"I invited you; you make it sound as if I commanded you," said Vayu Ede.
"Given the way in which I and my companion have been received, I would not think a command would be so unexpected." Sanat Ji Mani's features were world-weary now, reflecting his long experience with the high price of favor.
"There is some truth in your expectation," said Vayu Ede.
"And what truth is that?" Sanat Ji Mani inquired. "How am I expected to express my gratitude?"
"It is a good thing that you know when to be grateful. But you have no doubt learned such things in your travels," said Vayu Ede.
"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani, somewhat puzzled by this remark.
Vayu Ede said nothing for a short while, then remarked as if resuming a conversation, "You have some experience of war, have you not?"
"More than I want," said Sanat Ji Mani.
"Ah, yes; many brave men say this as they get older. No doubt you have had time to think about all war has done for you." Vayu Ede tried to appear nonchalant, and failed. "You said your father's land was usurped by your enemies."
"That was a long time ago," said Sanat Ji Mani, thinking back through the intervening centuries to the Carpathians, and the kingdom his father had maintained there.
"Your father and his father and his father before him ruled there: do I understand that correctly?" Vayu Ede put his scroll into the pouch on his belt.
"I told you that some days ago," Sanat Ji Mani said.
"Bear with me for a while, if you would," said Vayu Ede. "Your enemies came from the East, or so you said. Have I got that right?"
"The east and the south," said Sanat Ji Mani, remembering the clients of the Hittites who had over-run his father's kingdom.
"You had allies in the West?" Vayu Ede asked, his tone of voice unchanged.
"I do not know if you would call them allies: those of my people who could escape went westward. It is not quite the same thing. Eventually they settled in a new land; they became a new people, and forgot the old kingdom in the mountains, or most of them did." Sanat Ji Mani had seen where his people had gone, more than a century after they had been defeated by the Romans, when their new kingdom was old.
"A kingdom in the West," said Vayu Ede.
"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani. "West of where the people began." He was careful not to name the people or the lands they had occupied; he was sure that Vayu Ede wanted to know those things, and by holding them back, Sanat Ji Mani felt he had not given up more than he should to this odd old man.
"I see," said Vayu Ede, thoughtfully pulling at his lower lip.
Sanat Ji Mani waited for what was to come next; he did not move, nor did he do anything to suggest he was uneasy. When Vayu Ede
stared at him, he endured it without staring back. He finally said, "If you have no reason to keep me here, I would prefer to return to the palace."
Vayu Ede behaved as if he had not heard this. "You have said you saw Delhi in ruins, did you not?"
"I did," said Sanat Ji Mani. "It was a direful sight, one I should not want to see again, or its like." He tried to read Vayu Ede's expression and failed.
"You also said you were bound for Lahore when you and your companion were accidentally separated from Timur-i's army— do I have that right?" Vayu Ede offered Sanat Ji Mani an encouraging smile.
"Yes. That is what happened," Sanat Ji Mani answered.
Vayu Ede put his hands together in a gesture of contemplation. "A most interesting account. We hear many things in this part of the world but we rarely have the opportunity to have a first-hand report given to us. It is most helpful to our plans. I thank you for this."
"I cannot imagine how any of this will serve you, but if something I have said is useful, I am glad of it." Sanat Ji Mani squinted up through the leaves, trying to calculate how much longer he could remain exposed and not burn again.
Vayu Ede noticed this. "You are uncomfortable." He looked up toward the sun. "I do not want to cause you any more discomfort. Return to the palace, if you like."
Sanat Ji Mani rose. "You are kind; I thank you."
"Your thanks are appreciated," said Vayu Ede. "I will remember them in times to come." He leaned back as if he intended to rest a while.
It was a curious remark to make, Sanat Ji Mani thought, but said, "Your gods favor and care for you." He began to move away.
"Sanat Ji Mani," Vayu Ede called after him, as if a last detail had just occurred to him, "it is a pity about your limp."
"It is inconvenient," Sanat Ji Mani responded, not quite agreeing.
"And you came such a long way on foot, in spite of it," said Vayu Ede.
"With Tulsi Kil's help," Sanat Ji Mani said, puzzled by these remarks.
"Ah, yes. The tumbler. A most interesting companion, I should think; capable in so many ways," he said, and waved Sanat Ji Mani away.
Sanat Ji Mani returned to the palace, trying to decide what Vayu Ede had wanted of him, that he had summoned him to the garden for a conversation that might have taken place anywhere and at any time. He made his way along the now-familiar corridors, his thoughts preoccupied and somewhat troubled. By the time he reached the room assigned to him and Tulsi, he was more concerned than he had been when he left the garden; he stepped through the door and was mildly worried that he did not find Tulsi waiting for him. He recalled she had spoken of her plans to bathe, and, deciding she must have gone to the bath at the end of the hallway, he left his room and went to seek her out. At the door of the bath, he called out her name. "Tulsi. May I come in?"
The answer was a moan.
"Tulsi!" Sanat Ji Mani cried out. "What is it?"
"Can… not…" Her voice was weak and thready, and there was the sound of feeble thrashing in the water.
Sanat Ji Mani waited no longer; his strength was not as great as it would have been had his native earth been in the soles of his shoes, but concern fueled his body and he was able to shove the door inward, off its hinges, the noise as loud as an explosion. He stood for an instant, taking stock of the room with its three deep marble bathing pools set in the polished granite floor, and one lavish fountain; satisfied she was alone, he moved to the deepest of the three where Tulsi was holding onto the rim of the large marble basin, her face the color of milk-curds, a mess of metal-scented vomit on the stones. "Tulsi! What has happened?" He did not wait for her answer, pulling her from the water and into his arms with all the urgency he could summon.
"Poison. I think." She looked up at him with glazed eyes. "It was… the fowl… or the sweet rice-gruel." Her voice was hoarse and each word emerged as if with spikes attached; even breathing seemed painful for her.
"How?" Sanat Ji Mani demanded, then went on, "Tell me later." He wished he still had his vials of medicaments to treat her, but he had run out of them more than two months ago, and could not avail
himself of them now. Very gently he laid her down on one of the sheet-covered couches that lined the wall. "Lie still. I am going to bring you water; I want you to drink as much of it as you can, to flush out any lingering poison." He brought one end of the sheet up across her body to dry her.
She blinked. "I… was sick."
"A good thing, when you are poisoned," said Sanat Ji Mani as he searched for the ladle to bring her water from the fountain. When he could not find it, he filled his cupped hands and brought her water that way.
Tulsi sputtered as she attempted to swallow, her eyes apologetic all the while. "I did not… think…"
"That anyone would do this?" Sanat Ji Mani said, his ire concealed under attentiveness. "I would not have thought so, either." He blamed himself that he had not expected something of this sort: anyone enjoying the favor of a ruler— even so minor a one as Hasin Dahele— would acquire enemies as a matter of course: a foreigner like Sanat Ji Mani would be likely to attract more rancor than the usual courtier. "I should have been more on guard, Tulsi; I am sorry you have been hurt on my account."
"No… oh, no," she said, and tried to hold on to him as he went to bring another handful of water.
"You have paid a price that was mine, not yours, to pay," he said as he filled his hands again, wishing that they were not so small. He came back to her side and trickled more water into her mouth. "This is not your battle."
"If it… is yours," she said, coughing once, "it is mine." She coughed again, and retched, her face turning dark red.
Sanat Ji Mani rolled her onto her side and braced her while she cast up the last of what had been in her stomach. As she began to sob, he held her, ashamed that he had exposed her to such danger; he wrapped the sheet more securely around her. "It is my fault you are hurt," he said, angry with himself for allowing this to happen. "You have only tried to care for me. There is no reason you should have to suffer on my account."
"No," she said. "You have… nothing to… apologize for." Her lids were getting heavy, and there were tears on her face.
"We will settle that later," he said finally, gently wiping her cheeks. "Let me bring you more water. I do not want any of the poison remaining in you to do more damage." He went to fetch some more, all the while mastering his temper: there was a time, perhaps fifteen hundred years ago, when he would have confronted Hasin Dahele to demand answers for how this had happened, but the intervening centuries had taught him discretion; now he realized he would have to approach this more circumspectly, or leave them both exposed to other assaults. As he carried his handsful of water back to Tulsi, he steadied himself as he prepared to nurse her, for he would not entrust her care to anyone else.
"I…'m sleepy," Tulsi muttered as Sanat Ji Mani put more water into her mouth. "Let me… sleep."
"You will rest shortly," said Sanat Ji Mani. "For now, I am going to clean the floor and then take you back to our room."
She blinked, chagrined. "You should not… it is… wrong."
"Tulsi, I have done far worse than clean floors in my time," he said, and went to get a floor-brush and a rag from the basket containing all manner of cleaning gear.
"You must not…" Tulsi protested again.
Sanat Ji Mani ignored her as he scrubbed the vomit from the floor and concealed it in the rag. "There. No one will know what happened here," he said as he stood up. He took the rag to the servants' door and dropped it in the basket where other rags were collected. "When they come upon this, they will not be able to tell what happened, or who took care of it."
"I never meant… that you…" She tried to sit up and groaned with the effort.
"No, Tulsi. Stay where you are. I will carry you." He took stock of the room, his swift perusal catching all the details of the baths. "It is all right."
She held out her hand to him. "I… am so… sorry," she whispered and began to weep in earnest.
"You have nothing to be sorry for. You did not poison yourself," he said grimly as he went to pick her up. "Your arms around my neck, if you please, and your head on my shoulder," he told her as he carried
her toward the door he had ruined. He paused on the threshold for a moment, wondering why the sound of his breaking in had not brought servants running; the reasons that occurred to him were all sinister, and left him feeling more worried than before. He had had enemies before who had moved against him by stealth: Cyprus was still a vivid memory, as was Frater Ignazius.
"I can walk… if you… put me down," Tulsi offered, not quite struggling to get out of his arms.
"It would be best if I carry you, so no one will know you have been hurt," said Sanat Ji Mani, making his way along the corridor to the room they shared. "Let those who are watching us think we are having a tryst."
"How can they?" she asked, smiling weakly.
"They will see what we want them to see," Sanat Ji Mani told her. "For now, it is useful that they not know of your ordeal."
"Why not?" she asked as he carefully lowered her down onto the bed.
"Because we do not know who poisoned you, or why, and it is important that we not let the poisoner know he succeeded," Sanat Ji Mani said, touching her face tenderly. "Let him believe he has failed in his efforts, and he may reveal himself."
"But… might he not… strike again?" She put her hand to her throat. "It burns."
"It will improve," said Sanat Ji Mani. "You have my Word."
She nodded, and pinched her nose to try to stop her tears. "I… This is… foolish."
"Never mind," Sanat Ji Mani said, and straightened up to look for a serving tray that might contain the remnants of her meal; the servants had removed it. "That is inconvenient," he said to himself.
"What is?" Tulsi stared up at him.
"I was hoping to find out what poison was used," he said. "I would like to have known."
