Thus, when the cat, scrambling, shedding half his coat, and shrieking out curses in a high, incensed howl, dashed through the open door of the infirmary, the dogs followed him to the step . . .
And there stopped. As though they had struck an enchanted wall.
They snuffled. They snarled. They barked their disapproval of this coward’s trick! It was no use. The cat had clean got away. They would have to wait until next time.
The cat, his sides heaving, crouched against the wall across from the door, his eyes darting bright hatred. But when he saw that the dogs would indeed honor their mistress’s command and not enter, he drew himself up.
“Villainous, unmuzzled toe-lickers!” he meowled, and laughed at their answering yaps. “Chase me down, will you? Like a common alley-mog? Well, what do you think of this!” He arched up on his toes, turning sideways, his ears pinned back. The dogs yelped in good-natured terror and darted away, hiding in the bushes outside the infirmary door.
“Ah ha!” said the cat, and allowed the fur of his tail to smooth down once more. “Can’t bear the look of me sideways, now can you?”
He felt a pair of eyes upon him. Assuming what he hoped was an aspect of cool serenity, he turned and blinked at Sairu.
She knelt in the shadows across the room, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The slave, still unconscious, lay before her. In a voice all too pleasant, all too sweet, she asked, “Out for a stroll, my good Monster?”
The cat flicked an ear. Then, tail swishing, he padded toward her and sat on the other side of the slave. “You should control your hedge-pigs,” he said, beginning to groom a paw. “They’re an embarrassment.”
“To whom?” Sairu replied.
The cat glared at her. Then, hoping to direct the conversation away from his disgruntled dignity, he asked, “How’s our patient?”
“See for yourself,” Sairu said, indicating the slave with a turn of her eyes. Otherwise she remained perfectly still. Perfectly controlled.
As though she feared that with even one wrong move she would snap.
The cat turned to observe the young man, though he was much more interested in watching Sairu herself. They had been three days in Daramuti now, and she had scarcely left the confines of the infirmary. When she did leave, it was to go plead at her mistress’s door for admittance. But Lady Hariawan refused, answering only in utter silence. So Sairu was obliged to direct Tu Syed and the other temple slaves to see to her mistress’s needs, and she herself, feeling the full burden of her disgrace, kept out of sight.
The separation was telling on her, the cat could sense. There was a pinched quality about her doll-like face, a hard twist to her mouth even when, as now, she smiled.
It was strange, the cat thought. One would almost believe that the girl loved her mistress and now suffered the agony of her censure. But he could see that Sairu did not love Lady Hariawan. Lady Hariawan was not an individual anyone would find easy to love. Indeed, the cat knew of only one person he thought might be capable of the feat—and that person had proven herself able to love dragon’s spawn and devils, so she hardly counted.
No, it wasn’t love Sairu felt for her mistress, but something deeper, something stronger. Golden Daughters never loved, for that emotion was too volatile to serve their needs. But she was devoted; down to the very core of her being she was devoted. Her heart and spirit were linked to her mistress by a chain which, if broken, would leave her stranded in a pit of chaos.
Sairu had vowed her service. And she must enact it at any cost.
“He’s getting better,” she said as the cat sniffed hesitantly at the slave’s dirty hair. “The fever has broken. He will recover.”
“Good!” said the cat and began grooming his other paw, watching Sairu through half-closed lids. “Aren’t you glad now that I brought you two together?”
“No,” she replied.
“Oh come!” he insisted. “If not for my interference, he surely would have died in his chains, and how would that make you feel?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” she replied. “I should never have known of his existence, and therefore how could I have cared?”
“But you do know now, which is the same thing as knowing then, unless you insist on a linear view of time, which strikes me as rather simplistic.” The cat finished his paw and moved on to his large white ruff. Silence held the space between them captive. Then he said, “A lot of bullying ruffians those beasts of yours are!”
Leaving the cat grooming himself beside the slave, Sairu rose and went to the window, looking out on the grounds once more. Her dogs were piled up in a tangle of sleep nearby, ever her faithful guards. Priests and acolytes moved to and fro across her line of vision, busy about their various tasks. But she spared no glance for them, gazing instead across to the main temple building and the low window in the western wing.
The window at which stood Brother Tenuk.
It shouldn’t matter, Sairu told herself, smiling grimly. Whatever interest the abbot might have in the nameless slave shouldn’t matter to her in the least. Her concern was only for her mistress, and her mistress was safe in her chambers.
And yet that instinct—that wretched, niggling, unpleasant instinct—worried at the back of Sairu’s brain. She felt, in a place deeper than thought, that Brother Tenuk’s interest in the slave somehow meant danger.
Danger to Lady Hariawan.
As she stood at the infirmary window, questions rose up inside Sairu, threatening to disorient her with their need to be asked. But she crushed the questions down and did not ask them. Not yet.
“Umeer.”
“Oi!” said the cat, standing and looking over his shoulder at Sairu. “I say, our handsome stranger seems to be waking!”
Sairu stepped away from the window, out of Anwar’s sight, and back into the pool of light created by her one low lamp. The nameless slave stirred, and she could see that his sleep was light indeed, on the very edge of waking. She felt his brow. It was cool beneath her hand.
He turned his face toward her touch, and his lips moved. “Umeer,” he whispered. Then, with more strength even as his eyes began to struggle open: “Umeer’s daughter?”
“No, sorry,” said Sairu. “My father’s name is Kuda. Purang-Kuda, though no one ever calls him that now. I don’t know any Umeer.”
A few blinks, and then unfocused eyes stared up at Sairu. At first they saw only the smile, so he asked again, “Umeer’s daughter?”
“Still wrong,” said Sairu. “There’s no one here by that name. Was she your sweetheart back home? I think not, since you’re obviously Chhayan, and Umeer is an old Kitar name. Though perhaps you’ve fallen victim to an ill-fated romance and thus found yourself trussed up as a slave? A charming story, but somehow . . . .” She studied his face. It was quite a nice face, as faces go. The features were strong, despite the interfering softness of youth, with fine cheekbones and a deep brow. A square face, not beautiful by Kitar standards, which preferred narrow jaws and daintier features. But Sairu thought it pleasant.
She realized that she wasn’t talking, but was in fact staring at the nameless slave. And she realized in that same moment that the cat was watching her and grinning.
She replaced her smile with a stern frown and continued in a cold voice, “Somehow I don’t think your story is quite so charming as all that. You’re probably a debtor and sold yourself to pay your debts. Much more likely, and hardly the stuff of ballads.”
The slave gazed up at her, his eyes spinning at the swiftness of her words. Then he said a third time, “Umeer’s daughter.”
“No, she’s not here, whoever she is,” Sairu said. “You are a thick one, aren’t you? No Umeer and no daughters. You’re a long way from your home, a long way from any sweethearts. And you’re Hulan-blessed to be alive, I’ll have you know! You took a number of beatings from your enslavers, proving, I think, that you are indeed quite thick. Was one bad beating insufficient to teach you good manners? Did you not see that continued bad be
havior would only earn you more of the same?”
His eyes focused briefly. Then he squeezed them shut and groaned. Sairu saw his shoulders and arms tense, and knew he was about to try sitting up. “Oh no, no!” she said, pushing him gently back down. “You’re full of orenflower medicine, and it’ll make you sick if you elevate your head too quickly. It’s good for the pain but not for the equilibrium, you understand.”
He glared at her then, his eyes flashing wide, and propped himself back up on his elbows. But the orenflower was true to its reputation, and even that small movement made the room spin. He closed his eyes again but refused to lie back down, merely holding his head still until the room settled back into its proper orientation. Then, slowly turning to look at Sairu, he asked in a voice that was carefully controlled so as not to slur any words, “Who are you?”
“Not Umeer’s daughter,” she replied. “I’m merely Sairu, handmaiden to my Lady Hariawan. But that’s not the burning question, now is it? No, for we all want to know who you are.”
He glanced carefully around the room as though trying discern who “we all” referred to. He saw no one but the girl and the large orange cat, who hissed at him. Frowning, he focused his gaze back on the handmaiden. He considered lying, uncertain whether or not it would be safe to reveal his identity here. The girl was obviously Kitar, after all, and his enemy by birth. But as he met her oh-so-innocent gaze and glimpsed the keen mind hiding just behind it, he suspected she would know a lie when she heard one.
Besides, what harm could a handmaiden do him?
“I am Juong-Khla Jovann,” he said, still slowly, still carefully, “son of the Tiger Chief. I am prince of my people, and I am . . . betrayed.”
“Is that so?” said Sairu, regarding him from behind her smile. She saw truth in his face, and she had already guessed he must be a chieftain’s son. But there were other secrets behind that proud mouth, secrets it would be as well he did not speak just yet. “Well, your story is certainly more romantic than I was willing to credit. Time to sleep again.” She took up a clay pot and poured lukewarm brew into a little cup, which she held to his mouth.
“No,” he replied, turning too sharply so that the room once more spun. “No, I must rise. I must find . . . I must . . .”
“You must do as you’re told, noble prince,” Sairu replied, “just as you have not been doing, judging from the scars on your back. Hulan’s mercy, is it any wonder they laid the cane and whip upon you so heavily? Now take your orenflower like a good Chhayan boy. Pretend it’s buffalo milk, or whatever it is you drink. It’s not so nasty as all that. Far less nasty than buffalo milk, I should think!”
She hoped her steady stream of talk would be enough to lay him flat once more. Indeed, his head bobbed and his eyes unfocused, and she even had the cup right up to his lips. Another moment and she was quite certain she’d have gotten the brew down his throat and seen him off to sleep once more.
But a knock sounded at the open doorway.
Sairu turned, dribbling orenflower juice over her fingers, and saw none other than Brother Tenuk’s wrinkled face peering at her through the gloom. Sairu was on her feet in a moment, standing in such a way as to hide the slave with her skirts, and bowed respectfully.
“My daughter,” said the abbot, “how fares Lady Hariawan’s slave today?”
“He is better, thank you, holy brother,” said Sairu. Still bowing, still holding her robes to form a curtain, she approached the doorway, hoping her approach would make the abbot shy away. “I expect to see him wake and rise in another day or so.”
“That is good,” said the abbot, eyeing Sairu uneasily. “That is very good. Does he now sleep?”
“He rests, holy brother,” Sairu replied.
“Good. Good.”
The abbot stood there, looking at her without seeing her, making no move to leave, saying nothing. His hood was set back far on his head, offering her a clear view of his face; his wrinkled, age-scarred, thin face from which those too-young eyes watched and made her shiver, for she could not understand them. He made no move, and neither did she, and they studied each other closely. So they could have stood for an hour or more.
But Sairu smiled, and it was enough to break the spell.
“Very well, my daughter,” said the abbot, backing away and making signs of blessing with a trembling hand. “See to your duties as your mistress bade you.”
So he tottered away, leaning heavily on his stick, looking back over his shoulder every few paces. He left the infirmary door and moved on down the path. Sairu watched the abbot go until he had vanished into the main temple building. Then, breathing a heavy sigh, she turned back to her patient.
He was lying flat once more, but his eyes were open and watching her.
“Who was that?” he demanded.
“A holy man,” said Sairu, still smiling. She returned to the pallet on the floor and once more picked up the cup of brew, which was by now quite cold. “Drink, noble prince,” she said.
“You must bear a message to my father,” the slave said.
“No, I must not,” she replied. “Drink.”
“I command you.”
She laughed. “Drink,” she said again.
“I am the son of Juong-Khla, and I order you to—”
“You are a slave without a name, without a people, without even a stitch of clothing to call your own. You have nothing but your claims, and no one to believe them. So you will drink as you are told, and you will recover, for it is the will of my mistress that you should do so; and she is your mistress now as well, so her wish is, as they say, your command.”
He snarled then, but without much force, for he hadn’t regained much of his strength. “Handmaiden. Fetch-and-carry girl,” he said. “Don’t try putting on your Kitar airs. You’re no better than a slave yourself and have never been anything else, judging by your hands.”
The venom of his words was cut by fatigue, however, and succeeded in provoking nothing more than another smile from Sairu. “Drink,” she said again. This time he obeyed. Then he slept.
All this the cat observed from a perch on a low stool nearby. He sat with his paws curled up to his chest, purring to himself. When Sairu settled back, she glanced his way, and her smile dropped away into a frown.
“What?” she demanded.
The cat said nothing. He purred on, looking as pleased as though he’d just done something rather clever.
Brother Tenuk did not sleep. Sometimes he would come close to sleep, so close that he could almost smell the flowers of the Realm of Dreams, could almost taste the sweetness of repose offered him.
But this never failed to send him upright in heart-pounding terror.
Then he would lie back upon his bed and stare out his open window, resting his body as much as he dared but not sleeping. Never sleeping. It was this as much as anything that had aged him so far beyond his time and left him teetering on the very brink of madness. Not long now and he would fall, he knew. Then madness would swallow him up entirely. But he hoped . . . oh, how he hoped there remained to him time enough to accomplish his purpose!
Some nights his window opened on nothing but darkened sky, when heavy clouds shrouded the Lady Moon and her sparkling gardens. These were the best nights. He could rest then without so much fear. There was always some fear—Brother Tenuk could not recall his last fearless moment. But there was less of it when Hulan could not see him.
But this night her great silver eye was open a mere slit, a shining crescent in the darkness above. He felt as though she spied on him and him alone, gazing out from under long lashes of night.
He scowled at her from his bed, the humble woolen coverlet pulled up to his chin as though he were a boy once more, afraid of spooks. But this was one enormous, all-seeing spook, and his woolen blanket could not hide him from her.
“Not long now, my lady,” he whispered to the shining goddess whom he had journeyed so far and so long to serve here in her mountain temple. Hatred laced his wor
ds. “Not long until all traitors are betrayed!”
Suddenly across his mind there flashed a memory. He saw it as clearly as waking day. He saw white Kulap suspended on the end of a long black talon that punctured her heart and drew her blood. But then the memory twisted and became an evil dream. It was no longer Kulap’s white breast stained with blood. It was no longer Kulap he saw stabbed on the end of that talon.
It was Lady Hariawan.
Brother Tenuk awoke with a start, choking on his own scream.
Sairu stood outside the door to her mistress’s set of chambers, considering the face between her and the entrance. It was the face of Tu Domchu. There were so many little details making up its composition that filled her with an overwhelming and (a reasonable side of her suspected) unfair dislike. His eyes were too close together, for one thing, which seemed in that moment an unpardonable sin. And she could probably map out whole constellations in the red spots, moles, and pock-marks on his cheeks and forehead. His lower jaw was constantly churning like that of a cow chewing her cud, save when he paused every so often to spit a foul stream across the hall to spatter the wall opposite his position. His voice was the voice of one who always said what he had been coached to say by someone more intelligent than he, probably Tu Syed. Beyond that, she could tell by the look in his eye that, orders notwithstanding, he had maliciously determined to thwart Sairu at every possible opportunity for the pure sport of it.
“Sorry, miss, but you ain’t permitted in.”
He wasn’t sorry at all. The blasted bull-cow!
“My mistress needs me,” Sairu said. The patience of her voice and the smile on her face betrayed nothing of her mounting fury. “I must tend to her.”
Tu Domchu chewed roundly for a full half-minute. Then he spat. This accomplished, he went back to chewing for another half-minute before finally answering her. “Sorry miss. You ain’t permitted in.”
“Under whose orders?”
“Lady Hariawan’s. She says to me, says she, ‘Tu Domchu! Don’t you let nobody in. Not even my handmaiden.’”
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