Queen of Slaves (The Powers of Amur Book 4)

by J. S. Bangs

  She turned toward the speaker. It was Shadle, looking very weary in the evening gloom, with her hands on her hips and her hair strewn every which way. Mandhi sat Jhumitu upright on her lap.

  “What do you want?”

  Shadle heaved a deep sigh. “There’s a question about what to do with the prisoners.”

  Mandhi played with Jhumitu’s hair. He grabbed both of her thumbs. One went into his mouth to be gnawed, while he shook the other one back and forth. “Do I look like I care what happens to the prisoners?”

  “The os Tastl want to kill all of the men. Since they are, in fact, your husband’s family, we thought we’d ask you.”

  Mandhi hesitated. “Oh.”

  One of the os Tastl stepped forward from the mass of people that Mandhi had been ignoring around her. He jabbered at Shadle for a bit. Shadle answered sharply. An argument nearly started before Shadle raised her hands and gestured to Mandhi.

  “The os Tastl would like permission to carry their hleg to its ultimate conclusion,” Shadle said. “That means they would kill every male in the os Dramab line. Normally that would include Jhumitu—”

  “Not unless they kill me and my mercenaries first.”

  Shadle raised her hands. “I know. But if you take Jhumitu away from the os Dramab, they’ll be without a patriarch and the rest can be killed as clanless, and the hleg will be over.”

  “Wait.” Mandhi stroked Jhumitu’s neck. He fell to one side and curled into Mandhi’s belly as if he wanted to sleep. “What do you mean they could be killed as clanless?”

  “If there is no patriarch, the clan is dead. The former members have to make do as clanless.”

  “But where is their patriarch?”

  Shadle pointed at Jhumitu.

  Mandhi spat out an astonished laugh. “What are you talking about?”

  Someone else pushed himself forward from the mass of people behind Shadle. Two armed men restrained him, swords pressing against his back. He called out, “Mandhi! Listen!”

  Mandhi peered at the man in the gloom but couldn’t make him out. “Who is that? Let him speak.”

  The Amuran soldiers holding him argued amongst themselves for a moment, then let the man approach. Mandhi recognized him at last: Glanod. One of the os Dramab who had kidnapped Jhumitu. Cold anger swelled in her belly.

  He threw himself to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground. “Mandhi,” he said. His voice was sharp with desperation. “You may be our salvation.”

  “I don’t think I want to be your salvation,” Mandhi said sharply. “What do you want?”

  “Jhumitu—”

  “You cannot have Jhumitu, you lying child-thief.”

  “No, listen, I beg you. For the sake of your husband Taleg.”

  Mandhi shifted. Jhumitu had fallen asleep and lay comfortably against her belly. “I’m listening,” she hissed.

  Glanod bowed his head. “Jhumitu is, by law, our patriarch. Taleg was the grandson of Blagom, the patriarch. His father, Kudlod, was killed in the hleg, after Taleg sailed away, and the elderly Blagom died shortly thereafter. Taleg should have become patriarch when he returned to Kalignas. But he never returned.”

  “And?” Mandhi snapped. “Why do I care?”

  “Because in Taleg’s death, his son should inherit.”

  “I’m not interested,” Mandhi said sharply. “These are your problems. Can’t Kest inherit in Taleg’s place? Or are you people too stupid to have such a rule?”

  Shadle broke in. “Yes, we have a similar rule here in Kalignas. But we need to have proof the elder brother is dead, and you have to get a declaration from the clanmoot.”

  “And we went to the clanmoot,” Glanod said. “But without a recognized patriarch, we had no standing to speak for ourselves, and the os Tastl and their allies opposed us. Then Kest found you in Amur.”

  Mandhi bit her lip. “I don’t understand….”

  Glanod pleaded urgently. “Please, Mandhi. While Jhumitu lives and can be found in our clanhome, the os Dramab are alive. But if you take Jhumitu beyond the boundaries of the Dramab, the os Tastl will have our blood, and no one will be here to stop them. All our lives are forfeit.”

  “Perhaps,” Mandhi said coldly, “your lives should be forfeit after what you did to me.”

  Glanod raised his head, and a glimmer of stone showed beneath his obeisance. “We did what we had to for the clan. Would not you do the same for your family?”

  Mandhi’s mind flashed briefly to the memory of Navran going to meet Ruyam alone while she stole away with Manjur’s ring. A shiver passed through her.

  Glanod spoke again. “And won’t you do something for the memory of Taleg? He was our cousin, Kest’s brother. His mother is still here. Kest is here—he was injured in the fighting, but I could bring him. We could—”

  “Stop it,” Mandhi said. “I can’t… no. You say that if Jhumitu leaves the clanhome, the os Tastl will kill you with impunity?”

  “Yes, Mandhi.”

  “What if they swear not to?”

  A bitter laugh tittered through the crowd. Her question was translated for the os Tastl who were listening, and even they seemed to smirk.

  Truth be told, Mandhi didn’t trust them either. She sighed and leaned her head against the hut. “Then I’ll stay here in the clanhome until we’ve figured this out.”

  “What?” Aryaji shouted. “For how long?”

  “Until we have a better option,” Mandhi said. “But I’m not going to hear a word about the os Dramab tonight. Count yourselves lucky that I have as much pity as this.”

  She raised a hand and gestured for Jauda. The mercenary captain saluted her and assumed an attentive Cane posture.

  “I want a guard,” Mandhi said, “and at the first sign of trouble me and Jhumitu leave with the rest of the mercenaries, and the os Dramab can fend for themselves. Meanwhile, they can earn their lives by getting me and their little patriarch a warm place to sleep. By ourselves, just me and Jhumitu. Put Aryaji and Nakhur nearby. And get something for our mercenaries to eat.”

  Jauda nodded smartly. “I’ll keep a heavy guard around you. No one will lay a finger on Jhumitu without your permission.”

  “They’d better not,” Mandhi said. “Or I’ll let the os Tastl have at them, and I won’t regret a thing.”

  She hugged Jhumitu against her belly and stood. “All right, where are we going?”

  Glanod rose to his feet and spoke with a mixture of relief and fierce determination. “Come to the clanhome lodge. We’ll set up a place just for you.” He reached out to show her the way.

  “No.” Mandhi rubbed sleeping Jhumitu’s feet and stepped back from Glanod’s touch. “Too public. Find me one of these little stone beehives and let me sleep in peace.”

  Aryaji rose behind Mandhi, and Mandhi motioned for her to come close.

  “Find your uncle,” Mandhi whispered to her. “Tell him to purify the huts the os Dramab show him. We may be here for a while.”

  Daladham

  Daladham stood outside the Rice Gate of the Ushpanditya and looked up the long stone staircase to the arched entranceway of the imperial residence. The blazing sun baked the red sandstone steps like bricks, and ripples of heat rose from the shoulders of uncut stone on both sides of the stairs. He rubbed the glazed clay token in his hand.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess I shouldn’t have thought they would just let us go straight to the Emperor.”

  Amabhu slouched against the sandstone of the outer wall, hiding from the sun in the shade of an overhanging rampart. “I suppose,” he said, looking down glumly. “What do we do now?”

  Daladham drew in his breath slowly. “Is there any more money?”

  He glanced over at Caupana. Caupana shook his head.

  “Well, we have the promise of an audience in three days,” Amabhu said, pointing to the clay token that Daladham rubbed in his palm. “Thikram’s blessing?”

  “Bah,” Daladham said. He spat on the ground. “No one in
Majasravi cares for Thikram. We’d be better off going to the Majavaru Lurchatiya. I can present myself as one of the Amya dhorsha there.”

  “And?”

  “They might take us in. We could… we should show them the book.”

  Amabhu made a growl in his throat. “I’m not throwing the greatest secret of Ternas around like common clay to buy a meal.”

  “Perhaps we should sleep on the streets and let it be stolen, then.”

  Amabhu stared at him in horror. Caupana laughed.

  “To the Majavaru Lurchatiya,” the tall thikratta said. His hand swept past the gates of the Ushpanditya to the stone peaks of the temple towers beyond. “No better place.”

  Amabhu shot sharp glares at the Ushpanditya and heaved the leather satchel to his shoulder. “More dhorsha,” he muttered.

  “You were the ones who walked into my temple,” Daladham said. “If you didn’t want to work with dhorsha—”

  “I know, I know,” Amabhu grumbled. “Let’s just get out of the horrid sun.”

  The streets of Majasravi were parched and running with people with grim faces, looking up at the pale blue cloudless sky with hatred and fear. The rains had not come. They passed the edges of a market, and Daladham overheard the price of rice: already twice what it should have been at this time of year. He wiped the sweat off of his brow and quickened his pace.

  The outer wall of the Majavaru Lurchatiya appeared after they passed the stone hulk of the Ditya. The outer wall of the temple was twice a man’s height, covered with images of the Powers, demons, and men in high relief, painted in pink and teal and orange. The lesser temples lifted their conical peaks above the wall, while the enormous stone dome of the central temple leaped up beyond them, sculpted with rank upon rank of human and divine figures. The figure of Am in hammered gold stood atop the dome of the great temple, burning in the unceasing sunlight.

  “Powers above,” muttered Daladham when it came into view.

  Amabhu gave him a glance. “You’ve never been here?”

  “Never once been to Majasravi. Never seen a temple this big.”

  “I forget that not everyone grew up in Majasravi,” Amabhu said. “As a child, I could see Am shining in the dawn every morning.”

  “Eh?” Daladham said sharply. “You’re from Majasravi? Do you know anyone here? Why aren’t we staying with them?”

  Amabhu gave Daladham a serious, grim look. “My family suffered the same fate as yours.”

  “Eaten by the Mouth of the Devourer?”

  “You know what I mean. I begged my way to Ternas to avoid becoming a thief.”

  “Ah. Thief or thikratta. Hard to say which I like better.”

  Amabhu gave Daladham another angry glare, but Caupana laughed.

  They passed through the outer gate of the temple, walked past the rows of blind men and invalids begging in the gate, and entered the stone-paved plaza before the southern purification pools. The pools were brimming with people carefully washing their feet, hands, and faces in the blessed water. Daladham pointed.

  “We have to wash before going to the dhorsha. All of us.”

  Amabhu sighed and made a sour face.

  Daladham gave him a sharp glare. “Why are you so reluctant? I thought you said you honored the Powers—”

  “I don’t want to set down the packs,” he whispered.

  Caupana lifted the pack off of Amabhu’s shoulders. “I’ll hold them. We’ll take turns.”

  Daladham and Amabhu descended to the pool, elbowing aside a few others to make room. Daladham washed his feet and hands, muttering the prayers of purification, then dipped himself for a moment in the water up to his shoulders and splashed water over his face and head. He rose to see Amabhu looking at him uncomfortably.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t remember the prayers,” he said awkwardly.

  “You’re not dhorsha, you’re not expected to know them,” Daladham said. “But if we’re going to see the chief dhorsha, we need to be ritually as well as materially clean, so kneel down.”

  He splashed water across Amabhu’s legs, then cleansed his hands, face, and head. Then he motioned for Caupana to come while Amabhu went to watch the bags. He moved to pray for the tall one, but to his surprise Caupana shook his head. He dipped his hands into the water himself and recited the cleansing rites in perfect, fluent temple dialect.

  Daladham watched him in astonishment. “Where did you learn that?” he asked when Caupana had finished.

  Caupana smiled at him. “Thikratta come from all over.”

  They passed the outer temples and entered the inner ring. There were dhorsha everywhere, red bhildu with golden fringe predominating, but not just the Amya: Daladham also spotted the black-and-silver garments of the Jakhriya and the emerald billows of the Ashtya. Daladham stood for a moment looking at the churning multitudes in bewilderment, until a red-clad dhorsha with a forked beard passed by. Daladham grabbed his bhildu.

  The man looked at Daladham with a little annoyance. “Rice in your left hand, brother,” Daladham said rapidly. “Where is the temple mother?”

  “A spear in your right hand,” the man grumbled in response. “Where did you come from?”

  “I fled Tulakhanda with my friends,” he said, pointing to Amabhu and Caupana. “Can you help us?”

  The other dhorsha’s aspect relaxed, and he turned toward Daladham. “Tulakhanda, you said? We’ve heard rumors.”

  “Yes, Tulakhanda. We’d like to speak to the mother, tell her all about it. If she’s here.”

  “The mother dislikes unexpected visitors,” the man said, “but maybe you’ll catch her in a good mood. Follow me.”

  He turned on a heel and led Daladham and the thikratta around the great central dome, toward a set of structures built against the west wall of the compound. There was a long line of rooms stacked with various sorts of temple goods, with an incessant stream of male and female dhorsha going in and out of them.

  “The elder mother of the Amya dhorsha,” their guide said as they approached. “She has an office here in the temple, dealing with the business of the lineage.”

  There was a line waiting outside one of the doors. The guide pointed them to it. “Wait there. The elder’s name is Teguri-dhu. Be respectful.” And he left.

  Daladham sidled into place behind a dhorsha woman holding a little child with red thread tied around its wrists. Amabhu leaned against the clay brick wall. They waited. A few people went in and out. A dhorsha left the room, his head marked with oil, then the woman entered with her child. They waited more. The woman left. Their turn came.

  The room was lit brilliantly by the light streaming in through the door. The walls were painted white, but hung with curtains of scarlet cloth painted with white and yellow designs, spears and rice stalks twined around Am and Ashti, upright and clasping hands. An old woman with braided silver hair sat on a red cushion with a mahogany writing tray before her. An incense burner in the corner of the room filled the chamber with the smell of sandalwood and charcoal.

  Daladham fell to his knees and bowed his head to the ground. He heard Amabhu and Caupana drop to their knees behind him.

  “Rice in your left hand, Teguri-dhu,” Daladham said. “We beg your help.”

  Daladham raised his head. The old dhorsha was watching them quizzically, scratching at the corner of her mouth. Her chin trembled ever so slightly.

  “A spear in your right hand. Who are you?” Her voice was whispery and hoarse.

  “My name is Daladham, of the Amya dhorsha in the city of Tulakhanda. These are my traveling companions Amabhu and Caupana.”

  “Tulakhanda?” the old dhorsha said. Her eyes grew wide for a moment. “I had heard that no dhorsha escaped the city.”

  “Did you hear about the temple of Am?”

  “I heard that a man who calls himself the Mouth of the Devourer entered and defiled it.” The old woman lifted her writing tray and stylus. “Is that true?”

  “It’s true,
master.”

  “Tell me more, then tell me what kind of help you’re seeking.”

  “How much do you want to know, my master?”

  Teguri waved her stylus with impatience. “Everything.”

  Daladham took a deep breath. “We had heard some weeks before that the Mouth of the Devourer was approaching from the village of Pukasra, though we knew almost nothing about him. We heard he was one of the mountain-folk, a former slave who wished to free the peasants and the slaves. He brought down some ancient sorcery from the hills. But his army was all peasants and slaves bearing farm implements. There was a garrison of the Red Men in the majakhadir’s barracks, and they went out to meet him when he approached, and we assumed they would destroy the peasants and the Mouth of the Devourer without any trouble. They did not.”

  “This much I’ve heard already,” Teguri said, tapping her stylus on the edge of the writing table.

  “Yes, my mother. Kalbi-dhu, the mother of the temple and an elder of the Amya in Tulakhanda, called all of us to the temple when the Mouth of the Devourer entered the city. At first, we succeeded in blocking the looters from taking the holy instruments from the temple. But then the man himself came.”

  “The one who calls himself the Mouth of the Devourer?”

  “Indeed. His men broke through the dhorsha defending the temple, and he went to the high altar to Am. He showed great contempt for Am and for the altar. His men broke the idol and scattered the offerings on the altar. But he was very offended by the image of Kushma painted behind the idol. He demanded that the dhorsha curse Kushma and his image. My nephew Jairatu-dhu was one. He refused, and the Mouth of the Devourer… destroyed him.”

  “Destroyed?”

  Daladham pressed his lips together. The feeling of nauseous panic returned. “Some kind of sorcery,” he whispered. “Jairatu turned into black bile, then crumbled away into nothing. The Mouth of the Devourer said that he ate him.”

  Teguri bent over the desk and scribbled something with her stylus. She wrote for several long moments. Daladham watched her breathing and tried to quell the nausea and sorrow in his stomach.