Queen of Slaves (The Powers of Amur Book 4)

by J. S. Bangs

  “I don’t believe you,” Mandhi said. “I think you betrayed us. How much did they offer you? Was it worth it?”

  “Nothing,” Shadle said. “I swear.” Her words came in halting jags between her grimaces of pain. “Was coming to you. I knew someone was following me, but I thought it was just one. Their raiding party caught up with me in the night. Beat me up on their way to you.”

  Jauda raised his head and looked at the mercenaries. “Did any of you do this?” he asked, gesturing to the woman.

  Heads shook all around the circle. “Nah,” someone said, “She was half-dead on the ground when we found her.”

  “So none of us beat her?”

  All the mercenaries agreed they hadn’t.

  “I still don’t believe her,” Mandhi said.

  Jauda scowled. “Unfortunately, I think it may be true. She’s awfully beat up for this to be a lie.”

  “After this do you expect me to believe anything that any Kaleksha says?”

  Jauda snorted.

  Nakhur said dryly, “Don’t lose your head, Mandhi. What would she be getting for this?”

  “Maybe she was supposed to lead them to our camp,” Mandhi said, “but they betrayed her at the last minute. So she’s beaten by them, but still brought them to us.”

  “Listen,” Shadle said with a pained whimper. “I’ll tell you one more thing I know.”

  A pale gray light was growing visible through the trunks of the trees. As dawn added its light to the moon’s, Mandhi could make out Shadle’s face in more detail. Blood ran from the corner of her mouth, scrapes and gashes marred her skin, and her hands and elbows were bloody. She looked at Mandhi with a pained, desperate expression.

  “The os Tastl. They’ll be your allies against the os Dramab.”

  “An ambush,” Mandhi said. “You tell us where they are, and when we get there we’ll be surrounded and killed.”

  “Then don’t believe me,” the woman said, and her voice caught in a jagged sob. “Just leave me to die in peace.”

  “No,” Jauda murmured. “Bring her to a bed and wash her wounds. She’s our prisoner until we decide what to do with her.”

  Mandhi gave Jauda a sharp glare. “Don’t tell me you believe her.”

  “Whether I believe her or not, she can do us more damage returning to her allies, whoever they are, than she can guarded in our camp. So we keep her here.”

  “If you think so. I’m going back to Aryaji. She saved us, you know.” She stomped over the needles and moss toward the tent she shared with Aryaji.

  “I know,” called out Jauda after her. “Thank her when she awakes.”

  Aryaji hadn’t stirred beneath the blanket. Mandhi stretched herself out beneath the blanket and huddled up next to the girl to enjoy the warmth. Beneath the wool covers she was actually comfortable and warm. Perhaps she could even sleep for an hour before full daylight.

  She stroked Aryaji’s hair. “Poor girl,” she whispered. “You don’t even know what you did yet.”

  Aryaji murmured and turned over. The ordinary murmur of a girl in sleep, nothing spirit-stricken about it. Mandhi kissed her on the forehead and collapsed into sleep.

  Daladham

  The widow Parthani looked up at Daladham with large black eyes, a widow’s ring in her nose, her breath coming eagerly as she listened to Daladham’s exposition. She was a tragic case. Her husband had been old and had died while she was still young and naive, leaving her with a large fortune and a lack of sense. Daladham hoped to relieve her of both conditions with enough lessons in dhaur.

  “Because we have come from the Powers,” he said, gesturing elegantly with his right hand while maintaining a perfect Moon posture, “we owe all things to them, even as children owe all things to their parents. So we give our dhaur to the ram.”

  He spoke in a calm, quiet voice. The woman paid him better if he maintained the facade of an erudite elder dhorsha. His left hand played with the scarlet hem of his dhorsha’s bhildu, the garment of his role in the temple. This side room was built against the wall of the courtyard and used for storage of unused jars, ritual dishes, and rugs, but also for occasional private meetings such as this one. He could have met with her anywhere, but teaching within the temple itself gave him more authority. Even though the temple mother had not, strictly speaking, given him permission.

  The widow listened attentively. “Does the offering of dhaur bring us their favor?”

  Daladham shook his head and pitched his voice low. “No, that’s a cheap, peasant’s way of thinking of it. Currying the favor of the Powers is a low way to approach them. Like an obsequious slave constantly asking for his master’s favor, rather than merely doing his duty in silence. No, we give our dhaur to the ram because it is our duty. The ram dies to pay our debt to the Powers, while we live on.”

  “I see,” Parthani said, but her curled brows and dark eyes suggested she didn’t actually see.

  There was a noise behind him. Someone entered into the side room and coughed. Parthani rose rapidly from her kneeling position and bowed. “Jairatu-dhu.”

  “Parthani,” answered Daladham’s nephew from behind him. He stood in the doorway of the chamber with his hands folded quietly on his belly, giving Parthani only a cursory glance before turning a fiery stare on Daladham. “You must excuse me, as I have to speak to my uncle.”

  “Of course,” the woman said with another hurried bow.

  “Remember what I said,” Daladham said, turning and rising halfway to his feet. He held out his palm. “My lady….”

  “Of course, Daladham-dhu,” she said, and she put a silver coin into his palm. She bowed her head, and he quickly drew Am’s spear on her forehead.

  She left. He chuckled, squeezed the silver, and slipped it into the pocket of his bhildu. Then he turned to his nephew.

  Jairatu looked at him with a dark scowl. “Uncle, you shouldn’t be teaching dhaur to anyone without the temple mother’s blessing.”

  “Oh, come off of it,” Daladham said. He rubbed his knees and brushed the dust off of his bhildu. He was getting old enough that holding the Moon posture for a long time left him achy and stiff. “Her husband is dead, and her father’s of no consequence. And if she wants to learn the deeper things of dhaur—”

  Jairatu snorted. “She might need a less greedy and more spiritually minded mentor.”

  “Did you come here for a reason, or did you just want to harangue your old uncle?”

  “I do have to keep you from bringing Kalbi-dhu’s wrath down on us.”

  “What do I care about Kalbi-dhu? The widow pays hard silver and doesn’t care if her teacher is a greedy old man. The temple mother should leave me alone.”

  “I care about scandal,” Jairatu said. He folded his arms and gave Daladham a stern, disapproving glare, but he was too young and too male to pull it off properly. “In any case, this is not about me. Someone is here you should talk to.”

  “Another rich, pretty widow?”

  “Uncle, please. Two beggars.”

  “Two beggars!” Daladham cursed and pulled at his beard. “You come bothering me for beggars?”

  “They asked for you by name. I figure that if beggars come in here knowing your name, you should meet them.”

  “Beggars could get my name from anywhere. Give them some rice from the temple granary and send them on their way.”

  Jairatu shook his head. He put a hand on Daladham’s shoulder and pulled him gently out of the room. “Come with me, please.”

  Daladham muttered under his breath, but he followed his nephew into the courtyard. To their left rose the stone columns of the temple of Am, from which wafted the smell of burning incense and blood, with echoes of quiet chanting from the junior priests. Before the temple was a cluttered courtyard, occupied by beggars and sellers of sacred trinkets. A trickle of worshippers purified themselves in the twin lotus-filled pools, then climbed the stairs to Am’s altar or turned aside to the smaller shrines of Peshali and Sathirvan.


  Jairatu pointed to a pillar near the corner of the temple porch. Two thin beardless men with shaved heads, dressed in shabby, mud-stained clothing. They carried large leather pouches on their shoulders with thick straps, and they folded their hands together in patient approximation of the Grass posture. Not typical beggars. Far too clean, not enough servility in their posture. They didn’t look like beggars so much as unwashed nobles. Perhaps they were.

  Maybe it was good for him to come.

  Jairatu and Daladham approached. The pair were of grossly mismatched sizes. One of them was a palm tree, tall and thin, with a long nose and a smooth, serious face. The other was short and had cheeks pocked with acne scars, and his fingers tapped together with nervous energy. The beggars bowed, and the shorter one said, “You are a dhorsha of this temple?”

  “I am,” Daladham answered. “What do you want?”

  “We came here seeking help,” the man said. He gestured to himself and to his tall companion. “We need a place to stay. We fled from Pukasra.”

  “Pukasra?”

  “We stayed in Pukasra for almost a year. But a month ago we fled—”

  “Wait,” Daladham said, raising his hand and drawing a circle around them and their baggage. “I don’t care why you were in Pukasra, until you explain who you are and why you came to me.”

  “As one of the elders of the Amya dhorsha in this city, we thought you might help us—”

  “Bah. There are a dozen men who might help you more than me. Go to the majakhadir or one of his cousins. Why are you here talking to me?”

  They glanced at each other nervously. The shorter one fingered the strap of the pouch he carried.

  “What’s in those pouches?” Daladham demanded.

  “Why do you ask, Daladham-dhu?”

  “In the first place, because poor beggars don’t carry beautiful leather satchels.”

  The first beggar looked abashed. He rubbed his hands together, bowed his head, and leaned close to Daladham. He whispered, “May we go somewhere private?”

  Daladham pursed his lips and scratched at his mustache. “What is this?”

  “I don’t quite feel safe showing you here in the courtyard.”

  So it was something interesting. Daladham felt a sudden hunger to see what they were carrying in those packs. He said, “Come along.”

  He led them to the side chamber where he had so recently been interrupted with the widow Parthani. A striped rug and several dirty cushions were spread on the floor. The men settled onto the cushions with heads bowed. Jairatu took up guard by the door, while Daladham sat down and folded his legs.

  “I don’t believe you are beggars,” he said, “but you must have some reason to be here. Start with what’s in your packs.”

  The short one hesitated. He glanced at his companion, then spoke for the first time. “Our packs contain books. Look.”

  He pulled open the thong holding the satchel shut and showed the insides to Daladham. Finely-wrought wooden cases closed by leather hinges and copper hasps, shining with lacquer and oil, smelling of sandalwood, incense, and smoke. Daladham’s heart skipped a beat.

  “You stole these?” Daladham asked. “You looking for a buyer for your pilfered library?”

  The short one shook his head and tapped the floor before him. He spoke rapidly. “No, by Am’s spear, I swear. These are ours. At least, they are now.”

  He paused. The tall one nodded and lay a hand on his companion’s shoulder. His partner swallowed and said quietly, “This is the library of Ternas. What’s left of it.”

  The room was silent for a moment. Daladham studied the lacquered cases on the floor, then the young faces of the men holding them. He glanced at Jairatu, who stood with his arms folded and a mixture of confusion and curiosity on his face. He met his uncle’s eyes, then spoke up cautiously.

  “You stole them after Ruyam burned it?”

  “No, not at all,” the short man answered. “My name is Amabhu, and my partner here is Caupana. We were….” He swallowed and looked at his friend nervously. He spoke very rapidly. “We were thikratta in Ternas. Lama Padnir gave us the library and let us escape with it. We got away just hours before Ruyam came and burned the monastery.”

  Daladham looked again at the two men. The two thikratta. All of the sudden the tall one’s reserve and seriousness took on another nuance. If they had studied in Ternas, then even being in the same room as them could be dangerous.

  “This is not what I expected,” he said.

  “They could be lying,” Jairatu said from the door.

  “Please, sir—” Amabhu began.

  “I don’t think you’re lying,” Daladham said. “Most thieves would come up with a better story than that. Something more plausible.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s true,” Jairatu insisted.

  “Give them a moment,” Daladham said. He turned a suspicious eye back to Amabhu. “If you’re telling the truth, where have you been? It’s been more than a year since Ruyam went to Ternas.”

  Amabhu swallowed and bowed to Daladham deferentially. “We spent a long time in Pukasra, as hands to the khadir. But when the red star appeared in the Serpent, Caupana said we should….” He hesitated. “Caupana has farsight, you see.”

  “Of course he does,” Daladham said. “Wouldn’t be a proper thikratta if he didn’t.”

  “Wait, what do you mean?” Amabhu said. “I’m a proper thikratta, and I don’t have the gift at all—”

  “I was joking,” Daladham said. “But now that you’ve told me how untalented you are….”

  Amabhu scowled at him, but the tall Caupana burst into laughter. He patted his friend on the knee.

  Jairatu frowned at them from the doorway, re-folding his arms. “We are of the Amya dhorsha,” he grumbled. “We worship the Powers in fear, and we don’t want the impieties of the thikratta.”

  Amabhu quieted. “Perhaps we could allow the temple to copy some of our rarer volumes.”

  “I doubt there’s much the temple wants,” Jairatu said contemptuously.

  “But many of them would be valuable, even as copies,” Amabhu insisted. “We have Audjam’s history of Rajunda—”

  “You don’t have to lie to impress me,” Daladham scoffed. “Audjam’s work was lost.”

  “Not to Ternas.”

  Daladham started. He looked at the books with sudden hunger. “Do you really have Audjam’s history in there?” It would be worth its weight in gold. He reached for the case of books. “What else do you have?”

  Amabhu tensed and drew the books closer to himself. “Not all of them are for you to see.”

  “I don’t like this,” Jairatu whispered.

  “What are you hiding? Greater treasures?”

  “Thikratta books,” Amabhu said defensively.

  “Still,” Daladham said. “Will you let me read them? Or at least the Audjam?” Maybe he could make a copy.

  “We’ll let you,” Amabhu said cautiously.

  “Then there’s room at my house,” Daladham said cheerily, “My duties at the temple are done for the day, so you can come with me and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll let the cook know we’ll be serving for four for a while.”

  He rose and clapped Jairatu on the shoulder. “And don’t worry, my nephew. I’m sure they won’t bite you or defile the temple.”

  “Certainly not,” Amabhu said earnestly. He had picked up the satchel of books and looked at Jairatu with eyes wide and pleading.

  Jairatu grumbled and turned back toward the sanctum. “Fine,” he said. “It’s your house, uncle. Maybe I should have left you alone with the widow after all.”

  Mandhi

  The clanhome of the os Tastl was about three days north of Mabeg, in a little valley between two arms of the mountains. The path to the clanhome came over the south range, and from the crest of the ridge the whole valley appeared before them as a broad carpet of silky green, glittering from the afternoon rain that had just abated. Black firs and blue spruces
clothed the hills to the floor of the valley, which was a broad emerald meadow a few miles wide, with a brown creek crawling through its heart.

  A series of villages sprouted like mushrooms alongside the creek, conical huts huddled in loose circles, chained together by a meandering clay path with sheep browsing alongside it. At the top of the valley was a single settlement which might have been a small town. A wooden palisade encircled a flat-topped hill, and within the palisade Mandhi could barely make out tight clusters of huts around a steep-roofed hall of stone and wood.

  “It’s prettier than I expected,” Aryaji said. She sat atop a boulder beside the road, chewing a piece of roti and looking across the valley.

  “I agree,” Mandhi said. “I was expecting it to be… muddier. Like Mabeg or the other awful cities.”

  “If you don’t mind the cold and the constant rain,” Nakhur said. He sat next to his niece on a boulder and glared down at the meadow. “I suppose I could get used to it.”

  Shadle stood with her hands tied behind her back in the shade of a fir. She laughed at them. “Cold and rain, you say? This is summer. You should come in the winter, when the snow begins and Kaleg starts to glower.”

  “Quiet,” Mandhi said without malice. “You’re still our prisoner.”

  They had marched Shadle up to the borders of the os Tastl clanhome, where they were supposed to meet a representative of their new allies and prove whether or not Shadle was faithful. Jauda had filled the woods with his archers while Mandhi and the others waited to see if the os Tastl would appear. Shadle was bound to prevent her escaping, but she seemed not to mind it at all, talking cheerily as if she always took long journeys in the forest with her hands tied.

  “Kaleg?” Aryaji asked. “What’s that?”

  Shadle pointed with her chin toward the peak of the mountain above them. “Sends lovely snowstorms down in the winter. Occasionally he gets very upset and belches fire, and then you run for your life. But that hasn’t happened since my grandmother’s day.”