Sword of the Deceiver (13 page)

“A charming tale, and charmingly told. It would be amusing to see her in a proper drama. Stand up, Natharie.”

Here ends the façade of beloved daughter
. Natharie stood, letting Queen Bandhura look at her. The queen took her time, and Natharie was sure that was on purpose, making her stand there on display.
I know what you are doing
, she thought.
You are showing your power over me. You are making me pay for speaking the truth earlier
.

“Yes, she’s tall enough. I think she should be given over to our drama master, mother of my heart. It would be most amusing to see her in a soldier’s role, don’t you think?”

But the older queen had lain back on her pillows and was more engaged in her struggle to breathe than with the other’s musings. “I am certain you are right, daughter of my heart,” she murmured. “I was just thinking so myself.”

Natharie glanced at Ekkadi, whose eyes were alight at this exchange.

“Yes,” said Queen Bandhura with a force that indicated the decision was not to be debated. “We must make her known to Master Gauda, is that not so, Usha?”

“At once, my queen.” Mistress Usha pressed her head against the floor.

Bandhura once again turned her kind and condescending smile to Natharie. “I am certain you will find studying with him an invigorating occupation. It will be most interesting to see what you learn.”

“I am also sure of this, Great Queen.” Natharie bowed properly over her hands.
So, this is the price of boldness. I’m to be made into a clown
. Despite her bitter thoughts, she could not help noticing that Ekkadi practically shivered with excitement where she knelt. What did the maid think had just happened here?

“Now.” Queen Bandhura carefully set her features into a look of deep concern. “I fear the mother of my heart is tired and I must tend to her.”

That was the dismissal. All made obeisance again but Queen Bandhura ignored them as if they had already departed. Usha gave Natharie and Ekkadi another of her glowering looks and led them back into the corridor.

“The players!” Ekkadi breathed softly as they followed behind the steward. If she had dared, Natharie believed she would have crowed. “We are so lucky!”

“Why?” whispered Natharie, not taking her eyes from Steward Usha. If the woman heard, she did not turn around.

The maid shook her head. “You really don’t know anything, do you? If you’re good in the plays, you’ll be showered with gifts. You’ll be precious, because the great ones will be able to brag when they’ve seen you and they’ll vie with the emperor for the chance just to get a glimpse of your performance.”

This outpouring was so outrageous, Natharie broke stride. “You’re joking.”

“No,” murmured Ekkadi with complete soberness. “But that’s for the greatest. Can you be that good?”

Natharie remembered Queen Bandhura’s eyes. To become a clown, a player, to learn the stories these people told, and how to disguise herself before them, to build pleasing layers over her true heart. To be presented to the important and the powerful who competed for entry into this closed world. This could be a useful thing indeed.

Then, to her surprise, she found herself wondering what Prince Samudra would think of her taking on such training. She remembered how he looked at her, how often during the voyage up the river she had glanced up and seen him there, at a good distance, but there, watching her, drinking her in with his warm, sad eyes.

Would he like her as much as she danced on the stage for all to watch?

“Yes,” she whispered to her maid. “Yes, I will be that good.” With swift steps, she followed the steward to her new teacher.

Makul’s home was in the City of Gardens, a district named for the beautiful greenery that surrounded its noble houses. The air here was always filled with the scent of flowers, even in the season of dust. Samudra arrived in princely style, carried on a palanquin with his guard before and his train of servants behind.

He had seldom felt more of a sham beneath the ceremony.

Conchs blew and the bells rang to announce his arrival, and Makul’s slaves unrolled a great length of scarlet carpet so that his royal shoes would not have to touch the dust of the garden path. Hamsa walked behind him, her usual plain white dress replaced by a garment of pearl silk with a translucent veil for her hair.

Ahead of them, the doors had been thrown wide open. The chief servants and attendants lined the path and made obeisance as he passed. Makul stood just inside the doors to greet him with the salute of trust and usher him into the small but elegant room where his people brought tables and cups, and jars of wine and nectar. Hamsa settled in a corner, a discreet distance away from the men. Her status as sorceress removed the necessity of a screen, but courtesy required a separate table and separate servants for her needs.

The two men drank and Samudra spoke of small matters with his battle-father: the harvest, the health and well-being of families and men they both knew, or points of philosophy. The meal was brought — dishes of spiced meats or vegetables, warm breads, crisp, filled dumplings, rices of various flavors, fresh fruits and delicate sweets. While they enjoyed all these things, they compared lines of poetry and refought several famous battles.

Samudra was glad of all the delay. It gave him a moment to be calm and to forget. All the day, he had walked the corridors feeling like a stranger in his own home. He attempted again to visit with his mother, but Damman had turned him away. Every eye seemed to be on him and no glance was friendly. His thoughts had run in circles around his mind. His rage had begun to burn brightly once more and his control of it was weakening. It was good to have distraction, especially when found with the man he trusted above all others.

At last, the dishes were cleared away and pots of tea were brought. Makul nodded to his chief servant and the man responded by ushering all the others from the room and closing the doors behind them.

As he had the day before, Makul filled Samudra’s cup. He glanced at Hamsa, as if wondering whether it was safe to allow her to hear their conversation, but caught himself and settled back onto his pillows. “Now, my prince,” he said. “We are alone and as safe as I can make us. For this moment, we may speak.”

Samudra had so much he wanted to say, the words threatened to choke him. Although they were alone, Samudra still lowered his voice. “Does Bandhura collaborate with Divakesh, or does she lay her plans alone?”

Makul bowed his head. Samudra was startled to see the first streaks of grey in his battle-father’s thick hair. “It is my belief they work together, but that they have separate aims. Bandhura’s goal is the absolute security of the emperor’s rule. Divakesh’s is the unchallenged reign of the Mothers.”

“How can either of them see these things as threatened?”

Makul looked at him, and his eyes were thoughtful. “You truly do not know, my prince?”

Samudra sat back on his heels. Divakesh … Divakesh was drunk with his power. It had happened to better men, it should not shock him that it could happen even to one so devout. But Bandhura? What made her so sick at heart?

He thought of the day he had first seen Bandhura. It was as she had been carried into the small domain ready for the marriage ceremony. He himself had been struck by her beauty. Chandra had smiled to see her, his eyes lazy and covetous.

She had from the first been scrupulously polite and eager to please. His mother had remarked several times on how shy and deferential she seemed.

Seemed. She had always seemed happy to see him, and glad to speak with him, especially when their conversation concerned Chandra. Chandra’s health and well-being were always of minute concern with her. She had teased and coaxed Samudra in those early days to tell story after story about his brother.

He had been pleased that Chandra should have such a careful and solicitous wife, and he had been pleased when Chandra told him she was to be elevated to the position of first of all queens.

Was it after that the changes had come?

“Why would Bandhura set her hand against me?” His whisper had become a croak. “I have always been a friend to her. She knows I am loyal to my brother.”

“You are,” replied Makul. “But then you came home with the Lohit treaty, and those who were less than loyal began to look at you differently.”

Those words sank into him, and his frozen mind broke open. Samudra found himself on his feet. “Who are these men? Who speaks against my brother?” he shouted, and Hamsa hissed a warning. Samudra ignored her. If there were those who plotted against the Throne, he would have their names shouted so loudly Mother Jalaja would hear them in Heaven.

Soldier that he was, Makul remained calm in the face of Samudra’s sudden fury. “If I named them now, my prince, what would you do?”

“You know what I would do, Makul!”

“Then I will not speak.”

So black was his rage that Samudra’s first instinct was to reach for his sword. Then, he saw afresh that it was his teacher, his battle-father, his friend, who knelt before him, his face utterly dispassionate. Samudra sank back onto the pillows, his hands suddenly weak.

It was not until Samudra knelt that Makul spoke again. “I will tell you this much: Queen Bandhura knows there are those who speak your name with longing. She may even know who some of them are.”

Samudra lifted his head, now utterly bewildered. Nothing was as it should have been or as it had seemed. He wanted to run in terror as he had never run from an open battle. “How would she know these men?”

“She has servants, and she has spies. As first of all queens, she has much wealth and favor to dispense as she sees fit. The small domain is sheltered from the world, but not apart from it.” Makul explained this slowly, patiently, as he had done when outlining the fine points of strategy and logistics to the young Samudra. Impatience flared in Samudra, and its sparks threatened to ignite his anger again, but this time he held himself in check.

“Why does she not tell my brother?”

Makul took a long drink of tea and set the cup down. “Because she wants your downfall first.”

Think. Think. See the situation for what it is, not what you want it to be
. “Because without me, these men have no hope,” Samudra said slowly, a stupid child, picking out letters and forming them into words. “And may be picked off at her leisure. It is only around me that plans may grow.”
It will come, you know … those who will try to use you to bring me down
. “If I am gone there also remains no risk the emperor would hear my voice more clearly than hers.” Memory came then, of what Makul had said to him the day before by the exercise yard.
The Mothers themselves have surely ordained that wherever there are soldiers, my prince will find friends
. Samudra understood that Makul not only knew who these men were, but he knew their councils.

Makul was one of these men.

I should strike off your head
, Samudra thought dazedly.
I should have you taken in chains to those below the palace who will make certain you tell all you know before you die
.

Samudra looked directly into his Makul’s aging eyes. “She cannot believe I would have a part in such plans, or that I would stand between husband and wife.”

“I do not know what the first of all queens truly believes. I only know what she has said, and …” For the first time, Makul hesitated. “… that the emperor has willing ears, my prince.”

“No,” said Samudra flatly. “That I do not believe.”

“That you must believe.”

Samudra could no longer sit still. He rose and paced across the floor. Hamsa watched silently from her corner. He had not forgotten her, but neither had he spared her a thought. His head was too full, too confused. If his mind was reeling, what turmoil was inside her, she who hated and avoided all palace scheming. He looked toward her worried face now, but did not ask what she thought. “I know my brother,” he said aloud to them both. “If I know nothing else, Makul, I know Chandra.”

“Yes, my prince,” murmured the old soldier.

Makul fell silent then, giving Samudra’s troubled thoughts plenty of time to grow and bloom within his troubled mind. He knew Chandra. He knew Chandra hid his true heart and thoughts behind the sybaritic show. He knew Chandra could be easily frightened, and fear could turn him vicious.

He knew that in Chandra love was seldom stronger than jealousy.

What did Bandhura know? For all she and Samudra had talked so often, she had seldom volunteered any story of herself. He had not been resident in the
zuddhanta
for more than a month at a time since their marriage. There were the campaigns against the Huni and the care and work to keep the new protectorates together while his father lay dying …

Samudra knew that the Palace of the Pearl Throne was a place of plots and many kinds of poison, and that the heart of these machinations was the small domain. He had grown up wary of those who smiled too broadly or watched too closely. His mother had taught him the intricacies of politics and the secret world, not just beneath the Pearl Throne, but wherever there was a court. He thought he had learned so well. What he had not learned was to be wary of his own kindred. His father and mother had lived as twin spirits, the one ruling the outer world, the other ruling the inner. He and Chandra had grown up loving and hating each other as full-blood brothers will. Their half-siblings and cousins had all been content with their places, as their mothers, all well provided for, had been. That Divakesh had turned his eye against him, Samudra, was hard, but at least it was comprehensible. That Chandra had, on the word of his wife, decided Samudra was dangerous was not to be imagined. Nor was the thought that Makul had listened to the words of men who thought that Samudra might turn traitor … This was poison. Samudra should not even contemplate it. He could not.

He needed to get out of here. But to do what? What advice could he seek against all he had heard and understood here?

It was then Samudra remembered Chandra’s dream, and Divakesh’s assessment of it, and Hamsa’s.

He turned.

“I must go, Makul. I thank you for your hospitality.”

Makul did not seem in the least surprised. He made the salute of trust. “As you will, my prince. Your litter will be readied.”

Samudra smiled. “I think I will walk a little, my friend.”

That did startle the old soldier. “My prince, that is not wise.”

“I know, but … I need some air, and I need to think.”
To think, to pray, to walk a fool’s useless path before the weight of this all crushes me
.

“If that is what you want, my prince,” Makul murmured.

“No, but it is what I need.”

Makul once more gave him the salute of trust, and Samudra touched the top of the man’s greying head, in thanks and in hope. Then, with Makul watching anxiously behind him, the prince walked out into the dark courtyard, out to the very edge of the pool of light the lanterns made. Hamsa followed him every step of the way, and when he halted and turned, she saluted him briefly, and stepped back.

Without a word Samudra removed his golden cap, his arm rings, and all but one of his finger rings. He handed these to Hamsa for safekeeping. As he did, he met her eyes. For a moment, he saw what she would be if she were not so constantly worried. In another life, she would have been beautiful, without the lines of strain on her face, and the work and workings that gnarled her hands. He had done this to her, and she had done this to herself. For a moment, he envied his brother the company of Yamuna, who was flush with power, and who did not doubt.

And who did not tell Chandra that it was the Queen of Heaven who called on him in his dreams.

“You are not going to insist on going with me?” he inquired of her.

He saw regret in the way her face tightened, and something of fear. “I do not think I can, my prince.” She looked into the darkness. “This night is for you.”

She knew what he meant to seek in the darkness, and as ever, kept her counsel. He should find some way to thank her, some way to help her, but his tongue would not move, and in the end all he could do was walk away.

The city at night was a strange and shifting place. Lamps and torches made pools of light to show doorways that were themselves black as caves. Everywhere was the smell of life and death, dust and heat. Scents of jasmine and sandalwood advertised the houses where women waited. Spices told of foods for sale. The sweet and sour smell of fermentation wreathed the wine shops. Dogs barked. Voices lifted in song, in shouts, in the endless, rapid cadence that said hard bargains were being driven in the shadows. The stars and the moon looked down on it all, spelling out their omens for the bright-eyed astrologers to read.

It was a rare thing for Samudra to walk the streets of the outer city, alone. There was freedom in it, and also danger. He did not fear the thieves and footpads. He trusted in his own ability to defend himself. Nor did he fear the pollution against which Divakesh stood such stern guard. Hamsa and the priests she trusted would take care of that as needed, as they always had before. What he feared was less certain, closer to the fear of shadows and reflections in dark mirrors. Out here he was beyond his place, with none of the protections of his role as prince and commander. Out here he was a man only, and that was a thing he’d had little time to become used to.

Where to seek the Queen of Heaven? The temerity of the question made Samudra smile. She had appeared to many heroes in innumerable guises: flower, fire, tiger, snake, all these shapes were hers, as well as queen, warrior, priestess, dancing girl, whore, and, if Hamsa was right, beggar. Should he go to her temple and pray? He could have stayed in the palace and done as much. Go to a house of women? He smirked. There, he was far more likely to find the dirt and demons Divakesh feared than Mother Jalaja.