Heir of Iron (The Powers of Amur Book 1) Page 4

  Immediately a curse sounded in the hallway, and a voice other than Taleg’s responded. Mandhi’s stomach twisted. She wrapped the sheets of the bed around herself and bolted to the door, throwing the curtain aside to see a red-faced Taleg standing over the sulking form of Navran in the dim narrow hallway.

  Navran. At least it wasn’t Srithi or Cauratha or someone that she cared about. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour of the morning?” she hissed.

  Navran glanced from the half-clothed Taleg to Mandhi’s improvised covering and gave half a nod, without any change in expression. “I was awake.”

  “Were you spying on us?”

  “No.”

  “I swear, if you’re lying I’ll have Taleg throw you over the railing.”

  “Mandhi, that’s not necessary,” Taleg said. “He was only out for a walk. Dumb luck that he happened to be passing your room when… when I left.”

  “Aren’t normal people asleep at this hour?”

  Navran shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Is that all you can say? By light and blood, if you tell anyone—”

  Navran’s face hardened into a grimace. “I don’t care what you and your manservant do at night. Leave me alone. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “My name is Taleg,” Taleg said. “And I’m not exactly her manservant.”

  “So I see.”

  “What I mean is—oh, never mind. You’ll figure it out later.” He looked at Mandhi with an expression of cautious optimism. “But now that he knows, maybe he can help. It would not hurt to have a co-conspirator.”

  “I prefer one that I can trust.” A vagrant like Navran would sell her out at the first opportunity. At least his taciturn nature might delay their doom for a while. She waved him away. “Get out of here. Don’t say anything.”

  Taleg lingered for a moment as Navran continued a slow, aimless walk down the passage, past Srithi’s chamber and deeper into the estate. “That could have gone better,” he said.

  Mandhi ran her fingers down Taleg’s back. “We have to be more careful.”

  “I agree.” He stepped away. “And that includes not touching where people can see us, even if we think no one’s there.”

  “I agree.” She looked into his eyes and suppressed the surge of heat in her belly, the urge to drag him naked back into her chamber. Instead, she wiped the nascent tears from her eyes and returned to her chamber alone.

  * * *

  Mandhi’s candle lit only the two stone steps below her as she descended into the Ruin. Above her the soot-blackened vault of the stair swallowed light, and ahead the lamp’s feeble beams died in the darkness of the tunnel. The desiccated air of the catacomb rose to meet her, biting at the flame. Her hand cupped cautiously over the lamp to keep it alive. The folds of her sari brushed against the stones of the narrow passage, and her breath echoed off the lime-encrusted walls. Leather hinges muttered far above her as the next worshipper entered the passage and descended. She pulled her pansha closer around her and hurried.

  At the bottom of the stairs she entered a wide, low passage roofed by a sagging ceiling of brick. Here and there wooden props had been added to support the ailing masonry, though some of the props themselves were now nearly as old as the Ruin. To her left and right, passages trickled away into darkness or had collapsed under the weight of a millennium of stone. One of the passages led out of the city, she had heard, a secret exit used sometimes by Heirs to escape the city when necessary. The distant glitter of candles like yellow stars marked her destination. She walked past niches full of bones on her way to join the constellation. These were the graves of the Heirs of Manjur, preserved in this buried remnant of the ancient royal temple. Ahead of her lay the grave of Manjur himself.

  The heavy scent of incense mingled with the dust, and the voices of those at the end of the passage rippled incoherently off of the walls. Beneath the incense grew the iron smell of old, dried blood. A lamb bleated.

  She reached the candle-lit circle and joined a small crowd to watch the holy men at work. Her father was there, assisted by two other saghada. The drone of their mantras echoed off the bricks and made the cramped passage into a prayerful tumult. Too weak to perform the sacrifices himself, Cauratha leaned on a cane and repeated the mantras while the other saghada sprinkled water and salt on the pair of clueless lambs. Their ears and tails twitched randomly.

  And Taleg was there. She pretended not to notice him, as if his presence had no special significance to her. He had probably helped her father descend to the site of the sacrifice and so had been present since the beginning. Going into the Ruin was the farthest he ever got from his bed these days. Taleg nodded at her, the smallest plausible acknowledgement of her presence. She nodded back and took her place on the other side of the passage from him. Above her stretched the warped and chipped image of Manjur, painted in centuries past on the inner surface of the vault to sanctify the Ruin.

  Behind them, other lights approached like falling stars, casting haloes on the walls and ceilings of the passage as they neared. These were the Uluriya of Virnas who knew that the entrance to the Ruin was in Veshta’s estate, who came to worship in this last remnant of the kingdom. Srithi was among the last to come. She slipped through the worshippers and sidled up next to Mandhi with a grin and squeezed her hand. Behind her came Navran, his face betraying only the slightest hint of surprise at the existence of the Ruin. Veshta was the last.

  Srithi cupped her hands over Mandhi’s ear. “You haven’t told me your secret, yet,” she whispered.

  The echoes of the mantras intensified. Blessing them with the pentacle, Cauratha motioned for the two saghada to take hold of the sacrifices. Mandhi leaned in to Srithi. “Do you really want to talk about this now?”

  “No one can hear us.”

  This was true. The mantras were loud and the vault echoed, and if she whispered with Srithi she took no chance of being overheard. And Srithi could hardly make a scene here, which was a considerable advantage. So she said, “I’m married now.”

  Srithi’s eyes bulged. She put her hand over her mouth and shook her head. “Are you serious? To whom?”

  The mantras stopped abruptly at the moment of sacrifice. The first of the lambs bleated once. The saghada’s knife cut through his throat. The stench of hot, wet blood filled the crowded catacomb.

  “Taleg,” Mandhi said when the mantras resumed.

  “What?”

  “Did you hear me? I am married to Taleg.”

  “What? Mandhi, you can’t be serious.”

  “I’m completely serious.”

  “Why would you do something like that? Does your father know?”

  “If my father knew, would I need to sneak out at night and seek a trustworthy saghada to marry me? And what did you think the saghada was for?”

  Srithi put her hands on her face and gaped at Mandhi. Mandhi shrugged and looked back towards the front. The first lamb had been quartered, and the saghada took its entrails and placed them atop Manjur’s grave. A clay bowl with the animal’s blood sat at Cauratha’s feet. He bent and added another stick of incense to the brazier, sending up a billow of white smoke that dissipated into a haze. The sultry cinnamon smell of the incense swallowed the odor of blood.

  “Are you mad?” Srithi’s voice tickled Mandhi’s ear.

  “No, Srithi. I know what I’m doing.”

  Srithi shook her head. “Do you? I thought you were a practical woman. Not the sort of person who consummates a love marriage in the night. When did you decide to do this?”

  “When we were away. We traveled together for nearly two years, with only a few returns to the estate. We were alone for much of it. Is this really so surprising?”

  “For you? Yes.” Srithi’s mouth was pressed into a hard, stiff line, her eyebrows knotted. “You should have told me.”

  “So that you could convince me otherwise?”

  “Of course.”

  The mantras stopped again. The second lamb made no
sound as the saghada cut his throat. The blood dribbled into the clay bowl with an insistent tapping. Cauratha took a little ladle of blood and dripped it into a cup of water, then raised the cup to his lips. When he and the other saghada had all tasted the sacred blood and water, they began to drone the final prayer of consecration.

  “Listen,” Mandhi said. “If Taleg should come to my chamber….”

  Srithi rolled her eyes. “I should let you two continue in your folly.”

  “Navran already knows.” Perhaps Srithi would bear it better if she wasn’t the only one burdened with protecting them.

  “I thought you didn’t like Navran.”

  “I don’t. But he found Taleg as he was leaving my room last right. There was no way around it.”

  “And how long do you think it will be before everyone knows?”

  “Please, Srithi.”

  Srithi stuck her lip out in a pout. “Until now, I never once thought you were a fool, Mandhi.”

  She pointed suddenly to the front of the chamber. The two assisting saghada raised their clay bowls of blood while Cauratha hobbled to the position between them. Mandhi stiffened. This was the one moment to which she must pay attention. She pulled the gauzy white pansha over her head and checked that no part of the sari’s fabric was exposed where it was likely to be splattered with blood.

  Bowing once to each of the other saghada, Cauratha dipped a bundle of rice stalks into the blood. Then he turned and faced the gathered Uluriya and chanted with a loud, clear voice: “One is the king and lord of all the Powers, Ulaur enthroned in the heavens, and this is the offering which is pleasing to him. We curse the faithless Powers, and we curse those who offer their dhaur to them. But you who are clean, be cleansed; you who are pure, be purified; you who are true remain true to the Heir of Manjur until the day when Ulaur restores the kingdom to him.” And with a gesture of sudden agility he splattered the first row with the blood-soaked stalks of rice.

  Warm beads of blood battered Mandhi’s face. She knelt and lowered her face to the ground, and the next row was blessed, and so on until all the gathered were blood-stained and clean. The saghada began to drone the final prayer of the rite, and Mandhi rose to her feet. Taleg raised the wicker basket which held the quartered kids to his shoulder and processed out of the candle-lit chamber with Cauratha and the saghada following. He glanced for just a moment at Mandhi, and could not help but smile. Mandhi hid her red face behind her hands. Behind her, Srithi tisked.

  * * *

  In the bright central courtyard of the estate, the Uluriya gathered around the central pool and rinsed the blood from their faces and panshas. Mandhi slipped in next to a middle-aged woman in shabby clothing and washed in silence, putting a little distance between herself and Srithi. Taleg carried the butchered meat to the kitchen for the feast. She would not see him for a few hours, perhaps. And then, it would be public.

  Tonight, perhaps, she would see him.

  The woman next to Mandhi plunged her hands into the cold water, spitting out the prayers as quickly as she could say them. She leaned close to Mandhi and whispered, “Are you the lady of the house?”

  Mandhi stepped back. The woman had the accent of a northerner, and Mandhi had never seen her before. “You’re not from Virnas.”

  “No, no. My husband and I arrived here a few days ago. One of the women from this quarter, Talivartha, she told me I should come here for the offering and seek the lady of the house.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “From Majasravi. Please, listen, I need your help.”

  Mandhi spotted Srithi across the courtyard waiting to wash. Veshta had disappeared with Cauratha and Taleg to prepare the sacred meal. The woman obviously wanted money, which meant she was better off talking to Srithi and not to tight-fisted Amashi, and Mandhi had nothing to give her directly. Yet a glimmer of curiosity flickered. “What do you need?”

  “Money, and a place to stay. Right now we’re sleeping in Talivartha’s house, but she barely has room for us and stated quite openly that we have to leave. Listen, please—”

  Mandhi narrowed her eyes. The story sounded suspect. “What brought you here from Majasravi? Looking for better handouts?”

  The woman reddened and hid her eyes behind her hands. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  Her voice dropped as if naming a curse. “The Red Men have begun to expel the Uluriya from Majasravi again.”

  “What?”

  “It’s as bad as Ruyam’s purge. They burned every house with the pentacle on our street and cast us out of the city. We were happy to escape alive.”

  Confusion and alarm mixed in her mind. She had heard stories of such things but not in her lifetime. Happening now in Majasravi? What else had happened while she was searching for Navran? She looked across the courtyard and saw that Srithi had not yet left. She put her hand on the woman’s shoulder and pointed. “Do you see the young woman there in the blue sari? That is the lady of the house, not me. Ask her, and she’ll help you.”

  The woman kissed Mandhi hand. “Thank you. Sorry for bothering you.”

  “No, listen. My father was the elderly saghada who performed the sacrifice today. The lady Srithi may help you with money, but my father can find you better lodging and get you established in the city. What was your husband’s trade?”

  “He worked silver. But all of his implements were lost.”

  “No matter. There are many here who could take an assistant. We just have to find them. Talk to Srithi, and I’ll find my father.”

  Mandhi shook the water from her hands and headed into the rear of the estate where the kitchens lay. The smell of roasting goat intensified as she approached. Just outside the entrance, she found Cauratha, the other two saghada, and Taleg sitting on the ground with clay cups of rice beer balanced on their knees.

  Taleg leapt to his feet with an obsequious bow and said, “Mandhi! What desperate errand brings you into the bowels of the estate like this?”

  She could not help but smile. “I’m looking for my father.”

  “You found him. Or rather, you found all of us lazing about after the sacrifice, which I’m sure injures your appreciation of sacred things.” He laughed. Perhaps a little too hard.

  “As if I didn’t know what you men do after an offering.” She rolled her eyes and knelt next to her father.

  Cauratha regarded her with warm eyes rendered slightly hazy by his exhaustion and the effects of the beer. He reached out, patted her hand, and said, “My dearest Mandhi. You need me?”

  “A woman from Majasravi spoke to me. She needs help.” And she briefly explained what the woman had said.

  Cauratha nodded many times and closed his eyes. He sighed deeply and stroked his beard. “There is a saghada who lives in the East Quarter who would know the silversmiths better than I. Ghauna, unless I have mistaken his name.”

  The name Ghauna burned in her ears, but she bit her lip and pretended it meant nothing. Her father continued, apparently oblivious.

  “I don’t believe you’ve ever met him. He was here when Ruyam came twenty-five years ago, though he was a boy, then, and I believe he had an older brother who was killed. Or perhaps it was his uncle…. Oh, forgive me, Mandhi. I’m rambling. What I mean to say is this: he could connect them with another smith in the area, help them set up a shop, though I doubt he’d take them in himself. He has a reputation for avarice and stinginess, a terrible combination. But I do not judge him. He serves Ulaur—”

  “There was something else I wanted to ask,” Mandhi broke in before her father’s monologue could wander too much further, and before she could dwell too long on the unfortunate coincidence of Ghauna. Taleg, sitting on the other side of her father, appeared completely indifferent to the tale. “The woman spoke of a purge in Majasravi. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Were you aware?”

  Cauratha’s expression grew serious, and the muttering saghada sitting across from him quieted. He pursed
his lips. “Rumor had reached me,” he said quietly.

  “When? How long ago?”

  “It has been growing quietly over the past few months. So far, only in Majasravi, and only recently has it become grave. But I’ve received several reports of this from our brothers in Majasravi.”

  Mandhi fell against the wall and rested her head in her hands. “You never said anything to me or Taleg.”

  “You were busy finding Navran.”

  But of course that was why he wanted to find Navran so badly. “Do you think it will spread?”

  Cauratha put his hand over hers. “We’ll talk about this over the meal. I have things to tell you and Navran both.”

  * * *

  It was the worst new moon feast she had ever been to. As usual, the table for the household was crowded with figs, pomegranates, mangoes, and roti, a feast which was duplicated on the tables in the courtyard from which the rest of the worshippers ate. The roasted goat legs filled the room with the fragrances of fat, cumin, and salt, but it all tasted like uncooked rice in her mouth. Taleg sat three seats away, but Srithi was next to her, and Cauratha on the other side. Her gaze wandered constantly to her husband, smiling and joking with Navran and Veshta, but she cast it aside just as often. Srithi was watching, her lips pursed in disapproval. Eventually someone would notice if Mandhi’s eyes were always on Taleg.

  When their dishes were mostly empty of rice, Cauratha assumed the Moon posture, crossing his legs, straightening his back, and resting his left hand on his ankles. Mandhi put her hands on her knees palm-up and bowed her head in the Palm posture, and within a few seconds everyone at the table had done the same except Navran. He viewed the table with confusion for a moment. Taleg nudged him with his elbow and whispered. Navran awkwardly copied Taleg’s pose.

  “This is our first feast with Navran,” Cauratha said. “We bow to the One Power who has reunited him to us.”

  All the heads around the table bowed, and the word thanks echoed on the lips of all except for Navran. He bowed his head deep into his beard as if trying to hide from their gaze.