"Those among the Bashir's servants who knew of your origins agreed not to speak of them. He said that he would raise you as Rudhrani and that you would uphold the high principles of his people."
"If no one spoke of it," Chulayen cried, "how do you know so much?"
"Sunanda was my daughter," Madee said. She stopped, struggling with her tears.
"Then why did you not raise me?"
"Idiot!" Sonchai snarled. "Do you know so little of what goes on beneath those fine buildings of your Rudhrani friends? If anyone had known Madee was Sunanda's mother, she would have been taken and killed also. Usually the children of the 'disappeared' are left to starve on the street. She waited for you, she prayed, she feared you had been killed with your parents . . . and she asked. Vajjadara had Rohini servants, and they talk to other Rohini."
"I have known for years where you were, grandson," Madee took up the tale again with forced calm. "But what could I do? Do you think that a Rohini pancake vendor could go to Minister Vajjadara and say, 'That boy you are calling yours is my grandson, give him back'? We watched over you, we saw you were growing up safe and healthy, they were good to you."
"They—were—my parents."
"And did you never wonder why you did not grow tall like the Minister, why your skin is so much darker than his and his wife's? Did no one ever say anything that made you doubt your position, even for a moment?"
"No! I—" Chulayen fell silent, remembering when his marriage with Anusha had been arranged. He had not been overeager to marry the tall, plain Rudhrani girl with her outspoken manner, but his mother had been so pleased by the alliance. "A girl of good Rudhrani blood, that's the most important thing," she had said over and over, and once, "especially for you, Chulayen." But she would not explain why it was so much more important for him than for any of his schoolmates to marry into an unblemished Rudhrani lineage, and when pressed, she'd denied she had said any such thing, claimed he must have misunderstood her.
And there'd been other things, nothing blatant, nothing he couldn't ignore at the time. Odd looks and comments from his father's friends: "So this is Chulayen! Well, well, he does seem to be growing up to be a proper Vajjadara," as if this were mildly surprising. Teasing from his schoolmates about his skin that tanned so dark when he played games in the brief mountain summer, teasing that was cut off promptly by the teachers—he had thought they were protecting him because he was a Vajjadara; perhaps, he thought now, they had been protecting him against the knowledge that he wasn't a Vajjadara.
Wasn't even Rudhrani.
He put the pain of that thought away for now. It would be impolite to acknowledge before this poor Rohini woman—he still could not, would not think of her as his grandmother—how shamed he felt at the idea that he might be a Rohini. One of the class that all educated people agreed was only fit for service, not for leadership. No Rudhrani gentleman was ever discourteous. He might not be Rudhrani, but he could still be a gentleman.
Besides, he might need the help of these people if he was ever to rescue Anusha and the children.
"At first they took Sunanda and Pra, left you in the empty rooms. We meant to get you after nightfall, but they came back for you first." Madee rocked back and forth, drawing the end of the shalin over her face and chanting as if to herself. "Thora thora, beta, tun disin, aur bahoti disi dhur; Purt jinan de tur chale, aur mawan chikna chur." It was part of the Song of Rusala, the mother's lament for her son's departure: "The mother whose son goes away becomes as dust."
They left you in the empty rooms. Chulayen's recurring nightmare came back to him with such force that for a moment he thought himself dreaming indeed: an empty house, doors and window shutters shattered by rifle butts, empty rooms greeting him with the memory of screams. It had not been foreknowledge, then, but memory. Now he saw that in the nightmare he was looking up at high windows, at bloody smears on the walls above his head. A child's view. And the thin high wailing voice that accompanied the dream was his own crying.
"How did they die?"
Madee wrapped the shalin tightly around herself, shrinking down into herself, becoming a cloth-covered bundle.
"Don't ask," Sonchai said harshly. "No one taken by the Arm of the Bashir dies well."
"My children!" Terror lanced through Chulayen. Caught up in Madee's story, he had for a moment been able to forget the fear that had paralyzed his brain ever since he came home to that broken house. "They're not dead? Why would they kill babies? Why take babies?" A wild thought struck him and he cackled with hysterical laughter. "Let me guess, another of the Bashir's High Ministers has a barren wife who is just dying to take on a half-Rohini baby boy and a pair of hellion twin girls." It was better than believing them dead already. If they had been "adopted" he might still be able to get them back.
And Anusha . . . He had never loved Anusha properly. He had treated her with the deference a Rudhrani gentleman owed to his wife, he had given the proper gifts on the births of the twins and far more extravagant gifts when she bore his son, Vashi, but he had always felt that she looked down on him and resented their marriage. Maybe she did—maybe even she had known the secret that had been kept, it seemed, from him alone. Maybe her parents had forced her to agree to this marriage with arguments that still hurt her: "What do you expect, you who are too tall, too bony, too loud? Have old mothers been knocking at our door with flattering offers? He may be Rohini, but no one knows about it, and the family is good. Your younger sisters are settled, it's time you were married while anybody will still have you." Oh yes, he could imagine how they would have dealt with Anusha to drive her, stiff and resentful, to the marriage canopy. Two strangers marrying to satisfy their families; no wonder they'd never become true companions, small wonder that she'd turned in her loneliness to the crazy creed of the Inner Light Way. All that would change, Chulayen vowed, if—no, when—he got her and the children back.
"Oh, the Arm of the Bashir doesn't kill prisoners anymore," Sonchai said. "That would be wasteful. They'll be kept until the next convoy goes out."
"Goes where?"
"We might be able to free them when the convoy goes," Madee said without answering his question. "It's hard to find out when they leave; usually at night, always without warning. We had someone in the Ministry who could let us know when extra travel rations for prisoners were ordered, that always meant a convoy leaving soon, but I think they found out about him."
"Then what can we do?"
"Not very much," Madee admitted. "We've saved a few, helped them to slip away from the convoys by night, but not enough; most of the 'disappeared' go straight to the . . ."
"To the caves," Sonchai said harshly.
"Caves?" Maybe they were using prisoners to mine the saltpeter from places like the Jurgan Caves. Maybe that was why nobody had seemed to care how hard it was to carry the stuff back; the object was punishment, not profits. Chulayen was thinking furiously. "They must give them long sentences, else some would come back and there'd be more talk about the caves here in the city."
"No one comes back," Sonchai said.
"Ever? Surely there must be an occasional escape—"
Sonchai's laugh was harsh. "The Ministry for Loyalty does not leave its prisoners in condition to escape."
"But you get some free before they ever reach the caves."
"Some." Sonchai stared at him with a challenging look. "We could do more if we had more help on the inside. There's only so much that sweepers and bearers and personal servants can pick up. And in case it has escaped your attention, there are not a great many Rohini in the civil service."
"You could help us, Chulayen, if you would," Madee said quietly. "We meant all along to ask for your help, one day."
"You picked a good day for it," Chulayen said. "I'm hardly in a position to refuse now, am I?"
Madee plucked at the folds of her shalin with nervous fingers. "We did not expect this. We thought that some day I would come to you, would explain—but you seemed so perfectly Rudhrani,
so content, so sure of your life, there was never a good time. We did not intend to put this pressure on you, Chulayen, I swear it! Would I put my own grandson's children at risk?"
"How do I know what you would do? Only tell me how I can help them now." Whether these Rohini had planned the disaster that had consumed his family, or were merely taking advantage of it, made no difference now; they were his only hope.
Chapter Ten
Dharampal on Kalapriya
Indukanta Jagat was in a foul temper by the time he was admitted to the audience chambers in Dharampal, but he knew better than to show his anger at being kept waiting too openly. Instead he bowed deeply and praised the Vakil's even-handedness and independence and expressed his certainty that the Barents Resident in Dharampal would have been admitted no sooner than the representative of Udara.
"I fear you have been misinformed," said Yadleen. "Unlike Udara, the independent state of Dharampal has accepted no resident representative of the Barents Trading Society. So the issue of equal treatment does not really arise—does it? You are here. The outlanders are not."
And anybody who took that as an expression that Yadleen favored Udara over the foreign trading company was . . . doing exactly what the Vakil wanted, no doubt.
The Vakil of Dharampal was a slender young man, not yet thirty, whose slight build and clean-shaven face deceived many into thinking him a mere boy who would do whatever his senior counsellors advised. Jagat was not such a fool; this "boy" had maintained Dharampal's perilous neutrality between the growing powers of the Barents Trading Society and the Bashirate of Udara for the five long and difficult years since his accession to the throne, with half his council leaning toward Barents and the other half toward Udara. It had not been an easy balance to maintain; and though Jagat intended to make it considerably more difficult, if not impossible, for Dharampal to remain neutral, he had a grudging respect for the Vakil for having pulled it off this long.
"If they are not here yet, they will be soon," Jagat countered.
Yadleen's calm expression did not change. "Forgive me," he asked in dulcet tones, "but has the honored envoy from Udara been favored with news that has escaped the Vakil of Dharampal? I was not aware that I had accepted a Barents Trading Society Resident. Or does the Society now send its armies against a peaceful state that has given them no cause for offense?"
Indukanta Jagat folded his hands before him and bowed his head like a mourner at a state funeral. Privately he thought the pose deliciously apt: this meeting was indeed the first stage of the funeral of a state. Dharampal could no longer maintain its neutrality, not with Udara at its northern border. "The ways of the Trading Society are well known, Vakil. First they establish the excuse, then come the armies. Traveling toward Dharampal now are two agents of the Society. They will find some excuse to claim insult in your treatment of them; the armies will follow."
"Foreknowledge of the future is no doubt an excellent gift," said the Vakil tranquilly, "but one which the gods have not seen fit to grant me. Our relations with the Barents Trading Society are peaceful, and Gabrel Eskelinen has proven himself sympathetic to our position. He shall be received as an honored guest; what happens thereafter is in the lap of the gods. And I think our country might be rather difficult for the outlander armies."
Jagat endeavoured to keep his face from showing alarm. If the Vakil knew that Eskelinen was one of the approaching envoys, what else did he know of them—or of their mission? The Bashir's instructions as to what he was to tell the Vakil were quite clear. They did not cover the eventuality that Yadleen might know he was lying.
"Young Eskelinen in himself would be no problem," Jagat finally replied, "but the woman he escorts will not be so easy to deal with. Does the Vakil know of the Diplomatai?" He used the outlander word but gave it a Kalapriyan plural, and was pleased to see a slight frown appear on Yadleen's smooth tan countenance.
"Is this another race of star-traveling beings?"
"Almost, Vakil," Jagat replied. "Almost another race, indeed. These Diplomatai begin life as human as you or I, but they are selected young and given special training and magical powers which render them as difficult to overpower as a djinn of the air. They speak all languages fluently, carry maps in their heads, can render an armed man helpless with their secret fighting magic, and conceal on their persons offworld weapons more terrible than any you have seen. Indeed, they had better have been called Nagai, serpent-people! They are customarily sent into places the outlanders have found difficult to conquer by normal means; their mission is to stir up trouble, weaken the state, and prepare the way for outlander armies." The description of the Diplos came from the Barents Resident in Udara; the explanation of the mission was Jagat's own invention. In any case, the Vakil could hardly prove he was lying. He might know of the travelers' movements, but who could speak for their intentions?
"Shocking!" Yadleen said. His voice was tranquil as ever, but Jagat could see one lean bronzed hand tensing and relaxing, very slightly. Good—the Vakil was at least troubled by his arguments. He could build on that. "And is this how the Barents Trading Society obtained the Bashir's permission to install a Resident in Udara? My friend, you have my condolences. I had no idea that the Bashir was so frightened of outlander armies that have yet to reach Dharampal, let alone Udara."
"Udara's situation is quite different," Jagat said. "We have . . . mutually beneficial relations with the Barents Trading Society."
"A friendly arrangement, in fact."
"Just so."
"Yet you doubt that their relations with Dharampal would be equally . . . friendly?"
"These Diplomatai," Jagat said, "are quite a different breed from the men of the Barents Society. Why do they send one to you, if not to foment distrust and discord?" Gods take the boy! He was arguing the matter as if it were no more than a puzzle in statecraft from some dead history . . . and Jagat was losing the argument! He had to find some way to touch Yadleen's emotions again, to make fear of the unknown overpower this cool logic. "My lord, the Bashir has always felt good will toward Dharampal," he began feeling his way toward another approach.
"As he felt good will toward Thamboon and Narumalar?"
If Yadleen expected Jagat to be discomposed by this reference to the two formerly independent states most recently absorbed into the Bashirate of Udara, he misunderstood his man. "Exactly so," Jagat replied. "The Bashir was gravely distressed by the internal instability of those states, which forced him to take over their rule lest his own lands be threatened. I am certain he would be no less distressed should his friend the Vakil of Dharampal allow troublemakers to travel freely through his territory."
"In short, you offer me a choice—offend the Barents Trading Society, or offend the Bashir." Yadleen's right hand clenched on the carved armrest of his throne.
Jagat bowed. After a moment's respectful silence he ventured an apposite proverb from the times of the Empire. " 'My neighbor is at my right hand, and the Emperor is far away as the summer skies.' "
"You mean," Yadleen said drily, "that the Bashir's armies are at my border—now that Thamboon is no longer independent—and the Trading Society . . ."
"As your Majesty said, this land might be rather difficult for their armies." Jagat bowed again.
"A certain number of refugees from Thamboon came to Dharampal," Yadleen said. "They had wild tales to tell of sorcery in the Bashir's armies, magical nets of light that entangled men and left them helpless to the swords of their enemies, silent demons that killed invisibly. But then, men will always exaggerate the powers of those who conquer them, will they not? I have read that in the time of the Empire, ignorant people ascribed the Emperor's knowledge of the land to secret spies in the form of birds, rather than to the excellent system of roads and couriers which the Empire created as it grew."
"It would be impossible," Jagat said sincerely, "to underestimate the resources available to my master." Granted, the Consortium had not approved the conquest of Dharampal; having no lim
estone caves, it was not seen as a profitable area for the Consortium's business. But—"My neighbor is at my right hand, and the Emperor is as far away as the summer skies." Having supplied the Bashir's armies with their sorcerous weapons, the Consortium could hardly dictate from distant Valentin the use to which they were put.
Yadleen drummed his fingers on the armrest. "The visitors will be detained and questioned as to their purposes," he said at last, "but if we determine that they mean no harm, then we cannot in conscience harm them; they will be set free, even as Emperor Dhatacharya set free the rebel soldier Eshana when he swore fealty, and Eshana became Dhatacharya's most trusted man. History teaches us that we cannot build trust by treachery, nor loyalty by deceit."
The boy's conscience, Jagat thought, was what would destroy him. His tutor had given him too many ancient histories of the Empire to read, with their men in white gowns making noble speeches in white-walled palaces. He should rather have been sent out for a year or two of rough living with the tribesmen, to hear the blood-red songs of this century's feuds and tragedies and to bloody his own hands in a minor border skirmish or two.
"My master the Bashir will no doubt be overjoyed to hear your decision," Jagat said with a low bow. "If it pleases the Vakil, this humble one begs the privilege of remaining until the outlanders are brought in for questioning, that he may better understand their motives. It may well be that we in Udara are grown too suspicious of strangers; the Bashir would be only to happy to have your reassurance that these two mean no harm to our lands." And once Yadleen had the outlanders detained, Jagat would find it easy enough to make certain that they did not survive to trouble the Bashir.
* * *
Valentin on Kalapriya
After the assassination attempt that night, Gabrel thought their best course was to leave immediately. Clearly somebody in Valentin—somebody in the Society, not just a native!—didn't want a Diplomat investigating upcountry. Which made it seem more likely that there was some truth in Orlando Montoyasana's allegations, or at the very least, something that should be investigated and stopped.
Disappearing Act Page 18