by J. S. Bangs
“Still,” Nagiri said, “that doesn’t tell us how we can prick the king.”
“We’ll start by getting the word to Navran-dar in Virnas.”
“That’s not much of a prick,” Nagiri said angrily.
Aryaji re-entered with a tray bearing a steaming pot of tea and two porcelain cups. She set the tray down between them and poured both cups, placing them into the women’s hands.
“Aryaji,” Mandhi said, “do you remember when Sadja-dar congratulated you and your uncle Nakhur on your betrothal?”
Aryaji’s eyes grew wide, and she looked down in shame. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“Betrothed?” Nagiri said. She looked skeptically at Aryaji’s skinny, girlish form.
“For a wedding in a few years,” Mandhi said, “not that it matters, because the whole thing was fake.”
“Are you always this roundabout?” Nagiri said. She stirred her tea with a drop of cane sugar.
Mandhi sipped her tea and gave Nagiri a honeyed smile. “I mentioned Aryaji’s betrothal in a letter to Navran-dar, which Aryaji carried out of the palace for me. Sadja-dar mentioned it a few days later, saying he had heard from his Uluriya contacts. Which he hadn’t, because it’s not true. He got it from my letter to Navran-dar, and I’m not sure whether my letter ever reached Virnas.”
Nagiri nodded. “Your maid is being watched.”
“At least. You, however—”
Nagiri folded her arms over her stomach and leaned back against the wall. “I see.”
“The regent Ashturma-kha… what is your relationship with him?”
“I don’t sleep with him, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Nagiri said. Her lips curled in disgust.
That was half of her question, but not all of it. Mandhi shook her head. “Does he trust you? You still come to the palace—”
“My father is still in the court every day. Of course I come to the palace.”
“All the better. But could you post a message to Virnas without being intercepted?”
Nagiri took a long, slow sip of her tea. “Probably,” she said. “Ashturma-kha would have orders to watch you, but he’ll leave me alone.”
“And Sadja-dar would be very disappointed if Navran-dar were warned of what Sadja plans.”
There was disappointment in Nagiri’s tone when she answered. “I’d prefer something more public.”
“Alas,” Mandhi said, “I don’t know what I could do that would be sufficiently public. That’s not my area of expertise.”
“Right,” Nagiri said, “so I’m not sure I should—”
“But you could take it as a favor to be paid back in the future.”
Nagiri pursed her lips. “Maybe….”
“I am a close connection to the King of Virnas. That’s not nothing.”
She was interrupted by a quiet squawk from the blankets next to the bed. A few whimpers from the baby, then a full-throated wail. Aryaji scrambled to the boy’s place, plucked him out of the blankets, and set him into Mandhi’s arms.
He was still so small and light. He felt like a bird in her hands, fragile and squirming. And screaming. She lifted the loose-fitting nursing choli and nestled the boy against her stomach, where he latched on to her nipple ferociously. She bit her tongue for a moment against the pain.
Nagiri watch with mild interest. “Has Sadja not provided you with a nurse-maid?”
“We Uluriya women nurse our own children,” Mandhi said quietly. “Aryaji, bring the writing tools to Nagiri.”
“To me?”
“Yes. A letter in your handwriting to the king of Virnas. You can carry it out and have it delivered.”
“And I’m supposed to help you,” Nagiri said, “simply because Sadja wouldn’t like it.”
“Yes,” Mandhi said. “And when the time comes, I’ll help you as well.”
Nagiri accepted the table, papers, and stylus from Aryaji. She sighed heavily. “It’s better than moping around the palace halls, I guess. We start by talking about your baby. This is the Uluriya Heir?”
Mandhi smiled and looked down at the boy nursing eagerly. “Yes. The Heir of Manjur.”
Nagiri made a disinterested grunt. “Name?”
“He doesn’t receive a name until the second new moon after his birth… but I’ll call him Jhumitu.”
“Jhumitu,” Nagiri said, scribbling quickly. Then she smiled. “Now, let’s get on to Sadja-dar and see how complicated I can make things for him.”
Navran
Navran had cast every person except Dastha out of the throne room. He paced from wall to wall, pausing when he neared the windows that overlooked the garden and the crowd of men pressing through the garden to the treasure house. The men that had been his army.
They had sworn allegiance to him and submitted to the law of Uluriya for his kingship. And Vaija was at the treasure house, preparing to give them a third of what they were owed.
“Are you worried?” Dastha asked after Navran completed another agitated circuit. He gestured out the window with a jerk of his head.
Navran shook his head. “Ashamed.” He picked at the white mourner’s clothes that he wore and would continue to wear through the next six new moons. “Dastha, have I done anything right since Mandhi left? I brought my mother here to die. And now this.”
“You had no way of knowing your mother would die,” Dastha said. “As for the soldiers, you didn’t make false promises. Thudra did.”
Navran gave Dastha a scornful glare. “Do they care?” He resumed pacing. “I worked for men who shorted my pay.”
“Did they have reasons as good as yours?”
“Yes.” Navran paused. Someone in the garden was yelling, though the noise barely reached him through the window. He sighed.
“Better that my mother didn’t see this,” he said. “I remember when Haditya-kha hired men to help bring in the rice. Harvest was bad. Paid us half what he promised. Good reason, right? But I needed the whole payment to pay off my creditors. Debt slavers took me.”
Dastha met Navran’s gaze for a moment, then lowered his eyes, abashed. Navran looked back out the window. The disturbance which had begun a moment ago seemed to have grown. Men up and down the line were shouting and gesturing angrily. News of the short payment was spreading. The noise reached Navran as an indiscriminate roar, like the buzzing of a beehive. One or two men broke out of the line and stepped toward the palace, waving and gesturing wildly. There was a moment of hesitation and chaos, as the mass of men shifted subtly, then they broke into a run toward the palace.
“Oh, no,” Navran said.
One of the palace guards burst into the throne room. He threw himself to his knees and said, “Navran-dar, I beg you, follow me to your chamber immediately. The militia are rioting. There are too many, and we can’t stop them.”
“Wait—,” Navran began.
Dastha did not wait.
He grabbed Navran’s arm and dragged him through the curtained doorway of the throne room, sending shocks of pain up the healing burns on his arms. Navran’s chamber was a few yards farther down the hall. In half a breath Dastha hurried Navran through the door and laid him onto the bed. He slammed the solid wooden door shut and wedged his shoulder against it.
“I said wait,” Navran said. “Sundasha-kha—”
“I’ll send someone to bring him—”
“—and Thudra.”
At the mention of Thudra, Dastha’s eyes grew narrow.
“I promised him he wouldn’t be hurt,” Navran said.
“Hurt?” Dastha said. “I’m more worried about him being released, with an army of rioting men at his disposal.”
“Either way.”
Dastha opened the door a crack. Several of the palace guards had gathered outside it. Beyond them, Navran could hear shouting, and the clatter of tables being overturned. If the unpaid men were looking for silver, they wouldn’t find much of it. But silks, carpets, tapestries, furniture…. There was enough to loot even in a poor king�
�s castle.
Dastha shouted messages to the gathered guards. Several of them peeled away. Long, heavy moments passed. Navran rose to his feet and paced. Sounds outside the door. Someone pounded, shouted a password to Dastha. Sundasha tumbled through first, looking somewhat exhilarated, as if this were a grand adventure. On his heels came Thudra’s two terrified daughters, the eldest son, then Sarmadi and Thudra himself.
Thudra was red-faced. As soon as he came through the door he turned to Navran and hissed, spittle flying from his mouth, “What is this injurious nonsense?”
“We’re keeping you safe,” Navran said.
“Safe? Safe?” Thudra said. “There are shirtless peasants running through my palace, tearing at the fixtures on the walls and ruining the treasures. But what should I expect when we let peasants sit on the throne? Better you put me back outside.”
“And your children?” Navran said. “Leave your daughters outside for the shirtless peasants?”
“You!” Thudra roared at him, his face engorged with fury. “Are your men even trying to put down this revolt, or has your cowardice infected all of them?”
“Not enough of them.” Navran said.
“Not enough of *them,“* Thudra said. He kicked at the rug beneath his feet and paced from one wall to the other like a caged tiger. His wife and daughters had shrunk into the farthest corner of the room, where they watched their father nervously. Thudra turned back to Navran.”You call yourself the king of Virnas. You say you don’t have enough men, but you yourself ought to be worth a hundred."
“There’s more than a hundred rioters,” Navran observed.
“And you quibble with me!”
“You made the promise,” Navran said. Shame burned on his tongue, but he attempted to tuck his elbows into his sides and raise his palms. The Nectar posture, Mandhi had called it. It meant that he was in control, and Thudra existed at his grace. “How were you planning on paying them?”
Thudra took in Navran’s forced, awkward position and shook his head. “I had the money. Karanja-kha didn’t steal from me.”
“He stole from me. You helped him.”
Thudra threw his hands into the air. “And now what? How will you restore order? Wait for the rioters to sate themselves and leave?”
Navran didn’t answer. Waiting for them to leave was precisely what he had planned, because he had no other recourse.
“The mighty Navran-dar, Heir of Manjur. Where is your kingdom? This room with eight people in it? This is the extent of your kingly authority? If a real king ruled Virnas, this would not have happened.”
It burned like the truth. Navran dropped his palms to his sides and looked from Thudra to Dastha. Always more debts, and always he was unable to pay them. Had he once imagined that a king was a carefree man? His fingers wandered to the iron ring on his right hand. He twisted it and thought.
There was one thing he had never done as a debtor, which he might do now.
“Dastha,” he said. “Follow me. You two as well,” he said to the palace guards at the door. “The rest of you watch the door.”
“What are we doing?” Dastha asked.
“I am your king. Obey me.”
After a half-moment of hesitation, the men opened the barred door and let Navran into the palace. He charged out the door as quickly as his limp would allow him, letting Dastha and the others follow. When Navran heard the door shut, he said to Dastha, “Today you are a herald. We go through the palace. Say that I am their king. I will pay them. Make them believe it.”
Dastha’s expression was grave, but to Navran’s relief he took no time to question the order. He breathed deeply and fixed a grim, serious expression on his face. He bowed, moved to the front of their formation, and shouted. “Navran-dar of Virnas is your king! He will pay every man what he is owed.”
The men moved forward a few steps, Navran hobbling in their center, and Dastha repeated the message. There was a ruckus in some of the side rooms, and a few unpaid soldiers appeared in the doorway. They watched Navran and the palace guard pass then crept timidly from their places and followed. As Navran and Dastha continued to march, more rioters emerged, mingled with servants and housemaids who had hidden in their rooms. A quiet fell in Navran’s wake.
And it worked. Silks were torn and curtains ruined throughout the palace, but Navran did not pause to look at them. Nor did the palace guards make any attempt to suppress the rioters that they passed. Yet on their second circuit through the palace they found almost no one still looting. Dastha turned to Navran.
“Enough?”
“Tell them to meet in the courtyard.” A heavy mixture of relief and dread settled over Navran.
“Yes,” Dastha said.
The courtyard was filled with former soldiers. All semblance of military discipline was lost, and they lay about the corners of the courtyard in untidy groups, gossip and grumbling rising up from them like the grinding of a mill. Some of them had silver implements or silks in their fists. But when Navran stepped onto the dais which held the throne, a quiet fell over the yard. All eyes looked on him.
His pulse thundered. He was a king. He could quiet a mob with his presence, but he still had to keep his promise.
“Men of Virnas,” he said. Too quiet. His voice quavered. He swallowed, wet his tongue, and tried again. “Men of Virnas! You were promised your pay, and you will get it.”
A roar erupted from the crowd, half cheering, half argument. Navran raised his hand, and they quieted.
“Stop looting. Return what you stole. Those who steal get nothing. But those who relent will get every last ghita they are owed.”
“Goat piss!” shouted someone from the crowd. “You don’t have the money!”
The mob erupted into shouting. Bickering and shoving broke out. Navran raised his hand again, but they did not quiet. Panic crept over him. He pulled the iron ring from his finger, raised it aloft, and screamed, “Enough!”
The courtyard quieted. No one answered him.
“This,” Navran said. “This is Manjur’s ring. It’s worth half a kingdom. But I’ll sell it to pay my debts.” His heart hammered in his throat. His breathing came heavy and hard. “The greatest treasure of the Uluriya. I give it up for my honor as a king.”
The last remnants of fighting among the men stilled. A deeper quiet passed for a few breaths.
“No you won’t,” someone jeered, but a flurry of hissing silenced the mocker.
Someone stirred from the crowd. A man came forward holding a bolt of pilfered silk. He laid it on a stair before Navran’s dais, bowed, and said, “My lord and king.”
“Return in ten days time,” Navran said, “and you will be paid.”
The man nodded. Then he turned and ran from the courtyard.
That was the trigger. The crowd began to churn quietly, men coming forward and laying what they had stolen on the stairs, then leaving in silent ones and twos. Not everything; Navran was certain that there were men who left with the palace’s goods, but most returned them. Gradually the courtyard emptied.
Finally only Dastha, Navran, and the palace guards stood on the dais, looking out over an empty courtyard and a heap of silver treasures piled.
“Get the rest of my guard,” Navran said. “Search the palace. Clear out anyone that’s left.”
“Yes, my lord and king,” Dastha said. He bowed, then paused. “Will you really sell your ring?”
“It’s the most precious thing that I have.” Navran’s voice cracked. “I have to.”
Kirshta
One of Ruyam’s books in the Ushpanditya was The Deeds of the Thikratta and their Powers, a collection of stories and legends about the thikratta dating from the time of the Seven Kingdoms. It was not Kirshta’s favorite book, as it was a popular text, meant to be read by khadir and merchants for entertainment, with almost nothing of use to someone trying to study the ways of the thikratta. Kirshta could never figure out why Ruyam had brought it along.
But, he reflected from the d
arkness of the dungeon, it told the truth in a few important ways. One of its recurring tropes was that of thikratta who spent time in jail or exile, usually because they had angered the local king or disrespected a powerful dhorsha. Invariably these men returned from their sufferings infused with power, walking atop wings of flame or speaking to the wind and having it carry them like a palanquin.
In truth, prison was an excellent place to practice the arts of the thikratta.
He had very little food, so he was always hungry. He had never fasted as long or as persistently as this. The chains which held him to the wall chafed against his wrists and ankles, biting him with constant pain. The cold of the stone and the wet beneath him robbed the heat from his body, so he shivered. All of it hardened the will. He spent every waking moment in meditation, the inner silence his only retreat from the misery of the dungeon.
Sometimes, when he stirred from his long hours of silence, his fetters felt like they were soft as rotten rags, and he could tear them with a flick of his fingers or burn them away with a thought.
But there was still Vapathi.
It was dark when she came to him. An orange halo of light preceded her, and he recognized her by her gentle footfalls on the stone stairs. Even from the depths of stillness he was attuned to the sound, and he rose from his trance to meet her.
Her feet splashed through the puddles in front of him. He opened his eyes and smiled.
“Vapathi,” he said. He realized his throat was hoarse and his lips were cracked. His tongue felt like a dry stone in his mouth. How long since he had tasted water? A puddle surrounded him, but the chains kept him from bending over to drink it.
She hushed him. “First, this.” A little pouch of water touched his lips, and he sucked greedily. The water was cold, and when it hit his stomach it churned like a wave against a stone. He felt a swirl of nausea.
“Food, now,” she said and pressed two leaves of roti into Kirshta’s hands.
He shook his head vigorously. “Later. My stomach is too weak.”
Vapathi set the oil lamp onto a dry stone and knelt in front of Kirshta. “That’s wise. Let me see your wound.”
