Path of the Eclipse (59 page)

Let us assure the Rani that if she is determined to have this reservoir made, then by this time next year it will be almost complete and the gardens around it may be planted. That is not so long a time to wait for a beautiful and pleasure-giving place to emerge from what has been little more than a marsh.

Already the waters have risen behind the dam, and a good portion of the land that was bog is now under the waters. It will not be long before the fringe plants die off and the lake will begin to clear. There is sufficient rock on the floor of the lake to allow for the building of kiosks and pavilions on the various islands that are to be constructed. It is a matter of greatest importance and honor to those who work on this construction that we have the approval of the Rani, as we do not wish to offer her or the memory of her father an insult by being desultory in carrying out her orders.

With the knowledge that the Rajah ordered a good and pious act when he ordered work begun on the reservoir, we ask that the Rani consider her answer in this light, for it would be most lamentable that we do not complete this. The gods will have their will accomplished, no matter what we do, but the will of the Rajah is in accord with that of the gods and it is most wise to be acquiescent to the demands of the lord as well as the gods. No one intends to instruct the Rani in piety, for it is manifest in every aspect of her life. Yet we know that one young, new to majesty and filled with the uncertainties of women may falter when it is best to proceed. We wish her to know that we are all wholly inclined to finish the work that has been begun, for her honor, the honor of her father and the honor of the gods.

With all duty and humility, we ask that you, her chamberlain, bring our plight to her attention soon. We will keep working until we have orders to desist. However, we must also have shelter and food for our workers, and that has not been furnished of late. There are requests, also, for timber and cut stone which have not been attended to, and so our industry flags. We ask that you mention this when you bring this to the Rani’s attention.

May the bounty of the gods be yours, and may the Rani rule long and enjoy all the fruits of their favor.

The Building Supervisors

for the construction of the

Rajah Kare Dantinusha’s reservoir

9

Not a single lamp burned in Padmiri’s house: it loomed up against the darkened bulk of trees, anonymous and troubling. Beside its massive shadow the feeble glimmer from the lights of the slaves’ quarters was pathetic, a swarm of fireflies teasing a sleeping elephant.

Saint-Germain drew in his horse some distance from the house. He had been in the saddle since midafternoon, when he had entrusted the heavily disguised Jalal-im-al Zakatim to Loramidi Chol. It had taken most of the morning to convince the little merchant that it would be possible to get Jalal-im-al out of Natha Suryarathas safely, but he had capitulated at last when Saint-Germain had offered him a handful of gold. He had been glad to conclude the meeting, and anticipated a diminishing of his anxiety. Instead of a lightening of mood, however, his thoughts had grown darker as the day faded. Now, as he waited, looking at the house, a cold fatalism possessed him. He dismounted and looped the bridle reins over a nearby branch. Next he adjusted the scabbard that hung at his right side—he fought equally well with either hand, and had learned that carrying his weapon on the right occasionally gave him an advantage. The katana’s hilt was somewhat longer than he was used to, so he slung his belt a little lower on his hip. Satisfied, he gave the horse one firm pat on the flank, then started toward the enormous blackness of Padmiri’s house.

Near the slaves’ quarters he paused, silent and stealthy as a cloud passing the moon. He could hear the hushed voices from within, and the occasional louder admonition to be quiet. There was a section of wall near a window where the moonlight fell all dappled with forest leaves, and it was there Saint-Germain crept, then pressed close to the wall, an irregular darkness in the uneven shadows.

“… against the Rani,” one of the older slaves was saying in a tone of suppressed emotion. “If it were otherwise, the gods would have deserted us and the country.”

“But they say that Kali is her goddess,” a younger one put in, “and if that is so, her devotions will not allow that protection.”

“Our mistress is the Rajah’s sister. She would not be mistreated for such ends unless she herself desired it. The gods would not take her as an unwilling sacrifice,” the older slave insisted.

“Do not speak so loudly,” a tired voice interrupted.

“Then where is she?” demanded one of the others, wholly ignoring the request for lowered voices. “If the soldiers did not take her away, what has become of her? Where has she gone?”

This was a question none of them wanted to answer, and Saint-Germain, knowing the uneasy hush for what it was, began to fear.

“The soldiers were here to aid her. It was the foreigners whom they sought, not our mistress.” This was a new voice, with a superior inflection. Saint-Germain thought the man must be one of the higher-ranking household slaves and not one of the more menial ones. The ranking and authority among the slaves was as rigid and complex as the relationships of one caste to another. When a well-placed slave spoke, the others heard him out with respect.

“Then why did they take only one of the foreigners, and our mistress disappear from her own house?” This voice was angry.

“She is with the other foreigner. Bhatin said that he has been her lover, and practiced terrible barbarities on her.” A greedy laugh followed this announcement.

“The soldiers have taken both the servant of the foreigner and our mistress,” the angry voice insisted.

“And the other foreigner, the master, has fled.” Saint-Germain recognized this voice—it belonged to a eunuch who guarded Padmiri’s house. Saint-Germain had intended to ask one of these men what had happened while he was away, but now he knew that it would not be possible.

“The foreigner is a magician, and a man of the West.” The pronouncement was the most complete condemnation, and although Saint-Germain had heard himself spoken of in similar and less complimentary terms many times in the past, the barb still struck home.

“And the soldiers said that he is a creature of Shiva.” Now the slaves were truly shocked, awed by the terrible implications of that statement. Shiva, who danced in serenity on the unholy Burning Ground, who was lord of graveyards, dead, and undead things—his creatures all evoked dread in his worshipers.

“Our mistress did not think so,” the man muttered, but the others hushed him; it was some time before any conversation began again, and this time the slaves spoke of inconsequent things.

Saint-Germain lingered near the window a fair time, but he gleaned nothing else of interest, and that alone served to increase his apprehension. What had happened here while he had been gone? The question had returned to plague him. The soldiers had come. Whose? Tamasrajasi’s? Thuggi? Troops sent by the Sultan to avenge the death of his mission? The soldiers had taken one of the foreigners, who Saint-Germain was certain was Rogerio. Where had he been taken? The soldiers had wanted the other foreigner, no doubt himself. Why? And Padmiri was missing, either also a prisoner, or perhaps something worse had befallen that admirable woman. His fingers moved as he recalled the texture of her hair. The day before, he remembered with an immediacy that made him have to stop the melody in his throat, he had taught her two Western songs, one in Greek, one in the corrupt language of the Franks. Between that time, when they had laughed together at her lilting mispronunciation of the words, and this time, she had left her house, for soldiers had come there. Saint-Germain would have liked to be able to demand the truth from the slaves huddled in the chamber on the other side of the wall, but it was useless. None of them would admit to knowing what had become of their mistress, least of all to him. Whatever had happened to his servant and Padmiri, Saint-Germain would have to find out on his own.

When the rushlights in the slaves’ quarters were extinguished, Saint-Germain slipped away from the wall. He went with caution now, yet with amazing swiftness. His hand closed on the katana’s hilt. His heeled boots made less sound than the padding of a housecat. With feral grace he vaulted onto the lowest terrace of the house—the one outside the room where he had first loved Padmiri. Here he paused, taking stock of the dark around him. There was no sound, no hint that the house was not empty; nevertheless he sensed that someone waited for him on the inside. He moved toward the door, his dark eyes catching, for an instant, the shine of moonlight.

He eased the nearest door open, no more loudly than the breath of wind that shivered through the trees. Now he stepped into the room, going across the floor quickly. His eyes, unhampered by dark, searched out the corners of the place, and he realized that whoever awaited him, he, or they, were not in this wing of the house. He entered the hall and stood, undecided. Doubtless he would be expected to return to his own quarters, to his laboratory. A man might lie in wait there, confident that his prey would return. How to turn the trap, if there was a trap, Saint-Germain wondered, and looked toward the ceiling. His smile was vulpine.

A little distance along the corridor, Saint-Germain made out a few loose planks in the ceiling, above the cornices, bowed beams and piering. It might be possible, he told himself. He pulled the lacing from his jacket, and with it he tied the katana close against his leg, just above the knee. He measured the distance, took a few quick steps and sprang upward lithely, grateful that only the walls had been plastered. He grabbed for the projections of an ornamental scroll of one of the beams where it met the elaborate cornice. There, bracing himself with shoulders and elbows, he dangled over the empty hall as he worked, one-handed, at the ceiling. When he felt the planks slide under his hand, he swung himself onto the beam, steadying himself on the short piering, before shoving the planks aside. He scrambled into the narrow, uneven space between the ceiling and roof, brushing cobwebs aside as he began to make his way toward the wing where his quarters were. Once he almost stepped on a large snake curled in a trough between beams; another time he startled a spider the size of his hand in its filmy web. He noted, with irony, that there were no rats here, and was not surprised. At last he found the bedding where Jalal-im-al had lain hidden, and he noded somberly. He had made very little sound as he traversed the house, and now he was even more careful. A short distance farther on he came to the trapdoor he had made in the ceiling of his laboratory. His attention sharpened as he began to lift the board. It was slow, agonizing work, done with great patience. A noise, a slip now, and the advantage he had sought would be lost. There was always the possibility that no one was in the laboratory below him, but he was convinced now that it would be here he found those who hunted for him. He pulled the boards through their hole and set them down with no more than a gentle tap, but it was loud enough to make him wait a few moments before he dropped through the hole to the floor.

“What?” a startled voice cried out as Saint-Germain landed, drawing the katana as he straightened up.

“There!” another said in a higher register.

So there were two of them, Saint-Germain told himself. At least two. He shoved the nearest table aside, taking delight in the crash it made as it struck the wall. There was space to fight now, without treacherous islands of furniture that were more dangerous than the swords of the two men who rushed toward him.

“Demon!” the higher voice shouted, and Saint-Germain realized that it was Bhatin, Padmiri’s chief eunuch. The other man was trying to slip around to Saint-Germain’s flank. Saint-Germain spared him one glance. It was Sudra Guristar, Commander of the palace guard.

Bhatin made a sudden rush at Saint-Germain, a shimtare held high over his head, ready to cleave downward. The katana, light and flexible in Saint-Germain’s grasp, deflected the blow, then turned with an easy turn of the wrists, and nicked Bhatin’s knuckles almost playfully. Bhatin shrieked and staggered back.

That was the moment when Guristar made his rush. Saint-Germain pivoted to meet this attack, slicing a long, horizontal swath before him. Guristar dropped to the ground and slid, cursing and calling Saint-Germain a variety of foul names.

“Guristar!” Bhatin called, an edge of hysteria in the name.

“Quiet!”

Saint-Germain chuckled, and saw his opponents falter.

“Unnatural thing!” Bhatin muttered. “Drinker of blood.”

“Ah.” There was an abiding regret in the sound. Saint-Germain faced the eunuch. “You watched.”

“Yes!” He took three stumbling steps forward, then retreated. “I watched.
Creature of Shiva!
”

“You think me that, and you dare fight me?” Saint-Germain asked, pursuing Bhatin, the katana resting in his hands.

When the eunuch screamed, it was from panic. He grabbed his shimtare and threw it at Saint-Germain even as he turned to flee. The shimtare clattered and rang on the floor. Bhatin collided with one of the shelves and his hands closed around the neck of a large glass vessel. He swung around and threw this, too.

The vessel glanced off Saint-Germain’s upper arm, then shattered as it fell, strewing its shards over the room.

Guristar was on his feet again, but could not see well enough to attack. He began to pick his way over the bits of glass, wincing as they were crushed underfoot.

Bhatin had grabbed another vessel and was about to throw it when he felt the flick of steel on his shoulder. It was impossible that so light a blow could be mortal, but as he dropped the second vessel, he felt his own blood run over and through his fingers, hot and pulsing. His life was gone before the katana finished slicing through his ribs.

The sound of Bhatin’s body falling alerted Guristar. He came toward Saint-Germain as fast as the glass-spattered floor would let him, with his shimtare thrust forward.