Hunted by the Sky

by Tanaz Bhathena

  While the first guard’s expression says he would like to do nothing better than pummel Gul, after talking to his colleague, he briefly inclines his head in her direction. “Forgive me, Siya ji. You may go in this time. But next time, I will not be able to let you in without identification.”

  Siya ji. As if Gul were a senior staff member and not a girl who’s probably only just come of age.

  “I’m well aware of that.” Gul’s voice is cold. “You!” she tells me again. “Carry this for me!”

  She tosses that precious bundle of hers at me so quickly that I nearly trip over my own feet catching it. I say nothing about how heavy it feels. Instead, I follow her in, through the gates, ignoring the glare we both receive from the guard.

  Once inside, Gul turns to me. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For treating you like that in front of that guard.” She frowns. “I know you don’t think much of me or … my kind, but I don’t think you are less than me. I never have.”

  Though I know by you she means non-magi, somehow, the way she phrased it makes the declaration seem more personal. More about me. I shrug off the fanciful notion and hold out the bundle. “Here you go. I didn’t peek or anything.” Even though I’m now wondering what she has in there.

  Her brown cheeks flush slightly, and she takes it without a word.

  “What do you think of the Walled City?” I ask.

  She looks around, her eyes widening as she finally takes everything in for the first time—havelis, houses, and shops built much like the rest of Ambarvadi, stacked in a series of steep inclines and steps, except for the colors, which range from saffron and peacock blue to pistachio green and rose-petal pink.

  “They look like boxes from the sweet seller’s,” Gul says with awe. And though I’ve never heard them described that way before, I can’t help but see the similarities now between the houses and the gift boxes I saw at the sweet seller’s stall during the moon festival.

  “We’ll have to take the blue staircase,” I tell her. “The place where you can get yourself a replacement badge is on the way.”

  Sidestepping a skinny brown dog sleeping by the side of the road, we pass one of the first houses—blue like the color of the steps—a woman sweeping the corridor of dirt. Her eyes sharpen when she spots us, and she instantly shuts the door in our faces.

  “Friendly,” Gul comments.

  “It’s how it is here.” I try to ignore the numerous eyes that suddenly seem to be on us. “It’s how you know you’re inside the Walled City.”

  “They make the grouchy head thanedar in Javeribad look congenial,” she says with a laugh.

  I wince; the laugh, though not very loud, only attracts more glares. Gul notices as well, her smile fading.

  “Are people really so unhappy here?” Her voice is more subdued now.

  “Unhappy is probably their version of joy.”

  She says nothing in response, says nothing at all until we’re standing outside a small haveli tucked discreetly into the corner of the street. Outside, in curving Vani letters, shimmer the words THE MINISTRY OF BODIES, and below that, in smaller letters, FOR THE MANAGEMENT OF THE WALLED CITY AND THE ROYAL PALACE.

  “No arrogance here,” I warn Gul, giving her the same advice Govind gave me before I went to have my pin made. “Keep your apologies ready, and pretend to be young and foolish. I will not be able to come inside with you.”

  Gul frowns, seeing the sign next to the entryway: NON-MAGI MUST USE THE BACK ENTRANCE.

  “Try to get into Rani Janavi’s household,” I tell her. “Or Rani Farishta’s.” Two of Lohar’s younger—and reputedly more spoiled—queens, they were the least likely to notice any real changes to their servants. Another girl won’t make a difference, Latif told me. I wait under a peepul tree while Gul goes inside. To my surprise, she comes out much quicker than expected, a badge gleaming on her left shoulder.

  “I was lucky,” she says. “The officer had left his assistant in charge, and she didn’t even bother asking me how I lost my badge! ‘Oh, you must be from Rani Amba’s household,’ she said before I could even say anything.” Gul grins.

  I don’t grin back. “What did you say afterward?”

  “What was there to say? I said nothing. She handed the badge over to me! I know you mentioned those two other queens, but does it even matter? Amba is Lohar’s oldest and most powerful queen. She probably has a lot more servants than the other two combined.”

  “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “But Amba also keeps track of everything that goes on in the palace, unlike the other queens, who are more concerned with getting the king’s attention or power for themselves. The likelihood of her not knowing the names of her serving girls is slimmer than the edge of a sharpened dagger! So, yes, it does matter, and you could not have picked a worse rani to work under.” When Amba gets angry, maids get whipped, on and on until their skin peels off along with their clothes. I decide not to mention this when I see Gul’s face slowly leeching of color.

  A long silence reigns between us, broken only by the cry of a lone crow.

  “Let’s go.” I begin walking again, sharply turning away from the blue stairs to another, rougher path. “May your sky goddess help us all.”

  18

  GUL

  May your sky goddess help us all.

  I can’t help but agree with the sentiment. The closer we get to the queens’ palace, the more imposing it appears, its many windows blinking like eyes. The legends are right. The magic in the air of the Walled City is strong. Unlike other parts of Ambar, even arid villages like Dukal, where the magic in the air seeps into the earth and nourishes the crops, here, magic remains in the air itself, leeching it from your lungs if you breathe too loudly. No wonder these people do not laugh.

  I glance at Cavas, whom I’ve once again disappointed without trying. Let him be, Kali would say. You cannot win over everyone. I turn away, trying to pay attention to the road ahead, but instead, my thoughts wander to Kali and to Juhi, two people who never let me feel unloved. I wonder if they’ve found and read the letter I left for them on my cot: It’s time I found my place in the world. Please don’t look for me.

  I imagine Amira calling the letter maudlin. Telling them it’s probably good riddance that I left. Yet, useless though I may seem to her, I’ve come this far. The thought gives me courage, and I finally ask Cavas about the detour he took, leading us away from the palace gates and closer to the wall surrounding the city.

  “Servants don’t enter through the front gate,” he says. “We come and go through the rear gate—the Moon Door.”

  I do my best to recall the map I’d drawn of the palace, cursing myself now for destroying it a few days ago. From what I can remember, the Moon Door is at the east end of the complex. Which means the Raj Mahal lies in the west, on the opposite side.

  “The place looks huge from here,” I comment, hoping I don’t sound as intimidated as I feel. “Do people ever get lost?”

  “Some do. If you get lost, just follow the yellow moon, which is painted in various phases all over the fort walls. The closer you get to the Moon Door, the fuller the moon gets.”

  He tells me that there are a couple of temples within the complex, too, and another, smaller palace, called Chand Mahal.

  “In Chand Mahal, there’s supposed to be a room full of mirrors that turn blue on the night of the moon festival. There’s also a room of miniature paintings, their colors so bright that the figures within the frames look alive. Or that’s what the palace workers say.” He shakes his head, as if freeing it of the web of wonder he’s spun around us.

  “I wouldn’t know for sure,” he continues. “Rani Amba is the only queen with access to Chand Mahal. Her ancestors built it thousands of years ago—along with Rani Mahal itself. Brace yourself now. We’re approaching the gate.”

  The guards at the Moon Door are tall, their skin gleaming green with scales, their fingers long and webbed. They gesture for us
to stop and then, with glowing white eyes, assess my badge and Cavas’s turban pin. An infinitely long moment later, they nod, letting us through.

  “The guards are makara,” Cavas says quietly. “Pashu who are part crocodile, part human. You cannot fool them with disguises; their magic is too strong for that.”

  “What happens if they do discover an impostor?” I ask.

  “Supposedly the wearer turns to ash. But I’ve never witnessed such a thing.”

  I suppress a shudder. I had read about makara, the way I’d read about other Pashu, but I had never seen one before. I hadn’t seen a peri, either, until today at the flesh market. According to our history scrolls, most of the Pashu disappeared after the Battle of the Desert. Juhi said many were killed, many more captured and used as entertainment.

  As we make our way into the palace complex, I see the first four rulers of Svapnalok intricately carved into the pillars and arch that make up the inside of the Moon Door, their heads bent in supplication. Overhead, the gods and goddesses perch on clouds, serene smiles on their faces as a Sky Warrior shoots down a peri from the air, his atashban breaking one of her wings. I think of the peri I saw today, the terrible scars on his back, and turn away, slightly sickened.

  “Be careful of the magic here,” Cavas says. “It can be strong. Tricky.”

  I’m about to ask what he means when I’m suddenly hit by a cloud of perfume so intense, so delicious that it feels like eating rose-flavored ice shavings or a chandrama on a two-moon night. The scent seeps into my skin, my veins, my very bones. If I let it, it will lift me into the air. My feet move of their own accord, the red gravel path giving way to smooth sangemarmar tiles that feel cool to the touch, even through my jootis. I’m tempted to take them off and walk barefoot, to see if this is the case, when Cavas grips my arm, pulling me harshly to the side.

  “Careful,” he says before I can snap at him. “Keep to the path’s edges.”

  I look back at the path I’d been forced to abandon and saw something that I’m sure wasn’t there before.

  A black-tailed shvetpanchhi, similar to the one I knew in Javeribad, an arrow speared through its breast. Flies buzz over the bird’s corpse; it looks like it has been freshly killed.

  “The princes like to hunt. Sometimes without magic,” Cavas says.

  I try not to vomit. “I didn’t … I didn’t even see—”

  “Tricky.” His voice is oddly gentle. “Remember?”

  I look toward my own feet, at the hem of my borrowed ghagra, which is now caked with the dirt from our journey, and am suddenly grateful for its very ordinariness. When I look up at the palace again, something about its beauty shifts, like a crack in marble, or a scar marring otherwise smooth skin. I force myself to look away. Cavas averts his eyes as well.

  “That’s the entrance to the royal gardens,” he says. The smell of roses—the sort my father always wanted to grow—wafts out from beyond the arch engraved with flowers in different colors. The trees are much greener here, their leaves untouched by the red sand that smears everything in Ambarvadi and the Walled City, including the skin under my clothes.

  “And that’s Rani Mahal,” he says, pointing to the building ahead of us. “The king and the princes live with their servants on the other side of the garden in Raj Mahal.”

  “What’s Raj Mahal like?”

  Cavas raises an eyebrow; I must have sounded a little too eager. “Even if I lived there, I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” he says. “Besides, I rarely ever go to that side of Ambar Fort.”

  A secrecy spell, then. Just as I’d suspected.

  “Do the queens ever get to see the king?” I ask, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Or does he prefer hiding from them, too?”

  “It’s not a bad idea to remain hidden in this palace.” The corners of Cavas’s mouth turn down in a grimace. “Speaking of which … you’ll need to be careful. Occasionally, a prince or a Sky Warrior can take a fancy to a servant and force them to do things they don’t want.”

  “It’s good that I have my daggers with me, then.” By the time the words slip out, it’s too late to snatch them back. Way to open your big mouth, Gul.

  Instead of looking surprised or eyeing the bundle I hold so tightly in my hands, Cavas merely laughs. “Oh, yes. I forgot whom I was talking to. You can take care of yourself.”

  I am suddenly aware of everything: the sweat matting strands of hair to my cheeks and forehead, the body that my mother always called too sharp, too thin. Too girlish to ever be womanly. But Cavas does not really look at my body. He’s staring at my face, his gaze pausing at my lips. Focus, Gul, I scold myself. You haven’t come here to roll in the grass with a boy.

  “You mentioned the princes. How many are there?”

  A blink. Whatever softness I saw on Cavas’s face now disappears behind a scowl. “There are only three—all Rani Amba’s sons.” He pauses. “You know, you could always bind with a prince if everything else fails. That’s one way to meet the king. He’ll have to bless the binding.”

  Was that a joke? With Cavas, I can never tell.

  “I? Bind with a rajkumar?” I ask innocently. “I am far too simple for that. I am, as someone once said, more along the lines of an ordinary thief.”

  There’s a long silence, in which Cavas stares at me. Was that a flicker of amusement in his brown eyes? The lightest touch of a smile on his lips? I’m so busy trying to figure out his expressions that I might not have even noticed the footsteps pattering on the ground or felt the sudden change in the air if Cavas’s face hadn’t hardened in warning, a blur of color appearing right behind him. A small girl dressed in a bright-blue ghagra shot through with threads of indradhanush, the gold dust on her round cheeks making them glow.

  “What are you waiting for?” My voice is loud. Sounds cruel to my own ears. “Get back to work!”

  “Ji.” Cavas is better at hiding his feelings than I am. With a bow, he turns away, walking past the hedges surrounding the palace and disappearing around the bend.

  The girl, who appears to be no more than six or seven, is still staring at me. I give her a bright smile. “Rajkumari,” I say, hoping that it’s the right way to address someone who looks like a small princess. “Are you lost?”

  “Why did you shout at him just then?” She tilts her head to one side, an eyebrow raised. “You were smiling at him before.”

  Was I smiling? I don’t know … I didn’t even feel my mouth move.

  “Was he mean to you? Did he do something bad? Because you shouldn’t shout at him otherwise,” the girl says seriously. “You’ll get him into trouble.”

  It gives me pause that a girl so young—and so royal—would care about someone like Cavas, a person she has probably been told time and again is beneath her.

  “You know him?” I ask, avoiding her questions.

  She lets out a laugh that is simultaneously airy and mocking. “Of course I know Cavas. He takes care of my pony, Dhoop. He also never laughs at me when I fall off the saddle.” Her eyes narrow at me. “I don’t know you.”

  Excellent. I’ve never felt this intimidated by a person half my size. I swallow back the fear and force a smile.

  “Are you sure, Rajkumari? Perhaps you haven’t seen me. You’ve been so busy with your dolls and Dhoop this week!” Surely even princesses play with dolls. Don’t they?

  The princess frowns, a hint of doubt on her little face. Before she can respond, though, I hear laughter in the distance.

  Her dark eyes widen. “Hide!” she says.

  “What? Why?”

  But she’s already running, so quick on her feet that I wonder if she has wings on them, and disappears behind a tall hedge by Rani Mahal, leaving me standing in place, openmouthed.

  Seconds later, the source of the laughter appears in front of me, three men dressed in the sort of clothes I’ve only seen in paintings: knee-length white-and-gold angrakhas tied at the right shoulder and white hunting breeches stuffed into tall red boots cake
d with mud. Indradhanush glints on their bows and the feathered arrows of their nearly empty quivers, the weapons hanging from gilded waistbelts. Only one of the men looks relatively clean. Unlike the first two, who have let their hair flow free along with their laughter, his turban is still rigidly tied in place, gold tipping his angular cheeks. I can tell he’s younger than the other two—probably around eighteen or nineteen years old—his face growing sour as another joke is made at his expense.

  The princes like to hunt.

  I make an attempt to slip away, hastily covering my head and face with my dupatta. But I know, even before I take the first step, that they’ve already seen me.

  “There it is!” A voice calls out. “You, there! Serving girl!”

  I pause and turn, watching as the tallest and most handsome of the princes gestures to the dead bird lying behind me. “Bring that here!”

  I stiffen, not wanting to cause a scene by disobeying a royal, yet unwilling to touch the dead bird. The turbaned prince looks annoyed, but the smirks on the faces of the other two remind me of some of the novices in Javeribad—the ones who enjoyed seeing others punished. A voice that sounds like mine, yet not quite, emerges from my mouth: “Isn’t that the gamekeeper’s job? To carry your kills?”

  A flash of anger lights up the tall prince’s eyes. He moves closer, so slowly that for a moment I don’t realize he’s moving. “What did you say, girl?”

  The other princes follow, even though I can tell that the turbaned one is more reluctant. Up close, I see they all have identical eyes—pale yellow, like the firestones glinting on the small hoops piercing their lobes.

  “Go on.” The tall prince makes a puckering sound with his lips, like an air kiss for a pet. “Go get the bird before I get angry.”

  “I am not your servant, Rajkumar,” I say. I can hear a voice in my head screaming—another Gul who is cursing my folly. “I work for Rani Amba.”

  “I work for Rani Amba,” his companion mocks in a falsetto. The two men laugh as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. “Stupid witch.”