Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The young Muslim was about to make extravagant promises, but there was something in Saint-Germain’s penetrating gaze that stopped him. “I think I might be able to. With Allah’s aid.”

  “Of course,” Saint-Germain said dryly. He went to the largest of his worktables and without warning banged two metal pots together and let out a whoop that sent a shudder up Jalal-im-al’s spine. Saint-Germain replaced the pots and said, quite conversationally, “I promised the night steward some unearthly noises: it’s best that he hear a few.”

  Shortly thereafter, as Saint-Germain was shaking a wooden tub filled with pebbles, Rogerio came into the room. He was neatly dressed, and there was nothing in his manner that implied Saint-Germain was behaving oddly. “There was a noise,” he said.

  “Yes, and there are apt to be more for a while,” Saint-Germain said in Greek. “We have a visitor, as you see. He tells me that the worshipers of Kali are abroad. When he arrived he told me that the entire Delhi mission had been slaughtered. In the morning, you will find out if this is the truth, as I suspect it is.” He had left the tub alone and was blowing down the neck of a thick glass cone. The noise it made was eerie, and Jalal-im-al pressed his hands to his ears.

  “And the visitor?” Rogerio was also speaking Greek. “What of him?”

  “We must hide him, and well. As soon as it can be arranged, he must be sent away from here.” He struck one of the brass chests with a large stone. “That should be enough for the moment.” Then he gave his attention to Jalal-im-al again. “Do you know Persian?” he asked in that language.

  “A little. Well enough,” came the answer, strongly accented but quite acceptable.

  “Speak no other language until we’re away from here,” Saint-Germain warned him. “There will be those who know the tongue of Delhi, but they will not know Persian, or will not expect to hear it from a Sultan’s man.” Saint-Germain caught his lower lip between his small white teeth as he looked from Rogerio to the Muslim and back again. “I think that Loramidi Chol might be the best one to ask. He knows I have a student, and has not seen him.”

  “Who is this man?” Jalal-im-al demanded. “What person do you speak of?” He fought a rising panic as decisions were made for him.

  “This man is a merchant, very well-respected. He does a great deal of trading with the lands of the Sultan, and it would not be impossible, if you were willing to disguise yourself, that you could leave this place with him.” Saint-Germain read Jalal-im-al’s offended expression correctly. “Better to go disguised and live than to keep a proper dress and die,” he pointed out.

  “But a merchant, and an Infidel…” His objection faltered as he recalled the charnel house he had left behind. “I will wear a disguise.”

  “And speak Persian,” Saint-Germain reminded him gently. “I have lived much longer than you have, Jalal-im-al, and I have learned that too much pride is a dangerous luxury.”

  For once Jalal-im-al did not wish to dispute the matter. He gestured his acceptance as the last of his strength deserted him. “I will do as you tell me to do.”

  “Good. For the moment, I tell you to rest. Rogerio, take him to my quarters and make up a bed for him in the corner, away from mine. I will want it removed before the slaves come to sweep in the morning.” He gave the young Muslim a quick smile. “You will be wakened early, so do not linger now. You may sleep the day out, if you wish. So long as you are not restless and do not talk in your sleep.”

  Jalal-im-al made a sign to protect himself from evil. “Those who speak in their sleep are the tools of demons and Allah will turn his face from them.”

  “Quite possibly,” Saint-Germain said affably. “But for the moment, to bed with you. Rogerio, watch over him,” he added, once more in Greek.

  “And you?”

  “I’ve got to find the access to the place above the ceiling without rousing suspicion. An hour before dawn, come to me.” He was already walking about, looking up, making note of the structure of the room, checking the length of the beams. “Oh, and Rogerio—if there should be any questions, I conjured up demons to aid me last night. Boast of it to the slaves. You may be as inventive as you like short of claiming I destroyed the house entirely.” His tone was light but tense and Rogerio knew enough not to question his master at such times.

  “At the hour before dawn,” he said, and led Jalal-im-al from the room, promising the young man that he would not disturb him until it was necessary to do so.

  When Rogerio returned to Saint-Germain’s laboratory, he found his master standing on a stool that had been put on a table. He was making a last adjustment in a section of the ceiling. “Is that ready?”

  “I think so. The space above is cramped, but not impossible. If the weather stays chilly he will want a blanket, and perhaps a layer of bedding against the boards. It will muffle sounds, as well.” Saint-Germain climbed down off the table and dusted the front of his clothes. “I’m fairly sure that part of the ceiling will stand all but the closest scrutiny. I’m delighted that there was so much ornamentation painted between the beams.”

  “But what will you do with him?” Rogerio neither looked nor sounded distressed, but there was concern in his eyes.

  “I will send word to Chol, and I think it will be fairly easily arranged. He is aware that he can demand a high price for such a service, and this will work to our advantage.” He took the stool off the table and set it on the floor. “I think you’d better take a few of those sapphires I made last week and put them out. By now the slaves will have learned that I was engaged in large conjurings last night, and will expect me to have something to show for it. I’ll give one to Padmiri, and that should satisfy the household.”

  “Very well, I’ll get out the jewels. Anything more?” Rogerio’s reserve was more telling than his opposition would have been.

  “You disapprove, old friend. Why?”

  “It’s a great risk. There is danger enough without this. If he should be discovered, he will die, and Padmiri, and you and I. You don’t like Jalal-im-al. You’ve said that before. Yet you do this for him.” Rogerio went to the Roman chest and opened a concealed drawer.

  “True enough. I don’t like him much. But I understand how he must feel, having seen what he has seen.” His grief was clear as still water: he no longer resisted or denied it. “The warriors of Jenghiz Khan, the men of Kali, they’re the same madness.”

  Rogerio said nothing more. He came back to the table, his hand held out. In it rested three sapphires, two blue and one black, each beautifully starred. “Here. The largest has a tinge of purple in it. Padmiri would be complimented.”

  Saint-Germain touched the sapphires. “Yes. An excellent choice. Leave them near the copper pan. The slaves will be sure to see them, and they will gossip about them.”

  “And Loramidi Chol? When do you send word to him?” Rogerio arranged the sapphires beside the pan as he had been told.

  “Not today, I think. It will be better tomorrow. Once word reaches here from the palace of the killing of the Delhi mission, there will be an uproar. It will be wisest if we do not intrude in this. However, since I have made such fine jewels, it will be unremarkable that I wish to obtain more supplies. Tomorrow I can request Chol visit me and it will be assumed that the sapphires have exhausted my resources. You might hint as much if you are asked questions,” Saint-Germain added with an amused twist to his mouth.

  “Of course.” Rogerio started for the door. “I’ll wake Jalal-im-al now, if you think it wise.”

  “Yes. And I will spend the day resting. After last night, no one will think it strange. I will have time to think, and to restore myself. Also, I will not have to answer too many questions.” He indicated the place in the ceiling. “Make sure that it is properly closed once Jalal-im-al has concealed himself.” He paused to look at the jewels, then spoke more briskly. “We should have him away in six days, eight at the most. Feeding him may be awkward, but it will be accomplished somehow. For the time being, we can find bread
, and tonight there should be other edibles we can filch for him.”

  “I can say that you have asked for local food as part of your studies.” Rogerio was still carefully neutral.

  “No, I think not. It might rouse suspicions. Everyone can understand eating food, but experimenting with it? Better to steal a little of it than create needless puzzles.” He had reached the door, but made one last comment before going through it. “Jalal-im-al is an impetuous, brave, foolhardy young man. Be certain that he understands that he will have my aid only so long as he does precisely as I tell him to do. If he disobeys me in any way, I will abandon him to whatever fate Tamasrajasi wishes to give him. I have heard that it took the eunuch who killed her father four days to die. Tell him that.”

  Rogerio nodded once. “I will do what I can.”

  Saint-Germain chuckled. “My old friend, disapprove of me if you must, but remember that I do not require that you stay with me. If you wish to leave, tell me, and it will be arranged.” His eyes had grown somber and he gave his servant a long, steady look.

  “I have been with you since that rainy day in Rome. I would need more than pique to leave you.” His austere features creased into a fleeting smile, and he was no longer rigidly disapproving.

  “You reassure me,” Saint-Germain said easily, but with utter sincerity. Then he was through the door, and Rogerio was left alone in the laboratory in the predawn half-light.

  A memorandum from the reservoir builders to the chamberlain of the Rani Tamasrajasi.

  Most respectfully, we of the building supervisors at work upon the reservoir begun on the order of the Rajah Kare Dantinusha request that the chamberlain of the god-favored Rani Tamasrajasi place our questions before her.

  The reservoir, as perhaps you are not aware, is more than half completed, and there must be certain critical work done now if the structure is to withstand the onslaught of the rains, which will begin in about ninety days. As we must undertake these tasks almost at once, we most respectfully beseech the Rani to make her decision known to us at once. If we delay in these precautions, then the structure will be unsound and will doubtless be much damaged by the rains. It is not certain to us that the Rani wishes the reservoir to be built, and if she determines that the work must be abandoned, though it was the wish of her father that the work go forward, then it is senseless to keep so many men laboring at a grueling job that is not to be continued.

  Let us assure the Rani that if she is determined to have this reservoir made, then by this time next year it will be almost complete and the gardens around it may be planted. That is not so long a time to wait for a beautiful and pleasure-giving place to emerge from what has been little more than a marsh.

  Already the waters have risen behind the dam, and a good portion of the land that was bog is now under the waters. It will not be long before the fringe plants die off and the lake will begin to clear. There is sufficient rock on the floor of the lake to allow for the building of kiosks and pavilions on the various islands that are to be constructed. It is a matter of greatest importance and honor to those who work on this construction that we have the approval of the Rani, as we do not wish to offer her or the memory of her father an insult by being desultory in carrying out her orders.

  With the knowledge that the Rajah ordered a good and pious act when he ordered work begun on the reservoir, we ask that the Rani consider her answer in this light, for it would be most lamentable that we do not complete this. The gods will have their will accomplished, no matter what we do, but the will of the Rajah is in accord with that of the gods and it is most wise to be acquiescent to the demands of the lord as well as the gods. No one intends to instruct the Rani in piety, for it is manifest in every aspect of her life. Yet we know that one young, new to majesty and filled with the uncertainties of women may falter when it is best to proceed. We wish her to know that we are all wholly inclined to finish the work that has been begun, for her honor, the honor of her father and the honor of the gods.

  With all duty and humility, we ask that you, her chamberlain, bring our plight to her attention soon. We will keep working until we have orders to desist. However, we must also have shelter and food for our workers, and that has not been furnished of late. There are requests, also, for timber and cut stone which have not been attended to, and so our industry flags. We ask that you mention this when you bring this to the Rani’s attention.

  May the bounty of the gods be yours, and may the Rani rule long and enjoy all the fruits of their favor.

  The Building Supervisors

  for the construction of the

  Rajah Kare Dantinusha’s reservoir

  9

  Not a single lamp burned in Padmiri’s house: it loomed up against the darkened bulk of trees, anonymous and troubling. Beside its massive shadow the feeble glimmer from the lights of the slaves’ quarters was pathetic, a swarm of fireflies teasing a sleeping elephant.

  Saint-Germain drew in his horse some distance from the house. He had been in the saddle since midafternoon, when he had entrusted the heavily disguised Jalal-im-al Zakatim to Loramidi Chol. It had taken most of the morning to convince the little merchant that it would be possible to get Jalal-im-al out of Natha Suryarathas safely, but he had capitulated at last when Saint-Germain had offered him a handful of gold. He had been glad to conclude the meeting, and anticipated a diminishing of his anxiety. Instead of a lightening of mood, however, his thoughts had grown darker as the day faded. Now, as he waited, looking at the house, a cold fatalism possessed him. He dismounted and looped the bridle reins over a nearby branch. Next he adjusted the scabbard that hung at his right side—he fought equally well with either hand, and had learned that carrying his weapon on the right occasionally gave him an advantage. The katana’s hilt was somewhat longer than he was used to, so he slung his belt a little lower on his hip. Satisfied, he gave the horse one firm pat on the flank, then started toward the enormous blackness of Padmiri’s house.

  Near the slaves’ quarters he paused, silent and stealthy as a cloud passing the moon. He could hear the hushed voices from within, and the occasional louder admonition to be quiet. There was a section of wall near a window where the moonlight fell all dappled with forest leaves, and it was there Saint-Germain crept, then pressed close to the wall, an irregular darkness in the uneven shadows.

  “… against the Rani,” one of the older slaves was saying in a tone of suppressed emotion. “If it were otherwise, the gods would have deserted us and the country.”

  “But they say that Kali is her goddess,” a younger one put in, “and if that is so, her devotions will not allow that protection.”

  “Our mistress is the Rajah’s sister. She would not be mistreated for such ends unless she herself desired it. The gods would not take her as an unwilling sacrifice,” the older slave insisted.

  “Do not speak so loudly,” a tired voice interrupted.

  “Then where is she?” demanded one of the others, wholly ignoring the request for lowered voices. “If the soldiers did not take her away, what has become of her? Where has she gone?”

  This was a question none of them wanted to answer, and Saint-Germain, knowing the uneasy hush for what it was, began to fear.

  “The soldiers were here to aid her. It was the foreigners whom they sought, not our mistress.” This was a new voice, with a superior inflection. Saint-Germain thought the man must be one of the higher-ranking household slaves and not one of the more menial ones. The ranking and authority among the slaves was as rigid and complex as the relationships of one caste to another. When a well-placed slave spoke, the others heard him out with respect.

  “Then why did they take only one of the foreigners, and our mistress disappear from her own house?” This voice was angry.

  “She is with the other foreigner. Bhatin said that he has been her lover, and practiced terrible barbarities on her.” A greedy laugh followed this announcement.

  “The soldiers have taken both the servant of the foreigner an
d our mistress,” the angry voice insisted.

  “And the other foreigner, the master, has fled.” Saint-Germain recognized this voice—it belonged to a eunuch who guarded Padmiri’s house. Saint-Germain had intended to ask one of these men what had happened while he was away, but now he knew that it would not be possible.

  “The foreigner is a magician, and a man of the West.” The pronouncement was the most complete condemnation, and although Saint-Germain had heard himself spoken of in similar and less complimentary terms many times in the past, the barb still struck home.

  “And the soldiers said that he is a creature of Shiva.” Now the slaves were truly shocked, awed by the terrible implications of that statement. Shiva, who danced in serenity on the unholy Burning Ground, who was lord of graveyards, dead, and undead things—his creatures all evoked dread in his worshipers.

  “Our mistress did not think so,” the man muttered, but the others hushed him; it was some time before any conversation began again, and this time the slaves spoke of inconsequent things.

  Saint-Germain lingered near the window a fair time, but he gleaned nothing else of interest, and that alone served to increase his apprehension. What had happened here while he had been gone? The question had returned to plague him. The soldiers had come. Whose? Tamasrajasi’s? Thuggi? Troops sent by the Sultan to avenge the death of his mission? The soldiers had taken one of the foreigners, who Saint-Germain was certain was Rogerio. Where had he been taken? The soldiers had wanted the other foreigner, no doubt himself. Why? And Padmiri was missing, either also a prisoner, or perhaps something worse had befallen that admirable woman. His fingers moved as he recalled the texture of her hair. The day before, he remembered with an immediacy that made him have to stop the melody in his throat, he had taught her two Western songs, one in Greek, one in the corrupt language of the Franks. Between that time, when they had laughed together at her lilting mispronunciation of the words, and this time, she had left her house, for soldiers had come there. Saint-Germain would have liked to be able to demand the truth from the slaves huddled in the chamber on the other side of the wall, but it was useless. None of them would admit to knowing what had become of their mistress, least of all to him. Whatever had happened to his servant and Padmiri, Saint-Germain would have to find out on his own.