by David Drake
Looking at him, Kungas was struck again by the disparity between the man and his position.
Weirdest general I ever saw. Too young by half, and twice as deadly as any general I ever met. That man is pure murder with a sword.
Thoughts of deadliness drew Kungas' eyes to the general's companions. They were standing a few feet away from their leader, in the posture of guards.
Kungas examined the one on the left first—the smaller one.
I do believe that is the wickedest-looking man I ever saw in my life. Like the world's meanest mongoose.
He transferred his gaze to the one on the right—the huge one.
Legends live. The great ogre of the Himalayas walks among us. With a face carved out of the very stone of the great mountains.
The general caught sight of him. He seemed to stiffen a bit, but Kungas wasn't certain. The general had one of those expressionless faces which are almost impossible to read. Kungas marched up to him. Summoned up his poor Greek.
"You is General Belisarius? Envoy for—from Rome?"
The general nodded.
"I is name Kungas. Commander for—of Lord Venandakatra's Kushan—ah, group? Force. Lord Venandakatra has—ah, what is word?—"
"I speak Kushan," said the general.
Kungas sighed inward relief.
"Thank you. I fear my Greek is wretched. We have been assigned to serve as your escort during the trip to Ranapur."
Again, Kungas found it almost impossible to read the man's expression. But, yes, he did seem a bit stiff. As if he were unhappy to see the Kushan. Kungas couldn't think of a reason why that would be true, but he was almost sure he was correct.
However, the general was cordial. And his Kushan was certainly good. Excellent, in fact—without even a trace of an accent.
"A pleasure, Kungas." His voice was a rich baritone.
The general hesitated, and then said:
"Please do not take this the wrong way, Kungas. But I must say I'm surprised to see you. We don't really need an escort. We didn't have one on the trip here from Bharakuccha. We're quite capable of taking care of ourselves."
Kungas' face cracked into a tiny smile.
"Yes, I have seen. However, the lord was quite insistent."
"Ah." The general was diverted for a moment, swiping at a fly which landed on his neck. Kungas noted, however, that the foreigner's keen brown eyes never left off their scrutiny of him. And that he killed the fly regardless.
After flicking away the dead insect, the general commented idly:
"I would have thought you would be assigned to join the hunt for the princess and her rescuers—ah, excuse me, abductors."
The iron face grew harder still.
"I fear my lord has developed a certain distrust for us. I do not understand why. The princess was not resc—ah, abducted—while we were guarding her."
Kungas thought the general was fighting back a smile. But he was not certain. A hard man to read.
"Besides," Kungas continued, "Lord Venandakatra really has no need for us to join the pursuit. He already has hundreds of Rajput cavalry scouring the countryside, and well over a thousand other troops."
The foreign general looked away for a moment. When the eyes turned back, his gaze seemed particularly intent.
"What is your professional assessment, Kungas? Do you think the princess and her—ah, abductors—will be caught?"
"One abductor only, General."
"One?" The general frowned. "I had heard a whole band of vicious cutthroats were responsible. The palace was a scene of utter massacre, according to rumor."
"Massacre? Oh, yes. Massacre, indeed. The majordomo, three high priests, and two mahamimamsa guards garroted. Eleven priests and mahamimamsa butchered in their beds—their throats cut by a razor, apparently. A priest and a mahamimamsa slain in the great hall. Handwork, that, by a deadly assassin. Three mahamimamsa knifed outside the antechamber. A priest and six more mahamimamsa guards slaughtered in the antechamber. Blade-work again, mostly. Then, two more mahamimamsa slain in the princess' own sleeping chamber. Assassin handwork again, although—"
"Although?"
Kungas made a quick assessment. Partly, the assessment was based on his memory of Venandakatra's scowls toward the general. But, in the main, it was based on the faint but unmistakable trace of humor in the general's voice when he used the word "abductors."
"Well, as it happens, I examined the scene of the—ah, crime—myself. At Lord Venandakatra's behest. That is why I said `one abductor.' The entire operation was carried out by one man."
"One man?" demanded the general. But he did not seem particularly astonished.
Kungas nodded. "Yes. One man. The trail of slaughter was that left by a single man, not a group. One man, alone. A man by the name of Raghunath Rao. The Panther of Maharashtra, he is sometimes called. Or the Wind of the Great Country. Other names. It was he. I am certain of it. He is known to have a personal attachment to the princess. There are not more than three—possibly four—assassins in India who are that deadly. And none has that proficiency with their bare hands and feet."
Kungas almost grimaced. "No one else can shatter bones and pulverize bodies that way. That is why—ah, that is, the two mahamimamsa who were killed in the princess' own chamber were also slain by hand. But the blows, though skillful, had none of the pure fury of the Panther's."
The general frowned.
"But—you said one man—"
"The princess. She killed them. She was trained by Raghunath Rao, you see. Such, at least, is my personal belief. I watched her dance, many times, in the long months I served as her captor—ah, guardian. Wonderful dancer, but—well, there was always that scent of the assassin about her movements. And in Amaravati, at the end of the siege, she killed several Ye-tai who attacked her in her room. One of them after she was disarmed."
The general's eyes widened. Slightly.
Kungas lowered his head, stared at the ground. When he spoke, his voice was as hard as his face.
"As to your first question—will they be captured? Yes. They will. Their position is hopeless."
"Why are you so certain?"
Kungas shrugged, looked up. "She is but a girl, General. A princess. Oh, true, a princess like no other you've ever seen. A princess out of legend. But still—she's never been hunted. She has no experience, or real training, in the skills of eluding a thousand men through the forest and mountains."
Kungas shook his head, forestalling the general's question.
"It doesn't matter. Even with Raghunath Rao to help her and guide her, she—" A pause. "You've hunted, I'm sure, in a large party. Or even with just one other man. Who sets the pace? Who frightens off the game? Who misses the shot?"
The general replied instantly: "The weakest man. The poorest hunter."
Kungas nodded. "Exactly. So—well, if Raghunath Rao were alone, I believe he would outwit and escape his pursuers. But even for him, the task would be extraordinarily difficult, with such an immense number of hunters on his trail. Encumbered by the princess—" He shrugged again. "It is simply not possible. No, they will be caught."
Kungas saw the general glance aside. He seemed to stiffen a bit. Perhaps.
Kungas followed his glance. The last members of the foreign party had arrived and were approaching their howdah. The young black prince from Ethiopia and his women.
Kungas had heard tales of the prince. His rampant lust; his viciousness toward his concubines. He had shrugged off the tales, for the most part. Resentful, malicious envy toward royalty and high nobility was so common as to make all such tales suspect.
But, as he watched, he decided that the tales were perhaps true, after all. The women certainly seemed fearful and abject. All of them were veiled and kept their heads down. Very submissive. None of their faces could even be seen, so timid were the wretched creatures. There were none of the flashing, excited, inquisitive gazes one normally saw from young girls embarking on a journey.
One wo
man's face was partially visible to Kungas, now. She was weeping softly, comforted by a second woman who was holding her and guiding her along. The prince suddenly cuffed one of the other women on the back of her head. Then cuffed the last in the little group. Hurrying them aboard, out of royal petulance and impatience. Apparently, however, the prince's temper was not particularly aroused. The young royal was massively built, if not tall. Wide-shouldered, thick-chested, extremely muscular. With that frame, his cuffs could have easily knocked the girls off their feet. Yet they barely seemed to nudge them.
One girl was hoisted up into the howdah, helped by the black soldier who was apparently serving as the mahout. Then another, the weeping one.
"They are all Maratha, I understand," commented Kungas, making idle conversation.
The general nodded. "Yes, Prince Eon's developed quite a taste for the breed. He has a whole gaggle of the creatures." A little laugh. "I'm not sure how many, actually. Nobody can keep track."
A third girl, the one who had been comforting the weeper, made ready to climb aboard. Smallish. Much darker-skinned than the average Maratha. Very lithe in her movements, too. Kungas admired the fluid grace with which the girl took the hand of the mahout, began the climb up the great elephant. Her bare foot stretched out—
A beautiful dancer. Such incredible grace. Lithe, fluid. And I was always struck by her feet. The prettiest feet I ever saw. Quicksilver. High-arched, slim-heeled, perfectly shaped toes.
The girl entered the howdah. The fourth and fifth girls followed. The prince went up last, drew the curtains behind him.
Kungas stood as rigid as a post. He could not help it. Neither that, nor his face. Like iron, his face, as always when he faced danger. Now, like carbon steel.
At his side, he sensed the general's alertness. Behind, he could hear the slight sound of the general's guards moving forward.
This may be the most dangerous moment in my entire life.
His had been a harsh existence, filled with hard decisions. Now, Kungas made the easiest decision he had ever made. And, he thought, perhaps the best—certainly the purest—in a generally misspent life. He took some pride, too, in the fact that his own survival played not the slightest role in making the decision.
Which doesn't solve my immediate problem. Keeping from getting my throat slit. No point in trying to pretend—oh, no, not with this general. Not with those men behind me.
Besides—
A rare grin broke out on his face. (To Kungas, a grin. No one else would have called it that. A flaw in the iron, perhaps.)
"So many women. Well, we'll certainly have to make sure that they're well protected. I shall instruct my men to keep anyone from pestering the prince's concubines. From even approaching the howdah, in fact. Or his tent, at night. He's a prince, after all, bound to be full of royal pride. I'm sure he'd be outraged if anyone caught so much as a glimpse of his women."
Kungas could sense the quick thoughts in the man next to him. A moment or so later, the general spoke. Still, a trace of hesitation in his voice.
"An excellent idea, I think. Of course, your own men—"
Kungas waved his hand casually. "Oh, I shall give them firm instructions to keep their own distance from the howdah. I'll do the same myself, for that matter."
The general's face broke into an odd, crooked smile. If there had been a trace of hesitation, it seemed to vanish.
"That'll be difficult for you and your men, I imagine. That sort of self-control around women." An apologetic cough. "Given the Kushan reputation."
Kungas frowned slightly. "Reputa—?"
The general laughed. "Oh, come now! Don't deny it, Kungas. It's well known. You can't trust Kushans around women, particularly young women. Especially virgins. Not" —a chuckle— "that there are any virgins left in that howdah."
Kungas was still frowning.
"Such an act!" admired the general. "But there's no point in it, Kungas, I assure you. Not in this crowd. Why, I remember swapping a few amusing anecdotes with Venandakatra himself on the subject, during our journey from Bharakuccha. Although, now I think about it—my memory's a bit vague, I'm afraid. I was quite drunk, that evening. But—um, yes, now that I think about it, I seem to recall that I was telling all the stories. Odd, actually. It all seemed to come to the great lord as quite a revelation."
Anyone in the world, now, would have agreed that the expression on Kungas' face was a grin. The smallest, faintest, thinnest grin ever seen, true. But a grin, a veritable grin, it could not be denied.
"Alas. Our reputation is finally out. And we've been so careful to keep our talents hidden, all these months." He shook his head ruefully. "Well, it can't be helped. Everyone will know, now. Damn. Husbands will start watching their wives. Fathers their daughters."
"Princes their concubines."
Kungas glanced at the general's guards. "Soldiers, their camp women."
The general scratched his chin. "I foresee a scandal, I'm afraid. The talk of the caravan. Even Lord Venandakatra himself will probably hear of it. I can see the scene now. Kushan soldiers—ruffians, the lot of 'em, filled with unbridled lust—constantly surrounding the foreigners' howdahs and tents, filled with so many lovely girls. Flies drawn to honey. Dealing brutally, of course, with any other men who should happen to sniff around."
"We have a short way with competitors," agreed Kungas, "when it comes to women." Casually, his hand gripped the hilt of his sword, drew the blade an inch or so out of the scabbard, clashed it back loudly.
"Yes, yes," mused the general. "Pity the poor Malwa chap who should just happen to wander by, idly curious about the women."
Kungas shuddered. "I shudder to think of the poor fellow's treatment." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the general's guards grinning. The one who looked like a mongoose. The most evil-looking grin he had ever seen, for a certainty.
"Then, of course," continued Kungas, "should any enterprising Malwa manage to slip through the Kushan escort and make his way to—"
"Oh, terrible!" exclaimed the general. His eyes squinted. His large hand gripped his own sword hilt. "He'd be butchered. By keen-eyed cataphracts or sarwen always on guard to fend off the endless, relentless, persistent hounding of their women by those horrible, lust-filled, lascivious Kushans. Ah, such a tragic case of mistaken identity."
The general spread his hands.
"But, the Lord Venandakatra could hardly complain. He assigned you to escort us, after all. Probably—" here came the general's grin, which no one in the world would have mistaken for anything else "—with that very purpose in mind. Making us miserable, I mean."
Kungas nodded sagely. "The great lord does seem to be quite irritated with you. I can't imagine why."
The sounds of a caravan setting into motion began filtering down the line. Kungas looked toward the front—which, of course, was far out of sight.
"Well, I'd best be off. Round up my men and explain our duties to them. Very carefully. Making sure they understand what they need to understand, and not what they don't. We don't want any—ah, how shall I put it? Walking a tightrope can be done, so long as you maintain the proper balance."
"Well said," commented the general. "A man after my own heart. You don't anticipate—"
"From my men? No, none. If I tell them to paint their faces blue and keep their left eyes closed all the way to Ranapur, well then—they'll damn well paint their faces blue and keep their left eyes closed all the way to Ranapur. And be right fucking quick about it, and keep their fucking mouths fucking shut. Orders are orders. Obey. Just do it." The iron face was back. "I'm not the man to brook insolence."
"I can well imagine," said the general.
Quite attractive, thought Kungas, that odd little crooked smile. He gave his own smile, such as it was, and departed.
When the Kushan was out of sight, around a bend of the road, Valentinian whispered to Belisarius: "That was a close call."
Belisarius shook his head.
"No, Valen
tinian, it wasn't close at all. I cannot imagine a world, anywhere, anytime, in any turn of the wheel, where that man would not make that same decision."
The general turned away, headed toward his horse.
As he left, he muttered something under his breath.
"Did you catch that, Anastasius?"
The giant grinned. "Of course. So would you, if your ears were attuned to philosophical thoughts like they should be. Instead of—"
Valentinian snarled. "Just answer the fucking question!"
"He said: Only the soul matters, in the end."
A prince and a princess
The prince relaxed. His fingers let the curtain fall back into place. The fabric moved but a quarter of an inch. He had opened it only the merest crack.
"He's gone," he said softly. The prince leaned back against the silk-covered cushions which lined the interior of the howdah. He blew out his cheeks with relief.
The four Maratha women in the howdah reacted in various ways to the news. The fifth woman, who was not Maratha, watched their reactions carefully. She had been taught that the ways in which people relaxed from stress told you much about them. Taught by a man who was an expert in stressful situations and their aftermath.
The one Maratha woman she knew—had known for years—clutched her yet more tightly. But, for the first time since they had met again, under the most unexpected circumstances, stopped weeping. Her name was Jijabai, and her mind was lost in horror. But perhaps, Shakuntala thought—hoped—the horror would begin to recede and sanity return. Horror had begun for that woman when she had been taken from her princess. Now that her princess had returned, perhaps Jijabai could return also.
But there was nothing more that Shakuntala could do for Jijabai at the moment, beyond hold her. So she gazed elsewhere.
