by J. S. Bangs
A hand grabbed her around the throat. A soldier hurled her to the ground and pinned her chest beneath his knee.
“You—” the Red Man said. He began to squeeze her throat.
She couldn’t breathe. Her vision filled with the furious face of the imperial guard, the tops of the gate towers glowering over his head. Her vision began to swim.
The ground shook again, a long, violent quake. Fear appeared on the face of the Red Man who held her. The world seemed to tilt around her. The gate towers seemed to rock—no, they did rock, swaying with the shaking of the Ditya. The upper stories of the tower tilted. The stones shifted. Men screamed.
And with a grinding shudder the first of the gate towers fell. Stones shattered and dropped. An eruption of red sandstone dust leaped into the air. The second tower stood for a moment longer, wrapped in a mournful cloak of red dust and black smoke, then it too trembled and collapsed.
The man let go of Vapathi’s throat. She gasped air.
Shouting and screaming all around. Orders echoed: The Devoured, the Devoured! Men leaped over her carrying spears and swords. No one paid her attention now, a lone woman sprawled on the ground without a weapon. She rolled onto her stomach and crawled forward, away from the shouting, toward the far wall of the courtyard. Dust and grit under her hands. Bits of broken stone cut her palms.
The wall. She had reached the edge. She leaned against the wall and curled her knees against her chest, trying to breathe. Her neck was bruised. Every breath hurt. She put a hand against her throat and cleared the dust and tears from her eyes.
The courtyard of the Dhigvaditya was filled with the Red Men, rushing past her toward the ruins of the Bronze Gate. Between their bodies she caught glimpses of the fallen towers: twin scars of rubble over the stone bridge, shattered sandstone blocks crushing mangled bronze and broken bodies. The bridge which approached the gate was barely visible in the clouds of red dust and black vapor. But clambering over the ruins of the towers and the blood-eaten gate came the Devoured.
A little laugh formed in her chest. Kirshta and the Devoured would take care of the Red Men. There was only one more thing she wanted.
The dungeon.
She knew the way. Kirshta had been held there, and she remembered the entrance beneath the north wall of the Dhigvaditya. Red Men rushed past her, ignoring her. She looked like a slave woman serving the Dhigvaditya now. No one paid her any attention.
Two Red Men waited at the entrance to the dungeon, holding their positions nervously while the sounds of battle, screaming, and tumbling stonework sounded outside. They stood straight as she entered.
“What are you doing here?” one of them asked. “There shouldn’t be any women in this part of the Dhigvaditya.”
“I’m coming to get the Emperor’s prisoner,” she purred. “Apurta.”
A nervous glance between them. “Did the Emperor send you?”
For a moment she thought of lying. But a spark of rebellion lit in her chest. She had no more need to dissemble. She straightened and folded her hands together, and looked the men in the eye. “No. But you’ll give him to me.”
The men grimaced. “Get out of here.” One of them came forward and grabbed her by the wrist.
She pushed back. “You don’t give me orders.”
“Come on, slave girl,” the man said. “Can’t you hear there’s a battle outside?”
“I know. I started it.”
The man paused. A cloud of fear appeared in his eyes. An inaudible whisper sounded from his partner. “Who are you?” the man asked.
She smiled at them. An aftershock shook the walls, sending red dust raining down on their heads. The man glanced at each other in alarm.
“Do you really want to know who I am?” Vapathi said. “Or is the shaking of your fortress answer enough?”
“Get away,” the man said. “Demon, witch—leave us.”
She pushed the man’s chest, and he stepped back. She spoke in a throaty whisper. “I am the sister of the Mouth of the Devourer. I am the woman who broke the walls of the Dhigvaditya. I am the Queen of Slaves, the vanguard of the Devoured. Now open this door and bring me my lover.”
The room was silent. The screams of battle reached through the door.
One of them reached to the vest over his kurta and withdrew a ring of copper keys. “Take these,” he whispered. “Please.”
He tossed them to her. She caught the ring with one hand. “Good enough. No go and surrender to the Mouth of the Devourer, and you may escape with your lives.”
She stepped aside. They ran out the door, heads down.
The keys began shaking in her hands the moment the men left. Vapathi collapsed against the wall and breathed heavily, clutching the ring of keys to her chest, letting the thunder of her heart subside.
Apurta waited. She crawled forward, unlocked the trap door with the third key that she tried. She scampered down the stairs. Darkness and gloom in the dungeon. She grabbed the lamp waiting in a niche in the walls and raised it above her head. Her eyes couldn’t make out anything in the gloom at first, then gradually the outlines of fallen mortar and stonework appeared. A horrible thought occurred to her: what if his cell had collapsed in the earthquake?
The only way to find out was to go forward.
Only pieces of the ceiling had collapsed, casting stones everywhere across the orange tunnel. She clambered over them and advanced deeper into the darkness.
“Apurta!” she cried. “Are you here?”
No answer. She crawled over a portion of collapsed ceiling and pressed deeper into the dungeon. The lamp showed only empty cells and open shackles around her. Perhaps the Red Men had misled her, and Apurta wasn’t here at all.
“Apurta!” she cried again. “Answer me!”
And she heard a moan.
She ran forward, leaped over a few fallen stones, and came to a barred niche in the wall. And she saw him: chained to the ground, shackles on his wrists and legs. His lips were dry and cracked, and old blood had dried on his face. When Vapathi’s light fell on him he raised his head, and his tongue flicked out between his lips.
“Vapathi,” he croaked.
“Just a moment, love,” she said. Not this key, not that—here, this one popped the shackles on his wrists open, and the next one freed his feet. She put her hands on his face and kissed his cheeks.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Then let me help you.” She slung one of his arms over hers and heaved him to his feet, and they stumbled forward. Damn, but he was heavy. She half-dragged him to the first spot of fallen stone, then laid him on his back with his head resting on a piece of a crumbling pillar. There was no way she could pull him over the collapsed wall.
“Stay here,” she said. Not that it looked like he was going anywhere.
She left the lantern burning next to him, scrambled over the stone, and ran back to the stairs. Up to the air. The light burned her eyes. She shaded them, squinted, and headed into the sunlight.
At first all she saw were bright shapes and scarlet stripes. Gradually the bodies of fallen Red Men and rushing Devoured grew clear. Those that still walked were Kirshta’s, peasants bearing sickles and farm knives, rushing forward through the Dhigvaditya toward the passages that led to the Horned Gate. They were victorious.
She stepped in front of the first two Devoured she found. They recognized her and shouted, “Hail Queen of Slaves!”
“I need your help,” she said. “Apurta needs to be brought up, and he needs a nurse.”
The Devoured approached. “Apurta?” one of them asked. “He lives? I’ll tell the Mouth of the Devourer.”
Word rippled through the ranks of the Devoured and the defecting Red Men. The first two Devoured followed Vapathi into the dungeon, down the stairs, and into the darkness beyond. The light of Vapathi’s lamp burned ahead of them.
The men found Apurta’s shoulders and feet and dragged him out thrice as easily as Vapathi could
have. A few minutes later they emerged into the light.
Kirshta was waiting when they returned to the surface. The Devoured laid Apurta out on a mat in the guard room. In the sun his state was even more piteous: bruised all over his face and arms, blood running from cuts on his forehead, shoulders, and fingers, grime caked along his flesh. His breathing was heavy and ragged. Kirshta knelt beside him.
“Apurta,” he whispered.
Apurta turned his head. He wet his lips. “I see you found me.”
“We’re here,” Kirshta said. “This time it’s my turn to rescue you in the Dhigvaditya.”
A cough sounded from Apurta’s throat, which might have been a laugh. “Now we’re even.”
“Bring him some water,” Kirshta commanded. “And find one of the medics of the Red Men.”
He rose from his crouch and looked down at Apurta with pity. “Alas, my friend, I can’t stay with you right now. There is someone I need to see, and I’d like to bring my sister with me. Can you wait for us a few hours?”
Apurta nodded. “Not going anywhere.”
“We’ll be back.” He turned to Vapathi and took her hand.
“You did all that I had hoped,” he said, his eyes shining with pride. This was the first time since descending from the mountain that he seemed to be entirely without pain. “I think it’s time the Emperor met the Queen and her brother. Will you come with me?”
Vapathi pulled Kirshta close and kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s go.”
Daladham
Daladham felt it first as a quiver in the surface of the water. The dried leaves of the orange trees moved in the still pool as if touched by a breath of unfelt wind. He looked up and saw others in the orange garden going about their business: khadir and dhorsha, servants and Red Men crowded into the garden to enjoy the few hours of peace in the besieged palace. Games of jaha, quiet conversations, and the rattling of dried leaves. No one else seemed disturbed.
Then the second earthquake came. The ground rattled like the face of a drum, vibrating in Daladham’s bones. Shouts of alarm throughout the garden. They heard the roar of falling stone, once, twice. A pillar of red dust appeared over the top of the garden wall.
For a moment the garden held its breath in silence. Then every person burst into action.
Red Men ran up the stairs toward the Green Hall. The stone of the paths crunched under running feet, and the babble of the Ushpanditya’s noble guests turned suddenly into a roar.
Amabhu grabbed Daladham’s arm. “Caupana is still in the Green Hall.”
“I know,” Daladham said. “Should we try to get him? Sadja-daridarya is in there.”
“Yes,” said Amabhu insistently. He pulled at Daladham’s hand.
The stairs were already busy with people running both directions, Red Men up toward the Emperor and the Ushpanditya, servants and khadir fleeing down. Daladham and Amabhu passed through the pillars of the Green Hall and into the cool, dim interior, raucous with noise.
The Emperor’s voice sounded above the din. Orders to the Red Men, curses at other petitioners. Daladham saw a knot of scarlet and purple moving toward the north exit from the Green Hall, deeper into the Ushpanditya, with Sadja’s voice sounding from the middle.
Caupana appeared from the crowd. “Friends, we need to prepare. The wall of the Dhigvaditya is collapsing. The Devoured will be here soon. We have to get our book.”
Amabhu swore. “Won’t the Red Men handle it?”
Caupana shook his head.
“If the wall is broken,” Daladham said, “then no one will save the Red Men. Let’s go.”
He pulled at Amabhu’s arm. The young thikratta shook himself free of Daladham’s grasp, but followed with Caupana at his side. “Where are we going?”
“The imperial library,” Daladham said. “Where Sadja-daridarya is keeping the book.”
They passed out of the Green Hall and into the graceful, filigreed arches of pink marble that marked the central halls of the Ushpanditya. The hall was quiet, but the mood of panic was even greater here, communicated in whispers and brushes of silk. Khadir commanded their servants with hurried whispers and servants moved with heads down, frantic determination in their eyes.
“Are we going to get all of them?” Amabhu asked, catching up to Daladham. “We brought so many books—”
“The Book of the Powers of Amur. None of the rest of them matter.” Daladham paused for a second. “Well, maybe the lost volume of Audjam.”
“I think we should get all of them.”
“I think we should get out alive.”
“We’ll see,” Caupana said.
They crossed a courtyard paved with white limestone and fell into the shadow of the Emperor’s Tower. They could hear fighting on the other side of the Horned Gate, and they saw Red Men rushing atop the wall which separated the Ushpanditya from the Dhigvaditya. No one guarded the entrance of the tower.
Daladham stopped the moment they had passed through the arched entrance of the tower. Inside it smelled of rose water and oil. Silver images of Am and Ashti rested in niches directly across from the entrance, with artfully arranged offerings of flower petals and scrolls at their feet. Beside them, a painted marble staircase rose into the ceiling. Teguri had told him the library was here—but where?
Caupana touched his elbow. He pointed to a small door tucked beneath the staircase. The door was a small, unlabeled arch with a curtain of black cotton over it, stitched with the image of Jakhur’s moon in silver thread. Daladham crossed the foyer and drew aside the curtain.
They entered a dimly lit room that smelled of oiled wood and dried palm leaves. Yes, this was the place. The wall was honeycombed with niches, each niche carrying a bundle of four or five books in wooden cases. A high table took up the center of the room, with a book spread out upon it. The room continued ahead and turned a corner to the left, and the only light was a dim glow reaching them from windows on the other side.
Amabhu put his finger to his lips. Two people were talking out of sight, somewhere around the corner from where Daladham and the thikratta had entered.
“… an hour or so to work. Might be too slow.”
“You can’t make it any stronger?” This voice was high and soft, with a peculiar quality to it that Daladham couldn’t identify.
“This is all I have.”
A sigh. “Very well,” the soft voice said. “I’ll take it to her. I don’t suppose there’s any left for me?”
“Not unless you want to make hers weaker than it is.”
The soft voice gave a thoughtful murmur. “No, I don’t think that would help either of us much. We’ll see what the Emperor does.”
A shape appeared around the corner, lit from his left in the dim blue light. A small gasp caught in his throat.
“What are you doing here?” the man asked. A eunuch, the man with the soft voice, with head shaved, eyes rimmed with kohl, and lips glistening with paint.
“We’re looking for our book,” Amabhu answered.
“A book?” An ironic laugh sounded from the eunuch. “I suppose this is the library. Go ask the dhorsha. I have to serve the Empress.”
The eunuch pushed past them and parted the curtain to leave. Daladham walked forward and turned the corner to see a woman in a bhildu, lit from behind by a small window glowing with blue sky. A leather bag was open in front of her. A collection of apothecary jars and ritual knives was spread on the table.
“Teguri-dhu,” Daladham said. “You’re here?”
The dhorsha looked at the three of them in surprise. “For now. If the three of you are here, you should stick close to the Emperor. Maybe you’ll get out alive.”
“We’re looking for the book that the thikratta brought.”
Teguri laughed. “You still cling to that? The Powers have left us. Lord Am couldn’t stand against the Mouth of the Devourer, nor could the Power of the Ditya that silently guarded these walls for centuries. I doubt your precious book will tell you anything different.�
��
“We need the book,” Caupana said with heavy certainty. “Tell us where it is.”
“Not here,” Teguri said with a shrug. She finished putting the last of her things into the leather bag. “The Emperor took it up to his apartments. You’ll have to climb the tower.”
“We’ll climb the tower,” Amabhu said. “Where in the Emperor’s apartments?”
“There’s a little study table adjacent to the bedchamber. I left it there the last time he and I discussed it. Now if you’ll allow me,” she said, brushing past Daladham and Amabhu, “I’m going to escape out the Rice Gate before this place turns into a tomb.”
They followed her out. Teguri ran to the exit of the tower without looking back at the others.
“Hurry,” Amabhu whispered to Daladham. “Up the stairs. I don’t want to die any more than Teguri-dhu does.”
They ran up the stairs. Daladham, alas, had no idea where he was going, and they had to look at every floor to find out where the Emperor’s apartments were. The second floor was a kitchen and storeroom, the third floor the Emperor’s private dining room. On the fourth floor they found a filigreed doorway with a heavy, opaque curtain across it, stitched with the images of whales and birds with Ashti enthroned in the center. Daladham reached out to part the curtain, but a moment before he did so the eunuch pulled it open from inside.
“What are you looking for?” the eunuch snapped.
“The Emperor’s apartments,” Daladham said, drawing back fearfully.
“Already looting, eh?” He glanced at Daladham’s simple bhildu and the undecorated clothes of the thikratta with contempt. “These are the rooms of the Empress Basadi-daridarya. Keep going up and leave us alone.” He snapped the curtain shut.
They climbed. When they reached the sixth floor, Daladham felt suddenly foolish for thinking anything else could have been the Emperor’s residence. The stairs opened into a long foyer carpeted in scarlet and lit with lamps shaped like tigers’ heads. The door from the foyer into the Emperor’s apartment was wide enough for three men, hung with heavy curtains embroidered in blue and purple with the fanged, blood-spattered form of Kushma embroidered onto it, the serpent writing beneath the old Power’s feet. Gold-hammered images of Am and Ashti stood on each side of the door.