Unholy War (49 page)

Ramita nursed the twins and laid them in the shade to sleep, after which the three travellers went to the low ridge to watch the dawn. The domes of the city appeared above the river mist and smoke, and the wailing of the Godsingers rang out, a comfort to her ears. Alaron hadn’t heard it before – they had travelled through the wilds as they crossed Dhassa. ‘It is the call to dawn worship,’ she explained. ‘The faithful pray six times a day.’

‘Even the Kore isn’t that demanding!’ he exclaimed.

‘It’s only the really,
really
faithful who pray so often,’ she said with a laugh. ‘We knew some Amteh in Baranasi who just shut the curtains for ten minutes and had a cup of chai.’

Alaron grinned. ‘That sounds like home. The Kore have services every day, at dawn, midday and evening, but hardly anyone goes except once a week on Sabbadai. “Only the saints go to heaven”, that’s what we say.’ He peered towards the gleaming Mughal Dome, the main dome of the mughal’s palace, now revealed in all its glory. ‘Look at the size of it!’

‘The mughal’s palace is the greatest in the entire world,’ Yash announced, both proud and bitter. ‘Master Puravai says it took a century to build, and contains a massive Dom-al’Ahm, an armoury and barracks, state rooms, and the private residence of the Mughal of Lakh and all his household.’ His voice was a mix of awe and disgust. ‘Mughal Tariq has fourteen wives, one for every year he has been on Urte. He is due soon to take a fifteenth, on his next birthday.’

Alaron winced. ‘Hel, isn’t one woman enough trouble?’

Ramita fixed him with a stare. ‘What are you trying to say,
bhaiya
?’

‘Nothing,
didi
. Just a joke,’ he said swiftly.

‘Mmm.’ She looked at Yash. ‘How will we make contact with the vizier?’

Yash pulled a baked clay token from his pouch. He showed it to them: a disc bearing a circle of intricate Dhassan script. ‘This is the monastery’s token. I will take it to the vizier’s officials with a letter from Master Puravai and ask for audience. Beyond that, I cannot say. I do know it is not safe for either of you to enter the city openly.’

That sounded sensible, so she and Alaron let the young monk stride purposefully away. They quickly lost him in the haze, well before he had entered the maze of half-finished stone buildings and rough lean-tos that fringed the city. ‘We should sleep,’ Alaron said at last.

Ramita was tempted to lean against him as they once did in the hull of the skiff on their flight south, pressed close together, his heartbeat against her ear. That was entirely the wrong thing to do. She went to the far side of the skiff, wrapped herself in a thin shawl, lay on her side and shut her eyes.

They dozed the day away, taking turns on watch, but dusk came without incident. While Alaron cooked, Ramita played with the twins, who were crawling now, and filled with curiosity. After discovering that sand wasn’t edible, they were determined to find a lizard who wanted to stay and play with them. Both had thick black hair, but their skin was paler than their mother’s. They could now stomach a little solid food, when it was washed down with breast milk. She enjoyed the way they seemed to always know where the other was. They would not gain access to the gnosis until their early teens, but it was easy to imagine that somehow the twins were inside each other’s heads, communicating wordlessly. There was a togetherness about them that was both beautiful and eerie.

At last Ramita lay the twins aside and draped her blanket over herself, surreptitiously studying her breasts. They were swollen and tender; the only time they were comfortable now was after feeding. She had seen her mother go through weaning and knew that once she stopped feeding the twins, she would face a few weeks of discomfort as her body learned to cease making more milk.
I’ll miss it, though
, she thought,
that feeling that I am so needed by my little ones.

Alaron coughed discreetly, reminding her that he might just be getting an inadvertent eye-full. She covered up, and he waggled his head in a ‘that’s okay’ kind of way, a grin on his face. ‘See, I now speak Lakh,’ he laughed. ‘I can do the head-wag.’

‘Yes,’ she said with a smile, ‘but you do it with a strange accent.’

*

They’d just finished their tiny portions of lentil curry and Alaron was reflecting ruefully on how long ago it was since he’d had a nice big juicy steak when he saw a line of torches emerge in the middle distance, a trail of glowing orange lights that flickered their way towards them. He took a deep breath and tapped Ramita on the shoulder. ‘They’re coming.’

They cleaned up hurriedly, and repacked their belongings. Then they gently lifted the sleeping infants and bundled them into their harnesses. The twins stirred as if sensing the tension in the air, forcing Alaron and Ramita to send soothing impulses urging them back into sleep. With Ramita holding Nasatya and Alaron with Dasra, they turned to face the oncoming column. Alaron thoughtfully twirled his quarterstaff, subtly limbering up in case he had to act suddenly.

Ramita noticed. ‘Will they attempt to seize us?’ she asked anxiously.

‘They can try,’ Alaron replied, feeling uncharacteristically eager to try out his new skills, both gnostic and martial. ‘We shouldn’t just assume they’re friendly.’

The cooling air was prickling his skin as his sweat-soaked robes turned cold. Beside him Ramita shifted uneasily and it occurred to him that though she’d been in danger before, she’d never seen that danger coming. The attack that had slain her husband and the fight at the Isle of Glass had both come out of the blue.

He touched her shoulder. ‘We’re magi. We can handle this.’

She stuck her chin out. ‘I am frightened for the children, not myself.’

‘I know, but your husband said we could trust this Hanook character, didn’t he?’

‘What if Yash didn’t even reach him?’

Alaron rolled his shoulders. ‘Then we’ll soon find out.’

There were a dozen men, and all armed but for the central pair, who walked on ahead, palms empty to show peacable intent. One was a tall figure with lordly robes and a pale turban wrapped about a long, narrow face. His skin was as dark as the turban was light, and he had a grey goatee that tapered to a point. His skin was smooth and youthful; he looked too young to be so grey.

Yash was with him, and his face was awed. Alaron tried to convey a million questions with a single glance.
I should have taught him how to receive mental communication while we had the chance
.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked in Rondian, and Yash nodded.

The man in the turban fixed his eye on Ramita, then surprised them by speaking Rondian as well. ‘Do I have the honour of addressing Lady Ramita?’

‘I am she,’ Ramita responded firmly. Alaron could sense her gnosis gathered and ready; the slightest misstep by this man would see him thrown halfway back to the city.

‘I am Dareem, son of Vizier Hanook. I bid you welcome to Teshwallabad.’ Dareem touched his fingertips to his forehead with a reverent gesture. ‘Sal’Ahm, Lady. Peace be upon you.’

‘Namaste, Lord Dareem,’ Ramita replied, then indicated Alaron. ‘This is Al’Rhon Mercer.’

‘You speak Rondian very well,’ Alaron said as he and Dareem exchanged bows.
Better than most folk back in Norostein.
‘But my name is Al-a-ron: I’m not a goat.’

Dareem smiled faintly, and turned back to Ramita. ‘Will you come with me, Lady, and accept my father’s hospitality?’

Of course they wouldn’t attack us openly. They’d try to gain our trust, and separate us, and then …
Alaron looked at Ramita and saw that she was ready to accept, but she was awaiting his approval.

What choice do we have anyway?
He nodded.

Dareem bowed again. ‘I am sorry, but we do not have transport back to the city. My father is under close surveillance, so we must be discreet. But I will get you into our palace unnoticed, I promise.’

‘Who’s watching him?’ Alaron asked uneasily.

‘My father is an important man,’ Dareem replied. ‘Everyone is watching him.’

‘But who in particular?’

Dareem waggled his head. ‘My father has many enemies, Al-a-ron. And you have a whole city of them.’

That’s true! I’m probably the only Rondian ‘afreet’ to ever come here.
Alaron bowed his head. ‘We’re in your hands.’ He stroked Dasra’s hair, hoping they were doing the right thing.

Dareem’s men had brought a small palanquin. As Alaron helped Ramita climb into it, he noticed how tired she looked. It was good that she could rest. For his part, he was happy to walk with Yash and the soldiers back across the stony plain and into the ramshackle maze that was the outskirts of Teshwallabad. Once in the crowded streets he raised his hood; there were countless rough-clad people all crowded together in tiny dwellings and coughing and snuffling around smoking fires. Cooking smells filled the air. Dareem’s armoured and armed escort kept passersby at arm’s length, but Alaron noticed many a resentful glare at the armed men.

‘This is not a good area,’ Dareem muttered apologetically, ‘but the main roads are constantly watched.’

Alaron was tired, but he used the gnosis to imbue himself with a little extra strength and managed to keep his feet from faltering. Eventually they came to a small square where a covered wagon waited, half-filled with supplies. Nothing seemed untoward, so they accepted Dareem’s invitation and climbed into it. Alaron settled beside Ramita on a narrow bench and whispered, ‘So far, so good.’

Her teeth flashed white in the darkness. ‘I believe this is the right thing: it is Destiny.’

If her crazy belief in ‘destiny’ is what’s getting her through, I can live with it
. He bent forward and kissed her on the forehead, although he had no idea if that would be considered improper or not. ‘I’ll protect you, didi, no matter what.’

‘And I you, bhaiya. But Al’Rhon, men and women do not touch in public here.’

He pulled away and bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

Dareem and Yash joined them. The young Zain seemed to trust Dareem, which reassured Alaron. ‘We’ll take this wagon to the back of my father’s palace, where supplies are delivered,’ Dareem told them. ‘Hopefully the watchers will attach no importance to such a conveyance.’

In the front, a driver flicked a whip, and the wagon lurched forward. Initially Alaron was on edge, but the journey through Teshwallabad proved uneventful, sometimes forcing a path through presses of people, at other times traversing almost empty back-alleys, until finally they crossed a large square and passed through a pair of great cast-iron gates. A guardsman poked his head inside, saw Dareem and put his knuckles to his forehead.

‘Keep your hoods raised,’ Dareem reminded them as they disembarked. There were soldiers everywhere, but no-one made a hostile move. Dareem took them up wide marble stairs to a massive marble edifice that dwarfed even the Governor’s Residence in Norostein.

Another man was waiting inside the door, bowing as they stepped inside. ‘Welcome,’ he said in fluent Rondian. ‘I am Hanook.’

The vizier was an older replica of his son; one could trace his lineage in the shape of the skull, the smooth skin, the wise but intense eyes. Instead of a turban, he wore a small flat-topped cap, delicately embroidered and sporting gold tassels, and a full-length robe of deep blue. He walked with the aid of a long stick, which Alaron recognised as a kon-staff: so a weapon, not just a prop for age.

As the doors started to close behind them, lamps revealed an inner courtyard garden overlooked on all sides by balconies. The marble glowed in the flickering torchlight. There were statues everywhere, brightly coloured renderings of Omali gods, some serene and others fierce. Ramita made an approving noise. Alaron stopped before one of Sivraman, similar to the statue at Mandira Khojana. He smiled in recognition.

‘It is wonderful to finally meet you, Lady Meiros,’ Hanook said, going to Ramita. ‘I am sorry that I cannot greet you more publically, but most Lakh believed your husband to be evil incarnate.’

‘They did not know him,’ Ramita replied, lifting her head.

‘Indeed not.’ Hanook gestured to a man standing as still as the statuary. ‘Ishad will show you to your rooms, and then I pray you will join me for supper.’ He vanished through a door, taking Dareem with him.

Alaron looked at Yash. ‘Well?’

Yash looked about uncomfortably. ‘What a place! It makes the monastery look like a jhuggi.’

‘I mean, can we trust them?’

The monk met his eyes uncertainly. ‘They have received me politely and listened to my words. They have promised that Lady Meiros will be safe.’ He dropped his voice. ‘This is an Amteh city, my friend. Your powers are considered evil here. It is a great risk for them to even receive you and the lady.’

‘My husband would not have sent me here unknowingly,’ Ramita said firmly. ‘We knew the risks.’

‘In many ways, the greater danger is to you, Al’Rhon,’ Yash pointed out. ‘People here know a Lakh girl married Lord Meiros, but no one imagines she had any choice and so most forgave the union. But you are a Rondian mage: a living blasphemy.’

Alaron swallowed. ‘I know.’

‘But Vizier Hanook has been welcoming to me, and he still practises the Yogic Way.’ Yash dropped his voice. ‘My friend, I am a street-boy who became a monk. Truly, I do not know how to judge the mighty.’

‘None of us do,’ Ramita whispered. ‘I am a market-girl, and Alaron is a trader’s son. But this is where we are destined to be, so we must find wisdom.’

Alaron glanced at the waiting servant, Ishad. ‘Okay, let’s check our rooms, then get some food. I’m starving.’

Ishad led them up two storeys and along a winding corridor to a foyer which led to three suites of rooms. Alaron insisted on scanning each with the gnosis before allowing them in. The rooms were huge, with marble floors and wide balconies, and big windows covered by carved wooden shutters that were painted with mythic scenes. The bed looked strange to Alaron’s Yuros eyes: the mattress was barely off the floor and covered not by blankets but a very thin cotton cover, intensely patterned. It was too hot for blankets, anyway. There was no sign of anything dangerous, and when he knocked on the walls they sounded solid enough. By then his stomach was rumbling. ‘I could eat a horse,’ he exclaimed. ‘Can we be ready in five minutes?’