by David Hair
‘And I you, bhaiya. But Al’Rhon, men and women do not touch in public here.’
He pulled away and bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Dareem and Yash joined them. The young Zain seemed to trust Dareem, which reassured Alaron. ‘We’ll take this wagon to the back of my father’s palace, where supplies are delivered,’ Dareem told them. ‘Hopefully the watchers will attach no importance to such a conveyance.’
In the front, a driver flicked a whip, and the wagon lurched forward. Initially Alaron was on edge, but the journey through Teshwallabad proved uneventful, sometimes forcing a path through presses of people, at other times traversing almost empty back-alleys, until finally they crossed a large square and passed through a pair of great cast-iron gates. A guardsman poked his head inside, saw Dareem and put his knuckles to his forehead.
‘Keep your hoods raised,’ Dareem reminded them as they disembarked. There were soldiers everywhere, but no-one made a hostile move. Dareem took them up wide marble stairs to a massive marble edifice that dwarfed even the Governor’s Residence in Norostein.
Another man was waiting inside the door, bowing as they stepped inside. ‘Welcome,’ he said in fluent Rondian. ‘I am Hanook.’
The vizier was an older replica of his son; one could trace his lineage in the shape of the skull, the smooth skin, the wise but intense eyes. Instead of a turban, he wore a small flat-topped cap, delicately embroidered and sporting gold tassels, and a full-length robe of deep blue. He walked with the aid of a long stick, which Alaron recognised as a kon-staff: so a weapon, not just a prop for age.
As the doors started to close behind them, lamps revealed an inner courtyard garden overlooked on all sides by balconies. The marble glowed in the flickering torchlight. There were statues everywhere, brightly coloured renderings of Omali gods, some serene and others fierce. Ramita made an approving noise. Alaron stopped before one of Sivraman, similar to the statue at Mandira Khojana. He smiled in recognition.
‘It is wonderful to finally meet you, Lady Meiros,’ Hanook said, going to Ramita. ‘I am sorry that I cannot greet you more publically, but most Lakh believed your husband to be evil incarnate.’
‘They did not know him,’ Ramita replied, lifting her head.
‘Indeed not.’ Hanook gestured to a man standing as still as the statuary. ‘Ishad will show you to your rooms, and then I pray you will join me for supper.’ He vanished through a door, taking Dareem with him.
Alaron looked at Yash. ‘Well?’
Yash looked about uncomfortably. ‘What a place! It makes the monastery look like a jhuggi.’
‘I mean, can we trust them?’
The monk met his eyes uncertainly. ‘They have received me politely and listened to my words. They have promised that Lady Meiros will be safe.’ He dropped his voice. ‘This is an Amteh city, my friend. Your powers are considered evil here. It is a great risk for them to even receive you and the lady.’
‘My husband would not have sent me here unknowingly,’ Ramita said firmly. ‘We knew the risks.’
‘In many ways, the greater danger is to you, Al’Rhon,’ Yash pointed out. ‘People here know a Lakh girl married Lord Meiros, but no one imagines she had any choice and so most forgave the union. But you are a Rondian mage: a living blasphemy.’
Alaron swallowed. ‘I know.’
‘But Vizier Hanook has been welcoming to me, and he still practises the Yogic Way.’ Yash dropped his voice. ‘My friend, I am a street-boy who became a monk. Truly, I do not know how to judge the mighty.’
‘None of us do,’ Ramita whispered. ‘I am a market-girl, and Alaron is a trader’s son. But this is where we are destined to be, so we must find wisdom.’
Alaron glanced at the waiting servant, Ishad. ‘Okay, let’s check our rooms, then get some food. I’m starving.’
Ishad led them up two storeys and along a winding corridor to a foyer which led to three suites of rooms. Alaron insisted on scanning each with the gnosis before allowing them in. The rooms were huge, with marble floors and wide balconies, and big windows covered by carved wooden shutters that were painted with mythic scenes. The bed looked strange to Alaron’s Yuros eyes: the mattress was barely off the floor and covered not by blankets but a very thin cotton cover, intensely patterned. It was too hot for blankets, anyway. There was no sign of anything dangerous, and when he knocked on the walls they sounded solid enough. By then his stomach was rumbling. ‘I could eat a horse,’ he exclaimed. ‘Can we be ready in five minutes?’
Ramita looked astounded. ‘I will be at least an hour,’ she announced, and vanished into her room.
What could take an hour? He threw a pained look at Yash, then re-entered his room, sat on the low bed and pulled off his boots. Sitting so low to the ground was disorienting. Floral scents rose from a basin of heated water and he pulled off his shirt and rinsed himself quickly, then changed into his one clean shirt. The thought of a hot bath was enticing, but more pressing was the thought of food and drink.
An hour …
He went to the door and set wards that flared and then vanished in a mesh of pale-blue light, then did the same at the windows before using Earth-gnosis to lift a tile, scoop a hollow space and lay the Scytale and his notes within. He set a hidden ward over it, invisible even to gnostic sight. It was exacting work, and by the time he was done he was absolutely starving. It still felt like another hour before finally Ramita knocked on their doors and declared herself ready.
All Alaron and Yash could do was gape.
The girl Alaron had spent months with, rough clad for travelling or wearing Zain robes, had been transfigured. Her small form was wrapped in a pale-blue saree, with fold upon fold of the most delicately patterned lace embroidery he’d ever seen. Her belly was bare, a minor scandal in his eyes but apparently that was fine here, and there was no doubt she had recovered from pregnancy: her midriff was a gentle curve of toned brown skin. Her hair was tied back severely, and jewellery hung from the most unlikely places – gold rings on her ear lobes were linked to her nose-rings by delicate chains. Bangles and rings clinked and clanked as she shifted under his scrutiny, glittering in the lamplight.
‘You look incredible!’ he exclaimed, while Yash just continued to gape. He assumed the finery was Hanook’s gift.
Ramita waggled her head ironically. ‘Good. That is the effect I was hoping for.’ She looked extremely pleased with herself as she posed. ‘Do I look worthy of my husband?’
Alaron could only nod mutely.
She brushed his hand with her fingers. ‘I am glad you approve, bhaiya, because I am leaving the twins asleep in my room. I have cast wards. Are they sufficient?’
Alaron checked her wards and found them to be startlingly strong. ‘I don’t think I could break in there,’ he admitted, and Ramita looked even more pleased.
Smiling radiantly, she said, ‘Then shall we go?’ and offered her arm.
‘You bet,’ he said fervently. ‘Before I die of hunger on the stairs.’ He closed his hand around her forearm, as carefully as if she were made of porcelain, and together the three of them went to dine with the vizier.
*
‘You are, if I might venture to say, an unusual trio,’ Vizier Hanook observed.
Alaron could only agree with that. They were seated cross-legged around a low table: his long legs were seizing up, but everyone seemed to find it perfectly comfortable. Didn’t these people know about chairs? Though in truth he’d only just noticed his own discomfort, so busy was he filling his stomach.
The food was odd by Rondian standards, but he had to admit it was far more varied and interesting. Best of all, there was actual meat, spiced and served fried with no sauces except for a yoghurt-based cooling dip. He was already addicted. There were lots of vegetables, too – he couldn’t identify them all, but thanks to Ramita’s cooking he could at least handle the strange flavours. They ate with fingers, as they had at the monastery, but Vizier Hanook did it in such a fastidious manner that it came
across as the height of good manners. It was all served with a very pleasant chilled lemon drink, a good alternative to wine, as he was cautious about having his wits dulled by alcohol in this house of strangers.
They had given Hanook and Dareem a largely fictitious version of how they came to be here: in it Alaron had been an auxiliary to the legions who had become detached from his unit and found Ramita hiding in the Dhassan countryside west of Hebusalim. He had taken pity on her, and they had journeyed here, via the monastery, following the advice of her late husband to seek Hanook’s protection. The children were self-evident, but they didn’t mention the Scytale and nor would they, not until they were certain that was wise. They spoke in Rondian, the only language they had in common, though that meant Yash was somewhat excluded.
‘What is a vizier?’ Alaron asked curiously, after they had eaten.
‘A scapegoat,’ Dareem suggested drily.
Hanook laughed. ‘A juggler.’
‘Or a nursemaid.’
Hanook rolled his eyes. ‘Thankfully our mughal is well past that stage. I am Chief Minister and Advisor to his Sacred Majesty, the Mughal Tariq Srinarayan Kishan-ji, whose name is sung in Paradise.’ He pronounced the mughal’s name with such serious reverence that it suggested a subtle jest. ‘I was vizier to his father before him, and advised his father’s elder brother before that, whilst also tutoring his son.’
‘We don’t understand the politics of Lakh,’ Alaron said carefully. ‘Are you able to explain the situation here?’
Dareem chuckled. ‘We don’t have all night.’
Hanook smiled fondly at his son. ‘Dareem is right. It is a short question but the answers are many and complex, as these things often are. I take it you know a little? Then let me be brief. Lakh has never been one kingdom: it was hundreds, sundered by language and customs and bitter, intense rivalries. But all – nominally, at least – paid homage to the Maharajah, the King of Kings. The history of their struggles for supremacy fill a thousand books. But in 834, as your Rondian calendar dates it, the Amteh-worshipping Khotri tricked and killed Maharajah Raj-Prithan and invaded. The Khotri Emir’s son became ‘mughal’, an Amteh title signifying one who is both king and Godspeaker: a dangerous thing, because they claim to both speak and act for God. Usually there is separation of the two titles, carefully preserved to prevent tyranny. But Mughal Turig, our present Mughal’s great-great-uncle, was a powerful and remarkable man. Though Raj-Prithan’s army numbered a million souls, they were vanquished by a tenth as many.’
‘How?’ Alaron wondered aloud. ‘Even magi would struggle with those odds.’
‘Turig of Khotri had two things the Lakh armies lacked: horse-archers, trained with composite bows that could puncture armour, and the Amteh faith. Amteh is a warrior religion, and their holy book, the Kalistham, exhorts its followers to conquest. Turig used his rank as a Godspeaker to inspire fervent belief in his invincibility. Strengthened by this, his soldiers were indomitable, and they destroyed a generation of Teshwallabad manhood. This city has barely recovered.’
‘It is an offence to the gods,’ Yash declared.
‘I had thought a monk put aside such concerns,’ Dareem observed mildly.
Yash lowered his gaze and muttered, ‘I am still a Lakh.’
Hanook ignored the byplay and continued, ‘Mughal Turig took Teshwallabad and proceeded to defeat the remaining northern Lakh rajahs, until the whole of the north acknowledged his rule. Since then the Mughals of Lakh have been gradually extending their influence into the south. The rajahs of southern Lakh have never united, and fear of the mughal’s ruthlessness deters them from open war. The mughal was also shrewd enough not to try and suppress the Omali faith, knowing this would be both impossible and highly inflammatory. He does discriminate against it, but in small ways only, seeking to weaken allegiance to the Omali gods over the long term; for the short term he wanted normal life to carry on. Of course his men get involved in incidents of cruelty and stupidity, but probably no more than the Lakh nobility inflicted on their own people. Lakh is tamed – for now, at least, like an elephant that has grown used to the whip-hand.’
‘Why isn’t the mughal fighting alongside the Keshi in the shihad?’ Alaron asked.
‘A good question. For one thing, the mughal is afraid to leave his own lands for fear of an uprising. For another, he is Khotri, not Keshi: the people who live around Khotriawal see themselves as a separate kingdom, hostile to the Sultan of Kesh. They believe – quite rightly! – that Salim would love any excuse to avenge himself for any number of past conflicts. And relations between the Emir of Khotri and the Mughal of Lakh are strained. While Turig was setting himself up in Teshwallabad, one of his younger brothers seized power back in Khotriawal. With vast deserts between and a new kingdom to pacify, Turig could do little but protest, but the feud simmers on down the generations, with neither able to put an end to it. There is now open hostility between the mughal and his forebears in Khotri, and neither have great interest in aiding the shihad.’
Alaron glanced at Ramita. They didn’t sound like people who would want to intervene in the Crusade. And he couldn’t yet tell where Hanook’s sympathies lay, let alone whether he was someone who would make good use of the Scytale.
‘I believe that my late husband spoke to you of me?’ Ramita said to the vizier after a long pause.
Hanook said solemnly, ‘He did indeed, just a few days before to his marriage to you. He wrote a follow-up letter some months later.’
‘What did he say?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Lady, he asked two things: first, that I move to protect your family, who were newly enriched and might fall prey to the unscrupulous. And second, should aught happen to him and you came to me, that I protect you and yours.’
Alaron looked at the two nobles warily. ‘And you agreed?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
Hanook blinked slowly. ‘You are clearly a direct young man, Master Mercer. The Court of the Mughal is a place of subtlety and obliqueness. Such a straightforward question is highly unusual. So in reply I would remind you first that Antonin Meiros is the most hated man in Antiopia, and one does not acknowledge connections to him lightly. The very fact that you and Lady Meiros are under my roof right now could see me arrested.’
‘Your soldiers saw us.’
‘Their loyalty has been carefully nurtured from birth.’ Hanook stroked his goatee. ‘Let me explain a little: There are four major groups at court: Khotri Amteh tend to be either Ja’arathi moderates or fanatical shihadi. There are opportunists of all races and faiths, drawn to money and power. And least of all, there are the Lakh patriots. And they all hate and fear the magi and the Ordo Costruo: it is the one thing they all agree upon. They pull at the mughal from all directions, and he is only fourteen.’
‘Which group do you fit into?’ Alaron asked.
‘None of them. I stand in the middle and steer a path of survival for the mughal.’
‘Whose interests will you serve? The mughal’s, or Ramita’s?’ Alaron asked.
Hanook frowned. ‘I am sure I can serve both.’
Alaron didn’t much like that answer. ‘I’m here to protect Lady Meiros. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m taking her straight out of here.’ His heart began to thud, but his protectiveness towards Ramita overcame his nervousness. ‘Good luck trying to stop me.’
Hanook’s eyes hardened. ‘There is no need for threats here, young man. Lord Meiros asked me to be guardian of his wife for strong reasons and you must believe that I do have her best interests at heart. Better than you can imagine. And as for our ability to restrict your coming and going …’ He flicked his fingers and a tongue of blue flame flared above his palm. ‘I am not helpless before a battle-mage.’
He’s a mage! And therefore Dareem is too … Alaron sucked in his breath. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Lady Meiros’ nephew.’
Alaron felt his mouth drop open, and saw Ramita’s do the same. They
looked at each other until the little Lakh girl squeaked, ‘How is this possible?’
‘Lord Meiros had a son, Adric, who was murdered a few years ago, prompting his hunt for a new wife – a hunt that led to you, Lady. But when Adric was young he had an affair with a woman whilst on a clandestine mission in Khotriawal, eighty years ago, during Turig’s invasion of Lakh. I was the result. Despite Adric’s formidable powers, my mother died in childbirth, so Adric had me raised me in secret, away from the rest of the Ordo Costruo. I grew up at that very Zain monastery you visited. When I reached adulthood I travelled to Khotriawal, where I attracted attention as a scholar. At my father and Lord Antonin’s urging, I used my skills to gain a posting to the court of the mughal, as tutor to Turig’s sons.’
Alaron puffed out his cheeks. ‘So you’ve been operating as a spy under the nose of the whole court?’
‘Not a spy. I serve peace, as Lord Antonin did. It hasn’t been easy,’ Hanook admitted. ‘It takes much restraint to not use powers that come as easily as breathing – especially when assassins are trying to kill you, as many have.’
‘So you’re a half-blood?’ Alaron asked.
‘Indeed. And Dareem is three-quarter-blooded, thanks to a relationship in my youth with a pure-blood woman of the Ordo Costruo.’
And there was me trying to threaten them. Kore’s Balls! ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘No offence is taken. We are reassured at your loyalty to Lady Ramita.’ Hanook sipped his drink calmly. ‘I’ve been here forty years without being unmasked.’
‘So what is your objective?’
‘To preserve the mughal. My mother, Adric’s secret woman, was a princess of Turig’s harem. The mughal does not know this, but I am also his great-great-uncle by marriage.’
Alaron looked again at Ramita. He badly wanted to take her aside and speak privately; he feared Hanook and Dareem would overhear any attempt at mental communication. ‘Lord Vizier, this is a very difficult situation,’ he started.
