The worker’s district was still loud and bustling, even at night, though it was nothing like the mud- and soot-encrusted chaos that was Neeramphorn, where he’d spent days hiding in the shadows and sleeping beneath steam vents. Vadal City was bright and clean, with the factory walls covered in flowering vines and decorated with colorful banners advertising their various products and services.
“I am Jagdish and I have returned!” he shouted at the batch of tired warriors who were marching out of the district at the end of their patrol. They gawked at him, confused as to why the man in the fancy uniform was yelling triumphantly.
But the rest of the people here when they heard his name, they recognized it. Realization dawned on their faces. This was the hero who’d crossed through several rival houses to make their house rich with demon parts. Gutch had tried to tell him once that most workers couldn’t afford pride. That made them harder to build up than a warrior, but that meant they were also harder to tear down. They just got by, good or bad, no matter what, plodding along. But Gutch was wrong! If only Gutch could see the look on his peers’ faces, he would see real pride right now, Vadal pride. His name brought them hope!
Workers bowed. Their women waved and blew him kisses. Children ran after his horse. Funny, it turned out that workers needed something to believe in too, and his heart rejoiced. Jagdish had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, and now all the people of Vadal would celebrate with him.
A moment later the estate of Pakpa’s father came into view. It wasn’t really a house, so much as a giant bakery that they’d added apartments onto for the family living quarters. People were still coming and going, delivering sacks and carrying off baskets. Jagdish came to a stop, got off his horse, and hitched it to a post. He knew many of Pakpa’s relatives from the wedding party, but he didn’t recognize any of these. The workers looked at him curiously. They might not know warrior ranks, but it was obvious from the ornamentation of his uniform that Jagdish was a very important man.
“Is Pakpa here?” They obviously didn’t know of who he spoke. “Never mind. Move aside, for I am Jagdish and I have come to take my wife away from all of this.” So excited he could barely think straight, he pushed his way into the bakery. “Pakpa!”
Despite the hour most of the bakers were still there, steadily going about their duties, cleaning vats, sweeping floors, and feeding wood into enormous stoves. It was all very industrious. This place supplied various warrior barracks around the city, and for that Jagdish was very thankful because his marriage had been arranged to secure a contract between the castes. He owed his happiness to bread.
“Pakpa!” He didn’t see her, but that made sense. She was a new mother, so she probably wouldn’t be toiling in front of a hot fire. “Pakpa?” He grabbed a passing child by the sleeve, who seemed rather surprised to see a warrior here. “Have you seen Pakpa?”
The boy shook his head in the negative, frightened.
“Are you sure? She’s the daughter of the head baker.”
“The boss ain’t got no girl here I know of, sir warrior.”
Confused, Jagdish let go of him. The child was probably just an idiot. He went back to his search. “Pakpa!”
Another baker intercepted him, this one a short, thick man, who was dusted in flour up to his elbows. “Jagdish? Is that you?”
“Aye. It’s me.” He’d met this one at the wedding, one of his wife’s multitude of cousins, though he’d forgotten his name.
“Sorry. I didn’t recognize you in such finery.”
“I’ve returned for Pakpa.”
The baker’s eyes widened as a pained look came over his face. “You don’t know?”
He froze. “What? Where is she?”
“I…I’m sorry, Jagdish. Pakpa’s dead.”
His world came crashing down.
The baker kept talking…something about a difficult childbirth and them calling for the surgeon but how no one arrived in time. Only Jagdish was having a very hard time understanding the words. The room began to spin. He had to grab onto a table edge as his knees went weak. Flour got all over his new coat. He nearly fell. The baker reached for him, but Jagdish shoved him away. “No.”
He couldn’t breathe in here. There was too much dust or something. He was choking.
Jagdish made it out the door. He tried to gasp for air, but it was like there was nothing there. This wasn’t thick moist Vadal air anymore, it was like the high, sharp air of the mountains that cut your face. Heart hammering, he stumbled down the boardwalk until he couldn’t walk, so he sat on the edge and tried to comprehend the incomprehensible.
The bakers came outside after him, a bunch of them now. Like before, the workers were saying his name, only this time it wasn’t with awe, but rather pity.
Pakpa…No…It can’t be.
They were all babbling, but it might as well have been in some gibberish tongue for how little it made sense. Someone was touching him on the shoulder, and he realized it was Pakpa’s mother. She was weeping. She’d had months to get over her shock and grieve for her daughter. This was a fresh sad cry for him.
“This is a mistake. You must be wrong,” he told them.
Only the truth was plain on their faces.
She was gone. And he hadn’t been here. She was gone because he hadn’t been here. If he’d been here, then surely he would’ve been able to do something.
His presence had reawakened her family’s grief, and the bakers began to wail and carry on. Sick and angry, he shouted, “No!” Jagdish struck the boardwalk with his fist. It caused the nearest workers to flinch away in fear. “No! No! No!” He kept punching the wood until Pakpa’s mother forgot her place and grabbed his arm before he broke his fingers.
She babbled something in his ear, meant to be soothing, but Jagdish couldn’t understand her over the sobbing.
There was the sound of hoofbeats as another rider approached. “Make way! Coming through!”
Dazed, he wondered why he could understand a warrior’s words, but not those of the workers. It must be a matter of tone. Or perhaps he had just trained himself to always listen to his comrades no matter how dire the situation was…Jagdish looked over to see a grizzled warrior in the uniform of the Personal Guard parting the crowd. His horse had obviously been pushed hard. This man had been desperate enough to move through the streets at a speed dangerous to bystanders.
When the new arrival saw Jagdish sitting there without dignity, he swore. “Oceans! I’m too late.”
“Girish?” Jagdish asked, confused as to what the man he’d asked to deliver his pocket watch was doing here.
The senior warrior dismounted. “When Luthra told me you’d been released I tried to catch up to warn you.”
“You knew about Pakpa? Why…Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you were going to be executed soon. I didn’t want to torment a condemned man with news he could do nothing about.” Girish approached with hands spread apologetically. “I am truly sorry.”
This made Jagdish furious, but if their roles had been reversed, he knew he probably would’ve done the exact same thing. It was a good thing for Girish and Jagdish both that he kept his head even when the world was falling apart all around him.
“I should have been here, Girish. I wasn’t here. She can’t be gone. This is a bad dream. I’ll wake up soon. I was going to take her away and build her an estate in the east. I can do that for her now, so we can raise a proud family.” The change had been so sudden. Moments ago he had been atop the world, and then he’d been cast into the oceans to sink beneath the waves of hell. Then a terrible realization struck him—Pakpa had been in childbirth—and he turned to Pakpa’s mother, frightened. “What happened to my son?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Jagdish,” she said. “You’ve got no son.”
He’d not just lost the woman he’d loved, but the son he’d never even had the chance to love. He’d not thought he could feel any worse, but suddenly he was crushed w
ith a despair beyond imagination. It was as if a hail of arrows had just pierced his chest and all he could breathe was fire through the holes in his lungs. Jagdish had never felt so alone.
“You’ve got a daughter.”
Chapter 33
The Keeper of Names should have been happy. It seemed the gods were well pleased with their chosen people. The prophet had returned and brought the Forgotten’s warrior with her. She’d miraculously cured them of the miserable lingering illness. The dying had stopped. The people had rejoiced. Their population had surged as the multitude of faithful Thera had brought with her moved in. They had plenty of land, with rich soil already irrigated and fields free of rocks. Javed had organized the newcomers by their skills, and now the terraces were flourishing. They were promised a bounteous harvest.
It had been a winter of murder and a spring of plague, but the faithful had survived to see another season.
He should’ve been giving thanks to the gods. Only rather than joy, Keta was engulfed in a deep melancholy he couldn’t shake. Though he knew his feelings were profoundly illogical, such understanding changed nothing. He felt what he felt, even if it wasn’t the gods’ will he do so.
The Voice had commanded him to go and find Ashok, because it prophesized that Ashok alone could lead their armies against the Capitol. Keta had crossed the continent and risked his life to get to the former Protector only to find their chosen in prison. Once free, Ashok had lived up to his dark reputation as the most dangerous man in Lok. At first, he had repeatedly threatened to kill poor unassuming Keta. Yet Keta had remained steadfast, knowing that—no matter how unlikely it was that the Law’s ultimate killer was supposed to turn into the rebellion’s champion—the gods would not lead them astray. It had eventually worked out. They had even become friends, of a sort.
That made the discovery that Thera had fallen in love with Ashok even more painful.
The revelation should not have stung. Rather he should have been happy for both of them. Thera was the best woman he had ever known, a prize that any rational man—who could look past her obstinate ways—would want as a wife. It was no surprise that a man accustomed to the highest status would pair off with the most important woman in the world.
Of course Thera had chosen Ashok instead of someone like Keta. How could she not?
Even though castes weren’t supposed to matter here, and despite he and Ashok both legally being the lowest of the low, Ashok still acted as if he was the highest of the high. It wasn’t pride either. If it had been, Keta would have a reason to hate him. In fact, it was the opposite, with Ashok despising himself because of the fraud of his birth. Despite that, Ashok remained instinctively noble, aloof, sometimes even cruel—but never with intent toward cruelty. He was confident yet did not brag, Ashok simply told the truth as he saw it. Swordless, he still carried himself with the dignity of a bearer. Lawless, everything he did retained the moral conviction of a judge.
They had both come from nothing, only Ashok’s memories had been erased by wizards to hide the scandal of Angruvadal choosing a little casteless blood scrubber to wield it. Keta remembered all of his life. The squalor, the hunger, the regular tragedies and daily indignities. He remembered well the constant gnawing fear that was the life of non-person and had the whip scars on his back to prove it.
Legally they were less valuable than livestock, so of course casteless didn’t marry. Despite the Law they still paired off and loved each other and made children just like the real people. Sometimes these casteless even managed to stick together in the semblance of what whole men would think of as families. He had recorded hundreds of examples of this into the great book since becoming the Keeper of Names. As for him however, Keta had been with several casteless women, he might even have left one of them with a baby for all he knew—assuming any of them had survived the uprising in Uttara—but he’d never really known them. Their names, and how they felt in the dark, that was about it. The relationships had been brief, lustful encounters, and then they’d been sent off to other masters and never seen again.
Now he was a free man, and an important one at that. Yet, on the road with Thera, once of the warrior caste, he’d often felt like an imposter. Though he tried to put it aside, sometimes Keta still reflexively returned to the submissive meekness that every non-person learned to adopt around their betters in order to survive, and he hated himself for it.
When they’d first met, he’d found Thera to be abrasive and self-centered. She should have been thankful for the gifts she’d been given but was instead angry at the very gods for picking her. Then he’d come to understand that she was a product of her past, just as he was. There was far more to her than she let people see, and over time he’d come to respect her determination. On their long journey, respect had turned to love. Except Thera was the prophet and he was her priest, so he’d said nothing. He didn’t even know if such feelings were appropriate or not. The gods certainly hadn’t said anything about it. Would they approve? Unsure, he’d hesitated.
The Keeper of Names was always confident and certain. Keta was not. They were the same person, but two very different things. The Keeper of Names was the high priest of the returned Forgotten, who taught all who would listen with a passion that swayed even the hardest heart. Keta the man was small, balding, and not particularly noteworthy. After being kidnapped by wizards, the Keeper of Names demanded their prophet be retrieved because she was the Voice of the gods who could guide them with the wisdom of the gods. Keta had simply wanted Thera back.
Perhaps, in a small way, he’d assumed if they were together, eventually Thera would grow to feel about him the way he felt about her. That had been the lazy decision of a coward. Even when she’d cured his sickness by her touch, in that moment when he had loved her more than ever, and she had shone like the heavenly messengers Ratul had talked about, he had still hesitated to tell her the truth…
Not that it would have done any good. He’d not known that Ashok had already bedded her then. Keta only would have embarrassed himself.
Of course Thera had chosen Ashok. He was the sort of man who made the people wish to be ruled by kings.
So be it. He would continue to serve her because the Forgotten willed it.
Enough self-pity. Keta had a religion to manage.
“Good morning, Keeper,” Javed said as Keta walked into the large room that served as their church. There was very little furniture in the Cove, so most of his preaching was done with the faithful sitting on the stone floor.
Many of the various trinkets and artifacts the people had brought with them had been placed here for worship. Some of these were new, while others had been kept hidden from the Inquisitors and been handed down in secret through the ages. Like the little statues of men with elephant heads, or beautiful women with extra arms, or the smiling fat man, and even one with a man—probably casteless since he was so skinny and dressed only in a loincloth—with his hands nailed onto some sort of Inquisition torture device. The old symbols were all so different in style that at times Keta suspected they had no relation to each other at all, and he still had no idea which of these, if any, was the physical representation of the Voice.
“Javed.” He greeted the man who had become his right hand over the last few months. A great many of them owed their lives to the former rice merchant, not just for saving them from the fat wizard who’d hunted them for sport during the winter, but also for the incredible work he’d done since. “All is well I hope?”
“It is. The newcomers are still working hard. Some of those formerly of the warrior caste were a little haughty about doing manual labor, but all it took was a word from Ashok and they’ve put their shoulder to the wheel.”
Keta smiled. It was good sometimes for the warriors to be reminded that the only caste that existed in the Cove was freemen, equal below the gods. “The people seem happy.”
“Morale is high. That’s mostly your doing, Keeper.”
“My actions are mostly symbolic,” K
eta said dismissively.
“You’ve helped orphans find new parents to take them in. You’ve performed ceremonies and blessed the crops. Your preaching is especially valuable. Almost everyone stops what they are doing to hear your words. Even the once mute slaves the Voice freed from the Lost House are waking up and occasionally speaking a bit now and then. All of this is because of your ministering to the Cove.”
Keta accepted the compliment. Very few knew how much exhausting effort he had put into making this settlement work. “As have you, my friend. Is there anything else that requires my attention today?”
“One of the Sons of the Black Sword has pronounced his undying love for another of the faithful and the two wish to be officially married before the gods.”
“Huh…” Keta smiled. “That is unexpected news. Which ones?”
“Ongud, that round-faced Akershani clerk, and Kalki, the potter from the swamp people.”
“Even in the most trying of circumstances, life goes on.” Keta had married people before, but those had been rushed affairs during desperate times. In the Law-abiding world it was arbiters who approved marriages arranged by house and caste. They had none of that here, but strangely enough it was one of the very first things the faithful had begged their Keeper of Names to do for them. He didn’t even know if it was really part of his intended duties or not, but it made the people happy to feel the gods had blessed their union. “The Sons are beloved figures. This will be a celebration. Would you take care of scheduling that for me?”
“Of course, Keeper. There is one other pressing matter though. We’re going to need to send someone out to purchase certain supplies soon.”
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