by J. S. Bangs
“Yes.”
Of course Gocam was awake. He did seem to sleep, sometimes, but he was instantly and completely awake as soon as anybody stirred. He asked, “Why has this man been kind to us?”
“If a poor stranger comes to your door, will you not help him?”
He had never considered that. He had never been rich enough that anyone would ask him for help. “Maybe. But I was going to steal from him. He knows we are Uluriya. We don’t worship his gods, and we barely suffer his food.”
“He had pity on you.”
“I don’t deserve pity.”
“The nature of pity is that it goes to those who do not deserve it.”
“No. Listen. It’s not just food and lodging. The ring of Manjur here on my chest feels like an anchor-stone. I don’t deserve it. And you didn’t give it to me out of pity. Pity would be to let me go.”
“Perhaps pity is not the right word for what you have received. We should call these things gifts.”
“How is that different?”
“A gift is not earned, yet the man who receives a gift is not free to return it.”
“So I’m tied down by these gifts? This is pity? You don’t know—” He cut himself off.
“What don’t I know?”
His words came slowly to his tongue, which felt like clay in his mouth. A long stretch of silence passed. Gocam waited.
“I should tell you the rest of what happened in Majasravi.”
“You should. You stopped speaking for fear of Mandhi.”
“A good reason.”
“But now she sleeps. I promise you.”
He drew a shallow breath. “If she hears, she will never forgive me.”
18
Kirshta had brought the jaha board from Ruyam’s chamber into Navran’s, and they played every morning after Vapathi dressed him, before he got drunk. Navran was surprised to lose. He never lost at jaha—normally when he played for money, those whom he challenged would soon insist that they switch to sacchu, where the dice would wreck him. But his games with Kirshta were long and tense, and he lost as much as he won. If they could play all day, he might not even need to drink.
But alas, Ruyam would call Kirshta and Navran into his chamber in mid-morning, and they would eat, and Navran wouldn’t see Kirshta again until the next day.
Weeks passed in a drunken stupor. He dined with Ruyam every morning, returned to his chamber to find new jars of rice beer, drank up his courage, and then asked for a sack of coins from Vapathi. He had discovered that the Red Men liked to play dice games at the Horned Gate which joined the fortress to the palace. He passed the day drinking, gaming, and carousing with his jailers until their discipline sent them down for sleep. He staggered bleary-eyed back to his chamber. Vapathi washed his face, changed his clothes, and laid him down in bed. The next day he did it again.
Where Vapathi got the coins, he never discovered. He assumed that Ruyam supplied her.
“Today,” Ruyam declared one morning over breakfast, “we are going to the Majavaru Lurchatiya. You will come with me. Don’t be too drunk.”
“Why?”
“Vapathi and Kirshta will bring you,” he said, giving no indication that he had heard Navran’s question. “They can direct you as required.”
A vague unease stirred in his stomach. When he returned to his chamber, the jar of rice beer had been refilled as every day. He dipped his mug in and went to the window. Across the moat he could see the corner of the Majavaru Lurchatiya, its east-most outer temple crouching like a stone turtle beneath the gaze of the Ushpanditya. He heard footsteps enter the chamber behind him.
“Vapathi,” he said.
“Yes, Navran,” she said.
“What are we going to do at the temple?”
She let out a little laugh. “Is this the first you heard of it? The whole Ushpanditya has been preparing for this for days. But I don’t know what you and Ruyam will do.”
For days? Had he been too drunk to notice? But the activity of the Ushpanditya rushed about him, and he had no way to know if it had changed in tone or intensity. “Will Ruyam make offerings to the Powers?”
“He is not a dhorsha. I don’t think he will.”
“Have you been to the temple yourself?”
“Of course.” A note of gentle mockery entered into her voice. “Are you nervous?”
He grunted and cast his eyes down. He pushed away from the window and refilled his mug from the jar of beer. “I have never worshipped in a shrine of Am. I’m Uluriya.”
It was Vapathi’s turn to cast down her eyes in embarrassment. “I have heard the word Uluriya, but I don’t know what it means.”
“It means….” He swallowed the mug of beer and slammed it down on the table. “In my case it means precious little. It means that I don’t know what to do in a temple.”
“Then let me explain,” Vapathi said with a gentle, indulgent tone. “You go into the shrine, where the dhorsha perform the rituals of dhaur for Powers. There are three altars in this shrine, to Am, to Ashti, and to Kushma. I always go to venerate Kushma, but Ruyam will doubtlessly worship at Am’s altar. The dhorsha will sprinkle you with blessed water and smudge your forehead with the ash of the altar. Then you present your offering—”
“I won’t bring an offering.”
“Is that what it means to be Uluriya? Then just watch. Ruyam will bring a ram for an offering, and those of the household will give their dhaur to it. Then the dhorsha will accept it, slaughter it on the altar, and burn it with holy fire so the dhaur of those who worship is given to the Powers. That’s all.”
“I am not supposed to give my dhaur to the ram. That is what it means to be Uluriya.”
“You don’t offer your dhaur?”
“Not to the Powers.”
Vapathi looked thoughtful. “Then how do you make peace with the Powers?”
“The ram’s blood…. I don’t really know.” His grasp of the doctrines of the saghada was weak, and the sacrifice in the Ruin in Virnas was the first time he had been blessed by the ram’s blood in years. But he was forbidden to offer dhaur to the Powers—that much he knew, even if he had little idea what dhaur meant to the dhorsha and the saghada.
“Perhaps you can choose merely to be smudged with the ash of the altar?” Vapathi shrugged. “I won’t be there. You’ll have to figure it out.”
He wasn’t sure whether entering the shrine and accepting the sacred ash on his forehead would taint him for the Uluriya, but he doubted it was worse than his drinking and gambling and everything else he did here in Majasravi.
* * *
The hall that preceded the Rice Gate was full to the brim of Red Men, courtiers, servants, dhorsha, and others whom Navran couldn’t identify. The dhorsha were already ringing bells, chanting, and weaving through the crowd blessing the gathered with incense. The courtiers ignored them once they had received their waft of smoke. Vapathi pushed through towards the front with Navran following after her, until they reached Ruyam and Kirshta standing in a little circle of isolation. To Navran’s shock, a little ram with horn buds sprouting from its head stood between them, bleating and scratching nervously at the stone.
Ruyam smiled when he saw Navran approach. “You are here, and not a moment too late. You’re the last one to assemble.”
“Who are these?” Navran motioned to the rest of the crowd.
“The imperial household. Did you think that the imperial ram offering was going to be a small affair?”
Navran shrugged. It would not be a small affair, obviously, but he was doing his best to put the matter out of mind.
“There is an additional element to today’s offering,” Ruyam went on. “In truth, it’s the only reason I’m going through with this, as I have no need of Am and his dhorsha. But it will be of interest to you. Pay attention.”
Pay attention. A shiver of dread passed through Navran.
At a gesture from Ruyam, a gong sounded and the front doors of the Ushpanditya opened. Befo
re them, a long marble-paved staircase descended from the doors of the Ushpanditya to the Rice Gate, shaded by guard towers manned with archers, with red imperial banners fluttering from ropes between the towers. The Rice Gate itself was an arch of stone with massive bronze-clad doors beneath it, and crossed stalks of rice were emblazoned in high relief upon the bronze. Two lines of Red Men proceeded through the doors before them, then the entire multicolored panoply of silk and servants streamed down the stairs and through the gate. Ruyam rested his hand on the ram’s head, and they walked together. The little sheep’s hooves clopped against the stones; he bleated obliviously. Kirshta nudged Navran forward. He felt as doomed as the ram.
The procession to the Majavaru Lurchatiya wound through the nearer streets of Majasravi, attracting a great many watchers and groups of children running after the solders and shouting. Navran felt uneasy at all of the eyes. Old habits made him nervous in public with soldiers nearby. And his beard was still cut in the Uluriya style, an awkward reminder of his peculiar place in the procession.
The entrance to the temple was a broad stone bridge over one of the sacred tanks. They crossed between two towers capped with gold-hammered emblems of the sun, covered top to bottom with carved images: fish, trees, serpents, tigers, birds, vines, men, maidens, and gods. The outer courtyard of the temple was a vast plaza paved with stone, checkered with pools filled with lotus flowers where worshippers bathed. The procession marched through the outer courtyard and into the inner plaza, which was fenced by the five satellite temples and the empty scar of stone where the sixth temple had once lain. The central temple loomed before them, casting a shadow like a mountain, a multi-colored array of figures winding around its surface to the brilliant pyramidal peak that shone with dazzling gold. The Red Men had cleared out the normal worshippers from the inner plaza, and they waited in the center with a small army of dhorsha.
As the procession approached, Navran caught glimpses of a bound man in the middle of the Red Men. Curious.
When Ruyam and the ram reached the line of Red Men he shouted, “Where is the man?”
They pushed the bound man forward. Navran’s breath caught in his throat. It was a young man, bearded, with his lip shaved. Uluriya.
A dhorsha brought a burning censer and a bowl of water to Ruyam. He sprinkled Ruyam’s head and hands with the water, then handed him the censer. A pair of Red Men bound the ram’s feet together and lifted it to lie on its side on a raised stone platform. Ruyam put his right hand on the ram’s head and waved the censer above it three times, scattering the fragrant smoke in every direction.
“What’s going on?” Navran asked Kirshta.
“Ruyam gives his dhaur to the ram.”
He understood that. He had put his hand on ram offerings to Ulaur at least a few times in his life. “I mean with the Uluriya captive.”
“That is Ruyam’s addition. Watch carefully.”
The captive’s hands were unbound, and the Red Men pushed him towards the ram. The dhorsha sprinkled the man with water, and he flinched as if it scalded. The dhorsha extended the censer to him, the smoke curling towards the man like serpents. He shook his head.
“Tell him he must,” Ruyam said.
The Red Men prodded him with the butts of their spears. The man folded his arms and stood resolute. Navran’s heart began to beat loudly in his chest.
“One more chance,” Ruyam said quietly.
The dhorsha presented the man with the censer the third time. He shook his head again. “I am a worshipper of Ulaur,” he said. “I do not offer my dhaur to the faithless Powers.”
“Very well,” Ruyam said. “Then let Ulaur have him.”
The Red Men seized the man by the arms and yanked him backwards. Navran’s gut twisted. The man squirmed and kicked and screamed.
Ruyam spoke in a soft imperious voice, not a shout, but a whisper that hissed in Navran’s ears and seemed to vibrate in the stones under his feet. “I name you guilty of sedition against the empire, contempt of the Lord Am, and the worship of an unlawful god. Your dhaur is death, and you would not give it to the ram. Therefore let it remain with you.”
He flicked his hand towards the Red Men. Ulaur, have mercy. Bile bubbled up Navran’s throat. The Red Men wrestled the victim to the ground and pinned his arms behind his back. The man shouted incoherently. One of the Red Men knelt and pressed a bronze knife against the man’s neck.
With a single swift motion, they sliced the man’s throat open.
A spasm of nausea passed through Navran, followed by a grotesque cold, spreading out from his chest until his fingertips tingled. Just like butchering a sheep. That same swift cut, merciless, indifferent. The guardsman who had done the deed stepped away quickly to avoid getting blood on his sandals and accepted a rag from one of his comrades to wipe down the blade and the splatter of blood across his chest. The body spasmed once and was still.
Stars, he was just a kid. Younger than Navran himself.
The sounds all around him seemed muted and distant, as if his ears were full of cotton. His heart thundered in his chest like a monsoon storm. Then the ram next to Ruyam bleated and kicked against its bindings, and all at once the sound returned and the temple plaza was full of movement. Navran looked around, disoriented. They were moving, they were all moving. Kirshta pulled at his hand.
“Come, Navran. Come.”
The Red Men formed a little cordon around their victim so no one would step in his blood. The imperial procession surged around them like a stone, follow Ruyam and the ram to the porch of the Great Temple itself. There was chanting and mantras, the dhorsha repeating a song as they gathered around the innocent, clueless ram: Blessed be Bhida, Lord of the ritual order. The censer moved from hand to hand as the dhorsha passed next to the ram and put their hand upon it, choking the air with incense. Blessed be Bhida, who sacrifices and is sacrificed, for Lord Am and for Ashti. Kirshta somehow was still holding Navran’s hand. They pressed forward with the rest of the imperial party, forming some kind of queue. Blessed be Bhida, whose death renews the cosmos and whose mantras are the orbits of the stars, for Lord Am and for Ashti.
And then the censer was in Kirshta left hand, and he put his right hand onto the ram’s head and censed it with three large circular motions. The cold in Navran’s chest expanded and choked out his breath. Kirshta passed the censer into Navran’s hand.
He looked up. Ruyam stood a pace away, surrounded by the dhorsha, watching Navran with a thin, paternal smile. His eyes were like chips of charcoal, black with fire in their hearts. Blood hammered in Navran’s ears. The hand that held the censer was shaking. He glanced to where the Red Men were gathering up the body of their prisoner, then again at Ruyam. That same smile, mirthless and cruel.
He put his right hand, twitching, quivering, onto the ram’s head. Was he supposed to say something? His tongue refused to move in any case. Raise the left hand. Three big circles with the censer. One. Two. Three. And the deed was done.
He nearly dropped the censer as he passed it to the woman behind him. Then he stumbled forward chasing Kirshta’s dhoti. His shuddering conscience shouted away, away. But there was no away. He had lost his last chance at flight.
Kirshta stood next to Ruyam, and Navran next to Kirshta. When Navran arrived, Ruyam moved over to stand behind him. He rested his hand on Navran’s shoulder, as cold and heavy as a manacle.
19
Ghatmi was a real town, which made for a change of pace after the weeks trudging through the hamlets in the toes of the mountains. There was a market square, surrounded by a honeycomb of warehouses holding cotton, dyes, rice, and wool, a temple whose painted stone spires glowered over the mud-brick houses crowding around it, and a three-story estate at the far side of the village which housed the majakhadir. Its entrance hall was a modest, dimly-lit room that smelled of rosewater and wet wool. Mandhi asked the little girl who met them there to bring the khadir, and a moment later a short, fat man with a slick mustache appeared. He glanced disdainfull
y at the seals they had brought from Sujaur.
“You’ve brought these from Daijasthi? What in the world made you go that far west?”
“We were running, Padna-kha,” Mandhi said.
“And if you ran that far, why did you come back?”
“We have to return to Jaitha eventually,” she said with a demure blush. “But we had to escape from the debt slavers first.”
“Debt slavers!” Padna made a noise of disgust and threw the seal onto the rug, where Gocam knelt to pick it up. “The last thing I need running through here. I just got rid of the Red Men.”
“The Red Men were here?” Navran broke in. Mandhi hissed for him to be quiet. Padna seemed not to notice.
“They were, like a thorn in a lamb’s hoof. Fortunately, they left two days ago.”
“Where did they march to?” Navran asked.
Padna waved vaguely to the southeast. “Off to Jaitha. If you hurry, you might catch up with them—walking behind a company of Red Men would be safer than much else on the road.”
Mandhi gave Navran a look which suggested that she would murder him if he said another word. Then she turned to Padna and asked, “We are very poor, as Sujaur-kha mentioned. We beg for your mercy, my lord, just as Sujaur-kha gave us.”
“Thikram’s blessing,” Padna said, though without the least hint of piety in his voice. “I have a room which you can use for the night. You’re going back to Jaitha?”
“Yes.”
“I can give you roti which will last you most of the way there.”
“Padna-kha, you impress us with your hospitality.”
“Thikram’s blessing,” he said again. “Chaludi! Come and help these three into the guest room.” The little girl who had met them when they entered reappeared and approached Mandhi with her hands held timidly behind her back.
“You really should try to catch up with the Red Men,” Padna said as they left. “Much safer on the roads that way. I’m surprised you haven’t run into bandits already.”
