A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1)

by Darrell Drake

  She paid his lecherous goodbye no attention as she left for the adjacent room and figured she had developed an idea of what to expect. That was half true. “I’m sensing a pattern,” she mused aloud.

  “Then you are as quick to catch on as I would expect,” replied Mehr-farr. “I assume you still want to hear from the remaining accused?”

  “Please,” Ashtadukht said without really thinking about it. She hadn’t overlooked the way she’d so submissively fallen into his heading once he drew her in. Rather, she was oddly grateful for it. As a rule of their history together, he made her uncomfortable; yet yielding to his rhythm came more naturally than finding her own—a dogged habit.

  Ashtadukht winced at the sight of this one. He was not at all what she’d expected: he had been blinded, and his ears were nothing more than disfigured stubs.

  “The mutilation and blinding is his doing,” explained Mehr-farr. “His tongue is gone, too. The guilt proved to be too much to handle.”

  Ashtadukht swallowed her initial repulsion and went to her knees before the man, who was himself kneeling. “What a wretched repentance,” she whispered, and accepted the parchment he offered.

  “This man is—was a scribe,” added Mehr-farr.

  She proceeded to read the missive aloud.

  “It’s a truly bleak and destitute day when a man—a good, charitable man no less—can’t safely ask a small favour of his neighbour. Such was the tenebrous, Truth-forsaken occasion whereupon the deceased rapped at my door and requested the most innocent, most ancient and neighbourly of favours: to borrow sugar.

  “So it was that yours truly, a man of a reprehensible vertically-disposed propensity, invited a friend into my charnel house, climbed those dreadful rungs, wrapped my disgracefully plump phalanges—sausages, really—around that most rancorous of sugar jars, and fumbled in doing so.

  “It fell. I flailed—and how!—which only emboldened its descent onto the brow of a man better than this lowly servant of clumsiness. Being a man of utmost character, he took it in stride. He laughed, even. After many apologies on my part, he left with a bag of that virulent sugar.

  “Feeling dissatisfied with a mere apology, I was determined to make proper amends. Alas, upon reaching his blessed abode, I found him at the door, brought low by the jar of a ne’er-do-well. The pusillanimous toad that I am, my first thought was that I’d be implicated—a regular deed to the Lie, that—so I fetched a cart, tossed him on and went to dump him into the sea until I heard someone approaching. In my panic I tipped the cart and absconded, hoping the night would conceal me like some loathsome div.”

  Ashtadukht let the quiet crinkling of parchment round out the end of the confession as she carefully rerolled it and returned it to the scribe’s open palm.

  “Next,” she said dejectedly.

  No stranger to her illness, Mehr-farr gave her a convincingly sympathetic frown and helped her up. “Do you need a moment?”

  “It isn’t that,” said Ashtadukht. It was, at least partially. “I just . . .” She trailed off.

  “Oh, I see. Do not fret, dear. That you still blanch at those caught up in the devastative wake of a div speaks multitudes for your character. Most star-reckoners grow distant after a time because of, well, you are all too familiar with the why.”

  Ashtadukht gave his arm an appreciative pat and put forth a concentrated effort to give a bright reply, which fooled no one. “Your concern is kind but unnecessary. Let’s proceed.”

  “Very well. This is the last one,” said Mehr-farr as they moved through a pair of guards, under an impressive vault, and into another holding cell made domicile. “Not quite as dramatic as that fellow, I assure you.”

  An observer would be hard-pressed to decide whether the modest quarters were homely or insulting to the woman within. She was a whore, made apparent by her licentious, advertising attire. She was also somehow gaunt and full-bodied at the same time.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” said Mehr-farr.

  The whore waved a hand and sat up. “I’m accustomed to evening visitors. Trysts tend to go over more smoothly at night.” Her timbre was refined, elegant even.

  “You don’t speak like a whore,” ventured Ashtadukht.

  “Is there a way in which whores are expected to speak? More sultry? Husky outbreaths? I seem to, well, I was doing fine until this.”

  “I only meant—”

  The whore offered a light-hearted yet sardonic smile. “I know what you were getting at. Whores aren’t all urchins or—” She widened her eyes and shook her hands mockingly. “Divs.”

  “This is not what we have come to discuss,” interrupted Mehr-farr. “Your story if you will.”

  “Fine, fine. Your star-reckoner was a regular of mine. More than that, he was sweet, gave generous tips, and well, I often left thinking maybe I should have been the one paying. He’d thrust at some geometrically maddening angle that really dug into my—”

  “Get on with it,” said Ashtadukht, flustered by the sudden image that had weaselled its way into her mind.

  The whore gave her a knowing look but said nothing of it. “We had a schedule. Every tenth day after dark. I’d stay overnight, and he’d mount me with all the ferocity of a wild ass.”

  “We don’t need the details,” admonished Ashtadukht.

  The whore giggled this time. “So I was coming to meet him, and when I opened the door he threw himself on me. He was always full of gusto. His weight, much like his virility, was indomitable. We fell down the stairs and the poor man didn’t live through the fall. I hated myself for it, but we all know how it’d look: a whore and a dead man of no small rapport. So I fled the scene.”

  “Yet here you are,” said Ashtadukht.

  “I’m a whore, not a politician. I’m not heartless. I won’t idle while someone takes the blame for my wrongdoing.”

  Ashtadukht sighed, and didn’t bother thanking the woman before leaving. It wasn’t that she particularly agreed with the disdain for whores, but she wasn’t fond of being toyed with.

  Mehr-farr caught up with her just as she returned to the ayvan. “Apologies for her lewdness, dear. She has never spoke so crassly with me.”

  Ashtadukht was strolling along a hall adjacent and open to the great three-sided courtyard with its vaulted half-ceiling and meticulously pruned pomegranate trees. From there, she watched the fruits bob on their branches as an energetic evening breeze spilled through.

  “What’ll become of her?” asked Ashtadukht. “Even if she isn’t a murderer, she’s admitted to being a whore.”

  “I will be lenient in observance of our creed. She is one of the blind and the deaf.”

  “Convenient that she happens to follow another religion.”

  “Oh, I have already looked into it, and the evidence corroborates her claim.”

  “She doesn’t seem very repentant.”

  “If she converts the rest will come naturally, dear. Why are you so interested?”

  “I’m not. It just strikes me as odd that she came forward at all.”

  “Well, let me handle that,” said Mehr-farr. “I am a good judge of character. That aside, do you have any insights to share?”

  Ashtadukht absently fingered the cuff of her sleeve. The wind had taken its gamboling elsewhere; the pomegranates had fallen still.

  “I wish I could say you haven’t delayed this case for no reason, but it seems to me they’re all victims of circumstance. And this div strikes so far and wide that it’s likely half way to Hrom by now.”

  Mehr-farr gave her shoulder what he thought was a mollifying pat. “Come now, dear. I would scarcely say the adjourning was without reason. Your path is admirable; that is reason enough. If I must delay justice for the prospect of greater justice, so be it. Justice will still be served eventually.”

  He paused and mulled over something that was decidedly more difficult to discuss, as was evidenced by the preparatory clearing of his throat. “Your father misses you. He has somewhat obtusely asked m
e to convince you to stay for Mehrgan.”

  “Somewhat obtusely?”

  “You know how he is. Too much love in his heart for a warrior to reconcile with his pride. He cares profoundly for you, and you know it. It would do him well to hear you have taken a holiday—even abroad.”

  Ashtadukht couldn’t in good conscience argue: she considered herself lucky to have such a supportive father. As a child, he spoiled her in his passive manner of looking the other way during her escapades. As an adult, he hadn’t opposed her decision travel alone as a star-reckoner—until recently, anyway. He hadn’t forced her to remarry when her husband died young. He even let her keep the estate that would have been theirs.

  But how she hated holidays. They drained her and made her itch. All those people clamouring to get nowhere. And the obligation to participate in the nowhere clamouring. She was fine with days off; just not holidays off.

  “I insist,” Mehr-farr pressed.

  She sighed.

  • • • • •

  Ashtadukht awoke a few mornings later to what would have, under normal circumstances, been harrowing. She wasn’t sure what abnormal circumstances were at play, but she didn’t feel all that alarmed.

  This struck her as odd chiefly because Waray was hovering over her, gaze like a pair of cherries that were bloodthirsty yet uncertain about it, while tapping a knife on the scales at her temple, which were revealed to be speckled with an almost imperceptible gold now that the tip of the blade had drawn Ashtadukht’s attention to them.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked.

  “Thinking about killing you.” Waray knotted her brow and crooked her neck. “I think.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. So I’m thinking about it.”

  “May I sit while you do your pondering?”

  Waray seemed to give it serious consideration before bobbing her head, which made her unwavering eye contact all the more weird.

  “You’ve a new tunic,” said Ashtadukht, noticing that this one was less ill-fitting and an almost but not quite garish royal blue–as though she were intentionally pushing that boundary. She noted the bird-like pattern, too. “A Senmurw motif, huh.”

  “It’s all so higgledy-piggledy,” complained Waray, still trained on Ashtadukht. “Can only want to kill you out of the corner of my eye.” She turned her head away so that she was looking sidelong. “Something like it.”

  “We’ve been searching for you,” said Ashtadukht. “Where have you been?”

  A heartbeat later, Waray pounced. “Listen!” she hissed, pressing the dagger to her own throat.

  Ashtadukht, whose waist was uncomfortably straddled by the half-div, was bothered more than anything by the stink of old eggs that Waray’s heavy breathing exuded an inch above her nose. But she said nothing—not out of fear for herself but for the woman whose blade threatened her own life. She listened.

  She listened to the quickened huffing, to the breaking whines, but not a word was formed.

  They remained like that for the better part of an hour until, bit by bit, Waray’s composure—or whatever it was that kept her seams from unravelling—reeled her in. She began to erratically break eye contact. The unsure bloodthirstiness became even more conflicted then relinquished its hold to a sad sort of embarrassment. Waray shrunk away and stood bedside, dagger hand timidly grasping the other arm.

  Ashtadukht sat up again, and this time she spotted the dozens of bird nests that littered the floor, all arranged in threes. “I see you’ve been busy.”

  Waray cocked her head to one side and looked away. “Bought a new tunic.” She scratched her arm. “Stole a new tunic.”

  “It suits you.” And it did, even if a second glance told Ashtadukht it was a bit on the small side. “Why’re all these nests here?”

  Waray scratched in earnest now. She swept her gaze over the collection of nests like it was a field of corpses, ended it with a swallow, and looked up helplessly at Ashtadukht—like someone who had long ago figured winning was impossible.

  “So many šo-scrumptious eggs.” She dropped the dagger and irritably ran her nails over her scalp. “Snatched them all.”

  Ashtadukht surveyed the nests in an effort to avoid eye contact. She’d had enough of that for one day. There were many shapes and sizes. A few were large enough that she doubted they were taken from within the city. The half-div was obviously troubled by something, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details.

  The quiet gloom was disturbed by a fulmination of clucking and cursing in the adjacent room. Waray broke into a great, overlarge grin and shuffled aside as Ashtadukht rushed to investigate.

  She discovered Tirdad half on his back, wrestling with the chicken whose claw was tied to his little toe.

  “Get this thing off me,” he grumbled while fighting to keep the fowl from fleeing.

  Ashtadukht retrieved his sword and cut the yarn that secured the chicken to his foot, which freed it to escape into her room.

  Tirdad lay flat on his back and heaved a sigh. “Returned, has she?”

  “I warned you not to drink too much last night,” said Ashtadukht with an apologetic smile.

  “I always drink in moderation. That one is just too sneaky.”

  “Are you telling me you allowed a div to infiltrate my room? You’re meant to be protecting me, you know.”

  “She is a half-div,” grunted Tirdad. He directed his attention to the figure that had crept into the edge of his vision. Waray had her brows raised and an uneven grin plastered on her face, while bouncing uneasily on her heels. “Waray,” he said.

  “. . .”

  Tirdad stood and drew himself to his full height, easily towering over the half-div as he stalked over, arms akimbo. For her part, she didn’t flinch. Ashtadukht only watched; she had his sword, anyway.

  “You left me with a dead horse,” said Tirdad, stopping just short of bowling her over.

  Waray craned her neck, but continued staring at his abdomen. “It was an accident.”

  “Which, the horse or the running off?”

  “Both? . . . Both.”

  “You do not seem to have convinced yourself.”

  Waray looked past him. “Couldn’t involve you. You’re just a little goat.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “A šo-slow goat.”

  “What?”

  “Merry Mehrgan.”

  Tirdad expelled an exasperated sigh and shook his head. “You as well. Although I am surprised you celebrate at all.”

  Waray shrugged. “There’s free food.”

  • • • • •

  Ashtadukht, Tirdad, and Waray (who had reluctantly donned her veil), set out to experience the festival.

  The shining sun hung low at its equinox. Fields had been prepared for simultaneous polo games, and were now brimming with friendly yet stiff competition. Elsewhere, onlookers hooted and hollered while wrestlers vied for victory. The air was thick with a thousand aromas, all of them mouthwatering. And the many sounds of revelry reached far beyond the city’s walls.

  Ashtadukht ate sparingly. She wasn’t at her best; quite the opposite, actually. But she did her utmost not to show it. Waray took a bite of everything they passed—presently a handful of almond pastry sweetmeat slathered in blood orange jam—and was already sufficiently bloated. Tirdad had enjoyed a sensibly-sized serving of lamb rubbed with sour and bitter gruel. He was slowly nursing a Harev wine when someone caught Ashtadukht by the arm.

  “It seems we cannot help but bump into one another,” said Mehr-farr. “I am glad you kept your word, dear. Your father will be delighted to hear it.”

  Ashtadukht carved a smile into her cheeks and about-faced. “Merry Mehrgan, Supreme Judge,” she said, adding the title in the hope that Tirdad would take the hint to get Waray out of there.

  Mehr-farr inclined his head. “Blessings to you all.” He turned to Tirdad and extended his hand. “I do not think we have met, but from the looks of it, you are the guardian her father ha
s told me about. It is a noble thing you have done, volunteering to escort this woman. Commendable.”

  Tirdad gave his hand a firm shake. “You are too kind. A family must support one another in all things.”

  “All things indeed,” said Mehr-farr, nodding his approval. “A good creed, and one that more should live by.”

  “Well, we shouldn’t keep you,” interjected Ashtadukht as he turned to address Waray, whose tightly clenched fists oozed sweetmeat.

  “Oh, and who is this? A friend of yours?”

  Stiff as old leather, Waray droned loudly and awkwardly: “HA—HAHA—THOSE—DIVS—HAHA—WHAT’RE—THEY—GOOD—FOR—HA—HAHA—NOTHING—KILL—THEM—ALL.”

  Ashtadukht gaped at the half-div.

  Fortunately, Mehr-farr was amused by the display, as evidenced by his unreserved guffaw. “Oh, dear,” he said as he brought his laughter under control. “You shared stories of our time together as star-reckoners with your friend here? I am truly honoured.”

  Ashtadukht moved over to grab Waray. “She’s had too much to drink. I warned her.” She turned a stern stare on the half-div. “I warned you. I should really get her back to our place to rest some of this off.”

  “Of course,” said Mehr-farr. “Leave it to you young ones to be overzealous with the alcohol. I did not catch her name, though.”

  “HA—WARAY—OF—THE—DIV-DEFYING—SPOON—HAHA.”

  Mehr-farr pensively eyed her veil. “Waray? It sounds familiar. Have we met?”

  “Why don’t you and my cousin watch a polo match? He deserves a break. We really should get going,” said Ashtadukht as she hurried Waray off.

  Tirdad opened his mouth to object, but they were already gone.

  “She is a handful,” said Mehr-farr, grinning from his place of nostalgia.

  “You can say that again.” Tirdad took a gulp of wine. He supposed it would be refreshing to have some time to himself. “Polo, then?”

  • • • • •

  “What was that exactly?” asked Ashtadukht now that they were safely back at her place. She was pacing back and forth and wringing her hands. “You’re lucky. More than lucky. I warned you about him, didn’t I? I told you to let me handle it if it came to it.”