by J. S. Bangs
The one in the center gingerly opened the box’s lid. Gaudam, if Navran remembered his name correctly, the only Uluriya of the group. Navran had first canvassed the city’s wealthiest Uluriya merchants and moneylenders, but only one of them had the riches and temerity to enter into the deal. Gaudam was a silver merchant, sponsor of two thirds of the silversmiths in the city, and controller of all the trade in silver jewelry that moved in and out of Virnas’s docks. He was also very pious. Navran hoped that this translated to generosity.
A mixed look of horror and wonder crossed his face as he opened the lid of the box and looked at the seven rings inside. He gingerly plucked one of the glossy black star-iron bands like a man plucking a lotus petal from a pond. He held it up to the light and exclaimed in wonder.
“Remarkable. I never thought I’d see them up close.”
The man to his left reached over and grabbed another ring from the box. He tossed it into the air, feeling its heft in his hand, flicked it with his fingernail, then attempted to scratch the black with his thumbnail. Chalika, Navran recalled. Owner of several warehouses, boats, and docks; a merchant, but he had two dozen khadir in his debt. His mouth twisted, and he said, “Overrated.”
Gaudam gave Chalika a scowl. “How could you possibly claim that these are overrated? The craftsmanship is exquisite, and the material—”
“Is irrelevant,” Chalika said. He tossed the ring back into the box.
“I have to agree with our Uluriya friend,” said the third man, speaking for the first time. Pashman, the least wealthy of the three, controlling the silk and spice trades through the city. When Navran had invited him to this meeting, he had accepted the invitation with quiet acquiescence and left Navran with an impression of a taciturn and unpretentious man. Navran liked him best. Pashman pulled the box across the table, chose one of the rings, and placed it gently onto his palm. He felt the weight of it, then rolled it between two fingers.
“It’s worth half a kingdom,” Pashman went on. “If you had it, your biggest problem would be finding someone to sell it to.”
“Exactly,” Chalika said. “Outside of the House of Manjur, who could possibly be interested in buying such a thing?”
Pashman shrugged. “But consider just the metal. This weight of star-iron on its own would fetch a thousand silver takir.”
“So you’re suggesting that we melt it down?” Chalika said, grinning viciously.
“Stars above, no,” broke in Gaudam, clutching the ring to his chest. He formed the sign of the pentacle. “You wouldn’t dare deface an item of this antiquity. It’s holy—”
“To you,” Chalika said.
Gaudam shook his head, and his brows closed together in fury. “Yes, to us, and do you imagine that we would break into the temple of Chaludra, melt down the golden images, and then make you pay us for the privilege of buying back the metal?”
“I don’t imagine anything,” Chalika said mildly. “I’m merely saying that an item of this value suffers because the number of potential buyers is small. The House of Manjur has the most interest, but as we can see, Manjur is the one who is lacking in funds.” Chalika pointed to Navran, then covered up his disrespect with a small bow.
“The people of Manjur would gladly sell every scrap of silver in our homes to reclaim this ring, if it ever came to that,” Gaudam said, his voice low.
“So why aren’t you paying now?”
All three of them looked at Navran. Navran spoke in a quiet voice, “I didn’t ask them. I don’t make my people poor to pay my debts.”
The room fell quiet. Arrows of hatred passed between Gaudam to Chalika. Chalika was unmoved. At last, Pashman spoke.
“What you’re both forgetting is that the rings aren’t being sold,” he said. “They are being offered as surety against a significant loan, which our lord and king Navran-dar promises to repay. So have either of you examined Navran-dar’s ability to repay?”
Chalika folded his arms and leaned back without saying a word. Gaudam furrowed his brow and set the ring down, saying nothing.
“As I expected,” Pashman said after a moment. “I, however, spoke with Vaija, house-master of the palace, and with the King’s Purse. A woman, if you can believe that, as comely as she is competent.”
“And?” Chalika said waving his hands in impatience.
Navran’s heart was in his throat. He didn’t know that Pashman had spoken with Vaija and Josi. If they had been honest….
“There are reasons for hope and for caution,” Pashman said. “The king’s income from tariffs and trade is strong—yes, gentlemen, those tariffs we pay every time our ships unload at the docks will come back into our own pockets, if Navran-dar pays his debts.”
“I pay my debts,” Navran said.
“Of course, my lord and king,” Pashman said indifferently. “But the expenses are unusual. Navran-dar is not a khadir, and has no holdings outside the city, so he supports himself and his household from the kingdom’s treasury.”
“What household?” Chalika said. “Navran-dar is alone.”
Gaudam shook his head. “But this has to be considered an advantage, as far as we are concerned. No holding outside the city to devour his time and his silver…”
“Thudra barely cared for his holdings once he become king,” Pashman said. “Nonetheless, an ordinary king raised from the khadir has a personal income aside from the treasury of the kingdom, and its lack has to be considered a problem. What when Navran-dar wishes to marry? A khadir would bear the expenses of the wedding from his own income, but for Navran-dar it will, of necessity, be paid by the palace. If he has a daughter and needs to pay a dowry, likewise—”
“That’s years away,” Gaudam said. “Surely we can’t be worried about weddings twenty years off.”
“And why not?” Pashman folded his hands behind his back. “Prudence, dear Gaudam.”
“In twenty years, Navran-dar should have paid his debts.”
“You hope,” Chalika injected.
“The palace,” Navran said. He had trusted in Josi and Vaija, and now it hung on them. “You’re right. I am no khadir. I depend on the palace. Is the palace well-run?”
Pashman hesitated. “Well, my lord and king—”
“I told you,” Chalika said.
“Don’t be so hasty,” Pashman said sharply. “I am pleased by what I hear. The previous king Thudra was prodigal and careless, which should surprise no one. Navran-dar has mostly labored under the weight of that inheritance. But both the Purse and the house-master are determined to set the finances in order. My inquiries make me think they’ll succeed once they emerge from the current crisis.”
Navran could hardly believe his ears. Pashman evinced more confidence in Navran than Navran had in himself. He made a note to thank Josi and Vaija alike.
“And let us not forget,” Pashman went on, “that our lord and king is willing to give his patrimony as surety rather than renege on promises made to a mob of peasants.”
Chalika snorted. “I’m not sure I count that as a virtue.”
“I count it as honesty,” Gaudam said.
“A man who keeps those promises will not quickly turn his back on the loan that we offer him,” Pashman said.
“No he won’t,” said Gaudam quietly, nodding to himself. “I, for one, vote that we proceed.”
“Well,” Chalika said haughtily, “I guess I can see whose side you and Pashman are on.”
Pashman shook his head. “I’m on my own side, Chalika, and for myself I see no reason to withhold a profitable loan from a man who can repay. Do you want anything else?”
Chalika looked from Gaudam’s scornful stare to Pashman’s mild, patient face, his own lips split in a sly smile. “No,” he said. “Nothing from Navran-dar. I do, however, have something to ask of my colleagues. Since you two have more confidence than I do in the value of the rings offered as surety, I put a condition on the loan. In the event that Navran-dar is unable to pay, I ask that Gaudam and Pashman pay me, in hard coin, the diffe
rence between my portion of the loan and the fair price that I’m able to get for the rings. Or for the star-iron in them, should I decide to melt them down.”
“You hissing cobra,” whispered Gaudam.
Chalika grinned impishly. “If the rings are as valuable as you insist they are, then you should be able to sell yours, make back your money off the loan, and you won’t have to pay me a thing because I’ll do the same. I’m merely protecting myself against your overestimation.”
“Just do it,” Pashman said wearily. “We know what it means to enter into a deal with Chalika.”
Chalika chuckled. Gaudam scowled, but nodded.
“I add one condition of my own,” Navran said. A strange feeling of dread and relief passed through him. He rose from his throne and approached the table. “You have seven rings: Manjur’s, and the six copies for his children. You each take two, but Manjur’s ring goes to Gaudam.”
“Fine,” Chalika said instantly, and the other two nodded. Gaudam put his hand on Manjur’s ring with reverence, and bowed his head.
Navran nodded to the scribe waiting in the corner of the room. “Write it down.”
The scribe brought palm-leaf pages, bamboo styluses, and ink. The formalities that followed tried Navran’s patience, as the exact terms of the loan and the amount of silver was specified, the master copy was written and pressed with Navran’s seal, and the copies written for each of the three lenders. When it was done, the three men rose with bows to each other and to Navran, then left under the palace guard. An armed escort would accompany them to their homes, receive their coin, and escort the coin into the king’s treasure house.
Gaudam was the last to leave. He hesitated a moment at the door of the throne room, clutching the silk purse at his chest which contained Manjur’s ring and two of the copies. He turned to Navran, a pained expression in his eyes, and said, “My lord and king, I am vexed. I wish… I wish that this wasn’t necessary.”
“So do I,” Navran said. “But I always pay my debts.”
Gaudam nodded. He dropped to his knees and prostrated himself. “I make obeisance to Manjur’s Heir, the chosen of Ulaur.” Then he rose and left the room, carrying away the star-iron ring.
Navran let out a long, anxious breath. It was done. Perhaps he would be the last of Manjur’s Heirs to wear the iron ring. Perhaps this failure would be his legacy.
A messenger appeared at the door of the throne room, prostrated himself, and said, “My lord and king, Navran-dar, I bring news from Davrakhanda.”
Navran raised his heavy head, took in the bright-eyed messenger, and heaved a breath. “Speak.”
The man nodded nervously. “I have two messages, one to proclaim, and one which is sealed for your eyes.”
“The one to proclaim?”
The man smiled. “Mandhi has given birth to a son.”
A son. Mandhi’s son. The news settled slowly through the leaden feeling in Navran’s gut. “Go on.”
“Mother and child are healthy and alive. She will give him the name Jhumitu.”
“The next Heir,” Navran said. A strange, light relief passed through him. There was another Heir. Even if he never sired a son, even if he died tonight, the line of Manjur would continue. “Who else knows?”
“No one, my lord and king,” the messenger said. “I came directly to you.”
“Then tell the saghada. A new Heir. Let the Uluriya rejoice.”
The herald nodded. “And the second letter, my lord and king.”
Navran received the wax-sealed cylinder from the messenger’s hand. “Find Bhudman and tell him to join me to read the letter.”
The messenger left. Navran sat on the throne and rolled the cylinder in his hands, picking at the edge of the wax seal. A few minutes later Bhudman returned and bowed to Navran.
“Read this to me,” Navran said extending the cylinder to him. “Everyone except Dastha and Bhudman leave the room.”
The scribe and guards at the door bowed and left. When the curtain over the entrance was still, Bhudman approached the dais and received the letter from Navran’s hand. He broke the wax seal and pulled out the tightly rolled palm leaf with a crackle.
“Would you like me to help you read it, my lord and king?” Bhudman asked.
Navran shook his head and rested his forehead against his hand. “Too tired. Just read it to me.”
Bhudman nodded. “This is… it is written in a woman’s hand, in an ornate style used in the north. Not Mandhi’s hand. But she has signed the bottom, so someone acted as her scribe.”
“Just read it,” Navran said.
The letter was brief but dense: Sadja is going to Majasravi to marry the daughter of the Prince Imperial, so he might soon have an heir of greater value than Sundasha-kha. I, Mandhi, suspect that he has designs beyond mere marriage. The ambassador of the Prince Imperial does not approve of Sadja’s meddling in Virnas, but the Prince Imperial could be convinced to recognize your ascension. I sent a previous letter which Sadja intercepted, but this one is sent by a new ally in the palace. To send a reply which Sadja’s men will not read, address a letter to Akshadur Nagiri-kha in Davrakhanda. Don’t trust Sadja.
Bhudman fell silent.
Navran swore. “Sadja-dar was the only kingly ally that I had.”
Bhudman dropped his head. “Perhaps you should get more allies.”
“And how do you suggest that I do that?”
“I, alas, am only a saghada. I cannot tell you how to forge bonds with the khadir.”
Navran looked down. “Thudra,” he muttered.
Dastha murmured. “I wouldn’t trust Thudra.”
“Don’t trust him. But he would know….”
“For now,” Bhudman said, “perhaps we should just wait. You need to celebrate the birth of the new Heir in Davrakhanda. Show confidence. Whatever Sadja-dar does, it won’t come to fruition tomorrow.”
Navran sighed. “And I thought I was solving my problems.”
Bhudman gave him a pitying smile. “The stars upon you, my lord and king. Celebrate now. The burdens of kingship will wait a few more days.”
* * *
Veshta, Bhudman, and the other leading Uluriya of the city admonished him that he couldn’t afford not to give a banquet, and Josi convinced him that the treasury could afford it now that the imminent threat of bankruptcy was gone. The army was paid and the old soldiers were largely gone from the city, returning to the villages and farms for the upcoming rice harvest, but the city was refilled with Uluriya pilgrims and sympathetic khadir to celebrate the birth of the new Heir.
Outside the palace, vast platters of rice, mangoes, chick peas, and lamb were enjoyed by whoever wanted to come, a chaotic ruckus plied by street singers, dhorsha, saghada, beggars, gamblers, drinkers; men selling candied rice, women selling homemade beer; storytellers, performers, prostitutes; every trade and estate and color of Virnas. The celebration was as rich and bright as the great festival of Chaludra—greater, in fact, for Uluriya joined and led the festivity.
Inside the palace courtyard things were more subdued. The area had been sanctified for the meal, so only Uluriya attended, and only those invited: the old rich families with delicately coiffed beards and hair in an exactingly correct style, with silver chains around their necks and clothes that smelled of sandalwood. They joined the new converts, merchants and khadir who felt that it was advantageous to be on the side of the new king, who wore their Uluriya beards and tied hair a little less comfortably, but attempted to compensate with greater displays of rubies and emeralds on their fingers and noses. Veshta was there, dressed in fine blue silk and holding forth as the keeper of the House of the Ruin rather pompously, and Gaudam, Navran’s new creditor, acting serious and burdened by the fact that Manjur’s ring was now hidden in his house, a fact which he mentioned constantly.
Navran received congratulations, over and over, through the whole night. The sun set, the pots of rice beer came out, spiced with cinnamon and honey, and served with oven-fresh rot
i and leaves of mint. The party rose to a fiercer pitch, but eventually the stream of well-wishers came to and end and gave Navran a little time to walk the courtyard.
He wanted to walk. There was a conversation he wanted to have, which he had been preparing since his mother died. Tonight was a celebration. It was a good time.
He found Veshta and his family standing underneath one of the orange trees, chattering amongst themselves. All of them were there: Veshta in his finery, resting a hand on Srithi’s shoulder. Srithi herself was dressed in a brilliant green and yellow sari and held the little Gapthi on her hip. The baby girl was swaddled in soft blue cotton from the arms down, but she squirmed and fussed and seemed determined to escape her mother’s grasp. Adjan and his wife Dhanmi stood near Amashi, the matriarch, and even their two children Habdana and Kidri were nearby, climbing in the lower branches of the orange tree. And Josi, standing alone a little ways away from Srithi, watching the children with a pensive expression.
Navran and Dastha approached. Navran accepted the family’s bows and turned to Srithi. “Srithi, Gapthi has grown beautifully. She’s twice as large as she was last time I saw her.”
Srithi blushed and looked down. “Thank you, Navran-dar,” she said. “You haven’t seen her much. She’s gotten difficult to carry.” She moved Gapthi to her other hip and tightened the swaddling.
“Still,” the elderly Amashi said, “it’s only a girl. But I’m sure that we’ll add a son to the family soon enough.”
Srithi bit her lip. Josi came close to Srithi and squeezed her shoulder.
“But you, Navran-dar,” Amashi went on, “You have a son now! The stars upon him.”
“Thank you,” Navran said. “Not really mine, though.” Amashi’s face tightened as if she were afraid she had offended him, and Navran quickly moved to correct her. “Jhumitu carries the line. Joy that Mandhi had him. Most important is to have an Heir.”
“Yes, yes,” said Amashi rapidly. “So long as the lineage of Manjur is secure, that’s what matters.” She continued nodding as if deeply impressed by Navran’s insight.
Gapthi continued to fuss, letting out a little cry of irritation. Josi said, “Let me take her for a moment, Srithi.”