by J. S. Bangs
“It seems there’s an epidemic of kidnapped kin in Amur,” Ashturma said finally. “Thanks to your recklessness and the idiocy of your brother.”
“My brother?” Mandhi asked. That wasn’t what Mandhi had expected. Before Navran had confronted Ruyam and saved Virnas she would have entirely agreed with Ashturma’s assessment of Navran. Now she held her tongue.
Ashturma nodded. His eyes brimmed with tears, and with sincere seriousness he said, “Sundasha-kha has been kidnapped. My son.”
She almost laughed. Instead, she steeled herself and said acidly, “Rather like my son?”
“And that is why you’re still alive,” Ashturma said, flicking the shred of palm-leaf in his fist. “The custom is if any harm befalls one party in an exchange of heirs, the other’s life is forfeit. But you… I suppose you deserve an honorable answer.”
“So does this mean you’re going after Jhumitu? You’ll let me sail to Kalignas?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ashturma said. “It means I let you live, and you thank me that you’ll still be alive to marry again after Sundasha-kha returns.” He sighed and hung his head. “I should never have let Sadja-dar send for him. I should have known. Nothing good ever comes from Virnas.”
“So is he dead, or is he kidnapped?” Mandhi asked.
“Kidnapped. By Thudra, the old king. Why your idiot brother didn’t execute him before this I don’t understand.”
“Oh,” Mandhi said. She tried to hide the disappointment in her voice. “Then you may pay the ransom—”
“Yes, I might pay the ransom. Do you realize how large this ransom is?” He stormed up to Mandhi and flung the scrap of palm-leaf at her, then stomped to the regent’s throne, a small chair covered in green silk a step below Sadja’s seat on the dais. He slumped into it and dropped his head into his hands.
Mandhi picked up the note and smoothed it out on the floor tile, then read the tiny, square scribe’s writing. She read: Thudra had conspired with the majakhadir of Ahunas to kidnap Sundasha. They held him in Ahunas, alive but under constant threat, so he would be killed if they attempted to attack the estate. Thudra demanded a ransom of one thousand silver talents and safe passage to Patakshar. But the treasury of Virnas was not sufficient to pay the sum, and therefore they implored Sadja to send the ransom to Virnas.
Mandhi looked up. Ashturma still lay on his throne in the dejected posture of one crushed by bad news. “But it’s simple,” she said. “You send Navran the ransom money, and Sundasha-kha will be returned.”
Ashturma raised his head and looked at her with bleary eyes. “Do realize what a sum a thousand silver talents is?”
“A king’s ransom, as is fitting.”
“No. That is the ransom demand of a man who does not actually expect to see the money, but who wishes to spite his opponent.”
“But is the treasury of Davrakhanda sufficient to pay it?”
Ashturma groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “In theory. But I couldn’t spend such a sum, not without sending word to Sadja-dar in Majasravi—and it would be weeks before an answer could return. And the date is too late.”
“Date? What date?”
“Did you read to the very end?”
Mandhi moved her thumb and read the last lines of the letter. Two months—that was how long Thudra had given them to find the ransom. If any help from Davrakhanda were to arrive in time, they would have to leave in a few days. “Then I think your course of action is clear. You take the money from the treasury, and you send it to Virnas with me.”
A cold, bleary-eyed glance from Ashturma. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you want to see your son,” Mandhi said. “And you’ve already broken your half of the exchange by allowing Jhumitu to be taken. So let the whole arrangement be annulled. I will return to Virnas with the ransom, and when we have ransomed Sundasha-kha, we will return him to you.”
Ashturma dropped his head again. “I can’t do that. Not without Sadja-dar’s permission.”
“Are you his regent or his servant? As regent, don’t you have his authority?”
Ashturma made no response.
“The entire purpose of the office of the regent is to provide someone who is able to respond without needing to wait for messages from the absent king. If Sadja-dar expected he would be queried for every decision that needed to be made in Virnas, he would have left Nagiri in charge.”
Ashturma winced a little at the mention of Sadja’s mistress. He looked at Mandhi with fury diluting the grief in his eyes. “You compare me to that wench?”
“Worse than her, if you lack the manhood to act in the office you’ve been given.”
His eyes narrowed into black lines. He rose from the throne, came to Mandhi, and snatched the letter from her hands.
“You speak insolently for a woman and a guest.” He pressed his thumbs against his temples.
He paced slowly, thoughtfully. “The treasury of Davrakhanda is not broken by the ransom, even if the treasury of Virnas is. And you—I couldn’t rescue your son, but I can give you your freedom. Sadja-dar will be unhappy.”
“He’ll see you had no choice,” Mandhi said softly.
“I have no choice,” Ashturma said. He waved her away. “Go. Let me think. You’ll find out when it’s time to leave.”
Mandhi returned to her purified chambers, her steps as fast as she dared make them without seeming to run. She found Aryaji laying out a bit of food from their kitchen—dinner, not that she had the least bit of appetite. She knelt and pressed Aryaji’s hands between hers.
“Aryaji,” Mandhi said. Her voice cracked with excitement. “I’ve just spoken to Ashturma-kha.”
Aryaji looked at her startled. “What happened?”
“I need you to send a message to your uncle,” Mandhi said. “We’ll have to prepare quickly. Ulaur has given us the way to Kalignas. And bring paper. Do you know where Nagiri is?”
Aryaji hesitated at the door to their room, unsure how to comply with Mandhi’s conflicting demands.
“First bring the writing instruments,” Mandhi clarified. “I will compose a message to Navran-dar. Then we’ll find Nagiri. This message must get to Virnas, and I don’t trust Ashturma-kha.”
Aryaji was gone for a few moments, then she returned with a low portable table, a jar of ink, a wax slate, and a clean palm-leaf. She set them in front of Mandhi and then knelt across from her.
“Listen closely,” Mandhi whispered. She took up the stylus and the wax slate, to prepare her words before copying them to the palm-leaf page in ink. She paused with the stylus barely touching the wax of the slate.
Navran probably didn’t know Jhumitu had been taken. She had tried to send a message to him shortly after Jhumitu’s kidnapping, but she expected Ashturma-kha had intercepted it.
But this letter was different. Navran would need to know. He would need to act, to save Sundasha-kha by other means if he could, and to justify himself to Sadja if he couldn’t. Sadja, too, needed a letter. If nothing else, he should hold her responsible and not Navran.
“The Heir of Manjur is more valuable to us than Sundasha-kha,” she said softly. If she had to choose between them, she had not a moment’s hesitation. “Aryaji, you’ll need to bring this message to your uncle Nakhur, and then alert Nagiri. Ashturma-kha can’t intercept this. And Nagiri will want to know our plans together have changed.”
“I heard,” Aryaji said quietly.
Mandhi breathed deeply. She began scratching into the wax. “Navran-dar of Virnas, Heir of Manjur, my brother in Ulaur, greetings.”
“Do you want me to remember this part?” Aryaji asked.
“Just let Nakhur know I’m also notifying Navran-dar,” Mandhi said. She began writing again. “I write you with a heavy heart….”
Navran
The elderly saghada Bhudman hesitated at the door of Navran’s chambers, glancing at Dastha. Navran sat atop the carpet next to his bed and gestured for Bhudman to come in and sit.
The old man approached and bowed first, then lowered himself to the ground with a groan and a slight trembling of his legs. A servant girl set out a tray of teacups between the two of them, filled the cups, and retreated through the entrance.
Navran picked up his teacup. He didn’t want tea, but it gave him something to do with his hands. The old man picked up his cup and sipped it, then looked at Navran expectantly.
“Bhudman,” Navran began. He swallowed. “I need your advice.”
“Ah,” the old man said. “I wasn’t sure. This isn’t our normal hour for meeting.”
Bhudman, as the eldest and most honored of the saghada in Virnas, had taken upon himself the responsibility of teaching Navran the Law of Ghuptashya, written in the saghada dialect and using their secret script. If Navran had been raised to be Heir he would have been trained to the Law from the beginning, but alas. Their meetings were long and rather excruciating in Navran’s estimation, and Navran continued to go only because Bhudman’s patience exceeded his own ignorance. And Bhudman’s patience was exactly what he was hoping to receive today.
“I have… a problem. Need you to tell me my choices.”
“Is this about Thudra?” Bhudman said. “Your actions in that case have been utterly correct.”
“Oh,” Navran said. It wasn’t about Thudra, but he was pleased nonetheless to receive Bhudman’s approval. “There is something else.”
Bhudman folded his hands and waited for Navran’s explanation.
“The King’s Purse. Josi, sister of Veshta of the House of the Ruin.”
No change of expression crossed the saghada’s face. Perhaps he didn’t know—he would be the only one in the palace who hadn’t realized it, then.
“We want to marry.”
“You would,” Bhudman said plainly, neither judgement nor approval audible in his voice.
“Veshta opposes it.”
“He does,” Bhudman said just as plainly.
“Would you oppose it?”
Bhudman folded his hands and narrowed his eyes in folds of brown, wrinkled flesh. His shoulders grew rigid. He bowed his head. “Do you know why Veshta opposes it?”
“Yes.”
Bhudman looked him square in the eye and pressed his finger against his lips. “Are you sure?”
Navran was suddenly unsure; had Veshta’s story been somehow an obfuscation? But what deeper secret could he possibly be trying to hide? Could he freely discuss the matter with Bhudman? “A secret in their family,” he said cautiously. “Ten years ago.”
“And he told you the nature of this secret?”
“Yes.”
Bhudman let out a long, pensive breath and relaxed the tension in his shoulders. “Then I might speak freely. So long as your guard is trusted.”
Navran paused. “Then you know.”
A hint of a smile appeared on Bhudman’s lips. He took a sip of tea. “Of course I know. Who do you think handled the matter for Veshta and his family when it happened?”
“Cauratha, the old Heir—”
“He, too, but not alone. A saghada would not act alone on such a matter, especially not in the House of the Ruin. Nor would he bring too many ears in to hear.” Bhudman glanced again toward the door. “Your guard, is he to be trusted?”
“Trusted,” Navran said with a quiet wave to Dastha. “Tongue like a stone.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Bhudman said. He set his cup of tea down on the tray and ran his finger around the edge. “You understand his family’s shame.”
“Yes. But it blocks us now?”
“You refer to yourself and Josi.”
“Yes. Veshta said it wasn’t possible.”
“Not possible is a statement with many meanings,” Bhudman said. He did not look up at Navran but continued to play his fingers around the porcelain cup. “At the time of their misfortune, Josi was purified according to the law, and the adoption of Habdana to Adjan was sealed with milk and ram’s blood. The requirements of ritual have been fulfilled which allow her to marry. However….”
Navran set his own cup down with a deliberate click atop the lacquered surface of the board. “But what?”
“There are requirements other than those of ritual. Especially as concerns the Heir.”
Navran grunted. “And those are?”
Bhudman’s fingernails clicked against the porcelain cup. He hesitated, then raised the cup to his lips to drink. When he spoke, he spoke quietly. “The Heir’s wife is commended to be born into the worship of Ulaur and sanctified on the second new moon, a child of two parents likewise born, and a woman of spotless character.”
“Laws of Ghuptashya?”
Bhudman shook his head. “The customs, as collected by the saghada Keshkama.”
“And Josi doesn’t meet these requirements?”
Bhudman took another swallow of tea before answering. He spoke quietly. “Can we say that she is of spotless character?”
Navran picked up his own cup and considered carefully his words. “Bhudman, what do you know about me?”
“That is a peculiar question, my lord and king.”
“Do you know who I was? Before the ring. Before Cauratha and Mandhi.”
“Not in detail.”
Navran drained his cup to the bottom and wished fiercely that it were beer instead of tea. He rose to his feet and began to pace. He gestured to Dastha. “This man knew me. Right, Dastha?”
“I knew you,” Dastha said dryly.
“I was not pious. I was not pure. I drank and gambled.” He paused, and looked directly at Bhudman. “I whored.”
Bhudman winced a little. He ran his hands through his beard. “But you were chosen by Cauratha and Ulaur.”
“I was chosen. And I ran from it, until I couldn’t. And then I faced Ruyam and—”
He held up his hands, marbled with the burn-scars the thikratta had given him. He pointed to the black and red veins that spidered across his face where the fiery figure had touched his cheeks. His breathing grew heavy, and he leaned against the wall.
“My king—” Dastha began, stepping closer.
Navran waved him away. “These. These are my proof. I faced Ruyam, came back alive. So you know Ulaur chose me.”
“The pentacles of the city glowed with the light of Ulaur,” Bhudman said. “That sign—”
“And what is Josi’s sign?” Navran snapped, breaking off Bhudman’s statement. “Her scars? They’re drawn on her heart and mind. When will she be worthy?”
Bhudman was quiet for a long time. He bowed his head, and Navran saw his lips moving in prayer.
“Ten years,” he whispered after a while.
“Long enough,” Navran said.
“I have not heard any accusation against her character in that time.”
“Long enough,” Navran repeated.
“Perhaps you’re right. But,” he added with a note of chagrin in his voice, “I am not the one you need to convince. Veshta still has to give her away.”
“You’ll come with me.”
Bhudman’s expression was twisted with surprise. “With you?”
“To tell Veshta.”
He seemed pained, but he nodded. “If it’s necessary.”
“I say it’s necessary,” Navran said.
* * *
“But I don’t like it,” Veshta said. “I don’t like it, and Amashi won’t like it.”
He paced frantically around the pool in the center of his courtyard, circling the place where Navran and Bhudman were seated, with Dastha holding silent guard over Navran’s shoulder.
“Give me a reason,” Navran said.
“I don’t need a reason,” Veshta said. “She is my sister, and I answer for her. No one asks the patriarch of the House of the Ruin if he has a reason his sister cannot marry unwisely.” He glanced at Navran and added desultorily, “My lord and king.”
“Veshta,” Bhudman said, tapping his knees with his wrinkled brown hand. “No one disputes that you have the right to
speak for your sister’s marriage. But as the elder saghada of the city, and an old advisor to your family, I might point out you’re being rash.”
“Rash,” Veshta said. “Rashness is precisely what brought this shame on our family in the first place. Is not the Heir being rash? This is—” he curdled his face into an expression of exquisite contempt “—a marriage of passion.”
“I am not rash,” Navran said.
Veshta batted the statement away. “Bhudman, you should know better than to believe him.”
“The Heir and King seems to have considered very well his choice.”
“And?” Veshta said, turning. “Hasn’t he considered what it implies? There are young women, untouched and pious, whose fathers would delight to marry their daughters to him. Men who would pay grand dowries. Alliances to be forged, great families the Heir should consider—”
“The House of the Ruin is considered one of the grandest families of the Uluriya, even if it’s not the richest.”
“—and he will throw all of that away for my slattern of a sister.”
A grim silence settled over the courtyard. Seeing Navran’s and Bhudman’s stares, Veshta put his foot up on the rim of the pool and rested his head in his hands.
“I apologize, my lord and king,” Veshta said after a moment. “I spoke hastily.”
“Forgiven,” Navran said. “Don’t speak that way again.”
“Amashi would hate the idea,” he said. “She was wounded enough ten years ago. We don’t need to repeat it.”
“It seems to me,” Bhudman said, “it is not your mother who obstructs Josi’s marriage.”
“I’m not lying about her disposition.”
Navran spoke up. “Her disposition wouldn’t stop you. If you didn’t agree.”
Veshta straightened. He spoke softly, but with fierce conviction. “And why shouldn’t I agree? Do you know the wreckage she caused?”
“It has healed.”
“Has it?” His voice was a soft hiss, boiling with anger long-concealed. “I was married to my first wife Khindi at the time. But none of our children were forthcoming. Then my sister comes home, carrying the child denied to us, the product of her whoring, to tear apart my parents’ and my wife’s heart equally. My father and mother would not allow us to adopt the child, insisting we should have our own. They gave the boy to Adjan. Adjan and Dhanmi, who a year later would conceive a child of their own. They had two, and we none.”