by J. S. Bangs
“Are you sure?” asked the first.
“Yes! Now kill him before he burns us all alive!”
Kirshta gave up crawling. The men had nothing to fear from fire—his willpower had been drained to the dregs on the balcony, and he couldn’t reach the inner stillness now. He pushed himself to his feet and tried to run.
His only luck was that the stairs were so narrow that the men behind him couldn’t use their spears. His legs wobbled and his feet burned with pain. He made it half a dozen steps up the curving staircase before he collapsed to the stones, splitting his knees on a corner of the step. Pain is nothing. He rose again, forced himself another several steps, and fell through the doorway into the open floor of the barracks.
Behind him, yelling echoed. “Get him! Get the thikratta slave!”
Kirshta scrambled forward on his belly. Find a hiding spot. Find anything. Find—
A spear pierced his thigh. He screamed. He rolled onto his back. Groped at the gushing blood. Pain, fierce magnificent pain—pain he could handle, but he couldn’t ignore the blood spilling out on the floor. In the fringes of his vision he saw the man raise his spear again.
Kirshta groped madly for the inner stillness. It wasn’t there. Not with his weakened will, not with his lifeblood pouring onto the stones. He tried to command fire, but it was gone, too far from him, and he wasn’t strong enough to reach it. The spear glinted.
Someone leaped from the stairwell. Bodies crunched together. Plates of wooden armor scraped and crashed. The spear fell to the ground.
Kirshta pushed himself back. The Dhigvaditya tilted around him, and the edges of his vision grew gray. Too much blood spilled. Two men wrestled on the floor a few feet away from him, their forms blurry and dreamlike. His thoughts moved like leaves in muddy water.
More men came into the room. The last of his strength leaked out of his arms, and he collapsed. Warm blood spread like a blanket beneath him. The Dhigvaditya was a mass of senseless noise. Rapidly moving shapes which his eyes could not parse. He was falling now, darkness closing around him, sound growing distant—
Hands on his shoulders. Someone touched his thigh, and the jolt of pain revived him for a moment. A howl escaped his lips. Then hands touched his face, and a familiar voice was in his ear.
“Hold on,” Apurta said. “Hold on a few more minutes and you’ll be fine.”
“Apurta?” Kirshta whispered. His tongue felt like raw meat in his mouth. He wanted to say something, maybe something about Vapathi, maybe simply thank you. But his lips were as heavy as stones, and his vision dissolved into darkness.
* * *
He awoke in a dark, cool room. First he was aware of a ferocious hunger in his belly, gnawing and more insistent than any hunger he had faced while in the dungeon. Second he became aware of the pain in his right leg, a throbbing agony that almost masked the hunger. A bandage swaddled his thigh, brown with old blood.
No one was with him. Could he stand? He twitched his leg in a tentative gesture, but the dagger of pain dissuaded him from further movement. He didn’t seem to be in any danger, so no need to force himself. He let his leg rest. He dozed.
Someone came in. Kirshta turned his head to see one of the Red Men, red scarf draped loosely around his neck, carrying a basket.
“Oh, you’re awake,” the man said. “How are you?”
Kirshta took a moment to answer. “Alive.”
The man snorted. “Good enough. Eat something. Chadram wants to see you.”
A moment of relief. Being alive was proof that Dumaya’s men had not held the Dhigvaditya. If Chadram wanted to see him then he was safe. “How much time has passed?”
“Eh?” the medic said, his back to Kirshta. “Not even a day. We brought you in here this morning, and it’s about sundown. Hell of a day.” The man set a bowl of warm water and plain white rice next to Kirshta. “Can you sit up?”
“I can,” Kirshta croaked. He pushed himself up with his elbows. The man levered a stuffed cushion behind Kirshta’s back to help him sit, and set the bowl of water into Kirshta’s hands.
“You need to eat and drink,” the man said. “You lost a lot of blood, which you must replenish. Rice for now, and meat when your stomach can handle it.”
Kirshta nodded. He drained the bowl of warm water, which sat uneasy in his stomach, then raised the bowl of rice to his lips. As fierce as the hunger in his belly, he couldn’t eat more than a few grains at a time before exhaustion set in.
The medic watched Kirshta eat rice until half the bowl was gone. “You seem well enough. You keep eating that, and I’ll call for Chadram.” He disappeared through the arched doorway.
Kirshta ate the rice. He was awake and satiated enough to think clearly. He was in a small room with a straw-covered floor and an arched doorway that let out into a hall of smooth-hewn stone. A storeroom somewhere in the Dhigvaditya. The air was cool and damp. He was probably in the first underground level. Nearby he would find the entrance to the dungeon, he mused. If he ever wanted to go and really hone his skills as a thikratta.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Kirshta quickly ate the last of the rice and set the clay bowl down in the straw.
Chadram entered the room first. Kirshta bowed his head. “Chadram, my captain.”
“Kirshta,” Chadram said. His expression was grim and mirthless. He examined Kirshta from head to toe with military rigor. “When I sent you into the Dhigvaditya, I ordered you not to die. Did I not?”
“Yes,” Kirshta said cautiously.
“And you thought that the best way to accomplish that was to starve in a dungeon, then nearly be gutted by Dumaya, then get yourself stabbed in the thigh so that half your blood ran out onto the floor of the Dhigvaditya?”
“Yes, my captain. But I did not starve in the dungeon. My sister Vapathi brought me food enough.”
Chadram allowed a small smile to crack his veneer of seriousness. “Next time I expect you to pay better attention to your captain’s orders.”
“Yes, my captain.” Kirshta focused on the pain in his leg to keep himself from smiling.
“Additionally, Praudhu-dar was gravely disappointed that you robbed him of the right to kill the usurper Dumaya himself. Dumaya’s burned corpse has been put up for public mockery, but the Prince Imperial has requested that next time you leave his enemies alive so he can execute them properly.”
“My captain, your orders that I remain alive conflicted with the Prince’s desire that I leave Dumaya alive.”
“The Prince Imperial will hear no such excuses,” Chadram said. “And you’ll see him soon. We brought you a stretcher.”
Chadram stepped out to give another man room to enter. Apurta stepped into the room carrying a rolled-up stretcher.
“Apurta!” Kirshta said with relish.
“Kirshta.” Apurta dropped the stretcher and knelt next to Kirshta, kissing him on the cheek. “You rotten idiot. You almost died from that stupid spear wound before I found you.”
“I shall try not to die regardless of how many spears they stick in me,” Kirshta said.
“Better try not to get stabbed,” Apurta said. He smiled and sat back in a crouch. “That was quite a display that you put on up on the balcony there. Where did you ever learn to do that?”
“In the dungeon,” Kirshta said. Apurta raised an eyebrow. “Dumaya should have read more about the thikratta. Worst thing you can do is put a thikratta in a dungeon.”
Apurta grinned. “You’ll have to tell me about it. Actually, you’ll have to tell the Prince about it. I brought this thing,” he said, gesturing to the stretcher, “so that you can go talk to the Prince in proper style.”
“A stretcher? Where’s my palanquin?”
“Don’t get greedy, now,” Apurta said. “The Prince will knock you down to size.”
Apurta spread the poles of the stretcher wide, and he and the medic lifted Kirshta onto the mesh as Kirshta bit his teeth against the pain. They picked up the poles and carried Kirshta out the do
or following Chadram. The fabric of the stretcher pressed against Kirshta’s leg painfully, but he ignored it. Pain is nothing.
“When we get to the Prince,” Chadram began quietly, so that only Kirshta and Apurta could hear. “In fact I shouldn’t call him the Prince anymore. He began demanding imperial honors the moment we entered the Ushpanditya. I wouldn’t resist that if I were you, whether he’s given his dhaur to Lord Am or not.”
Kirshta pursed his lips in surprise. By custom, Praudhu was not fully Emperor until he made the ram offering to Am—but if everyone else was giving Praudhu the imperial honors, then Kirshta would be a fool not to comply.
Chadram marched Kirshta up a flight of stairs, through a stone doorway into the central yard of the Dhigvaditya. Kirshta was momentarily taken aback. The yard teemed with the chaos of Chadram’s army’s return. Red Men with gaunt faces and hardened limbs sat in clusters against the walls of the yard, their faces bright with the relief of having survived the long march to Virnas and back. The carts, tents, baskets, and jars which had formed their supply train were being unpacked haphazardly, and the servants and porters of the fortress milled about without any sign of hurry. Two casks of rice beer were set up in a corner of the yard, and a dense crowd of grinning soldiers waited to fill their bowls.
They passed through the yard and the central stone corridor of the Dhigvaditya to the Horned Gate. The bronze doors of the Horned Gate were thrown open, the massive curling horns of the ram’s skull split wide like welcoming arms. Few soldiers ventured into the palace; the traffic through the Horned Gate consisted of serving girls and couriers, some from Praudhu’s retinue, some from the Ushpanditya, all occupied with receiving the Emperor-to-be into his palace.
Chadram stopped to ask the doorman who waited inside the Horned Gate. “Has the Prince Imperial gone anywhere?”
The man shook his head. “Still in the Green Hall overlooking the garden. Should be for a while.”
They continued through the ground floor of the Ushpanditya until they reached the Green Hall, with its marble floor and the colonnade that looked out over the grand garden. A long, low table was set with the remains of a rich meal, lamb bones and stacks of cold roti strewn across the platters. Praudhu sat at the head of the table, talking voluminously with some courtier at his side. Two grains of rice were stuck to his chin.
Chadram led them before Praudhu. He laid down the sword that had been at his waist and prostrated himself to the floor.
“Praudhu-daridarya,” he said.
A king facedown in a pool of blood. The vision struck Kirshta with violence, and he grabbed at the poles of the stretcher to keep from shaking. The other details of the vision snapped into place: the carpet on which Praudhu sprawled was the carpet on which they now stood, the floor beneath it the green marble of this room. Now? No, not now. He felt it with the certainty of farsight. It was near in the distances reckoned by the Powers, but this was not the moment.
Praudhu grinned at Chadram with satisfaction. As he spoke, Kirshta saw blood seeping from his neck. He rubbed at his eyes to dispel the vision.
“I see you’ve brought me the little thikratta,” Praudhu said. He looked over Kirshta like a man examining a prize ram. “You’re still alive.”
Kirshta bowed his head. “Forgive me, my Emperor, but I cannot make obeisance as I should.”
“Forgiven. I won’t pick nits with you, since if it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be here in my palace enjoying my garden.” He made an expansive wave that took in the great garden, the colonnade, and the whole rest of the Ushpanditya.
“I did what I could to serve you, my Emperor,” Kirshta said. He affected the tone of abjection that great men expected from their servants. “Yet even I could not have done what I did without the aid of Vapathi—”
“Vapathi?” Praudhu said. “I’ve never heard of this woman.”
My sister, Kirshta was about to say, but a sudden flash of fear strangled the words in his throat. A premonition. Perhaps more. The certainty of farsight.
“My—my maid,” he said. “A loyal servant, someone that I knew when I was in Ruyam’s service. She helped me entice the men to conspire and open the gates of the Dhigvaditya so that Chadram’s forces could breach the outer wall—”
“Ah,” Praudhu said, with an expression of guarded interest. “Perhaps I’ll look for her later. But now I’m here to talk to you.”
Kirshta bowed his head and listened. Vapathi deserved as much reward as he, but he was just now in the Emperor’s favor, and he didn’t dare push too far.
“You’ve been Chadram’s pet for long enough,” Praudhu went on. “I’m moving you to the Ushpanditya.” He pointed to a porter waiting behind him. “Bring out the yellow.”
Kirshta’s breath caught. The porter opened a chest hidden behind the table and withdrew a bolt of dark yellow silk edged with black stitching. He bowed and laid the silk on Kirshta’s chest.
“I name you the Emperor’s Lotus, the official thikratta of the imperial court,” Praudhu intoned seriously. “The yellow silk is the symbol of your office. Let everyone who sees you give you the honor that you’re due.”
Kirshta bowed his head again, his heart thundering. The Emperor’s Lotus. There had not been a Lotus appointed since… since Ruyam had first become Lotus thirty-five years ago. He grasped for something to say. “You honor me, my Emperor. You honor me beyond what words may express.”
“I’ve arranged a chamber for you here in the Ushpanditya,” Praudhu said. He added parenthetically, “I had a thikratta advisor in Gumadha, but he’ll be staying at the Moon Palace. He wasn’t half as talented as you. Chadram, take the Emperor’s Lotus to the room designated. Ask the house-master where it is. And you,” he said, pointing to the medic, “Find the imperial physician to see after him. I don’t want a common field medic looking after the Emperor’s Lotus. Kirshta, what was the name of that maid?”
“Vapathi,” Kirshta said, bowing his head again. “But my Emperor, if I may make a request… may I keep her as my personal maid?”
“You wish to have her for yourself?”
“Yes. We knew each other in Ruyam’s service. We would both be rewarded if she served me and me alone.”
Praudhu nodded. “A reasonable request. The house-master will assign her to you. And this man….” He pointed at Apurta. “Chadram had already suggested making him your personal guard. Do you require more staff than that?”
Kirshta could barely contain the elation rising in his chest. “None at all, my Emperor.”
“Then you may all go.”
Chadram bowed to Praudhu again, then marched Apurta, Kirshta, and the medic out of the room. After inquiring with the house-master they carried Kirshta a short way through the passages of the Ushpanditya to the room the Emperor had set out for him.
It was the nicest room that Kirshta had ever called his own. He had a padded bedroll and a bronze-clad chest for his clothes—of which he had none other than the Lotus’s yellow, but perhaps the Emperor would provide others for him—a laver of painted faience, and a writing desk with reeds and a stoppered bottle of ink on it.
Apurta set him down gently on the padded bedroll. “Not bad,” he said, looking around the room. “Nicer than what we’ve got in the barracks of the Dhigvaditya.”
“Nicer than anything I’ve ever had,” Kirshta said wistfully. “Look, there’s shelves where I could keep books. Ruyam’s books are probably still in the imperial chambers. I should get them. And the whole rest of the imperial library….”
“I doubt that Praudhu-daridarya will be reading them,” Chadram said with a bitter undertone in his voice. He shot a glare at the medic. “Go find the imperial physician. I’ll have a word with the Emperor’s Lotus.”
The medic disappeared, and Chadram relaxed into a crouch next to Kirshta. “We might, finally, have some time to rest now. It’s been a long time. Kirshta, best of luck to you. And you, Apurta, are given into Kirshta’s service as his personal guard.”
“Yes, my captain,” Apurta said with a grin. He clasped Kirshta’s hand.
Chadram left. Apurta chuckled and relaxed against Kirshta’s new clothes chest. “Rest, eh? Haven’t had that for a while.”
The curtain over the door parted, and Kirshta’s heart leaped. “Vapathi!” he said.
Vapathi let out a shout of joy and bounded to Kirshta’s side. She covered his cheeks with kisses. Kirshta cried out, “Careful!” as she pushed his leg and sent up a jolt of pain.
“You’re alive,” she said. She squeezed Kirshta’s hand to her chest. “You’re alive. I heard the story of you and Dumaya—everyone did, there was nothing else anyone talked about in the Ushpanditya—but I couldn’t be sure you were alive. Some said you were, some said you were a pile of ash. But the Emperor gave the order to prepare a room for the Emperor’s Lotus, and I was sure it was you. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else.”
Kirshta kissed Vapathi’s hand. “I’d be dead or still in the dungeon if it wasn’t for you.”
Apurta made a noise of amazement. “You have a lover here, Kirshta? I thought that you thikratta had to be abstinent.”
“This is my sister,” Kirshta said. “But I didn’t want to tell the Emperor.”
“Your sister! I had no idea.” Apurta said. He hopped to his feet and gave Vapathi an exaggerated bow. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Vapathi mocked him with a smile. “Were you one of the friends who tried to send him to his death like Chadram?”
“Be kind,” Kirshta said. “Apurta saved my life. Without him, I would have bled to death in the Dhigvaditya.”
“Ah, so we’re a pair,” Vapathi said. “The society of people to whom Kirshta owes his life.”
Apurta laughed. “Not a bad society.”
Vapathi folded her legs next to Kirshta and gestured for Apurta to sit next to her. “I’m free for a while, at least until the house-master finds me and gives me something better to do. What do you say we stay here and try to make sure that no one tries to kill Kirshta in the next hour?”