Pallias stood, her scarlet sari swirling gracefully around her. “Give me the pomegranate, and I shall give you martial glory and wisdom.”
Across Gard’s imagination marched a procession of shadow-shapes, not unlike the images he had seen moving in Jofar’s shield. Vijay, armored and helmeted, at the head of the armies of Ferangipur. Menelik impaled like a tiger upon his spear. Tarek groveling at his feet. Vijay with an amiable gesture disposing of Tarek fairly and wisely—although it would take a divine miracle indeed to find a way to do that. The vision vanished.
Vijay’s clear brow furrowed slightly. “It is Rajinder who has need of wisdom,” Gard hissed. “Wisdom is a terrible burden when you want only to enjoy yourself. And martial glory can be very messy.”
Vijay’s mouth crimped in a smile. He whispered, “It is only a game. How can any of these lovelies give me more than their own persons?”
“That is hardly likely.”
The smile tightened into a virtuous sigh. “But we should let them enjoy their flirtation. Vaiswanara knows that Apsuri women have little chance at such amusement.”
Gard visualized Vaiswanara watching with an indulgent smirk the pranks of these minor feminine deities.
Pouting prettily, Pallias sat down. Ranithra stood and smoothed the glimmering green and blue brocade of her garment. “Give me the pomegranate,” she crooned, “and you shall have power and wealth.”
The air before Gard’s face glinted with swooping flights of diamond brooches and pearl necklaces, ruby eardrops and coffers dripping gold solidi. Servants bowed and scraped. Armies saluted. “Well,” he began.
Vijay’s shrug cut him off. “But as a prince of Ferangipur I already have power and wealth,” he said, not unkindly.
Ranithra sagged back onto her stool, mouth downturned. Kyphasia stood. Her sari glistened with every shade of Rexian purple. The dragonet’s eyes reflected violet. Vijay was rather more impressed by the goddess’s slow intake of breath. “Award me the prize,” she murmured, “and you shall have the most beautiful woman in the world. Who looks just like me.”
The butterflies whirled past, trailing chimes behind them. In their wake stood a shape, the suggestion of a woman. Her silk-draped curves were poetry in fleshly form; her features repeated the harmonies of the heavens. One willowy hand lifted in greeting. Her luxuriant lips parted on a promise.
She was gone. Gard blinked. Vijay exhaled a shaky breath, his eyes slightly crossed. “The most beautiful woman in the world,” he repeated hoarsely. Oh, he had seen that vision, all right, if only in his own imagination.
Kyphasia, scenting victory, smiled.
“And what,” Gard asked, “is her name? Where is she to be found?” He said to himself: If I remind Vijay that it is only a game, he will hit me. The dragonet’s tail whisked back and forth, playing chords upon his spine.
“Why,” sang Kyphasia, “she is Yasmine of Muktardagh.”
The wife of Shikar. Probably locked in a tower surrounded by harpies, at the least.
Vijay focused abruptly, dazzlement struggling with disappointment in his face. “You are a most diverting trio,” he finally managed to say.
“Choose,” said Ranithra between her teeth. She glanced at Pallias. Pallias’s eyes were sparkling jet between her lashes. Kyphasia smiled complacently at Vijay, moistening her lips. Her fingertip toyed with the pomegranate.
“I like your bribe the best,” said Vijay with a grin and a low sweeping bow to the blond goddess. “The pomegranate is yours.”
“My thanks, Nazib,” Kyphasia breathed. She lifted the golden artifact and hugged it to her bosom. “You shall have your reward.”
“Yes, of course, my dear,” said Vijay. “Perhaps you have food you would like to share this evening, or . . .”
Ranithra’s eyes flashed. Pallias made a quick slashing gesture with her hand. Kyphasia turned, clutching her prize, laughing.
The rich scent of incense went rancid. The world shivered, light failed, darkness pounced. The ground whisked away from Gard’s feet. He fell, gasping for breath, the dragonet jammed into his windpipe. Shards of turquoise flew in a cold draft by his face. Red and white petals showered down upon him, each stinging him as it struck. Rough stone smashed into him. He would lie there, stoned with flower petals and butterflies and pomegranates, consumed by strong magic until he was as boneless as a slug writhing before the sturdy sandaled feet of—of Deva . . .
He called her name. His voice was only a squeak. But the pentacle hissed like tinder igniting. The dragonet gurgled something incoherent, stood up, brushed itself off. Vijay was looking quizzically at him, one firm hand holding his elbow. “Are you well?”
Gard stood on the slope above the riverbank, just at the edge of the impenetrable shadow of the line of trees. Below him lay the Mohan, rippling slowly like watered silk under a smeared, ambivalent moon. The encampment was brightened by two campfires, one for the Apsuri escort, the other for the Ferangi retainers. The nauseating odors of bread and meat coiled up a breeze that if not cool was at least relatively fresh, masking the reek of the river.
“Yes,” Gard said, clearing his throat. “I am quite well. Why?”
Vijay started down the embankment, grumbling, “Typical female game, to whet our appetites and then throw us out, unsatisfied.”
“Tell me about it,” Gard wheezed. He wondered if his own eyes were as glazed as the dragonet’s.
“But the teasing was not frustrating enough for you to faint.”
Teasing, did he say? Or testing? “I did not faint,” said Gard. “I slipped on the mud, that is all.” He followed, walking with the exaggerated dignity of a drunk.
“Quite,” said Vijay considerately.
Gard stole a look back over his shoulder. Unfathomable darkness. No mountains, no rocks, no light reflecting from a hidden grotto. No music. Perhaps the faintest, slightest echo of Kyphasia’s laughter. He grimaced. Another hangover, magic unconsummated, significances dangling like hanged men. No old tale of sorcery ever told of the annoyances of power.
“The men of Apsurakand have strange customs,” mused Vijay, “to send their wives out alone at night dressed in such poor clothing. Did you see—rough cotton and cheap mud beads.”
Gard inhaled to speak, changed his mind, exhaled through pursed lips.
The tiger skin was staked out like a tortured prisoner on the mud, its colors muted by darkness. Flies buzzed over it. The pentacle buzzed on Gard’s breast. The dragonet sat heavily in his stomach, arms crossed, face downcast, paw tapping restlessly.
“Ho!” Vijay shouted. “Wine and food, quickly!” Servants flocked forward. He threw himself down, a servant whisking a stool under his descending posterior. Another offered an obeisance and a goblet. Vijay acknowledged the one with a nod, snatched the other and drank thirstily.
A shame, Gard thought, that my appetite is completely gone.
“A shame,” sighed Vijay, “that Yasmine belongs to Shikar. If she does look like that Apsuri woman, it is a terrible waste of beauty.”
Gard looked up at the prince from under his brows. Agreed. So?
Vijay swirled the wine in his cup. “Gard, do you know what I have always wanted?”
“What, Nazib?” Gard parroted obediently.
“To have a supernatural experience like the heroes of old tales.”
To have a . . . Moaning, Gard sank his head into his hands. His belly shivered as the dragonet repeated his gesture. What, he wondered, was the penalty for dunking a Ferangi prince in the Mohan?
Vijay stared out over the water, his handsome features pensively taut.
Chapter Fourteen
Gard clutched the howdah with one hand and waved with the other. Not that the people of Apsurakand were cheering for him, but he earned some legitimacy by sitting beside Vijay, and could at least bask in reflected glory.
The cavalry thundered beneath the huge gates of the citadel, sending beggars scurrying for cover. The elephant, eyes rolling amid freshly applied paint, lum
bered behind. The Apsuri gathered along the avenue inside cheered, probably more for the splendor of the procession than for the Ferangi visitor. Gard saw several helmeted officers moving through the crowd, handing out paise; the people and their zeal melted away after he passed.
“What do you think?” Vijay asked, his turban bobbing like a tulip in a breeze.
“What? Oh-ah—oddly enough, Apsurakand reminds me of Iksandarun. Rather the worse for wear after the Khazyari invasions.” The street down which they advanced was lined with decent brick and stone buildings, but behind them, glimpsed down alleyways, were shacks built precariously upon rubble.
“The Khazyari sacked Apsurakand forty years ago,” Vijay said. “It just shows you how incompetent the Apsuri are, that they have not yet rebuilt.”
“Rebuilding takes wealth,” murmured Gard. But Vijay did not hear him; he was waving to a pretty girl.
The elephant plodded toward a battlemented building painted in garish colors. A group of officials saluted the approaching visitors and turned to a prisoner lying prostrate before an elephant. Just as the Ferangi beast slowed and stopped, the Apsuri elephant responded to its mahout’s command by raising a mighty foot and casually stepping upon its victim’s head.
Vijay winced. Gard gulped and his daemon groaned. How amusing for Menelik, to remind us of his power.
They were surrounded by horned helmets and spears, and marched not unlike condemned prisoners themselves into the palace. Gard’s wary glances revealed serviceable flagstone floors, whitewashed walls, a monogrammed banner or two. Tall wooden doors creaked open to reveal a columned chamber with brightly frescoed walls and an open hearth in the center. Several young warriors held bits of spitted meat over the fire; in the eddying smoke they looked like demons around a pyre. The scent of burning flesh filled the air.
Vijay was whisked away down the room, to bow courteously before the stone throne of Apsurakand.
So that burly form was Menelik, the self-styled Padishah, leader of the Alliance, perpetrator of the Last Rites of the Innocents. The man sat poised on the edge of his khaddi, hand grasping the hilt of his dagger, with the smug assurance of a gladiator facing a pair of rabbits. What a contrast with feeble Jamshid, with urbane Rajinder, with winsome Vijay. Gard skidded to a stop at Vijay’s heels and echoed his bow.
“Welcome,” said Menelik. “I am pleased that my dear friend Jamshid has sent his son to visit Apsurakand.”
Vijay murmured something appropriate in response to the words. Gard considered the tone. Menelik delivered the banality as if he spat vinegary wine between his lips. Wherever his lips were. The man’s beard curled luxuriantly over the lower half of his face, its upper corners barely contained by the rim of his starched white turban.
Several warriors rose from their perches on the hearth and sauntered to Menelik’s side. Gard shrank—they were huge, as tall as Andrion, almost as broad as Jofar. Menelik’s personal guard, no doubt, choreographed to impress. But there was no prickling of his neck; Tarek was not here. That was, somehow, disappointing.
Vijay stood unconcernedly returning Menelik’s scrutiny. Bravado? Or was Vijay, as usual, merely oblivious to the currents beneath the surface? The shah placed his massive, bejeweled hands on the arms of his throne and stood. The deep voice boomed another formality. Gard was more interested in the man’s eyes, smoldering as smokily as his hearth-fire. In his flat nose, nostrils flared. In his high brow, unfurrowed by doubt. The dragonet peered through slitted gray eyes; no, Menelik had no aura, not the least ripple of amber or crimson. His power was, if considerable, temporal.
And there was the boy, the man, Jofar, striding forward to Menelik’s right hand, his face made even more unwieldy by a grin, the amazing shield shining on his arm. Gard could see himself reflected in it, a thin, ineffectual form trussed in gold. He tensed—here it comes . . .
“Gard!” exclaimed the young warrior. And, babbling excitedly to the Shah, “It is he, Father. The wizard who did so many wonderful things in Ferangipur. He trained at Dhan Bagrat, like me.”
Skewered by dozens of eyes, Gard felt his face spread into an idiot’s meaningless smile, his cheeks flame the same color as his beard. Surely he would melt under that scrutiny, become a little puddle of grease, run down between the flagstones and drip into the dungeons beneath, gratifying the starving prisoners . . . The dragonet grinned inanely and bobbed up and down.
“Indeed,” thundered Menelik. “I would like to see some of your tricks, Imparluzi wizard. At the banquet tonight?”
So this is what it is like to have a reputation, thought Gard. No wonder Andrion goes about growling at people who want to see him draw his sword and strike a pose. He bowed. “Certainly, Nazib-ji.”
Jofar beamed on him. The man was, incredibly, even larger than his comrades who surrounded him, his great frame impacted in armor. Yes, he was of Menelik’s blood. And yet the Shah’s high brow and smoky eyes hinted at intellectual processes burning within, while Jofar’s rudimentary features were as guilelessly one-dimensional as a child’s labored drawing.
Vijay poked Gard in the ribs. Faces bloomed and faded before his eyes. Hallways undulated. A bedchamber for Vijay, no more sumptuous than the room at the inn in Chandrigore, and a minute dressing room with a cot for Gard. Barred windows. Were they trying to keep robbers out or servants in?
More hallways, a glimpse of sunlight, a portico. And, thankfully, a bathhouse. Gard sprawled like a corpse on a slab of marble while servants massaged his shoulders, plucking each tendon like a harp-string so that his bones jangled discords. The dragonet panted, tongue lolling.
Vijay rose from his slab and lowered himself into a steaming pool of water. Other men lounged nearby, their bodies distorted by the warm mist rising from the pool, under orders, no doubt, to report back to Menelik whatever Vijay said in this unguarded moment.
The young prince released his hair from the pins that held it. The long sable locks flowed down over his shoulders, enveloping his face in shadow. Gard slipped into the water beside him. “Ah,” said Vijay, loudly for the benefit of the averted faces nearby, “I am glad to see the Apsuri are marginally civilized.”
“Mmm,” said Gard. He peered upward; steam rising from the water writhed in beams of sunlight admitted through oblongs pierced in the roof. Shapes danced in the mist, women’s blond and sinuous forms. In the hot water the sickle-shaped scar on his arm ached like a cracked tooth.
An attendant doused him with water and he sputtered. Tentatively he tasted a droplet clinging to his beard. “Fresh water,” he murmured to Vijay. “Not brackish cistern water. They have wells within the city, or some kind of conduit from a spring outside. They could withstand a siege.”
“That is the sort of comment Raj would make.” The prince was more interested in the wavering rays of light. Surely he did not see those beckoning feminine wraiths. But when curls of steam bent and caressed his face he smiled. The gods, Gard thought irascibly, teased their prey even here.
“I dreamed of Yasmine last night,” confided Vijay.
“But you have never even met her!” Gard protested in an undertone.
“I feel as if I have.”
“There are plenty of women in the world.”
“The lady in the glade,” Vijay said with unassailable logic, “told me that I was to have Yasmine.”
“It was only a game,” asserted Gard. A bit too loudly; ears pricked across the pool.
“Was it?” Vijay smoothed his hair away from his face. “Gard, would you know an omen if you saw one?”
The dragonet whooped. Gard spat an epithet. He lifted a floating dipper and threw its load of water into Vijay’s face.
The prince grinned, abandoning his reverie. His hand grasped Gard’s ankle and jerked. Gard’s head plunged into the sudden echoing silence of the pool. Yasmine, sighed the dragonet mockingly. Yasmine . . .
Gard surged up again to see the Apsuri men flocking forward with gales of laughter. Good! A water fight was always fun, and more wor
thwhile than omen-mongering, jangling bones, and panting daemons.
* * * * *
A slightly puckered Gard stood outside the gate of Menelik’s palace, his thumbs hooked in his sash, his head cocked to the side, eyeing the maidan. Vendors, beggars, drilling soldiers. Lots of drilling soldiers. No more executions, thankfully. The dragonet lay propped upon its paws, gazing about with an annoying perkiness.
Vijay and Menelik were in a conference from which Gard had been excluded. Good, he had not been enthused at the thought of spending several hours stupefied by a discussion of trade routes and sailing rights, tariffs and customs. He started up the maidan toward the building looming at its end, buying a pomegranate from a vendor and slurping on the cool seeds as he strolled. A real pomegranate, much more useful than that gold one the goddesses had coveted. Although the point of the argument had been power, not pomegranates. Using poor innocent Vijay as a pawn. Had the gods no pride at all? He threw the empty husk over his shoulder.
The temple of Hurmazi blocked the sky before him, as massive as the ziggurat of Harus in Sardis. A doorway linteled with an immense block of limestone led into a dark, noisome crypt—the symbolic prison of Raman.
Hurmazi must be a forthright, foursquare god, brooking no nonsense. Even the friezes of his wives showed them working at insignificant domestic tasks, unadorned by painted jewels or silk. Behind their husband’s humorless back their stony eyelids seemed to wink at Gard as he passed.
The people around him clotted and parted. An elegantly turbaned figure strode into an alley not far away. The pentacle chimed an interrogatory. Gard’s skin prickled as if stung by a nettle. The dragonet rose to its feet, tail upraised. Aha! Tarek was slinking about Apsurakand after all, up to—well, not necessarily no good, but certainly up to something.
If I cannot avoid the man, Gard thought, then he cannot avoid me. He mashed his turban more firmly onto his head. He darted across the maidan, evading donkeys, children and beggars, and followed.
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