Sword of the Deceiver (12 page)

While Ekkadi dried Natharie off, the draper made her appearance. Mistress Panna — Ekkadi whispered the woman’s name in Natharie’s ear — was a tall woman with an unwaveringly erect carriage and a train of little wide-eyed girls following behind her in silence. The dress she wore could have graced a queen, it had so many colors and was so beautifully trimmed with pearls and gold. She eyed Natharie with a gaze as piercing as any of the goddesses. Then she gave a series of orders to the girls behind her at such a clip that Natharie could not understand a word she said. The girls scattered like sparrows and when they returned each bore some part of the costume Natharie was to wear for her appearance before her new mistresses: a breastband and pantaloons of dusky green silk; a length of blue silk so dark it shimmered like twilight, to be hung across her shoulders and belted with silver; a veil of translucent blue to cover her hair, which Ekkadi had braided and coiled so that it hung in three loops down her back; silver and amber for her ankles and wrists; and a silver collar so fine it might have been woven of silken threads rather than crafted of metal that wrapped her neck and hid her thread-thin wound. There was yet more silver to hang from her ears and to drape across her forehead.

The perfumer came next. No girls followed her. Instead, she had a trio of tan-skinned, broad-bellied, broad-shouldered eunuchs. Each bore a wooden chest, which he set down and opened. The mixture of scents that rose from them was dizzying. Mistress Valandi came up close to Natharie, staring at her even longer than the draper had, her nostrils quivering and her tongue flicking out to lick her lips. Natharie felt she now understood what a bird felt as it was mesmerized by a snake. At last, the perfumer turned to her trunks. She alone, Natharie realized, had no students and gave no lesson. She opened bottles and boxes picked from her trunk and ground and mixed these mysterious substances in her mortar. It was she herself who anointed Natharie’s wrists and throat with something that smelled of musks and flowers and things Natharie could not name. They all bore cool, refreshing scents that made her think of the evening her dress was colored after.

At last, Mistress Valandi stepped back. “You may now tell the steward she is ready.”

Ekkadi bowed at once and ran to do just that. Natharie stood where she was, trying to keep her composure under the weight of her new finery and at the same time trying not to lean nearer the rippling bath waters to glimpse her reflection.

Will I be so torn about everything that happens from now on?

Mistress Usha strode out onto the bathing terrace and her gaze raked over Natharie. “Come, then,” she said without the least note of approval. She turned and strode back toward the heart of the quarters, and Natharie followed. She felt rather than heard Ekkadi close behind her, and she found she was grateful to know the other girl was there.

After the open chambers where the lessons and the lives unfolded, there came a broad corridor with four dark-wood doors opening from it. Each of these was flanked by a pair of kneeling slaves who held ivory rods. These in turn were flanked by pairs of black-skinned men, tall and well-muscled and hard-faced. They wore light armor with swords at their hips and carried spears in their hands. Mistress Usha took Natharie and Ekkadi up to the farthest door and bowed before it. The right-hand slave bowed in return and silently went inside. None of the others moved at all, not even to let his eyes look at the ones before them.

The door opened again, wider this time, and Mistress Usha led Natharie and Ekkadi to the queens. Natharie glimpsed two women, one old, one young, seated in a room that was opulent even compared with what she had already seen.

The steward barked at her to bow and Natharie obeyed, grateful for the chance to reclaim her wits after being dazzled by the wealth strewn about her.

“Come now, Natharie,” said the old woman. Her voice was hoarse and high. “Sit up, daughter of the great king.”

Natharie did. The steward had shuffled to one side, and remained prostrated. It must have been very uncomfortable. Natharie kept the smile of satisfaction from her face and turned her attention to the queens.

She had never seen two women less alike. The older of the two had ash-grey hair under her translucent veil. Her skin was sallow and scabbed. It wrinkled like cloth as it hung from her bones. Not all the draper’s artifice with scarlet and gold could hide the ill health its color betrayed. Her dark eyes were sunken and her mouth shriveled tight. She would be Queen Prishi, mother to the emperor. Hamsa had told her something of the order of this place while they traveled.

The second woman was not only young, she was vibrant. This was surely Queen Bandhura, the emperor’s beloved queen. Her skin was lustrous brown and her hair midnight black. Her eyes sparkled knowingly. She leaned on one elbow, her long hand lying carelessly on the red silk cushion. It was a position carefully rehearsed to look flawlessly casual. She had seen her father’s first concubine, Radana, pose just so many times. This woman, this young queen, wanted to be underestimated.

“Someone, you, bring her pillows, and here is food.” At the queen’s word, a low table was brought forward and laid with numerous dishes, and several pots of tea. The sweet and savory fragrances went straight to Natharie’s stomach and sharpened her dull hunger. “You must be half-starved.” Queen Bandhura’s smile seemed full of concern, but the expression did not reach as far as her eyes.

Queen Prishi coughed and a slave came at once to dab at her forehead with a cloth. “Yes. Yes. We must take special care of this one, daughter of my heart,” she said to Queen Bandhura. “My son Samudra asked after her particularly.”

Bandhura’s eyes glittered as they turned to Natharie, and Natharie’s throat tightened so that her scab pulled, and the food suddenly smelled less appetizing.

“Please, eat,” the younger queen urged.

Intensely aware that she was on display, Natharie helped herself to the piquantly spiced dishes. The bread was fresh and warm, the fruit had surely been on tree and vine less than an hour before. There were drinks of fruit and yogurt as well as the tea. All quantities were small, but there was a great variety and before long Natharie began to feel satiated.

And still the two queens watched her.

When Natharie could bear to think of something besides food, she bowed over her folded hands. “I thank the great queens. Your hospitality is all I have heard.”

The old queen coughed. “As is your courtesy. I hope you can be comfortable here.”

Natharie lifted her chin, modest and correct no more. She might never sit in such a place with such a moment before her. “I am sent here as tribute. I barely know where or who I am. I am told I am a servant. I am told I am a favorite. I am told I am a barbarian and a sacrifice. I am told I may never leave this place again. How can I be comfortable?”

In the stunned silence that followed her words, she saw something new in Queen Prishi. She saw steel beneath the illness. The woman was weak now, but it was not always so, and some trace of that strength remained.

But Bandhura did not let the other queen speak further. “It is of course difficult for one who has just left her home, but soon, Natharie, you will understand the delight of your new life here.”

Her tone invited Natharie to play the game of courtesies, but Natharie declined. “What is to be the nature of my life here? No one has told me.”

“Why, you are one of the daughters of the Pearl Throne,” said Queen Bandhura, as if surprised there should be any question. “We are your family now, and we will care for you in all ways.”

“I am sure my mother and father will be glad to hear it,” replied Natharie. “May I write them soon and tell them this?”

“Of course. The secretaries are at your disposal.” Bandhura laughed. “You did think you were a prisoner, didn’t you? Foolish child.”

Stop now. Stop now. If you incur her anger, you will be useless to your people
. But Natharie could not stop. She could not forget the chains that Prince Samudra had only barely kept from her wrists, or the sword laid against her throat. “Can I leave?”

Queen Bandhura waved her long hand dismissively. “Should you be married to a prince or potentate in another city, of course you will leave and go to head his household.”

“That is not what I asked, Great Queen,” said Natharie bluntly. “I asked can I leave here, this place, these rooms, should I wish to do so.”

The young queen’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and her soft, beautiful features hardened just enough to show that her mouth was a little too wide for the rest of her face and her eyes were a little too close to the broad bridge of her nose. “The daughter of such great kings would surely not wish to contemplate so immodest and dangerous an act as to expose herself in the public street.”

Natharie nodded, and returned to her pose of modesty with folded hands and downcast eyes. “Which is my answer, and the truth of my condition here. It is best that we all know it.” Even as she spoke, she felt the vague intuition that the old queen approved of what she heard.

How sick was the woman truly? The scabs looked terrible, but a skin disease did not necessarily go deeper.

Another silence stretched out between them. “I believe I understand now why it is Prince Samudra who favors you,” said Queen Bandhura, thoughtfully. In the next heartbeat, her voice became light and cheerful again. “It is customary for the daughters who live in the quarters to refine and educate themselves in the sixty-four arts.” She paused. “You, of course, practice the sixty-four arts in Sindhu?”

“Of course,” replied Natharie. The sixty-four arts were the accomplishments necessary for the education of the noble person. They included reading and writing, dance, an understanding of poetry and dramas. She doubted very much that the Hastinapuran reckoning also included the ability to sing and discourse on the hymns of Anidita. “And you here?” she added innocently.

“We know them.” Queen Bandhura’s too-wide mouth frowned, but only for a moment; then all was pleasantness again. “The mother of my heart is often dull in her illness. Will you, of your kindness, perhaps share with her some of the arts as they are known in the house of Sindhu’s king?”

Her first thought was
I am no street performer!
But the request was phrased with courtesy, for all the queen’s eyes were sly. To refuse would be to truly look the barbarian, and she had done enough to distance herself from the one she should be trying to bring close.
Forgive me, Mother. I am making a very poor start
.

She had no music, so she could not dance. She was certainly not going to sing any of the
surras
for these two. It would have to be one of the epics then. Which one?

Which could they understand?

She made obeisance as gracefully as she could, and in the proper fashion with her brow pressed against her hands, not to the floor. Then she shifted herself so her legs were tucked neatly under her and her unfamiliar twilight skirts spread out gracefully, her back straight, her face calm. She was the vessel only. She held the tale. Would she be able to speak it properly in this clumsy new tongue? She would have to.

“It came to pass in the last hour on the tenth day in the eleventh lunar month, there was born to the first wife of a great king of Ahyudar a daughter, and her mother named her Duranai. The babe was so fair that light seemed to shine from her brow, and all stood about in amazement at the sight of her. In the morning, her nurse carried her through the gardens that she might be presented to her royal father, and overhead a great eagle flew. With his sharp eyes he spied the beautiful babe and the sight of so fair a creature made him hunger. He swooped from the sky and snatched her from the nursemaid’s arms carrying her aloft in his great claws …”

So began the story of “King” Duranai. The story was an old one and much loved. It told of the great and wise queen who had dressed as a man and fought a war in order to deceive her enemies and free her captive husband. Natharie herself had told it many times. The gods in it were old, from the time before Anidita’s coming, so they would not offend the Hastinapuran way of worship, and she felt sure the tale of a great and brave queen could not fail to please the women who listened to her, and judged all she said.

There was telling a tale properly, and there was telling it well. The words, the gestures, these were classic and needed to be presented with precision and grace, but the rest — watching the audience, seeing who was smiling, or leaning forward, and catching their eyes, adding emphasis, holding back at the right moment, pouring strength into the words at others — these were not the formal art, but they were part of the art all the same. She had learned it with her tutors, and in the barracks with Captain Anun, and in her bedroom after dark, scaring her brothers and sisters with ghost stories. All her well-honed tricks Natharie brought to bear on the queens. Natharie would for this moment force them to care. She would make them for an instant do as she willed in this one small way.

“… and in that place she saw a miraculous thing. From the brown river water, fireballs rose. Six, eight, ten, they rose straight into the sky. They rose exploding like fireworks in a shower of sparks, and all who saw them bowed their heads and cowered and begged to be delivered from this thing. But Duranai watched the fireballs rising from the river for a long time, then she turned to the people and told them there was no reason to fear …”

Natharie felt the waiting women, the slaves and the soldiers around them listening intently. One even stifled a gasp as Duranai commanded the great pit to open to reveal the serpentine
naga
beneath the earth who imparted to her some of their immortal wisdom. That was good, but it was the queens who mattered. With all she must do to concentrate on choosing her words, on the movement of her hands, on the rest of her audience, Natharie could not read them, but at least they watched, at least their attention was hers and did not stray.

When she was finished, and Duranai ascended to Heaven in a golden chariot, the old queen began to clap, but that exercise ended in a fit of coughing. Queen Bandhura merely nodded her approval.