by Derr, Megan
*~*~*
Nanda hummed as he traversed the halls; low, so no one would know what he hummed. Really, he should not be humming at all, but he was too nervous and excited not to. Tomorrow was the day, and he would learn if it was all some grand joke, a brief moment already forgotten by the king he had not really seen since their brief encounter— or if it truly was what it had seemed it was going to be.
He smoothed his hair, which reached well to his knees, and immediately remembered that he would have to get up even earlier than usual tomorrow if he was going to have time to prepare it properly for the performance. His presentation had already been approved, the request signed by King Shahjahan himself. It made him anxious all over again.
Voices caught his attention as he entered the suite of rooms allotted to his family in the palace. It was his father and mother, and, from the sounds of it, another of their political comrades for whom Nanda did not care at all. Always they talked, voices low so that no one would catch so much as a word of the plots and plans they were forever weaving. His parents treated the court and its affairs like a game—one they had never lost.
Nanda stood outside the door, half-listening so that he knew when it would be all right to interrupt and ask if his costume for tomorrow had arrived yet. He saw no sign of it in the main room, and it would not be in his own bedchamber.
"It's all arranged then?" his mother asked
His father's deep voice replied, "Yes. During the performance."
"Should we do it then? It would be safer to do it sooner."
"Safer is not the issue. We won't make a statement if we play it safe. How many times do you want to debate this?"
"Of course. Forgive me. You know I get anxious the closer we get. I still cannot believe the first went so smoothly …"
A laugh. "You expected anything less? Are we or are we not the best? Your man will be in place by the beginning of Nanda's performance. Listen close, because Nanda is lazy about his songs—he mashes them together rather than stopping one before starting another. Does he know the songs?"
"Do not be insulting. He attacks during Dance of Spring."
Nanda started to shake, hugging himself to ward off a sudden chill. Surely they did not mean what he thought. His parents? Did his brother know about this? What was 'the first one?'
But he thought he knew. Whispers of possible assassination had abounded for months after the late king had died in a routine tour of his land. An accident, it had been declared. But there were always whispers, and Nanda had known his family disliked the changes made by King Shahjahan's father, changes that Shahjahan continued to support, with the cooperation of most of the council. But his family thrived on discontent; displeasure was a major factor in their games.
Would they really assassinate Shahjahan? Had they already planned and carried out an assassination?
Nanda felt sick. He turned and fled, terrified. How had he missed all this? Who did he tell? How? Would anyone believe him?
"Nandakumar!"
He turned around and swallowed. "Mother." Had they caught him running?
His mother frowned, her pretty face pinched with annoyance. "Where have you been? Wandering the halls, making yourself a nuisance? Come along, your costume has arrived and we need to make sure those idiots didn't make any mistakes. You must be perfect if you're going to be of any use to us."
"Will I be of use, Mother?" He bit back what he really wanted to ask. "I would like my songs to be useful to you, for once."
She didn't look impressed, more secretly amused. It made him sick. "Yes, you will. The court will come apart at your performance. It will be fabulous."
"I'm glad to be of help to you, Mother."
"It is a nice change, isn't it?" She grabbed his arm and led him back to the suite. "Now come, let us adjust your costume and then you will play everything through for me so I know you've got it right."
Nanda bit his tongue. Of course he had it right. He had it better than right—he had it perfect. Nor had he told anyone of his brief, treasured encounter with the king. And now he was grateful, so grateful he would be shaking with relief if his mother wasn't clinging to him.
He had to figure out something to save Shahjahan, and he thought he knew what. But it hurt, and didn't it figure that, so close to everything he'd ever wanted, his family snatched it away in the cruelest way possible.
*~*~*
Nanda woke slowly and under heavy protest. He didn't want to wake up—he wanted the dark back. But then he realized he was being held against a familiar chest, surrounded by the smell of incense, and outside that was Shah. His arms moved of their own accord, and he held his king tight. "I—"
"Shh, Nanda." Shah stroked his hair, which had either come free or been freed while he slept. It would be a pain to redo it all again. "It's all right."
"I shouldn't be upset," Nanda finally managed. "I wasn't sorry to see them go."
"They were still your family, and watching them go is not the same as knowing they are dead. Why do you think I spared them?" His short beard scratched, familiar and comforting as Shah kissed Nanda's wet cheek, then took his mouth, until Nanda was not so tense in his arms.
Nanda took several deep breaths, willing his mind back into order, calling up the discipline that had been drilled into him practically from birth. He sat up, and though he didn't leave Shah's embrace he felt more like himself. "A rockslide, right?"
"Yes," Shah said slowly. "But in the time you've been asleep—nearly a day—it has come to light that it was probably an arranged slide."
"So someone killed them, not simply something." Nanda spoke dully. "Why?"
Shah stroked his hair, his side and back. "You do not need to ask all these questions, Nanda. It will do you no good."
"And I will not be so weak as to live in ignorance," Nanda countered, a bit of his familiar bite in the words. "What were they doing?"
"I do not know. I did not follow the investigation that far, only enough to learn it was not accidental. But my guess is that they probably decided to tangle with someone who did not think exile sufficient punishment."
Nanda closed his eyes, arms tightening around Shah. "So they never learned a thing. Not a one. Even after you spared them." He buried his face against Shah's chest. "I—I wish it hadn't gone the way it did."
"I know," Shah said softly. "But I hope you do not regret the choices you made."
"Of course not," Nanda looked up, temper flaring slightly. "Why would you suggest such a thing?"
Shah laughed. "Because if you still have that temper you so cleverly hid from me for so long, I know you will be all right."
Nanda blinked, then scowled. "I didn't hide a thing."
"Of course not."
Around them, sitting quietly to the side, Aikhadour, Witcher and Beynum laughed. The noise seemed to shake off what remained of Nanda's anguish-induced lethargy. "Was I really asleep so long?"
"And probably would have slept longer," Bey said. "But you started to have nightmares. It was the only reason we woke you—well, the only reason Shah finally let us wake you."
Shah shook his head at Bey. "Nanda wakes when he wants; if you wake him sooner, you have only yourself to blame."
"Of that I am all too aware," Bey said dryly, playfully shoving Aik when he started laughing. He crawled across the distance between him and Nanda to kiss him softly. "Are you done sleeping now?"
"I suppose I am." Nanda let go of Shah and let them help him up. He welcomed and returned the embraces of Witcher and Aik, murmuring a quiet thanks in the latter's ear, for he knew it had been Aik who had remained with him until Shah returned. "Dare I ask if the news has spread?"
"Of course it has," Witcher said with exasperated amusement. "I particularly like the one about Shah arranging everything." He shook his head. "Honestly, Shah—where do you find time for all these plots?"
Shah grinned. "Between running a country and the four of you? I wish I knew—I should like to make some of it available for the occas
ional nap." He held his hand out to Nanda. "Come—we'll have a nice, quiet but showy dinner, and I'll make an announcement about it. Did you want to play them something?"
"I …" Nanda frowned. His family had always derided his music except for the one moment where it had proven useful—where it would be so distracting an assassin would have easy access to the new, young king. "Yes. Even though they'd probably hate it."
"Or maybe because they'd hate it," Bey offered as they began to prepare themselves for dinner.
*~*~*
His hands were slick with sweat and trembling too hard for him to hold a drink. If he tried to eat, he knew he would regret it.
He didn't really know what to do. Rather, he didn't know if it would work. It made him want to scream or cry, that the moment he'd been dreaming about for two months was never going to be.
Dozens of other schemes—leaving a note, talking to Shahjahan or someone close to him—were thought of and then immediately discarded. There was no guarantee his note would make it or who would read it. No one would let him near Shahjahan and he had absolutely no idea whom to trust.
Nanda stooped to pick up his instrument, relieved that his hands immediately steadied. Here was something he could handle, no matter what turmoil went on around him. Music was the only way he'd reach Shahjahan now. Assuming, of course, that the king caught on. Realized. Nanda didn't know what to do if his pathetic plan didn't work.
Surely someone would realize what he was trying to say. Someone not involved in the plot, ideally.
It wasn't fair! Nanda set his instrument down before he gave into the urge to break it to pieces. Why did they have to do this? Why couldn't they just whisper and mutter and attend his concert and see his 'nonsense' earn him the position of first in King Shahjahan's harem? They would have been so pleased! To have their youngest, useless son so close to the king. Of course he would never have done anything to betray Shahjahan, but his family would have been proud of him for once. And now he was going to attempt to have them all put to death.
His family would hate him. Shahjahan would loathe him. That hurt worst of all.
Nanda looked up as a servant appeared, signaling it was his turn. Normally performers were simply called from the assembled diners, but in a formal dinner like this the performers were called in one by one. He nodded and, as the servant left, smoothed his hair and adjusted his costume—formal black, the robe fitting tight at the top and flowing at the bottom, the sides split high to show the dark gold pants beneath. The ends and sleeves were embroidered with his family's beetle crest. For just a moment, he allowed himself to pretend that soon he would be wearing the pants and skirt of a concubine, chest bare to show always who and what he was.
Originally he had arranged to play five songs, never telling anyone that he would actually be playing six. In the Garden, he had finally decided, would be first, to begin boldly and then wind down from there. Start strong, end peacefully, humbly.
Not that it mattered now—so long as it ended with Shahjahan alive, he would be content.
He would have to be.
He was beautiful; he knew he was. If he had not been, his family would have sent him away somewhere—probably to a monastery to be forgotten, his religious devotion to be brought up in conversation when useful. His hair, bound with costly gold, reached just past his knees. Heavy, but a weight he was long used to.
Nanda kowtowed to the king, to the assembled, and spoke all the appropriate platitudes. Settling his instrument in his lap, he dared a brief look at Shahjahan from under his lashes—and could barely breathe to see how intently Shahjahan was watching him. It hurt. He closed his eyes and began to play.
It was not the playful notes of In the Garden, but a slower, more haunting melody. A song titled The Candle, about a man waiting for his lover to return, watching as the candle melted, counting the hours. And how he has to kill his lover, when he finally arrives. Nanda kept his eyes closed, willed his heart to slow though he knew it wouldn't. At least, he thought, there is a song for everything. There's even a song for killing loved ones.
It would have made him laugh, had the situation not been his own.
He wished he was brave enough to open his eyes, but he had been trained to play without needing to see. Opening his eyes would be distracting. He didn't know what would be worse: to see the confusion, or the comprehension.
The song seemed to last forever. Nanda wished he could just go to sleep until the worst was over, but he continued to play, blending the first song into the second—hardly lazy, he thought contemptuously—and then the world exploded.
Discordant noises drowning his song, shouts—someone grabbed him, hauled him roughly to his feet. Nanda cried out as his instrument hit the floor; he could hear it break. Was that really necessary? He thought he heard the king shout something, but then he was being hauled away, trying in vain to block out the angry cries and frightened shouts.
Seconds, minutes, hours—he couldn't tell—he was thrown down on a soft, deep rug. He focused on the deep jewel tones, the intricacy of the design, desperate to think about anything except that he was probably about to die a traitor. He'd betrayed his king unwittingly, but repairing that mistake had forced him to betray his family. He wasn't sorry, but he hated it anyway.
"Nandakumar," a voice said softly.
It made him shudder. Nanda couldn't bear to look up. "I—I'm sorry, Majesty. It wasn't—I didn't know until too late."
A hand cupped his jaw, forced his head up. "Nandakumar," Shahjahan repeated. "Explain everything to me."
Nodding, Nanda did so. Shahjahan sat there before him on the rug and listened to every word, breaking into the explanation only to clarify something here and there.
"Your song puzzled me at first—I thought perhaps I had somehow managed to tell you the wrong one. But then I began to realize what exactly you were playing and quietly ordered my men to act. We found the assassin, and your parents … They confessed before long."
Nanda flinched and did not ask for details about what had persuaded his parents to talk.
"The only point I disagreed with was your willing participation."
"I didn't know until yesterday, I swear it." Nanda looked down again, staring at the way his long, thin fingers were attempting to pull up or burrow into the rug. "I just—I just wanted to play the song you requested."
Shahjahan forced him to look up again. "As did I," he said, and Nanda could see the genuine regret in his face. "I've been looking forward to this night since the afternoon we met."
"I'm sorry, Majesty."
"You have nothing for which you must apologize, Nandakumar." Shahjahan released him, fingers withdrawing slowly, and stood up.
For the first time, Nanda took in the room they were in, the smallest of the three court rooms in which the king conducted business. He watched Shahjahan recline in the low seat on a raised dais, dropping his eyes when Shahjahan looked at him.
"My guards are not pleased at all with me, for insisting on speaking with you alone. Nor is the council." Shahjahan's teeth flashed in a grin that was remarkably boyish. He stroked his close-cut beard. "It's a good thing my father taught me to care only so much what they all think. I was not about to let them kill you when I was quite certain the last thing you wanted was me dead."
Nanda shook his head, but did not speak.
"More cold-bloodedly, why kill me when you knew very well I was about to put you in a very ideal position? This, of course, they would not know."
"Majesty …" His fingers were beginning to hurt, they clung so tight to the carpet. "I …" Nanda dared to look up. "You are not going to kill me?"
Shahjahan shook his head. "No. Your family should be put to death. But they are going to be exiled." He sighed. "So soon after my father's death I am not eager for more spilled blood. Especially not with war looming." A faint smile. "It will cause a ruckus, Nandakumar, but if you are willing to endure it, I would have you for the first flower in my garden."
"Even
after …" Nanda stared at him, then shook his head, then nodded. "Yes, Majesty. It would be … an honor and a pleasure."
Shahjahan held out a hand, beckoning Nanda forward and tugging him down into his lap, taking a hard, sure kiss before Nanda could find his balance. He smelled like incense, always present for the countless meetings and sessions that filled a king's day, and like the sands, a warm breeze. He tasted just as warm and welcome, a bit like pale, sweet wine. "Majesty …"
