When the rushlights in the slaves’ quarters were extinguished, Saint-Germain slipped away from the wall. He went with caution now, yet with amazing swiftness. His hand closed on the katana’s hilt. His heeled boots made less sound than the padding of a housecat. With feral grace he vaulted onto the lowest terrace of the house—the one outside the room where he had first loved Padmiri. Here he paused, taking stock of the dark around him. There was no sound, no hint that the house was not empty; nevertheless he sensed that someone waited for him on the inside. He moved toward the door, his dark eyes catching, for an instant, the shine of moonlight.
He eased the nearest door open, no more loudly than the breath of wind that shivered through the trees. Now he stepped into the room, going across the floor quickly. His eyes, unhampered by dark, searched out the corners of the place, and he realized that whoever awaited him, he, or they, were not in this wing of the house. He entered the hall and stood, undecided. Doubtless he would be expected to return to his own quarters, to his laboratory. A man might lie in wait there, confident that his prey would return. How to turn the trap, if there was a trap, Saint-Germain wondered, and looked toward the ceiling. His smile was vulpine.
A little distance along the corridor, Saint-Germain made out a few loose planks in the ceiling, above the cornices, bowed beams and piering. It might be possible, he told himself. He pulled the lacing from his jacket, and with it he tied the katana close against his leg, just above the knee. He measured the distance, took a few quick steps and sprang upward lithely, grateful that only the walls had been plastered. He grabbed for the projections of an ornamental scroll of one of the beams where it met the elaborate cornice. There, bracing himself with shoulders and elbows, he dangled over the empty hall as he worked, one-handed, at the ceiling. When he felt the planks slide under his hand, he swung himself onto the beam, steadying himself on the short piering, before shoving the planks aside. He scrambled into the narrow, uneven space between the ceiling and roof, brushing cobwebs aside as he began to make his way toward the wing where his quarters were. Once he almost stepped on a large snake curled in a trough between beams; another time he startled a spider the size of his hand in its filmy web. He noted, with irony, that there were no rats here, and was not surprised. At last he found the bedding where Jalal-im-al had lain hidden, and he noded somberly. He had made very little sound as he traversed the house, and now he was even more careful. A short distance farther on he came to the trapdoor he had made in the ceiling of his laboratory. His attention sharpened as he began to lift the board. It was slow, agonizing work, done with great patience. A noise, a slip now, and the advantage he had sought would be lost. There was always the possibility that no one was in the laboratory below him, but he was convinced now that it would be here he found those who hunted for him. He pulled the boards through their hole and set them down with no more than a gentle tap, but it was loud enough to make him wait a few moments before he dropped through the hole to the floor.
“What?” a startled voice cried out as Saint-Germain landed, drawing the katana as he straightened up.
“There!” another said in a higher register.
So there were two of them, Saint-Germain told himself. At least two. He shoved the nearest table aside, taking delight in the crash it made as it struck the wall. There was space to fight now, without treacherous islands of furniture that were more dangerous than the swords of the two men who rushed toward him.
“Demon!” the higher voice shouted, and Saint-Germain realized that it was Bhatin, Padmiri’s chief eunuch. The other man was trying to slip around to Saint-Germain’s flank. Saint-Germain spared him one glance. It was Sudra Guristar, Commander of the palace guard.
Bhatin made a sudden rush at Saint-Germain, a shimtare held high over his head, ready to cleave downward. The katana, light and flexible in Saint-Germain’s grasp, deflected the blow, then turned with an easy turn of the wrists, and nicked Bhatin’s knuckles almost playfully. Bhatin shrieked and staggered back.
That was the moment when Guristar made his rush. Saint-Germain pivoted to meet this attack, slicing a long, horizontal swath before him. Guristar dropped to the ground and slid, cursing and calling Saint-Germain a variety of foul names.
“Guristar!” Bhatin called, an edge of hysteria in the name.
“Quiet!”
Saint-Germain chuckled, and saw his opponents falter.
“Unnatural thing!” Bhatin muttered. “Drinker of blood.”
“Ah.” There was an abiding regret in the sound. Saint-Germain faced the eunuch. “You watched.”
“Yes!” He took three stumbling steps forward, then retreated. “I watched. Creature of Shiva!”
“You think me that, and you dare fight me?” Saint-Germain asked, pursuing Bhatin, the katana resting in his hands.
When the eunuch screamed, it was from panic. He grabbed his shimtare and threw it at Saint-Germain even as he turned to flee. The shimtare clattered and rang on the floor. Bhatin collided with one of the shelves and his hands closed around the neck of a large glass vessel. He swung around and threw this, too.
The vessel glanced off Saint-Germain’s upper arm, then shattered as it fell, strewing its shards over the room.
Guristar was on his feet again, but could not see well enough to attack. He began to pick his way over the bits of glass, wincing as they were crushed underfoot.
Bhatin had grabbed another vessel and was about to throw it when he felt the flick of steel on his shoulder. It was impossible that so light a blow could be mortal, but as he dropped the second vessel, he felt his own blood run over and through his fingers, hot and pulsing. His life was gone before the katana finished slicing through his ribs.
The sound of Bhatin’s body falling alerted Guristar. He came toward Saint-Germain as fast as the glass-spattered floor would let him, with his shimtare thrust forward.
Saint-Germain met this onslaught deftly, swinging the katana up to let the inferior steel of Guristar’s shimtare clash on the finer blade. He was determined to force the guard Commander to reveal where Rogerio and Padmiri had been taken, and for what purpose. Now he did not fight to kill, but to overwhelm and disarm. He drove Guristar back across the room with a series of rapid strikes and slashes, following relentlessly as Guristar retreated.
In all his years commanding the palace guard, Guristar had never fought an opponent like this. He had been against the Muslims once, and their maddened assault had filled him with a strangely invigorating terror. There was a giddiness in that combat that was entirely lacking in this ruthlessly controlled attack. His shimtare had never felt heavier or more unwieldly, or his arm more leaden. Surrender was unthinkable, but he longed to throw down his weapon and end the fight. Dimly, he was aware that had Saint-Germain truly pressed his stoccata he would have delivered a death-blow more than once. He shouted out his defiance, but could not stop retreating. Then, appallingly, glass powdered treacherously, his ankle twisted, and he fell. His shimtare spun out of his hands and the glass dug hundreds of little claws into him. He raised his arm in what he knew was a futile effort to slow the katana.
The Japanese blade hovered, then swung aside. Saint-Germain moved to Guristar’s side. “Why were you waiting for me?” he asked conversationally. There was little sign of exertion about him; he was not sucking in air as Guristar was, and there was no odor of sweat on him. “Tell me.”
“I will not.” He had pride, he told himself, and it was necessary to conduct himself well with this alien being.
“But you will, you know,” Saint-Germain corrected him pleasantly. The tip of the katana rested no more than a finger’s length from Guristar’s throat.
“Creature of Shiva!” Guristar tried to move back, but found that he was close to the wall, with nowhere to go.
“Where is my servant?” Saint-Germain inquired, as if he had not heard Guristar’s outburst.
“Elsewhere!” Guristar attempted to laugh, then thought better of it. “Gone.”
“Y
es, I’m aware of that.” It would be simple, Saint-Germain realized as he bent over Guristar, to batter this man to pieces. His own capacity for fury distressed him, and he held it back. He had too much remorse in him already, and breaking this man’s bones would not help Padmiri or Rogerio. “And Padmiri, where is she?”
There was the slightest hesitation in Guristar’s answer. “She’s … gone as well.”
“I see.” Guristar did not know where Padmiri was, Saint-Germain inferred from this answer. “Why have they been taken?”
“Creature of Shiva!” Guristar pounded his hand on the floor and instantly regretted it. The side of his hand began to bleed and the glass lodged in the cuts.
“You may call me that as often as you like. But you will answer my questions.” The katana flicked nearer. “Where is my servant?”
“May every god humiliate and excoriate you.” The words were ragged, and, to Guristar’s acute embarrassment, his voice cracked.
“Where is Padmiri?” Saint-Germain had decided to let Guristar think he believed the Commander knew where the Rajah’s sister was.
“A diseased water buffalo fucked your ass.” Why didn’t the man kill him, if that was what he wanted?
“You’re becoming desperate,” Saint-Germain said with a faint smile. “Eventually you’ll say that my mother coupled with pariah dogs and drank the semen of leprous camels, but my questions will not change.”
Guristar had no response as impotent rage welled within him. “Spawn of corpse-eaters. Debaucher of pigs. Turd of a pox demon.”
“Where is my servant?” Saint-Germain’s tone was the same as before; he wore a fixed, icy smile. “Where is Padmiri?”
“Bhatin said you lay with her, and tasted her blood. He said that you have nothing of a man about you.” Guristar was howling now.
“Neither had Bhatin,” Saint-Germain reminded Guristar. “Where is Rogerio? Where is Padmiri?”
With as much cunning as he could muster, Guristar answered, “If you kill me, you will never find them in time.” He looked up into Saint-Germain’s enigmatic dark eyes. The questions were not repeated.
“Will you lead me to them?”
“Perhaps,” Guristar said, feeling suddenly quite powerful. “You will have to do just as I say.”
“Oh, no, Commander,” Saint-Germain said sardonically, all the while wondering what Guristar had meant—never find them in time?
Some of his fear returned. “You will have to come with me. As my prisoner.”
“No, Commander.” The katana touched his forehead, lightly, lightly, and blood ran into Guristar’s eyes. “You will take me to them, and you will do it at once. If they have suffered any hurt, you will pay for it in full. Believe that.”
“They are to be given to Kali,” Guristar said in a rush, and saw Saint-Germain’s face harden.
“When? Where? Tell me.” The pleasant tone was gone. Saint-Germain spat the words out, taking a step backward so that he would not be tempted to inflict greater damage on Guristar.
Misreading this action, the Commander of the guard determined to return a portion of the torment Saint-Germain had given him. “She would rather have you, creature of Shiva. You’re a better sacrifice.” He said this sourly, recalling how Tamasrajasi had gloated when she told him how she wanted to use Saint-Germain. “She will take what the goddess gives her, and offer it with the greatest honor.”
“To Kali?” He waited, then repeated in a low, precise, horrific tone, “To Kali?”
“Yes, yes. To Kali. Yes.” His fear had returned so absolutely that his bones seemed to melt within him.
“Take me there,” Saint-Germain said with quiet, indisputable authority.
“You cannot save then,” Guristar protested as he began to struggle to his feet. “It’s senseless to try.” There was more to his objection than a warning: Tamasrajasi had told him that if she could not offer the foreigners to Kali, she would offer him. He was devoted to the Rani and her young, intoxicating body, but the thought of the knives of sacrifice and the long, degrading ritual sickened him.
“Guristar.” The voice was calm, absolute. “You will take me there. Or I will kill you by slicing open your abdomen and letting you bleed to death.”
“And you would drink my blood…” Guristar cried on a rising note as all his fears crowded in upon him.
“Your blood?” Saint-Germain regarded him with contempt. “What would your blood give me?” With a sudden disgusted gesture he sheathed his katana. “You will take me where my servant and Padmiri are. You will not attempt to delay or mislead me. If I have reason to believe you are doing so, I will kill you.”
Guristar did not doubt this: he resisted the urge to abase himself. Creatures of Shiva, he said inwardly, were governed by death and so might contaminate him without intending to do so. This foreigner was filled with menace. As Guristar paused to pick the bits of glass out of his hand, he stared at his blood, spreading like a shadow down his arm, and for a moment he felt profoundly insulted. That a creature of Shiva should refuse his blood! He wiped his hand against his loose trousers.
“Where is your horse?” Saint-Germain asked, standing aside to let Guristar precede him through the door.
“Behind the garden wall.” His hand was throbbing now, and his legs ached. His eyes felt like cinders in his head.
“We will get it as soon as I have mounted. My horse is not far from the slaves’ quarters.” His crisp diction and outward assurance covered his great turmoil. Where had Padmiri gone? Had she been captured, or had she escaped? How could he free Rogerio? Where was he? What would be done to him? Had already been done to him? To silence these useless, desperate questions, he said to Guristar, “Tamasrajasi attends this sacrifice, you say?”
“Attends? She is the priestess,” Guristar answered with pride. “It is she herself who will take the knife to you, creature of Shiva. You are not to be given to anyone but her.” He came to a forking in the corridor and looked back toward Saint-Germain.
“Toward the north, Commander. And out through the reception room.” He began to walk faster, as if seeking to outstrip the anxiety that filled him. He reached out to prod Guistar, ignoring the protest that greeted this.
“Execrable creature of Shiva!” Guristar shouted, though he hurried.
The echo of this imprecation rang in Saint-Germain’s mind. Creature of Shiva, creature of Shiva. He moved more quickly, recalling that Shiva was the god who danced on the Burning Ground, accompanying himself on a drum that was the implacable beat of time itself.
Text of a formal document from the Rani Tamasrajasi of Natha Suryarathas to the Sultan Shams-ud-din Iletmish in Delhi.
Conquering Lord of the lowlands and self-proclaimed Sultan at Delhi, the Rani Tamasrajasi, daughter of Rajah Kare Dantinusha, honors you with this message which she has deigned to write with her own hand.
It is her obligation to inform the Sultan that those men he caused to be sent here have become victims of misplaced zeal and have paid the price of the Sultan’s arrogance.
Not long ago a band of Thuggi, good holy men who are devotees of the Black Goddess, happened to encounter the Sultan’s men as they disported themselves in a manner both depraved and shocking to the Thuggi. Not able to endure the depth of the insult which had been offered them, the Thuggi rose in righteous indignation and belabored the Sultan’s men after the methods of their sect. Lamentably, the men of the Sultan were not prepared to deal with the demands of the Thuggi, and so all have perished.
The Sultan will understand that this affront to his dignity was only recently brought to the Rani’s attention. There are matters of this kingdom which must take precedence in her work over matters that are more properly the concern of other rulers. Indeed, were it not that the Sultan is nearly her equal in rank, the Rani would assign the task of sending this missive to her chamberlain. Only her respect for a fellow-ruler moves her to take the responsibility upon herself to inform him of this unfortunate event.
Because
of the unrest the presence of the Sultan’s mission brought to this country, the Rani proposes that the Sultan not trouble himself to send others to take the place of those who died. The disruption has not vanished and it would not be wise to attempt to bring others to this country when it is likely they would be similarly received. Caution and wisdom should temper the Sultan’s impetuosity. There is no immediate need in Natha Suryarathas for the Sultan’s representatives, and the lack of welcome must be regarded as indicative of the attitude of the country. At the periyanadu, held while the Rajah Kare Dantinusha was still alive, it was made plain that the Sultan would do well not to honor us too much with his presence and the presence of his representatives.
Naturally, if the Sultan does not send men to us and there is little communication between the countries, it is not likely that the need for tribute to Delhi will be as strong as before. The Rani has heard the various arguments put forth on the question of tribute and has decided that as the Sultan has stolen lands that were rightly the territory of her kingdom, tribute is an insult to the majesty of the Rani and all of her nobles, and to continue in this degrading arrangement would offer the gods an intolerable insult as well as humiliating the kingdom of Natha Suryarathas itself.
The Rani wishes to remind the Sultan that she can, at an order, put a thousand elephants and two thousand pikemen and four thousand horsemen into the field against the men of the Sultan. The Rani’s elephants are enormous and of fierce temper. Her fighters are ready for battle and their lances and shimtares shine bright as the sun at midday. The Rani’s horses dance at the call to arms and her cavalrymen ride faster than the wind behind the rainstorms. Nothing in the Sultan’s experience can match the strength and might of the Rani’s forces. The Rani cautions the Sultan that any provocation will bring all the might of her army down upon his men, and the valor of her troops will awe the Sultan’s warriors.
Path of the Eclipse Page 47
