FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  The first two families dodged their questions about Bodhan. Though Mandir’s eyes darkened at their evasions, Taya was inclined to leave them be rather than threaten them or otherwise try to force the information out of them. Eventually, she hoped, she would find someone willing to talk.

  Now, in the third house on their list, she spoke to the matriarch, who sullenly presented her four children to Taya and Mandir. None were over the age of ten. “Is this your entire family?” asked Taya.

  “And Daradi,” she said. “He’s at the market.”

  “Daradi is your husband?”

  The woman nodded.

  The jackal wasn’t here, then, and neither was the witness. Not that Taya expected to simply stumble upon either of them, but she’d hoped. “I understand you lost control of your land in a court case to Bodhan isu Kasirum. Is that correct?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  Taya swallowed. She hadn’t expected resistance to her questions. “We think the facts of those cases might be related to the recent murders.”

  “We have nothing to do with any jackal,” said the farmer woman. “Go back to your temple, Coalition dog.”

  Mandir leapt forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. “Apologize,” he demanded.

  “Mandir—” began Taya.

  He raised a hand to silence her and spoke again to the farmer woman. “Apologize to my partner.”

  “I am sorry,” choked out the frightened woman.

  Mandir released her. “Tell us about Bodhan and the loans.”

  “It was a bad year, when the Lioness did not flood. We had no crop. We had to borrow money.”

  “Did you not have food in storage?” asked Taya.

  “Not enough,” said the farmer woman. “And our bananas no longer produce well.”

  Probably because they were blighted. She’d look at them later. “So you borrowed money from Bodhan.”

  The farmer woman aimed a frightened glance at Mandir and nodded. “We tried to pay him back but we couldn’t manage it. Now he controls our land and makes us grow cotton every year.”

  It was as she’d guessed—Bodhan wanted farmers to grow the raw materials for his cloth business. “Do you get a good price for it?”

  The farmer woman snorted.

  Taya took that to mean no. “May I see your banana plants?”

  She led them out back to the garden, a small square patch sporting a few melon vines, a date tree, and two banana plants. The banana plants were indeed blighted. Taya didn’t have to look closely; even from a distance she could see the black spots under the leaves and the plants’ thin, undernourished appearance. No fruit grew on either of them. “How long have they been blighted?”

  “Five years,” said the farmer woman. “We would have replaced them, but all our neighbors’ trees are blighted too. Only Zashkalim isu Ikkarum has healthy trees left, and he has so few he cannot spare them. When someone does replace a tree, it blights within the year. You could fix it with your magic. But you won’t.” She spat on the ground.

  In the pregnant pause that followed, Taya waited anxiously for Mandir’s aggressive response. But it did not come. Instead, he said, “She would heal them if she could. But she must obey the law, as must we all.”

  “Yes, we know well this law,” said the farmer woman. “It is the law that says the Coalition gets rich while farmers starve.” She eyed their green and silver clothes. “You help the rich merchants like Bodhan take food from the mouths of the hungry. And when the knives sprout from your backs, nobody will weep for you.”

  “We’re not helping Bodhan,” began Taya angrily.

  “Wait,” said Mandir. “What do you mean? How are we helping him?”

  “You know what you were hired to do,” said the farmer woman.

  As they rode away from the farmers’ district back toward the guesthouses, Taya said, “You shouldn’t have frightened her. We won’t make friends that way.”

  Mandir shrugged. “She wouldn’t have been a friend to us no matter what I did. But there’s something going on here and it has to do with Bodhan. Those farmers looked thin. Too thin.”

  “I noticed,” said Taya.

  “The Valley of the Lioness produces more than enough food for everyone,” he said. “The Mothers never intended that their children should go hungry in a land of plenty.”

  “It’s because of those nasty loans. Farmers don’t like growing cotton.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can’t eat it.”

  Mandir rolled his eyes. “But you can sell it. Farmers aren’t stupid. They understand the concept of trade.”

  “Of course,” said Taya. “But food prices oscillate wildly depending on the river’s antics. Many of these families have a tradition of self-sufficiency going back generations, and they’re loath to give it up. I suspect that Bodhan is the only cotton buyer in town. By forcing so many farmers to grow cotton, he’s flooding the market and acquiring his raw materials at an artificially low price while simultaneously making food scarce. So of course the farmers are going hungry.”

  Mandir frowned. “What did she mean when she said we were helping Bodhan to starve them?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Taya. “She hates the Coalition, so I guess she thinks we’re conspiring against her.”

  “Did you see the jackal anywhere? Or the witness?”

  “No. We’ll have to try again tomorrow evening. We can visit some more families.” She wasn’t wild about the idea, given the hostility she’d already seen toward the Coalition, but she would do it.

  “Not tomorrow,” said Mandir. “We have the party at the magistrate’s.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about that party. As a girl in her farm village, she’d loved parties. Food and wine flowed copiously, people told jokes and stories, and there was often a bonfire. But this was a ruling-class party. She didn’t know the customs. Mandir might feel at home, but she was likely to flounder.

  “We have to attend, you know,” said Mandir.

  “Yes.”

  “It would look bad if we weren’t there,” said Mandir. “And there will be many potential suspects together in one room.”

  Taya sighed. “Maybe if we’re lucky, the jackal will show up.”

  Chapter XXV

  Hrappa

  THE MORNING DAWNED CLEAR AND bright, promising a hot afternoon. Three days and one night after a storm severe enough to flood the Lioness, Taya could see no sign that the dry, dusty streets of Hrappa had ever been graced by rain. Tonight was the party at the magistrate’s house, but they still had the morning available to them. Since Mandir wouldn’t let her go back to the river to scry, she’d decided to investigate Narat’s death another way: by visiting the family of the lover who was supposedly going to meet her at the river the day she died, but who had never showed up.

  The flat brick building in the artisan district looked much like its fellows, but a heady aroma set it apart. The delectable scent of baking bread poured out of its windows. Taya, ravenous despite a substantial breakfast, was drawn to it like a honeybee to a flower.

  They knocked on the wooden door, and a woman in a full-bodied white cotton apron appeared. Her welcoming smile faded as her eyes took in the Coalition green and silver. “Have you come to buy bread?”

  “Yes,” said Taya. “We also need to ask you some questions.”

  The woman looked unhappy but invited them inside. While the house was superficially similar to the others on the street, its construction was different in the rear, where it opened out onto the courtyard. Two large ovens, both actively fired, sat at the back of the house, ventilated by enormous windows. Flatbread loaves lay cooling on racks, some plain, others sprinkled with sesame seeds, and still others filled with raisins, nuts, and chopped dates. A smattering of flour covered a kneading table made of well-seasoned wood.

  Taya’s mouth watered at the sight of the cooling loaves.

  “Which kind would you like?” asked the baker.<
br />
  Taya bought one of the nut- and date-filled ones, and Mandir asked for the same. She broke her loaf in half immediately, and delicious smells wafted out. She closed her eyes and inhaled. “What’s your name?”

  “Vella,” said the baker.

  “Do you live here alone?”

  Vella hesitated before replying. “For the time being.”

  “Did your son Kamber used to live with you?”

  She nodded.

  “And where is he now?” asked Taya.

  Something flashed in Vella’s eyes—a look of pain, or perhaps anger. “Kamber was rebellious. I do not know where he has gone.”

  “He disappeared the same day that Bodhan’s daughter Narat was killed,” said Taya.

  Vella gave a tight, unwilling nod.

  Taya watched her closely, looking for signs that she might be lying or evading the truth. “He was supposed to meet her at the river. But he never showed up.”

  “I told him not to go,” said Vella. “That girl was above his station. He had no hope of marrying her, but he refused to listen.”

  Mandir broke in. “How was she above his station? They’re both artisan caste.”

  “The family is wealthy,” said Vella. “Bodhan hopes to marry his children into the ruling caste.”

  “Do you think Kamber could have been at the river along with Narat and been killed by the jackal’s flood?” asked Taya.

  Vella looked away. “It is possible, but I think unlikely. No body was found.”

  “Or maybe there was no flood,” said Taya. “Maybe he killed her and then fled Hrappa.”

  “He certainly did not,” said Vella, her brow wrinkling in offense.

  Mandir said, “You must have some idea of where he is. You are his mother, after all. What if he gets into trouble? What if he needs you?”

  Vella shook her head. “What is the use of disobedient children? I may be his mother, but Kamber and I were not in harmony.”

  “What was the reason for your disharmony?” asked Taya.

  “His desire to wed Narat.” Vella waved a hand toward the kneading table. “And he was clumsy with the bread.”

  “You do a fine job with it,” Mandir said, gesturing with the heel of his loaf.

  “Thank you,” said Vella. “But I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

  “Why?” asked Mandir casually. “Has someone forbidden you to help?”

  Vella shook her head, her eyes widening just enough to betray a hint of fear. But her voice was calm and controlled when she answered. “I do not know anything.”

  Taya didn’t believe it. There was no way this baker woman did not know the whereabouts of her son. And Taya had a feeling that this woman was far from the only person in Hrappa keeping secrets from the Coalition.

  At Mandir’s insistence, Taya rested again through the heat of the afternoon. When evening arrived, she tried on the stunning multicolored sundress he’d given her. The fit wasn’t perfect—she’d have to take it to a tailor later and have some alternations made—but she loved it so much she wore it anyway.

  Mandir knocked on her door, and she went out to meet him.

  “You look stunning,” he said.

  She cast a skeptical eye at him. Did he really mean that, or was he being sarcastic? Those critical eyes of his noticed every fault. Her headdress was a bit of a mess, probably, but she decided she didn’t care.

  Mandir was in his green silk. She was glad she wasn’t wearing the same, since that would have made them look like a matched pair. If the men at the party thought she and Mandir were together, she might have a hard time finding a Hrappan lover.

  “Goals tonight?” asked Mandir softly.

  “Meet people. Look for the witness and the jackal.” Also, find a Hrappan lover, but that was none of Mandir’s business.

  They set off through the dusty streets. The sun sat big and red on the horizon, shedding a rosy half-light. They were not alone in making the walk to the magistrate’s personal residence. Several well-dressed couples and family groups were moving in the same direction.

  Mandir reached out and took her arm. Her skin shuddered at his unexpected touch, the way Pepper’s did when a fly landed on her shoulder. But the moment of alarm passed, and her thoughts drifted toward more pleasant memories, like Mandir carrying her out of the water, Mandir holding her while he healed her wounds. On the riverbank, he’d been strong and gentle. She’d wanted to nuzzle that muscled chest of his. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? She’d been having the strangest thoughts lately.

  The magistrate’s house was similar to the other houses in Hrappa: rectangular in frame and built of mud brick with a flat, tiled roof. But it was far larger, and its front door was wider. Two terracotta bears, each almost the size of a man, flanked the doorway. Taya and Mandir joined the throng passing between the bears and into the house and were ushered straight through it into the courtyard. Like her own courtyard at home, it was bounded by four walls, but in this case they were not the walls of separate homes. They were all parts of the magistrate’s home.

  She paused inside the courtyard and looked around. What did people do at ruling-caste parties? Some people sat at tables while others stood beneath trees or perched on benches. A little evening sunlight set the garden aglow, but the light wouldn’t last long. Flaming torches had been mounted on poles around the courtyard. When night fell, she imagined the partygoers would crowd around those torches—unless they wanted a little privacy, in which case they might find some dark corner where others’ eyes wouldn’t find them.

  The partygoers were finely dressed. One young woman, surrounded by half a dozen admiring men, wore a dress laced with gold thread. She shimmered in the evening sun like a living jewel.

  You can do this, she told herself. Who cares if they’re ruling caste? They’re people like any others, just with fancier clothes. She had been taught a little caste etiquette at Mohenjo Temple. All she had to do was circulate and be polite and not make a fool out of herself.

  Servants moved about the courtyard, carrying plates of food. One whisked past Taya, bearing a plate of candied dates in one hand and a plate of spiced onager in the other. A second servant walked by carrying a jug of wine. Taya looked around and found ceramic wine goblets lined up in neat rows on a table by the door. She plucked one of them and motioned to the wine bearer. He came over and tipped his jug to fill her goblet.

  “Where to?” asked Mandir in a low voice.

  She considered his question and its implications. Did she want to be tied to Mandir all evening? There would be advantages to having his company. He knew the customs of the ruling caste, and she could follow his example and avoid making a fool of herself. On the other hand, she’d probably be viewed as his adjunct instead of as a separate Coalition representative. And there was no chance at all of her meeting a potential lover if Mandir hovered possessively at her side. “I think we should split up.”

  For a moment he looked hurt. Then his brow furrowed, and he stepped closer. “What if you spot the jackal?”

  “I’ll come and find you. We worked out the hand signals before.”

  “Taya—” he protested, but before he could say anything further, she extracted her arm from his and moved away into the crowd.

  She spotted Wasan the tax collector. Not exactly a friend, but at least he was someone she knew. He stood by one of the torches, in a group with another man and two women. Taya waved to Wasan, and he smiled at her. She joined them.

  “Coalition,” murmured one of the women.

  Apparently Taya was recognized even without her green and silver. The smiles that greeted her were thin, but she ignored that. “My name is Taya, Coalition fire seer. You are...?”

  She exchanged small talk with the group for a while, and moved on to another, and then another. When the sunlight faded and the moon rose, the conversations became easier. Ruling-caste people weren’t as intimidating as she had thought. Mostly they were just stuffy. Many of the men were scribes and burea
ucrats with jobs that were about inspecting things and keeping records. They sounded boring. As she moved from group to group, she searched surreptitiously for the witness or the jackal, but saw neither.

  She was aware of Mandir circulating on the other side of the courtyard. In his green silk, he was impossible not to notice. He stayed apart from her, conversing mostly with the men. Every now and then, she felt his eyes on her back and knew he was taking his job as her protector seriously. He’d been nursing the same wine goblet all evening. Either he didn’t like the wine or he was keeping his wits about him.

  She left one group of people and was seeking another—that couple sitting under the tree looked like they didn’t want company—when someone tapped on her shoulder. She turned and saw the magistrate’s son Kalbi.

  “My father requests your presence at the high table,” he said. “Will you come?”

  She glanced in the direction he was indicating. “Certainly.”

  He led her to a round table in the very center of the courtyard, surrounded by four flaming torches. There the magistrate sat, looking as peaked and ill as the day she’d met him.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked as she took a seat. Kalbi sat beside her.

  “As well as can be expected,” said the magistrate, raising his rheumy eyes to hers. “How proceeds your investigation?”

  Taya glanced around the table at the many strangers seated with them. “Extremely well,” she said, deciding it wouldn’t be a good idea to provide details.

  “Excellent,” said the magistrate. “Will you drink with us?”

  She raised her goblet to indicate that she was already drinking.

  “Oh, not that.” The magistrate hid a smile.

  Mandir slipped into the seat across from her. “He means gold dust.”

  “What’s gold dust?” she asked, wondering why Mandir had suddenly shown up. Had he been invited to the high table as she had been, or was he here because he thought she was in danger? Maybe he was just here because he hated it when other people paid attention to her.

  The magistrate laughed. “What is gold dust? Not to be too obvious about it, but it is dust made from gold.” His laugh turned into a strangled cough, and everyone waited politely for him to regain his composure.