Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet)

by David Hair

  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.

  Why had Father done this to her? Hadn’t she been a good girl? Hadn’t Kazim been promised to her? Promised! And now, torn away – every dream that they shared with each other, staring at the moon and stars, snatched away, and for what? Didn’t they have all the money they could want? What more happiness could all that gold bring them? Even so much gold, more than she could even comprehend … Omali girls were supposed to give a dowry, not be purchased with one. And to be married to some old man – Father would not even say his name.

  She slid off the bed and onto her knees, bombarding the gods with questions, alternately sobbing and whispering in a broken voice. The gods are in the silence, their guru always said. Where were they now? Is this just selfishness? a small part of her chided. Would she have felt this way if she’d been told that Huriya had been commanded to make a horrible marriage to make them all rich? Was she being a hypocrite? A dutiful daughter must go obediently into marriage, to bring her family advantage.

  But she had dreamt of so much more – a love to last the ages. Father had promised!

  Ramita heard Kazim and Jai come home well after dinner-time. She was lying on her pallet, ignoring Huriya’s soft snoring, trying to numb her mind. She was wishing she could puff on a hookah full of hashish until the world sank away for ever when she heard the clicking of the latch and the soft laughter.

  Ispal was waiting for them. It didn’t take long for voices to be raised again. There was no mistaking Kazim when he was angry; he bellowed his fury, careless of whoever heard. She could picture his eyes blazing, his mouth shouting. He had always had a blazing temper, but normally calmed down quickly enough afterwards. She had never heard him like this, though – he had gone berserk, swearing and throwing things. Neighbouring men came around to see what the fuss was and ended up joining the row. She watched from the window as Kazim was thrown out into the alley and bundled away, fists still swinging. It was awful.

  There was no sleep afterwards, just shocked, empty hours of disbelief. Just before dawn, there was a soft knock at the door and Guru Dev let himself in. Huriya slunk away, leaving her alone with the old wiseman, their family’s mentor and spiritual guide. Despite all the anger she felt inside, she went and knelt at his rough-skinned feet and out of respect heard what he had to say. Guru Dev spoke of sacrifice, of little drops of water that filled oceans, about being a part of the greater whole. The dutiful daughter obeys, he reminded her. He spoke of rewards in the hereafter, of the joy in Paradise at the good deeds of the least girl. He spoke of the labours of her parents and their parents, and how proud they would be looking down upon her as she made secure the futures of her family and elevated them to a place among the great.

  ‘And this old ferang, he cannot have long to live, eh – and then who knows what your life might hold? Imagine a few short years away and then returning, a rich widow, wrapped in silks. Imagine the joyous reunion.’

  It sounded so reasonable in the old man’s soothing voice. It sounded like something she could do, perhaps even the right thing to do. But she had glimpsed Kazim’s stricken eyes, seen the blows of the neighbours bloodying his face. She’d heard his howls, mad with grief. She wondered where he was, alone in the cold darkness, his future shattered.

  In the morning, she found she had fallen asleep at Guru Dev’s feet as the old man dozed in his chair. Huriya was staring at her. She gave a wan smile as their eyes met. Her belly rumbled and her bladder was demanding relief. Life demanded she go on. She carefully stood, took off the betrothal cord Kazim had given her and put it carefully away. Huriya took her hand silently and they crept downstairs to wash and face the new day.

  Two days later, the festivities of Eyeed were still going strong. There were many Amteh-worshippers in northern Lakh, even here in Baranasi on the sacred river, and drums resounded throughout the city. Huriya had gone off to tend her father. Kazim hadn’t come home; no one had seen him for two days.

  Before dawn the children had been scrubbed under the water pump in the alley. Tanuva had brought out her best soap, and Ramita performed the delicate task of washing in public without showing flesh with practised grace. She rinsed her hair then twisted out the water in bubbly streams. Mother and Auntie Pashinta traced henna patterns onto her feet, her hands and halfway up her arms before dressing her in her best saree. Then the whole family went to the holy Imuna River, to give blessings to the sun as it rose and set marigolds floating in the dark stream. All about them were other townsfolk doing dawn prayer. Jai had on his cleanest white kurta and his head was bound in a turban. He looked tired and was sullen in everything he did. He gave nothing but black looks to his father. Ramita wished he would relent: it couldn’t be helped, and he wasn’t making anything easier for her. It was hard enough getting through an hour without crying. Her brother’s anger just made it worse.

  She touched the holy water of Imuna to her forehead and to her lips and to her breast. I can do this.

  Sometime in the night, she had made peace with this fate she had been handed. It was going to be hard – she still couldn’t think of Kazim without crying – but she would endure. She would cast herself upon this pyre as the gods demanded. She would return to Kazim when the old man died. It would not be long. She could endure.

  All of the neighbourhood was surreptitiously watching, she knew. Father had told no one the name of her suitor and gossip was flying. The Ankesharans had fought with the Makanis, everyone knew that, and now they had broken the betrothal that was to bind them for ever. Ramita’s new husband was coming at midday today, and every goodwife who didn’t have a view of their courtyard would be finding an excuse to be in the alleyway outside at the appointed hour. Speculation was rife, expressed loudly and in whispers. Had some prince from the mughal court seen Ramita at market and been entranced? Or was there another boy? Everyone had a theory, but only Ispal, Tanuva and Ramita knew, and the secret burned inside, though in truth the man’s name was nothing more to her than a distant legend, less than half-believed.

  The noise rose to a babble outside as Jai admitted a soldier from the court of the Raja of Baranasi, who was wondering what this disturbance was. She watched her father placate him and slip him some money before he left. Ispal looked relieved to see him go. All the while the twisting sensation in her belly grew until she had to dash to the slops-drain and vomit up her breakfast. She could imagine what the neighbours made of that: ‘Ah, lost her virtue already, the little slut. I knew she would come to no good.’ It was all so unfair. Kazim, my prince, where are you? Take me away from all this!

  Finally, just as the sun breached the buildings and beamed down upon the courtyard, booted feet tramped up the alley. The babble outside rose, then fell as the marching stopped outside the alleyway. Ispal rose ashen-faced to his feet and waved to Tanuva to marshal the children, while Jai wrestled the gate open. Ramita, the taste of bile stinging her throat, clung to her father’s arm, petrified.

  A giant of a man strode through the gate. He was more than six foot and wide as a building, helmed and armoured beneath a blue cloak. His face was grim, scarred, but undeniably white. A ferang! Ramita felt a quiver of fear. She had never seen a white man before, and he looked … ugly. Strange. Brutish. He glared about the packed courtyard, took in the overlooking windows filled with watchers, and she could read displeasure on his foreign countenance: a bodyguard unhappy with security. He waved four more soldiers inside before turning back to admit Father’s friend Vikash Nooridan-saheeb. Then a cowled figure, very tall, but thin and stooped, came in.

  Her hands shook as she clung to her father, wh
o was sweating in waves. She stared. This is he? He was clad in a cream robe, his features hidden beneath the cowl. Cream and white were funerary colours, yet he wore them to a betrothal – was this some insult, or just ignorance? He used an ebony staff, metal-capped and patterned with burnished silver. Was it magical? Was he really a jadugara, a wizard? Was he really the Antonin Meiros of tales? She felt her fright magnify as the moments passed.

  She could feel the eyes of all the neighbours on them as Ispal led her forth. Words were exchanged, beneath her hearing. If the old man said anything to her, she couldn’t make it out. A dry hand tugged down her veil and lifted her chin. She found herself looking up into the cowl, where a red gem pulsed like a demon’s single eye. She gave a small gasp, wanted to run, nearly fell, but Ispal’s hands gripped her arm tight and held her up.

  For a few seconds, she had the most frightening sensation, as if her mind were a scroll and this old man was reading it. Her memories, her emotions, the things she cared about, the things she hated, all just patterns on paper, coldly appraised. She wanted desperately to run and hide, but some kind of terrified defiance kept her rooted to the spot.

  The words were spoken into her mind, warm and approving. She almost screamed.

  ‘She has pleasing features,’ he said aloud in Lakh. His voice was withered by age. ‘Are you willing, girl?’

  ‘Achaa,’ she blurted. She could just make out a pallid face, wrinkled skin, a straggly white beard. Ghastly.

  The cowl turned towards her father and she managed to breathe. ‘Very well, Master Ankesharan. She will do. Let the ceremony begin.’ He seemed to think it would all happen now.

  Ispal shook his head. ‘Oh no, saheeb. There are preparations that must be made. My guru has taken the auspices. It will happen on the day before Holy Day.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ snapped the jadugara. ‘I must return to the north immediately.’

  Ispal put on an expression of apologetic helplessness that Ramita recognised from many a marketplace duel of wits. She marvelled inwardly at his nerve. ‘Oh no, saheeb. The ceremony must happen as Guru Dev prescribes. It is tradition.’

  Meiros turned that hollow cowl towards Vikash. ‘Is this so?’

  Vikash waggled his head. ‘Oh yes, saheeb.’

  Meiros snorted exasperatedly. ‘Oh yes, saheeb, oh no, saheeb,’ he muttered, then sighed heavily. ‘Very well. Master Vikash, make the arrangements. Everything must be cleared with Captain Klein, understood?’

  ‘Oh yes, saheeb.’

  He snorted, looking about him. ‘Is there some other ritual that must be fulfilled here?’

  Ispal looked flustered. He motioned Guru Dev forward and after some muttered debate, a small tray containing an image of Parvasi and a Siv-lingam was brought forth. Guru Dev touched his finger to a bowl of vermillion paste and dabbed a bindu mark on Ramita’s forehead, then halted in confusion before Meiros and his ruby-jewelled forehead. ‘Enough,’ came the sibilant voice. ‘I have no patience for this. I consider us betrothed. Do you also consider us so, girl?’

  Ramita started, realising she was being addressed. ‘Achaa. I mean, yes sir,’ she mumbled, afraid to say otherwise.

  ‘We are done here, then?’ asked Meiros in a flat, impatient voice.

  Ispal bowed. ‘Yes, master.’ His voice faltered. ‘Will you come in, take tea with us? We have cooked—’

  ‘I think not. Good day, Master Ankesharan.’

  Then he was gone, as quickly as he had come. Behind him, the street filled with the curious, everyone sharing what they had seen, asking questions: Who was he? What did he look like? Did you see him? I did, he is a prince from Lokistan, like I told you! Well, I saw …

  Ispal stood swaying for a moment, biting his lip. ‘Well, I dare say he must be used to better things,’ he told Tanuva, who stood aggrieved over her table, weighed down with good food that she, Ramita and Pashinta had laboured over for two days. ‘As you soon will be,’ he added in a whisper to Ramita.

  Ramita trembled, angry that this old man had just marched in, careless of the feelings of her family, ignorant of their labours to prepare for him. Had they no sensitivity, these ferang? How arrogant! She glared at his father. ‘I found him rude,’ she told him bluntly as he winced, ‘rude and ignorant. I don’t like him.’ She stomped away, seeking her room and solitude.

  Where are you, Kazim? Won’t you come to me, flying over the rooftops like Hanu-Monkey to rescue me from the evil demon-king? Where are you, Kazim? Why won’t you come to me?

  6

  Words of Fire and Blood

  Religion: Amteh

  Ahm made the Urte and all things virtuous and good and set man to rule it. All things flow from Ahm. Let these words always be upon our lips: ‘All praise to Ahm!’

  THE KALISTHAM, HOLY BOOK OF AMTEH

  Every evil you perform on this world will be inflicted upon you a thousand times in Hel. But every kindness will be returned one hundred times one thousand in Paradise. And he who dies fighting for Ahm will dwell for ever with Him for ever.

  THE KALISTHAM, HOLY BOOK OF AMTEH

  Aruna Nagar, Baranasi, Northern Lakh,

  on the continent of Antiopia

  Shawwal 1381 (Octen 927 in Yuros)

  9 months until the Moontide

  There was a red-brick Dom-al’Ahm near the edge of Baranasi, deep in the slums, the jhuggis where most Amteh dwelt. How the mughal could be Amteh while his Amteh subjects were mostly impoverished was one of life’s riddles to Kazim – but he had bigger problems to deal with: like how and why his life had been turned on its head.

  He had spent the last four days at the Dom-al’Ahm for lack of anywhere else to go. He was far from the only one: many homeless came here for a dry place to sleep and some hand-out food. His purse was empty from three days of desperately trying to forget what had happened, to pretend he didn’t care. Dancing and singing, and yes, screwing whores. Now he burned with shame. How could he go home now? Not after all those bitter words that had spilled hot from his mouth. How could he look Jai in the face? And how could he face Ispal? And what if he saw Ramita? What could he say to her, after what he’d been doing?

  Ispal Ankesharan had been beside his father in battle; he had pulled Raz Makani from the field and kept him alive. He and Huriya would not be alive without him. He owed Ispal his very existence. Ispal had opened his house to them though they were refugees. He had welcomed the birth of Kazim and Huriya, mourned at Mother’s funeral. Kazim had come to love him as another father.

  And he had come to love Ispal’s soft-faced, stubborn, quiet daughter. Ramita was six years his junior, but he had waited, for she was the one. When she turned fourteen, he had asked for her hand in marriage. Everyone had been happy, the street had partied for days. When she turned sixteen, it was agreed, they would marry. That was this autumn. And now she was to be snatched away from him …

  Who was this man? Why had he been allowed to do this? Money was involved, that was clear, but how much must it be to have Ispal break faith with Raz, his blood-brother? No one would give him answers and it was driving him mad.

  A young man sat down beside him on the Dom-al’Ahm floor, cross-legged on the warming stones. It was midmorning. All Kazim had done for the last twenty hours was sleep, curled in a foetal position. Now he was ravenous, and desperately thirsty.

  ‘You are hungry, brother?’ said the youth with a friendly smile. He had a small curly bush of a beard and a thin moustache. His kurta was white but grimy and his headdress was a blue chequered Hebb Valley pattern. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  Kazim nodded mutely. Do I look as pathetic as I feel?

  ‘My name is Haroun. I am a trainee Scriptualist here. We are brothers in faith, Kazim Makani.’

  He knows my name. He felt a small quiver of curiosity. Haroun … that was a Dhassan name. He allowed the youth to lead him behind the Dom-al’Ahm to a line of broken, desperate-looking men of all ages, waiting to be fed, too exhausted even to fight their wa
y up the queue.

  Haroun found him a chair in the corner, motioning away the man already there with quiet authority. ‘Wait here, my friend,’ he said, and soon returned with a plate of black daal and a chapatti and some cold chai. Kazim could have wept.

  ‘Kazim Makani, why are you here? What has happened to you?’ Haroun asked gently as Kazim wolfed down the food.

  His appetite partially satisfied, Kazim regained a little caution. ‘Please excuse me, brother, but how do you know my name? I do not recognise you.’ Though now he studied him, he did recall seeing him about, watching the kalikiti games, and busying himself at the Dom-al’Ahm.

  ‘I am a son of Ahm and a student of the Holy Book. I strive to be of service to God.’ Haroun shrugged. ‘That is all there is to know, the whole of the truth of it. I saw your plight, heard of the dishonour done to you, and grieved. I have been looking for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is not a good deed reason enough?’

  Not in this world, Kazim thought suspiciously.

  Haroun smiled. ‘We have high hopes of you in our community, Kazim. You are a man of talent, a soul that burns bright among men. I wished to remind you that Ahm loves you. I wish to bring you home.’

  ‘I have no home any more.’

  ‘I am here to bring you home to Ahm.’ Haroun pointed skywards. ‘Tell me, my friend, what has been done to you?’

  Kazim thought about saying nothing. He should be with his father and sister – were they still at home with Ispal’s family, or were they on the streets now? He, worthless son that he was, had given them no thought at all in his own mad grief. But he looked at Haroun and felt a desperate need to unburden himself. It would help to talk of this …

  *

  He’d been having such a magnificent day. They had set up a game of kalikiti against Sanjay’s boys from Koshi Vihar, the smaller market half a mile south. Sanjay was Kazim’s age and he was ‘raja’ of Koshi Vihar, just as Kazim led the Aruna Nagar youths. They had clashed for years, enemies, rivals, almost friends – almost, but never. Sanjay had goaded them into the game, relying on the Amteh boys being weakened by having fasted during the daytime for the last month, but Kazim had wolfed down his food before dawn like it would be his last meal on earth, and the game had been a stunning victory. Then fights had broken out, of course – they always did, but then they made up, as they also always did. They had found a dhaba that sold beer, that most choice of imports from the barbaric Rondians, and got raucous.