by Amy Raby
“Never.”
“Liar,” said Mandir. “The day you met me. You liked me then.”
Taya sniffed. “All right. I liked you for one day, before I learned what sort of boy you were.”
“I’m not that boy now. I’ve left that boy behind.”
Pepper shoved her head over the partition, bumping Taya’s shoulder with her nose and whinnying for attention.
“Look who’s back,” crooned Taya, stroking the mare’s face. She turned to Mandir. “The onager appears to change its color, but it’s an illusion, nothing more. When it trots back out into the sun, its color changes back.”
“I am no color-changing onager,” said Mandir. “Tell me how I can prove myself to you.”
“I don’t think you can,” said Taya.
“There’s got to be a way.”
Taya shook her head. “I can’t trust you. If you say something nice, it’s because you’re going to twist it around later. There’s no such thing as sincerity with you. There’s only what you want and what you have to say in order to get it.”
Mandir smiled sadly.
“Even you don’t deny it.”
“I do deny it. But you give me no means of showing you the truth.” Mandir had spent four years teaching this woman he couldn’t be trusted, and unfortunately for him she’d learned the lesson too well.
Chapter 11: Mohenjo Temple, Nine Years Ago
Taya stared at the writing on the clay tablet, willing the beautifully scripted words to make sense. They remained inscrutable. But at least they were inscrutable to all the other students of her class. This tablet, like all the others in this wing of the Mohenjo library, was written in the mother tongue. Some of the tablets were so old they dated from the days before the Atrocity, when the Mothers walked the river valley in human form. This might be one of those tablets.
With a sigh of longing, Taya ran a hand over the ancient script. She picked up the tablet, replaced it on the shelf, and took down a new one, equally unintelligible.
Here in Mohenjo Temple lay the history of her people. Not the stories she’d been told over the years, the lies and distortions. The real history, the words her ancestors had written down in their true language. It astonished her that these writings had been preserved. Until she’d come here, she’d had no idea they even existed. If she worked hard, if she was patient, she would one day be able to read the words of the men and women who had walked in the presence of the Mothers.
One season into her training, life wasn’t as miserable as before. After speaking to the instructor after class, she’d been placed in an additional, special class for initiates who needed to learn to read and write. It was a lot of extra work, but she didn’t mind. All the other students in the special class were farmer caste, like her, and while none of them were her age—the nearest was a boy two years older—she now sat with them at meal times, and didn’t feel quite so lonely. It encouraged her to see the other farmers’ progress at reading and writing. Others had trod this path before her and been successful; that gave her hope.
The door to the library swung open.
Taya froze. She couldn’t see the door from where she was sitting, but she was fairly certain Mandir isu Sarrum had seen her come in. For someone who acted as if he had no interest in her, Mandir watched her awfully closely.
She heard the footsteps of several people entering the library.
“What’s that smell?” came Mandir’s voice.
“Musty old clay?” said another boy.
“It smells like zebu shit,” said Mandir.
The boys rounded the corner and came upon Taya with her tablet.
“Oh, it’s the farmer girl! No wonder,” said Mandir. The other boys laughed.
Taya, not the least bit fooled by this farce, stood and gathered her things. She would flee to her room, the one place Mandir could not follow.
“What’s this?” said Mandir, grabbing the tablet.
“It’s not mine,” said Taya quickly, terrified he would damage it. “It’s the library’s.”
“What are you doing with it? You can’t read that.”
“Neither can you,” snapped Taya.
Mandir raised his eyebrows, held up the tablet and intoned, “Ipulma mummu apsu immallik, sukkallum la magiru—”
“You’re just saying the words,” said Taya. “You don’t know what they mean.”
“Sure I do,” said Mandir. “It says, ‘Once there was a farmer woman who grew banana trees. She was contracted in marriage to a farmer man, but when she came to the marriage bed and removed her veil, he said, “Bantu kasu annasi, woman! How can I sleep with you, when your face is like a wrinkled monkey’s ass, and you smell like zebu shit?” I shall have to—’ Wait a minute, I’m not finished.”
Taya, flushing with anger and humiliation, tried to hurry around the boys, toward the library door, but Mandir moved to block her path, and the other boys, snickering, surrounded her.
“Did I say you could leave?” said Mandir. “I’m still reading. ‘I shall have to hold my nose, turn you over, and fuck you from behind so I don’t have to—’”
“Shut up!” cried Taya, trembling with rage, and fear, too, because they had her trapped, and no one else was around. “That’s not what it says.”
“How do you know?” said Mandir.
“Get out of my way,” said Taya.
Mandir folded his arms. “You’ll go when I say you can.”
Hating herself for giving in, but knowing that Mandir responded to only one thing, total capitulation, she said, “Please. I need to study.”
Mandir looked thoughtful, as if considering this request. He turned to one of the other boys. “Sukal, what’s the banana girl studying?”
Sukal snatched a tablet out of her satchel. It was the one on which she practiced her letters, scrawling them in her large, clumsy script. Sukal laughed and handed it to Mandir.
“Flood and fire!” Mandir guffawed, showing it around. “When did you guys do these, when you were seven years old?” He shoved the tablet back in Taya’s satchel and, finally, stepped aside to give her an escape route.
As Taya ran for the door, one of the boys grabbed her bottom in passing.
“Banta kasu annasi, Sukal,” said Mandir. “You must be pretty desperate if you want that ass.”
Chapter 12: Hrappa
Taya was awakened in the wee hours by the horn sounding its two long calls, which meant the Lioness had overflowed its banks. She lay awake for a while, listening to the rain as it pattered on the rooftop. It was slackening, and she knew that the third call, the one signaling a breach of the city walls, would not come. She drifted back to sleep and woke again at dawn—once a farmer, always a farmer. She lounged in bed, knowing the town would be in no hurry to rise. Some of the fields would be underwater, and no work could be done until they drained. Mandir, furthermore, was a late riser.
She was at her breakfast a couple of hours later when Mandir let himself in through the courtyard door, perfectly groomed. “What are we doing today? More scrying?” He stopped short and stared at her.
“What?” said Taya, irritated.
“You’re not planning to go out like that, are you?”
“Like what?”
“Your headdress. It’s a mess.”
Taya shook her head, wondering which of the Mothers she had offended to be cursed with this man as a partner. “No one has these impossible standards of perfection but you. It’s fine.”
“Have you looked in a mirror?”
“I’m not going to let you fix it for me.” She didn’t have the knack for headdresses, but honestly, nobody else ever cared. And judging by Mandir’s clothes and hair, he had some kind of neatness obsession. She got up from the table, pushing her breakfast dishes away.
“You’re representing the Coalition. You need to look the part.”
“I do look the part,” said Taya, heading for the door. “Green and silver. And it doesn’t matter. We’re Coalition. They hate us
no matter what.”
“You want to look like an ignorant farmer?”
Taya halted midstride. Mandir knew how to hit her where it hurt. “I suppose just this once you can fix it for me. But if you try anything—”
“What would I try?” said Mandir. “I just want to fix your headdress.”
Taya eyed him suspiciously. “What do I do?”
He indicated a chair. “Sit down.”
Taya sat, and Mandir took up a position behind her chair. She braced herself, remembering that first day of Coalition classes when he’d ripped the headdress out of her hair. But that was a long time ago. This time, his hands carefully freed her hair from the loops, and it fell to its full length, brushing her back. She waited patiently for Mandir to gather it back up again, but instead he fiddled with something behind her. “Well?” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Just a minute,” said Mandir. “I’m figuring out how the headdress works.”
Taya turned in her chair. “You’ve never done this before? And you think you can do it better than me?”
“Taya,” said Mandir, “anyone could do this better than you.”
Taya faced forward with a sigh. Somehow Mandir’s pestering her about wanting to fix her headdress had given her the idea he’d done this for other women—a series of past lovers at Rakigari, perhaps, or one favored lover he’d been with a long time. She wasn’t sure which thought bothered her more. It was something of a relief to learn he did not know headdresses, although she did not doubt he had known women.
Finally he reached for her and began to gather up her hair. Taya swallowed. She had always thought Mandir a rough, crude sort of man and expected his touch to be similarly harsh and unpleasant. But he handled her as gently as imported silk. His fingers brushed her neck as he swept up her hair, divided it, and worked out a tangle. His light touch was so pleasant that she had to restrain herself from leaning into his hands.
“You’ve got it backward,” she said. “The hair goes in the other way.”
“Oh. So it does.” He withdrew her hair from the loops, let it go, and started over, unhurried and unflustered.
Somehow, after all these years of knowing Mandir, she’d failed to understand certain things about him. She’d noticed his clothes and hair were always perfect, but she’d attributed it to vanity, not to his being a careful, patient man who paid close attention to details. When he finally had the headdress in place, she could tell he’d done a good job because it was comfortable and perfectly centered, not pulling to one side or the other, yet he seemed dissatisfied. He made some adjustments, viewed it from several angles, and adjusted it again.
She didn’t mind that he was taking a while. Every time his hand brushed her skin, he set it afire, stirring a desire in her that had long lain dormant. She hadn’t realized how much she hungered for the touch of another human being. Not Mandir’s, necessarily. As a young girl, she and her sisters had cuddled up in one bed at night like a heap of kittens. She missed that. And she was too old for it now.
Perhaps she should seek a lover in Hrappa. The thought seemed ludicrous—everyone hated her here—but one never knew; she might find someone she liked, someone who could see beyond the green and silver to the person underneath. It was past time she found a lover. Flood and fire, she was twenty-three years old! Coalition women enjoyed an unusual amount of sexual freedom. Her magic allowed her to postpone pregnancy until she chose to bear children, and her family could not compel her to marry. Her body was hers to do with as she pleased. She’d turned away the men at Mohenjo, for obvious reasons, and of course Mandir was out of the question, but there might be some man in town with whom she might satisfy some mutual desires, at least on a temporary basis until she could find somebody suitable for the long term.
“There,” said Mandir. “What do you think?”
Taya rose from the chair, fetched her sheet of polished copper, and looked. She was astonished. She’d never seen a headdress look so perfect. Of course, she had to allow, it was easier putting a headdress on someone else than putting it on one’s own head. “It looks nice.”
“Nice,” mocked Mandir. “Admit it. That’s the best your headdress has ever looked.”
It was, but Taya wasn’t going to admit it.
∞
“You can’t go there,” said Rasik. “The water’s running too high.”
“The sun’s up and the water level’s falling,” Taya argued, as the black mare danced anxiously beneath her. “I’m not concerned about more flooding—”
“The place where Narat died is completely underwater,” said Rasik.
Taya exchanged a look with Mandir. “I can’t scry a site when it’s underwater. We’ll have to go somewhere else.”
“The third victim,” suggested Mandir.
“Yes,” said Taya, turning to Rasik. “Take us to the family of the third murder victim. What was the father’s name?”
“The brother. Zashkalim isu Ikkarum. He had custody of his sister,” said Rasik.
“He’s a farmer,” said Taya, pleased. Finally she would be in her own element. She looked at the sun, which was high in the sky. “Will he be available to see us?” During the growing season, most farmers spent the day outside the city walls, working in the fields, and would not receive visitors until sundown.
“This one might be,” said Rasik. “He’s rich, has people working for him. Lives outside Hrappa.”
Taya’s curiosity was piqued. She was aware there were some farmers who’d overcome the limitations of their caste to become wealthy, although she’d never known any personally. The caste system didn’t consign farmers to be poor so much as it limited what they could do with their lives. Only those in the ruling caste could hold positions of governance, only those in the artisan caste were eligible to learn trades, and only those in the farmer caste could lay claim to lands outside the city walls and work them. Some farmers didn’t actually grow food, but mined the land for ore or harvested trees for timber. She was curious how this Zashkalim isu Ikkarum had managed to enrich himself off the land. It wasn’t commonly done.
They cantered their horses through the floodplains, splashing through the standing water the rain and river had left behind. Few farmers were out—little work could be done in these conditions—and they were nearly alone in a great expanse of mud and flooded farmland. Except for the city of Hrappa itself, and the river, if you were on high enough ground to see it, there were no landmarks. Taya was aware of how easy it would be to get lost out here, especially if one lost sight of the city. It amazed her that Rasik seemed to unerringly find his way.
Rasik was leading them to higher ground. Zashkalim’s lands were not in the floodplains, as it turned out, but on high ground away from the river. The first sign they’d left the area of the inundation was the appearance of a muddy road. It became a trail, marked by a stone cairn, that wound through brush and stubby trees up a gently sloping hill.
The hill began to level off. Taya’s black mare leapt up an outcropping of rock, and before them, in a great clearing, sprawled a house. Unlike the flat rectangles of well-planned Hrappa, it appeared to have grown organically over generations, some parts old and some parts new, rather like a wasp’s nest. Several enormous date palms stood sentry about the edges of the house, their feathery fronds casting the place in shade. Though it was a finer house than Taya had grown up in, the date palms and the house’s makeshift appearance reminded her of home, and something twisted inside her at the memories.
“That house looks like...” Mandir fished for words. “Like something exploded.”
“I love it,” Taya gushed.
Mandir looked at her askance.
Someone in peasant clothes trotted up to them from the back of the house. Taya wondered if this might be Zashkalim, but Rasik called to him, “Fetch your master,” and the man trotted away.
They waited a long time. Wilting in the midmorning heat and the humidity from last night’s rain, they dismounted from their ho
rses and led the animals into the shade of one of the date palms. After a while, a man came walking up a path from behind the house, his strides long and easy. He gave them a friendly wave as he drew near.
“That’s him,” Rasik informed them in a low voice.
“Coalition?” called the farmer as he entered the shade of the date palm. “I heard you were in town.”
“Zashkalim isu Ikkarum?” said Taya.
“Call me Zash,” he said. They made introductions, and he touched fingers with Mandir and Rasik. He came to Taya last, and his eyes lingered on her as he completed the gesture. “Nice headdress.”
“Thank you,” said Taya, glancing at Mandir as if to share the compliment with him. He didn’t look pleased. This farmer appeared to be within a year or two of her own age, and Taya felt an instant sense of kinship with him. Before her Gift had developed, she and the other village girls had gossiped endlessly about the local men, making lists of which ones they most hoped to marry, although they knew full well that some of them would be contracted not to bright-eyed young men but to crusty old widowers. Still, they’d hoped and dreamed, and Taya could see, looking at Zash, that this man would be at the top of any list.
He wasn’t as tall as Mandir or as heavily built, but he was strong in a wiry sort of way, and he moved with the ease one would expect of someone who was physical on a daily basis and felt comfortable in his own skin. His eyes were dark and perceptive, his smile easy and confident, and he had the sort of ageless face that would stay handsome for decades.
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” said Taya, wondering if he was married yet. “But I’m afraid we’re here on unhappy business. We’ve come to investigate the murder of your sister.”
“Of course,” Zash said soberly. “Before we begin, may I inquire as to yourselves? Are you hungry, thirsty, in need of anything?”
“We’re fine,” grunted Mandir.
“But it’s kind of you to ask,” said Taya.
Zash smiled. “Anything for a lady. You seem young for Coalition work. Have you been qualified long?”
