty. A napkin was waiting for her as well. By the time she had dabbed her mouth, she’d thought of what to say.

  “Alas. I am not equipped to assist you with that.”

  “You managed it once,” Anuraja said dismissively. “Or so you had put about.”

  “Put about?” Her shock and fury must have shown.

  Anuraja snapped his fingers with slow, precise sarcasm. “You are as good a politician as they say, dear cousin. Tell me, where did you get the brat? One of your dead husband’s by-blows?”

  Sayeh was so stunned she could not answer. Her hand rested on her belly.

  “A miracle child, though. That’s a good story. A clear story. Did you come up with it yourself, or is one of your people the inventor? If it’s you, I could use someone like you telling stories on my behalf.”

  “I can show you … the scar,” Sayeh said between her teeth.

  “Oh, I have no doubt. You’d never overlook such an obvious detail. Lovely Sayeh, beloved of the Mother.” He grunted. “Churches are made by men. They serve the purposes of men.”

  “I can see why the Mother wants little to do with you,” Sayeh spat, and regretted it. It was unwise to castigate anyone who held the power of life and death over one. And yet … she was Sayeh, and her tongue, while often sweet, was not used to being restrained.

  She took a breath. Her lovely son. She thought his interest in Drupada was a ploy. So, play it out. See where it winds up.

  “If he’s not mine,” she said, collecting herself, “why would I work so hard to get him back?”

  “Appearances, of course.” He chortled, a jolly, avuncular figure. “If you want to keep your throne—”

  What throne? she thought listlessly.

  “—You must remain the devoted mother of the miracle child. Regardless of where he came from. Where is he now, your heir?”

  “Himadra stole him.”

  “Himadra is my ally, and beholden to me to supply his army. If he is wise, he will continue to cooperate with me. What if you spoke on my behalf to young Mrithuri, and won her hand for me? That would be worth the return of your son.”

  “I have not met our cousin in Sarathai-tia,” Sayeh said. “We have no special relationship. What is it that you think I can accomplish on your behalf, Your Competence? And even if I did woo and win her—forgive me for being indelicate—why do you think you will have better luck getting a living heir this time, who have so often suffered such disappointment?”

  Anuraja smiled. He was a big man, towering and broad. He would have made half again Sayeh even if she could stand. She had to look up past the armor specially made for his enormous frame to see his face, framed in the collar of his cloak.

  “Are you not women together?” he asked. “Is she not likely to heed your sisterly counsel?” His grin widened. “And what are her realistic options? It’s me, or Himadra.”

  “Himadra has brothers.”

  “Has he.” The raja chortled, and cocked his eyebrows in perfect derision. “Maybe he does. But is he likely to have brothers tomorrow?”

  “Only the gods can say.”r />
  “The gods do what men decide,” Anuraja said. “Do you think your cousin would ransom you?”

  “What is the point in being ransomed into a city under siege? How would such a message reach her?”

  “Messages are easily sent. And are not your men within? Would they not advocate for you?”

  In spite of all her practiced serenity, Sayeh struggled to keep her face smooth. Were they within? Had they made it this far?

  “Are they?” She tried for quiet doubt. It might have slid into disdain. If it did, Anuraja did not respond to the insult.

  “Think you that I have no eyes within our cousin’s walls? You thought highly enough of her to send to her for help.”

  He had given something away there, and he did not seem to realize it. A silence dragged, in which Sayeh kept the recognition off her face by reaching for her cup. She could use the clarifying reassurance of tea. The spices and milk settled her stomach, and the sweetness was just enough to be pleasant. So some of her men had made it to Sarathai-tia.

  “I have no way to reach any refugees of Ansh-Sahal who may be within the Tian walls, my lord.”

  Anuraja chortled, as if his thoughts had amused him. “Do not count too much upon your young cousin for relief, Rajni. She is, as you mentioned, under siege herself—and reliant on Eremite poisons for her strength. And that is not the only serpent in her bosom.”

  He did like to gloat about his spies. Really, he was very bad at this game.

  Pity he had the armies.

  She set the fragile cup down again—and who, she wondered, brought the good porcelain on the war trail? She was glad that she was not the liveried footman or overworked quartermaster tasked with packing and protecting it. A commotion outside startled her so that she almost knocked it over. She had been proud of herself, that her hands only shook with rage a little and that she had succeeded in eating neatly, and controlling them.

  Apparently she was nevertheless on edge.

  She would have expected one of the footmen to step in and murmur in the raja’s ear. Or perhaps a polite and subtle scratching at the post or hangings to announce a visitor coming in.

  Instead, the drape covering the entrance was swept aside, and in strode the woman Ravani.

  She was mannishly magnificent, tall and broad-shouldered, with her long stride and her mane of unrestrained mahogany-black curls. She wore boots, and the heels clopped on the rugs unrepentant as horse’s hooves.

  She cast a glance at Sayeh that raked Sayeh like a tiger’s claws and sketched a plausible courtesy before Anuraja. It was not much of a courtesy. Especially from a lackey who has just charged uninvited into the presence of her lord: a lord who gave every appearance of standing on ceremony.

  Anuraja’s expression soured from its former smug self-possession, but he did not reprimand her. He drank his tea and frowned.

  When he had gathered himself, and without looking at any of the women in the room, he said, “Serve the sweets, girl.”

  Nazia jumped forward as if pleased to be given a task that relieved her of the need to stand staring vaguely into space, pretending not to notice the politics in the room and the uncomfortable tableau.

  “And fetch me a stool and a teacup,” Ravani said blandly. “There’s a good girl.”

  Nazia glanced at Sayeh. Sayeh looked at Anuraja, and Nazia’s gaze followed. Anuraja, however, gave no sign of having heard, so Sayeh responded with a little shrug of permission. She wasn’t going to get in between these two.

  Nazia brought the stool from against the wall and foraged a clean bowl from among the trays of utensils. She filled the bowl from Sayeh’s teapot—loath, Sayeh thought, to draw Anuraja’s attention, and who could blame her?—before bearing the sweetmeats around. She took the tray first to Anuraja, who indicated that she should serve him more than half the contents. Sayeh took two of the remainder, and sent the rest on to Ravani.

  Anuraja looked amused. Sayeh would have found his pettiness ridiculous, if he hadn’t had an army at his back. She tasted one of the sweets. It was made with boiled milk, and like many southern confections, to Sayeh’s taste it was very sugary.

  “Did you ever meet the last emperor?” Sayeh asked, as an overture to further conversation.

  That stopped Anuraja mid-chew. “Many times,” he said, with a faraway expression. “He said I reminded him of his father. He said I should have been his heir.”

  Did he, now? “I met him once,” Sayeh said. “I was very little and he was very old. He seemed doddering and kind.”

  “Ah then,” said Anuraja. “You never met the real man. I knew him intimately. More tea, child!”

  That last came out in a tone of such unwarranted irritation that Sayeh was certain her cousin was changing the subject. So if he had been such an intimate of their illustrious relative … Well, if she had been in Anuraja’s place—and as much a tiresome, self-involved boor as Anuraja—she never would have shut up about being so anointed.

  He was ten or fifteen years older than she, if she remembered correctly. She wondered how accurate his memories on the subject were. Men frequently fooled themselves, as if comforting self-delusion were a prerogative of their social power.

  Nazia set the tray of sweets down hastily and brought the tea back. She seemed to pick up on Anuraja’s mood, because she poured with exquisite, self-effacing care. Anuraja seemed almost frozen while she did it.

  Nazia traded pot for tray again, and brought the sweets to the sorcerer.

  Ravani, who had regarded Anuraja intently through all of this, waved the sweets away, reminding Sayeh of the cat that will not be tempted by tidbits away from a mouse’s den.

  When her hand moved, and abruptly as if released from amber, Anuraja shook himself. He blinked, then spoke. “Think about my offer. You may go.”

  * * *

  Sayeh would have given a great deal for a canvas bag of ice, chipped from an enormous block such as carters packed in straw and sawdust and trundled down from the glaciers to cool drinks in the dry season. She would not have cooled a drink with it, however. She would have laid it across her eyes until her head stopped pounding. Then she would have taken it off, and laid it across her aching thigh.

  She also would have given a great deal just to be left alone for the rest of the day, and allowed to sleep in peace through its heat, but that was not to be. Ümmühan was just arranging the mosquito nets to protect Sayeh’s couch when a scratching came upon the door of the pavilion. Unusual: the guards, if they were feeling polite, usually simply scratched and entered.

  Ümmühan straightened and pulled up her veil, moving with a gliding grace that made her seem as weightless as a ghost. She drew the door aside, revealing the heroic outline of the sorcerer.

  “I wanted to have that talk I promised you,” Ravani said. “Without His Competence in attendance.”

  “Cross and double-cross,” said Sayeh. “Is that what this is?”

  “Oh.” Ravani produced a flask from inside her wolf-trimmed coat and brandished it. “You tell me. May I come in?”

  With a glance at Sayeh for permission, Ümmühan stood aside.

  Ravani strode in. There was only one dim lamp still lit; Nazia was already on her pallet under her own sheath of netting, and did not stir or even breathe out loud.

  “You may approach,” Sayeh said, as Ümmühan came to prop her up on the pillows they had just removed.

  “Thank you, my rajni,” the sorcerer said, with a mocking bow. She really was a splendid figure. Sayeh found herself envying the sweep of the woman’s arm, the breadth of her shoulder, her magnificent command of any space she entered. She dropped onto a cushion without being asked to sit, bringing her face well below Sayeh’s. She gestured to Nazia’s pallet. “Does your girl drink?”

  Nazia held herself very still.

  “I think she’d rather rest,” Sayeh said. “Waiting on His Competence is a trying role.”

  Ravani snorted. “You’re telling me. And will the rest of you drink with me?”<
br />
  “If we incur no obligation in doing so,” Sayeh said carefully.

  “Then may we have three glasses, Grandmother?” she said to Ümmühan respectfully.

  Ümmühan slid her eyes to Sayeh again, and again Sayeh tilted her head. Ümmühan returned with a silver tray, and on it three tiny glasses patterned in ruby cut through to clear. They were probably imported from far Messaline, and intended for minted tea in the desert style. It was not tea that Ravani poured into them now, but a fluid clear as water and strangely thicker. It left faint legs up the walls of the glasses where it sloshed as she handed it around, lifting the edge of the mosquito net to give Sayeh hers.

  “A toast,” she said. “To something other than our host.”

  Sayeh said, “I’d not attempt to direct the Mother’s attention to any goodwill toward that one. Neither would appreciate it. He seems to be a creature of obligations and barter.”

  “May God grant long life and posterity,” Ümmühan offered, as if without thinking.

  Ravani looked at the poetess sidelong. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Sayeh dipped her fingertip into her glass, and flicked aside her libation. Then she swigged. It was blood-warm from the flask, and at first seemed to have no more flavor than it did tint. Then the heat hit her, a long burn down her throat, and only after she swallowed was her mouth filled with the elusive sweetness and flavor of exotic fruit.

  She gasped.

  Ravani smiled at her with a blissful, slightly watery-eyed expression. “Good, isn’t it?”

  “What under all the suns there are is that?”

  “They make it from a local fruit called plums, I think. Up near Kyiv. A worthy, warrior’s fate for any produce, I would say.”

  Sayeh breathed out long and slow in answer. The lingering aroma followed.

  “Obligations and barter, you say?” Ravani eyed her half-full glass and touched it lightly to lips that reddened at the contact rather than blanched.

  “So what are you offering him?” Sayeh asked.

  “I’m going to give him an heir,” Ravani said.