Queen of Slaves (The Powers of Amur Book 4)

by J. S. Bangs

  “Where is the Mouth of the Devourer?” Vapathi asked. “I need him. Now!”

  “In the garden,” one of them said. “The captive khadir—”

  She did not stop to hear the rest. Through the great hall of the Ushpanditya, to the Green Hall, down the stairs to the orange garden. The oiled and silk-covered heads of the courtiers waited in the bottom of the garden, surrounded by the dusty forms of Devoured peasants. Kirshta at the front of them, speaking urgently.

  “Mouth of the Devourer!” Vapathi cried. She shoved aside the Devoured and the Red Men surrounding the crowd.

  Kirshta turned. Vapathi took his head in her hands and whispered in his ear. “The Empress.”

  “She’s here?”

  “In the Emperor’s Tower,” Vapathi said. Speaking very softly, so only Kirshta could hear, she added, “Poisoned. If you want her, you’ll have to take her now.”

  Kirshta nodded. “Keep these here,” he ordered the Devoured around him. “I’ll be back.”

  He and Vapathi ran.

  When they reached the Empress’s apartments again, there was a grim and ghastly silence. Too late, Vapathi worried. Her foot splashed in the dead eunuch’s blood as she hurried up to the bed.

  Basadi lay curled into a ball, her hands clutching her stomach. A puddle of vomit mingled with blood soaked into the silks next to her. Her skin was clammy and cool. But there was breath in her nostrils.

  “Basadi-daridarya,” Vapathi whispered. She slapped Basadi’s cheeks. “Wake up.”

  Kirshta came to the side of the bed. “Empress of Amur,” he said with a certain amount of delight. “You don’t have to die.”

  The woman groaned. Her eyes fluttered open. “It’s too late.”

  Kirshta crawled atop the bed and took Basadi’s head in his hands. He turned her face toward him. “No it’s not,” he said. “Give me your name.”

  “And what?” Basadi said. “Why?”

  “You can live,” Vapathi said. “You can be free. Free of the men who have ruled you until now. Free as the peasants and slaves that have thrown down the Dhigvaditya.”

  “Give it to me,” Kirshta said. His voice was hoarse and hungry.

  Tears trickled from Basadi’s eyes. She breathed heavily.

  “I don’t want to be free,” she whispered. “There is nothing for me if I am free.”

  “Yes there is,” Vapathi whispered. “You will live. You may be yourself, finally, not serving any master except your own desires.”

  Her eyelids flickered.

  “Give it to me,” Kirshta whispered again. “You have only a few moments.”

  The Empress’s chest heaved. Tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes. A little groan escaped her mouth. She nodded.

  “Kupshira Basadi-daridarya,” she whispered.

  A black mist leaked out of her nostrils. Kirshta sucked it in greedily. For a moment Basadi’s spasmed and coughed. Her hands clutched at her stomach, she rolled over, and her legs kicked.

  She fell still.

  Her chest heaved. Her eyes opened. She sat up.

  Kirshta stepped back from the bed. “You are Devoured,” he said with relish. “Your name is gone, and with it your death. But you are still yourself.”

  Basadi wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. She put a hand on her stomach and looked at Kirshta with wonder. “No more pain.”

  “Poison cannot hurt one of the Devoured. Neither can the sword, nor the energies of the Powers.”

  “Now,” Vapathi said. “You have no name. But what should we call you?”

  A wicked smile crept across Basadi’s face. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? You are the Queen of Slaves. I will be the Empress of the Devoured.”

  She rose from the bed. Vomit and blood dribbled down her chin, and she wiped it aside with an indifferent swipe. She took a step forward, and her legs buckled. Vapathi caught her and pulled her upright.

  “Come with me,” Kirshta said. “There are khadir in the garden. I’d like to introduce the Empress to them. Perhaps they’ll join me as well.”

  “Yes,” Basadi said cautiously. She took Kirshta’s hand, and leaning on Vapathi’s shoulder they all left the room together.

  Mandhi

  Kest and Nakhur worked shoulder-to-shoulder loading the last of their supplies onto the second dhow. Nakhur was wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak provided by the os Dramab, for the weather had turned the corner toward autumn, and the breeze coming off the sea bit their skin with its cold. Kest didn’t seem to notice. He heaved a sack of flour to the top of the dhow, his bare shoulders flexing in the afternoon sunlight. The chilly, wet sea breeze turned his cheeks pink, but he smiled at a joke a mercenary told him.

  “Two more months on the boat,” Aryaji said with a scowl, stamping her feet on the dock and shivering. “I was cold enough last time. Now they’re telling me that winter is coming.”

  “You’ll be sailing south,” Shadle said. She sat atop a cask of water with the women while the men of os Dramab and the mercenaries loaded the two dhows. “The waters will get warm faster than winter cools them.”

  “Are you sure?” Aryaji said. Her own woolen cloak was pulled tight around her shoulders. She watched the water with distrust.

  “Well, no,” Shadle said. “I’ve never sailed to Amur. But that’s what the sailors say.”

  “Amur,” Mandhi said wistfully. She looked across the sea to the southwest. They would put their prow to the left of the sunset and sail for two months—but she would walk the shores of Amur again. She stroked Jhumitu’s cheek as he lay swaddled and sleeping against her breast.

  “Aye, Amur,” Shadle chuckled. “Which means I’ll be going back to the sailors’ guild. Too bad, I say. Your band kept things interesting.”

  “Interesting!” Mandhi said with a snort. “Honestly, I could have done with a less interesting trip.”

  “You got a husband out of the deal.”

  Mandhi scored Shadle with a black scowl. Shadle cackled and wagged her finger at Mandhi.

  “Not ready for me to crack jokes, eh? But look at him lifting sacks out there! All copper locks and hard muscle. Not a bad ship to ride.”

  “Shadle!” Mandhi hissed. She nearly exclaimed that Kest hadn’t touched her—but no. That was his private decision. Mandhi would pretend alongside him.

  Shadle cackled again, and to Mandhi’s chagrin Aryaji joined in her laughter. She glared at Aryaji, but the girl pursed her lips and gave Mandhi a defiant stare.

  “What am I going to tell your aunt?” Mandhi muttered. “You’ve been corrupted by a Kaleksha whore.”

  “All she said—” Aryaji began.

  “I know what she said.”

  “We whores,” Shadle said laconically, “have to enjoy our work when we can.”

  “You’ll excuse me if I’m not eager to lend my maid to your profession.”

  “That is not why I was laughing,” Aryaji snapped.

  “Oh, you two,” Shadle said. She paused for a while, watching the men load the dhows.

  They had sold everything of value in the os Dramab clanhome. The land of the Dramab itself could not be sold—such was the clan-law, Shadle explained, that a clan holding, once settled, could never be sold or transferred. But when it was abandoned, the neighboring clans would squabble over it until it was divided between them. The os Dramab would never return to the clanhome, and everything they owned had been used to purchase passage on the second dhow and stock both ships with supplies for the journey.

  Their men and the mercenaries mingled on the docks and in the holds of the dhows, loading and tying things down. Jokes and jeers passed back and forth between the mercenaries and the sailors, though on the part of the os Dramab the jocularity was shot through with sadness. Between tying knots and lifting sacks, she saw them giving long, wistful glances at the green shores of Kaleksha, bowing their heads to the gray peak of Kaleg.

  The only person who seemed untouched by levity was Hrenge. She stood on the end of the dock w
ith her back to the rest of them. She watched the sea.

  Mandhi should go to her. Her mother-in-law, though the thought still tripped uneasily in her mind. There should be something she could say or do to comfort the old woman.

  “Leave her,” Shadle said.

  “Was I staring?”

  “Yes. Let her mourn.”

  Mandhi hung her head. She brushed her fingers over Jhumitu’s cheeks. “I never wanted to disturb her and her clan. Taleg and I…”

  “You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” Shadle said, her voiced lightly scornful. “But you understand how she feels. You didn’t want to leave Amur. She doesn’t want to leave Kalignas.”

  “I want to get back to where it’s warm and peaceful.”

  “Peaceful,” Aryaji said. Her voice had a ghastly echo to it.

  The hair on Mandhi’s arm’s stood up. Aryaji stood as rigid as a pine, her eyes wide, her jaw locked. Mandhi reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “Aryaji!”

  The girl turned toward Mandhi and pierced her with a black, pitiless stare. “Peace, peace, you say. There is no peace. We come bearing the fire. The fields will be burned and the seeds will be scattered; what is broken shall be mended, what is whole shall be broken. We come bearing the fire.”

  Aryaji let out a long, groaning gasp. She fell forward and grabbed Mandhi’s shoulder, pulling herself up before her knees hit the boards of the dock. She straightened and hid her face in Mandhi’s shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” Mandhi asked.

  “I’m fine,” Aryaji said. Her breaths came heavy, and she pinched Mandhi’s arm. Jhumitu squirmed between them. Aryaji let out a single sob, and Mandhi put her hand on the girl’s cheek.

  “Do you know what it meant?” she asked.

  Aryaji shook her head. She stepped back and Jhumitu calmed. “But it wasn’t so strong. I could stand it.”

  “Take care of yourself,” Shadle said softly to Aryaji. She squeezed the girl’s shoulder, then bent and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  Aryaji looked down, abashed. “I think we’ll see each other again,” she said to Shadle. “Does that work for prophecy?”

  Shadle laughed. “It works for me.”

  “Mandhi!” called a voice from the end of the dock. She saw Nakhur there, rubbing his arms beneath the woolen cloak. He trotted down the dock toward them.

  “News?” Mandhi asked.

  “The old dhow is ready,” he said. “Jauda says we can sail before sundown and catch the trade winds before nightfall. You and Aryaji should board.”

  “I’ll help you up,” Shadle said. She rose and reached for Aryaji’s hand.

  Mandhi shook her head. She handed sleeping Jhumitu to Shadle. “Get Aryaji comfortable. I’ll invite Hrenge aboard.”

  She walked to the end of the dock. Hrenge stood unmoving on the last plank, her hands folded over her stomach, her gray hair flying in gentle wisps in the breeze. She watched the waves lap the posts of the pier. Mandhi lay a hand on her shoulder.

  Hrenge turned. Her cheeks were wet. Mandhi brushed the tears away, then took the old woman’s hand. She gestured at the boat.

  Hrenge understood. She followed Mandhi to the rope ladder and ascended fearlessly, her broad white fists gripping the ropes, her arms heaving herself over the top rail without help. Nakhur pointed her to the aft deck where a little shelter had been rigged, and she sat down atop the boards next to Aryaji. She went back to watching the sea.

  Mandhi climbed and sat down next to her. They watched the sea together. The water was the color of a wet stone, and the sky was barred with iron-colored clouds. Wisps of white foam sparkled on the crests of the waves in the harbor. The flags atop the mast fluttered softly.

  Hrenge did not look back at Kalignas. Mandhi realized that she hadn’t looked back since they had arrived on the dock in Mabeg, and she recognized it for bravery. She took Hrenge’s hand. Together they watched the east and waited for Amur.

  More From J.S. Bangs

  Throne of Ruins: Book 5 of the Powers of Amur

  Mandhi returns to Amur with her son and the rest of her new Kaleksha family. She’s hoping to find a place of peace, but the reality is vastly different.

  The Mouth of the Devourer has uprooted the Emperor and is turning the northern part of Amur into a ruin. The Emperor Sadja most convince Mandhi to trust him again and assemble a great alliance to stop the Mouth of the Devourer and save Amur.

  And the secret book which the thikratta saved from Ternas will finally yield its secrets, but it’s a secret that few want to hear.

  Chapter 1

  The Devoured marched the woman through the doors above the Rice Gate and into the halls of the Ushpanditya. They stepped over the sprawled-out forms of the Devoured who slept in group heaps in the entrance hall. Four of them played a game of sacchu against one of the walls, and they took a glance at the woman’s bhildu and began to jeer at her.

  Sweet dhorsha, bring us a ram! Take that bhildu off and we’ll see what else you’re good for.

  Their captive looked around in revulsion and horror. Vapathi suppressed a smile.

  They marched past piles of ruined silks and discarded silver chains, half-empty pots of rice wine, and the spittle of chewed betel nut leaves on the marble floors. The chains that held the lights in the alcoves were broken, the lamps cracked and spilling oil onto the ground or missing entirely. The images of Am and Ashti were defaced, the heads and hands knocked off, the hammered silver on their bodies scraped off and obscenities scrawled into the alcoves behind them. The halls stank of too many bodies, spilled beer, and smoke.

  “Does the mess bother you?” she asked.

  The woman’s gaze snapped straight ahead, and she shook her head. She bowed her eyes to avoid Vapathi’s gaze.

  “And how often did you clean anything when you were a dhorsha in Majasravi?” Vapathi taunted.

  The woman was silent.

  “Perhaps you’d like the Emperor’s Tower better,” Vapathi said. She had taken a room there with Kirshta, Apurta, and Basadi, and by force of habit she kept the rooms clean. She was used to living in the homes of khadir and emperors, keeping house immaculately. Most of the Devoured, though, were peasantry accustomed to living in filth, and eager to show spite to the halls of the Emperor. She herself felt a little disgust at their behavior—but not enough to try to stop them.

  “Are we going to the Emperor’s Tower?” the woman asked.

  “No,” Vapathi said. “You are not so lucky.”

  She brought the woman and her Devoured escort to the Green Hall. No one was allowed to sleep in the Green Hall, so the place was clean of the worst mess, though some furniture from elsewhere in the Ushpanditya had been stacked there indiscriminately. The captains of Kirshta’s Red Men and other Devoured of note lounged on the cushioned chairs and long carpets.

  There was no ceremony for entering the old throne room. No heralds announced them or made obeisances. The Red Men relaxing alongside the central aisle mocked the woman as she crossed the room. At the foot of the Seven-Stepped throne, the Devoured escorts threw her to the ground. The woman looked up at the figure on the throne, shuddered, and prostrated herself.

  Kirshta lay languidly across the gold-inlaid seat, his hand drooping over the chair and his head falling against his chin. An uncountable mass of snakes curled around the legs of the throne, dripping sinuously around the steps, slithering across the imperial emblems and heavy carpets draped across the dais. The hall whispered with their sinuous movements. Kirshta barely lifted his head to take in the woman.

  His skin had taken on a grayish cast, and black circles sagged beneath his eyes. Every expression of his seemed to be a grimace, and his movements seemed straitened by pain. Worry bubbled in Vapathi’s stomach every time she saw him.

  “Is this the woman?” Kirshta rasped.

  “She was found by a group of Devoured outside Majasravi,” Vapathi said. “Someone recognized her as an important dhorsha.”

  Kirshta stirred at
op the throne. He looked down on the woman with a mixture of contempt and greed. She wore a simple white sari stained with gray and brown from hasty travel and her capture by the Devoured, with the red bhildu over it showing her status as a dhorsha. She trembled as she lay prostrate.

  “Get up,” Kirshta said wearily. “The Mouth of the Devourer has no need for your obeisances.”

  The woman rose. She was old, perhaps sixty years of age, with a serene face and a confident, noble posture, marred by her fear. She looked at Kirshta without blinking or speaking.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Teguri,” the woman said.

  “Is that all of it?”

  The woman hesitated a moment. “Aksham Teguri-dhu of Majasravi.”

  “So you admit you’re a dhorsha,” Kirshta said. “Which lineage?”

  “The Amya dhorsha.”

  “Of course. And you were someone important, if one of these Devoured remembers you.” Kirshta stretched out his legs and leaned forward. An asp crawled over his foot.

  The woman hesitated. Vapathi put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in. “Tell him the truth. It’s best that way.”

  The woman glanced at Vapathi, and for a moment she seemed reassured. Vapathi suppressed a smile. People found her comforting by contrast with Kirshta, a fact which they exploited to their advantage.

  “I was the temple mother of the Majavaru Lurchatiya,” the woman said. “My son was chief of the priests there.”

  “I see,” Kirshta said. “And where is your son now? The rest of the lineage of Am here in the great city of Majasravi?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said quietly.

  Kirshta made an expression that might have been a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “I don’t know where your son is, but I can tell you about Am. I have broken him. The Power you served is helpless before She Who Devours.”

  The woman stood stiffly and said nothing.