by J. S. Bangs
The crowd broke up slowly. Nakhur, Kidri, and a few others plied Mandhi with questions for a little longer, while those in the back gradually took up private conversations and drifted out the front door. Kidri disappeared into the kitchen and brought out a light dinner of rice and fish stew. Simpler fare than what Mandhi got in Sadja’s palace, but she appreciated a change. Eventually the group was reduced to just Mandhi, Aryaji, Kidri, and the other members of the household, drinking tea with cane syrup and trading gossip. Mandhi had no idea who most of the subjects of their whispers were, but the normalcy was refreshing. No danger or palace politics. Just a bunch of women drinking tea.
She glanced out the window and noted with a little regret that the sun was nearly touching the tops of Sadja’s palace in the west. “I’m sorry,” she said, tapping Aryaji’s shoulder. “But I think we should hurry back.”
“Don’t be sorry!” Kidri said, jumping to her feet and grabbing one of Mandhi’s hands. She and Aryaji helped Mandhi to her feet—excessive, since Mandhi didn’t yet have that much difficulty standing. Kidri kissed Mandhi on both cheeks, and Aryaji traded kisses with her aunts, and then with a flurry of repeated farewells they finally got out the door and into the street.
Sadja had provided two guards as an escort for Mandhi and Aryaji, and at Mandhi’s exit they snapped to attention and gathered up their game of sacchu from the ground. They walked to the end of the street, then Mandhi’s curiosity got the better of her.
“Aryaji, where is the Kaleksha district?”
Aryaji looked at her nervously. “Why do you want to know, Mandhi?”
“I’d like to go through it.”
Aryaji’s eyes grew wide. “But Mandhi, my lady, it’s dangerous, and soon it’ll be dark.”
“The sun may be setting, but it’s not dark yet. And we have two armed members of Sadja’s militia with us. How much safer could we be?”
Aryaji looked at her as if she had suggested they wrestle tigers. “Mandhi, I don’t think—”
“Guards,” Mandhi said. The soldier walking a pace in front of her stopped. “Will we be in any danger if we pass through the Kaleksha part of town?”
The soldier in the front shrugged. “We should be fine. The Kaleksha get rowdy every now and then, but they know to stay clear of Sadja’s men.”
“Then we’ll go.”
The soldier nodded and continued ahead, and when the narrow cobbled street reached the next major road, rather than turn right toward the palace, the soldiers led them across the street and through a narrow passage that at first seemed little more than an alley. The buildings were two stories of pale gray stone, encrusted with grime and mud, with their upper floors glowering down on the road. Graffiti was scrawled across the walls, painted it mud or etched into plaster, crooked blocky letters spelling names and profanity. The eaves of the tile roofs nearly met in the center of the alley and closed off the sky. The lower floors were pocked with doors opening into taverns and guesthouses, and a gaggle of prostitutes leaned against the walls of the alley. Above them the open windows leaked shouts, quarrels, and moans. But the voices and faces that Mandhi saw were Amuran—until the narrow street turned a sharp corner. They passed beneath a string of flags in faded red and green, and Mandhi’s breath caught in her throat.
It’s not that she had never seen a Kaleksha other than Taleg before. But they were an uncommon sight in Virnas, and when she saw them in other cities of Amur they traveled in twos and threes. Here, there were two benches on each side of the road, and on them sat a dozen pale men with barrel chests and hair the color of honey and copper, holding crusts of roti baked in an unfamiliar shape and rough clay mugs. The memory of Taleg arose suddenly from her belly and choked off the breathing in her throat. A raucous conversation in the tongue of Kalignas had been underway, but upon seeing the soldiers and the women approach, the men’s conversation lapsed.
Aryaji clutched Mandhi’s hand. A hostile quiet descended over the street.
The men stared at Mandhi quite openly, not in anger, but with hard, closed faces. The women and their escorts walked slowly between the benches on which the men sat. A few muttered words passed between the Kaleksha, hushed by a hissing whisper.
When they reached the end of the street, the conversation started up behind them, quieter and more subdued. The mood seemed to lighten, and Mandhi felt as if she could breathe again.
Aryaji leaned in. “Mandhi, why did you want to come here?” Her eyes were dark pools of terror.
Mandhi hushed her. “Questions later.”
That was not the end of the Kaleksha district, but it was the only crowd that Mandhi saw. They walked past men crouching in doorways or leaning out of the upper story windows, regarding them in hostile silence. The graffiti along the walls seemed to shout, in contrast to the hostile quiet of the men. Only men—she hadn’t seen a single woman since they had entered this quarter aside from the prostitutes by the entrance.
“You know the secret?” Mandhi said.
Aryaji nodded, clinging to Mandhi’s sleeve.
“I wanted to see where my husband came from.”
A squeak sounded from Aryaji. “Really?”
“Yes, Aryaji.” She spoke a little louder, her courage coming to her. “He was Uluriya, not like these men—but this was where he came from. I wanted to see it, and—what is this?”
Taleg’s name was scrawled onto the wall that they passed.
For a moment Mandhi stared at the spot dumbstruck, while Aryaji clutched at her hand in alarm. It was not a hastily-scrawled name, but a deliberate notice. Someone had painted a square the size of three hands with white, covering up the graffiti beneath. Within the square were written three words in awkward, uneven letters: Taleg os Dramab. Find Kest.
“What is this?” she asked the guards.
The guards shifted and gave each other an uneven glance. “A notice,” one of them said.
“A notice of what?”
“You can read as well as I can,” the guard said. “Someone named Kest is looking for a man named Taleg.”
“But Taleg is my husband’s name. Who is Kest?”
The soldier shrugged.
Mandhi stared at the spot again. It was clearly meant to be seen: painted on the main street through the Kaleksha district on a foundation of new white paint. “How long has this been here?”
The soldier shrugged again. “A few days. A few months. No one has written over it yet, so not too long….”
“Mandhi, we should go,” Aryaji said. “Might be trouble.”
“Not trouble,” Mandhi insisted. “If someone is looking for Taleg, I should find them.” She turned and faced the soldiers directly. “If I were going to look for this Kest, how could I find him?”
“Ask at the office of the sailors’ guild,” the soldier said. “They have the name of every Kaleksha who sails in and out of Davrakhanda. But we’re not going there today.”
“Yes, we are,” Mandhi said. She looked down the street, scanning the symbols above the doors. “Which of these is the sailors’ guild?”
“No, we’re not,” the soldier said firmly. “Our orders are to escort you to the Uluriya and back to the palace. Not to bring you at night through the Kaleksha district.”
He put a heavy hand on Mandhi’s shoulder. She twisted away and for a moment felt the impulse to run. But it passed: she was in the Kaleksha district, far from friends, and whoever Kest was, she would be a fool to look for him alone at night.
She breathed heavily. “Then we’ll come back,” she said. “Another day. Visit the guild and find Kest.”
The soldiers nodded and prodded her to continue forward through the street. Aryaji clutched her hand.
“Coming back, Mandhi?”
“Of course.”
“But what if… what if it’s a debt-collector? What if it’s someone with a grudge?”
“I doubt it,” Mandhi said. “In any case, they can’t collect any debts from me.”
More unfriendly Kal
eksha glares slipped over them as they wound through the graffiti-strewn streets. A set of red and green flags hung over an arch ahead, and beyond it the faces were once again Amuran brown. They had almost reached the end of the Kaleksha district. Mandhi spotted another white-painted square bearing the words: Taleg os Dramab. Find Kest.
“You don’t know why this Kest wants your husband,” Aryaji said.
“No,” Mandhi said. “But….”
Her voice cracked and she took a moment to compose herself. “I regret that Taleg’s not here. And that he won’t see his child. If Kest knew him, then perhaps we could share memories. That’s all I want.”
They passed beneath the flag-covered arch and exited the Kaleksha neighborhood. The comfortable, familiar sounds of Amuran voices enveloped them, and the soldiers turned them toward Sadja’s palace. Mandhi glanced back once and saw a pale man with yellow hair standing inside the arch of the Kaleksha district, watching them leave.
Aryaji squeezed her hand. She looked at the ground. “I understand.”
Sadja
“My lord and king!” the valet in Sadja’s anteroom shouted through the curtain.
“What is it?” Sadja called back, annoyed. Beside him, Nagiri lay languorously across several pillows, eating a slice of mango. Her sari lay rumpled around her waist, and Sadja had already taken her choli off. This was not the ideal moment for his valet to come calling.
Nagiri stuck out her lower lip and pouted at Sadja. “Do you need to answer him?” Little drops of mango juice fell off her chin and dripped between her little plum breasts. She was one of the better amusements he had brought into his chamber in the last few years. Aside from her flawless smile and irresistible thighs, she had the advantage of a very understanding father, a middling khadir who knew that a mistress was not for marrying, but could still bring favors to her family.
“If he thought it was important enough to interrupt me, then I probably do have to answer,” Sadja said. “What?”
“A messenger from Rajunda,” the valet answered. “He awaits you in the hall.”
Sadja’s annoyance dissipated. So the valet wasn’t an idiot after all. “I want to hear this,” he said, and rose from where he lay next to Nagiri. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Nagiri took the discarded end of her sari and draped it loosely across her shoulders. Just enough to hide herself from the soldier’s eyes.
The heavy curtain at the far end of the room parted, and a flushed, sweating soldier with grime-covered clothes walked into the chamber. He took in the scene with a glance, and for a moment forgot to bow, staring at the barely-clad Nagiri. Then he came to himself and dropped to his knees.
“Sadja-dar, my lord and king,” he said. “I have run the last half-day carrying this message from the spies in Rajunda.”
“I see,” Sadja said. “I hope it’s good news.”
The runner nodded and repeated his memorized message in a lilting sing-song. “Five days ago, when I left with this message, the Red Men had marched through the ruins of Old Rajunda. We provided them with supplies of food, water, rice, and silver as you instructed. They continued on the north road. When we asked them, they said that they were traveling to Majasravi in all haste.”
Sadja stroked his chin. The news of the Red Men’s delay in Jaitha had worried him at first. He wanted Chadram in Majasravi, not worrying about dynastic succession in the burnt husk of Jaitha. But if they had marched through Rajunda already, then his timeline was still intact. He reminded himself to send spies to Jaitha in order to determine what the Red Men had arranged there.
“What about their condition?” he asked. “Did they appear exhausted or starved?”
“They did not appear to be starving,” the runner said. “Their supply train was whole, and the soldiers we could see had their kit intact. They apparently supplied themselves well before leaving Jaitha. But they did demand a tribute from the village before they moved on.”
“Tribute? What did they receive?”
“We do not know the exact demand, as it was presented to the khadir. But we asked the villagers, and they claimed that it was some hundreds of roti, several sacks of rice, and twenty sheep for slaughter.”
If they were demanding tribute, then they must have some worry about getting to Majasravi. But their demand was not excessively onerous for a village the size of Old Rajunda, so they weren’t yet desperate. “Very well,” Sadja said. “Are you able to remember this return message?”
The runner bowed. “Yes, my lord and king.”
“Send a fresh runner to Rajunda. Have someone run in the dust of the Red Men until they meet on the road. This message is for Chadram, the commander of the Red Men. Tell him: I am preparing in Davrakhanda, and will come to Majasravi with Praudhu-dar, the Prince Imperial. The Prince believes that he will reclaim the Seven-Stepped Throne, but you and I will see each other in the Ushpanditya.”
The runner bowed his forehead to the ground. “I hear and remember,” he said.
“Now go.” The runner left the room. Sadja walked back to the couch, leaned over, and wiped a drop of mango juice off of Nagiri’s chest. He licked the juice off his finger. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I think I need to bring this message to the Prince’s ambassador. Immediately.”
“Really?” Nagiri said, and pouted again. “But we just got started.” She ran her hands down Sadja’s naked chest.
Sadja adjusted and smoothed his dhoti. “Come back tonight. Or stay here in my rooms all day, I don’t care. There’s plenty more mangoes.”
Nagiri sighed. “You play with me.”
“Yes,” Sadja said. He bent down and took Nagiri’s chin in his hand and kissed her deeply, running his fingers down her chest and across her nipples. “That’s what you’re here for, after all.”
Nagiri grinned. He pressed a finger against her lips, and she bit it gently. Then he pulled away. “You’ll see me tonight. Not before.”
His valet still waited in the anteroom when he emerged. “Where is the Prince’s ambassador?”
“In the north wing,” the valet said. “He hasn’t gone out today.”
“Tell him I’m coming. Dress me, then I’ll meet him on the top balcony.”
Sadja reached the north balcony before the Prince’s ambassador. The sun was a brilliant, fierce white that had driven every cloud from the sky, but the heat was tempered by a strong sea breeze carrying a hint of fish and salt water. It was lovely to be outside. Virnas, he thought with a grimace, was a pit compared to Davrakhanda. The whole time he had been there he had been impatient to come home, where the heat was mild and the wind rolled in off the ocean.
But the excursion to Virnas had been vital. The opening of any game was the hardest, and the opening of his play for the empire was to destabilize it by destroying Ruyam and leaving the Ushpanditya empty. That had succeeded beyond his hopes. Now he was playing from a strong position—albeit, not the strongest. The next stage was difficult because he had limited leverage over the Prince Imperial, but his advantage was that the Prince’s desires weren’t very different from Sadja’s. Minus a few details such as whether the Prince was alive.
Footsteps sounded behind him. The ambassador’s servant emerged onto the balcony first. He bowed and said, “Sadja-dar, I present Amitu-kha, the Mouth of Praudhu-dar, the Prince Imperial.”
A thin, balding man with a narrow mustache stepped out onto the balcony. “Sadja-dar,” he said with a bow. “I’m delighted to be called on, though a little startled at the rapidity. Has something happened?”
“Amitu-kha,” Sadja said with a small incline of his head. “Something indeed happened. I’ve gotten word from one of my spies in Rajunda. The Red Men have passed through.”
Amitu pressed the tips of his fingers together. “The company that went with Ruyam to Virnas in that ill-advised venture?”
Sadja nodded. “They finally left Jaitha and crossed the Amsadhu. By the spy’s report, I expect that they march on Majasravi with all speed. And they intend to
take the city and keep the Prince from entering.”
“I shall send a messenger to Gumadha,” Amitu said. He rubbed his hands together. “But it will probably be too late. By the time a message reaches Gumadha and the Prince sets out for Majasravi, the Red Men will already be there.”
“True,” Sadja said. “However, if I sent a fast messenger now, I could potentially get a message to Majasravi ahead of the Red Men.”
“Your messenger would have to be fast. And what would you say?”
Sadja pretended that he didn’t already know the answer to this question. “What about the garrison of Red Men who remained in the Dhigvaditya? Are they loyal to the Prince?”
Amitu bowed his head and grumbled quietly. “We have no way of knowing, Sadja-dar. Not here in Davrakhanda.”
“I’ll send a messenger to them. If the garrison in the Dhigvaditya is loyal to the Prince, then the recalcitrance of Ruyam’s army will be of no import. Chadram’s forces will almost certainly capitulate, as they aren’t fool enough to try to take the fortress. If,” he added gravely, “if there is a battle outside the city, then the militia of Davrakhanda will stand with the Prince.”
“The Prince Imperial remembers your loyalty,” Amitu said. “Send the messenger, and perhaps the empire can be spared further bloodshed.”
Sadja grinned and attempted to hide how pleased he was. In fact, he had dispatched a message to Majasravi eight days ago, and it would reach Majasravi well ahead of the Red Men. His message was to the captain of the garrison in Majasravi, an ambitious, courtly commander named Dumaya, a soldier who had spent more years with the majakhadir of the Emperor’s court than in the field, and who had developed a taste for dominion. Sadja had urged him to hold the Dhigvaditya and not allow the Prince to enter, promising that if it came to battle that the forces of Davrakhanda would fight against the Prince. In combination with the promises made to Chadram, Sadja expected that when he reached Majasravi, he would find the Prince and Chadram’s forces outside the walls, fruitlessly seeking a way to breach the impregnable Dhigvaditya. And from there the last part of his plan would be easy to execute.