"There is a lot of fat on a goose," Tulsi agreed, bending over to watch; the spark caught and brightened, giving a wavering illumination to their confines. "Yama," she said as she recognized the god on the wall. "Is this his temple, do you think?"
"No. There are no signs of it," Sanat Ji Mani said distantly as he nursed the fire into life. "It may be this was a last retreat position, where death was all that was left." He added the first branch to the fire and was pleased to see it catch quickly. "Come. You need to prepare a skewer for your goose."
Tulsi squatted down beside him. "I already have." She held up a straight stick about the length of her forearm. "I will manage from here."
"Very good." He glanced up at the narrow opening where the smoke was drifting; beyond the stones the sky was beginning to pale. "Just in time," he said, more to himself than to Tulsi.
"Can we rest here for a day?" she asked as she pushed the stick through the goose.
"The day after would be a better day to rest," he said. "We will be farther away from the ford, and therefore harder to find if Timur-i should decide to look for us." He paused. "And there is something I must do: I will have to rest at least two days after I do it."
She heard the tentative note in his voice; she looked around. "What is it?"
"I must remove this staple from my foot," he said as calmly as he could. "I cannot continue with it in place."
"Can you do that?" She was so startled she almost dropped the goose into the fire.
"Yes," he said flatly. "I can remove the staple. But once I do, I will have to rest—"
"Are you sure you can do it? It will take strength, and there will be pain." Her expression grew more apprehensive.
"I am aware of that," Sanat Ji Mani said as gently as he could.
Tulsi collected herself. "There will be blood, and festering. You will need a long time before you can walk."
"Those of my blood do not fester," said Sanat Ji Mani, "but we heal very, very slowly. I will be able to travel, but I will limp for some time, probably as badly as Timur-i limps." He attempted a smile to hearten her.
"But for two days you will need rest," she said, her attention more on the goose than on him, for the first, fragrant sizzle fired her hunger.
"Yes, two days at least; and darkness," he said.
After a long moment during which the tips of the goose's wings began to char, she said, "And blood."
* * *
Text of a letter from Rishi Harata Medha, priest of Shiva at Delhi, to Sultan Nasiruddin Mohammed bin Tughluq; carried by mendicants.
* * *
To the Sultan of Delhi, Nasiruddin Mohammed bin Tughluq, for whom the favor of his god Allah is given in misfortune, the greetings of Rishi Harata Medha, priest of Shiva in your city of Delhi.
The puppet of Timur-i Lenkh who is said to rule here has continued to impose the rule of plunder that brought this mighty city low three months since. The people of this city suffer many cruelties and deprivations on account of this man. You would not believe the devastation wrought here, or the afflictions of your people, for they are almost beyond the capacity of words to describe.
Of the many people who lived here, only one in five remains, and in such abject misery that many wish for death to end their woe. The wells have been contaminated by the men of Timur-i, who threw severed limbs and heads into the wells during their destruction, so that now all the water is foul, but for the river water, and it is suspect, for the soldiers who remain here— and there are about a thousand of
them— have made their latrines upstream so that we cannot rely on the river for wholesome water, either. When half the garrison leaves, which it is said they will do when the rains come, the river may be kinder to us. As it is, the few of us remaining here have had to send our two surviving slaves out of the city to the wells in the east, which requires crossing the river and carrying barrels a long distance. This is an onerous burden now, but when the rains come and the river rises, it will be impossible.
The soldiers regularly make fires of the wrecked buildings in the city, and often the fires spread. In the last month, over a hundred sacked houses have been burned to the ground, and more will be burned before the next full moon. Which they shall be we do not know, but eventually all will be claimed by fire. When there is nothing more to burn, I cannot imagine what these fell men will do. Timur-i's sycophant who claims to rule here has ordered that stone buildings are to be demolished in order to build up the walls and other fortifications of the city, and so what fire does not consume, the soldiers will bring to ruin another way. Soon Delhi will be nothing but rubble and ashes, unwanted by any ruler, and inhabited only by rats and vultures.
Let no one say the people remaining here lack courage: everywhere those who have survived try to go about their lives as best they can, knowing that at any instant, the soldiers of Timur-i might ride them down in the streets, steal all of what little they have left, or any number of other hideous things. Those who can take what they can salvage and slip away in the night, hoping they are not caught escaping, for then their fate is appalling: they are tied by arms and legs between trees and the archers use them for target practice; what becomes of their women— for there are still a few women in Delhi— is so loathsome that only Kali would welcome such offerings.
I do not know how much longer I will be able to report to you; my temple is of stone and may soon be taken down for repairing the breaches in the walls. When that happens, I, too, will join those streaming out from Delhi to wander the roads, begging for bread and water. Perhaps your Allah has routed our Gods in this place and is exacting a high price for our obduracy; Gods may be cruel but they cannot be unjust, or so your religion has taught. Since I can see no probity in the rulings meted out to us, I must believe that Shiva has
allowed this to happen, and that if we lose this temple, we will find another away from this city. Until that time, I will do my utmost to report to you as often as I am able, so that you will know what has become of your once-glorious city now that its enemies have brought it low.
Rishi Harata Medha
priest of Shiva at Delhi
5
Djerat reached the edge of Kabul on a windy afternoon; from the rise south of the city she could see the banners of Timur-i's army skidding on the wind, and she sighed her relief; it had been a long journey, she had lost another mule since striking out on her own, but finally she was back where she knew she was welcome. She drove around the edge of the city to the encampment on the north-west side of the walls, knowing she was a strange sight, with the tent on her wagon half-gone, the stays holding it upright broken, and her harness made of ropes instead of leather; she began looking for the tents of entertainers, trusting she would not be stopped before she reached them. The odor of cooking lamb made her stomach growl, for she had not eaten more than a handful of boiled lentils for the last three days.
"It's Djerat!" shouted the stilt-walker as he saw her approach down an avenue of wagons and tents. "Look! She's alive!"
There was a bit of excitement as this news spread, and it grew, accompanying her along the avenue between the wagons and tents; half-a-dozen tumblers came out of their tents to welcome her back, and one of them did a back-flip in appreciation, then a few jugglers hurried toward her, one of them throwing axes in celebration. A few women came out of the entertainers' tents, one or two of them smiling. More shouts of greeting came, and finally Keiglu, the Master of Jugglers, came from his tent— the largest of those in the entertainers' sector— and motioned to Djerat to stop her wagon. "Djerat: what a
happy surprise; we counted you among the lost," he said to her without any of the usual formalities of welcome.
"And so I thought I was, many times, since the moment we were overset into the river," she said, tugging her worn hempen reins before climbing down from the driving-seat. "On the road here I often feared I would never see Timur-i's army again." She matched his brusque manner with her own. "It has been a difficult task to get here."
"I should think it was," said Keiglu, awaiting an explanation.
"I am famished. My mules are, too. Let us have something to eat and then I shall tell you everything," she said. "And something to drink. We are all thirsty, my mules and I."
"No doubt," said Keiglu, and clapped his hands. "She is hungry. See she is given some food." Two of Kailua's slaves went scurrying off to do his bidding while he approached her wagon. "You have much to account for," he said, turning from her wagon to her.
"I will need a new wagon; I will do what work I must to get it— I expect no favor," she conceded under his narrow scrutiny. "I was afraid I would lose a wheel before I reached this place. If you look at them, you will see why. One is not straight on the axle. The roads are rocky and without help, alone and unguarded, some of the places through which I passed…" Her words straggled off. She stopped herself from an unseemly display of weakness. "You traveled here. I need not tell you how the roads are."
"Some are very hard," Keiglu declared as if to accept an apology. He came up to her. "Yet you came back to us."
"Yes. I came." Djerat could not conceal her pride in her accomplishment; she stood a bit straighter. "It took many, many days, as any who can count will know, but I was not discouraged."
"That is to your credit," said Keiglu. "Yours is a feat worthy of praise."
A few of those in the crowd gathered around shouted agreement, and someone hooted a cheer. There was a murmur of comments that moved through the crowd with the wind.
"Why did you come back?" Keiglu asked, so casually that Djerat sensed a trap.
"Wherelse should I come? this is my home. You are my family." She looked around, trying to smile. "I belong here: with you."
"Yet you return alone," said Keiglu. "What of Tulsi Kil? What of the foreigner with the burned skin?"
"They are… gone," she said, and was about to go on when a skinny man in ill-fitting clothes came through the crowd gathered around her and her wagon; Djerat gazed at him a moment, her thoughts uneasy, then she went on, "They left my wagon days ago, when I turned north to find you."
"Then they are still alive?" Keiglu asked.
"I cannot say. I would doubt it," Djerat replied. "They had little food, few supplies, and his foot is in Timur-i's stirrup. They cannot travel fast or far. They cannot fight. There are only two of them. No, I do not think they would live long in such conditions."
"How many days ago was that?" Keiglu held up both hands, fingers spread. "More than this?"
"Yes," said Djerat. "I recall it was sixteen days ago." It was nineteen, but Djerat was wary of the skinny stranger, who was known to be Timur-i's spy.
"Tell me the whole of it," said Josha Dar. "I will give my report to Timur-i himself, for he will want to know what became of Sanat Ji Mani."
Djerat spat. "Him! He was worse than anything! Useless foreigner!" She pointed at Josha Dar. "You will tell Timur-i that his high regard was wasted on that foreigner; he is well-rid of that feckless creature."
A buzz of conversation went through the gathered throng: this smacked of intrigue, and all of them wanted to hear more.
"Why do you say that?" Josha Dar inquired, so politely that Djerat felt sullied by him.
"What good is he— was he? He has some skill with herbs, but so do half the women in this camp. He could set limbs, but any farrier can do that." Djerat looked directly at Josha Dar. "You may say what you like, I know this man is a leech, living on the good opinion of those gullible enough to believe his claims."
"But he served Timur-i," said Keiglu, upset by Djerat's animosity.
"He did nothing to deserve your praise?" Josha Dar asked, almost servile in his manner, which distressed Djerat far more than Keiglu's distress. "Well?"
"He did care for my mules. He is good with mules," she said reluctantly. "In his way he is clever, but he did not show more than competence in other matters. And because of his skin, he had to ride under the tent by day, as indolent as a dancing girl. What kind of man does this?" Too late she remembered that Timur-i had had a white-skinned brother. "His eyes are dark, remember, not red."
"Still," Josha Dar said quietly, "it might be best not to say that too frequently." He leaned forward. "How did he and the tumbler come to leave you?"
Now the crowd was fully engaged, and a few of them tried to move closer to hear her answer; Keiglu frowned, and a few moved back, but most paid him no heed, watching Djerat, their expressions intent, most of them holding their breath. In spite of her dawning apprehension, Djerat was secretly delighted to be the center of so much attention. She wished she had had a little time to neaten herself before talking to Keiglu and the rest, but she determined to make the most of this opportunity; she had been preparing her account for days, rehearsing it mentally as she followed Timur-i's army along the hard mountain roads.
