‘She knelt in the sand, staring wide-eyed as her hands became blackened pieces of bone. The child shrieked and fled. All this distracted the officer, and Raz stabbed, his blade piercing the man’s mail and thrusting right through his belly and out his back. Raz twisted and wrenched it clear, bellowing in triumph as the man fell. The witch turned, her eyes wild, her hands just stumps. She must have been in agony, but she pulled some last reserve from her very soul. Her hands were useless, but her eyes flashed and fire poured from them, two funnels of awful heat and flame that flung Raz backwards, his robes alight.
‘That broke me from my trance. I leapt down and kicked my way through the fences into that dreadful arena. The witch was bent over, her head bowed, her shoulders shaking. Her hair hid her smoking face. The officer was trying to crawl to his fallen sword, clutching his belly. Raz was rolling about, beating the earth. I ran to him, keeping well clear of the officer. The witch heard me and looked up, and I nearly screamed: where her eyes had been, there were now two blackened craters. She had burnt out her own eyes delivering that last dreadful gout of fire. She whimpered a name:
Vann
. Her officer’s name, perhaps, for he had found his sword and was dragging himself to her side.
‘That sword he pointed in my direction. The threat was clear – but I wanted only to aid Raz. I threw myself onto him, beating at
his burning robes, until he went still. When I could look at him, the sight was dreadful, but he was alive, and a hero, had there been any there to acclaim him. I turned him over and looked for something to succour him. There was a water-trough against the wall. I crawled to it, cupped my hands, though the pain of using my left arm was immense, and carried a few drops to him. All the while the officer watched me, one arm around the witch. Her lips were moving and pale light was forming in filigrees around her hands and those blackened pits on her face. I remember feeling utter terror, that she would repair herself and tear me limb from limb, but she didn’t. She slumped against the Rondian.
‘To my surprise, he spoke in Keshi. “Here,” he said, and pulled off his helm and tossed it to me. “Water.” I was stunned, but I filled it and bathed Raz’s burns. I drank some myself, then on an impulse I filled it again and placed it just within his reach, though I couldn’t explain why. He fed it to the girl-witch, who murmured something, looking at Raz strangely. She said a word I didn’t know:
Dokken
. I learnt it means “dark” in their tongue. What she meant I have no idea.
‘Had I called for aid, they would both have been taken, but I would almost certainly have died, and so would Raz. I am not a hero like him, so I remained quiet as a mouse. The only thing I found courage to do was to ask the officer, “Why?” He just shrugged. “Orders.”
Orders
. I felt sickened. They had no more idea why they were killing us than we did. I stared at him, aghast, and he looked back at me, clearly in dreadful pain – his belly wound was one of those that kills over hours and days – And he muttered, “Sorry,” finally; “I’m sorry.” Then the witch said something, and his attention focused back on her. She was shaking uncontrollably, but a web of light was still crawling over her skin and face, and I could see cuts and scratches vanishing, and the bones in her leg knitting together – it appalled me, somehow. She touched his belly, and the light spread. His breathing became less ragged. Then she sagged and stopped, just her chest rising slowly, her mouth open, her breath hissing.
‘The Rondian tossed the helm back to me and said, “More water.
Please.” I wanted to fling it away, to hurt him, but instead I filled it and carried it to him. If I had been a hero, maybe I could have snatched away his sword and slain them both – but I didn’t. I helped him drink, and we talked a little. His name was Captain Vann Mercer; he was the son of a trader and had come here as a child with his father, selling furs. He asked me of my home. It was surreal, to talk with an enemy about home while all about us the city was being destroyed, but for a time we were alone in the world, the only survivors. He told me the witch was just eighteen and would likely be blind for life. His voice told me he was in love with her, would care for her regardless.
‘Finally, a shadow fell over us, another skiff, and before I knew it, there were Rondians all about us, carrying the witch and the captain to safety. I thought they would kill me and finish off Raz, but the captain said something and they left us. Then they were gone, up into the air.’
Ramita and Huriya stared at each other, realised the other was crying. They looked back at Ispal. This was nothing like the story they had been told before; the tale of Raz and Ispal they knew was colourful and funny. But this dreadful story rang true.
Ispal gave them both a measuring look. ‘I have told you different versions of that story before, to protect you, but that is the true accounting of how Raz and I became brothers. I brought them south with me, for though he was burned dreadfully, Falima never left his side. She married him, and bore his children: she was as heroic as he, Huriya. Your parents loved each other with a love that towers above we mortals. Be worthy of them.
‘Ramita, I tell you this tale to honour my friend, my brother Raz Makani, but also so that you know what your husband-to-be has let loose. I do not believe him evil, but he permitted an evil thing to happen, and he is tormented by this. He seeks to give recompense to the world. You must help him. Respect him, but do not fear him.
‘Remember also the reason Captain Vann Mercer gave me for this treacherous assault: “Orders”. Daughter, you are going to meet men who give “orders”. Beware of them, I beg you. People do the worst
evil when they do not have to take responsibility themselves but can blame others.
‘And third, I want you to remember that these ferang, for all their power and strangeness, are also
people
. That captain, and others I have met since, have been as much a mix of good and ill as any person I could name here in Baranasi. Condemn an evil deed, but know that few men are fully evil; most just follow “orders”.’
He shook his head. ‘I hope this tale will help you understand the world a little. It is a muddled, complex place, and anything can happen, with no clear moral or purpose. Sometimes I wonder if all the gods are blind.’ He looked up at the moon. ‘Maybe the moon has made them all go mad.’ Without another word he leant over the girls, blessed them both and left.
The girls were silent, stunned by this new version of family history. They clung to each other for hours, but neither slept for a long time.
When Tanuva shook Ramita awake it was still dark outside, but the moon was on the other side of the sky and dawn was beginning to glimmer in the east. ‘Come, daughter. It is your wedding day.’ Her voice sounded haunted.
Huriya snored on in the corner, her head thrown back in abandon. Ramita envied her, exhausted from vivid nightmares of witches with burned-out eyes. Ispal was waiting downstairs in the kitchen and together they knelt beside the tiny fire he had kindled. The twins were asleep there, wrapped in blankets, since their room had been taken over for the wedding. Pashinta let herself in the back door. There was water and a bowl of curd into which Tanuva was stirring rice flakes. But first they had to bathe in Imuna one final time. Ramita wrapped herself in a blanket and they walked through the pre-dawn alleys, treading the familiar path to the ghats. In Lakh there were always people around: men stumbling home drunk or servants scurrying about some task while their masters slept. Traders, sleeping in the streets to guard their tiny stalls and shops, from sturdy buildings to holes in a wall, even just space for a blanket on the ground. A lonely cow, mournfully
watching them pass. The alleys were smoky and filled with rivermist.
Other women joined them, rising from their doorways as they passed: Tanuva’s friends, come to share in the final preparation of the bride. Ramita had known them all her life, but now she loved them, wanted to be one of them, to grow old among them – but the gods wanted her to go north with a strange old man who had doomed the world.
There were ten women, the most auspicious number, clustered about her as she disrobed and walked into the Imuna, letting the cold water stroke her thighs, her belly, her breasts, her face.
Wash me away, Imuna. Wash me away, and leave just a husk to go on. Let my awareness remain here always, whilst an empty shell lives out my mortal life. Hear this prayer, Holy River
. But if Imuna heard, she did not care to grant this wish. Maybe the river was listening only to the women about her praying for her to enjoy a happy and fruitful marriage. Her soul remained firmly in her cold, wet body as she emerged from the river into a warming blanket. The chanting women waited for the sun, which rose golden and burned through the mist, pouring light upon all the other hundreds and thousands of people here, to the left and to the right, all with their hands raised to greet the dawn.
At last there were no more excuses, nothing that remained to be done. She felt numb, in no way ready, despite all the prayers and privations. Her mother and Pashinta took her hands and pulled her erect. Their faces were stony. Time did not wait, even for her.
At home her parents fed her with their own hands, then Ispal led her quietly back to the bedroom, where a fresh nightdress lay, a new one, not even a hand-me-down from Pashinta’s daughters. She squeezed his hand, then shooed him away, pulled off her sodden shift and put on the virgin linen. Within a short time she was snoring as deeply as Huriya, who hadn’t moved.
When Ramita woke again it was well into the morning and Huriya was lying there waiting for her eyes to open. ‘Sal’Ahm,’ she murmured.
‘Sal’Ahm,’ replied Ramita, a lump in her throat.
My wedding day
. Her stomach felt queasy. She would not be able to eat again until the wedding feast.
The next time food passes my lips, I will be married to that dried-out old man with dead eyes
.
‘Let’s go and see the gifts,’ urged Huriya, ‘and pick out what you’re going to wear.’ However sorry Huriya might be for Ramita, she was eager to go north and see the world.
She wouldn’t lift a finger to stop this wedding if she could
.
Hand in hand they went downstairs, where the kitchen was in full flow. Cakes and biscuits were piling up in heaps as they were swept off the griddle by gap-toothed aunties. Pots of daal were being stirred, perfuming the air with chilli and garlic. Jai and his friends were outside playing cards in between chores. Musicians were tuning their instruments in the yard. Ispal was at the centre of things, giving instructions, paying helpers, but her mother was the one really in command, giving ‘hints’ to her husband whenever something specific was needed. Everyone was singing or gossiping, the noise so loud she wondered how on earth she had slept so late.
When her parents saw her, they both came and hugged her. ‘Every day is a gift,’ Ispal whispered, ‘but you will remember this one above most others. Cherish it, my dear daughter.’
How can I?
Yet she put on her dutiful face as they all went upstairs to the twins’ room, a stale little cell with no windows now piled high with mounds of vegetables and piles of bundles, her wedding gifts, unwrapped by her parents. Ispal lit a candle, then lifted a blanket covering a lumpy mound on the bed. Ramita caught her breath as Huriya clapped her hand excitedly. The light of the candle was reflected everywhere, in golden brocade, glittering jewellery, silver chalices and brass statuary.
‘Gifts,’ Ispal said hoarsely, ‘from Antonin Meiros to his wife-to-be.’ He wrapped an arm about her. ‘You will be the finest bride in Baranasi.’
She gaped, speechless at the sight of more riches than she had ever dreamt of.
‘Vikash Nooridan was given money,’ Ispal murmured. ‘He went with his wife to the finest shops, the ones the princes use – that
bull of a ferang captain went with him. Vikash says that his wife nearly fainted with the pleasure of it. Come, choose jewellery; you too, Huriya, you also are my daughter. But remember, Ramita, you will wear your mother’s wedding saree. These others will be for other occasions. When you are visiting the princes of Hebusalim, perhaps.’ He looked almost happy for a second. Then he turned and left the room.
Tanuva picked up first one item then another, staring at them with glassy eyes, then she simply fled, her eyes streaming. Ramita went to follow, but Huriya caught her sleeve. ‘She needs to be alone, sister.’ The Keshi girl picked up a necklace, fondled it greedily, then thrust it at Ramita. ‘Try this on!’
They spent a long time going through it all. Ramita was too stunned to comprehend that all of this was hers, but she enjoyed Huriya’s almost ecstatic pleasure at the wealth spread about them. The Keshi girl was in her element, and her boundless enthusiasm drew Ramita in. They sorted through the earrings, nose-rings and lip-studs, the bangles, anklets, rings and the necklaces, until rubies and diamonds and even pearls seemed as common as the chickpeas and lentils in the kitchen below. They caressed the silken saris and salwars and dupattas, stroking the heavy brocade as they marvelled at the intricate patterns and vivid colours. Ramita gave to Huriya the things she most drooled over for the sheer pleasure of her reactions.
‘Isn’t this worth it?’ Huriya demanded. ‘He’s just an old man – he’ll die soon, and then we’ll be free and rich.’ Everything was ‘we’ for Huriya now she was permitted to accompany Ramita north, but Ramita was grateful for that. She needed a ‘we’ because she couldn’t do this alone.
Late afternoon, the Rondian soldiers arrived, stepping into the colour and frenzy like steel bugs. Captain Klein tramped through the gate and his jaw dropped at all the garish ribbons and the brightly attired women of the ghats. His brutish face loosened into a hint of a smile as he took it in, though he was clearly still nervous about the press of people. Everyone stared at him, this outlandish creature
straight out of a story; he certainly looked the part of a ferocious Rondian giant.
Only once all day did she think of Kazim, after a disturbance in the alleys, when she thought she heard him call her name, but nothing happened. Meiros’ guardsmen kept everyone away, even the curious street-toughs sent by Chandra-bhai, the local crimelord. Ispal would need to hire guards to stop other men from robbing them – they had never had possessions worth stealing before. For the first time it occurred to her that this new wealth might be a mixed blessing. How would the princes receive a newly rich trader? She began to chew her lip as every new difficulty occurred to her.