by Amy Raby
“Actually, this is—”
“Long enough,” interrupted Mandir, folding his arms.
“I’m sorry, I meant no offense,” said Zash. “I’m not familiar with how Coalition teams work. Are the two of you husband and wife?”
“Oh, no,” said Taya with a laugh. “We’re just work partners. I’m a fire seer, and he’s a quradum—part of the Coalition’s enforcement arm.”
“I’m the one who burns people to death if they cause trouble,” said Mandir.
Taya frowned at him.
“Right,” said Zash, eyeing him warily. “Do you want to see the crime scene first?”
“Please,” said Taya.
“We’ve a walk ahead of us, then. I can’t allow the horses in my banana fields; their hooves compact the soil. I’ll tell you about Amalia—that’s my sister—along the way.”
They tied the horses to a post in the shade, leaving Rasik to tend them, and followed Zash down a trail behind the house.
“It’s not far,” said Zash, urging them along with a tireless stride. “Amalia was my younger sister. Five years ago—you may have heard this in Hrappa—the white fever swept through this area. It devastated my household. We were all afflicted, and we all survived, but only I came out of it unscathed. My parents were so severely weakened that they lived less than a year past their recovery, and Amalia...well, the fever left her touched in the head.”
“Touched in the head, what do you mean?” asked Taya.
“She went mad,” said Zash. “She became a danger to herself and to others. I had to lock her up.”
“You locked up your sister?” said Mandir.
“I had no choice, sir.”
“Tell me about the rest of your family,” said Taya. “Are you married? Do you have any children, any other siblings?”
“None,” said Zash. “I’m sorry to say I am all that remains of my family.”
The path made a slight turn and angled downward, and they entered a valley full of banana plants. Taya walked ahead, breathing in the sweet fragrance. Though Mandir was wrong and she did not hail, in fact, from a family of banana farmers, she was familiar with banana cultivation, as were nearly all peasant farmers from her village. Nearly every family kept one or two banana plants to supplement their diet, just as nearly every family kept a pig. She’d always loved the plants. They looked like trees, but were not trees. They were enormous plants with leaves broad enough to be used as umbrellas. A field of banana plants was a cool, tropical-scented jungle.
“I imagine this is like home for Taya,” said Mandir from behind her. “Her parents were banana farmers.”
“Were they really?” said Zash.
“No,” said Taya. “My partner is mistaken about me, as usual.”
“What are you talking about?” said Mandir.
“My parents were date farmers,” said Taya. “I do love a banana plantation, though.” However, something felt off about this banana field. She didn’t see many banana bunches on the trees, and the leaves were limp and ragged. “Have you had blight?”
“You’ve a good eye,” said Zash. “The entire plantation is blighted.”
Taya moved to the nearest tree for a look. Yes, there was no doubt about it. There were the telltale brown spots on the undersides of the leaves. Blighted plants would produce little if anything in the way of fruit. It was a devastating disease because even if one cut down and burned the affected plants right away, the blight tended to spread rapidly.
“Have you had the Coalition up here?”
“Once,” said Zash. “They cured my plants, but unfortunately the bananas in the city of Hrappa are blighted too. Those plants were not cured, and my own plants blighted again within the year. The first treatment was expensive, and I could not afford a second.”
Taya hadn’t seen any banana plants in Hrappa, but then she hadn’t been looking for them. “It’s a long way between here and there. Pretty far for blight to spread.”
“Nevertheless, it did,” said Zash.
Taya frowned. It seemed unfair that the Coalition had charged Zash a lot of money for a treatment that hadn’t lasted long enough to be worth the price. But that was the way it worked. Afflictions like blight often recurred. “How long have your plants been blighted?”
“Years,” said Zash. “We eke out a harvest, but I’m losing money.”
As they followed the trail through the field, Taya saw that this was, indeed, a working banana plantation—a well-managed one, if one could ignore the blight. The plants were at various stages of growth, the mature ones higher than her head, with great, waxy canopies. Now and again she spotted a worker through the trees, pruning dead leaves, placing protective netting around immature banana bunches, and chopping suckers off the mother plants. The ground beneath them was littered with dead banana leaves, but she couldn’t find a weed anywhere.
She found herself liking Zash. She knew well the sufferings of farmers whose fortunes depended on a host of factors over which they had no control. Zash understood banana farming, and he was doing everything right. This affliction was not his fault.
“How is it you are able to raise bananas here at all?” said Taya. “You’ve no access to the river for irrigation. Isn’t the weather too dry during the seasons of Lalan and Isatis?”
Zash smiled. “You may have noticed, we do irrigate.” He pointed at a dry canal that ran down one of the alleyways of plants.
“So you do.” Taya’s brow furrowed. “But whence comes the water?”
“There lies a story,” said Zash. “I’ll show you.”
“Perhaps we should get on with our business,” said Mandir.
“No, I want to see this,” said Taya. Bananas couldn’t be grown in waterlogged soils, yet they needed regular watering. Hrappa’s floodplains and seasonal monsoons were unsuitable for banana farming, yet here were the plants.
Zash changed direction, leading them down a new alleyway. “You’ll notice this valley has unique geography. That hill over there, and that one, shelter us from the prevailing winds during the monsoons, very important since banana plants are delicate. A strong wind will knock them over. A lesser wind may shred their leaves.”
“Yes, but the water?”
“You’ll see in a moment. We’re following the canal.”
Taya saw that they were, indeed, following the irrigation canal and heading uphill to what must be its source.
“My ancestors,” said Zash, “were of independent minds. While all the other farmers in Hrappa staked out territory in the floodplains and grew grain, my ancestors found this valley and put it to a different use. When all your neighbors are planting wheat and barley, wheat and barley have little value. And when you’re the only person growing bananas, bananas are worth a great deal, do you understand?”
“I understand,” said Taya.
“Here we are,” said Zash.
Ahead of them was a stone wall, not much higher than Taya’s knee. It enclosed a great pool of water, dug deep into the ground.
“You have stored water?” said Taya.
“It’s a reservoir,” said Zash. “This is one of three. They’re flush right now, so soon after the monsoons and last night’s storm, but they’ll run low during the season of Isatis. I use them sparingly, so I cannot demonstrate their use for you, but if I pull this lever...see here.” He ran his hand along to a lever almost as long as Taya was tall. “It opens a gap and water flows into the channel and through the irrigation system.”
“How in the name of the Mothers did you build such a thing?” demanded Mandir, stepping closer to Zash and directly into Taya’s field of vision.
“I didn’t build it,” said Zash. “My parents’ parents’ parents did, and each generation after has expanded on it and improved it. I’ve had to make repairs and shore up places that have weakened. But it’s worth the trouble. Or it would be, if the trees weren’t blighted.”
“I think it’s tremendously clever,” said Taya.
“Aren�
��t we here to scry a crime scene?” said Mandir.
“Of course,” said Zash. “I’ll take you there now.”
Chapter 13: Hrappa
In the middle of the banana field sat a stone hut, thoroughly burned out, its roof missing and its walls scored black from char.
“This is where Amalia died,” said Zash.
“What is this building?” asked Taya. “What was she doing here?”
“She lived here.”
“She lived here? Not in the main house?” Taya glanced at Mandir, wondering what he thought of this. He was silent, his face unreadable.
“We built this place for her, away from the household, away from the servants, and kept her under guard where she could do no one harm,” said Zash.
Taya shifted on her feet. “That seems...an odd thing to do.”
“I realize it must seem odd to you, who never knew her,” said Zash. “But most of the servants and farm workers live in the main house, and they were frightened of her. She was loud and violent. Some of the servants threatened to leave. In the end, I had no choice but to isolate her.”
“I’d like to look around the ruin,” said Taya. When Zash moved to follow her, she said, “Stay where you are, please.” Mandir accompanied her, and as soon as they were out of earshot of Zash, she told him, “I can’t scry here.”
He frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. There are too many trees nearby. I can’t risk burning his plantation.”
Mandir kicked over a charred rock with his foot. “There’s been fire here already.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean I can expose him to the risk again. Scry-fires are enormous.”
“I don’t like it,” said Mandir, glancing back at Zash.
“Neither do I,” said Taya.
Mandir, looking disgusted, wandered about the burned house to search for clues. Taya did the same, although she doubted she’d find anything of interest. It did appear to be a magical fire, in that she could see no remnants of any kind of fuel, and the fire had been strong. The remains of a bed, at one end of the house, were barely identifiable. The brick roof had collapsed, strewing the ruins with rubble and making it difficult to navigate or even see much of the ruin.
“Taya,” called Mandir.
She picked her way through the site. Mandir had been lifting bricks off the remains of the bed and stacking them in a haphazard pile. With his foot, he indicated a bit of blackened metal on the floor.
Taya leaned down to peer at the item and realized, with a wrench in her gut, that it was a pair of manacles. She spoke in a low voice. “He chained his sister to the bed?”
“Looks that way,” said Mandir.
“Maybe he had to,” she said. “If Amalia was violent.” But she felt unsettled.
A thorough search of the ruins was not worth their time. It would take days to remove all the bricks, and they had better leads. She would have to get the answers she needed by questioning Zash or possibly his employees. She and Mandir headed back to where Zash awaited them.
“How and when did the fire happen?” asked Taya.
“But a few weeks ago,” said Zash. “Amalia’s night guard ran to the main house and awakened us. Apparently the place had gone up all at once. We came directly, but there was nothing we could do. Flames were pouring out the windows. We threw water on the surrounding trees, to keep the fire from spreading, but we could not extinguish the fire within.”
“What was sustaining the fire?” said Taya. “It couldn’t have had much fuel.”
“I assume the jackal sustained it magically,” said Zash. “But though we searched the surrounding area, we never saw him.”
“How long did it burn?” said Taya.
“Until dawn, when the roof collapsed.”
“Did you recover Amalia’s body?” asked Mandir.
“There wasn’t much left,” said Zash, shifting on his feet. “But we recovered what we could.”
“Why do you suppose Amalia didn’t flee the house when it caught fire?” asked Mandir.
“It went up so quickly, I’m not sure that would have been possible.” Zash lowered his head. “And besides, we kept her restrained.”
“Did Amalia ever have visitors? Did she have any friends? Perhaps a lover?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Zash. “Her condition did not make such relationships likely.”
“Did she know either of the other victims?” said Mandir. “The magistrate’s son Hunabi, or Bodhan’s daughter Narat?”
“No, I don’t believe she did.”
“But somebody killed her,” said Taya. “And they had to have a reason for doing it. Can you think of anyone who might have borne a grudge against her, or had any reason to want her dead?”
“I honestly can’t think of anyone,” said Zash.
“Could someone have killed her because they had a grudge against you?” said Mandir.
“That is...more plausible,” said Zash. “I employ fourteen people, and the possibility always exists for a grudge against one’s employer. But I am not aware of anyone who would be that angry at me.”
“Have you had to dismiss anyone because of your blighted trees?” asked Mandir.
“Eventually I will have to,” said Zash. “But I haven’t done it yet.”
“Do they know that?” asked Mandir.
“They’re aware,” said Zash.
Silence descended, and Taya could think of nothing more to ask. “I think we’ve seen enough for now.”
∞
As they made their way through the banana fields back to the house, Mandir took up his customary position in the rear, keeping a protective eye on Taya and a suspicious one on Zash. There was something about the man that rubbed him wrong. He’d half hoped Zash would try to hide the fact that he’d kept his sister in chains. Then he would have caught the man in a lie, or at least an omission of the truth. But Zash had admitted it outright, leaving Mandir with no certainty, only a sense of vague unease.
He could see no plausible motive for this crime. Why would the jackal murder a madwoman who spent her days chained up in a prison in the middle of a banana field? It didn’t make sense. Either there was more to the story—could Amalia have had a lover, possibly someone Zash hadn’t known about?—or else the only person he knew of with a motive to kill Amalia was Zash himself. Amalia was a burden to Zash, even a danger, so he’d claimed. He would have heard about the crimes of the jackal in Hrappa. Could he have seen an opportunity and killed his own sister, and then blamed it on this nameless jackal?
Perhaps he was being too suspicious. It was possible he was letting his personal dislike for Zash color the facts of the case. But the facts were thin, begging to be embellished, and he didn’t have much more than his gut sense to rely upon.
Ahead of him, Taya and Zash were exchanging their life stories. Taya had regaled him about her education at the temple and how she’d become a fire seer. Then Zash told her his family history. Apparently his was no ordinary farming family. Zash was literate, and his mother and paternal grandmother had been artisan caste. His family’s wealth had allowed the men to marry up-caste and bring additional skills and knowledge into the fold. Taya asked Zash about his own marriage plans, but Zash was coy on the subject. Mandir had a feeling Taya’s question was not a casual one.
He’d seen the way Taya looked at Zash. It was a look she’d once aimed at him, for a single day at Mohenjo Temple, before he’d fouled everything up. For days, in Hrappa, he’d been trying to get her to look at him that way again and failing. Now Zash was getting the look, and he hadn’t put any effort into it at all. All he’d done was walk up and introduce himself.
At least Mandir had one point working in his favor: Taya wasn’t the sort of woman to fling herself at a man. Some women’s passions flared like the flames of Isatis. Their love was volatile and capricious, roaring to full strength in an instant, and disappearing just as quickly, never to be awakened again. But other women loved like Lalan, the life
-goddess, their passion awakening a little at a time, like a seed laying down roots for weeks before emerging in shyness to peek at the sun. Such love took longer to become established, but it was worth nurturing because it could thrive indefinitely, each year increasing in strength and complexity and beauty. Taya might be a disciple of Isatis, but she loved like Lalan. She would not rush into a man’s arms. Not his, and not Zash’s either.
As they reached the end of the trail and left the banana field, Zash turned. “You must be thirsty after that walk in the midday heat. May I offer you something to drink before you go?”
Mandir said nothing. Whatever game was afoot, he wanted to see it played out.
Taya said, “That would be quite welcome.”
Zash led them into the house and seated them at a worn wooden table. “Do you like banana beer?”
“I love it,” said Taya. “Haven’t had it in years.”
“Never tried it,” said Mandir.
“It’s an acquired taste,” warned Taya.
Mandir shrugged. As Zash headed out of the room, he rose to follow.
“Sit,” commanded Zash. “You’re my guest. I’ll bring everything.”
“No, I insist on helping,” said Mandir, knowing he sounded sarcastic and not really caring.
Zash sent him an unfriendly look and headed down a stairway into a rough-hewn cellar. He opened a chest and pulled out three ceramic mugs, which he set on a dusty bench.
“Let me have a look at those,” said Mandir.
“Go ahead,” said Zash.
Mandir examined the mugs, making sure nothing lurked in the bottoms. They were clean.
Zash filled the mugs from a wooden cask.
Mandir pointed at one of the mugs. “Before we go upstairs, I want you to drink from that cup.”
“Why?” said Zash. “You think I want to poison you?”
“Humor me,” said Mandir.
With a snort of exasperation, Zash raised the foaming mug to his lips. When the cup was half drained, he set it down forcefully, splashing a little liquid on the bench. “Satisfied?”
