by David Hair
Lowen Graav tugged nervously at his moustaches. ‘All that is true,’ he agreed, ‘but my client bids you consider this offer: in return for the totally anonymous marriage, you will receive one crore upfront, plus one lak every year that she lives, and another lak for every child born to them – payable even after your death, to your surviving family.’
Ispal Ankesharan jerked away in shock and the old seat couldn’t hold him. He barely noticed as he landed in the dirt, visions of rupals falling like stars about him. One crore: ten million rupals! One lak: one hundred thousand – every year! Every. Year. For. Ever, repeating like the refrain of a song, over and over …
Some negotiator you are, Ispal Ankesharan! He let Vikash help him up. Lowen Graav sat there like a big white toad, trying not to laugh. Ispal clambered into another chair, panting. One crore, and one lak, every year my daughter lives. One lak alone was more money than he could have dreamed of earning in his lifetime. A crore was beyond those dreams. Such a fortune was enough for diamonds and pearls and gold and silks from Indrabad, and a palace on the river. Enough for finery and servants and a small army of soldiers: riches to outshine all but the princes of Baranasi. Insane money – this ferang is mad!
He brushed himself down, desperately trying to think. This must be either some elaborate hoax … or it must be real.
‘May I take it you are a little interested?’ enquired Lowen Graav, his voice laced with amusement.
Ispal Ankesharan took a deep, deep breath and closed his eyes. Think, Ispal, think! Is this offer real? Would you accept if it were? Money is one thing, but people would ask questions. It would have to be managed discreetly – to appear that he had become fortunate, a great commission, a deal with a northern merchant of great wealth, perhaps. Some plausible story – and then it would secure the fortune of his family for ever. I could marry Jai to a princess!
Ispal knew there would be tears at the sacrifice Ramita would have to make – but that was what dutiful daughters were for, to do what was needful for the family, to be a bargaining chip in profitable alliances. He would need to be careful, breaking it to Raz Makani, and to Raz’s fiery son Kazim. Kazim loved Ramita passionately. And Tanuva – she would produce a storm of tears to rival Gann’s great trumpeting – she would cry a new river.
But in the end, would it not have all been for the best? Would they not all look back and agree that it had been so? Why, with such wealth they could visit Ramita every year if they so wished. They would not lose her for ever. Graav’s client was an old man; surely he could not last too long? Just long enough to father children on Ramita would suffice. He licked his lips, trembling.
Graav smiled and offered his hand. Ispal looked at it and then allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. ‘I will need to meet your client before I agree to this. I will need his surety as to the good treatment of my daughter. I will need credible guarantees of his wealth and reliability. I will need to know his name.’
‘Of course.’ Graav glanced at a rickety door, which twitched open as a tall figure emerged from the haveli. The sunlight caught on a large ruby bound to his brow. Ispal caught his breath. Surely not …
The newcomer was twig-thin, but very tall, more than six feet tall. These ferang are all giants. He was very pale, his beard a dirty ash-grey, his thin hair tangled, but his robes were rich indeed, deep blue bordered with gold braid. It was the ruby at his brow that drew the eye though: the size of a thumbnail, bound there by a circle of filigree gold, impossible to value. It pulsed like a heartbeat: a periapt – which meant this man was a mage.
He bowed very low, suddenly terrified.
The old man’s voice was husky and thin, but there were echoes of great authority. He looked beaten down by age, though still a man to be reckoned with. His eyes were ancient, dark-circled, eyes such as a god might have, an old god who has outlived his worshippers. ‘Ispal Ankesharan,’ he whispered. ‘I am the man who would marry your daughter. I am Antonin Meiros.’
His jaw refused to unlock and he couldn’t speak. Fear held him immobile, as it had in Hebusalim all those years ago. His heart drummed so violently he thought his ribcage would burst. He thought he might expire with fright. I should fall to my knees. Or produce a dagger and plunge it into his heart—
The old man reached out and touched his sleeve. ‘Do not be afraid,’ he said gently. ‘I wish you no harm. My offer is genuine. Please, sit with me.’
Ispal allowed himself to be guided back to his chair. As Meiros sat beside him, Lowen Graav and Vikash Nooridan moved back a little. Meiros spoke the Lakh tongue fluidly – but then, he would, he who had lived so long and done so much. Clearly he’d been listening to the earlier conversation, somehow. He is a mage, of course he heard us. ‘How—? Why—?’
Meiros understood. ‘They killed my son – the light of my life. And I am an old man, very, very old. We magi breed seldom – perhaps it is some kind of punishment for usurping God’s powers on Urte … But I have so much I must hand on before I die, things a father can trust only his own child with, a child of his own blood. So I need a wife, a fertile wife. I do not care if she is Lakh or Rondian or Rimoni, or the child of some nomadic raider, just that she is fertile.’
Ispal’s mind spun. This could not be happening— He pinched his arm, but he did not wake. ‘My wife’s line has always bred multiple births, lord,’ he said huskily.
Meiros nodded gravely. ‘I will require records – proofs, documents, if such can be had here.’
Vikash Nooradin raised a finger in the air. ‘I can speak to this. Such records do exist, in the prince’s archives, and I can show you those. But I vouchsafe that Ispal speaks truly.’
Meiros nodded. ‘I can feel the truth of his words,’ he said, the light of his periapt twinkling, making Ispal’s mouth go dry. The old mage leant forward intently. ‘Describe her to me, Ispal Ankesharan, not as a father describing a daughter; I care not for looks or grace. I need to know her character. Describe her as you would were you assessing a businessman with whom you wished to transact.’
Ispal blinked. Women do not do business. But he dared not say so to this ferang, whose ways were not his. So he thought of his daughter, and chose his words carefully. ‘She is a good girl, lord: honest, but not blindly so. She can negotiate, and she knows when to say no. She does not giggle and gabble as most girls her age do. She is responsible, and can be trusted with money and with children. I have been fortunate in my children.’
‘It is as Ispal says, lord,’ Vikash put in enthusiastically. ‘She is accounted a good catch for any young man of Aruna Nagar. And though you say you care not, she has a sweet face, lord.’
Ispal smiled his thanks. ‘But I still do not understand, lord,’ he said to Meiros boldly, ‘you have lived centuries – surely you have all the time in the world?’
Meiros sighed. ‘Would that I had, Master Ankesharan.’ Ispal waited for more, but Meiros fell silent.
Then he is mortal after all …
‘Any children of mine will inherit wealth and power,’ Meiros said finally. ‘They will be of the Blood; the Mage’s Blood, descended from an Ascendant. I am a peaceful man, Ispal Ankesharan, whatever you might have heard to the contrary. If your claims of her are true and you permit me to wed her, I will treat your daughter well. I will honour my promises.’
Here I am, Ispal thought, Ispal Ankesharan, son of a storekeeper, sharing arak with the most hated man in all of the lands: Antonin Meiros, a name to strike fear and loathing in young and old. The man who joined two continents separated by impassable seas with the greatest bridge ever made, then let the Crusaders pass. A miracle worker, a myth made flesh – and he is here, asking for the hand of my daughter! It was like a tale from the holy texts, of demon-kings tempting the good man. His hands shook. Be still my heart, do not explode inside me!
‘Let us assume the records will verify your claims.’ Meiros said. ‘Do we have a deal? May I wed your daughter?’
Ispal walked shakily home. He had to sit often,
overcome with dizziness. Vikash Nooridan was excited, more excited than he. How much gold have you earned, Vikash? But he couldn’t follow the thought through; there was so much else to think about. How to tell Raz Makani and remain blood-brothers. How to tell Tanuva and remain welcome in his own house. How to tell Jai, who loved his sister. How to tell Kazim and survive.
How to tell Ramita.
It was a pale, shaking Ispal who stumbled into his small, happy house to destroy that happiness. He heard his wife singing with the younger children as she cooked. Jai and Ramita would still be at the market until nightfall. He clutched the door, thanked Vikash in a throaty voice and waved him away. Vikash bounded off, full of energy, but Ispal felt exhausted, as if from crossing the desert again, with but a pittance of food and water, his men dying about him. It was this memory that finally gave him strength. It was all for a purpose, my cheating of death in two Crusades. It was all for this.
He took a deep breath and called his wife.
5
The Dutiful Daughter
Lakh
South of the deserts is a vast land filled with the greatest multitude of people. They call themselves Lakh, based upon their word ‘lak’, which means one hundred thousand, but in early days simply meant ‘many’. They are the Many … and many there are! There you will see all things: grace and vileness, love and hatred, piety and despotism. You will see wealth and splendour and the most abject of poverty: vivid, loud, filling your senses and haunting them for ever.
VIZIER DAMUKH, OF MIROBEZ, 634
Aruna Nagar, Baranasi, Northern Lakh,
on the continent of Antiopia
Rami 1381 (Septinon 927 in Yuros)
10 months until the Moontide
Ramita Ankesharan wore a red string bracelet threaded with spiky bullnut seeds about her left wrist, a betrothal cord from Kazim Makani. She sang softly to herself as she worked, roasting pinenuts for the stall. Her dark skin and flowing black hair were shrouded from the harsh sun by a fold of her pale yellow dupatta scarf, thin enough to look through and thick enough to hide her face. Her salwar smock was yellow too, though stained with ash from the fire. Her hands were already callused from years of manual labour and her bare feet hard as the stone of the marketplace. But her face was still soft, and had lost none of its girlishness. She was barely five foot when she stood, neither short nor tall by local standards. The song she sang was a love song, her mind on Kazim.
At the front of the stall her brother Jai was selling their wares: herbs, spices and roasted nuts, paan leaf and seed-cake Mother had baked that morning. They kept a bucket of lemon-scented water on the stall for the thirsty. Father’s trading provided sporadic profit, so they used the stall to generate the cash they needed for daily life. There were thousands of people here: buyers, sellers, thieves, workers, soldiers, even a cluster of Amteh women in bekira-shrouds, so they were never still. Jai kept up a constant patter, bargaining for every last seed: ‘Hello saheeb, would you like to look? Looking is free!’ Banter passed between the stalls. Ramita had a running argument going with a boy from the neighbouring stall about the smoke from her cooking-fire; the boy had already tried to douse it once.
People she knew passed constantly: girls, many with babies bundled in their arms; boys, ostensibly looking for work but really just lazing about. Everyone asked when she would marry. ‘Soon! Father promised he would begin to arrange it after Eyeed. Very soon!’ Father had promised. She was sixteen now and impatient. Kazim was so handsome and attentive: he filled her world. They stole kisses, but she longed for more.
She gazed skywards, praying for time to speed up, until a furtive movement caught her eye. ‘Hey!’ she shouted at a little rhesus monkey which had crept onto the corner of her mat. ‘Don’t you dare!’ She waved a fist and the cheeky thing bared its teeth, grabbed a handful of peanuts and was gone. It flashed through the market and launched itself onto the shoulders of an entertainer. ‘Hey, control your little thief!’ she yelled at the man, who was pulling the nuts from its paws. ‘Give those back!’ The man just smirked and filled his mouth.
‘Hey, sis, more chillies!’ called Jai, without looking back. A cloud of old women were all talking to him at once. Ramita hefted a sack and swung it onto the cart that served as their stall. Gods, it was so hot! At least they had some awning; the poor folk trying to sell from blankets on the ground looked more and more frazzled as the temperature rose.
‘Ramita,’ a voice called, and she looked up, her heart leaping. Kazim leant against the cart, a kalikiti bat in his hand. He flashed his white teeth, brilliant against the short beard and moustache which made him look so rakish and exciting.
She felt her skin go moist and her belly turn just to look at him. ‘Kazim.’ His eyes were dark, grey-black, beautiful as ebonies.
He hefted the bat. ‘I’m off to play this Lakh game you love so much. Can you spare your brother?’
Jai looked at her hopefully.
‘Well …’
‘You’ve finished the cooking,’ Jai burst out, ‘now it’s just serving up until we run out. It’s nearly lunchtime – Huriya will help you.’ Huriya was Kazim’s sister, her best friend. ‘Please, Sister—’
Kazim leant his support with a hopeful grin that won the day.
‘Oh, very well, go – go!’ She flapped her hands, her eyes filled with her beloved’s face. ‘Go, have your fun – men and their stupid games.’ But she was laughing as she said it.
Kazim reached out and touched her hand in gratitude, a stolen little intimacy that made her burn and turn liquid at once. The air sang. Then the two youths sauntered off.
‘Look at them go,’ laughed Huriya, sashaying out of the throng. ‘Don’t boys ever grow up? Even your father still likes to wave those silly bats around. Did you see, he’s gone off with Vikash Nooradin?’
Huriya was taller than Ramita, and more generously rounded. Some of the older boys treated her badly because she was foreign and Amteh and had a sick father, but Kazim looked after her fiercely, and no one stood up to him twice. Huriya’s body was hidden beneath her black bekira-shroud. ‘Why do we Amteh have to wear these stupid hot tents when you Omali woman can walk around half-naked and no one says anything?’ she complained, although today she had the hood pulled back, leaving her sensual face unmasked. She hugged Ramita quickly and then they both turned to face a wall of customers. It was time to get busy.
They worked steadily through the day, dozing when the sun was at its highest and the crowds thinned out, then setting to again as the sun dipped towards evening. The boys had still not returned to help pack up, so cursing them good-naturedly, they loaded up the cart with the remaining stock and stowed the cooking gear. The muddy ground was littered with waste, and every bare wall of the marketplace was wet with piss. Wads of chewed-out paan squelched beneath their toes as they pulled the cart through the streets, heading for home in the darkening, cooling streets. Children swarmed about, caught up in chasing games. An old camel plodded past, pulling a large cart while his driver slept on the back. Soldiers called out rude invitations and Huriya snapped back with feisty bravado. Guttering torches filled the alleys with smoke. Ramita calculated the day’s take in her mind: maybe sixty rupals – three times the normal at least. The last days before festivals were always good ones. Father would be delighted. Maybe he was off buying presents from Vikash? He always found little things in the market to amuse them, and no one could bargain like he could.
They pushed their way through the tide of people until they finally reached a small gate into a tiny yard filled with detritus. Father was a hoarder. Above them the Ankesharans’ narrow stone apartment towered, three storeys high with a cellar below, but barely ten feet wide, with neighbours on either side. Ispal’s father’s father had first rented and then bought it and gradually they had settled into it until they were part of the stone, repairing and renewing every season, their sweat and toil part of the mortar. When they married, she and Kazim would take over the second bedroom on the top
level until they could complete another level for them alone. They would live their whole lives in this one house, as Ramita’s grandfather and father had. At the moment she shared the second room with Huriya, and the boys slept on the roof. There was no room for privacy.
The house was strange tonight. Normally her mother was in the kitchen with the children, gobbling down food and complaining while Ispal and Raz sat in the backyard smoking and drinking. But tonight none of the adults were visible and the children were running amok in the yard. The two young women looked curiously at each other. Ramita went into the kitchen and barked at the young ones, trying to restore order, while Huriya unpacked the cooking gear for cleaning. Then Huriya took over feeding the children while Ramita took a bucket down the alley to the water pump.
When she got back, some semblance of order had been restored. Huriya had charmed the girls into tidying up and the boys were studying the slates they had brought from school, speaking aloud the words etched on them, phrases from an Omali holy book about respect for parents.
Ha! Where are my parents anyway, she wondered. Upstairs together? And where is Raz? And Jai and Kazim? What is wrong with this place today? She clambered up the narrow stairs and knocked tentatively on the doors to her parent’s bedroom. ‘Father? Mother? Are you home?’ She thought she could hear her mother crying and she clutched her breast suddenly. ‘Mother? What is happening?’ Ispal opened the door and embraced her in his big soft arms. She looked up at him and at her mother, crying on the bed. ‘Father?’
Her father hugged her tight, and then held her at arm’s-length, his soft eyes uncertain and his lips moving, as if he were holding some silent argument with himself. She felt a sharp stab of real fear as he said quietly, ‘You had best come inside, daughter.’
She staggered from her parents’ bedroom an hour later and collapsed on her own bed, almost shrieking through her tears. It was the room she was to have shared with Kazim – but that would never be now. Huriya was shouting at Father, trying to make him change his mind, and neighbours, alarmed at the racket, were shouting at them all. Ispal had stopped trying to explain himself and just held her, wrapping her so tightly to himself she could barely breathe.