by David Hair
Then it suddenly dawned on her: Alyssa was speaking in Rondian, and she’d understood her! Ramita gasped and threw a hand across her mouth. For a second she felt a panicked sense of loss, until she realised her Lakh words were waiting for her, ready whenever she wanted. ‘You Rondian me teach?’ she asked out loud.
Alyssa giggled. ‘Have you taught me Rondian?’ she corrected. ‘Yes, a little – but we’re going to do this for most of the rest of the month so that you can understand Rondian perfectly. All I’ve done is imprint some more advanced grammar and some vocabulary.’ She pointed up at the small square of sky above them. The sun was gone, away to the west. Ramita felt a dizzying wave of tiredness as Alyssa said, ‘We’ve got a long way to go, Ramita Ankesharan-Meiros. A long, long way.’
‘Why not Husband do this?’ Ramita whispered.
‘Oh, I imagine Antonin would not risk it while travelling. Mind-to-mind work like this can be all-consuming, and if you’d been attacked, he would have been almost helpless. And maybe he thought it would scare you; I’m much less intimidating than him. Now he’s returned, he’s very busy. But I find I rather enjoy it.’ The jadugara rose a little unsteadily to her feet. ‘It will take weeks for you to be fluent, but by the time of the banquet I hope you’ll be able to converse comfortably with the other magi.’ She surprised Ramita with a quick hug. ‘You have a nice mind, my dear, wholesome and good.’
Ramita flushed at the strange compliment. She stammered something and tried to rise, but Alyssa sat her back down gently. ‘Wait a little – you’ll be dizzy if you try to move too soon.’ She left, with a friendly waggle of her fingers.
Ramita felt exhausted, but the sound of the fountain was soothing. She wondered if Huriya was home yet and started to rise again, but Justina, reappearing with a steaming pot, said firmly, ‘Sit down, girl.’ She poured out spicy chai and pushed the porcelain mug into Ramita’s hands. ‘Drink some of this before you try to do anything.’ She sat opposite, half in the shadows, and pulled up her hood. She could have been carved in marble. ‘That sort of working is more draining than you realise.’
Ramita took a sip. The chai was sweet and strong, just as she liked it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, then mischievously added, ‘Daughter.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ snapped Justina, ‘I’m not your “daughter”, you backwater pagan.’
‘Baranasi nehin “backwater”!’ she snapped, ‘and Lakh nehin “pagan”. You are.’ How dare this arrogant woman criticise her home town or her people!
‘Nehin? Don’t you mean “not”?’ Justina asked scornfully. ‘Find a dictionary!’
‘What is “dictionary”?’
‘A book of words. Alyssa didn’t do a very good job, did she? Or maybe you’re just not a good pupil.’ She leaned forward. ‘I don’t care who you are or where you’re from. I don’t agree with what my senile father has done to you, and if I had my way we’d send you right back. If any further proof were needed that he has lost his mind, his wedding a Lakh peasant is it.’
‘I nehin peasant, jadugara. My father is a trader in Aruna Nagar.’
‘I don’t give a neffing rukk whether your peasant father owned one piss-pot or two,’ Justina snarled. ‘You’re in Hebusalim now, at the front line of a war, and no matter what price my idiot father paid yours for the right to bed you, you are worth nothing if you can’t get pregnant damned fast. My advice to you is to shut your cheeky gob and spread yourself like a good little whore, and just maybe you’ll get out of this alive.’
Ramita’s temper flared and she raised her fist, thinking I’ll show you – and instantly her whole body was frozen, and Justina’s red ruby was glowing rich as blood.
Her icy eyes transfixed Ramita where she sat. ‘Never ever raise your hand against a mage,’ Justina Meiros whispered. ‘Never, unless you have the power to kill them.’ She stood up and walked around Ramita, whose body remained locked in place. ‘You must learn to control your temper, mudskin, or the first person who goads you is going to have every excuse to burn your face off.’
Ramita’s heart drummed helplessly and her whole body was slick with fear.
‘Alyssa will teach you to speak like us, and I will give you a few pointers on who to talk to and who to avoid, but do not ever make the mistake of thinking that you are one of us. Until you are with child, you are nothing but a particularly expensive whore. Now get out.’
As Ramita fled on wobbling her legs, Justina’s cold voice followed her. ‘By the way, what is a “jadugara”, bint?’
Ramita clutched a pillar by the door and let her legs regain a little strength. She turned her head. ‘Look it up in a dictionary, Daughter,’ she said clearly. Then she ran.
To her surprise, she heard a sudden burst of harsh laughter.
Ramita tottered back to her room. She needed Huriya, to tell her what had happened, but as she went to pull the door-curtain aside she heard a rhythmic thumping sound and a quiet uh uh uh, a girl’s voice. She peered carefully inside, at the hairy bulk of Jos Klein jolting into Huriya’s open body, tiny beneath him. Huriya’s head turned faintly towards the door as if she knew Ramita was there. Then she arched her back and tossed her head with fervent abandon.
Ramita slipped away to her huge, lonely bed. Kazim’s face haunted her dreams.
‘Husband, Huriya has told me of a shrine to Sivraman, here in Hebusalim.’ Ramita proudly said the whole sentence in Rondian. It was the week of the waxing moon and she was sharing coffee with her husband. Though Ramita was not allowed to leave the palace grounds, Huriya was, under guard and during the day, and a Lakh trader from the spice markets had told her of the little Omali temple.
‘What of it?’ Meiros asked distractedly, reading a letter. ‘Hebusalim has shrines to the Kore, the Sollan, the Ja’arathi and the Amteh faiths – every religion in Antiopia can be found here.’
‘But this is my religion, Husband, and I wish to pray there.’ This was her fertile period, until the end of the full moon. Meiros had come to her chambers for the first time the previous night, but his manhood had failed him and he had shuffled away, leaving her untouched and humiliated. She knew there were things women did to excite men, but she had no idea what, so if he couldn’t manage, then it was in the hands of the gods – which was why going to the shrine was vital. ‘Sivraman rides the great bull, he lends us the animal spirits of fertility,’ she explained.
He looked utterly discomforted, and she smiled to herself. I can make this jadugara blush!
Finally he relented enough to agree that the pandit of the shrine could visit to bless them. Huriya brought the holy man, whose name was Omprasad, to Casa Meiros the next evening. He was so thin he was practically a walking skeleton. His beard fell to his midriff in a dirty grey tangle, and he hobbled like a man who had walked the length of Antiopia – and he had. His tattered white loincloth barely covered his privates, and his only other clothing was a dirty orange blanket. He had no fingers on his left hand, just scarred, seared knobs, and he stank ferociously.
Ramita looked at Huriya. ‘My husband will not allow this if he is not clean.’
Huriya’s eyes lit up. ‘Olaf,’ she called loudly, mischief in her eyes.
Pandit Omprasad’s face was so transported when he sank into the warm water of the marble bath that Ramita feared he would expire then and there. The menservants cast sullen looks at the girls as they washed him, which they ignored. Do they think themselves better than a Lakh holy man? Ramita thought. Well, they can just do as they’re told.
Eventually Omprasad was washed and clothed in second-hand servants’ attire, then fed while they waited for Lord Meiros to return home. When the old mage joined them in the little courtyard Meiros looked at the old holy man and gave a nod of resignation. ‘You’ll have to tell me what to do.’
Ramita beamed with relief and pleasure. She squeezed Huriya’s hand. ‘He will bless us,’ she announced, excited to have persuaded her husband to do this for her.
Omprasad spoke lengthily, wheezing a
nd coughing a lot, and none of it made much sense, but that wasn’t relevant; what was important was the blessing of the gods; what was relevant was clasping her husband’s hand and watching him do something for her. As the pandit traced a pooja mark on her forehead she could feel Sivraman’s third eye on her. She would conceive soon, she knew it. She felt renewed determination to see this nightmare through.
While Huriya saw the old man out, giving him a bundle of food and some coins, Ramita took her husband’s wrinkled hand and walked him solemnly towards her private chambers. But as soon as they were out of sight of the servants Meiros pulled her to a halt. His eyes were amused, but also sad. ‘Wife, stop: I appreciate what you are doing. I appreciate your optimism and your willingness to do your duty, but I am tired and I am old. Last night I failed, and tonight I have even less energy: I am worn out.’
She refused to be put off. ‘Then allow me to help you relax, Husband,’ she said meekly.
He seemed about to refuse, but instead he shrugged his assent, and she led him down the small passage that connected their rooms to the small courtyard where the waxing moon shone down. She called for hot water, soap, a razor, bathing oils and incense sticks, and sat him on the cushioned seat, then knelt at his feet. She had done this for her father when her mother was in the blood-room or the temple, and now she sang softly as she worked, pouring hot water and oil, massaging with hard fingers, paring ill-kept nails, making his joints crack. Occasionally she glanced up, and she watched his gaze go from puzzled wariness to relaxed resignation.
Finally she was done and he sighed, ‘Thank you Wife. That was pleasant.’
She stood up and worked up the courage to touch his head. ‘I haven’t finished, my lord.’ She had a plan. She started by pushing her thumbs into his temples and gently worked them, to ease his headache, then she wrapped his head in a warm wet towel and plucked up her courage. ‘Will you permit me to trim your hair and beard, Husband?’
She felt a strange tickling sensation in her mind that made her shiver, then it vanished and he said gruffly, ‘You may.’
She wet his beard and lathered with the sweet-smelling soap, then, swallowing a sudden attack of nerves, picked up the blade. His eyes were closed, his face unreadable. She used the razor tentatively at first until she was sure she had got the hang of it, then she shaved clean his cheeks and throat with careful sweeps, and used scissors to shorten the beard to just an inch long. It took years off him, and for the first time she could see the younger man he’d been: a dogged, patient face, strong-jawed, with a firm mouth.
She turned her attention to his hair, lathered his scalp well, took a deep breath and lifted the razor. The long, uneven, tangled tresses clung to his scalp like dried-out weeds: they had to go. She worked patiently and carefully, taking her time, removing every hair from his scalp and ensuring there was no trace of stubble. Then she rinsed his head, and finished by massaging in a musky oil.
When she was done, a new man sat before her. His scalp was already tanned from the years of encroaching hair-loss, but this new baldness brought out the strong lines of his skull. He no longer looked like some neglected ancient, but regal, timeless. And the smooth scalp felt velvety to touch.
She suddenly became aware that she was bent over him, stroking his scalp. He raised a hand to her face and pushed away a loose tress that had fallen from her hair combs. She looked down and then froze as he pulled her face down to his and pressed his lips to hers.
His mouth tasted of bitter tobacco – almost unpleasant … but not. He had not kissed her before, ever. He pulled her onto his lap, sitting astride him, and contemplated her face. His right hand caressed her shoulder and he examined her salwar. ‘Is this dress of yours a favourite?’ he asked softly.
Huh? ‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Good,’ he muttered. He waved his hands, his eyes flared pale blue and every stitch fell apart. She suppressed the desire to claw herself free – sometimes, she forgot that he wasn’t an ordinary man, but never for long, not when he could do things like that. It took all her courage to hold still as he pushed aside the cloth and kissed her left breast, above her heart. She wondered if he could hear it thumping. His hands slid down her back and pulled away the remnants of her clothing entirely. In a dreamy daze – don’t think, do – she unlaced him and wriggled herself onto his erect manhood. She was already moist, with no need for the oils, and she received him easily and rode him gently, the restricted movement keeping him hard inside her, but slowing release, while her own juices flowed sweeter and hotter. Involuntary noises began to escape her throat and she could feel something heavy and sluggish stirring deep inside and rising to the surface of some hidden lake. Almost, almost – she was near that climax she occasionally experienced with her own fingers, but never with him, not yet …
He stifled a cry and his whole body jerked up and into her, making her cry out and almost triggering that blissful release … almost. She arched her back, half-disappointed, half-exultant, and she offered up a prayer to Sivraman and Parvasi, for a child to bless this night.
His hand, warm now, stroked her cheek. ‘Thank you, Wife.’
‘Thank the Gods, Husband,’ she whispered piously.
‘The only divine thing here is you,’ he told her, kissing her forehead.
He held her for a long while, before wrapping her in a shawl and giving her leave to go to her rooms. She prayed for conception, staring out at the moon, until she fell asleep. All the next week he treated her with tenderness, and twice more the mood came upon him to take her onto his lap and let her move until he expended inside her, but she still bled when the full moon waned.
There was no condemnation in his eyes when she told him, only a resigned disappointment and a pledge that they would try again, next month.
‘And Wife, if and when it pleases you, you are welcome to attend me in my chambers.’ He had more energy somehow, as if what they shared had reignited his zest for life. He attended his work with more vigour, and in the evenings his voice carried a certain feistiness that hadn’t been there before. But that invitation, well-meaning and gently made, made her feel guilty: yes, her husband’s company was amiable, and their coupling had become – well, almost pleasurable. But surely it was but a shadow of the rapture that could and should have been? In her dreams Kazim would come for her, sweep her up onto a white horse and they would ride and ride, for ever …
Casa Meiros, like most of the Ordo Costruo houses, lay on the west side of Hebusalim. The city’s vast population, some six million when the Leviathan Bridge opened, had dwindled to perhaps half that since the Crusades began twenty-four years ago. Dhassans had paler, softer features than Keshi, and their language and traditional dress predated the Keshi, they claimed. They subscribed to a milder version of the Amteh, called ‘Ja’arathi’, based more upon the teachings of the Prophet’s disciples, with gentler, more liberal interpretations of the Amteh strictures. The city’s special place in the Amteh and Ja’arathi cosmos was sealed not only because it was the Prophet’s birthplace, but it was also the resting place of Bekira, his chief wife. The huge Dom-al’Ahm was named Bekira Masheed in her honour.
Fewer than sixty thousand Rondians dwelt in the city, living in an enclave around the emir’s palace. Half of them were non-combatant support to the six legions stationed in the area: four on the Gotan Heights to the east, the other two in the city itself. Each legion had its full complement of five thousand men, including a dozen battle-magi.
Meiros took Ramita by carriage through the city, driving westwards to the rise upon which sat Domus Costruo, the Palace of the Builders. He was to preside at the quarterly banquet.
Domus Costruo was a cross-shaped building of glittering gold-flecked black granite. The central hall was positioned beneath a massive gold-plated dome, on the interior of which was a massive painting telling the story of the building of the Leviathan Bridge. The banquet hall was in the west wing, to catch the last of the sun. The marble floors remained cool, even under the
hottest summer sun. The Arcanum Guard, the legion recruited in Pontus to guard the Ordo Costruo, filled the grounds.
Ramita checked out her husband from the corner of her eye. She’d been confined to her blood-room for days, her only company Alyssa and her gentle, subtly-tiring language teaching. ‘You look tired, husband,’ she said in Rondian, pleased with her progress. This magic of the Rondians did have some good points.
Meiros yawned. ‘Yes, I am tired. The Kore Inquisition sent a delegation, and their presence has sparked some vicious debate. Those bastards seized Northpoint – the tower at the Pontus end of the Bridge – which permitted the First Crusade. Like it or not, the Ordo Costruo’s primary function is now the maintenance of the Bridge, for the emperor’s use. Old wounds.’ He stroked his shaven skull, as if still unused to it. ‘I’m getting too old for this – though I’m told I look younger since you came, Wife.’
She smiled dutifully, fighting her apprehension about the coming evening. ‘Lady Justina has warned me to be careful tonight, Husband.’
‘Justina likes to be dramatic. Stay near me and I will look after you.’
‘I won’t let you down.’
‘My dear, you will be the talk of the banquet.’ He smiled.
The carriage rolled up a long boulevard lined with palm trees. Trumpets blared as they halted and doormen in red jackets helped them out. Arcanum Guards lined the entrance as Meiros led Ramita up the stairs; she supposed it a credit to their discipline that only half of them stopped and stared, open-mouthed. She presumed none of them had seen a saree before. Or a woman’s bare midriff in public, possibly.
Justina had threatened to burn all of her sarees rather than allow her to wear one in public, but Ramita had sought and obtained Meiros’ blessing, as much to get one over Justina as any other reason. She wore the most ornate of the new collection Vikash Nooridan’s wife had purchased with such great pleasure in Baranasi. The close-fitting gold bodice was embroidered with blue glass beads, which matched the elaborate blue patterns stitched by hand across the saree and bearing the auspicious marks of Gann-Elephant, so skilfully devised that every fold revealed a new pattern, each subordinate to the whole. The final fold she had pulled over her head to shroud her face. Her flat stomach was adorned with a belly-ring of gold. She had her bridal bangles on, and a nose-ring chained to her left ear. Huriya had pasted a bindu gem to her forehead, a scarlet ruby, and her fingernails had been painted by one of Justina’s servants in one of her own polishes. Her lips were coloured dusky red. Huriya had painted henna patterns on her hands and feet that morning. ‘You will turn every head,’ she had whispered while Justina ranted. ‘Don’t listen to what that jealous old hag says.’
