Laldasa (25 page)

“Well, I'm glad you came to your senses about Mesha Fest, at any rate. Have you spoken to Jivinta?”

“Oh, yes, and she was about to introduce me to your—cousin, is it?—when some other gentleman drew her off.” Dark blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Not that I blame him, she's extraordinary. Did I just hear you tell Adivaram that she's Rohin?”

Jaya nodded. “I thought his eyes were going to pop out into his drink. He was scandalized.”

“So I noticed. Old prig. I think it's fascinating. Imagine the challenge. Imagine the will it would take to pursue something so ... ”

“Socially unacceptable?”

Vedda snorted indelicately. “Well, it shouldn't be. Why shouldn't the woman follow whatever path suits her? Your father was right about conformity, Jaya. It lives uncomfortably close to stupidity.”

Jaya laughed. “Let me introduce you to Ana,” he said. “She'll be happy to have found such a champion.”

He turned to the spot where Ana had been standing only moments before, but she had been swept away into yet another group of guests. He was about to suggest they track her down, when Duran Prakash joined them.

“A joyous Mesha to you, Nathu Rai, Vedda-sama!” He greeted them both respectfully, a wide smile on his face.

Jaya fumed. Prakash was the last person he wanted to socialize with. A glance at Namun Vedda's face suggested he was having similar thoughts, but he turned the momentary grimace into a bland smile and responded graciously.

“Prakash-sama—a joyous Mesha to you, as well.”

“I thank you,” said Prakash and turned to Jaya, his eyes bright. “Nathu Rai, I couldn't help but notice that singular young woman you had at your right hand during dinner. A beautiful, bright thing. Is she, er, your betrothed?”

Jaya's ire began to smolder. “A cousin.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Namun Vedda make an eyerolling, ludicrous face and nearly laughed aloud.

“Ah! A contender, then, eh? I couldn't help but notice also—well, how could anyone fail to notice against that red gown—her coloring.” He lowered his voice. “Does she have Genda Sita blood, do you think?”

“Good God,” muttered Vedda.

“I hadn't asked after her racial heritage,” replied Jaya as neutrally as possible. He realized he had never contemplated the idea that Anala Nadim might be of the socalled “dirty white” race. She was light-skinned even for an Avasan, but hardly jarringly so.

Prakash looked sly and cast a significant glance at Vedda. “The Rani tells me she's from Avasa.”

Jaya nodded. “Yes. From the Sagara.”

“Ah, the Pleasure Zone. Aren't you concerned that such an, er, intimate relationship with an Avasan might compromise your neutrality?”

“Her father is in the timber business,” said Jaya.

Namun Vedda exhaled explosively. “Prakash,” he murmured, “this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing affairs of state. You are compromising more than neutrality to even bring the matter up. It is hardly an honorable subject for Festival.”

“But, sama, the Nathu Rai's honor-“

“Should not be questioned by a guest in his home. To do so is an act of outrageous impudence. If you have some sort of accusation to make, you can damn well make it in chambers before the Vrinda Varma.”

“I thought I would give him a chance to explain-“

“He is your Nathu Rai, Prakash. He owes you no explanations. You, on the other hand, owe him an apology.”

Prakash appeared to be floundering in amazement. Was the bookish scientist daring to rebuke an attaché of the KasiNawhar Consortium? Jaya bit the inside of his lip and enjoyed Duran Prakash's discomfiture.

The lawyer finally recovered himself enough to offer defense. “His relations with these Avasans could very well prejudice him toward AGIM.”

“Perhaps it could. I daresay you may be doing much to prejudice it, yourself.”

Prakash bristled visibly. “Do you refer to my relationship with the Rani?”

“I would never make such an unseemly reference, Prakashsama. I refer to your boorish behavior. I repeat that you owe the Nathu Rai an apology.”

Prakash's face had screwed itself into an impossible tangle of outrage and embarrassment. “Need I remind you, Doctor Vedda, whose money it is that pays for your patent research?”

Namun Vedda paled visibly.

Anger prompted Jaya to speak. Prakash was the worst kind of idiot. “Prakash-sama, you forget yourself. Please try to recall where you are, and whom you address.”

Prakash glanced at his host's face and backed down. “I am ... sorry, Nathu Rai. Please forgive me. It is only my zeal for justice.”

Namun Vedda grimaced and looked down at his feet.

Jaya allowed none of his emotions to show. “Is that what it was? Well, Prakash-sama, I must ask you to confine it to your business dealings. If I hear that you have exercised your zeal further in this house, I will ask you to leave.”

His face expressionless, Prakash bowed crisply and hurried away, leaving the other men to recover the spirit of the occasion.

Namun Vedda shook his head. “I sometimes wonder if I haven't sold my soul to demons for the sake of a few patents. By all the embodiments of God, boy, what does your mother see in that man?”

“I'm sure I don't want to know,” said Jaya.

He searched the room again for Ana, and had just spotted her when the bells pealed to announce the Time of Gifts.

oOo

Jivinta Mina was Rani of the Gift Giving, deciding in what order gifts should be presented by those who had signed the silken Presentation Scroll in the Entry. She had scheduled herself last, with Jaya and Ana just before.

Most of the gifts were not actual presentations, but donations of funds or goods to Kasi charities; some gave artwork for display in gallery or Asra. There were, of course, musicians, several poets and a group of actors who had been hired to perform a traditional playlet about the creation of the Seasons. Whether performed by the gift-giver or professional surrogate, the fare was entertaining and the audience enthusiastic.

Ana was curious about what Jaya Sarojin would present. She had heard Ravi joke about his lack of singing skills; he did not strike her as a poet. When Mina Sarojin announced that her grandson would present a traditional tale “in the way of our ancestors,” Ana imagined he would simply tell a story. She was completely surprised by what he did do.

From the hush of fire-lit expectancy grew a tantalizing drum beat and the drone of obas and faroons. Out of the recesses of the darkened hall came a team of six torch bearers, chanting deeply against the rhythm of the drums. They carried torches on tall poles. These they set in floor braces on the perimeters of the performers' dais. Their duty complete, they turned in a swirl of bright fabric and bowed to one knee before the audience, fisted hands crossed over their hearts.

“INDRA!”

The roar of a single voice sent the torch bearers leaping into the crowd with a shrill response. As the audience fell back in surprise, there vaulted into the torchlit platform a Being out of legend—Indra, Conqueror of Chaos. Reflected flames licked over the gleaming platelets of his armor and ran like liquid sun down the curving blade of the sword he held in gloved hands. In the radiant, gold and silver face, only the eyes were alive—dark and glittering in the recesses of the helmet's half-mask. The rest of the face was in shadow as Indra assumed the stance of a Balin warrior, ready for combat.

Drums pounded, obas keened, faroons rumbled, and bell harps sang in shrill, sharp bursts. To their music, Jaya danced the War of Sat and Asat—of Existence and NonExistence—a battle that ended when Indra, Son of the Supreme Spirit, brought light and life to the Universe.

The audience fell into the role of chorus, responding to Indra's roars with ululating cries, answering his guttural barks with the requisite chatter, joining exuberantly in the chanted passages of the Sacred Text.

Ana was swept into the fantasy. The torchlit platform vanished; Indra danced and leapt and whirled amid suns and planets and snowy galaxies of pin-prick stars. The torch bearers in their black cloaks became the forces of darkness—clouds of human corruption and doubt—seeking to extinguish the torches of divine Light. The formless horde scattered before Indra's mighty sword. With a final roar of triumph, a final stroke of his great sword, Indra brought the Sun of Divine Truth from behind the clouds of concealment and the Universe blazed with light.

The cosmos erupted in a final shout of rapture, then the fantasy fled before the rush of returning light. The universe became a vaulted room full of inebriated partiers.

Indra unmasked now, and Nathu Rai Jaya Sarojin bowed to his guests and swept sweat-damp hair from his forehead. Ari and Ravi, still in the black cloaks of the Asat forces, helped him from his armor. Many compliments and kudos later, he stood before Ana and bowed.

“What did you think of my gift?” he asked.

“I was surprised,” she said in all honesty. “I would not have thought traditional dance to be ... a suitable pastime for a prince.”

“I'm a Sarojin, first of all. My grandmother has always insisted that I have an appreciation of tradition.”

“You danced it beautifully,” Ana told him, and a small demon made her add, “If you ever tire of the indolent life of a mahesa, you might consider dancing as a profession.”

To her surprise, Jaya Sarojin threw back his head and laughed. “No, no,” he said, when laughter had spent itself. “Dance is, to me, a labor of love. You will think it odd, but when I dance, there were moments when I feel there is no stone beneath my feet, only the void. There are moments when ... when I felt I am no longer the dancer, but have become the dance. I have yet to feel that about government.”

Ana suspected she was being teased, but said anyway, “That is the goal of all life, isn't it? Not to do, but to become.” She gave him a courtly bow. “Now, if you will allow me to present my gift ... ” She slipped away toward the stage from which Jivinta Mina beckoned her.

Jaya heard a soft chuckle at his elbow and glanced aside. Bel Adivaram's porcine face beamed at him, tinted with the rouge of drink. His mouth wore a suggestive grin.

“You find it difficult to share your cousin's gifts, do you, Jaya?”

The tone was suggestive as well and Jaya found it irritated him. “Do not make a joke of my cousin's gifts, Vadin. She is a Sarojin.”

Adivaram raised his brows. “Ah, and the Sarojin honor is unimpeachable, isn't it? ‘As a lotus, though born in the muddy water, is unsoiled by it.' Eh, mahesa?”

“Even so. You will excuse me.” Jaya nodded curtly and made his way to the edge of the presenter's platform.

“I was born and raised on Avasa,” Ana was saying, “and as I grew up there, I came to know that despite its youth, there is a rich culture there, as on this world. There are legends, histories, tall tales, songs, and poetry. My gift to you tonight is one of the chansons of Avasa. It is called ‘The Plains.'”

She began the cant:

oOo

“Only where some passionate, level land

Stretches itself in reaches of golden sand,

Only where the sea is joined to the sky, clear,

Beyond the curve or ripple of white foamed crest—

Shall the weary eyes

Distressed by the broken skies—

Broken by Asra, mountain, or towering tree—

Shall the weary eyes be assuaged—and rest.”

oOo

When the final tone of the short piece faded, the applause was loud and long and accompanied by requests for an encore. Ana complied with an intimate Rohin tribute to the Kalki Avatar.

oOo

“The secret of love's code is never found

By those who but to reasoning are prone.

What rose could spring from out that brackish ground,

Or what anemone from stone?

O brighter than the bright sun art Thou!

It is Thy light that veils Thee from men's eyes.

But who has ever glimpsed Thy face, he cries:

The Sun of Truth is dawning on me now!

A thousand gaze upon Thy face and none

Is worthy he should ever look thereon.

How could I ever on Thy beauty dwell?

O, this unease! Thou art not to be sung.”

oOo

It didn't sound like a hymn written to some lofty Divine Authority, Jaya thought. It sounded like a love song for someone of flesh and blood. “The secret of love's code” ... was that what he was struggling to decipher? Bhakti—devotion—would he ever be able to decipher that? Jaya shook his head. Maybe he was a stone, but would a stone feel unease “not to be sung?”

He caught Ana's eyes on his face and realized he was frowning. He relaxed deliberately, joining in the applause, but she had seen the frown, and would no doubt interpret it as atheistic disapproval or even superiority. There was a vast gulf between wanting and having.