Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  He was jarred from his thoughts by a sound, a terrible sound that rose from the remote lake in the garden. So agonized was the cry that at first it did not seem possible that it could be human, but Saint-Germain knew it was, and he felt his skin turn cold. Out there, in the fragrant night, among the blossoms and the loveliness, a human being shrieked in dire and ultimate torment.

  An anonymous note delivered to the Rajah Dantinusha by a mendicant Brahmin.

  Good Rajah, blessed ruler,

  I am a friend though you do not know me. As part of that friendship, I write now to warn you. It has been said that the worship of the Black Goddess is increasing again, and if what we hear of the fate of travelers is true, we must believe it. The Thuggi prey on-those who are unwise enough to trust them. Yet the Thuggi are not the only ones to be undone by trust.

  From various sources it has reached my ears that you are marked, good Rajah, and that you will not live to see the sun return. If you are to avoid the fate that has been decreed you, be wary and assume that all you have trusted is a lie.

  If it is your karma to fall in this way, there is nothing that you may do, however prudent, that will spare you. Yet not all deaths are of that nature, and truly there is much a circumspect man may accomplish. You may warn me that in taking this course I have interfered with your Path and for that reason will have to assume responsibility for what befalls you. This is what scripture teaches us and what our people believe, and if it is so, I will accept that burden and whatever payment it brings, though it bind me to the Wheel for a thousand thousand years.

  I do not know who it is near you who seeks your life, but believe that one does. Had I learned the name of the traitor, I would tell it to you so that you might decide how best to deal with the vile one. On this particular matter those I have spoken to are strangely silent. They have even said that those who have such knowledge may be found strangled in ditches. You must be guided by the wisdom of the gods and your own precautions.

  Whatever may come of this, know that one of your subjects was loyal. Should you fall, on that day I will take my life, though I return to the earth as vermin for such an act. If you must go into the realms of death, you will not travel there alone.

  Guard yourself and those nearest you. There are dangers all around you. May the gods give you safety.

  One who is your friend

  5

  Loramidi Chol stood by the crates he had delivered and turned a woebegone face to Saint-Germain. “Alas, Revered One, it has been most difficult to procure those materials you requested. These, I know, are hardly sufficient, but they are all that I have been able to obtain. I beg that you will not chastise me too severely for this failure, for most earnestly I did try.”

  Saint-Germain was keenly disappointed, but turned a calm face to the little rotund merchant. “It is not what I would have wanted, but I don’t doubt that you have done your best.”

  Chol wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “It is even so, Revered One. There were many whom I approached who were unable to procure the things I requested on your behalf, though they have been able to do so in the past. Times are uncertain, and they are not willing to take risks that might…” He became lost in the excuse and he lifted his palms to indicate how beyond him the whole thing was.

  “I see,” Saint-Germain said quietly, walking across the room he had almost completely turned into a laboratory. “When do you think you might be able to get the supplies for me?”

  Now Chol looked wholly miserable. “I do not know, Revered One. I have asked, indeed I have asked, and all I hear in reply is that possibly before the rain, or perhaps after the dark of the year. I don’t know where to turn, yet no one speaks of the need for these things but me, they say, and I have little I can use to persuade them.” He put his thick-fingered hand to his eyes. “I have asked other merchants, and they say that there has been much trouble, much trouble.”

  “You have not got the earth, or the powedered horn I want,” Saint-Germain said, and watched to see how Chol would react.

  “Alas, no. Anything coming-from the lands of the Sultan, Revered One, is quite impossible to obtain. I have tried, and on all sides I am met with refusals.” He sat down on the low stool and fanned himself, though the day was somewhat cool.

  “Most lamentable,” Saint-Germain agreed. “How long do you anticipate these problems will continue? Is there no one you might deal with?”

  The little merchant clasped and unclasped his hands and stared at the window with puckered eyes as if wishing to escape. “I know of no one, Revered One,” he conceded unhappily. “It is the times, and there are those who insist that all requests going to the land of the Sultan bear the approval of his emissaries—”

  Saint-Germain cut him off. “I see.” He looked at the crates and laughed once, bitterly. “Yes. Of course.”

  Now Chol was perplexed, and though he was not so ill-mannered as to ask outright, he did say, “One of your station, Revered One, should be able to approach those who might aid you.”

  “Doubtless,” Saint-Germain agreed, thinking of the young Muslim who had spoken to him at the Rajah Dantinusha’s country house.

  “Ab-she-lam Eidan would hear your petition, if you cared to address him directly,” Chol said, gaining confidence as he spoke.

  “Or Jalal-im-al Zakatim,” Saint-Germain added, a certain disgust in his tone. He had been bested, he knew, and it rankled.

  “He is also a highly placed man,” Chol said, not comfortable with the chilly reserve that colored Saint-Germain’s manner. “The Rajah has extended many courtesies to you and would doubtless be willing to see that these men receive you.”

  Saint-Germain folded his arms on his chest. “Very neat,” he said quietly.

  “Revered One?” Chol asked, sensing the anger in that cool, foreign face.

  “It has nothing to do with you, Chol. You have done all that you can and I am satisfied with your efforts.” He began to pace the length of the room. His stride was swift and clean.

  Chol watched him, apprehension growing in his heart. These foreigners were an unreliable lot, he knew, and those with powerful friends were apt to be capricious. This man had been most generous, certainly, but sad experience had taught Loramidi Chol to be chary of generosity. “Revered One,” he ventured after a little time, “perhaps there is someone else who would assist you?”

  “Of course there is,” Saint-Germain answered promptly as he continued to pace. “That is precisely what is expected of me.”

  Each new remark by the foreigner was more baffling than the last. “Then why do you not go to this person?”

  “I dislike being forced, good merchant. It galls me.” He stopped suddenly, and the room seemed to move around him, so strong had his movements been.

  “The aid of powerful men is a great benefit,” Chol said, though the old triusm rang false in his ears.

  “Is it.” Saint-Germain shrugged eloquently. “You may be right and I am frightened by shadows. But this is too neat. I give a man a refusal and within the month I am in his hands.”

  There was nothing Chol could say to this, but he was touched with cold as he listened. “There is much deception in the world, for Maya is a strong goddess.”

  “Indeed she is,” Saint-Germain agreed, realizing now that he had needlessly alarmed the little merchant. He made himself smile and spoke more lightly. “You have done well, Chol, and I have not expressed my appreciation. Be assured that nothing you have done has disappointed me.” How many times would he have to repeat that sentiment before Chol lost the whiteness around his mouth? “You have been most responsible in your tasks. You will be rewarded for your care.”

  “It is not necessary, Revered One,” Chol murmured, though his eyes grew round with greed.

  “Nevertheless, let me give you a token of my approval of your work.” He clapped his hands sharply, and Rogerio stepped into the room. “I want a small bag of silver,” he announced, then added in Latin, “Make it four or five Byzanti
ne coins, fairly old, if we have any left.”

  “There are a few,” Rogerio answered in the same language. “Also we have two or three of the Moorish silver coins.”

  “Choose for variety, I think,” Saint-Germain said, then returned to the dialect of Natha Suryarathas. “My servant will see that you are paid.”

  Chol was not entirely confident of this. He had listened to the strange, meaningless words that man and master had exchanged and he feared that this was to be his formal dismissal. Revered men did not give themselves the distasteful chore of ridding themselves of unwanted minions. He knotted his hands together. “It is not important that I am rewarded,” he choked out.

  What ails the man now? Saint-Germain asked himself. “You will honor me if you will accept my poor gift,” he said. “If you will follow my servant…”

  Chol’s shoulders sagged. “Very well, Revered One. I do as you wish.” He turned slowly and went in the direction Rogerio indicated.

  For a moment Saint-Germain looked after the squat, retreating figure of Loramidi Chol, then put the merchant out of his thoughts. He went to the crates and began to unpack them, sighing once at the inferior quality of the powdered cinnabar.

  Some little time later, Rogerio returned to the workroom. “I think that Chol believed that you were going to send him away empty-handed,” he remarked as he closed the door.

  Saint-Germain clicked his tongue impatiently. “Why should I bother to call you, if that was my intention?”

  “Apparently that is how such things are arranged here,” Rogerio said as he opened the last of the crates. “Do you think he told you the truth?”

  “That there are no supplies to be had without approval from the Delhi mission? Yes, I think it likely. Jalal-im-al hinted as much when he asked if he might study with me. And now it seems that I must get his help if I wish to have my required materials.” He straightened up, frowning. “It is awkward. Not only for me, but for Padmiri. Any dealings with the Muslims will be to her discredit, I fear.”

  “How is that?” Rogerio began to stack the empty crates in the corner of the room.

  “The Muslims are not trusted here, and small wonder. Padmiri, being the Rajah’s sister, is one way to Dantinusha’s ear, and so if there are Muslims here, what is their purpose but to influence the Rajah?” He put an alabaster jar out on the table and carefully pried the wax seal off it with a little knife.

  “But if the Muslims come to you?” Rogerio picked up the last of the crates. “Do you want me to save this one? It has a hole in the side.”

  “No, dispose of it.” He was about to continue when he heard Rogerio curse in crudest Latin. “What is it?”

  Rogerio had moved away from the last crate. “There’s a scorpion in the crate. Quite large.”

  “A scorpion? Well, now we know what the hole was for.” Saint-Germain moved quickly, reached for the crate and overturned it, trapping the arachnid beneath it. He could hear the faint scuttling sounds of its legs on the polished floor.

  “What now?” Rogerio asked in a hushed voice.

  “I’m not sure.” Scorpions, as he had learned most painfully centuries before, were dangerous to him and those like him. Only once had he suffered the sting of the creature and it had given him literal years of agony: the memory of it made him flinch.

  “Should we kill it?” Rogerio was already searching for a glass receptacle.

  “Undoubtedly. Keep the body, though. There are uses for the venom.” He turned back to the crate. “I wonder who wished this thing on me?”

  Wisely, Rogerio kept silent. He found a long-necked beaker with a heavy stopper and held this out to his master.

  “That will do,” Saint-Germain said quietly as he took the vessel from his servant.

  “Where should I wait?” Rogerio asked.

  “Get a metal collar—one of the high ones—and put it around the outside of the crate. Then get me my leather gauntlets.” His attention was concentrated on the irritated clicking the scorpion made inside the crate. Without looking up, he held his hand out for the gauntlets as Rogerio approached. He drew the heavy metal-studded leather gloves on while Rogerio positioned the metal collar.

  Rogerio braced the metal band with the legs of two stools. “I think it’s ready now.”

  Saint-Germain’s grip on the beaker was awkward now that he wore the gauntlets, so he allowed himself a moment to be certain that his hold was secure. “Now, I think.”

  Swiftly, but with care, Rogerio raised the crate and set it aside.

  The enraged scorpion, thinking itself exposed and free, scuttled forward, tail raised and quivering. It was a fairly large specimen, longer than Saint-Germain’s small hands could span, and of a shiny dark brown. Its rush ended abruptly as it collided with the metal collar, and it began again to click with irritation.

  “It’s one of the more poisonous varieties,” Saint-Germain said in a rather abstracted tone. He had positioned himself above the scorpion, readying the beaker.

  “Why not just crush it?” Rogerio suggested as Saint-Germain hesitated.

  Saint-Germain gave a minute shake of his head that effectively silenced his servant. He hung poised an instant longer, then moved with amazing speed. In a single graceful motion he seized the scorpion and thrust it into the beaker, bringing down the stopper before the arachnid had righted itself in the glass container. “Because,” he said coolly, “I think this creature may be useful. The venom is most potent.” He held the beaker up and looked at the scorpion through the glass. He was not quite able to conceal his distaste.

  “Is there a chance that the scorpion simply crawled into the hole in the crate?” Rogerio ventured.

  “There is always a chance,” Saint-Germain said in his driest tone. “But I doubt I can afford to believe that.”

  Rogerio nodded mutely, then bent to retrieve the wide metal strip that had served as a collar to the crate. His expression betrayed none of his fears, but Saint-Germain had learned long ago to read the man’s silences well.

  “You think that I should leave now, don’t you?” He put the beaker on the nearest table and began to pull off his gauntlets.

  “It might be wisest.” The metal, a lightweight alloy produced in the athanor, was rolled into a loose ring.

  “Though the Mongols are in Persia and I have little of my native earth left?” He asked the question easily, almost without concern.

  “Is it better to stay here and look for scorpions?” Now there was worry in Rogerio’s voice and he met his master’s dark eyes with his light ones.

  “Under the circumstances, do you think we would simply be allowed to leave?” Saint-Germain regarded Rogerio patiently, and when there was no response to this, he went on. “True, it may be palace intrigue and nothing more. Bhatin may be a eunuch, but he is most possessive of Padmiri. I’ve seen how he looks at her. He may not be pleased that she has shown … favor to me. And, as you say, it may be that the scorpion crawled into the hole in the crate.”

  “And if it isn’t palace intrigue?” In spite of himself, Rogerio stared at the scorpion as it attempted to climb the walls of its glass prison.

  “Then we will know it soon enough.” He placed the tips of his fingers on the table. “If Jalal-im-al arranged this, he has overreached himself. If he has not, he may be of use to us after all.” He saw the quickly concealed alarm in Rogerio’s eyes. “He will be able to help us, if he is not actually working against us.”

  “Why should he?” Rogerio had torn his eyes from the scorpion and gave his master his determined attention.

  “Because he wants to study alchemy, or so he claims,” was the urbane answer. “And if he wants to spy on Padmiri, I would prefer he do it where I may observe him.” He went quickly across the room to a new chest, from which he removed a few sheets of rice paper and a cake of ink. “Where are my brushes?”

  “What are you going to do?” Rogerio asked, although he knew the answer.

  “I am going to send word to Jalal-im-al telli
ng him that I have reconsidered. I will allow him to serve as my apprentice if he is willing to come here every other day to study.” He smiled slightly. “That will keep him on the road most of the time, and will minimize any harm he might try to do.”

  “He will want to stay here,” Rogerio said fatalistically.

  “But that will not be possible. Padmiri will forbid it because she does not want to compromise herself. And I will agree with her. Jalal-im-al is a good Muslim and he will accept this decision.” He was looking in a covered box of inlaid wood as he spoke. “Here they are.” He took out his brushes. “I haven’t much skill in the script used in Delhi. I hope that he or someone in the mission reads Persian.”

  Rogerio watched Saint-Germain as he began to moisten the ink cake with water from an earthen jar. “He will be suspicious.”

  “Good.” Saint-Germain moved his brush experimentally over the ink cake and added a bit more water. “That will serve my purpose well enough. Let him question everything. That way our protection is greater.” He touched the brush to the paper and began to write in the scholarly style, the words resembling Arabian script, but more curved in their form.

  “Do you think he will accept?” Inwardly, Rogerio hoped that the young Muslim might find the invitation too questionable and refuse it.

  “I think it likely,” Saint-Germain said as he continued to write. “I will want this handed to him, and remain with him until he has read the whole of it. Say that I require an immediate answer.” He knew that Rogerio disliked the plan, and he added, “My friend, we won’t escape danger, it seems, so it is best that we anticipate it. Your caution is admirable, but in this instance, it could be deadly.”