Empire of Bones

by Liz Williams

  “Frankly, no!”

  “Jaya? Ir Yth?”

  Jaya turned to see Sirru standing in the doorway. His golden eyes flickered from face to face, reading the situation.

  “Where have you been?” Jaya snapped. There was a subtle change in the mediator’s demeanor, she noted, a certain languidness of movement. He spoke to Ir Yth with a flick of his fingers and walked slowly past them in the direction of his chamber. Jaya stared after him, resentful and afraid.

  “Sirru. Wait!” He did not look back.

  Adjustment to new developments is always hard, Ir Yth said magnanimously. Perhaps you should rest. I intend to.

  The note of dismissal was very clear. Jaya went numbly to her chamber and lay down on the pallet bed. She had planned to get the aliens out of the city the following night, but what now? Should she tell Rakh to put a bullet in the pair of them? Better yet, assume responsibility and do it herself? But what then? Sirru and Ir Yth were only two people out of an apparently immense empire. Even if she killed them, more would follow…

  Sleep did not come quickly.

  She was awoken by a commotion at the gate. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was not yet midnight. She could hear a voice raised in wrath: Rakh shouting at someone, and a high imperious voice snapping in reply. There was something curiously familiar about the second voice. Jaya ran down the stairs to find Sirru standing in the courtyard, staring bemused at the gatehouse. Jaya headed for the gate.

  “Rakhi? What’s going on?”

  Rakh turned on her, beard bristling.

  “This—this woman demands an audience.”

  Not another one, Jaya thought. There had already been over a hundred petitioners, claiming they had experienced visions or been sent by the gods. And since the news of her cure had got out, it had been a thousand times worse. Nothing like word of a miracle to bring people flocking to your door.

  “Who is it this time?”

  Peering past Rakh’s camouflaged shoulder, she saw a girl standing in the entrance to the temple, head thrown back. Jaya froze.

  Farmed orchids adorned the length of glossy hair that fell to the girl’s feet. A ruby bhindi glittered between her frowning brows, but if it were not for the scowl, she would have been remarkably beautiful. And she was also horribly familiar, for Jaya had only recently set eyes on her photograph, splashed across a double-page spread in Movie Monthly. Kharishma Kharim.

  Behind the actress was strung a motley array of followers, one of them leading the elephant on which Kharishma had apparently arrived. Why had the militia allowed her through their ranks? Weren’t they supposed to be protecting the temple? One look at the besotted face of an army major, however, hovering in the midst of the followers, explained that mystery. Taking a deep breath, Jaya said, “Well.”

  Kharishma tried to push past Satyajit Rakh, who thrust out an arm and pinned her against the wall of the gatehouse. There was an angry surge forward from the followers, but then everyone became very still. Turning, Jaya saw that Sirru was standing at her shoulder. He looked at Kharishma rather as one might look upon an angry, pretty child, with a kind of tolerant indulgence. Ir Yth peered around his shoulder.

  Who is this? Ir Yth asked.

  “This is a woman who is portraying me in a film,” Jaya said, through gritted teeth. There was a brief pause whilst Ir Yth translated, then the raksasa said, The mediator wishes to know if this is a Second Body. Did you resemble one another before your sickness?

  “A Second Body? No, I’ve only ever had the one body, Ir Yth.” What was the raksasa talking about now? “Shrimati Kharim is playing me in—a piece of entertainment. In the movie, she is apparently an aristocrat. I’d surmise that Shrimati Kharim likes the idea of being a warrior heroine.” Merely because you allowed a certain myth to be cultivated around your name did not mean you had to believe in it, and Jaya knew exactly what she was and was not. Unlike some people, apparently.

  Kharishma had been staring at Sirru and Ir Yth with a most peculiar expression. Jaya was reminded that the two aliens had really had very little exposure to people since they’d arrived, and that Sirru had not, to the best of her knowledge, been seen at all. Kharishma murmured something and fell to her knees in the dust. Typical affected theatricality, Jaya thought. She had seen the sudden glint of calculation in Kharishma’s beautiful, kohl-lined eyes just before her obeisance.

  The movie star’s followers swayed like a field of reeds. Slowly and gracefully, Kharishma rose to her feet and raised her arms so that they were curved above her head. Her knees remained bent beneath the magnificent sari. Her jeweled fingers fluttered against her brow as she began to dance: bharat natyam, the great and ancient dance of the south, which depicted the course of the god Krishna’s life. Jaya too could dance, but never so gracefully or well, and she watched with a sick sense of irritation as Kharishma undulated in the dust. Sirru was following the gyrations with an intensity of interest that verged on the predatory. But after a very few minutes, everyone’s attention was wrested elsewhere.

  The scream came from the parapet of the temple. Looking up, Jaya saw a figure balanced on the battlements. The man must have climbed up the outside wall of the temple—Rakh and the army had been assiduous in not letting anyone through the gates. The man was holding a box or a can; she could not see clearly from this distance. He shook it over his head, and after a moment the stench of petrol drifted down. He paused, raised his arms high above his head in a parody of the dancer below, and wailed a blessing. It was a blessing on Jaya herself, on her supporters, on the aliens; it prophesied glory to all Bharat. It was a lengthy and exhaustive blessing, and everyone stood paralyzed—apart from Rakh, who was racing through the temple courtyard and up the stairs.

  After an electric moment, Jaya followed him, but she had got only halfway across the courtyard when the figure on the battlements lit a match and went up like a bomb. There was a unanimous gasp from the crowd, which may have briefly created a vacuum, for the figure on the battlements seemed momentarily to burn more brightly. Jaya watched in horror, which was all that anyone could do. From the corner of her eyes, through the open gate, she saw a surge in the front rows of the crowd as they realized the human torch was about to fall. He plunged from the battlements like a meteor, making no sound at all, not even upon landing. Perhaps he was already dead.

  Kharishma crouched in the dust, her hands pressed to her mouth in a silent scream. Jaya had to admit that immolating oneself in front of a gathering of hundreds of people was a fairly effective way to steal someone else’s limelight, but she could take no pleasure in the fact, however much she might have despised Kharishma. Sirru was staring at the place where the immolator had stood with an expression suggesting that this was just another part of the show. Ir Yth appeared merely baffled, mixed with a trace of disgust. She wasn’t the only one, Jaya thought, and shouted to Rakh, “What are you waiting for? Close the gate. Close the gate.” And he did as she told him.

  14.

  Khaikurriyë

  Nervously, Anarres stood at the edge of the ledge, looking out across the city. Far below, a barge floated like a leaf in the wind. A glittering band of light defined the coast, and she could see Rasasatra’s ancient sun sinking down toward the sea. The great wing of the raft rippled above the landing ledge, casting shadows over the faces of the crowd.

  “What if someone notices us?” she hissed to Nowhere One.

  The Natural shifted uneasily. “Just keep yourself concealed from anyone who’s a lower caste until you have to speak to the gatekeeper. I’ll do the same. This is a service raft—most of these people are low-level personnel. If we come across anyone of a higher level who might see through the concealment, we’ll just have to keep the scale turned up and hope they don’t take an interest in us. If anyone asks, you’re going to see a client and I’m a maintenance worker.”

  “Could they tell you’re a Natural?”

  “Eventually, yes. We’ll just have to hope for the best.”

&nb
sp; The gates leading onto the ramp of the raft slid open. Anarres stepped forward, trying to merge with the throng of people. If the implant didn’t work, or if EsRavesh had broadcast her description … But there was no reason for him to suspect that she would want to go back to the translation orbital. Anarres hoped that Nowhere One could be trusted. She had never heard of the person whose First Body he sought in the vaults, and the Natural had told her nothing more than the name.

  Anxiously she scanned the crowd, and saw no one who resembled a khaith. But then it occurred to her, I wouldn’t necessarily see them. They can make themselves invisible to me. The thought of being followed by some slinking, unperceived nightmare made her quills hackle. The Natural squeezed her hand.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “Nearly.” She had escaped the khaithoi once. She could do it again, if she just kept her wits about her and remembered to be brave. As she drew near to the gatekeeper, she dropped the concealment and exuded as much allure as she could. The gatekeeper gave an audible gasp. So did Nowhere One, who slipped through the gate in the aura of Anarres’ magnetic sexuality.

  Several people looked round, but Anarres was already through the gate and onto the raft, drawing her concealment about her once more. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nowhere One sliding into a corner behind a hanging veil of mesh. She followed him and sat down.

  Nowhere One seemed rather breathless; Anarres hoped he wasn’t claustrophobic or afraid of flying.

  “Do you think anyone noticed us?” she asked, to take his mind off his surroundings.

  Nowhere One turned to her rather desperately and said, “Quite frankly, all I can think about at the moment is sex. How do you do that?”

  “It’s my job,” Anarres told him, bewildered. “I don’t think we can do anything about it now. I’m sorry—someone might see.”

  “I’m not suggesting we—let’s talk about it later, Anarres.” He took a deep breath. “If there is a later.”

  There was a faint jolt as the raft lifted. Anarres shut her eyes, trying not to think about their destination. But then she opened them again. She had to start thinking ahead; she was long since past the point where she could pretend that things weren’t happening. She had to take responsibility for her actions. She stared out into the darkness as the raft surged upward. It was not long before it docked.

  Anarres and Nowhere One waited impatiently in line as the maintenance workers moved off. As Anarres stepped in front of the hessirei at the gate, it looked up sharply.

  “Madam! I have seen you before.”

  “That is correct,” Anarres told him with dignity, trying to overcome a flutter of panic. “You remember me from my last visit, when I came to see the orbital’s overseer, Uassi SiMethiKhajhat.”

  “Must see your pass once more,” the hessirei mumbled, lowering its head. Anarres reached out an imperious hand and stiffened her fingers to activate the implant. There was an electric pause.

  “Most acceptable,” the hessirei said. Anarres leaned across, murmuring into the whorl of its ear and sending out the aura of her allure. When she straightened up, Nowhere One was gone.

  Gliding swiftly past the entranced hessirei, Anarres found herself once more in the corridor that led to the translation vaults. Nowhere One stepped from behind an arching, chitinous pillar.

  “Where are the vaults?” he whispered.

  “Through here.”

  Anarres and the Natural hastened along the corridor, ducking out of view whenever a maintenance person appeared.

  “SiMethiKhajhat must have quite a reputation,” Nowhere One murmured. “The hessirei’s terrified of him.”

  Anarres agreed. She hoped she would never meet the overseer. EsRavesh’s implant would baffle the sensors to some degree, but there was no point in taking chances. They reached the vaults, and Nowhere One halted.

  “There must be thousands of them,” Anarres said. “Last time I had Sirru’s coordinates, but now…”

  “There are a lot of administrative personnel offworld, that’s why. The storage units of their First Bodies should be logged according to sector.”

  “And which sector are we looking for?”

  “It’s called EsIttikh.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s one of the more recently charted areas of space, out on the galactic edge. There’s not a lot in it—a few suns, a few dead systems. And a little world called Arakrahali.”

  15.

  Varanasi

  Rajira Jahan, courtesan of Varanasi, was glued to her imported Mitsubishi DVD, seeking news of her departed alien lover. The previous night seemed an eternity away, and she found herself wondering whether the whole event had been nothing more than a dream. It was, indeed, similar to some of the visions that Rajira had experienced in her brief and cautious flirtations with opium. But as soon as she saw the fleeting glimpse of Sirru, standing in the courtyard of the Temple of Durga behind the shoulder of Jaya Nihalani, she knew that it had been real.

  Rajira, adept at noting opportunities for power, had no intention of letting this one slip by. Summoning her latest maid, who also acted as her secretary, she ran a finger down the list of the day’s bookings.

  “Shri Matondkar—the elderly gentleman, you remember? He’s been a client for years. You can reschedule him for next week; he won’t mind—usually just wants a chat these days, anyway. Shri Khan—better keep him on the list: he’s wealthy. A banker. Shri Sharma—definitely keep him: a politician, from the Punjab. He comes here for conferences.” She reflected for a moment. “Not precisely blessed with the looks of Krishna, that one, but stamina—my God! They say he’s got a positive harem back home.” She reached the end of the list and frowned. “Who is this? He’s down as a question mark.”

  “He wouldn’t give his name,” the maid said. “He phoned.”

  Rajira felt a small shiver of anticipation. Was there any chance that this could be the alien? With the prospect of the day’s activities before her, she found herself dwelling on stranger flesh with a sensation that was close to nostalgia. The alien might have been anatomically challenging, but at least he knew how to treat a girl. “Mr. X, eh? Did he sound local?”

  “He spoke excellent Hindi. And he says he knows you. He said: Remember the hibiscus tree.” Puzzled, the maid frowned, but Rajira was immediately transported fifteen years into the past.

  Then, she had surely rivaled Lakshmi for loveliness, even if it might be heresy to think so. That’s what they’d called her in those days, only partly joking: the Goddess of Love. People had compared her to her most famous predecessor, Sushma the Beautiful, heroine of a hundred stories. Just as Sushma had done three hundred years before, Rajira had gone one day to the market and met a prince. However, she had been shopping not for rare silks, as Sushma had, but for the latest Western videos. And it was while she was standing in the shade of a hibiscus tree, clutching a copy of Dreamville II and fanning herself against the heat, that her prince had appeared. True, he’d been driving an army jeep rather than riding atop the white horse that had been the conveyance of the prince in the legend, but otherwise it was exactly the same. They had been lovers for a year, until the prince’s mother had found out that her son was seeing a courtesan.

  Now, Rajira could smile at the memory. That had been a scene and a half, and no mistake. Her prince had been abruptly recalled to an army base in the north, but had sworn to return one day. For a while, Rajira really believed it, but then she had realized the truth and concentrated instead on investing the large sum that her beloved’s mother had given her to ensure a dignified retreat. She had followed his career, of course, and had read the rumors of military brutality with some dismay. He hadn’t been like that with her, but then who knew what men were capable of?

  And now here he was making an appointment, only fifteen years too late. She sat down at her dressing table and began to apply her makeup with more than usual care.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, Rajira ush
ered the Punjabi politician firmly out of her boudoir and waited nervously for the arrival of the visitor. The door opened, and a man stepped through.

  “Rajira! You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Apart from an additional twenty pounds, Rajira thought. Still, it was nice of him to say so.

  “Neither have you, Amir.” She stepped forward and took his hands, stood looking up into the cold blue gaze that had made her weak at the knees fifteen years before. But too much time had gone by, and she knew it. She said, “Well, I didn’t expect to see you ever again. I thought you were getting married?”

  Amir Anand gave her a rather hangdog look in response. Rajira knew that look: it was guilt. She had seen it a hundred times; men loved to use it to exert control over someone whom they felt might be slipping away from them. All her clients that day had been married men, though she knew for a fact that the banker’s wife was cheating on him. And she’d heard rumors about what the politician’s lady got up to when he was out of town, too. But that was just the way of the world. At least no one had to worry about AIDS anymore; though as soon as they found an inoculation for one disease, another seemed to erupt in its place.

  “How is the dear girl?” Rajira asked, just to rub it in. Anand let go of her hands and sat heavily down on the bed.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

  “Then let me bring you some tea,” Rajira replied. “Or would you prefer whisky?”

  “Whisky,” said Anand morosely. After that, it didn’t take long to get the whole story out of him: how Kharishma was becoming more and more obsessed with power, how she was trying to wangle her way into politics, how she’d changed. Rajira noted that he studiously avoided using the term “unbalanced,” but it was clear that this was the root of it.

  “But do you love her, Amir?” she said at last. She was surprised to find that her voice was so steady, and more amazed still when the image of the alien slid into her mind, eclipsing the old pain. She even managed to look Anand in the eye when he said miserably, “Yes. Yes, I do.” Then he groped for her hand and added, “Rajira? You know that you—you were—”