by David Drake
The panther recognized all of them. He knew every face. They were all there. The entire detachment.
The panther willed himself to absolute stillness. Perhaps—maybe. This might be the chance! Almost hopeless, true, but hope was gone in any event. Never had they allowed the princess to walk about in the courtyard. Her daily exercise was always limited to the garden perched atop the battlements of the palace. For the first time, the panther would only have to fight his way through them, on level ground.
He could not prevent the grimace. Only. With his bare hands. An assassin's hands, true. But he did not even have to examine them to know what he would see. (Although he did, of course, for the thousandth time.) The discipline, the spotless helmets and armor, the well-oiled gleam of the swords and spear blades. Worst of all, the poise and confidence. The poise and confidence that comes only from battlefields mastered and survived.
Only. But—there would be no other chance. Slowly, imperceptibly, he gathered his haunches beneath him, preparing to spring. He would wait until the princess herself emerged and was well away from the door.
He waited. And waited. Grew puzzled.
What was happening?
He and his men were now clustered in the center of the courtyard. The door to the mansion had closed behind them. There was no sign of the princess.
The panther looked back to the men in the courtyard. There seemed to be some quarrel going on. He could not make out the voices, but it was obvious from the tone that they were raised in anger. And obvious, as well, from the expression on his face. A hard man to read, he was, but the panther had come to know that face. A deep, bitter rage roiled beneath its iron surface, suppressed by a lifetime's harsh discipline.
No. Not a quarrel. They are not arguing amongst themselves. The anger is directed elsewhere. He spotted the glances directed toward the palace. Quick glares of fury.
The door to the palace opened again. The panther tensed. But, again, the princess did not appear. Only a gaggle of servants, bearing bundles. Bundles, the panther realized, containing the kits of—
His eyes flitted back to the center of the courtyard. A sudden, wild hope flared.
He said something. Barked commands. Again, the panther could not make out the words. But he knew the tone, with the knowledge of a great commander of armies.
Orders are orders. Obey. Just shut up and do it.
A moment later, he was striding off. After a moment, the other men followed, toting their kits. Out of the courtyard. Down the beautifully tiled entryway to the palace grounds. Then, turning left at the dirt track—
— leading to the barracks.
Could it be? Is it possible?
The panther hesitated for only an instant. Just long enough for a quick, appraising glance at the palace.
No. I must first learn—
The panther sped through the woods, circling around toward the location of the barracks. He moved very swiftly, but almost invisibly, with just the faintest hint of a rustle. Like the sound of the wind, some might say.
He came to a good spot, well hidden, but from which he could spy out the barracks. The barracks, where the Rajputs and the common soldiery dwelled. They were not privileged to make their quarters within the palace. Of the troops guarding the palace, only the Ye-tai enjoyed the privilege of dwelling within its fair walls. The Ye-tai alone—except, due to their special duty, him and his men. Until now.
He was already there, and his men. They stalked into the best of the barracks reserved for the common soldiery. (The Rajputs took their quarters in a special barracks at the other end of the compound. Not luxurious, those, not even the rooms set aside for officers, but considerably better than the shacks provided for the common soldiery.)
The sound of angry voices came from the barracks into which they had marched. Had stalked. Like wolves entering a den of jackals.
A stream of common soldiers began pouring out of the barracks. Hastily, even frantically. The last one to emerge on his own feet was aided along by a kick. A second or so later, two others followed through the door, hurled like so many sacks of rice. They landed in the dirt and sprawled there, unconscious, their heads bleeding from savage blows.
Soon after, the kits of the common soldiers were likewise hurled through the door. The kits were not properly packed—were not packed at all, in fact. Just bundles slapped together and cast into the dirt, like garbage thrown out by a particularly foul-tempered housewife.
Sullenly—but, oh so meekly, with nary a snarl directed toward the barracks—the common soldiers scurried about, scraping together their belongings. They dusted off their meager possessions, rolled up their kits, and slouched toward the barracks located some distance away. The empty barracks. The one whose walls were caving in, and whose thatched roof kept out rain about as well as a fishnet.
Yes. Yes. Yes. It is true!
The panther raced back the way he had come. But, just before he reached his familiar hiding place beyond the door of the palace, he halted.
Oh, it was difficult! Weeks of frustration hurled him toward that hated palace!
But, he restrained himself, with the restraint of a man who had set a hundred ambushes, and eluded as many more.
Patience. The Vile One will not arrive for days yet. There is time. I must discover exactly what has happened. Lay out my plans.
He turned, and flitted through the woods, toward his hidden lair deep in the forest. Along the way, he tried to formulate new stratagems, based on a new reality. But, soon, he abandoned the effort. It was foolish to make plans in the absence of precise information. And besides, his soul was too flooded with emotion.
A new emotion. Hope. A huge emotion, like the surging monsoon. It filled every cranny and nook of his soul.
There was room for it. Another emotion was gone. The panther no longer hated him. The hate had vanished with the need, like a straw in the monsoon winds, and the panther was glad to see it go.
He arrived at his lair. Nothing much, that lair. Nothing much, for he possessed little, and had discarded most of that. He had prepared his lair carefully, making sure it could never be found.
He squatted, moved aside the stones and twigs which disguised his little campfire, and began piling up a small mound of kindling. There was not much to eat, but he would have time to cook it. Time to plot, and space to do it. A safe, perfectly hidden lair. Where he could become lost in his thoughts without fear of discovery.
The voice which came from behind him was the first knowledge he had of the ambush. He would have never believed it possible.
Speaking in Maratha. With a pronounced accent.
"You are very good, Raghunath Rao. Not as good as me, but very good."
The panther turned, slowly. Stared back at the foliage from whence the voice had come. Still, he saw nothing.
Until a flash of white appeared, in the darkness. A quick gleam, nothing more.
The panther could make him out now, barely. The man was so well concealed that his shape was nothing but black against black. Slowly, imperceptibly, the panther gathered up his haunches.
An object was flung from the darkness where the hunter lurked. It landed not more than a foot away from his feet. A small bundle. Slender, about a foot long. Wrapped in a cloth.
The voice came again:
"Examine the gift, first, Raghunath Rao. Then, if you still wish to be foolish, you will at least be a well-armed fool."
The panther hesitated for only an instant. He reached out his left hand and swiftly unfolded the bundle. The—gift—lay exposed.
He knew what it was, of course. But it wasn't until he withdrew the thing from its sheath, and examined it, that he understood what a truly excellent gift it was. With all the understanding of a great student of daggers, and their use.
Another packet landed by his feet.
"Now, that," came the voice.
The panther used the dagger to slice open the rawhide strip binding the small leather roll. Opened, the roll proved to c
ontain a few sheets of papyrus. Upon them was a message, written in Marathi.
The panther glanced at his stalker. The hunter had not moved.
Strange ambush, he thought. But—he began to read the message.
Impossible to catalog the emotions which that incredible message produced in the panther's soul. Hope, again, in the main, like the sky behind a rainbow. Hope, produced by the body of the message. The rainbow, by the final words.
Half-dazed, he slowly raised his head and stared at the hunter in the shadows.
"Is it true?" he whispered.
"Which part?" came the voice. "The beginning, yes. You have seen yourself. We have cleared the way for you. The middle? Possibly. It remains still to be done, and what man can know the future?"
A rustle, very faint. The hunter arose and stepped into the small clearing. The panther gazed up at the tall man. He had never seen his like before, but did not gape. The panther had long known creation to be a thing of wonder. So why should it not contain wonderful men?
The panther examined the man's weapon, briefly. Then—not so briefly—examined the light, sure grip which held that enormous spear. The panther recognized that grip, knew it perfectly, and knew, as well, that he would be a dead man now, had he—
"How fortunate it is," remarked the panther, "that I am a man who cannot resist the pleasure of reading."
"Is it not so?" agreed the hunter, grinning cheerfully. "I myself am a great lover of the written word. A trait which, I am certain, has much prolonged my life."
The tall hunter suddenly squatted. He and the panther stared at each other, their eyes almost level. The grin never left the hunter's face.
"Which brings us, back, oddly enough, to your very question. Is the last part of the message true? That, I think, is what you would most like to know."
The panther nodded.
The hunter shrugged. "Difficult to say. I am not well acquainted with the—fellow, let us call him. He is very closely attached to the one who sent you this message."
"You have met—"
"Oh, yes. Briefly, mind you, only briefly. But it was quite an experience."
The hunter paused, staring for a moment into the forest. Then said, slowly:
"I do not know. I think—yes. But it is a difficult question to answer for a certainty. Because, you see, it involves the nature of the soul."
The panther considered these words. Then, looked back down and read again the final part of the message. And then, laughed gaily.
"Indeed I think you are right!"
He rolled the sheets of papyrus back into the leather and tucked it into his loincloth.
"It seems, once again," he remarked lightly, "that I shall be forced to act in this world of sensation based on faith alone." The panther shrugged. "So be it."
"Nonsense," stated the hunter. "Faith alone? Nonsense!" He waved his hand, majestically dispelling all uncertainty.
"We have philosophy, man, philosophy!"
A great grin erupted on the hunter's face, blazing in the gloom of the forest like a beacon.
"I have heard that you are a student of philosophy yourself."
The panther nodded.
The grin was almost blinding.
"Well, then! This matter of the soul is not so difficult, after all. Not, at least, if we begin with the simple truth that the ever-changing flux of apparent reality is nothing but the shadow cast upon our consciousness by deep, underlying, unchanging, and eternal Forms."
The panther's eyes narrowed to slits. The treasure of his soul in captivity—bound for the lust of the beast—a furious battle ahead, a desperate flight from pursuit, a stratagem born of myth, and this—this—this half-naked outlandish barbarian—this—this—
"I've never encountered such blather in my life!" roared the panther. "Childish prattle!" The tail lashed. "Outright cretinism!"
Furiously, he stirred the fire to life.
"No, no, my good man, you're utterly befuddled on this matter. Maya—the veil of illusion which you so inelegantly call the ever-changing flux of apparent reality—is nothing. Not a shadow—nothing. To call such a void by the name of shadow would imply—"
The panther broke off.
"But I am being rude. I have not inquired your name."
"Ousanas." The black man spread his hand in a questioning gesture. "Perhaps I introduced the topic at an inappropriate time. There is a princess to be rescued, assassinations to commit, a pursuit to be misled, subterfuges to be deepened, ruses developed, stratagems unfolded—all of this, based on nothing more substantial than a vision. Perhaps—"
"Nonsense!"
Raghunath Rao settled himself more comfortably on his haunches, much as a panther settles down to devour an impala.
"Shakuntala will keep," he pronounced, waving his hand imperiously. "As I never tire of explaining to that beloved if headstrong girl: only the soul matters, in the end. Now, as to that, it should be obvious at first glance—even to you—that the existence of the soul itself presupposes the One. And the One, by its very nature, must be indivisible. That said—"
"Ridiculous!" growled Ousanas. "Such a One—silly term, that; treacherous, even, from the standpoint of logic, for it presupposes the very thing which must be proved—can itself only be—"
Long into the night, long into the night. A low, murmuring sound in the forest; a faint, flickering light. But there were none to see, except the two predators themselves, quarreling over their prey.
The soul, the great prey, the leviathan prey, the only fit prey for truly great hunters. The greatest hunters in the world, perhaps, those two, except for some tiny people in another forest far away. Who also, in their own way, grappled Creation's most gigantic beast.
Chapter 23
Three nights later, the Wind of the Great Country swept through the palace of the Vile One.
Eerie wind. Silent as a ghost. Rustling not a curtain, rattling not a cup. But leaving behind, in its passage, the signs of the monsoon. The monsoon, great-grandfather of fury, whose tidal waves strew entire coasts with destruction.
Unnatural wave. Selective in its wreckage, narrow in its havoc, precise in its carnage.
The majordomo was the first to die, in his bed. He expired quickly, for his lungs were already strained by the slabs of fat which sheathed his body. He died silently, purple-faced, his bulging eyes fixed on the multitude of cords and levers for which his plump hand was desperately reaching. Cords and levers which might have saved him, for they were the nerve center of the entire palace. The mechanisms which could have alerted the Ye-tai guards, roused the priests and torturers, summoned the servants.
Wondrous levers, crafted by master metalsmiths. Beautiful cords, made from the finest silk.
The mechanisms, alas, proved quite beyond his reach. They would have been beyond that reach even if the nearest silk cord, the one he most desperately sought, had still been there. That cord rang the bell in the Ye-tai quarters. But it was gone. The majordomo could see the stub of the cord, hanging from the ceiling. It must have been severed by a razor, so clean and sharp was the cut. Or, perhaps, by a truly excellent dagger.
He did not wonder what had happened to the missing length of the cord, however. The beautiful silk had disappeared into the folds of fat which encased his neck and throat, driven there by hands like steel. He struggled against those hands, with the desperation of his feverish will to survive.
But his was a petty will, a puny will, a pitiful will, compared to the will which drove those incredible hands. That will made steel seem soft.
And so, a lackey died, much as he had lived. Swollen beyond his capacity.
The Wind swept out of the majordomo's suite. As it departed, the Wind eddied briefly, cutting away all of the cords and removing all of the levers. Without—eerie wind—causing a single one of the multitude of bells throughout the palace to so much as tremble.
The levers, the Wind discarded. The cords it kept. Excellent silk, those cords, the Wind fancied them might
ily.
The Wind put three of those cords to use within the next few minutes. The Mahaveda high priests who oversaw the contingent of priests and torturers newly assigned to the palace dwelt near the suite of the majordomo. Their own chambers were not as lavish as his, nor were the locks on their doors as elaborate. It would have made no difference if they had been. Door locks, no matter how elaborate, had no more chance of resisting the Wind than dandelions a cyclone.
It made no difference, either, that the priests' lungs were not slabbed with fat. Nor that their necks were taut with holy austerity. Very taut, in fact, for these were high priests, given to great austerity. But they grew tauter still, under the Wind's discipline. For Mahaveda priests, the Wind would settle for nothing less than ultimate austerity.
The Wind departed the quarters of the high priests and swirled its way through the adjoining chambers. Small rooms, these, unlocked—the sleeping chambers of modest priests and even humbler mahamimamsa.
They grew humbler still, models of modesty, in the passing of the Wind. True, their simple bedding gained ostentatious color, quite out of keeping with their station in life. But they could hardly be blamed for that natural disaster. The monsoon always brings moisture in its wake.
Done with its business in those quarters, the Wind veered toward the west wing of the palace. There, still some distance away, lay the principal destination of the Wind's burden of wet destruction.
The Wind eased its way now, slowly. These were the servant quarters. The Wind had no quarrel with that folk. And so it moved through these corridors like the gentlest zephyr, so as not to rouse its residents.
A servant awoke, nonetheless. Not from the effects of the Wind's passage, but from the incontinence of old age. A crone, withered by years of toil and abuse, who simply had the misfortune to shuffle out of her tiny crib of a room at exactly the wrong moment.
Shortly thereafter, she found herself back in the room. Lying on her pallet, gagged, bound with silk cords, but otherwise unharmed. She made no attempt to fight those bonds. As well fight against iron hoops. When she was finally discovered the next day, she had suffered no worse than the discomfort of spending a night in bedding soaked with urine.