by David Hair
The carriage rolled up a long boulevard lined with palm trees. Trumpets blared as they halted and doormen in red jackets helped them out. Arcanum Guards lined the entrance as Meiros led Ramita up the stairs; she supposed it a credit to their discipline that only half of them stopped and stared, open-mouthed. She presumed none of them had seen a saree before. Or a woman’s bare midriff in public, possibly.
Justina had threatened to burn all of her sarees rather than allow her to wear one in public, but Ramita had sought and obtained Meiros’ blessing, as much to get one over Justina as any other reason. She wore the most ornate of the new collection Vikash Nooridan’s wife had purchased with such great pleasure in Baranasi. The close-fitting gold bodice was embroidered with blue glass beads, which matched the elaborate blue patterns stitched by hand across the saree and bearing the auspicious marks of Gann-Elephant, so skilfully devised that every fold revealed a new pattern, each subordinate to the whole. The final fold she had pulled over her head to shroud her face. Her flat stomach was adorned with a belly-ring of gold. She had her bridal bangles on, and a nose-ring chained to her left ear. Huriya had pasted a bindu gem to her forehead, a scarlet ruby, and her fingernails had been painted by one of Justina’s servants in one of her own polishes. Her lips were coloured dusky red. Huriya had painted henna patterns on her hands and feet that morning. ‘You will turn every head,’ she had whispered while Justina ranted. ‘Don’t listen to what that jealous old hag says.’
Meiros smiled softly at her. ‘You look radiant, Wife. Magnificently alien. And very beautiful.’ She was surprised at the grateful affection she felt at his words.
He guided her to the top of the steps, where a timeless-looking man with grey hair met them, gawping openly at her. She came up to his chest – were all of these whiteskin men giants? He was Lord Rene Cardien, he told her, eyeing the henna uncertainly as he bent over her hand and letting go nervously. His eyes kept crawling from her bodice to her waist and back.
‘If all of the men are going to spend the evening ogling you, I’ll get no sense out of them,’ Meiros remarked quietly as they passed inside the massive doors.
‘Is that not the plan?’ she asked pertly. Everyone in Aruna Nagar knew there were men whose bargaining skills collapsed when confronted with a pretty face. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the market, but she’d certainly learned how to flash a smile at the right moment.
Meiros glanced at her curiously. ‘I may have underestimated you, Wife,’ he whispered. He sounded pleased. ‘But be careful: not everyone here is an old lecher like Rene Cardien. No cheek, remember!’
She bowed her head humbly as they entered a massive hall. Motes of dust danced in the columns of dusky pink light shining through high windows. Their footsteps echoed as they walked between statues of commanding-looking men and women in flowing robes, rendered with astonishing realism in white marble shot with seams of emerald and vermillion. Meiros paused briefly next to one, a slim, lissom woman with big eyes. ‘Lynesse, my first wife.’ He pointed to the statue opposite, an imperious woman with her arm pointing skywards. She looked grim and haughty. ‘Edda, my second wife.’
‘Justina’s mother?’ Ramita whispered.
‘Indeed. Alike in all things,’ he said ruefully.
Ramita repressed a giggle as he led her onwards to where the magi were gathered. Silence fell and every head turned as they were announced.
They had discussed the question of curtseying, not easy in a saree, so he told her not to curtsey at all. ‘It’s a Rondian gesture, Wife; your clothing is making a statement about not being Rondian. Remain standing, and let them all get a good look at you; let them fully realise that you are a foreigner here. Dare them to bend towards you – remember, you are my wife, and they will not want to offend you, for that would be to offend me.’
With ‘Lord and Lady Meiros’ still ringing in the air they paused to let the gathering absorb them. Meiros wore a simple cream mantle; Ramita was a glittering doll, brighter than every woman in the room. Then he led her into the crowd and faces and names quickly became a blur: male magi married to female magi; single magi of both genders; non-magi spouses of magi. Everyone was deferential, and with an unexpected touch of pride she thought, My husband is the mightiest man here.
They were offered glasses of some kind of bubbling wine that was obviously a luxury, but she accepted only a fruit sherbet, as a good Lakh wife should. It looked like she was the only non-drinker there; her father had once told her that all Rondians were sots.
What surprised her most was that almost half the magi were clearly of mixed Antiopian descent, Hebb mostly, she guessed, looking at the dark hair set against pale olive complexions, but there were some striking combinations. One voluptuous woman, introduced as Odessa d’Ark, had dark olive skin and nearly blonde hair: she looked almost offended by Ramita’s saree, but stared at it avidly, as if already planning her next ball-gown. ‘The fashion stakes have been raised,’ Meiros whispered as they passed on.
Thus far she hadn’t even been called upon to open her mouth. She was just beginning to feel a little confident when Justina arrived. She was wearing a silver brooch of a snake coiled about a staff, the symbol of the order of healer-magi she’d founded. Ramita noticed most of the women present were also wearing it. Justina was on the arm of a man whose clothing almost out-glittered Ramita’s.
She left her partner to come and acknowledge Meiros. ‘Father,’ she said, and curtseyed elegantly.
Meiros eyed the man with her doubtfully. ‘Him, Daughter?’ he said in a low voice.
‘Oh, Father, don’t be a grump. Emir Rashid happened to arrive in the next carriage to mine and offer his arm. Be nice, Father, this is a party.’
The emir, who would have shamed peacocks with his glittering brilliance, glided towards them. Justina waved her hand airily, as if displaying an exhibit. ‘Rashid, this is my father’s new wife, Ramita.’
She stared up at the man and caught her breath.
It wasn’t just the costume of opal, mother-of-pearl and even real pearls, woven into a piece of finery that shimmered like a glittering snake. It wasn’t just his perfect, haughty, beautiful face, framed by braided hair and an elegant goatee; it was all of those things, but it was also the confident poise and the grace of a dancer or a swordsman. His eyes, the most piercing of emeralds, glittered beneath his manicured brows. But mostly, she saw Kazim in his natural athleticism and utter belief in the power of his own charm, and for a small second he was Kazim, striding towards her across the floors of this dream palace. She almost said his name.
She swallowed as a cool hand gripped hers and his lips caressed her hand. ‘Namaste, Lady Meiros. Rumour does you no justice,’ he said in Lakh, his voice rich and his accent perfect. ‘I am Emir Rashid Mubarak al Halli’kut and I am your servant.’
‘Uh, Namaskar,’ she started. ‘It is wonderful to hear my own tongue again, Emir.’
‘It is a pleasure to practise it, Lady Meiros.’ He straightened, preening a little.
He loves himself passionately, she noted.
Meiros’ rasping voice was a contrast to the emir’s rich timbre. ‘Emir Rashid, I did not know you have spent time in Lakh?’
‘Oh, I get everywhere, milord, sooner or later.’ He looked at Ramita. ‘Good evening, Antonin. Lady.’ He swirled away to greet Lady Odessa with a florid bow. Ramita had to tear her eyes from him.
After a time the novelty of being looked at but not talked to became frustrating. She was Lakh, and Lakh people were gregarious by nature. There were so many fascinating people here – the legendary Bridge Builders themselves – and yet all she was permitted was to listen to small talk, to simper and smile. She felt restless, and her nerves dissipated, worn away by boredom.
‘Um – where’s the privy here?’ she whispered at last.
Alyssa, hovering nearby, volunteered to guide her. ‘How are you enjoying the party, Ramita?’ she asked, as she led the way through endless corridors.
‘It’s
not like a real celebration,’ Ramita sighed. ‘There is no music, no dancing – it’s not really fun.’
‘A party for fun – what a novel idea,’ Alyssa mused drily. ‘We don’t really do those here.’
‘None of you seem to actually like each other,’ Ramita commented. ‘I can tell: everyone is so formal! At home, if you don’t like someone, you don’t invite them to your parties – well, except everyone just shows up anyway. But you don’t have to let them inside and if they make trouble, you just tell one of Chandra-bhai’s boys and they sort it out.’
‘It sounds like you have more fun than we do. Everything here is politics: who you talk to, what you say, who you dance with, sometimes even what you wear.’ She giggled. ‘I think all the women will be trying to be more colourful next time. But the older ones are shocked at seeing your belly, of course.’
‘At home it is normal. Do you think I made the right choice of what to wear?’
‘You did; you’ve caught everyone’s eye. Especially the most handsome of the men.’ She winked at her. ‘I think you’ve made all the right impressions.’
Ramita felt a sudden flush of confusion. ‘I only wanted to establish that I am Lakh and have a right to be myself. I have no desire to attract any other sort of attention.’ She stuck her chin out. ‘A Lakh woman is faithful to her husband.’
Alyssa smiled knowingly. ‘My dear, what lovely sentiments. But when you’ve been married to the same bore for half a century, you may feel a little different. And your husband is so old – some of us wonder if he can still … ?’ She gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘We’re all dreadfully sorry for you, my dear. All we want to do is make your time here as painless as possible, before you are sent home.’
Ramita felt a strange sensation inside her. ‘Sent home? But I will conceive soon.’ Is this what they all think, that I’m just a momentary distraction, even this woman I thought my friend? ‘You’ll see.’
‘Of course, dear.’ Alyssa leaned against the wall, her face suddenly calculating. ‘But to whom, I wonder? So many of the younger men are crying out for fresh meat.’
Ramita flushed red. ‘To my husband,’ she said, gritting her teeth. Do I really have no friends here at all? She fled to the privy, locking the door behind her. For a time she sat there, trying to regain her composure. When she emerged, Emir Rashid Mubarak was leaning against the wall where Alyssa had been waiting. The woman was nowhere in sight.
‘Lady Meiros. Or may I call you Ramita?’ Rashid asked smoothly in Lakh.
She had to swallow twice before she could speak. ‘My lord.’ She moved to step past him and he put a hand on her arm: soft, but steely.
‘Allow me to guide you, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s not easy to find the way in this maze.’ His hand was huge upon her forearm, and she felt herself trembling as he walked her through corridors she didn’t recognise into a small courtyard filled with the rich smell of frangipani. Leafy branches filled the space, enclosing them.
The emir turned to face her, though he was so tall that she came only up to his chest. He still gripped her arm, and she found his proximity intimate and subtly threatening. ‘So, Ramita, it must be hard for you, to be taken away from those you love.’ His mellifluous voice caressed her senses. ‘Family, friends, lovers …’
‘I don’t recognise this courtyard, Emir.’ She tried to keep the fear out of her voice.
‘Did you have any young men in your life, back in Baranasi? Any handsome young men?’ For a second his face caught the light strangely and again she was staring up into Kazim’s face and he was whispering to her on the rooftops, one of those many nights lost in the past, so few months and so many lifetimes ago. She tried to pull herself from the emir’s grip, but he held her firmly. ‘Wait, Ramita – don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you. I’m a romantic, you see. I want to see you live happily ever after. I have a soft spot for young lovers. Like you and Kazim.’
Her heart nearly stopped. He knows about Kazim – and what else does he know?
Footsteps scraped behind them. ‘Rashid.’ Antonin Meiros’ words were harsh and ugly after the beauty of Rashid’s voice, but to her, in that moment, they rang like bells.
The emir’s mouth twitched. ‘Ah, Antonin. I found your young wife wandering, clearly lost.’ He held out Ramita’s hand as if she were a prize. ‘I return her to you. I trust you will be more diligent in future.’
‘Oh, I shall, Rashid, I shall.’ Meiros took Ramita’s hand gently in his. ‘Come, Wife. They are ready to serve the meal.’ He walked her slowly back to the hall, but she barely heard him. Her mind was racing. How could the emir have known—? She had not even thought about Kazim tonight …
Then she had a sickening thought: someone had been allowed freely inside her mind. Alyssa could have picked her mind over at leisure. She felt a chill, like the coils of serpents writhing in the darkness.
*
‘You did well, Wife,’ Meiros said as they were driven home. ‘You were silent, courteous and composed.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘What passed between you and Rashid Mubarak?’
She carefully blanked her mind. ‘It was as he said – but only because Alyssa left me on my own.’
‘Alyssa? That is not like her. Something must have called her away.’
Or someone? She almost voiced her suspicions, but stopped. Meiros had known Alyssa Dulayne far longer than she had, and both he and Justina evidently liked her. Very well, she told herself, but I will end my lessons with her.
‘Was the banquet a success?’ she asked. There had been no dancing and little laughter. It had been a tense and joyless occasion, in her eyes.
Meiros grunted. ‘It was just a continuation of the whole week. Nothing you need concern yourself with.’ He sounded drained once more.
‘Whatever concerns my husband concerns me,’ she replied determinedly.
He looked at her. ‘Very well: I founded our Order to promote peaceful use of the gnosis. But when the Inquisitors seized Northpoint, they forced me to choose between the Bridge, or war. Rightly or wrongly I chose the Bridge, and since that time, the Imperial Inquisitors have effectively controlled the Order. We were allowed to continue functioning solely to preserve and maintain the Bridge, and this has split our Order. Some members have been bought out by the Inquisitors and now give them their loyalty. Others just keep their heads down and do as contracted. Many of the Order now wish to fight, but we have been pacifist for centuries. We have neglected the arts of war, and we are too few. To fight would be to risk complete destruction.’
‘Which side do you take, Husband?’
‘I take the side of peace, as I always have, but it is not easy, though as founder I have right of veto. The militants outnumber the pacifists, but they are divided between Crusade and shihad. Rashid Mubarak favours the shihad. Rene Cardien leads the Crusader faction. I stand between them, trying to hold the Builders together in adherence to our founding principles of education, commerce and peace.
‘Wife, I am losing. My son is dead. My daughter squanders herself. Only my divination holds out hope, that if you and I have children, they will somehow save the Order – that is why you and I must be fruitful, though it will be twenty years before our children are ready to play their part. We must survive this Moontide, and the next, and it feels like a forlorn hope. But I have lived this long, and I can endure longer.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry to lay such burdens upon you, my lovely wife.’
He looked almost lost, like a small boy. She had understood only a fraction of what he said – politics was hard, and she had more pressing worries. What else did Alyssa learn of me? The thought made her feel ill, but for now she pushed aside her fear. She put a hand over his and squeezed.
Captain Klein let them into the house and she followed Meiros up the stairs. He walked her to her door, but she shook her head. ‘“A good wife should stay with her husband when he is troubled and sooth his brow”,’ she said, quoting Omali scripture.
He gave a small smile. �
�I fear I will not be good company, Wife. I am so very, very tired.’ He kissed her goodnight gently and hobbled away.
Her dreams that night were disturbing, images of Kazim and Rashid overlapping, confusing her, leading her in circles, while Alyssa watched, laughing callously. She woke more than once, wishing she was not alone.
The banquet marked the end of Janune, the first month. Febreux and Martrois drifted by and still she did not conceive. She refused further language lessons, and had Huriya shut Alyssa out the one time she visited. She was still too frightened to make her suspicions known to her husband, as Justina’s friendship with Alyssa clearly ran deep. Suddenly nothing felt safe. She felt isolated despite the growing warmth of her relationship with her husband and Huriya’s constant friendship. When she had travelled north, she had feared all manner of real and imaginary perils, but she had never thought to make offerings against loneliness: no one visited her, and even Huriya and the other servants had more freedom than she did.
But her bubble of safe solitude burst at the end of Martrois, when Huriya came bursting in one morning, threw herself at Ramita, crying, ‘Mita, Mita – you will not believe this, but I’ve seen him – in the souks! I spoke to him!’
‘Spoke to whom?’ Ramita asked, shaking off her sister. ‘Who have you seen?’
‘Jai – I’ve seen Jai, right here in Hebusalim—’
‘Jai? My brother Jai?’
‘Yes, idiot, your brother Jai – he’s here in Hebusalim.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, here!’ Huriya’s vivid face was inches from hers. ‘It’s so wonderful – Kazim is here too!’
The whole world lurched.
19
Offered Hands
Kesh
The Keshi call their land the forge of civilisation, where impurities are burned away. Life is surely ancient there. The plains are littered with old tombs; the caves are decorated with primitive drawings. The Amteh Faith began here, where the Prophet Aluq-Ahmed had his revelations. Though much of the land is barren, around all water there are throngs of people living on top of each other like ants. There are arguably twice as many people in Kesh alone as in all of Yuros.