Path of the Eclipse (60 page)

Saint-Germain met this onslaught deftly, swinging the katana up to let the inferior steel of Guristar’s shimtare clash on the finer blade. He was determined to force the guard Commander to reveal where Rogerio and Padmiri had been taken, and for what purpose. Now he did not fight to kill, but to overwhelm and disarm. He drove Guristar back across the room with a series of rapid strikes and slashes, following relentlessly as Guristar retreated.

In all his years commanding the palace guard, Guristar had never fought an opponent like this. He had been against the Muslims once, and their maddened assault had filled him with a strangely invigorating terror. There was a giddiness in that combat that was entirely lacking in this ruthlessly controlled attack. His shimtare had never felt heavier or more unwieldly, or his arm more leaden. Surrender was unthinkable, but he longed to throw down his weapon and end the fight. Dimly, he was aware that had Saint-Germain truly pressed his stoccata he would have delivered a death-blow more than once. He shouted out his defiance, but could not stop retreating. Then, appallingly, glass powdered treacherously, his ankle twisted, and he fell. His shimtare spun out of his hands and the glass dug hundreds of little claws into him. He raised his arm in what he knew was a futile effort to slow the katana.

The Japanese blade hovered, then swung aside. Saint-Germain moved to Guristar’s side. “Why were you waiting for me?” he asked conversationally. There was little sign of exertion about him; he was not sucking in air as Guristar was, and there was no odor of sweat on him. “Tell me.”

“I will not.” He had pride, he told himself, and it was necessary to conduct himself well with this alien being.

“But you will, you know,” Saint-Germain corrected him pleasantly. The tip of the katana rested no more than a finger’s length from Guristar’s throat.

“Creature of Shiva!” Guristar tried to move back, but found that he was close to the wall, with nowhere to go.

“Where is my servant?” Saint-Germain inquired, as if he had not heard Guristar’s outburst.

“Elsewhere!” Guristar attempted to laugh, then thought better of it. “Gone.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” It would be simple, Saint-Germain realized as he bent over Guristar, to batter this man to pieces. His own capacity for fury distressed him, and he held it back. He had too much remorse in him already, and breaking this man’s bones would not help Padmiri or Rogerio. “And Padmiri, where is she?”

There was the slightest hesitation in Guristar’s answer. “She’s … gone as well.”

“I see.” Guristar did not know where Padmiri was, Saint-Germain inferred from this answer. “Why have they been taken?”

“Creature of Shiva!” Guristar pounded his hand on the floor and instantly regretted it. The side of his hand began to bleed and the glass lodged in the cuts.

“You may call me that as often as you like. But you will answer my questions.” The katana flicked nearer. “Where is my servant?”

“May every god humiliate and excoriate you.” The words were ragged, and, to Guristar’s acute embarrassment, his voice cracked.

“Where is Padmiri?” Saint-Germain had decided to let Guristar think he believed the Commander knew where the Rajah’s sister was.

“A diseased water buffalo fucked your ass.” Why didn’t the man kill him, if that was what he wanted?

“You’re becoming desperate,” Saint-Germain said with a faint smile. “Eventually you’ll say that my mother coupled with pariah dogs and drank the semen of leprous camels, but my questions will not change.”

Guristar had no response as impotent rage welled within him. “Spawn of corpse-eaters. Debaucher of pigs. Turd of a pox demon.”

“Where is my servant?” Saint-Germain’s tone was the same as before; he wore a fixed, icy smile. “Where is Padmiri?”

“Bhatin said you lay with her, and tasted her blood. He said that you have nothing of a man about you.” Guristar was howling now.

“Neither had Bhatin,” Saint-Germain reminded Guristar. “Where is Rogerio? Where is Padmiri?”

With as much cunning as he could muster, Guristar answered, “If you kill me, you will never find them in time.” He looked up into Saint-Germain’s enigmatic dark eyes. The questions were not repeated.

“Will you lead me to them?”

“Perhaps,” Guristar said, feeling suddenly quite powerful. “You will have to do just as I say.”

“Oh, no, Commander,” Saint-Germain said sardonically, all the while wondering what Guristar had meant—never find them in time?

Some of his fear returned. “You will have to come with me. As my prisoner.”

“No, Commander.” The katana touched his forehead, lightly, lightly, and blood ran into Guristar’s eyes. “You will take me to them, and you will do it at once. If they have suffered any hurt, you will pay for it in full. Believe that.”

“They are to be given to Kali,” Guristar said in a rush, and saw Saint-Germain’s face harden.

“When? Where? Tell me.” The pleasant tone was gone. Saint-Germain spat the words out, taking a step backward so that he would not be tempted to inflict greater damage on Guristar.

Misreading this action, the Commander of the guard determined to return a portion of the torment Saint-Germain had given him. “She would rather have you, creature of Shiva. You’re a better sacrifice.” He said this sourly, recalling how Tamasrajasi had gloated when she told him how she wanted to use Saint-Germain. “She will take what the goddess gives her, and offer it with the greatest honor.”

“To Kali?” He waited, then repeated in a low, precise, horrific tone, “To Kali?”

“Yes, yes. To Kali. Yes.” His fear had returned so absolutely that his bones seemed to melt within him.

“Take me there,” Saint-Germain said with quiet, indisputable authority.

“You cannot save then,” Guristar protested as he began to struggle to his feet. “It’s senseless to try.” There was more to his objection than a warning: Tamasrajasi had told him that if she could not offer the foreigners to Kali, she would offer him. He was devoted to the Rani and her young, intoxicating body, but the thought of the knives of sacrifice and the long, degrading ritual sickened him.

“Guristar.” The voice was calm, absolute. “You will take me there. Or I will kill you by slicing open your abdomen and letting you bleed to death.”

“And you would drink my blood…” Guristar cried on a rising note as all his fears crowded in upon him.

“Your blood?” Saint-Germain regarded him with contempt. “What would your blood give me?” With a sudden disgusted gesture he sheathed his katana. “You will take me where my servant and Padmiri are. You will not attempt to delay or mislead me. If I have reason to believe you are doing so, I will kill you.”

Guristar did not doubt this: he resisted the urge to abase himself. Creatures of Shiva, he said inwardly, were governed by death and so might contaminate him without intending to do so. This foreigner was filled with menace. As Guristar paused to pick the bits of glass out of his hand, he stared at his blood, spreading like a shadow down his arm, and for a moment he felt profoundly insulted. That a creature of Shiva should refuse his blood! He wiped his hand against his loose trousers.

“Where is your horse?” Saint-Germain asked, standing aside to let Guristar precede him through the door.

“Behind the garden wall.” His hand was throbbing now, and his legs ached. His eyes felt like cinders in his head.

“We will get it as soon as I have mounted. My horse is not far from the slaves’ quarters.” His crisp diction and outward assurance covered his great turmoil. Where had Padmiri gone? Had she been captured, or had she escaped? How could he free Rogerio? Where was he? What would be done to him? Had already been done to him? To silence these useless, desperate questions, he said to Guristar, “Tamasrajasi attends this sacrifice, you say?”

“Attends? She is the priestess,” Guristar answered with pride. “It is she herself who will take the knife to you, creature of Shiva. You are not to be given to anyone but her.” He came to a forking in the corridor and looked back toward Saint-Germain.

“Toward the north, Commander. And out through the reception room.” He began to walk faster, as if seeking to outstrip the anxiety that filled him. He reached out to prod Guistar, ignoring the protest that greeted this.

“Execrable creature of Shiva!” Guristar shouted, though he hurried.

The echo of this imprecation rang in Saint-Germain’s mind. Creature of Shiva, creature of Shiva. He moved more quickly, recalling that Shiva was the god who danced on the Burning Ground, accompanying himself on a drum that was the implacable beat of time itself.

Text of a formal document from the Rani Tamasrajasi of Natha Suryarathas to the Sultan Shams-ud-din Iletmish in Delhi.

Conquering Lord of the lowlands and self-proclaimed Sultan at Delhi, the Rani Tamasrajasi, daughter of Rajah Kare Dantinusha, honors you with this message which she has deigned to write with her own hand.

It is her obligation to inform the Sultan that those men he caused to be sent here have become victims of misplaced zeal and have paid the price of the Sultan’s arrogance.

Not long ago a band of Thuggi, good holy men who are devotees of the Black Goddess, happened to encounter the Sultan’s men as they disported themselves in a manner both depraved and shocking to the Thuggi. Not able to endure the depth of the insult which had been offered them, the Thuggi rose in righteous indignation and belabored the Sultan’s men after the methods of their sect. Lamentably, the men of the Sultan were not prepared to deal with the demands of the Thuggi, and so all have perished.

The Sultan will understand that this affront to his dignity was only recently brought to the Rani’s attention. There are matters of this kingdom which must take precedence in her work over matters that are more properly the concern of other rulers. Indeed, were it not that the Sultan is nearly her equal in rank, the Rani would assign the task of sending this missive to her chamberlain. Only her respect for a fellow-ruler moves her to take the responsibility upon herself to inform him of this unfortunate event.

Because of the unrest the presence of the Sultan’s mission brought to this country, the Rani proposes that the Sultan not trouble himself to send others to take the place of those who died. The disruption has not vanished and it would not be wise to attempt to bring others to this country when it is likely they would be similarly received. Caution and wisdom should temper the Sultan’s impetuosity. There is no immediate need in Natha Suryarathas for the Sultan’s representatives, and the lack of welcome must be regarded as indicative of the attitude of the country. At the periyanadu, held while the Rajah Kare Dantinusha was still alive, it was made plain that the Sultan would do well not to honor us too much with his presence and the presence of his representatives.

Naturally, if the Sultan does not send men to us and there is little communication between the countries, it is not likely that the need for tribute to Delhi will be as strong as before. The Rani has heard the various arguments put forth on the question of tribute and has decided that as the Sultan has stolen lands that were rightly the territory of her kingdom, tribute is an insult to the majesty of the Rani and all of her nobles, and to continue in this degrading arrangement would offer the gods an intolerable insult as well as humiliating the kingdom of Natha Suryarathas itself.

The Rani wishes to remind the Sultan that she can, at an order, put a thousand elephants and two thousand pikemen and four thousand horsemen into the field against the men of the Sultan. The Rani’s elephants are enormous and of fierce temper. Her fighters are ready for battle and their lances and shimtares shine bright as the sun at midday. The Rani’s horses dance at the call to arms and her cavalrymen ride faster than the wind behind the rainstorms. Nothing in the Sultan’s experience can match the strength and might of the Rani’s forces. The Rani cautions the Sultan that any provocation will bring all the might of her army down upon his men, and the valor of her troops will awe the Sultan’s warriors.

It will be most satisfactory if this constitutes the entire communication between the Rani and the Sultan. There is little to be gained in messages of any nature. If the Sultan is desirous of war, let him send his heralds with proper challenges and addresses, otherwise the Rani will not look for any word from Shams-ud-din Iletmish or his representatives.

As the Sultan does not admit to the sanctity of the Rani’s gods, she will not trouble to address them upon his behalf. And yet, the Black Goddess may find the Sultan worthy of her attention, and should that come to pass, the Rani will make sacrifice for his acceptability.

Tamasrajasi

daughter of the Rajah Kare Dantinusha

Rani of Natha Suryarathas

in the first year of her reign

10

Not far from where the trail branched away from the road there were guards. They waited at the rough timber bridge that spanned the narrow, swift river that coursed through the defile and fell in three spectacular cascades to join the Chenab.

“Who comes?” one of the guards demanded. He was a large man in a light-colored garment armed with a wickedly curved knife.

“It is Sudra Guristar, Commander of the palace guard,” was the answer he gave with a nervous glance at Saint-Germain.

“Who is with you?” The guard did not approach the two mounted men, but neither did he give ground.

“The creature of Shiva. The foreigner.” He had been warned not to let these men know that he was, in fact, Saint-Germain’s captive, and now he was pleased he had given his word.

“The Rani is at the temple,” the guard said, and motioned to his fellows to stand aside so that the two horses could pick their way over the flimsy bridge.

The trail wound back into the water-carved defile. The trees crowded in, occasionally so densely that it was not possible to see the moon-brightened sky overhead. Guristar led the way, conscious always of the long katana that still hung from Saint-Germain’s belt. The blood on his face had caked and dried, but his head was hammered with pain. Every step his horse took, each beat of his heart made Guristar grind his teeth. As the path grew steeper, Guristar began to exult. In very little time he would give this creature over to his mistress, and her gratitude would bestow power upon him, and all the satisfactions of her young flesh. For the first time that night, the wounds he had suffered seemed to be worthwhile.