by David Hair
And they will be handsome too, like Jai – and like the statues of my husband when he was young.
She smiled at these thoughts and tried not to think about the other thing hanging over her life like a shadow: possible marriage to the mughal. It seemed ridiculous to even contemplate such a union: she was just a market-girl, after all! But she was also this other thing: Lady Meiros, a mage of unmeasured strength. What might her children be? Could she and the mughal establish a dynasty that enriched the realm? It was a powerful thought, that her offspring could mean so much to so many. But it was demeaning too, to be regarded as nothing more than a particularly fruitful womb.
But when have women been anything other than that? Even my father, who loved me, sold me to a man for the best price he could get. And am I not supposed to find a way to end these wars? Will selling myself into another marriage truly aid that?
She felt her contentment curdle as other doubts surfaced, like what would happen to her sons should the mughal wish to take her to wife? Would he adopt them, or would they need to be hidden away?
No. I refuse to believe that. The mughal will take me to wife and adopt my children as his own. We will pretend they are his. My family will come here, and we will live happily for ever after. That is how it will be.
She finished feeding Das and after playing with the twins for a while to tire them, she put them into their cots. Then she had to focus on the next task, a secret assignation she could not miss. She pulled on the drab and dirty clothing they had given her to wear and went down to the foyer. Today she would finally be allowed outside, to observe the mughal.
Dareem was waiting for her, as always, faultlessly patient and polite, but she could not shake the feeling that he saw her as nothing but a game piece. His clothing was as rough as hers, but he still looked like a lord to her.
‘Lady Meiros, are you ready?’
‘I think so,’ she murmured uncertainly.
‘No one will know you out there. I’m the one who risks attention.’ He smiled in that self-satisfied way he had, then his face rippled into another, coarser visage. ‘It is the day of open court today, when the mughal publically hears plaintiffs before whoever can squeeze into the courtyard.’
Her first steps into the open air and sunshine were dizzying, but then she had to concentrate on the crowds, ebbing and flowing through the tangled streets, the stench and perfume of humanity and beasts flowing together into a fug that hung in the steaming air. Camels and donkeys hauled carts through the choked arteries of the city, all ludicrously overburdened with goods. Men and women with baskets on their heads pushed and shoved, their faces set and grim. Tiny shops presided over by family owners filled every conceivable cranny, clamouring to the passersby to stop and look. Looking is free! She’d used the phrase herself in Aruna Nagar.
Dareem looked at ease despite the deafening press; he was pushing as hard as he was pushed and swearing like a street-denizen, while Ramita kept her head down and followed him like the dutiful daughter she was pretending to be. Finally they came up against a cordon of soldiers and gaudily clad officials who had blocked off half the square before the massive crystal-domed palace.
Dareem pulled out a clay disc and showed it to the officials, whilst slipping one a handful of copper coins, and they were waved through.
The vizier’s son leaned and spoke in her ear. ‘If anyone asks, we are kin of a plaintiff,’ he reminded her. As they found a space for themselves, Ramita noticed that beyond another cordon there were some men in very fine apparel, with thick sheaves of paper and haughty airs, who all seemed to know each other. ‘Avukati,’ Dareem told her. ‘Experts on the law. If you want to gain a favourable outcome, it is best to hire one – though they’ll charge you nigh as much as you might gain from a successful plea.’
Ramita had heard her father make the same comment many times; in trade one occasionally needed to take a case against a cheating rival. But her attention was fixed on the awning-covered raised plinth at the end of the square, next to the gates to the palace. She struggled to get a view as trumpets blared and marching feet echoed all about. Everyone around her was much taller, but she caught glimpses as the mughal himself mounted the dais, flanked by a cloud of soldiers and his advisors. Apart from Vizier Hanook, all the other advisors were Godspeakers, robed in white with bushy beards and stern faces. Dareem pointed out the chief one. ‘That is Vahraz, my father’s greatest rival.’
The whole crowd bowed thrice for their ruler, who then raised a hand for silence and declared court open in a thin but carrying voice. Everyone before the dais sat on the ground, which at least meant that her view was clear. It was a routine morning, according to Dareem, starting with a string of disputes from the lower courts where the decision had been appealed. Ramita quickly saw a pattern emerging: the man with the best-dressed avukati invariably won, and that told her that the mughal’s court was a kind of market: money spoke. Some cases were vigorously debated, but most had a perfunctory air. The better dressed avukati spoke well, the poorer dressed ones with desperation or resignation. Hanook occasionally whispered in the mughal’s ear, but just as often it was Vahraz who gave advice.
Most of the time her eyes remained fixed on the young ruler. Tariq Srinarayan Kishan-ji was almost fifteen, two years younger than her, and had a plump face, a small mouth and pale, creamy skin. He wore a crowned turban that looked heavy and uncomfortable, and his long black hair, oiled and curling, fell about his shoulder. He had the beginnings of a paunch already, and narrow, watchful eyes. His every word was hung on, but he said little beyond giving his decision with a wave of the hand towards either a white or red banner – white for innocent, red for guilty. She thought he was nervous of the powerful men who flanked him and sought to hide it with a puffed-up manner.
‘Has your father spoken of me to his Majesty?’ she whispered to Dareem.
‘He has. The story Father used is that you are in hiding, seeking sanctuary in Teshwallabad,’ Dareem replied softly. ‘He is nervous that a Lakh mage-woman is loose in the world, and worried that a southern rival might accept you if he does not. He is also – quite rightly – frightened of the unrest that marrying a mage would provoke.’
She listened to this with mixed feelings. Though the haven the mughal represented was desirable, she did not think after seeing him in the flesh that marriage to him was something she would enjoy. He was a raja and she was from the market. He would see her as a lesser being, no matter who her first husband had been.
Dareem read her easily. ‘You are not pleased, Lady. You think him someone from another world to you entirely. You are having doubts.’
She nodded hesitantly.
‘You need to understand that Tariq has been given whatever he wanted from birth, but he also has had to deal with the threat of having all of it snatched away at any moment. The court has been one of intrigue from the beginning. There are spies here from Kesh and Khotri and all the kingdoms of Southern Lakh. There are different sects of the Amteh seeking pre-eminence. There are plots everywhere. And Father and I are not the only secret magi here.’
Ramita blinked fearfully. ‘Really?’
‘Salim of Kesh has planted low-blooded magi here too, using similar tactics to our own. I myself have eliminated two in the past four years. There are Hadishah here too, aiding the cause of the shihadis. This is a house of knives, Lady Meiros: a multi-sided concealed conflict that every so often turns bloody.’
‘You are not a good negotiator, Dareem of Teshwallabad. You are not selling this venture to me.’
‘We would not send you into this blind, Lady Meiros. I seek only to inform your choices. But know this: Tariq does not beat his wives, though he does have favourites, those who use their looks and feminine arts to influence him. He enjoys the pleasures of life far more than either Father or the Godspeakers think proper.’
‘Does he have brothers?’
‘Not any more,’ Dareem replied grimly. ‘His elder brothers fell under the sway of a shih
adi fanatic and attempted to seize power from their father while Tariq was still a child. They failed, and paid the price.’
‘Who is his heir?’
‘One of his two newborn sons,’ Dareem responded, ‘born one each to his favoured wives. There are also two daughters.’
‘He’s been busy,’ she noted drily. Fourteen and he’s sired four children! Darikha-ji, what kind of life is this?
‘Traditionally, attrition is high in royal households,’ Dareem replied. ‘Plenty of heirs are required to secure the succession. So long as the throne keeps a tight grip on its powerbases, the stability of the realm is enhanced. A palace coup seldom touches the people.’
‘The rajas of Baranasi were always knifing each other,’ Ramita agreed. ‘We barely noticed.’ She pursed her lips, thinking hard. ‘Given that he is young and his heirs younger, who would rule if he died?’
‘A good question. Technically, a Regency Council chaired by Father would preside. That is what happened when Tariq’s father died, leaving him as mughal-elect. Vahraz claimed that Father would seek to seize power, but he proved the Godspeaker wrong by handing the throne to Tariq when he came of age at twelve years old.’
‘How old are his wives?’
‘The eldest is twenty-two, the youngest is eleven. They are political alliances, mostly. Many are Lakh and Omali by birth. But his favoured wives are Khotri princesses. And all his wives must convert to the Amteh,’ he added.
Ramita put a hand to her heart. No … I could not …
Their conversation was suddenly disturbed by a loud wail from a woman from a place near the stage. Everyone craned their necks and everyone around them stood. Dareem took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Lady, this is now the time for clemency appeals, on behalf of those condemned to die.’
‘What will happen?’
‘A final plea is made before the people. Those who have been condemned and await sentence are brought forth, and the mughal may give a pardon, or lessen their sentence if he finds cause.’
‘And if not?’
Dareem made a chopping motion with his hand. ‘Death. Usually at sunset.’
Ramita looked at the plinth. Mughal Tariq was leaning forward, licking his lips, his stance subtly eager. He was leaning slightly to one side, towards his right, where Vahraz and his Godspeakers stood. All afternoon he had leaned more towards his left, towards Hanook. She realised that this was the part of the afternoon the young man had been waiting for.
‘Does he ever give clemency?’
‘In some cases,’ Dareem said carefully. ‘Lady, a ruler must be feared as well as loved. He must never be seen as indecisive or weak. That is why these open sessions are held, so the ruler’s hand is visible to his people.’
‘I understand,’ Ramita replied. She did, too. In the market, people had to understand that you weren’t a soft touch. But her sons would be waking soon. ‘I don’t need to see this. May we go?’
Dareem looked reluctant to leave, but he took her arm and steered her through the crowd and back past the cordon and into the masses beyond who were all pressing forward, no doubt eager to see blood at sunset. It was a struggle to break through into the quieter backstreets.
‘A queen does not need to see the workings of the court, Lady. The wives are confined to the zenana from marriage until death. Only if the mughal goes on a processional are favoured wives permitted to travel.’
The same four walls until death, locked behind them in a permanent war with the other wives. I would be nothing but a pampered broodmare – is this what I want? Is it truly what my husband intended, after going to such lengths to make me into a mage? Is this my duty now?
She had always been a dutiful daughter. Though I was not a faithful wife. She felt tears brimming behind her eyes at the thought of the life laid out before her.
‘My Lady?’
She straightened, met his eye. ‘Sorry. I am ready to go on now.’
‘We will look after you, Lady,’ Dareem said, understanding in his eyes.
By which you mean that you will install me in that boy’s harem and reap what benefits you can.
*
An old Lakh scholar with a hacking cough tugged at the stack of scrolls, making the whole bank of shelves rattle alarmingly. Alaron considered using telekinetic-gnosis to ensure it stayed upright, then decided the shelves had probably survived such treatment for centuries and went back to his transcribing. Hanook’s library was cool, but not damp – the vizier had gone to considerable lengths to ventilate the long room with dry air. The scrolls contained centuries of mostly Lakh writing; they were completely undecipherable to Alaron, but the Hanook had added to the library during his own tenure, and that included texts from Yuros. It was one of those that Alaron was copying now with increasing excitement.
The sheath of parchment he’d found stacked in a pile labelled ‘Yuros’ was old, but not ancient: a copy of an original document given by Antonin Meiros himself to Hanook forty years ago, during one of the vizier’s clandestine visits to Hebusalim. Hanook himself had told Alaron about it when he had first asked to do some research; the vizier had appeared to be mildly unsettled by the request, and Alaron wondered if he had said the wrong thing.
‘No – it is just something that Antonin Meiros said when he gave me these papers: he told me that researchers might come here, and that I should be sure of them before I allowed them access.’ Then Hanook had looked at Alaron intensely. ‘My father and my uncle kept me as a family secret all my years. Even my Aunt Justina didn’t know of me. They did not trust even their own people in the Ordo Costruo with the knowledge of my existence. This was in part because Antonin had declared that no magi should operate in Lakh and I was a violation of his own edict.’
Alaron shifted uncomfortably at this. Ramita worshipped her dead husband and it didn’t sit well that the old mage might have been a hypocrite in certain matters.
This must have showed on his face, because Hanook had gone on, ‘The very fact that Adric Meiros came to Khotriawal tells you that the Ordo Costruo took a keen interest in matters beyond Hebusalim. My father told me that even then they were becoming aware that other groups with the gnosis were abroad in the lands, trying to win status in kingdoms all over Ahmedhassa. Most were weak, low-blooded, but from time to time they came across powerful magi – sometimes renegades of his own order, but also Souldrinkers, the so-called Rejects of Kore. I myself have faced these beings at times, trying to inveigle their way into court. We kill them, or expose them to the Godspeakers anonymously and let them deal with them. So Antonin Meiros’ vigilance in this matter was right and necessary.’
For a fleeting moment Alaron feared that Hanook took him for such a thing, but the old vizier had fixed him in the eye and asked, ‘Do I need to know what it is you study, young man?’
‘Sir,’ he’d replied, ‘if you are at all unsure of me, I withdraw my request.’
Hanook had studied him silently for a few seconds, then said slowly, ‘I have gone over these papers many times and found nothing but matters of scholarly interest. They are mostly botanic in nature. Antonin Meiros was a Sylvanic mage of great skill, as you may be aware. Is that your interest?’
Alaron had shrugged, though his heart was pounding a little faster. Botany might have been the dullest topic of them all at college, but it was possibly also the key to unravelling the remainder of the Scytale’s mysteries. ‘I’m just looking for something to do,’ he’d said as nonchalantly as he could.
Apparently spending his Arcanum years alongside Ramon Sensini had turned him into a proficient liar, because the vizier had given permission.
And he had found the exact text he needed.
The title inscribed on the scroll-case was perfectly innocuous: Herbal Compounds and Associated Materials. Inside were sheaths of notes in a spidery hand that Alaron recognised as Meiros’ own. He didn’t understand the words, except for a sentence at the top: Final compound variants, from memory. It was dated 1183LCii, which mean
t nothing to him. The characters beneath it were foreign to him, line upon line written in an alphabet he didn’t know, but as he stared, he realised it did look vaguely familiar. He almost put it aside, but something made him leaf through the next few pages. And he stared.
From the third page on, a list of symbols were placed in a column on the left, with adjacent blocks of text, still in the unknown script, but what made him stop and start quivering in excitement was that he recognised those symbols: They were the exact symbols he’d been staring at for months, inscribed on the inner cylinder of the Scytale.
He’d almost shouted aloud, but at the last minute he’d managed to turn his whoop of joy into a coughing fit like those of the old scholar at the next table. The old man said something conciliatory in Lakh. ‘Yeah, the dust,’ Alaron replied, trying to stop his hand from trembling.
Now he was copying out the scrolls words for word, as exactly as he could. He might not know the symbols of the alphabet Meiros used, but this was a language, and languages could be translated – how or when or where, he had no idea, but he’d find out.
It was the same thrill he’d felt when he, Ramon and Cym had unravelled the trail of clues that led to the Scytale in the first place. He found himself missing them both hugely, and hoping that somehow they were both alive and well.
He finished writing and waved the copies about to thoroughly dry the ink, while wondering if he really did now hold the secret of the Scytale; that he had the ingredients to the ambrosia that turned men into magi. It seemed unbelievable – but then, so had finding the Scytale in the first place. He carefully rolled his copies up, found another unused scroll case and slid them in. I’ll conceal this with the Scytale …
