by David Hair
I don’t want your beautiful things, she wanted to say, I just want Kazim.
‘Who is Kazim?’ he asked.
Her heart lurched as she finally realised that this man was not just ferang, but a true jadugara, a magician who could pull thoughts from her mind. She felt a shuddering jolt of fear. ‘The one I was to marry,’ she whispered.
‘Ah. I am sorry.’ He sounded vaguely regretful. ‘You will be bitter, to have your life so rearranged to be the broodmare of some ghastly old man. I can’t help that. I can only say that this life will have its rewards also, beyond what you can imagine. But I cannot give you back your dreams.’
They fell silent. Outside their tiny tent the hushed crowd, held in suspense, strained to hear the low conversation. Would she refuse him? What would happen if she did? The moment dragged on and on.
Finally, somewhere inside herself, time ran out. Kazim, forgive me. She slowly lowered the leaves and stared into the watery blue eyes of the jadugara. They were alien, unreadable. His grey hair and beard were thin and straggly. His face had none of the traditional Omali groom-marks. His lips were thin and his demeanour impatient. His eyes widened slightly as he took her in.
How do I seem to him, with my dark skin and painted face, my patterned hands and glittering jewellery? Does he see all the way into my soul with his jadugara eyes?
‘Why me?’ she whispered. ‘I’m just a market-girl.’
His eyes never left hers. ‘I have great need of children, and you are highly likely to breed many, quickly. I have divined that the path of greatest safety lies in siring children swiftly, to a Lakh wife. When I say “safety”, I mean not my own, but that of the whole world. There must be children, multiple children of the same birth, to you and I. Those children will be magi, and they will unify the Ordo Costruo and bring about peace. I searched long, but life is perilous here and lineage often uncertain. You are the only one to have the requisite genetic history and race, and I am nearly out of time. You – and our children – represent a chance to stave off disaster, assuming it is not already too late.’
‘I am just your broodmare,’ she said flatly.
‘I am sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I have no fable of love with which to comfort you. There is only this hard fact: you have the requisite genetic and cultural mix. I will treat you with dignity, but I must also sire children, and that will not be dignified at all. If you must know, it fills me with shame. I never wanted this. I have my pride. I can see the revulsion in your eyes when you look at me. I am no old lecher who craves young girls, but I have no choice. Believe me, I wish I had.’ He stopped and half-smiled. ‘I think these young men are tiring of holding you, girl.’
It was as if her instincts decided for her paralysed mind. With trembling hands she pulled the garland of orange flowers over her head, reached out and jerkily placed it over his head. He did the same, smoothly and calmly. She heard the sigh of the gathered people, the letting out of anxiously held breath. A few people cheered, but most just stared. Then the veil was pulled away and she was in the middle of a sea of dark faces, white eyes and teeth gleaming in the torch-light. Smoke and incense hung in the air, almost choking. She found her cheeks wet with tears and could not wipe them, for her hands were locked in his garland, shaking wildly.
Meiros was taken into the kitchen where a fire waited, to complete the ritual. Jai and Baghi, panting now, carried her in and placed her before the fire-pit. Huriya, at the door, reached out and stroked Ramita’s arm as she passed. Only her father, Vikash, Guru Dev, Pashinta and Pandit Arun were within. ‘Now come the vows, Master,’ Vikash Nooridan told Meiros.
The jadugara turned and offered her his hands. He pulled her to her feet, surprisingly strong. Her legs felt wobbly, sore from sitting for so long. She shivered as cool, bony fingers tightened around hers: patchy white skin coiled about young dark hands. Her throat was tight, her breath laboured.
She scarcely heard the words spoken, about loyalty, about trust and companionship, about duty. Gods were invoked, blessings made. Then Vikash instructed Meiros to walk about the fire three times. She followed him, stepping on plates and shattering clay pots, kicking over candles and little cups of water, following tradition, as Arun chanted the prayers and propitiations. Then her hand was joined to his again and they slowly promenaded together about the fire. The final circuit. They were wed.
She felt faint and dizzy, and clung to Meiros’ arm while people cheered uncertainly. Ispal called Tanuva downstairs, and she embraced her weeping parents. They both looked nervously at Meiros, and then Ispal cautiously extended his hand. Meiros took it briefly and inclined his head slightly to Tanuva. Then Huriya bustled in and kissed Ramita and hugged her. She looked fiercely exultant, as if this wedding was something she had laboured long towards.
You are the only truly happy person here today, Ramita thought.
The Keshi girl curtsied saucily to Meiros and then struck a pose. ‘Music!’ she called to the drummers and sitar players, and they started a familiar tune. Huriya spun, then stopped, her body arching, breasts straining the fabric, then she danced about that tiny space, graceful, light-footed, nimble. She twirled graceful patterns with her hands and arms, her face alive, expressive. It was a story-dance from Kesh. Ramita saw all the northern soldiers drink in her curvy body and narrow waist, especially the monstrous Klein. The gold ring in her belly-button held a bell that tinkled as she spun and swayed. People clapped, the drumming increased and Jai called out in a loud voice and leapt in beside her, clapping his hands, cavorting about, dancing a fierce male role. She had never seen her brother look so masculine, and she felt a surge of pride. Then everyone was dancing as if this were a wedding like any other, a day of universal joy and celebration.
Food platters appeared before her and she realised just how hungry she was, and dizzy with the stress and strain. Meiros led her to a waiting carpet and settled her on cushions. Up close, she noticed that the air about him shimmered, at times seeming almost to push her away. It gave her a prickling sensation. He noticed her curiosity and leant towards her. ‘I am shielded,’ he told her. ‘From missiles. You will become used to it.’
Shielded: another display of his mysterious magic. She inched away from him, her skin crawling.
Meiros fed her with his hands, as tradition demanded, and she him. He seemed almost human now, laughing at her shaking hands that missed his mouth most of the time, but all she could see in her mind’s eye was the way she had imagined this would be with Kazim. Where are you, my love? Do you know what is going on here? Do you care? She caught a sober glint in Meiros’ eyes and stilled her mind, afraid again. Will I always have to guard my thoughts around him?
‘No, you won’t,’ he said, startling her by answering the unspoken question. Then he flinched, as if cursing himself, and added, ‘I’m sorry, I should not be listening. I will teach you how to protect your mind. It isn’t hard. In the meantime, my apologies.’ She shuddered, not in the least consoled.
Her husband – that old man beside me is my husband! – looked to be enjoying the occasion, and whenever anyone dared to meet his eye, he nodded graciously. Still no one but she and her family knew his name, for fear of what might occur. Klein still glowered over everything, misliking this chaotic press of people. Clearly my new husband has dangerous enemies.
Traditionally there would be singing and dancing until the bridal couple left, then the married women would shepherd their daughters away and the hard drink and ganja leaf would appear. The gamblers would bring out cards. It would be a long and wild night. But Ramita could dance only with her husband tonight, and she did not think him a dancing man. Anyway, she did not want to dance.
The moon, nearly full, sailed over the buildings, bathing the celebration in silvery light, and she whispered a prayer to Parvasi: ‘Watch over me, Queen of Light, and watch over my Kazim. Speed him my love.’ Then she glanced guiltily at the old magi and let her mind go still.
10
Soldier of the Shihad
In 904 I was a young soldier. Our generals had told us that the Dhassans were murdering our people in Hebusalim. A letter from the emperor exhorted us to save our brethren. Yet it took all our courage and discipline to set foot on that Bridge. I remember the incredible tension – would Meiros collapse his creation beneath us, sending tens of thousands to a watery grave?
What would Meiros do? Some prayed, others were fatalistic. All were terrified! But Kore was with us, for we travelled safe to Southpoint. I cannot remember kissing my wife as passionately as I kissed the earth the day we set foot in Dhassa, the crossing behind us and Hebusalim already in flames.
JARIUS BALTO, LEGIONNAIRE, PALACIOS V, MEMOIRS 904
Aruna Nagar, Baranasi, Northern Lakh,
on the continent of Antiopia
Shawwal 1381 (Octen 927 in Yuros)
9 months until the Moontide
Kazim regretted everything he had said, every insult he had hurled at Huriya, who was so obviously delighted to be going north with Ramita, all the things he’d shouted about Ramita’s willingness to marry another.
I was wrong: Ramita has no choice. This is not her fault – and by now Huriya will have told her everything I said and she will think I don’t care. She will think I hate her – I never meant to wish her dead. The fortune-teller promised that she was my destiny, so why is this happening?
He had said those words, though, pouring out his grief and fury at his self-satisfied little sister. He would have struck her if Haroun had not restrained him and taken him back into the Dom-al’Ahm. He’d stayed with him until he calmed.
Now it was mid-afternoon and Ramita would be sitting in the courtyard, attended by her family, awaiting the nuptials that night. Was she missing him? I never meant it when I told Huriya that you should slit your own throat before you let that old man touch you. Please believe that! But he still felt that way, deep inside. The Kalistham was full of tales of women who found the courage to end their own lives rather than be shamed – one of the Scriptualists had come and spoken of them after Haroun explained his plight. But he could not bear to think of Ramita taking such a path.
Ispal’s greed led her to this – and Huriya is worse! She’s going north now. She cares only for her own gain. And she knows who this suitor is and will not tell me, the faithless slattern!
He was determined to interrupt the wedding, though Haroun argued against it. He listened to his new friend out of respect, then as soon as his back was turned, he slipped away. I cannot do nothing, he told himself. His imagination was tormenting him with visions of Ramita’s eyes, wide in agony and terror as the ferang lowered himself onto her and took what should be his. He stole a bamboo rod from a drover and went striding through the streets, snatching up a flask from a drunk lying in a gutter. Cheap, oily liquor flooded his mouth, unpleasant fuel for his anger. He marched through the neighbourhood until he stopped by a great press of people, a full block from the Ankesharan house, jamming the street as everyone strove to catch a glimpse of the strange goings-on.
One of Chandra-bhai’s thugs recognised him and laughed, ‘Some other guy’s marrying your little slut.’
Kazim bellowed like a bull and swung the rod, smacking the man across the face then kicking him in the belly when he went down. ‘Ramita!’ he howled, calling out her name over and over as he fought his way through the crowds, swinging his stick with brutal carelessness. An old auntie got knocked aside, children were thrown against walls as he screamed, ‘Ramita, I’m coming!’
He staggered into a space and found his way blocked by a huge ferang. Kazim swung at him, but the ferang blocked the rod on his metal-clad forearm. His face was an ugly, broken-nosed block of flesh with narrow eyes beneath a helm of steel. A huge fist swung at Kazim’s head.
Kazim arched his back and let the blow pass, hammered a punch into the massive frame before him, right into the belly. His fist met steel and all but broke his knuckles. A blow struck his shoulder and knocked him off-balance. People shouted and clambered aside, clearing a tiny space, too small for dodging. The big Rondian crouched and spread his arms. Kazim grabbed a cooking pan simmering on a brazier, scattering roasted cashews about him and swung, making his foe’s helmet ring. Got you! He hit him again, but the big man refused to go down, smashing a fist into Kazim’s belly. He folded over, air blasting from his mouth as his vision blurred. People cheered and threw him back at the Rondian, stomping their feet. Everyone loved a fight. The big Rondian grinned and opened his arms.
Kazim threw a few punches, but this wasn’t like fighting Sanjay. It was liking hitting stone. Then he was caught and borne to the ground, the Rondian landing on him like a falling building. He tried to buck him off, but the weight was too much. The first punch mashed his ear and sound distorted weirdly, then the second crunched sickeningly into his face. He felt his nose break. A third punch left him all but senseless.
The Rondian got off him as he lay whimpering like a child. The crowd had fallen silent. Kazim burned with pain and humiliation. Those huge hands reached down and pulled him upright. ‘Don’t come back, boy,’ the Rondian said softly in Keshi, ‘or I’ll pulp you. Understood?’
He nodded mutely, nearly passing out at the movement.
‘Good. Now piss off, you little fanny. Don’t come back.’ He shoved him against the wall and buried his fist in Kazim’s belly, leaving him vomiting in the gutter. Heavy footfalls receded into the crowd.
When the Rondian had gone, sympathetic hands and faces surrounded him and gently tended him. One man straightened his nose, which had swollen like a kalikiti ball, and they bathed the cuts the man’s gauntlets had left on his face. He almost wept with shame and thwarted fury, but everyone patted him and told him he had been brave to face the filthy ferang. None of you leapt to my defence, he thought sullenly; in fact you threw me at him! But he said nothing. A couple of youths took him back to the Dom-al’Ahm, half-carrying him through the bustle of the market.
There were worshippers everywhere, gathering for the evening prayers. Somehow it was almost dusk. Even now, Ramita must be—No, don’t even think of it!
Haroun found him after prayers. ‘Kazim, my friend – what has happened? Where were you?’
Kazim’s head swam. ‘I went to a wedding.’
Haroun understood immediately. ‘Ah, my foolish friend. I see they were not hospitable to uninvited guests.’ He shook his head sympathetically. ‘I will bring some water. You look terrible.’
‘I’m going to kill the bastard who did this,’ Kazim swore.
‘Who was he?’
‘A massive Rondian pig, built like a bull, with a face like a puckered arse-hole.’
Haroun laughed grimly. ‘That’s most of them,’ he said. ‘They are a singularly ugly race.’
They both laughed, a hollow and bitter humour they could not sustain against the oncoming silence.
Kazim sat by the grave of his father, watching the sun rise on the morning after Ramita’s wedding. The night had vanished in the flasks of arak he and the young Scriptualist had shared and now Haroun slumbered beside him, childlike in repose. Ramita, where are you? Did he hurt you? Did you fight him? Did he bloody your beautiful body as he ruined it?
After scrounging some food they returned to the Dom-al’Ahm for the midday lesson. Jai appeared and knelt beside Kazim just as the Godspeaker began, speaking of the shihad: ‘All able-bodied men are summoned,’ he said. ‘We must slay the infidel and retake Hebusalim. You are called, my children, all of you, Amteh and Omali alike. Glory awaits, in victory or in death. Ahm has a hundred virgins awaiting each soldier martyred in battle. He is calling each one of you.’
Afterwards, Jai told him that Ispal was house-hunting, and soon they would leave the old house they’d built themselves, the family home of generations, where Jai and Kazim had been born. The world had turned on its head.
‘And Ramita?’
‘Gone,’ Jai replied. ‘Father and Mother went to see her this morning. They’
re gone now.’
His heart lurched. What is left for me here?
The Dom-al’Ahm became his home. Behind it were kitchens that fed all-comers, meagre but wholesome fare. He ate there twice a day and slept in a blanket in the lee of the dormitory of the Scriptualists. A new life grew from the ashes of the old.
An old soldier called Ali was teaching swordsmanship in a field outside of town, out of sight of the prince’s guards. Even Jai joined in when he could. ‘It is a good skill to have,’ he would say, one of few Omali among the dozens of Amteh youths present. He wasn’t very good, but Kazim kept the others from bullying him. Haroun, being a Scriptualist, did not join them, of course, but he watched intently.
Kazim had always excelled in athletic pursuits, and as the days went by he found he was beating everyone, Ali included. Veteran warriors were watching him, Haroun told him. Kazim felt a grim surge of pleasure when he said, ‘They are impressed with you, my friend.’
Ramita was his first thought each morning and his last at night; she was in all of his prayers, the vision that pushed him to run harder, to fight harder. In his memory she grew ever more beautiful.
On the last day of the month, Jai didn’t go home. The three of them sat together, swearing blood-brothers, pledging to the shihad. Jai renounced the Omali faith and became Amteh. Haroun sponsored him, Kazim supported him and he didn’t even go home to say farewell. ‘They are spoiled with greed,’ he told them. ‘They are no longer my family. Ahm is my father and you are my brothers.’
The next day, they wrapped what little they had in bundles of cloth and joined the small column marching north through the morning mists to join the shihad.
