by J. S. Bangs
“Are you sure? After all, you have to pass through the western reach of my kingdom to get to Majasravi. If you were delayed, even a little, it would be disastrous for you.”
“Are you threatening to fight us? To fight the Emperor’s own guard?”
“It’s a funny thing about the Emperor’s guard, though,” Sadja said. “Right now there is no Emperor. Ruyam killed Jandurma-daridarya and took his place, and now Ruyam is dead as well. So who are you loyal to?”
Chadram’s face took on a practiced neutrality. “The Red Men serve the empire and the Emperor, whoever he is.” It was a memorized line, one which the Red Men drilled with since the moment they were conscripted.
“Of course you do,” Sadja said. “Yet you’ve managed to escape the downfall of the thikratta. The Ushpanditya is empty, and who knows who will claim it next? Surely you’d like a friendly hand to come through the Horned Gate.”
Chadram spat a seed onto the ground. “I didn’t advance this far in the Red Men by making agreements with vassal kings far from their seats.”
Sadja pressed the tips of his fingers together and smiled at Chadram. “I’m glad to hear that. Any man who wished to become Emperor would rejoice to know that he had honorable men in his service. At the same time, I won’t always be far from my seat. And who knows whether I’ll always be a vassal.”
Chadram watched him with a dark, hawk-like gaze, showing no hint of emotion other than intense interest. “My loyalty cannot be purchased.”
Oh, an honorable man indeed. Sadja’s desire for Chadram’s alliance increased, becoming a fierce, ambitious lust. The harder it was to subvert Chadram, the better he would serve Sadja when the time came. “I would not attempt to buy your loyalty, Chadram. But let me suggest an exchange in our mutual benefit. Something small and specific.”
Chadram said nothing. He tapped the ground between them, a signal that he was willing to hear an offer.
“Abandon Thudra-dar. Don’t support him in retaking Virnas. Withdraw, and let me handle him.”
“I’d like little more than to leave this whole morass behind.” Chadram’s lips formed a slight smile, but his eyes remained grim and serious. “You don’t ask much of me.”
“And then,” Sadja went on, “Return to Jaitha, cross the river, and take the northern road through Old Rajunda. When you reach the ruins I will resupply you from my own stores. You should be able to reach Majasravi without trouble.”
“And all you want is for me to leave Thudra-dar and his army in your power?”
Sadja shrugged noncommittally. “I imagine that we’ll also remain friends when you reach Majasravi. I’ll be coming there myself shortly after this.”
Chadram’s eyebrow twitched. Sadja was sure that Chadram understood what was being asked: favors to be called in sometime in the future, when the murky fate of Majasravi had begun to clear.
“Thudra-dar is a fool,” Chadram said. “A dangerous enemy and a worse friend. The sooner we can get away from him, the better.”
“Then it sounds like you have little to lose by working with me.”
“Working with you?” Chadram chuckled. “We have no reason to be enemies. That doesn’t make us friends.”
“I don’t expect either of us to make friends that easily.” Sadja put the rind of the pomegranate down and folded his arms.
“Very well,” Chadram said. He rose to his feet. “We march to the north as soon as the camp can be broken. Whatever happens to Thudra and Virnas after that, I want nothing to do with it.”
Sadja rose and smiled at Chadram. “I’ll make sure that Thudra has nothing to do with you. Good evening, and I’ll see you in Majasravi.”
Chadram bowed and turned to rejoin his troops at the far end of the torch-lit walk. Sadja watched Chadram go until his outline was lost in the gloom. He glanced aside at Bhargasa and raised an eyebrow.
Bhargasa spat a chewed betel nut into the darkness. “Does that mean we’ll be going down to Uskhanda and sailing out with the fleet?”
“Not just yet,” Sadja said. “It’s premature to leave Virnas.”
“That was my thought as well.”
“But I’ll be sending a message on the fastest ship. I want to bring Sundasha-kha here.”
“Your nephew?” Bhargasa looked surprised, but a moment later realization dawned on his face. “For the woman?”
Sadja nodded.
“I don’t think that Navran-dar will like that. Nor Mandhi.”
“I don’t care what they want,” Sadja said. “I need to nail down Virnas so that it’s safe for me to return to Davrakhanda. Has anything changed with Thudra-dar’s militia?”
Bhargasa shook his head. “Once the Red Men withdraw, it should be simple for us to surround them. If they surrender, we’ll bring them back to Virnas and present them to Navran-dar. If not….” He tapped the sword hanging at his waist.
“And then I have to think about Majasravi,” Sadja said.
Bhargasa winced. “Majasravi is always dangerous.”
“My gambit here in Virnas was dangerous,” Sadja said, “but it drew Ruyam out of Majasravi and left the Seven-Stepped Throne vacant. There’s no playing this game if you aren’t willing to take on a little danger. Plus, Chadram will get there ahead of me.”
“Chadram? And what do you expect him to do for you?”
Sadja smiled at Bhargasa. “He’ll greet the Prince Imperial for me.”
Bhargasa wrinkled his brow and shook his head. Sadja suppressed a laugh. Bhargasa was an excellent commander, and Sadja never regretted for a heartbeat keeping him in charge of the militia of Davrakhanda, but he didn’t have the mind for conspiracy. Such directness was valuable in a subordinate.
He turned and looked to the west, where the third of the encampments lay. Thudra and the loyal remnant of his militia. Tomorrow he’d surround them, and march them back to Virnas, and give Navran a nice present. It was always a good idea to soften someone with gifts before you betrayed them.
Navran
Mandhi’s hand rested on his shoulder, and her voice tickled his ear. Navran flinched from her touch. Mandhi was the harbinger of pain.
“You have to get up,” she said gently. “The soldiers are almost ready. We’ll be meeting them soon.”
Navran clenched his teeth. The burns on his hands and the bottoms of his feet tingled in anticipation of the agonies to come. The star-iron ring on his finger felt cold and heavy. Excuses burned on the tip of his tongue: I cannot. Let me go. The pain is too much.
But Mandhi would say, as she had said many times before, They need to see you.
And she was right. Especially today.
“I’m ready,” he said. He took a deep breath.
He rolled to the side, off of the mat laid for him in the king’s chamber. His chamber. This was his room, now: soft, stuffed pillows beneath his wounded head, chests of teak filled with silk clothes, bowls of rose-scented water, a low table where he could eat. Now that he had earned them, he couldn’t enjoy any of them. The irony was bitter on his tongue.
He pushed himself to his feet in a single swift motion, as experience had taught him that trying to be gentle only prolonged the pain. Immediately he cried and collapsed forward onto a knee, but Mandhi caught him and pulled him up again.
“You can make it,” she whispered into his ear. “Your burns are healing. You just need to walk. A little farther.”
“I know,” he said. And already, walking and moving were within the realm of bearable. A small gift. Three weeks had passed since the night when Ruyam had fallen. Some muscle and skin had regrown on the soles of his feet, and his hands were no longer blackened claws. They were red with regrown flesh, as sensitive as if they had been flayed. Mandhi kept his hands and feet wrapped in gauze and slathered with honey. And so it was, these weeks later, that it was possible to stand and only weep for a moment at the pain, and for Mandhi to slip a silk slipper over the bandages on his feet, and for him to walk out of the king’s chamber standing straight, as i
f he were barely wounded at all. As if he were truly a king.
Pain is nothing. He ran the mantra that Kirshta had taught him through his mind. The words had become slick and featureless, like the face of a temple idol worn smooth beneath generations of fingers. The mantra didn’t help with the pain anymore. The painlessness and fearlessness of that night with Ruyam had not returned to him, no matter how many mantras he repeated, and he had come to think surviving that ordeal had been a singular gift from Ulaur. An hour of enlightenment granted to him in the direst need, a sign of his election. Perhaps the thikratta could use such mantras to transcend pain at will, but Navran was no thikratta.
A pang of longing for Gocam passed through him. Gocam could teach him to transcend pain. Gocam could also make him a proper king. At this extreme he even missed Kirshta, at least for the chance to play jaha again.
Mandhi’s voice brought his mind to the present. “Are you ready to go out to your throne?”
“Let’s hurry,” Navran said. He touched the star-iron ring again. Manjur’s ring. The metal was cold, and for a moment it seemed to swallow the burning pain.
Already his legs felt weak. There wasn’t far to go. He only had to walk down the hall to reach the courtyard where Thudra’s soldiers would be waiting.
His soldiers. He had to get used to the idea.
A saghada waited outside the chamber, one of the elders in the city. Bhudman, if Navran remembered his name correctly, an elder saghada with a white beard and kindly eyes. He bowed deeply to Navran and said, “Is the Heir of Manjur prepared to meet his subjects?”
Navran was inclined to let Mandhi respond for him, but the man looked directly at Navran for an answer. “I’m prepared,” he croaked.
Mandhi led Navran forward, matching stride with Navran’s mincing, pain-wracked steps. Bhudman fell into step beside them. “As discussed, there is little for you to do today. Sadja-dar will present the captured Thudra to you. The other saghada will be on hand to purify the converted soldiers before they come to you. The only burden you have is light: to received the obeisance of the soldiers, let them kiss Manjur’s ring, and sign them with the pentacle. As I showed you yesterday.”
“I remember,” Navran said. A spasm of pain shook his left foot, and he shouted and pitched forward. Mandhi caught him before he fell.
“A stone on the floor,” she said with irritation. “I should find the maid who sweeps this passage.”
“How much farther?” he asked. He still didn’t know the layout of Thudra’s palace.
“The courtyard with your throne is just around the corner here,” Bhudman said.
Ahead of them, a gauzy curtain hung between two pillars, fluttering in the morning breeze, and letting in spears of light from the courtyard beyond. Very well. Navran could make it that far. He limped to the exit onto the porch and paused as Bhudman pulled aside the curtain.
Light. It blinded him for a moment. He blinked away the pain, then waited for his eyes to take in the scene before him.
His breath caught in his throat.
The door let out onto a raised dais, six feet above the floor of the courtyard, with a throne of pale wood sitting into its center. Before the dais was a legion of soldiers, filling the courtyard wall-to-wall. They were unarmed but bore armour and the short, pleated scarves which were the mark of their rank. Around the walls of the courtyard stood clusters of saghada, khadir, merchants, and bureaucrats.
At the foot of the throne waited Sadja in a fine blue silk kurta, wearing his best expression of regal benevolence. Beside him stood Bhargasa, Sadja’s military commander, with his sword drawn and pointed at the throat of the man kneeling next to him.
Thudra, the old king. He had been stripped of his silks and gold, left with only a simple dirt-stained dhoti, and he knelt before the throne with his hands bound behind his back.
Mandhi pulled Navran toward the throne. Sadja bowed to Navran and stood aside so that Navran could sit. Navran squeezed Mandhi’s hand to cover the pain as he sat on the chair. He gasped at the bolt of agony in his hand.
“Navran-dar, King of Virnas, Heir of Manjur,” Sadja said. “I present to you your captive, Thudra of Virnas. What would you have me do to him?”
Navran shifted nervously in the seat. Thudra’s jaw was locked in a sneer of hatred, but he said nothing. Let him go, Navran wanted to say, but he knew that the urge was foolishness. Mandhi had taught him his lines.
“I spare his life,” he croaked. “Keep him in the dungeon.”
Sadja nodded and gestured to Bhargasa. Bhargasa jerked Thudra to his feet and pulled him away. The old king made no effort to resist, but he craned his head around and watched Navran with a look of loathing as he was marched to the underground cells.
“And now,” Sadja said, “I present to you the militia of Virnas, raised by Thudra but given into your hand.” He took in the courtyard full of soldiers with an expansive wave.
Navran looked over the soldiers, his soldiers.
“So many of them,” he said.
“Of course there are,” Sadja said. “Almost everyone in Thudra’s militia took our offer. Conversion and an oath of fealty were easier to swallow than exile.”
Navran glanced at Bhudman. “Can the saghada take in so many?”
Bhudman gave him an avuncular smile. “Yes, my lord and king.”
“You’ll instruct them all?”
Bhudman gestured to Sadja. “We worked out the arrangement with Sadja, hoping not to burden you. We’ll instruct them in the laws of Ulaur and the customs of the Uluriya as part of their military training, until they’re done.”
Navran rested his head against his hand. “Their families?”
“Most of them will be purified as well, or so they’ve requested. And others besides. We’ve had more requests for purification in the past week than in all of my life before this.”
Navran felt disturbed at the thought of so many converts, clutching at a new religion for a chance to be close to the king. Did the saghada never worry that the loyalty of their converts might be less than total? Perhaps not—only Navran, after all, depended on the converted militia to defend his life and title.
A saghada, one whose name Navran could not remember, stood on the bottom step of the stairs before the dais and began shouting instructions. Two large basins full of water stood next to him with a group of four or five other saghada gathered around them. Navran couldn’t hear what was said. But a moment later, the first man in the first rank came forward, stripped entirely naked, and dropped his clothes into one of the basins. There was much muttering of blessings and drawing of the pentacle across the limbs and chest of the naked man, then the man bowed over the second basin and a ewer full of purified water was poured over him. Then, still naked and dripping wet, he started up the stairs to Navran.
Navran stiffened. Just before the throne the man bowed, touching both knees to the ground. What was he supposed to do? He lifted his hand to bless the man with the pentacle, ignoring the shocks of pain that the motion sent down his side, but with a hiss Mandhi grabbed his forearm.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Wait for the oath.”
Navran dropped his hand in embarrassment. Mandhi’s malice had gone, but not her insistence on correcting his many missteps. The best he could do was lean on her and pretend to know what he was doing. The fruits of his victory: pain and pretending.
Sadja stepped forward. “Warrior of Virnas, do you give your life and breath to preserve the Heir of Manjur?”
“I give my life and my breath,” the man said.
Bhudman asked, “Servant of the Powers, do you bow beneath the sign of Ulaur and abhor the dhaur of the faithless?”
“I abhor the faithless Powers,” the man said.
“Then receive the blessing of the Heir.” Bhudman gestured to Navran.
Navran raised his hand again—he clenched his teeth against the pain—and blessed the man. The soldier rose from his kneeling position, kissed the iron ring on Navran’s right
hand, then exited to the left. One of Sadja’s militia-men was there to give the man the new uniform of Navran’s militia, an undyed dhoti with a white and blue scarf. They were newer and cleaner than the uniforms which Thudra’s militia had worn, and Navran wondered where the money had come from to make them all, and so quickly. But then he remembered that he was a king, and he should act as if he had plenty of money.
Pain and pretending, he thought again. He was not Mandhi’s brother. He had none of the blood of Cauratha and the old Heirs in him. But Manjur’s ring had come to him, and by Uluriya law that made him truly Manjur’s heir, blood or not. So he had to keep pretending.
There was no time to wallow. The second converted soldier was already ascending the stairs.
He blessed the soldiers that came and swore their allegiance to him, barely looking at their faces. Until one passed, a familiar face which he had known even before the siege—
“Dastha,” he said.
The man looked up and smiled in mild embarrassment. “Yes, Navran-dar.”
“Why are you here? You weren’t with Thudra’s militia.”
“But I was, until you tricked—er, persuaded me to break away from the army and help you get back to Virnas.”
Navran stifled a laugh. “Let’s say I recruited you abruptly. But you were with us in the siege.”
Dastha bowed his head. “Nonetheless, I agreed to enter your militia on the same conditions as every other member of Thudra’s old guard.”
A familiar face, and one whose memories of Navran were not tinged with sorrow and regret. A sudden urge struck him, and he said, “Datha. A special commission for you.”
A flicker of worry crossed Dastha’s face. “Yes?”
“Lead my personal guard. Choose ten good men and come to me.” He gestured at Sadja. “We’ll get lodging for you in the palace.”
“Yes, my lord and king!” Dastha said, smiling broadly. He bowed deeply. He hesitated as if unwilling to leave Navran’s side, but then he glanced down at his nakedness and hurried aside to receive his new uniform.
“That was wise,” Sadja said in a tone which might have been genuine approval.
