by J. S. Bangs
The man looked nervous. He said quietly. “The spies report that the Red Men have finally left Jaitha and crossed the Amsadhu.”
“Ah.” Sadja glanced at Mandhi. “This sort of thing is why I couldn’t linger any longer in Virnas. Will you come with me to the palace, or will you wait for the palanquin?”
“I’ll come,” Mandhi said. By her preference they would have left the docks immediately, but she had observed that Sadja took a more intimate approach and liked to see his men at work. This applied equally to the dock workers unloading luggage, soldiers drilling in the field, and bureaucrats handling papers. She couldn’t decide if this was a virtue or a vice in a king.
An honor guard and a herald quickly formed up around them, and they began a quick march through the city and up to the white stone walls of the palace. The crowds parted like water for them. People bowed at Sadja and stole furtive glances at the strange pregnant woman with her hair tied in the Uluriya style. Mandhi stared back at them without shame. Did they think she was Sadja’s mistress? Last time she was in Davrakhanda someone had made that same suggestion.
A pang of grief, and she blinked her eyes against the threat of tears. No, she had been with no one other than Taleg, her husband, and he was dead. So she was alone, and the child she carried was a last gift from him.
The gate of the palace through which they passed was a great arch carved with porpoises and sea waves, as ornate as a temple frieze. A herald announced their arrival with a voice like a crashing wave. Once inside, a swarm of attendants descended on them, babbling and bowing. Sadja directed one of them to guide Mandhi to her room, then disappeared toward the barracks where Ashturma was waiting.
Mandhi recognized the wings of the palace through which the attendant led her. It wasn’t the same room that she had stayed in last time, but it was near it, and she regained her bearings within the halls quickly. A square room with a curtained door and broad windows. A mat laid out beneath the window that looked over the sea. She went to the window and leaned out to get a breath of the sea breeze.
At least she would be a comfortable captive.
There were footsteps in the doorway behind her, then a small gasp. Mandhi turned. A girl stood there, young, hair tied tightly into a bun in the Uluriya style. She had a square jaw and a small, round nose, and the first hints of womanhood barely showed on her frame. She gaped openly at Mandhi.
“Are you the maid that Sadja promised me?” Mandhi asked, hoping to stir the poor thing from her stupor.
The girl nodded rapidly. She didn’t move.
“The stars upon you. What’s your name?”
This finally stirred the girl. “Aryaji,” the girl said, dropping to her knees and bowing. “The stars upon you, my lady. I didn’t know you were—I, mean, forgive me, I wasn’t prepared—”
“Oh, you mean this,” Mandhi said, gesturing to her belly. “You mean that Sadja, or whoever hired you, didn’t tell you?”
Aryaji shook her head vigorously. “I don’t know if I am qualified, my lady.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mandhi said. “I don’t have any special needs for now, and when I do, I expect I’ll have a midwife. I assume that you aren’t a midwife.”
“No, my lady.”
“My name is Mandhi. Perhaps Sadja-dar neglected to tell you that, as well.”
“Yes, my lady,” Aryaji said. She rose from her knees and asked, “Where is your husband?”
“My husband is dead.” She raised her chin a little as she said it, to prove to herself that she was beyond grief and would not cry again.
“Oh, I’m sorry lady Mandhi. The stars upon his memory.”
“Yes,” Mandhi said. “But as you see, I’m carrying more than just his memory.” She wondered whether she should reveal now that the child’s father was Kaleksha. Once the child was born his mixed blood would be impossible to hide, and it would be better not to have to explain in the moments after childbirth.
Aryaji interrupted her thoughts. “Shall I find a midwife for you?”
“Oh,” Mandhi said. “Yes. Actually, I would prefer to meet her myself. Do you know where she lives?”
Aryaji stood a little straighter and smiled cautiously. “There are only two Uluriya midwives here in Davrakhanda, and one of them is my aunt. We aren’t very many, we Uluriya in this city.”
“Assuming that Sadja-dar will let me leave the palace, I’d like to head to the Uluriya district and meet your aunt.” Aryaji appeared confused for a moment, and Mandhi realized that she needed to explain. “Do you understand the conditions under which I’m here?”
“No, my lady,” Aryaji said. A bit of girlish curiosity showed through in her voice. “Why wouldn’t Sadja let you leave the palace?”
“Because I’m his captive,” Mandhi said. A shade of bitterness crept into her voice. “He left his nephew Sundasha-kha in Virnas and took me here as a mutual pledge of the alliance between Virnas and Davrakhanda.”
Aryaji’s expression grew more confused. “But… Mandhi, you said your husband was dead. Why did Sadja take you? And does this mean that it’s true what we heard, that Ulaur has restored the Heir of Manjur in Virnas?”
Mandhi sighed and lowered herself slowly onto her cushioned mat. Aryaji scrambled forward and took Mandhi’s hand to help her sit. “Yes,” Mandhi said as soon as she was rested comfortably. At last, the imagined rocking of the floor seemed to abate. “The Heir rules in Virnas, assuming he hasn’t knocked the place down since I left him there.”
Aryaji’s eyes grew wide in alarm.
“Oh, I exaggerate,” Mandhi said with a wave of her hand. But only a little. “I was an advisor to the Heir while in Virnas. He and I had traveled together. We endured quite a lot with each other, actually. Navran-dar is his name, and the stars upon him because he needs all the help he can get.”
“But why did Sadja-dar take you to Davrakhanda?”
“Because,” Mandhi began, then she realized that her answer would open a line of questioning that she didn’t want to follow right now. But the girl deserved an answer. She would put off a full explanation until later. “Because my child will be the next Heir.”
A girlish squeak of shock escaped Aryaji’s lips. “The Heir! The Heir is going to be born here! But how? You said your husband was dead. Navran-dar in Virnas is dead?”
“No, no, Navran-dar is not my husband, nor is he dead. He is my brother, after a fashion. Aryaji, you look like you’re about to faint. I’ll explain more later, if I feel like it. The truth is complicated, and to a large degree secret. Do you normally pry into the private matters of a lady that you’re waiting on?”
“Oh, no, Mandhi, forgive me—”
“Forgiven,” Mandhi said, wanting to cut off the longer obeisance that seemed to be forthcoming. “Now, a practical matter. Is this room purified? May I sleep here?”
“Yes,” Aryaji said, seeming relieved to have the conversation turn to something she was familiar with.
“Good, because I am not clean. I have traveled for many days over water, so my debt of purity is large. Bring me a laver and a towel. Do you have a change of clothes for me? I don’t know if my belongings have yet come up from the docks.”
“I don’t know, my lady, but I do have extra saris in my room which I can give you. I have purified water, as well. I can help you wash.”
Mandhi almost said no. Even at Veshta’s house she had always washed herself. But she wasn’t at Veshta’s house, and why not take advantage of the luxury that Sadja afforded her?
“You may help me,” she said. “Let’s get these salt-stained clothes off of me, yes? And then you can tell me a little about your aunt the midwife.”
* * *
There was no point in being a palace prisoner if you weren’t going to enjoy yourself.
Sadja had said that she was free to go more or less anywhere, and she had proven this to herself by dragging Aryaji with her through every corner of the palace. Only the barracks were closed to her, their doors guarded by gre
en-liveried soldiers who met her requests for entry with impassive refusal. If she had really pushed, or pleaded with Sadja, she might have gained entrance—but did she want to enter the barracks that badly?
No, the place she chose to come the most often was the east balcony. Here the kings of Davrakhanda had constructed a shelf of white marble that overlooked the city and the azure half-circle of the harbor below. It was planted with orange trees in enormous white vases, overshadowing stone benches and shallow pools filled with lotuses and golden carp. From the bench one could feel the cool breeze rising from the sea and watch the fishing boats sail into the sunrise, or see the great double-masted trade dhows return from Kalignas on the deep gray waters.
Aryaji set a cushion on the marble bench before Mandhi sat down, and arranged another cushion beneath Mandhi’s heels. Mandhi rested her hands on her swelling belly and breathed deeply. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Should I bring you some tea, my lady?” Aryaji asked.
“No, sit down for a bit,” Mandhi said.
Aryaji hovered for a moment at Mandhi’s shoulder, then cautiously lowered herself to the bench where Mandhi rested. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No there is not.” Mandhi appreciated her maid’s care, but she occasionally wished that the girl would relax a little.
Aryaji sat silently. Mandhi opened her eyes and watched the girl kneading the edges of her sari nervously.
“Really, Aryaji,” Mandhi said, “you don’t need to be so nervous. I’m not some khadir woman eager to terrorize my slaves.”
Aryaji glanced at Mandhi’s belly. “Yes, my lady.”
“Is it because I’m carrying the Heir?”
Aryaji’s lips pressed together. “You are also the daughter of the last Heir.”
“True enough, but I don’t have anyone else to talk to here in the palace Davrakhanda, so I would appreciate it if you would open up a little.”
“Yes.”
Mandhi sighed. There had to be some way to crack the girl’s shell. “Tell me about your parents.”
“They’re dead.”
What a lovely way to start the conversation. Mandhi asked carefully, “Who cares for you? Do you have a brother?”
Aryaji shook her head. The breeze rising up from the sea blew strands of hair across her face and ruffled the hem of her sari, giving her a forlorn and sorrowful look. But when she looked up, she gave Mandhi a shy smile.
“No need to pity me, Mandhi. My father died at sea, sailing, and my mother died when I was very little. My uncle Nakhur, the saghada, he and his wife Kidri take care of me.”
“Oh,” Mandhi said. She hadn’t realized that Aryaji’s uncle was the local saghada, and she was amused that his wife shared a name with Veshta’s niece. “Do you have only one saghada in the city? There aren’t many of you….”
Aryaji shook her head. “We aren’t many, but we have two. They’re all in our family. Nakhur’s elder brother Peshdana is the other, and Nakhur’s son is apprenticed.”
“Your cousin, then.”
“Yes.”
Mandhi wondered how much Nakhur and Kidri were being paid for Aryaji’s service. She was just at the cusp of womanhood, and in a few years they would have to provide a dowry for her.
The chatter of approaching women broke Mandhi’s train of thought. From their right four young women approached. Young khadir women by their dress, not yet twenty, courtiers or the daughters of courtiers. They seemed prepared to pass them like a flock of birds, chattering and laughing amongst themselves, but as their shadows crossed Mandhi’s feet one of them stopped.
“You’re that Uluriya woman that Sadja-dar brought to the palace,” the young woman said.
She was a hair taller than the rest, dressed in a fine blue sari, with a long, regal nose and carefully arched brows. The wind blew the tightly-draped sari around her ankles in delicate curves. Her gaze carried a sheen of contempt. She glanced from Mandhi’s pregnant belly to Aryaji, taking in their hair tied in the Uluriya style.
“I am that Uluriya woman,” Mandhi said bluntly, “unless there’s another one that Sadja-dar has hidden somewhere.”
The other girls laughed quietly.
“I heard about you,” the girl said. “You were here almost a year ago with your Kaleksha husband.”
Aryaji drew in a sharp breath. Mandhi’s pulse stuttered. She hadn’t told Aryaji anything about Taleg, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to introduce Aryaji to the idea this way. But she couldn’t help it now.
“I was,” she said. “Have you been keeping track of me?”
The girl smiled wryly. “What’s your name?”
“Mandhi.”
“My name in Nagiri-kha. I was merely… curious to see you. Last year people said you were here to replace me.”
“Replace you?”
“Well, if your brutish husband died—”
“Taleg,” Mandhi hissed, “was not brutish.”
A twitter of laughter from the other girls again. “Nagiri-kha has much more refined tastes in men,” one of the girls said.
“Refined?” Mandhi rolled her eyes in disgust. “Your fathers should keep a better eye on you.”
The girls laughed. “She doesn’t know,” Nagiri said with amusement.
“Does your father know… whatever it is you’re talking about?”
“Of course he does. My father was delighted when Sadja-dar took me into his bed.”
Oh. No wonder the girl strutted across the balcony like that; she thought she was half a queen. “Well,” Mandhi said. “I guess your sort might tolerate that.”
“Look at the Uluriya woman, putting on airs,” Nagiri taunted her. “And where was your father when you married that barbarian?”
Mandhi felt her cheeks grow hot. “There is a difference between elopement and harlotry,” she spat.
“You comfort yourself with that,” Nagiri said with a serpentine smile. “I was going to find you and warn you against trying to find your way into Sadja-dar’s bed, on the chance that you had returned for that reason. But I think that the warning isn’t needed now.” She glanced at Mandhi’s belly and smirked.
“It was never needed in the first place,” Mandhi said.
“I told you,” one of the girls behind Nagiri said. “Amitu-kha is the only one you need to worry about.”
“There’s nothing I can do about Amitu-kha,” Nagiri snapped. Anger burned in her eyes. She bowed to Mandhi with a tiny bend of her head then turned and continued down the porch to the benches at the north end. The girls’ chatter resumed just beyond Mandhi’s hearing.
“Horrid woman,” Aryaji muttered.
The embarrassment and anger slowly drained from Mandhi’s veins. In its place, she found regret. “That went poorly. I should have befriended her.”
“Befriended?” Aryaji looked at Mandhi as if Mandhi had suggested she befriend a cobra.
Mandhi sighed. “As long as I’m here I might as well be Navran-dar’s spy. And what better ally than Sadja-dar’s mistress?”
“Yes, but….” Aryaji began. “Then you’d have to talk to her.”
“I think I could bear up under that burden,” Mandhi said. “Though I don’t think she wants to talk to me, regardless of what I do.”
Aryaji nodded and bowed her head.
But perhaps she had learned something of use after all. “Who is Amitu-kha?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nagiri-kha mentioned his name as a threat. Does Sadja-dar enjoy boys as well as girls?”
“I don’t know. I have never heard of him.” She looked at Mandhi with heavy eyes. “I haven’t been in the palace much longer than you have, my lady.”
“I understand.” Mandhi kicked away the pillow beneath her feet. “Let’s get up. Let’s find out who Amitu-kha is.”
“Really?” Aryaji said. She bent and picked up both the foot cushion and the one that Mandhi had sat on. “Why?”
“Now at least I have something to do,” Man
dhi said. “Something important.”
Aryaji hurriedly returned the cushions to the servants’ niche where they were stored, then came to hold Mandhi’s hand. “Where will we go?”
“Not here,” Mandhi said. “The antechamber of the throne room, where the courtiers wait. We’ll learn some names. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out where Amitu-kha is.”
It wasn’t. In an hour they knew that Amitu-kha was the representative of the Prince Imperial, sent to Davrakhanda from Gumadha. Not Sadja’s lover, but the bearer of important news between Sadja and the Prince Imperial.
It was a simple matter to invite him to dinner. He turned out to be as interested in Mandhi as Mandhi was in him.
Navran
The sun bleached the color from the sky and beat fierce waves of heat out of the rice fields of Hauradi. Men worked shirtless in the fields with their dhotis pulled up and tucked into the waistbands, and the women stood around the edges of the fields listlessly guiding the goats under their care. They barely spared a glance for Navran and his militia, as they crawled across the narrow roads toward Thudra’s country estate.
“Damn, but it’s hot,” said Srajan, the majakhadir of Mudhisha. The two majakhadir with an interest in Navran’s operation in Hauradi had elected to join him, and they had added two dozen volunteers to the more substantial militia of Virnas. But Srajan appeared to be regretting his choice, with sweat beading on his face like heavy morning dew and running down into his mustache.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Udarma, the majakhadir of Asandhu. Unlike his companion, he seemed to be enjoying the excursion, walking jauntily and observing the spectacle around them. A pair of servants carried a small canopy on poles to keep the sun off of him. He glanced over to Navran on his right and said, “You agree, Navran-dar? The sun doesn’t bother you? I see you brought no canopy for yourself.”
“Don’t need it,” Navran said. Which was true—he had done hard labor in the fields in hotter weather than this—but he needed to appear wealthy and in control to the majakhadir, and so he wondered if stoicism might actually be a flaw. Impressing the khadir was part of his job. Unfortunately.