“And you smoke hashish, don’t you?” Saint-Germain inquired gently.
“That’s another matter entirely. You have smoked it, haven’t you?” He had known a great many foreigners who were both repelled and fascinated by the dream-inducing substance.
“No.” He knew that there was no euphoria for him in the acrid fumes, no visions.
“Then, being an infidel, you must drink wine,” Jalal-im-al said, with the unctuous rectitude of youth.
“No. I do not drink wine.”
Jalal-im-al knew that he had made an error with this foreigner, but was at a loss to know how to recover himself. He plunged on, fearing that his silence now would not be wise. “Are you amenable to teaching me? If it is a question of money…”
“It is not,” Saint-Germain murmured as he continued to touch the strings of the bicitrabin.
“Then you will consider instructing me?” He made a move as if to get to his feet.
“I did not say that.” He stopped playing and looked at the young man. “You admit that you wish to meet Padmiri. All right. This much I will do. If you will come to her house, I will see that you meet her. Beyond that, I don’t know what more you will want of me. If you have any interest in studying the Great Art”—his tone indicated that he doubted this was the case—“you may speak to me then. But I warn you, Jalal-im-al Zakatim: if there is the least hint that you are seeking to use or harm Padmiri, you will not be allowed near her again and you will regret your action. My word on it.” His very calm made his words more frightening. Saint-Germain studied the face of the young Muslim when he had finished speaking and was soberly glad that Jalal-im-al had taken his promise to heart.
“You will introduce me,” Jalal-im-al said, scrambling up. He had moved too hastily and his foot caught on the hem of his djellaba so that he nearly stumbled. “I will come within ten days.” That was as little a time as propriety required for such introductions.
“As you wish.” He began once more to play, and he did not look up when he heard the soft, retreating steps of the young man from Delhi.
He was still playing when the banquet was finished and a few of the guests came into the reception room. They were men of high rank and caste, most of them part of Rajah Dantinusha’s court, although there were a few representatives from other principalities in attendance. Everyone was gorgeously attired and the conduct was formal and as abstract as a dance. Saint-Germain glanced up occasionally, and the plaintive melody of a Norman love song came from the bicitrabin as he watched.
In a short while, Jaminya drifted over to the window embrasure and nodded down at Saint-Germain. “You are surprising,” he said with good humor.
“How?” He attempted to play a run of chords, but gave it up after a few jangling mistakes.
“You have admitted to knowing alchemy, and Padmiri has said that you have great erudition, but I did not know that included music.” The poet leaned on a nearby pillar, his lined face amused.
“I have always loved music,” Saint-Germain said rather remotely. He began to adjust the treble strings, which had been losing pitch.
“You play Western music on the bicitrabin,” Jaminya pointed out, as if Saint-Germain might not have noticed this.
“Yes.” He recalled an anthem he had heard in Lombardy fifty years before. “This may please you, though it is Western.”
When the notes died away, Jaminya cocked his head on one side. “Yes, it goes well enough. It is too simple for my tastes, but that is not necessarily detrimental.”
“If you prefer, I will play you music I learned in China.” He was curious about the poet, sensing that the man wanted more from him than simple diversion.
“No, I have heard that noise—nothing but plunk-plunk and wailing. Your Western music is more interesting.” He folded his arms and waited, not quite meeting Saint-Germain’s eyes.
So Saint-Germain played awhile longer, drawing melodies from his memory as well as letting the music invent itself as his hands roamed over the strings. When he had done a fair amount of this, he set the instrument aside. “You wish to say something to me.”
“No, nothing of import. There are a few minor matters you may wish to discuss, and I have a question about Western poetry. Nothing that can’t wait.” The intensity of his eyes said otherwise.
“Perhaps if you joined me. I was thinking of strolling in the garden.” Saint-Germain stood up as he spoke. Whatever it was that Jaminya wished to tell him, he would not do it here.
“The garden. Yes, the garden is quite pleasant.” He no longer lounged against the pillar. “The Rajah will not wish to hear any of my work declaimed for some time yet. Poetry is truly the breath of the gods, and for that reason should not be offered until the mind is free of the table.” He went to the nearest door and opened it. “This way is quickest.”
And least observed, Saint-Germain added to himself as he followed the poet out onto the terrace above the gardens.
Rajah Dantinusha had lost a great deal of the grandeur of his forefathers, but this little country estate could not have been improved by wealth. Two streams had been diverted to run through its lush gardens and there were flowering shrubs everywhere. The house sat in a pocket on the mountain slope and seemed wholly isolated from the capital until the crest of the ridge was reached, and the city could be seen stretching out below, a day’s ride away. Now at sunset the hillside was drenched in a pinkish glow that gave the garden and the extensive villa a glamour and an enchantment that those in the gorgeous reception room missed.
Jaminya breathed deeply. “That is a perfume I prefer to incense,” he remarked fairly loudly.
“Splendid,” Saint-Germain agreed with a wry twist to his mouth.
“And the flowers I mentioned to you are this way,” he went on as they crossed the terrace and descended to the pathways of the garden. “What I wanted to say to you,” the poet murmured as they set off along one of the walkways, “is that there are spies in Padmiri’s household and one of them at least will do what he can to discredit you.”
Saint-Germain was not alarmed by this news. “I assumed that there were spies. But what would any of them want with me? You say that I am in danger of being discredited—how?”
Jaminya stopped by a large bush which was covered with fading blossoms no larger than a thumbnail. They were a soft red in color and their fragrance was almost overpowering. “These are among my favorites, small as they are. Dantinusha likes the enormous blossoms and Tamasrajasi only wants flowers for sacrifice and holy things. I like flowers for what they are, not for their show or their other uses, but as beautiful, short-lived treasures.” He looked around; and added, “I don’t think we were followed, but be careful in what you say and how loudly you speak.” He bent over the bush and breathed in the scented air.
There was a question that had been bothering Saint-Germain since the poet had come up to him. Here, in this deliriously scented garden, he felt it cruel to test his companion, yet he asked, “Why do you warn me, Jaminya?”
The poet gave him a swift, sharp glance. “Do you truly wish an answer?”
“Yes, I do.” Saint-Germain took the sting out of his response with a hint of amusement. He stared away over the bushes, watching the sun’s rays turn from rose to amber.
“Very well, I will tell you.” Jaminya grew tired, less effusive, with grimness behind the shine of his eyes. “First, it offends me to see one who has given hospitality generously used so as a reward. I don’t hold you responsible for this—anyone would have provided the excuse. Second, I have long been a friend of Padmiri, and she has been one to me, and this insults her, so that I, too, am insulted. Third…”—he lowered his voice again—“I am afraid of Tamasrajasi.” He picked three of the flowers and put one in his hair, holding the other two in his hand as he strolled on. “When the rebellion occurred three years ago, I thought that half the country was being bribed to watch the other half. I see this starting again, all the lying and intrigue, and I am worried.”
Jaminya faltered and the flowers in his hand dropped unheeded to the pathway. “Padmiri has been kind to me and those I have loved. There are not many at court who would risk such generosity. She has let me use her house when I have wanted to be private, and she has consoled me when the love ended.”
Saint-Germain said nothing. He had not thought that Jaminya had been one of Padmiri’s lovers, but this confession did not trouble him. He listened to the calling of birds and waited for the poet to go on.
“I am one who loves men, not women. I have not taken a wife, though the Rajah has asked me to do so. Padmiri helped me when I refused Dantinusha’s request. He listened to her, at least that time. She has given me more than he has, I think.”
They had come to a fork in the path and Jaminya indicated that they should go to the right. The track followed the course of one of the streams for a little way, meandering through banks of flowers. Here and there clouds of insects rose humming like miniature storms. This Jaminya waved away and Saint-Germain ignored. A bit farther on there was a glade, idyllically situated.
“If I were to love a woman, it would be Padmiri,” Jaminya said as they came into the glade.
There was the distant sound of a breaking branch and Saint-Germain turned toward it, his senses acute.
“There is a herd of deer in the garden. They often wander at this time of day,” the poet said.
“Are you certain that was a deer?” Saint-Germain asked, being reasonably convinced that it was not.
“Of course.” Jaminya’s laughter did not ring quite true and he moved more quickly. “How like a foreigner—give you a warning and you see menace in every tree branch.”
“An old habit,” Saint-Germain said, his voice once more becoming sardonic.
“Perhaps it’s Thuggi. They say that the killings are happening again.” This time his laughter was distinctly nervous. “It is growing dark,” he said gratefully. “It might be wise to start back.”
“Indeed it might,” Saint-Germain said, remarking as they made their way somewhat hastily through the garden, “It was good of you to warn me. I doubt anyone else at this court would be concerned.”
“It is not you, foreigner, it’s Padmiri. I’ve told you that.” He fell silent again and by the time they returned to the terrace, his expression was brooding. He stopped Saint-Germain before they went into the reception room. “Have a care. There are those who will want to harm her through you. If that happens, I will be your enemy.” His attractive lined face was harsh and many of the court would not have recognized the ferocity of his voice.
“I would not want to bring any harm to Padmiri,” Saint-Germain said, holding the poet’s eyes a moment. “I thank you for the warning. I will heed it.”
A movement behind Saint-Germain distracted Jaminya, and he made a smile that was like a wound in his face. “Say what you want about your Western gardens, I still maintain that these are finer than any other.”
“Your passion for gardens!” Guristar scoffed at Jaminya as he came up to the two men. “I admire beauty, and I value the loveliness of this garden, but Jaminya is like a man preparing to sacrifice to the gods. Only the most perfect is appropriate.”
“You are so with your horses,” Jaminya pointed out before he bowed and moved away from the door.
“A most gifted man,” Guristar said to Saint-Germain as he watched the poet make his way through the crowd.
“I have not yet read his work,” Saint-Germain said diffidently, hoping to forestall an argument. “The poetry of your language is beyond my learning; it is more subtle than my understanding, though I very much admire the forms your poets employ.”
Guristar managed a polite answer. “It is a great compliment to say so, for one of your wide experience must be formidably educated in such matters.”
“Not so formidably as all that,” Saint-Germain said, ending the matter. He started toward the window embrasure where the bicitrabin waited, but Sudra Guristar was not finished with him.
“A moment, foreigner. I need a word with you.” He made sure that Saint-Germain had turned back toward him, then ambled up to the stranger, all studied arrogance. “You don’t know our ways well enough to know when you are being insolent, Saint-Germain.”
“I thought that I did,” Saint-Germain said urbanely. “Strange how a man may be misled.”
Guristar glared at Saint-Germain, then forced his features into grotesque goodwill. “Earlier this evening one of the Sultan’s men was speaking with you.”
“Yes. He’s interested in alchemy,” Saint-Germain said promptly, thinking that Guristar’s intent could not be as transparent as it seemed. He studied the Commander of the guard without seeming to. The man was filled with a jittery tension, an ill-concealed and ill-omened excitement. “He wants to study with me.”
“What did you tell him?” The demand came quickly, and Guristar, recognizing an error, tried to minimize it. “You understand, we are anxious to see the Rajah’s sister protected.”
“Are you.” Saint-Germain brushed his dagged cuffs as if ridding them of lint or vermin. “I haven’t given the young man my answer. Unless I am satisfied that his interest is genuine, I will refuse his petition.”
Only a dread of magic kept Guristar from bursting out in anger at this impossible stranger. He dared not risk curses or other malefic influences on the eve of so dangerous an enterprise as he was embarked upon. “Be aware, foreigner,” he said, almost choking on the words, “be aware that you are here on sufferance. As a demon may enter a house and bring disease, so there are other demons that might rise against you to punish your impiety.”
“But alchemy is not impious,” Saint-Germain protested, all innocence. “If it were, the Rajah would never have sent me to his sister.”
Guristar wanted to challenge the foreigner in black. He contented himself with the vow that when the time came for his end, Saint-Germain would not die quickly or cleanly. He showed his teeth. “Say what you will now, Saint-Germain. And be warned that no man escapes his fate.”
“I will remember,” Saint-Germain promised him, then turned away from the Commander of the guard and strode to the window embrasure.
This time the music would not come. Saint-Germain seated himself between the two large resonating gourds and placed his fingers on the strings, plucking slowly. The sounds that came from the instrument were discordant and Saint-Germain told himself that the treble strings had slipped again, though he did not believe this. He stared at the pegbox and began to turn the tuning pegs, fingering the strings, and each tone seemed worse than the last. He sighed and moved the bicitrabin away. His thoughts were too divided now. Reluctantly he rose, not wishing to rejoin the party, but no longer having the excuse of playing to keep him away from the others.
Ab-she-lam Eidan approached him first. He was magnificently robed, but he had carefully avoided using jewels that might be more impressive than Rajah Dantinusha’s. His eyes were grave but he had been at court far too long to allow his gravity to show on his face. “My young assistant tells me that you are reluctant to teach him alchemy.”
“That’s correct,” Saint-Germain said. He wished now that Padmiri had agreed to come to this feast. She had said that she had endured enough court functions to sate her for the rest of her life, and was delighted that Saint-Germain would make it possible for her to refuse this summons gracefully.
“Why is this? Let me speak to you a moment on his behalf.” He gestured authoritatively toward a low, padded bench.
Saint-Germain declined to sit. “Ab-she-lam Eidan, I appreciate your determination, but nothing you can say will force me to reach a decision until I have seen how the young man conducts himself with my apparatus. I will make no judgment until then.”
“Do not be hasty, Saint-Germain. The wise man reflects on his decisions and seeks guidance from Allah.” He placed his hand on his ches
t, and a large stone glowed on his middle finger.
“I will not be capricious.” Again he moved away, seeking some inconspicuous place where he could watch the other guests and sort out his thoughts. There were too many currents running in this river, and it seemed to him that they would result in a whirlpool if they converged.
Beyond the reception room were a number of alcoves, most of them overlooking the garden, nine of them with low couches and perfumed lamps. In one of these alcoves there was an elaborate brass chest standing open, and Saint-Germain discovered a number of scrolls in the chest. After signaling for a slave to bring flint and steel, he looked through the scrolls until the slave returned and the hanging lamps were lit. It was more of a precaution than a need, for Saint-Germain’s vampiric eyes could read as well in the dark as the light. The scrolls were faded and in an ancient script that he deciphered with difficulty.
The night was far advanced when he at last set the scrolls aside. All but one of the lamps had guttered and the rest of the alcoves were dark, though from the sounds, two of them were occupied. Saint-Germain returned the scrolls to the chest and sat back on the narrow couch, his mind drifting to other times, other places. He remembered walking in Athens in a bright spring rain, looking up to see the gaudily painted frieze on the Parthenon. In Nineveh there had been a priestly ceremony when gongs had been sounded in the streets all through the night so that no one would sleep and thereby insult the gods. Rome, with three of his blood lying broken on the sands of the Circus Maximus, and Olivia’s arms around him as he hung in fetters. The Temple of Imhotep and healing. A desperate ride out of Milano when Barbarossa was through with it the first time. Tunis ravaged by a plague that turned faces slate-color before gasping, shivering death. And then, so quickly that he was not prepared for it, the face of T’en Chih-Yü when he had found her after the battle, and the absolute loss of her. Grief sank into him, sword-sharp. For his kind there were no tears, and only his soul could cry out in the sorrow and acceptance of loss. The pain that had ravened him, denied, at last began to diminish. Slowly he stood up and went to the window, staring blindly out over the garden as he felt T’en Chih-Yü slip away from him, to join his other memories. He decided that he would leave Rajah Dantinusha’s estate that day and return to Padmiri. There was solace in the woman, and a curious empathy.
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