Sword of the Deceiver (11 page)

Damman led him through the open sitting rooms into the bedchamber. Only one of the hanging lamps still burned. In the dim light, Samudra saw his mother propped up on her pillows, her head lolling back on the fine linen sheets she had always preferred, and her eyes closed. Her normally busy hands lay on the gauzy coverlet, thin and still.

His heart beating hard, Samudra knelt beside her. “Mother?”

Slowly, Mother turned her face to him, and to his horror he saw it was blighted by dark scabs where the skin had peeled back. “My son,” she whispered hoarsly. “I have missed you.”

She moved her hand toward Samudra and he took it gently. More scabs roughened her palm. The room was close and warm, but her bony fingers were cold. “How are you?”

One corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. “I am tired, as I’m sure the daughter of my heart has told you.”

“You do too much.” He made the statement on reflex. He could think of nothing else to say, seeing her there so weak and listless.

“Bandhura agrees with you. She has been so good as to take many of my burdens onto herself so that I might rest more completely.” The words were mild, even grateful. Only one who knew her very well would hear their edge.

“Surely that is what you need.”

“Surely.” She spoke to the ceiling now. “As you were needed to supervise the collection of tribute. Asking you to lead the expedition to repel the Huni would have been too grave a strain as you are still recovering from the death of your father four years ago.” She knew then. Sick and weak, maybe dying, she knew what had been done.

No!
he wanted to shout.
No, I do not want this. I want my home, I want to lead my men and follow my brother and the Mothers
. Bitter shame filled him, but those selfish desires did not abate. “Mother … where are Ila and Tustia? And Saryu?”

“Ila was sent to Lady Teshama to be her head waiting woman. It was Bandhura’s judgment that she should have an opportunity to make a brilliant marriage in that province. Tustia is herself married now, to the lord of Nagishi Province.”

“So quickly?” Tustia was Samudra’s half-sister, his closest in age and the one he cherished most.

Mother shrugged a little and pulled her hand from his to wave it upward, toward the ninth ring, where the Pearl Throne waited. “The emperor was most anxious to see to the change of administration there. The former Lord Nagishi was found to be diverting tax monies for his own use.”

“But …” Samudra shook his head. “Tustia was betrothed to Tasham.” Tasham had soldiered at Samudra’s side when they were both still youths, but he had never developed a taste for war and instead settled happily into a counselor’s robes. For all Samudra taunted him about a life of endless numbers and dry words, he had to admit Tasham did his work well, and cheerfully, and could be trusted utterly. That was why he had made Tasham his eyes and ears in the small domain while he was gone.

“Tasham is dead,” said his mother flatly.

“What!” Although he knelt, Samudra felt his legs tremble. Samudra had always thought that when he finally married, he would take Tasham to his estate with him. That soldiers should be dead was one thing, but Tasham was only a bureaucrat, and Samudra’s own age …

Is there anything here left to me? Anything at all?

“An accident. He was thrown from his horse and drowned in the river.” Her hand moved to touch his fingertips. “I am sorry I was the one to tell you.”

For a long moment, Samudra could not speak. It might have been an accident. Such things happened. The Mothers knew Tasham was no horseman but Samudra could not make himself believe that.

He leaned close to his mother and whispered, “How bad has it become, Mother?”

“You do not yet know?” His mother’s cold fingers brushed his cheek. “Oh, my son, your wits have not yet returned from your travels.”

Samudra looked deep into his mother’s weary eyes. Then, behind them came a thump and a shuffle and Damman’s voice saying “Oh, pardon, pardon, First of All Queens!”

Samudra sat bolt upright.

“Clumsy …!” cried Bandhura, and this was followed by a second thump that was surely Damman dropping hard and fast to her knees before the queen’s wrath.

“Bandhura?” called Queen Prishi plaintively.

“Mother of my heart?” Bandhura pushed through the draperies that separated the bed alcove from the chamber beyond.

“Daughter.” Queen Prishi made an effort to push herself up on her pillows, and failed, but still she smiled in open welcome. “Come, sit and stay. I was only catching my son up on the little news of our doings here.”

“You should not tax yourself.” Bandhura hurried to her mother-in-law’s side. “I will have tea brought to you.”

Queen Prishi patted her hand. “So thoughtful. Never have I been better cared for,” she added to Samudra.

Samudra found he was standing, but he could not remember having moved. “What is wrong, brother of my heart?” asked Bandhura.

Samudra swallowed, swallowed outrage, swallowed impotence and fear. “Nothing, Sister, but the emperor invited me to dine with him, and I believe I must accept.”

She smiled so sweetly he knew she was satisfied her mission had been accomplished. She had cut off what conversation he might have had with his mother. “Of course. I will attend our mother here while you wait upon our lord.”

Samudra’s mother looked up at him, her face shrewd despite all. “Was there something else you wished to say to me, my son?”

Samudra licked his lips, and wondered if he dared.
Yes. Yes I do. I must
. “Yes … the princess of Sindhu, Natharie, has come to guest with us. It was my hope you would grant her audience, let her know she is welcome here. She finds us very strange and is, I think, afraid.” He looked straight into Bandhura’s eyes as he spoke, and saw again the glitter of flint.
There, I will not speak either of what was done today. But I will wonder, sister of my heart, what you think of it, and of my lord Divakesh. I will wonder too why you do not care to let me have private conversation with my mother
.

“Of course, my son,” said Queen Prishi. “If you wish it.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Samudra kissed her brow and tried not to feel how slack and dry her skin was. It was the skin of a very old woman. Then, he bowed to Bandhura. “I salute the first of all queens.”

Before she could utter whatever pretty platitude she had reserved for this occasion, Samudra left. However, instead of turning toward the corridors and staircases that would take him to the dining hall and his brother, he found himself drifting toward the terrace garden again. Bandhura’s ladies had dispersed and he was alone. He breathed in its clean, green scents, taking himself into the shadows to hide the thoughts he could not keep from his face.

When their father died, Samudra believed his brother truly mourned. Chandra stayed sleepless beside the pyre for three nights, tending the fire until it was pure enough and hot enough to receive the emperor’s body. As the flames enfolded their father, Samudra saw tears falling down his brother’s cheeks. During the ceremonies and sacrifices that elevated him officially to the rank their father had held, Samudra thought he looked nothing so much as frightened.

Oddly, it was that fear that had given Samudra hope that Chandra understood how serious his life had become. He prayed that the Mothers would open Chandra’s narrow, frivolous heart and let the welfare of Hastinapura enter into his thoughts.

But that was four years ago, and Chandra’s dread seemed to have been dispersed as surely as their father’s ashes, cast into the sacred river and carried away. Chandra found the rank of emperor delightful, and quickly had decided that the empire existed to provide him with the pleasures he sought.

That was not so bad, Samudra had told himself. Hastinapura had survived sybaritic emperors before, and thrived. It would do so again. He, Samudra, could protect the empire, and there were many men of wisdom among the nobles and the high clerks. Behind them all, Queen Prishi oversaw the small domain, where the highest of the bureaucrats were trained, and where so many alliances were forged by marriage and by other, more subtle contacts and promises. Her wisdom would allow the skilled, the subtle, and the careful to rise.

His brother was who he was. Samudra had loved him and protected him. He could do so now.

But it was now clear that Chandra was being sheltered from far more than the consequences of his debaucheries. Divakesh, Bandhura and Pravan were quickly taking hold of threads once held by better hands, and Chandra did not seem to notice.

These were not thoughts that came easily to Samudra. Chandra was the elder brother. It was his place to rule. The Mothers decreed it so. The Throne was his and he was bound by the word of the gods and the dance of the Queen of Heaven. It was Samudra’s place to support his rule, to guard the land of the Mothers and protect the sacred throne with his sword.

Hamsa’s question came back to him as he stared out through the lattice, watching the white half-moon where it hung in the black sky.

What will you do, my prince?

“I will go to dine with my brother,” he sighed to the night. “And tomorrow I will go hear what Makul has to tell me.”

And then?
he asked himself.

“And then I pray the Mothers will show me what I must do next.”

There is Earth. There is Heaven. There is a place in between where shadows and spirit powers dwell, where the gods go to look down on Earth and see better than they can from the many heavens. It is a shifting place, a place of many truths and many lies
.

In this Land of Death and Spirit, there is an ocean. The waves churn and crash, constantly changing and never ceasing
.

At the edge of this ocean stood a man
.

He was a small man, with slender hands and a face that was lined and patient. The wind whipped at his simple saffron robes. He held an unadorned walking stick in one hand. He faced the ocean, watching the waters as the waves rushed onto the beach at his feet and pulled back, leaving behind only the gleaming sand. He said nothing, he only waited
.

Then a great rumble began. The wind blew hard and cold, whipping his robes hard. Then it was as if the horizon itself had begun to heave up and come forward. A great wave, a wall of green water as tall as the cliffs and as broad as the ocean itself, bore down upon the shore
.

The man did not move
.

The wave broke and the waters poured down. There was no thunder to compare with the sound. An oceans worth of water rolled across the beach, shaking the stone cliffs, shoving boulders up one against another until the stones ground together and broke and were dragged back into the waters by the current as the ocean drew the wave back into itself, leaving behind mountains of sand and sea grass and shattered trees
.

On the beach, new tide pools rippled and glimmered. The cliffs seemed to sag a little from their battering. Stones the size of houses had been buried in the sides of the beleaguered dunes
.

And there was the man, drenched head to foot, loosely holding his walking stick, and waiting
.

“Up! Up!”

The harsh voice jerked Natharie from a series of confusing and disturbing dreams. The cut she had been given yesterday by Divakesh was a thin line of fire at her throat. She looked up from her nest of plain blankets to see the grey woman standing over her. The room was still dark, except for the light of one lantern a servant girl carried.

“The queens are asking for you, Princess Sacrifice,” announced Mistress Usha. “We must make you presentable.”

The woman’s critical eyes raked her up and down; then she turned to the tiny flock of attendants behind her. “She’ll need a bath first,” she said. “Get the hairdresser, the perfumer, and the draper to the bath.” She glowered down at Natharie again. “Do you understand, girl? Up!”

Natharie just stared, her mind too blurred by sleep and alien surroundings to feel anger as she scrambled to her feet. She was taller than the other woman by at least a head, but the grey woman carried herself as one who knew she was mistress of all around her, and Natharie felt gawky standing so tall in front of her. At their feet, girls and women stirred, pulled from sleep by the barking voice and yellow light. Some lifted their heads; some turned away, burrowing under their coverings, trying to find sleep again, or just hoping not to be noticed.

Remember yourself
. Natharie straightened her shoulders, which had begun to hunch together. “Who are you?” The Hastinapuran words felt strange and slippery, but she would show here and now that she was not completely ignorant.

That stopped the woman. A small smile twisted her lips. “I am Usha
jai
Ruverishi Harshaela.” She spoke the syllables of her name slowly, making sure Natharie heard each one. “I am steward of the
zuddhanta
. It is my duty to tell you that whoever you were outside the gates, whoever you called master, you now belong to the Mothers, the queens, and me.” The emphasis on the last word made it easy to tell which of these she thought was the most important. “And you are slow, and a barbarian and you need a bath, and you will come with me unless you want me to tell the first of all queens you are also disobedient.”

For a heartbeat, that was exactly what Natharie wanted. She wanted to sit down right here and make whoever followed Steward Usha drag her out. Why shouldn’t she? What had she to lose?

She caught a glimpse of motion behind the steward. A girl had raised her head. She looked at Natharie, and shook her head quickly, as if she knew what Natharie thought and was warning her against it.

The heartbeat gave Natharie a moment to think. What had she to lose, but what had she to gain? To let them see her heart, her fear and her anger, this would give her nothing, not yet.

Natharie. closed mouth and heart. She dropped her gaze, folded her hands, and bowed over them. Usha grunted and turned on her heel. Her sandals sparkled in the lamplight, gold or silver, Natharie couldn’t tell, as she followed. She did see the same girl who’d given her the warning. She’d seen this girl on the docks when they were all waiting to be shunted into the procession. She also was a piece of tribute, but she clearly felt neither remorse nor fear at this. Even now, this bold other smiled slyly at Natharie as she passed.

Natharie, however, was not the only one who made note of her. “You!” snapped Usha. “Since you’re so eager, you can come get this one get presentable. She clearly needs help.”

The girl bowed quickly, pressing her head to the floor, and scrambled up at once to join the procession that followed the steward. Natharie could have sworn her smile only grew broader as she did.

Beyond the door, the world was filled with sunlight. Breezes stirred the sultry air, enlivened with the scents of greenery, citrus, and incense and the sounds of voices. Dozens of voices. Natharie blinked and, in her first astonished glimpse of the women’s quarters, barely remembered to keep her mouth closed.

“What is it like … inside?” she had asked her father one night when they sat together, watching the stars.

“In the women’s ring?” He shook his head. “I do not know. I have never been permitted entry.”

Despite her best efforts at stillness, Natharie twisted her hands together in her lap. “So, they are allowed in then … men other than the emperor?”

Father nodded. “His high council and advisors, other members of the family, his trusted favorites. They are permitted entry.”

And surely when your daughter is there, you will be permitted entry
. Natharie thought this, but never said it, because she could not bear to hear her father say “I do not know” yet again.

Now she saw this secluded place with her own eyes, and it was none of what she expected. It was larger than she had ever imagined. She had not been able to shake the image her brothers had spun, of a single chamber filled with half-naked women lounging about, eating artfully sliced melons and cucumbers. What she saw instead were small children shrieking with laughter as they played an elaborate game of tag between the plants and the pillars. Grandmothers alternately petted and scolded from their seats beneath fans of palm fronds and peacock feathers that were waved by clean and well-fed slaves. Two beardless men of middle years stood in a patch of sunlight, talking animatedly. A cluster of girls in blue and white dresses bent over their needlework under the supervision of a dried-up, bony-looking woman, who said something that was answered, to Natharie’s surprise, with a fleeting round of giggles. On the other side of the court, a group of boys was gathered around a plain-robed tutor who peered at the work on their tablets of wood-framed clay. Here, he administered a word that might have been praise. There, he cuffed a boy on the ear.

She didn’t know what surprised her more, the sight of all these busy activities, or the realization that the sun was well up and the place already bustling. She and the others had clearly been allowed to sleep late.

The windows were broad and numerous, but were not open. All were screened by elaborate, lacelike ivory carvings that allowed glimpses of the gardens below.

The Mothers were everywhere. They watched from the walls. They danced across the beams overhead. They stood among the plants and kept watch over the smallest growing thing.

And they watched her with their eyes of stone and paint. They watched her closely.

You are in our place now, little girl
, their eyes told her.
Remember the blood you spilled to us yesterday. You too will join our dance
.

Natharie shivered and bowed her head so she didn’t have to see anything but Usha’s silver sandals as she was led from chamber to chamber, and at last, with a breath of cool, fresh air on her face, to the bath.

The bath was set against the mountain that backed the palace, and, Natharie now realized, formed part of its wall and foundation. It was a great stone pool on a sheltered terrace nestled into the living stone itself. A waterfall ran down the cliff face, constantly refilling the basin and watering the ferns that sprawled out of nooks in the living rock. There was yet another statue on the cliff where the waters ran down. The woman held a up bowl into which the waters fell and then spilled out the side.

Like the rest of the quarters, the bath was already busy. Several women washed themselves in the fresh water, wringing out their hair; servants, their skirts tied up around their waists, scrubbed their mistress’s backs and limbs. More women and girls were busy around the pool. Nothing seemed to be done for its own sake, everything a lesson. A woman braiding and dressing a lady’s hair had a girl beside her to hand her the brushes and absorb the art. Another woman, presiding over cosmetics, lectured a trio of young apprentices on the preparation and quality of ingredients. A skinny, white-haired, hard-eyed woman presided over all, rapping out sharp orders to both the girls and their tutors.

“Well?” Usha glared at Natharie. “I assume in Sindhu you know what to do with clean water.”

Which, despite her resolve, was more than Natharie could stand. “We do,” she replied calmly. “I was only taken aback to find that the Hastinapurans do too.”

She braced for the blow she saw in the steward’s eyes, but the woman only reached out with one finger, and ran its tip along the line of Natharie’s cut, making her shiver with anger and fear. “One, Princess Sacrifice, and that is all I will allow. Get yourself clean.” She marched away toward the door and was immediately joined by the white-haired woman, who started gesticulating so broadly her multiple bracelets slid up and down her skinny arms.

“That’s Sevvi, mistress of the ewer. She has charge of the bath.”

Natharie spun. Behind her was the young woman summoned to follow her. To Natharie’s embarrassment, she had forgotten the other was there.

Before Natharie could form a question, the other girl pointed to the woman leaning over her pots of creams and powders. “Jula, the cosmetics mistress. Valandi, the perfumer, is with the first of all queens right now.”

“I … how …?” Natharie stammered.

In return, she got another of the girl’s broad smiles. “Start learning quickly, Princess Sacrifice,” she whispered. “It’s the only way you won’t get trampled and sold off in such a place.”

“How …” Natharie tried again.

“I learned at my mother’s knee. I’m Ekkadi,” she added. She gazed around her, and Natharie saw a strange mix of envy and satisfaction in her quick eyes. “I didn’t grow up anywhere so grand, but it’s pretty much the same. My mother sacrificed eight sheep to Jalaja to get me here.”

“Why are you doing this?”

This finally made Ekkadi stare. “Because you need a maid and I need a mistress, or
I’ll
be trampled on and sold off. Come on, let’s get you washed. It doesn’t do to let queens grow impatient. Even you must know that much.”

Her mind’s eye showed Natharie her mother sitting straight and still in the audience chamber, her brow furrowing and her jaw tightening. Yes, that much she did know.

She made no further protest as Ekkadi quickly and efficiently stripped her down. The maid stood aside so Natharie could walk down the steps into the water. The water was ice cold and the shock of it made her gasp, but the sun was hot, and more than anything Natharie wanted to wash off the blood that still smeared her face. It itched, and felt as if it had leached into her skin. She knelt, ducking her head down while she scooped up handful after handful of the pure water, never minding the cold. Just get rid of the blood. Just be clean again.

Ekkadi had soon hitched up her skirts and waded in beside Natharie, her hands full with soaps and brushes she’d acquired from … somewhere. She was not overly gentle, except when it came to Natharie’s injured throat, but she was thorough. She scrubbed all the dust from Natharie’s skin and doused her repeatedly with the frigid water. When she was satisfied with the cleanliness of Natharie’s body, she turned her attention to Natharie’s hair, pouring a measure of perfumed soap over her and working it in well.

“So,” Ekkadi said as she reached for the comb tucked in her waistband and began to pick the knots and tangles out of Natharie’s hair. “Where are you from that you don’t know what’s going on?”

“Sindhu.” Natharie tried to hold still and enjoy the sunshine, but her feet were beginning to go numb.

“Oh.” Ekkadi paused in her work for as long as it took to say that word. Then she gave Natharie’s hair a twist, wringing the water out. “You’re an Awakened one, then?”

“I follow the teachings of Anidita,” Natharie acknowledged.

“Do you really think your brother’s a pig?”

“
What
?” Natharie jerked her head around, and was rewarded by her hair pulling hard.

Ekkadi shrugged and wound Natharie’s hair up into a knot on top of her head to keep it from trailing into the water again. “That’s what they say, that Anidita teaches that men are brothers to pigs.”

She’s offered me help, and I need help. It will do no good to vent anger on her
. But she still could not muster a courteous reply. “
They
are ignorant liars,” she muttered.

“Funny, that’s what I’ve heard about your people. Let’s get you out of here before you get wrinkled.” Ekkadi sloshed to the edge of the bath, climbed the steps, and held up a towel for Natharie.