by J F Mehentee
‘Wait.’
‘What?’ Barid glowered.
Gaurang stood with his hands behind his back, resolute. ‘If I convince you and the villagers that I’ve performed a miracle, will you answer my questions?’
Barid sighed. Why was this monk so interested in him? ‘Agreed,’ he said, reluctant to delay them further.
10
This time, women and children had joined the men in Jangid’s compound. On seeing them, Barid wished that he had not eaten. He was used to seeing members of the kot individually when they came down to the smithy with a tool that needed mending. Or he would see them in groups, out in the fields, where he could watch them from the forge as they tended their crops. But never as a whole. Not like the last time, when Jangid, a little drunk and impressed at the success of Widow Verma’s new enterprise, suggested—at the top of his voice—that the kot’s blacksmith should marry his daughter.
A ripple of silence greeted their arrival. The villagers parted to allow Jangid through.
‘So, you’re still here,’ he said, his hands on his hips. ‘And you brought the kothi with you.’
A villager’s snigger was cut short by his wife’s scalding stare.
Gaurang bobbed his head. ‘I’m a man of my word.’
‘Your words have no more weight than air,’ Jangid said. ‘Show me this miracle you promised.’
‘Very well.’
Gaurang stepped past Jangid and threaded his way between the villagers until he reached the centre of the compound.
‘To bless the land,’ he said. ‘I need a vessel, a means of carrying my blessing from here’—he pointed at the ground—‘to there’—he waved his hand at the fields beyond the compound. ‘Tonight, I will create the vessel, and tomorrow morning you’ll have your miracle.’
‘Wait.’ It was Jangid. He moved as if on a collision course with Gaurang. He stopped and pointed an accusatory finger. ‘You said that you’d perform a miracle at dusk. You never said anything about waiting until morning.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Of course it’s a problem.’ Jangid’s voice was a growl. ‘First it was dusk, and now it’s dawn. What are you playing at, monk?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re playing for time,’ Jangid said, a white dot of spittle collecting in a corner of his mouth. ‘Because we’re country folk, you think we’re bumpkins. Just like the Empire’s tax collectors, you look down your nose at our kind and think you’re smarter than us. You think that you can fool us into giving you alms.’
Having watched the conversation from the entrance and recognised the threat in Jangid’s voice, Barid loped into it, pushing his way between the villagers. That Gaurang seemed undaunted would only make Jangid angrier.
‘So, you think I’m here to rob you?’ Gaurang said.
‘Most certainly.’ Jangid stood as if ready to pounce.
‘Then tell me.’ Gaurang searched the faces of the villagers and nodded when he saw Barid’s. ‘What do you do to those who try to rob you?’
Without hesitation, Jangid replied: ‘I find a stick—a thick, heavy one—and I beat the thief with it until my arm aches.’
Gaurang nodded. ‘The handle of that over there.’ He pointed at a hoe leaning beside the hut’s doorway. ‘That would make a decent bludgeon. Your arm wouldn’t tire so easily. If you’re dissatisfied with my miracle, then use it on me tomorrow morning.’
The villagers whispered excitedly.
Barid barged past the last row of them so that he could stand alongside Gaurang. He glared at him as if to say, What are you doing?
Ignoring him, Gaurang said to Jangid, ‘Can I get on with the miracle?’
‘How will I know that you won’t run tonight?’ Jangid said.
‘I won’t. But if I do, it would be without alms, and you’ll have shown me to be a coward and a crook. Then everyone here will know you were right and that you’re the village head for good reason.’
Having looked as if he had been restrained by an invisible leash, Jangid straightened his shoulders and uncurled his fists. To Barid, he appeared smug, certain that he was on the cusp of being proved right.
‘Barid,’ Gaurang said.
‘What?’ He saw Gaurang holding out his hand.
‘Take this, please, and plant it for me.’ He indicated the spot with the heel of his bare foot. Then, holding it between finger and thumb, Gaurang placed the weightless and tiny object in Barid’s open palm.
In the fading light, Barid could just make out a seed. He glanced over at Gaurang and received a confirmatory nod. It was a seed from the pear he had eaten earlier.
‘Go ahead,’ Gaurang said. ‘Plant it.’
A murmur spread through the compound.
Jangid's hands were back on his hips. He shook his head and smiled his disappointment.
Barid knelt and scratched the dry, compacted earth with a fingertip.
‘Here, use this,’ Gaurang said, holding Noor’s dagger. ‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing it.’
Barid snatched it and shook his head at the madness of what he was about to do.
The earth came away in large clumps. Using the dagger to break each clod into smaller pieces, he felt eyes peering at him.
‘That’s deep enough,’ Gaurang said. ‘You can plant it now.’
He dropped the seed into the hole, then did his best to cover it with the lumps of earth. Not wanting to damage it, he did not press down and flatten the small mound. Such consideration, the absurdity of it, made Barid smile.
‘Stay a blacksmith, kothi,’ Jangid said. ‘You’ll never make a farmer.’
The men laughed. Some of the children joined in.
‘You’re right,’ Barid said, and stood. ‘My place is at a forge.’ The usual tightness in his voice had gone, and he was surprised by how causal he sounded.
‘And you, monk,’ Jangid said. ‘I expect you here, after breakfast, to receive your beating.’
‘And what will you do if you’re faced with a miracle, Amar? What will you do then?’
The voice came from behind Barid. Widow Verma stepped past the circle of villagers and joined him.
‘Nothing,’ Jangid said. He did not meet the widow’s withering glare. ‘This monk promised a miracle as proof of his ability to bless the land. We owe him nothing until after he performs the blessing.’
‘Shame on you, Amar,’ the Widow said, waving her hand at him. ‘Shame on you for showing such disrespect.’ She pointed at Gaurang. ‘This man is a priest, a holy man. You can’t talk to him that way, let alone threaten him. You’ve brought shame on the kot. I thank the Queen of Patalama your parents aren’t here to see such behaviour. Your mother obviously didn’t beat you as hard as I beat her when I taught her manners.’ She shook her head and waved her hand again. ‘Shameful.’ She stepped past Barid and took Gaurang by the arm, linking his with hers. ‘Come with me, sir,’ she said, addressing Gaurang. ‘Eat with me tonight, sir.’
The first chirps of the night chorus could be heard as Widow Verma led Gaurang out of the compound. It was a husband’s turn to scowl at his wife for grinning, while two other women exchanged glances, then raised their eyebrows.
‘Barid,’ the widow called. She waved but did not look back. ‘Come.’
‘Go on, then,’ Jangid said. ‘Do as she tells you, kothi. The day the old woman dies is the day I get a new blacksmith.’
Barid glared at Jangid. Before leaving, he took a step closer so that only Jangid could hear him. ‘If that’s so, then the day she dies,’ he said, his voice monotone, ‘Kot Pulta will have to find itself a new village head.’
11
Widow Verma’s three scrawny chickens cooed and clucked at Barid’s arrival, then settled down to roost. Three lamps lit one side of an enclosure that was only wide enough to accommodate up to five seated villagers. A fourth lamp separated the Widow and her guest.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ the widow said after Barid had shooed away a chick
en and sat beside Gaurang.
‘He does,’ Gaurang said. ‘Care to tell us why, Barid?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Eat, you liar,’ the widow said, handing him a bowl of the afternoon’s stew.
Barid smiled, grateful to be let off so easily.
‘So, which temple do you belong to, sir?’
‘He’s a monk, Auntie, and he belongs to a monastery.’
‘Monastery-bonastery,’ the widow said. She slurped a little stew into her mouth. ‘It’s all the same thing.’
‘My monastery is in Tun Chahardah, Auntie,’ Gaurang said.
‘Ooo,’ the widow exclaimed. ‘You see, Barid. He has manners.’ She looked over at Gaurang. ‘I’ve never been to that tun. Take me with you when you go back. Please?’
Gaurang laughed, then shook his head. He held up a hand to placate Widow Verma’s disappointment. ‘When I’m not collecting alms, I spend most of my time in Tun Bistdo.’
‘Tun Bistdo,’ the widow said. ‘Do you hear that, Barid? Tun Bistdo. Home of the Dragonfolk. Sudaypur, the City of Domes.’ Widow Verma sounded awestruck.
‘How do you know such things, Auntie?’ Barid said.
The widow glowered. ‘You don’t think I spend all day keeping the chickens company, do you?’ She looked from Barid to Gaurang. ‘That boy sees old age as an impediment. And he’s getting old before his time, remaining here. Did you know that, before he came to Kot Pulta, he was a swordsmith and, before that, a soldier?’
‘Really,’ Gaurang said.
Barid frowned at the widow.
‘And not just any soldier,’ continued the Widow, ‘but an El’ Zamu, one of the Undefeated from Tun Do. And now look at him; this worldly boy can’t believe that an old woman can walk between kots and learn that—unlike him—most of the young men are leaving this tun to start a new life in Tun Bistdo.’ She looked back at Barid and said, ‘This place is turning him into an idiot.’
‘What’s an El’ Zamu?’ Gaurang said.
‘It’s not important.’ Barid dipped bread into his bowl. ‘It’s the past, nothing more.’
‘I’m not asking you about your past, Barid,’ Gaurang said. ‘I want to know who the El’ Zamu are. Being that they are called the Undefeated, I want to know if they and your Sultan Subhan pose a threat to Tun Bistdo.’
Barid felt foolish and relieved. ‘The El’ Zamu are bonded warriors,’ he said. ‘If, as a boy of ten summers, we pass the physical and academic tests set by the school, the Tabaqa, our parents are lent a large sum of money. A fifteen-year military service to the Sultanate is considered repayment.’
‘Tell him what happens if you don’t complete your military service,’ the widow said, shaking her head disapprovingly.
‘Then the parents must repay the outstanding amount, with interest, for the years their son doesn’t complete.’
‘So, if an El’ Zamu dies in battle,’ Gaurang said, ‘his family could face financial ruin?’
‘Possibly,’ Barid said. ‘If a soldier dies and the battle is lost, repayment is required. If a soldier dies and the battle’s won, there’s no repayment.’
‘And what if a battle is lost but the soldier survives?’
‘On the rare occasion it happens, then three months of additional service are added.’
‘I can see why they’re called the Undefeated,’ Gaurang said. ‘But why would families send their sons to the Tabaqa? Is it just for the money?’
‘In part. I knew many men whose families used the Sultanate’s money to invest in and grow a business. But it’s also considered a huge honour to have your son accepted into the Tabaqa. And with admission comes training in two skills: soldiering and another of our own choice—in my case, sword-making. After military service, the Sultanate guarantees a retired soldier a job involving their second skill.’
‘Remarkable,’ Gaurang said, nodding. ‘Fight to win, and your family will be taken care of. Survive, and work of your choice awaits you at the end of your service.’ He tapped his chin and nodded again. ‘Those books in your room, the ones about metallurgy—until now, I couldn’t understand how a blacksmith came to possess such books, let alone read them.’
‘Reading is a requirement for admission to the Tabaqa.’
‘But tell me, why do you also have books about arboriculture? Do they have something to do with that pear tree of yours?’
He had enjoyed talking about the Tabaqa and the El’ Zamu, wandering the streets of his past. It was inevitable, Barid knew, that following any of those streets would eventually lead to the highway that was Noor.
‘He’s keeping them for a friend,’ the widow said.
‘The books I can understand,’ Gaurang said. ‘But a tree?’
‘Your stew is getting cold, sir.’
Barid smiled at her attempt to deflect Gaurang’s question. ‘It was a sapling,’ he said. ‘My friend’s name is Noor. His grandparents were from these parts. He gave me the sapling and told me to plant it. He and his father had spent years cultivating this variety of pear tree, one that would grow in most soils and climates, so long as it was regularly watered. Noor was confident that it would grow in this tun. And it was his way of being able to find me.’
Gaurang frowned.
Barid could imagine the questions his answer had raised. He held up a hand before the monk could ask them. ‘Remember our agreement, Gaurang,’ he said. ‘Perform your miracle, convince the villagers and then I’ll answer your questions.’
Gaurang wagged a finger at him. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘And I’ll hold you to it. But answer me this one last question, please. It’s unrelated, I promise.’
Barid scooped up some stew with his bread, then nodded.
‘Is the Sultanate of Tun Do a threat to Tun Bistdo?’
Barid slowly chewed, then swallowed. Why would an itinerant monk be so concerned with the safety of a tun? he wondered. ‘Tun Do’s gold and diamond mines are the source of its wealth,’ he said. ‘The most productive mines are close to the borders of three other tuns, and it’s those borders that are often disputed. The El’ Zamu defend those borders. The Sultanate of Tun Do is no threat unless it’s threatened.’
From the way Gaurang nodded, Barid guessed that he had confirmed what the monk already knew.
‘I have a question for you, sir,’ the widow said.
‘Ask it. But only if you call me Gaurang.’
The widow raised an eyebrow. ‘When I was a child, priests didn’t wear robes like yours. We couldn’t tell a priest from a farmer. Only their name revealed their closeness to Heaven and that they were living their final incarnation. So tell me, Gaurang-so,’ the Widow leaned forward, her eyes narrow. ‘What’s wrong with my food?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then why haven’t you touched it?’
‘Because I’m a Dragon, Auntie, and Dragons don’t require food for sustenance,’ Gaurang said. ‘But that’s no excuse to be rude.’ He tore off a piece of his flatbread and ate it.
‘I’m honoured,’ the widow said. ‘If I’d known, I’d have touched your feet when we first met and slapped that ruffian of a grandson for being so rude to a Child of Heaven.’
Barid knew of the Dragonfolk, of their seventy-year war with the Empire. But he had never met a Dragon. The lamplight deepened the creases at the corners of Gaurang’s slanted eyes and highlighted the pure-white bristles of a day-old beard. Just below his left ear was a mole that Barid had not noticed before. There was nothing extraordinary about the man beside him, the Empire’s Bane as Sultan Subhan referred to them.
‘Why,’ Barid said, ‘would a Dragon be roaming Tun Bistse, blessing villagers’ fields, risking capture and being turned over to the Empire for a handful of copper fals?’
‘Because I was looking for you.’
Barid dropped his bread into his bowl. ‘Why?’
‘I want you to come back with me to Tun Bistdo. Sudaypur needs a swordsmith.’
‘He won’t come,’ the widow said.
‘He won’t leave until his friend, Noor, turns up. It’s been seven years, but still he clings to his foolish hope.’
It was impossible for Barid to be angry at the widow, because she was right. One of his three recurring fears was that the moment he left, Noor would reach Kot Pulta. And then there would be no way for Noor to ever find him.
‘How do you know your friend will come?’ Gaurang said.
‘Because he said he would.’
‘Seven years is a long time to wait. Even if he wants to, what if Noor can’t keep his promise?’
That was his second recurring fear, which was quickly followed by the third: that Noor had not survived his punishment. It was that final thought that kept him awake at night. The widow was right: he clung to his hope that Noor still lived. It was foolish of him, but it was all he had.
‘I won’t give up hope.’
‘Then,’ Gaurang said, ‘it seems this trip has been a waste of time.’
‘Are you going to give up on him so easily?’ the Widow said. ‘And you a Dragon.’
Gaurang shook his head. ‘I haven’t entirely given up, Auntie. I’ll see what I can do to change his mind between now and the blessing of the fields.’ He bowed, then stood. ‘It’s been a long day.’
The widow spoke as they made to leave. ‘Gaurang-so.’
Gaurang turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Why promise the kot a miracle when you only came for Barid?’
Gaurang shook his head. ‘I also came to meet you, Kanishka Verma,’ he said. ‘As for the miracle, sometimes, that’s what it takes for us to change our minds.’
12
There was little space in the smithy’s single room for them to both sleep, and so Barid had insisted that Gaurang take it. Besides, he had wanted to sit on the floor of the forge and breathe in the cool night air, knowing full well that his tongs and the last of the hot coals were within reach. Without lamp oil, he was unable to read. So, he did what he always did when he could not sleep: he thought about Noor.
Noor was strong, although the source of such strength was his mind, not brawn. He could heft a mace and wield a sword as well as any El’ Zamu because he willed himself to. But when they fought, Barid had kept close to him, one eye on the enemy and the other on the man he loved. The other warriors had called Noor ‘Iron Thread’. Noor hated the nickname because, Barid guessed, he knew it was true: without his armour, a glance from a sword would cut his skinny frame in two.