by J. S. Bangs
No. With his thikratta’s training, he thrust his panic aside. Focus the mind.
Fear remained, a burning in his chest and through his veins, but he denied it any place in his consciousness. He had never learned to swim, but he wouldn’t drown flailing like an idiot. He stopped his thrashing and opened his eyes. In one direction, darkness. In the other, rippling shards of sunlight in a halo of brown water.
So go up, he told himself, and he began to kick. Awkward, random strokes—simple presence of mind couldn’t teach him to swim property—but it was enough. The sun brightened. His face broke the surface of the water.
A mouthful of air tasted as sweet as cane syrup. He slipped beneath the water almost immediately, but he kicked wildly and won another breath. Above the surface of the water, the air was a maelstrom of shouting and arrow shots. Where was the raft?
Through water-clouded eyes he spotted it. Two strides away on his left. His head slipped beneath the water again, but he churned his legs and beat against the water with his palms. Another breath. A half a pace closer to the raft.
The head of a javelin split the water a thumb’s width away from Kirshta’s arms. “I told you—” Geshtam began, then the water muddled the last of his words.
Kirshta thrashed his arms and broke the surface again. His eyes cleared the water in time to see Geshtam’s javelin bearing down at him. The point drove into his left shoulder.
He was already half-meditating, or the pain would have crippled him. As it was, he cradled the pain briefly in his mind before casting it off as a bodily annoyance. Pain is nothing. He couldn’t move his injured left arm very well, but with his right he reached up, grabbed the javelin, and pulled himself to the surface.
Another breath, a good breath. For an instant he took in Geshtam, face twisted with fury, and Apurta beside him with his bow drawn. Then his sight was overwhelmed by splashing water and blood, and the screams of soldiers. Geshtam shook the javelin and dislodged the point from Kirshta’s arm, but Kirshta grabbed on to the haft with both hands.
“Apurta!” he shouted. “Help!”
Geshtam growled and thrust Kirshta back beneath the water. For a moment all Kirshta heard was the gurgle of his own breath escaping and muffled splashes from elsewhere in the battle. The haft of the javelin in his hands bent, then shivered with a snap. The water roared, and something large and furious entered it, thrashing the surface and striking Kirshta on the face and chest with its chaotic blows.
Geshtam. Kirshta turned up his heels and kicked against Geshtam’s twisting form, pushing himself toward the surface. His head breached the surface of the river. The barge, now? Barely an arm’s length away. Another furious surge of his limbs and he caught the edge.
Apurta’s hand closed over Kirshta’s wrist. “Up!” he shouted, and heaved Kirshta out of the water. Kirshta added his own strength, feeble as it was, and collapsed forward onto the planking like a dead fish. The Red Men parted to make room for him.
He coughed and spat river water and blew waterlogged mucus from his nostrils. Breathing. It was so easy to breathe, now, and such a relief. The fear in his veins subsided, and he loosed his control a little to feel the extent of the injury to his shoulder. A whimper escaped his lips. He closed his eyes.
The barge scraped against something rough, and for a moment all Kirshta could hear was the creaking of boards, the pounding of feet, and the violent yelling from farther away. One of the lieutenants was shouting orders, but Kirshta did not hear his name, so he ignored them. When he opened his eyes Apurta was crouching next to him, watching him.
“What happened?” Kirshta asked.
“Just now? We got to the pier. Fighting Gauhala-dar’s men.”
“They attacked?”
“I guess.” He looked up toward the wharf, where the sound of shouts and screams indicated some kind of battle. “But I was told to stay with you.”
“And what happened to Geshtam?”
“Ah,” Apurta said. He swallowed and looked away with a nervous grimace. “An arrow. Yes, one of the arrows that Gauhala-dar’s men shot from the shore. It hit his shoulder and he fell in.”
“Oh,” Kirshta said. He squeezed Apurta’s hand. “Thank you. I suppose I owe you a good fortune, now.”
“You said you couldn’t—”
“I can’t,” Kirshta said. “But I owe you.”
The dock thumped, wood scraped against wood, and another thunder of feet poured past their barge. Apurta glanced over his shoulder.
“Chadram’s barge.” He glanced at his bow guiltily.
“It’s fine,” Kirshta whispered to Apurta.
An uneven thumping approached them from the end of the dock. Kirshta struggled up onto his right elbow, letting his left arm dangle uselessly, and watched Chadram approach them on the planks. His left knee was wrapped in a hastily torn cloth bandage, through which blood was already showing, and he hopped along on his right foot supported by two soldiers. When they reached the place where Apurta and Kirshta waited, Chadram stopped and raked them both with a pained glare.
“Blood in the water, and an arrow in my knee,” he said with a snarl.
“We seem to have both of them,” Kirshta said. Had Chadram seen Apurta’s shot?
“We do,” he said with something like resignation. “I was hoping you were wrong. But you stay. And it’ll be a while before we get out of Jaitha, so get someone over here to stitch your shoulder properly.”
“Sir,” Kirshta said. “Are we winning the battle?”
Chadram glanced ahead. “We already won. Gauhala-dar was a fool to attack us. But now we have to clean up the mess.” He cursed and hobbled toward the shouting of the army.
He never even looked at Apurta, Kirshta realized. They were free.
And with that thought the last of his resolve broke, and pain overtook him. He collapsed onto the deck of the barge howling in pain, while Apurta cleaned the wound and waited for someone to come back and help them.
Mandhi
“They’re here!” cried Veshta’s page Habdana. He ran to the courtyard balcony from where he had been watching at an upper window, and with boyish excitement he leaped down the stairs two at a time, dashing past Mandhi and Srithi waiting at the edge of the courtyard pool. “Adjan and Josi are here!”
“He seems excited,” Mandhi said. She rose from the edge of the pool, smoothed the skirts of her sari over the bulge beginning to show in her belly, and walked toward the antechamber where the new guests were coming in.
“Can you blame him?” Srithi said. “He doesn’t see his parents very often, and they dote. His aunt Josi as well.”
The long-awaited visitors were Veshta’s brother Adjan with his wife Dhanmi, and Veshta’s younger sister Josi. Mandhi had not seen them for years, as they lived in Uskhanda at the mouth of the Maudhu river, where Adjan handled the warehouse and port activities for Veshta’s trade in cloth and dyes.
Growing up in the House of the Ruin, Veshta and Adjan had been the older boys, while Mandhi was the youngest girl and sometimes co-conspirator with Josi. She had to treat the boys seriously when the adults could see, but she and Josi annoyed them when they couldn’t. It had been years since she had seen any of them.
But they were all returning to Virnas, all except for Veshta’s youngest brother Kancha, who would remain to see after their business in Uskhanda. They returned with a flood of other Uluriya who poured into the ancient city to live under the leadership of the restored Heir of Manjur. Mandhi had seen more new faces at the sacrifices and consecrations of the Uluriya than she had seen in her whole life previously. Many were the refugees from Jaitha and the north, but just as many were like Veshta’s family, scattered members of the Uluriya diaspora returning to their ancestral city.
The thought filled Mandhi with a shiver of pride. Navran was not everything that she expected from the Heir—though neither was he as much of a loss as she had believed at first—but he was the Heir, and Ulaur’s pentacle was fixed again over the gates of Virnas,
where it had not stood for centuries.
Srithi walked with Mandhi toward the entrance, hugging her baby Gapthi to her hip. “Going to meet them in the antechamber? They’ll need to wash.”
Mandhi was about to say “yes,” but a burst of chatter and shouting cut her off. Out of the doors of the antechamber burst the new arrivals led by Habdana, dripping with the water of their hasty purification.
“Mama!” shouted the little Kidri, emerging from one of the chambers off of the courtyard and streaking across it with a scream. She leaped into the arms of a tall, skinny woman in a green sari, who kissed the girl profusely across the cheeks and forehead.
That would be Dhanmi, Kidri’s mother, Mandhi thought. Habdana the page and Kidri the maid were actually Adjan’s children; Veshta had taken in his niece and nephew some years ago in order for Habdana to learn his uncle’s merchant trade, and for Kidri to learn housekeeping.
Next to the woman stood a man with the Uluriya beard and shaved upper lip, and the same widow’s peak and long nose as Veshta. That was Adjan, Veshta’s brother. He bent to kiss little Kidri on the top of her head, and he received a kiss from his daughter in turn.
The third person to come through the door was a short, slightly plump woman. Her bun was loose, with strands of frizzy hair escaping it in every direction, and her sari was of fine fabric, but haphazardly draped and rumpled even beyond what Mandhi would have expected from the rigors of travel. She had a distracted look about her, paying almost no attention to the rest of the household, but holding Habdana’s hand and tousling his hair lightly. Josi, the youngest of Veshta’s siblings, only a few years older than Mandhi herself.
Mandhi let her gaze linger on Josi and Habdana for a moment, then cast aside the memory they stirred. Now was not the time.
Adjan kissed his daughter Kidri on the cheek, then left her in her mother’s care and advanced across the courtyard toward Mandhi and Srithi.
He shouted ebulliently. “Srithi! The stars upon all of you!” He leaned in to kiss Srithi’s cheek, then reached for Gapthi, squeezing her cheek and kissing her on the head. “And how is my newest niece?”
“The stars on you and your family,” Srithi said grinning. “Gapthi is wonderful. Happy, healthy, and—let the amashi rejoice—sleeping better at night.”
Adjan grinned. He turned to Mandhi and said, “And you, Mandhi. I haven’t seen you since you were a girl. You’re—why, are you expecting a child?”
“I am,” Mandhi said, inclining her head to Adjan and accepting his bow in return.
A grin of delight spread over his face. “I can’t imagine, little Mandhi, the brat who used to pull my hair during the sacrifices. I hadn’t even heard you were married. Where’s your husband?”
“He died,” Mandhi said. Adjan’s face fell. “I’ll tell you about it later, or Srithi will. I’m here to give you the greetings of the Heir of Manjur and welcome you to Virnas.”
She had spent a lot of time saying those words over the last several weeks. Navran had the whole civil service of the city to fill with loyal men, but political tact was not one of his strong points. So Mandhi took up the duty of finding and recruiting suitable men, or vetting those who wished to retain the posts they had held under Thudra. This was the ulterior motive which brought her to Veshta’s estate today—she would invite them to the palace, where she could corner Adjan and convince him to work as Navran’s treasurer.
“So where is Veshta?” Adjan said to Srithi. “Is he too busy to come and see his brother into his house?”
“No!” bellowed a voice from the far end of the courtyard, coming from the inner rooms. Veshta strode in wearing an enormous grin and leading his mother Amashi by the hand. “But unlike you I have to take care of our mother!”
Adjan laughed and met Veshta and Amashi in the middle of the courtyard. He bowed and kissed his mother’s hand, then traded kisses with Veshta, laughing and squeezing his hand.
“And Josi?” Amashi said. “Where’s my daughter?”
“Here, mother,” Josi said, letting go of Habdana’s hand with reluctance and crossing the courtyard.
Amashi took in Josi with a matriarchal sweep of her eyes, and her brows tightened into a disapproving scowl. She asked Adjan, “Have you been taking care of your sister?”
“Yes, mother,” Adjan said, with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “As always, she works with me. She’s a great help, in fact—”
“Help at what?” She glanced from Josi to Adjan with an accusing stab of her eyes.
“She records shipments, does the books—”
“The books!” Amashi said, throwing her hands up in despair. She began to march around the courtyard. “Didn’t I say you were to find her a husband if possible? Do you think you’re going to do that employing her as your accountant?”
“Oh, dear,” Srithi whispered next to Mandhi. She stepped forward and whispered into Josi’s ear, just loud enough for Mandhi to hear, “So she gives it to you, too?”
Josi rolled her eyes and drew Srithi and Mandhi into a conspiratorial circle. Amashi continued her march, yelling while Adjan tried to reason with her.
“You have no idea,” Josi said. “It’s my least favorite part of coming back to Virnas.”
“She made me miserable until Gapthi was born,” Srithi said.
“Even though it was a girl?” Josi said. “She doesn’t want more grandsons?”
Srithi snickered. “Well, she does, but she gets by with constantly saying how I’ll have more.”
Mandhi glanced up to see Adjan and Veshta trying to calm Amashi, who argued across the pool from the girls. Amashi’s voice broke through the din: “She’s only twenty-five. Not quite an old maid, and I’m sure if you’d ask around, there are a few old men—”
Enough of this, Mandhi thought. She had come to recruit for Navran and to see Srithi, and she had no interest in getting caught up in Veshta’s petty family drama. She raised her voice above the argument and said, “Navran-dar would see all of you at the palace tonight.”
There was silence for half a breath. Then Amashi said, “Navran-dar?”
Simultaneously, Veshta said, “Tonight?”
Mandhi dipped her head and gestured deferentially to Veshta and Amashi. “He knew that your guests were coming, and wanted to receive them properly. This is the House of the Ruin, and these are your siblings. Paidacha will be preparing a meal for all of you.”
Srithi inhaled sharply. “Oh, Paidacha’s food,” she murmured.
“Is it good?” Josi asked. Srithi nodded vigorously.
Veshta glanced to Josi, Adjan, and Dhanmi. “Can you be ready by this evening?”
“Yes,” Adjan blurted. “We’d love to. And we certainly won’t turn down an invitation from the Heir.”
“Excellent. I’ll bring him your response. Also,” she said quietly to Josi, “you may stay at the palace if you want.”
“What? Really?” Josi said.
“I live there now, and we could make room for you. If Amashi is too much for you here.”
“Oh, no,” Josi said. “It’s not that bad. She’s my mother after all, and I’m used to it. And perhaps I’ll take some of the heat off Srithi.” Srithi giggled and squeezed Josi’s hand.
“Very well,” Mandhi said. She raised her voice so everyone could hear. “I’ll see you all tonight, then?”
Everyone assented, and after trading kisses with them Mandhi left through the antechamber. Her spirits were high as she crossed through the Uluriya district to the palace. Tonight she could ask Adjan to step in for Thudra’s spineless treasurer, and one more stone of the Heir’s palace would slide into place.
* * *
The dinner, as usual, was savory and flawless. The best side effect of the whole catastrophe with Ruyam was that it had brought Paidacha to Virnas, where Mandhi could eat his food every day. Here, with the resources afforded by the king’s kitchen, he worked miracles. Braised leg of goat with a sauce of melon and raisins was the highlight of the night, along
with a mint and pepper-infused roti that melted on the tongue. The cries of wonder and appreciation from around the table proved that her evaluation was shared.
All of Veshta’s family were there, including the little ones Kidri and Habdana, who sat between their mother Dhanmi and aunt Josi. Sadja dined with them as well, sitting to Navran’s left and chatting amiably with Veshta. But Navran ate in silence, only bothering to greet his guests when they arrived and when directly addressed. He watched the conversation pensively.
He needed to put a little more effort into being amicable. His silent, brooding mien would not help him make allies.
The dishes were cleared, and the servants brought out tea and cane syrup. Navran sipped his tea and stared for a long moment into the depths of the cup, then set it down abruptly.
“Who here understands bookkeeping and finance?” he said, a little too loudly.
There must have been some new disturbance during the day, Mandhi surmised. She had planned on broaching the subject a little more gently, so as not to appear desperate. But perhaps desperation was appropriate.
A glance passed between Adjan and Josi. Josi looked aside, then Adjan spoke hesitantly.
“Both Veshta and I have kept books for our trades, my lord and king. Why do you ask?”
“I need someone,” Navran said. “Soon.”
“Problems with Thudra’s old ministers?” Veshta asked.
“Yes,” Navran said. He looked at Mandhi pointedly, his gaze imploring her to help him explain.
She spoke up. “Only with the one, really. Karanja-kha, the King’s Purse. He seems to run half of the kingdom’s finances out of his head, and never writes anything down—at least not in a form that we can understand.”
“Well, a man who’s good with trade always has more in his head than on paper,” Veshta said, leaning his elbow on the table and waving with his free hand. “If I had to write everything I did down to explain it to someone else, I’d bankrupt myself buying paper.”
“Which is why we can’t just get rid of him,” Mandhi said. “But he’s Thudra’s man, and so far neither of us have been able to get much of an answer out of him for anything.”
