Golden Daughter (9 page)

Thus Sairu smiled despite the cat, despite the Besur’s disbelief, despite her own heart ramming in her throat at the sights, sounds, and smells that beat upon her senses. Sights, sounds, and smells for which she had studied and prepared all her life, but which she had never encountered until now. Look! Was that a merchant of Ipoa Province peddling fine clothes? And there! Was that a blind widow begging alms from those hastening by? And here a thief picking a pocket, and there a lady of fly-by-night virtue wafting her fan, and here an onion merchant, and there a group of scuttling coal children, and there a pompous city chancellor, and there, and there . . .

So much
life!

Sairu shook herself and focused her gaze upon the figure before her, riding straight and poised on the back of the tall mule. On her right rode a temple slave who had been introduced to Sairu as Tu Syed. On her left rode a much older slave named Tu Domchu. Tu Syed was the leader, Tu Domchu his second, and four more slaves—two riding before Lady Hariawan, two riding behind Sairu—accompanied them as well. Six slaves in total, and no more. Sairu would not hear of a greater company.

She narrowed her eyes, studying what she could of each slave in turn. Tu Syed was a middle-aged man of expensive tastes, considered a figure of some elite status among his brethren. She saw in a glance that he had been born enslaved, but into a good house with all the right advantages. Thus he carried himself with a snobbish air that Sairu did not quite like. By contrast, Tu Domchu slouched in his saddle, spitting between gaps in his teeth and scratching himself vigorously from time to time. He was much older than the other slaves, and Sairu wondered why he should be included in their company at all. He would not have been her first choice.

The other four were less interesting. Loyal, she decided, but not to Lady Hariawan. No, their loyalty was to the temple and to the Besur. Not to their mistress. Certainly not to Sairu. This meant they could be trusted only as far as they could be seen, and no farther.

They’d probably made journeys rather like this in the past. Escorting a temple girl hastened off to the country because of “ill-health.” And they would return the girl a year later, all better again, and some family in the country had a new baby to feed, a new pair of hands to raise for work on the farm. This was not a new business to the slaves of the Crown of the Moon.

Sairu shuddered, and her smile slipped for the first time that day. She did not like the slaves thinking such thoughts about her mistress. Whatever else went on within the Crown of the Moon, Lady Hariawan herself was sacred, was pure. One had only to look at her to see as much! She was above such baseness, and no one would dare touch her.

Yet she did bear a hand-shaped burn hidden behind the veils of her pilgrim’s hat. It was a great puzzle. But, as with all puzzles, there was a key. And Sairu would work it out in the end.

They journeyed through the city most of that day, their mounts’ hooves clopping on stone streets or kicking up dust and debris on unpaved surfaces. The crush of people was immense, and Sairu often found mounted strangers so close to her that she could feel the warmth of their bodies. The sun was setting by the time they reached the outer walls, but the city went on for some while beyond that, stretching out into the surrounding landscape. It was dusk by the time they came to a road that could truly be considered
beyond
the boundaries of Lunthea Maly. And even here small encampments, some grand, some humble, lined the road for miles. Merchant caravans, traveling nobles, country folk seeking a new life in the big city. And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, more pilgrims.

They all had stories. They all had missions. They were all so interesting, and Sairu’s heart burst with the wish to know them, to study them, to read their souls in their faces as the Golden Mother had taught her. But no. She was commissioned now. She had but one goal, the all-consuming goal of her life: She must care for her mistress.

Then they came to a place that Sairu had never felt any desire to see, and all other thoughts were driven from her mind.

She felt it long before she saw it—a low cloud of misery spread across the landscape, reaching out as though to catch in its irresistible grasp those who passed by. Of course she had known all along that, taking the northern road out of the city, they must necessarily ride near this place. But somehow she had managed to make herself forget until they were nearly upon it.

Lembu Rana. The Valley of Suffering.

The nearer they came, the more little figures they passed on the road. Little figures wrapped in heavy bandages and rags, supporting themselves on canes or crude crutches made of fallen tree limbs. Many were missing their feet or hands, or even whole arms. They moved with their heads bowed and, at the first sign of someone coming, would dive off the road and crouch trembling in a ditch.

The road wound on, and soon Sairu found that if she looked to her right she could see into a valley high, naturally hewn walls on all sides, lined with stones to hold back erosion. She stared down at the village huddled below, where the living dead gathered in their misery to eke out a sort of life for themselves. Until their bodies at last betrayed them and they succumbed to their sickness.

Succumbed to leprosy.

Sairu shivered. She felt the unease in Tu Syed, Tu Domchu, and the others as well. One of the young slaves even cursed several times, loud enough that Tu Syed scolded him, and he apologized to the ladies present. Sairu, however, did not blame him. She felt like cursing, herself.

Only Lady Hariawan did not react. Indeed, to all appearances she was entirely unaware of the horror near which they passed.

And soon they were passed Lembu Rana and into the farther roads, both the great city and the lepers’ village well at their backs. They proceeded at the plodding pace set by Lady Hariawan’s mule, their only light the glow of the Lady Moon and her children above. The donkeys began to pull at their bits and reach for scrub to chew, and even the mule put back its ears and began to drag its feet. Still Lady Hariawan did not call a halt.

“She’s not going to,” Sairu whispered suddenly. She twisted her neck, which crackled with soreness, for she had never ridden so long in one stretch before. But Lady Hariawan would keep on riding, riding, riding until her mule dropped dead . . . or she herself did.

She could not be trusted with any decision-making.

“We’ll make camp here,” Sairu declared in a loud voice, and the slaves, all of whom had fallen into an uneasy stupor, startled and looked around at her. Who was she, after all, to speak for the mistress? Nothing but a handmaiden!

But Sairu urged her donkey up beside Lady Hariawan’s mule. She found Sticky Bun, held gently, fast asleep in the lady’s arms. Lady Hariawan herself stared into the space between her mule’s ears and did not seem to hear Sairu when she spoke.

“My mistress, you are tired,” Sairu insisted, and reached out to touch her arm. “We must rest now.”

Sairu’s fingers scarcely brushed the heavy wool of the cloak, but Lady Hariawan startled and turned to her with wide, staring eyes, nearly dropping Sticky Bun, who growled and wriggled in protest. Lady Hariawan gazed unseeing at Sairu.

“Please, my mistress,” Sairu urged gently, saying again, “you are tired. Let us stop.”

Recognition slowly crept into Lady Hariawan’s eyes. She nodded slowly but said nothing even as Sairu issued commands to the slaves. Tu Domchu and a younger slave helped their mistress down from the mule and placed her upon some blankets out of the way; she might have been nothing more than a porcelain doll to be dressed, propped up, and ignored. Tu Syed ordered his brethren to build one fire for her and another for themselves a little ways off. Slaves though they were, they were not about to share their meal or fire with a woman, much less with a temple girl and her handmaiden.

Sairu unpacked a large purple eggplant from among their supplies and placed it near the fire to roast. Then she set about erecting a tent and making other small preparations while her dogs milled about her feet and whined piteously for their own supper. All this time, Lady Hariawan sat still as stone and scarcely seemed to see the flames of the campfire under her fixed gaze.

The cloak slipped from her shoulders. Though the evening was cold, she made no move to draw it back into place.

“What a baby you are!” Sairu exclaimed when she found her mistress sitting so exposed, nothing but her light gown to protect her from the night air. “A helpless baby! Did no one teach you even to keep yourself warm?” She wrapped the cloak back in place and, when Lady Hariawan made no move, picked up one of her mistress’s hands and made her clutch it at the throat.

“There,” Sairu said, and cast an irritable eye over her shoulder at Tu Syed and the others, none of whom had noticed Lady Hariawan’s state. A useless lot they were, they and their condescending noses!

Frowning, which felt uncomfortable on her characteristically cheerful face, Sairu pulled the roasted eggplant away from the fire and dug her knife into the top of it, loosening the skin. She worked efficiently, burning her fingers only slightly in the eggplant’s hot juices. And she watched her lady across the flames.

Sticky Bun lay at Lady Hariawan’s side, hoping for pettings and signs of affection that never came. Yet he remained beside her, though Dumpling and Rice Cake took up their usual positions on either side of Sairu, watching her work with intent eyes, in case the strips of eggplant skin might miraculously transform into beef jerk.

Suddenly Dumpling growled. Sairu glanced at him and saw his head come up, his pushed-in nose begin to twitch. Rice Cake echoed him a moment later, and then Sticky Bun, still pressed to Lady Hariawan’s side, followed suit.

It was that cat.

Sairu, her eggplant peeled, sliced it in half and, using the tip of her knife, began to flick the little seeds out of the fleshy center. All the while, her eyes scanned the darkness beyond the firelight. That cat was near, she was certain of it. Whatever and whoever it was, it had followed them from the city, stalking them out here into the night.

The dogs’ growling continued. They never forgot a scent. Then they silenced as swiftly as they’d begun, their heads settling down upon their outstretched paws, their plumy tails thumping the ground expectantly.

Sairu pulled a small pot of oil from her supplies and splashed a drop or two over the eggplant pulp. Using a stone, she began grinding and twisting, making a mash that she seasoned with a little salt and other assorted spices. As she ground, her mind worked swiftly, turning over what she knew and what she had yet to find out. None of the dangers the Besur spoke of had given Sairu a moment of concern.

But this cat . . . this cat was a different story.

“Did you really kill the snake?”

Sairu startled, almost failing to recognize the sound of her mistress’s voice. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Did you really kill the snake?”

Lady Hariawan’s gaze fixed on Sairu’s hands as they mashed the eggplant. Sairu did not answer at first, trying to discern what the question might mean. Then she laughed, recalling the story she had told the Besur that morning. “Oh!” she said. “You mean that tale of the snake in my bed? Dear Anwar, no. I’m not so stupid as to get myself bitten, and I have no interest in killing without need.”

Lady Hariawan continued to watch the grinding stone, saying nothing. How did she feel, knowing Sairu had intentionally deceived the High Priest? Was she shocked? Angry? Appalled?

Did she feel anything?

The mash complete, Sairu scooped the eggplant into a wooden bowl, sprinkled it with more herbs, added two pieces of flatbread, and handed it to her mistress. Lady Hariawan accepted it but did not eat. She stared at it. As though she stared at the stone-crushed skull of a serpent.

Sticky Bun, sensing an opportunity, put his flat nose up to the bowl, determining whether or not he dared to help himself. Sairu spoke his name sharply, and he backed down, pink tongue lolling, bright gaze fixed. Sairu served her own meal and was well into it before Lady Hariawan spoke again.

“But you do kill?”

Sairu swallowed her mouthful slowly, considering her words. “I can,” she said at last. “I have.”

“Have you ever killed a man?”

Something in Sairu’s gut churned, and she suddenly hadn’t much appetite. She lowered her bowl, trusting Dumpling and Rice Cake not to take advantage, and studied her mistress across the fire. Lady Hariawan was still staring unseeing into her own bowl.

“I have never killed a man,” Sairu said, a knot forming between her brows. “We make a point not to, generally speaking. We are protectors, not killers.”

“But you could kill.” Lady Hariawan’s face was empty, faraway.

“You needn’t worry about that, my mistress,” Sairu said. “You needn’t worry about anything. I am here, and I will protect you, and no one and nothing will harm you.”

“I do not worry,” said Lady Hariawan. But she put up a hand to her cheek. One long finger lightly traced the shape of the burn.

Suddenly Lady Hariawan put her bowl down before Sticky Bun and said, “Eat, dog.”

Sticky Bun did not wait for a second invitation. He fell to with a will and was soon joined by both Dumpling and Rice Cake, eager to share in such bounty. Sairu stared, surprised. She never spoiled her dogs, never slipped them tidbits, but obliged them to wait until after she had eaten before receiving their own meals. She opened her mouth, wishing to protest but unable to. A lifetime of careful training killed the words on her lips. A Golden Daughter did not contradict her master. Or mistress.