Chapter Sixteen

 

 

Gard stared blearily upward. At last it was dawn, the rising sun bleaching out the stars. Another sleepless night and he would surely go mad.

He glared balefully downward. The dragonet slumbered, not even having the decency to stay up with him as he fought nightmares through dark passages and light.

He tried vainly to find a comfortable position in his shroud of blankets. Not that he minded being evicted from the tent he had shared with Vijay on the journey out from Ferangipur, but at least the prince could have offered him a pillow or two for his services. Who, after all, had wrapped Yasmine in the Muktari carpet and, the daemon straining in his gut, carried her out of the palace before her husband’s very eyes?

And who had found, in a village just within Ferangi territory, a priest of Vaiswanara who was unaware of Yasmine’s previous attachment? Upon the gift of a gold coin and a length of silk, he had married her to Vijay in a small brick shrine, chickens clucking at the door. The young lovers had only laughed at such ambience, and said the required words with such blissful sincerity that even Gard’s jaundiced eye had glossed with sentiment, and the dragonet had offered them a salute of its gauzy wings.

But now it was that cold hour before dawn when men are claimed by birth and by death. Judging by the symphony of gasps and sighs emanating from the tent, Yasmine and Vijay were determined to achieve one or the other.

Gard pulled his blanket over his head. There, he could see nothing, not the fringed palm leaves against a pewter sky, not the dozing sentries as still as statues along the glassy sheet of the Mohan. He could hear nothing, not even the coppersmith bird hammering away like Senmut or Bhai.

Ferangipur. We shall be back in Ferangipur today. I shall see Deva. The image of Ranithra, Queen of Heaven. Deva, and sanctuary.

Deva stood in a sun-washed garden . . .

What? Where did that image come from? Gard shook his head, trying to shoo it away. The dragonet grumbled and opened an eye. In those gray depths he saw the image magnified.

Deva stood in the rooftop garden outside their chambers in the palace. The alabaster dome shone like the egg of some monstrous mythological bird. The sounds of voices in the street were filtered through a high-pitched hum, the whine of bees and a child’s voice singing tunelessly.

Rajinder’s son, Narayan, sat among the marigold and heliotrope, lilac and lily. He moved tiny wheeled carts and carved elephants in procession across the dusty stone, accompanying his play with his song. Deva sat on a low wall nearby, sewing some serviceable bit of linen, humming her own melody in counterpoint to the child’s.

He could still hear Vijay and Yasmine’s voices; god’s teeth, did they have to be so noisy about it? Their groans were like a water buffalo’s, growing louder and louder, mounting with a crescendo that ached in his awareness . . . Narayan’s humming stopped abruptly. Deva looked up. Her eyes flashed a deep and deliberate blue. She laid down her sewing.

Narayan’s mother, Ladhani, strolled down the garden path, a parasol held above her head, serving-women clustering at her heels. She saw Deva rising slowly from her seat. She saw the child seated unmoving upon the ground. The blush in her dark cheeks drained to a sickly taupe. Some of her women clustered about her with small muffled shrieks, others hurried back into the palace, their brass and horn anklets jangling.

Narayan’s face was set in the same square, calm lines as his father’s, his eyes flickering with a similar awareness as they gazed at the cobra swaying before him. The serpent’s hood cast a moving patch of shadow upon the child, its tongue darted in and out as if searching for an aura.

Gard shifted and muttered. Ladhani stood with her hands pressed to her mouth. Deva sidled around behind the snake. Narayan’s even look did not falter. He raised his hand, palm upward, in a gesture of greeting.

Rajinder burst from the palace door and stopped, his guards piling up behind him. The cobra continued swaying gently. Deva crouched. Gard felt words bubbling on his lips—no, Deva, no, do not risk yourself—but this child has done no harm to anyone—Deva!

Narayan lowered his hand, sighed and shrugged acceptance. Deva pounced, seizing the snake just behind its hood. It thrashed in her hands, its tail coiling up her arm. She sprinted across the garden and hurled the creature down at Rajinder’s feet.

The guards scattered. The prince stood his ground. The snake shot as swift as any arrow across the pavement, but not swiftly enough. Rajinder’s sword licked from its sheath and the serpent writhed headless at his feet.

The dragonet woke with a start, bristling like a stiff currying brush in Gard’s stomach.

In a swirl of silk, Ladhani snatched up her son, who grimaced with embarrassment. Rajinder stood mesmerized by the blood on his sword. Deva looked at her hands. Her palms were abraded by the serpent’s scales. “The child will be a great ruler,” she murmured under her breath. “He has received the blessing of Vaiswanara, and Saavedra has received her sacrifice, and he will live to rule.” She looked up. The depths of her eyes splashed over Rajinder’s face.

“Why should he not live to rule?” the prince asked.

Deva shook her head, puzzled by her own prophecy, and turned away. The dragonet blinked and yawned and stretched, its claws scraping Gard’s viscera so lightly and teasingly that they cramped.

 

* * * * *

 

One more lingering gaze, Gard thought with a glance up at the howdah, and he would surely crack Vijay’s and Yasmine’s heads together. He urged the horse to which he had been relegated to the head of the procession.

Yasmine’s laugh was a trill of music. The faces of the escorting soldiers lightened at the sound, and their eyes turned to the howdah as a worshipper would turn to a divine vision of unattainable glory. Her flaxen hair drifted upon the last breath of cool morning wind, her diaphanous garments—impractical, but oh so lovely—clung to her body in appealing dishevelment. She had pleaded prettily for her maid to be included in her flight, as if she had been setting off for a picnic. But Gard, adamant, had nudged Vijay into reluctant refusal.

The dragonet wiped its brow. Gard narrowed his eyes. The sun’s blinding flare drained the blue from the sky and reflected in waves from the city walls so that Ferangipur rose like a mirage from a sea of shimmering heat. The fields were brown now, each leaf scummed with dust. Even the islands, like giants’ heads in the Mohan, were singed gold above the turgid water. A few human figures struggled through the heat; an occasional farmer stood motionless beside the road, sentries atop the walls leaned upon their spears and blinked like aged tortoises beneath their carapaces of armor, chariots lumbered hither and thither in what to Gard were aimless drills.

There were the great gates fronting on the river; there were the piers and ships and bustling carts. There was the sky-kissing tower. A line of fresh mortar marked the damage caused by the lightning strike, as harsh as a scar on the face of a young and untried warrior.

Yasmine hitched up the trailing end of her sari and giggled. Such an adventure she was having; her face glowed, her eyes sparkled. Vijay watched her, dazzled by her only-too-attainable splendor.

The elephant passed beneath the gateway into the city, paced through the god-festering maidan, arrived at the door of the palace. Yasmine inspected the rambling building, as whitely intricate as starched lace, and murmured her approval to Vijay. His mustache crinkled. “Gard,” he called.

“Nazib?”

“Go on ahead to the durbar, and prepare the way for my—for our entrance. We must tidy up a bit. Send your wife to serve Yasmine.”

Gard imagined Deva bathing Yasmine, ducking her beautiful head under the water, scrubbing her lissome body upon a washboard. “Yes, Nazib.”

Yasmine’s marvelous aquamarine eyes touched Gard’s, as perplexed as they had been since he had appeared toting the carpet. A young and spirited wizard, handsome, although of ambiguous rank . . . Her perceptions could not penetrate any farther.

I kissed you, Gard told her mutely. I could have had all I wanted from you, but no, I was honorable. If you can call it that. He stalked into the palace without bothering to brush the dust from his clothing. Deva! No, she would have to wait. He would have to wait.

The air in the corridor was oppressive, the perfumed smoke from the censers spaced along the walls barely hiding the odor of rot that hung over the river. Little boys waved fans that irritated but did not lighten the atmosphere. If the guards at the door of the great hall did not bow to him, at least they did not quibble over his right to enter.

Bogatyl, skulking just inside, might have. His jowls quivered at the sight of Gard; presumably he had been hoping the fire demon would fall victim to a gharial or a tiger or an accidental sword blow. And yet something else gathered in the man’s dark gaze, something disturbingly smug.

The dragonet’s hackles rippled. Gard said with a broad and mirthless smile, “Have your plots progressed satisfactorily in my absence?”

“Not as satisfactorily as yours have,” the Vizier returned, baring his own teeth in what only a sadist could have termed a smile.

The swine. Gard swept by him, elbowed through the assembled courtiers, and stationed himself ahead of a group of ambassadors waiting to present their credentials. It hardly seemed as if he been gone an entire month. Surely it was the same petitioners who shrilled charge and countercharge before the khaddi. Jamshid dozed, his flesh settling among the silks and jewels as if he were already decomposing and the Ferangi in their nonchalance had neglected to burn him.

At Jamshid’s left sat Srivastava. Her keen glance picked Gard from the crowd, and she nodded from the pleated shelter of her sari. Gard bowed.

At Jamshid’s right stood Rajinder, listening gravely to the squabbling men. His face was solemn beyond that required of the petty issue under discussion; his foot tapped upon the floor and his fingertips drummed upon the hilt of his sword, in what for him was blatant impatience. The endless squabbling must finally be seeping through his fine veneer.

Someone stirred behind the zenana screen. Gard’s back prickled with a delicious tremor. The dragonet licked its lips. Deva! He sent a quick probing thought toward her. She caught it and blew it back, and her presence disappeared, summoned to serve Vijay’s prize.

Rajinder was pronouncing judgment. The petitioners were murmuring thanks and respects and shuffling away. My turn, Gard thought. He lifted his foot to step forward, inhaled. Words frothed in his mouth—justify Vijay’s taking of Yasmine—rationalize his own role in it—deliver intelligence to Rajinder, downplaying the whole affair . . .

The dragonet suddenly catapulted into his throat, eyes globes of amazement, halting his speech before he could start it. Rajinder and Srivastava turned not to him but to someone else. Jamshid awoke with a start.

A voice poured down on Gard like boiling oil from a rampart. “Why, my lord Gard—I beg your pardon, Nazib-ji, but the Emperor asked me to inquire after his nephew, and here he is before me.”

Every dark Ferangi eye in the room, led by Rajinder’s uncompromising gaze, pinned Gard to the floor.

He stood staring at the tall, spare figure draped in a toga, at its dour heavy-lidded eyes and nose like an axe blade. Nikander. Imperial general, proconsul, and now, evidently, ambassador to the Mohan. Harus’s talons! The man was incredibly ancient, he must be sixty years old. Andrion should have had more respect than to send such an old and honored retainer tottering off to the ends of the world . . . Nikander nodded laconically at him, just as he had been nodding ever since Gard, aged nine, had fallen off his pony before a legion on parade.

Rajinder said, rather breathlessly, “Deliver your message, Nikander-ji, by all means.”

Nikander marched from his escort of chiton-clad figures and offered Gard a letter. Gard stared at the parchment; his name was written on it in the bold hand of Andrion himself. He heard himself say plaintively, “No!”

One of Nikander’s brows shivered.

“Please, Nazib-ji,” said Gard, turning to the khaddi. “Let me deliver the letter I have for you first.” He scrambled in his shirt, jerked out the leather pouch, pulled Sumitra’s letter from the embrace of the pentacle. The pentacle chattered mockingly at him.

He almost threw the letter at Rajinder. If Raj would only shout at him or accuse him of deception . . . The prince opened the letter, read it, and calmly, expressionlessly, handed it to Srivastava, who began to read it in a husky whisper to Jamshid.

Nikander still held Andrion’s letter. “My lord Gard, your uncle the Emperor heard nothing of your safe arrival in the Mohan.” He would stand there offering that letter while acorns sprouted into saplings and grew to gnarled oaks. Gard snatched the parchment, growled incoherent thanks, stuffed it unread in his sash. The dragonet pounded its tiny paws on his spine, fissuring his entire body—get off my back, Andrion!

Bogatyl stood beside the khaddi, licking his lips, no doubt trying to work out some way in which Gard had lied or cheated. But the Empire and Ferangipur were allies, which point delayed him a moment.

“I suppose,” said Jamshid quite lucidly, “that if we had sacrificed him on the Day of the Fool, the Emperor would have sent legions to avenge him.”

Not likely, Gard replied to himself, when I am the black kid of the family. He opened his mouth, but his motives were an irreparable tangle of arrogance and naiveté, and apology would be foolish . . . He closed his mouth.

Nikander said nothing. His retainers darted amused glances at Gard but, well-trained, maintained their leader’s silence. Srivastava retired into the folds of her sari to contemplate this sudden role reversal. A flutter at the screen was Deva returning just in time to witness Gard’s humiliation.

He clenched his hands behind his back and took care to raise his chin and look Rajinder square in the face, even as his thought stammered: Now where will I go? I have used up the great empires of the world, perhaps I can herd sheep for those Khazyari still living upon the steppes. But Deva would not be pleased at being taken even farther from Apsurakand . . . The dragonet kicked his tailbone, lower lip mutinously outthrust.

Bogatyl inhaled to speak. And Rajinder laughed. Huh? thought Gard.

“How difficult it must be,” Rajinder said, leaving Bogatyl puffed and silent, “to be a king without a country. How modest you are, to travel as a servant when you might have claimed privilege. I am not sure that I would have the courage to earn a position on my own merits. I congratulate you.”

Gard stared at the man, his jaw sagging, his muscles slack, as though he had tautened himself to pick up a block of stone and discovered that it was made of paper. Modesty had nothing to do with it! he protested mutely. And courage? Hah! But he could hardly turn down a reprieve.

Imperturbable Nikander stepped back into the midst of his own retainers with a more dignified air than Gard could ever hope to attain. Bogatyl cast a calculating look at someone behind Gard’s back. Jamshid chuckled, and even Srivastava shook her head in acrid amusement. Even Deva was smiling fondly and indulgently, relieved, not embarrassed . . .

“I am only too pleased to welcome you as an ally, Gard-ji,” said Rajinder, “if you would care to stay.”

So you find that I am of your rank, and deserve your friendship—no, Raj had offered friendship long ago. Swallow your pride, Gard ordered himself. You have never had a better opportunity than this. “Rajinder-ji,” he croaked, “my thanks, I am honored.”

With a crash, the doors opened. Every face was struck into stone, every breath hung uncompleted in the air. Gard turned, knowing only too well what they saw, and with a sigh the dragonet slumped down in his gut. That moment of appreciation had been nice, but it was all over now.

Vijay, swathed in silk and jewels, sauntered toward the khaddi, with Yasmine like a pert and pampered kitten upon his arm. If she had been a kitten, she would have daintily preened her whiskers, too shy to look up.

The affable smile peeled from Rajinder’s face, fell, and shattered against the floor.

Again Bogatyl glanced at someone in the back of the room, realization lightening his heavy features. Nikander, with his usual discretion, was already leading the Imperial delegation out the far door. No one else even pretended such indifference.

But Rajinder was not nearly as surprised as Gard would have thought. He was distracted for just an instant, swiftly unraveling some cipher in his own mind; then he bowed. “Welcome back, my brother. May I assume that this lady is Yasmine of Muktardagh?”

“You may,” said Vijay, sublimely unconcerned that Raj knew who she was. “She is now Yasmine of Ferangipur, my wife.”

“I thought,” Rajinder said dryly, “that she was already wed.”

Vijay’s face was luminous with love and sincerity. “Wed by the rites of Hurmazi. Who is an alien god, and whose rites therefore are not valid.”

Reasoning worthy of the best theologian. In fact, Gard sensed an approving rustle of priests’ robes. What a pity that not believing a god did not make him go away.

“So you stole the wife of Shikar,” cackled Jamshid. “Very good, my son! That should show him!”

From the folds of Srivastava’s gown came a peremptory, “Send her back, Vijay!” And Rajinder repeated, “Vijay, send her back.”

Yasmine’s lashes fluttered, hurt. Vijay clasped her a little closer, his chin rising like the sheer wall of a redoubt. For just a moment, Gard heard a faint echo; “Bloody Rajinder!” But Vijay had regretted those hasty words. Now he said mildly, “Come now. Let us enjoy Shikar’s discomfiture.”

Jamshid chortled on, a sound as annoying as the call of a fever bird.

Raj, under no illusions about his brother, continued, “And how did you manage to get Yasmine out of what is undoubtedly a well-guarded zenana . . .” His voice stuck on the vowel and died. His head swiveled and his eye struck Gard like a slap, annihilating all of Gard’s rationalizations. Gard took a step backward, hoping to lose himself among the petitioners. They scattered away from him. The dragonet hiccupped.

“Gard-ji followed my orders,” Vijay said stoutly. “He shall be rewarded for his service.”

“Nazib,” trilled Yasmine. “My brother.”

Raj’s lips crimped at the familiarity. His eye released Gard. “Lady?”

“My—ah, former husband—will not even tell anyone that I am gone. He cared little for me.”

“He cares a great deal about his name,” said Rajinder.

Gard could never have imagined such anger, such disappointment and frustration, in the prince’s voice; every word vibrated with raw emotion. Even Jamshid paused in the midst of reaching to a tray of sweetmeats beside him, his hand hung in midair.

Bogatyl was still watching someone or something in the back of the room. Rajinder’s eyes focused on the same spot. God’s beak, who the hell is there already! Dragonet and Gard pirouetted simultaneously. Like a tidal wave sucking the water away from land, courtiers drew back and exposed three armored figures. The central one was Jofar.

Damn! A troop of cavalry could outpace an elephant any day.

Jofar shifted his feet. His body shield—surely it had grown, as Jofar’s temporal stature grew—clanked against the floor. It was his cue. He repeated his lines. “One of my uncle Shikar’s serving-women was overheard in the Muktari marketplace saying that her mistress Yasmine had told her she was eloping with Vijay of Ferangipur. Word of this came to my father, Menelik. Shikar could not quell the rumors, as he could not produce Yasmine. My father sent me here, ostensibly to visit, in reality to see what the truth may be . . .” His voice tapered and died. He leaned against his shield, drained by such a long speech.

Vijay and Yasmine stood as still as a tableau, an arrangement of flowers, perhaps. Who could accuse flowers of wrongdoing?

Double damn! howled Gard. Alliance or not, Menelik would certainly keep spies in Muktardagh! And damn, damn, damn—Yasmine blabbered to a maid, even I know better than that!

The diminutive daemon squirmed. Deva, sorting out the cast of characters, sank her head into her hands. Her shoulders trembled with laughter at Jofar’s naive candor, or tears at Vijay’s fecklessness, or rage at Gard’s shortsightedness, or all three at once.

“The Alliance,” enunciated Rajinder, “is searching for an excuse to make war upon us.”

“Let them,” Vijay said with an airy wave of his free hand. “We are Ferangi.”

Srivastava’s baleful eye peeked from her sari, blinked, vanished. Jamshid yawned, coherence ebbing from his face. Bogatyl leaped into the breach. He strode forward, his forefinger pointing at Gard like a centurion’s sword. His words tumbled over each other, faster and faster, warding off interruption. “So, the fire-demon has not only concealed his abilities but his origins. He has no doubt been spying for the Empire, plotting to interfere in Ferangi affairs. He committed a crime against the Alliance and let Vijay-ji shoulder the blame. What other crimes will he commit against Ferangipur? I accuse him of superstition, equivocation, charlatanry!”

Gard felt his cheeks blaze with anger. His hands clenched, nails digging into the palms.

“Execute him now!” shouted Bogatyl, “and send his body to Menelik!”

Jofar looked a little queasy at that. Vijay frowned. Yasmine’s eyes widened. Gard scrabbled in the mud at the bottom of his wits for some scathing rejoinder and came up empty.

“Be quiet, Bogatyl,” Rajinder said. “Prince Gard is guilty only of fulfilling our expectations. I have not encountered many princes who are capable of that.”

That shot went over Vijay’s head; the young man was much more concerned with puzzling out how Gard had suddenly become a prince. It was Gard who cringed.

Bogatyl turned and stalked away, the stiff planes of his back an unspoken insult. Jofar clanked forward. “Menelik did not send me to bring Gard-ji or Vijay-ji. He sent me to bring Lady Yasmine.”

“Take her,” said Rajinder.

“No,” Vijay said.

The brothers glared at each other, irresistible, immovable. Yasmine turned her face into Vijay’s chest, blushing charmingly at all the attention. Srivastava’s face appeared framed by silk; even features, huge dark eyes, lips curled by something very sour. Jofar saw her and gasped.

Oh no, Gard moaned, not another one struck by Kyphasia’s bolt. Lust or love, do not involve me! Sweat congealed on his brow. His face was stiff. It chipped as he spoke. What came out was a thread of sound he hardly recognized as his own voice. “May I go, Nazib?”

Rajinder turned away from Vijay. Vijay wobbled a bit, and Yasmine held him up. Srivastava, after staring at Jofar’s stare, dived flustered back into her sari. Jamshid burped, woke, looked around him uncertainly.

“May I go?” Gard repeated. Deva was slipping into the corridor, Deva would support him, Deva would probably hit him—but that was a nicely uncomplicated act.

Rajinder looked from side to side as if all the eyes on him were ravens spiraling in for the kill. “Now is not the time to discuss this,” he said very quietly. “Vijay, Jofar, Gard . . .” He stopped and swallowed. “Later.”

Aghast at how much it hurt to hear Rajinder’s voice crack beneath the weight of what he himself had done, Gard abandoned courtesy, turned and fled, the dragonet a lump of slag in his gut.