It was difficult traveling alone: he was able to catch birds and small animals for sustenance, but there was no companionship, and he found his loneliness more intense than either his hunger or pain. In the short summer nights, he often waited on the outskirts of villages, not only to snare ducks and geese but to hear the sound of human voices. He fashioned a walking-stick out of a branch, and spent his dawns and sunsets carving Tulsi's face into it with the metal tongue of a belt-buckle he had found half-buried in the road, telling himself that he could use this likeness to show others when he searched for her in Chaul, not because he longed for her.
The first storms came almost a full month early, and his travel was slowed by wind and rain. He needed shelter more than ever now, for there was running water everywhere so that even at night he could find no relief from it. He was weak and exhausted, unable to travel far at night, and utterly helpless in the daytime. His journey was arduous, made more difficult by his growing concern that even if Tulsi reached Chaul, he would not be there in time to find her before she moved on to Lithuania and Kiev. By the time he reached the coast,
he was desperate, and pressed himself to go farther each night, trying to take advantage of the lengthening darkness to cover as much ground as possible. His clothes by now were little more than rags, and he used what little cloth he had left to wrap his chest and genitals, and to put some protection on his foot. Although he was rarely seen, his injuries required care and he could not forsake the habit of modesty acquired more than thirty-four hundred years ago.
When he finally arrived at Chaul, he made for the docks where his warehouses and ships were. The night was far-advanced and only dogs and rats were abroad. He slipped through the streets he had learned many years before, past temples and market-squares, past fine houses and hovels, until the odor of the sea was strong in his nostrils and he could hear the sough and sigh of the waves, and the creaking of timbers from ships tied up at the piers. At last he had reached a haven; he found his warehouses and slipped in through an entrance he had made for his own use more than fifty years before. The hinges shrieked in protest as he swung back the hidden door far enough to allow him to get inside.
The aromas here were strong: pepper, ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, and coriander all vied for dominance in the air ; crates of the precious seeds, barks, roots, and powders were stacked against the walls and in clusters on the floor. At the point in the warehouse farthest away from the water were two ancient chests, banded in metal with his eclipse embossed on their ends, old and neglected in appearance: these were what Sanat Ji Mani sought, and to him they were more precious than casks of jewels and gold, for these contained his native earth. Setting his carved walking stick down, he worked the lock on the larger of the two, swung back the lid, and climbed in, pulling the lid closed on top of him. The annealing presence of the Transylvanian soil enveloped him as if in a maternal embrace, and he finally was able to rest.
He came to himself shortly after mid-day, when all of Chaul drowsed under the warmth of the brassy sun; he felt much restored, the pain from his foot and his broken rib had receded and he had regained a measure of his strength. Emerging from the chest with care, he pulled out a sack from the foot of the crate that contained clothing, weapons, his eclipse pectoral, and a small pouch of alchem
ical gold. Brushing himself clean of any smirches, he wrapped his chest and foot, then dressed in a kandys of black damask and leggings of heavy silk twill of dark, dull-red, and Russian boots with his native earth lining the soles. The fine fabric felt alien on his skin, and he suspected he still looked much the worse for wear. Taking up a dagger, settling his pectoral in place, its heavy silver links all but black with tarnish, and tying his pouch of gold to his sash, he readied himself to approach the factor who supervised his warehouses and shipping. He picked up his walking stick, ran his fingers through his hair and set off through the warehouse toward the front door.
The factor was dozing on a bench, a cup of strong, sweet tea standing half-finished on the arm of the bench; flies were already gathered on the rim. He blinked as Sanat Ji Mani approached him, as if uncertain if he actually saw someone or was dreaming. Slowly he sat up, his strong, dark visage registering his confusion. Belatedly he stood, put his palms together and bowed.
Sanat Ji Mani returned the gesture. "You would be Bhismali's son? I am the foreigner Sanat Ji Mani. You are my factor."
"Bhismali's grandson, Reverend Sir," said the factor, doing his best not to stare. "Oh, what a predicament… To meet you like this… I did not think… I did not know…" he stammered, trying to achieve the decorum their meeting demanded.
"I apologize for surprising you," said Sanat Ji Mani smoothly. "I have been traveling and have only just arrived." This slight mendacity did not trouble him; he went on smoothly, "It has been a hard journey."
"I should think so," said Bhismali's grandson, and Sanat Ji Mani could not help but wonder how he looked to deserve such a response. "Are you alone?"
"Alas, yes. There has been war to the north-east of here, and that made for difficulties," Sanat Ji Mani said.
"Yes. We have heard that the Rajput of Deogir defeated that upstart Hasin Dahele, and put his head over the gate of his city, where birds can pick it clean." Bhismali's grandson nodded his approval. "They say half the soldiers of Beragar are now Deogir's slaves."
Sanat Ji Mani was silent for a moment. "How do you know this?" he asked, knowing how quickly rumors could become accepted truth.
"Merchants from Asirgarh brought word of it, not ten days ago," said Bhismali's grandson. "I myself spoke with them, for they are part of the House of Iniattir."
"The House of Iniattir," Sanat Ji Mani repeated, and smiled.
"If you came through that fighting, it is no wonder you did not have an easy time of it," said the factor. "Everyone knows that there was fighting. There were many people on the roads, having lost their villages and their homes. Some of them still wander, and will for months to come."
"They have come here?" Sanat Ji Mani asked, thinking back to the many nights the roads had seemed empty; he had avoided villages and encampments, which, he thought, may have been a mistake— he might have learned something of Tulsi had he sought out other travelers. As he chided himself, he knew that such exposure was dangerous and that the chance of finding her by such random methods were slight, but he could not keep from thinking it might have worked.
"A great many; most have moved on, a few have gone back, now that it is over." The factor looked puzzled. "Surely you saw something of this."
"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani. "But I did not realize how much of it was due to the fighting." He paused to consider. "And you are sure that the Rajput of Beragar is dead?"
"Yes. Everyone knows it is so, as everyone knows Timur-i is trying to attack the Land of Snows." The factor made a gesture to emphasize the obvious. "To think that you came through the fighting, though."
"Not quite through it," Sanat Ji Mani said.
"Then near enough to have trouble because of it," said Bhismali's grandson.
"It was difficult, and I fear that was my fault. Had I not been lax, we would not have been in danger; I hold myself responsible for what has happened." His voice changed, becoming more forceful. "My companion and I were separated; I had hoped I might find her here," he said as if a woman by herself were nothing remarkable.
"Her? You traveled with a woman?" Bhismali's grandson exclaimed. "Did you not have guards? Was it just you and the woman?"
"There were four guards," said Sanat Ji Mani. "All dead, some days ago." His dark eyes were deep and full of sorrow. "That is why I am
most concerned for my companion." He held out his walking stick. "This is her likeness. She is from far to the north, with hair lighter than mine, and blue-green eyes, shaped like those of the Chinese."
"Um," said the factor, staring at the carved portrait. "I have not come across anyone who looks like this."
"She is a tumbler and an acrobat. Perhaps you saw her perform in the market-place," Sanat Ji Mani suggested.
"I am here when the market-places are active. My household tends to our purchases there." He contemplated the face on the walking stick. "Tall or short?"
"Not quite as tall as I am," said Sanat Ji Mani, knowing that she would be tall in this region. "Very strong."
Bhismali's grandson shook his head. "I know none such," he said. "Nor have I heard of any."
Sanat Ji Mani did his best to conceal his discomfiture, telling himself that this was just the first step in his search, that he could not expect to find her upon his arrival, not after they had been apart for nearly three months. "Well." He took back his staff. "I shall want to find her."
"Immediately?" Bhismali's grandson exclaimed.
"As soon as may be," said Sanat Ji Mani, fighting the sense of futility that threatened to overcome him.
"Where shall you want to look?" The factor was baffled but did his best not to show it.
"Everywhere in this city, and then north, along the coast, all the way to Cambay, if necessary." Sanat Ji Mani kept his tone level. "We will arrange matters shortly. For now, I must learn how trade has been and what news you have had from Alexandria."
"Ah, Alexandria," said Bhismali's grandson, nodding knowingly. "Yes. I have received regular messages from your factor there, Rogerian, who has been most concerned for your welfare. He has been diligent in maintaining your interests and expanding your markets; he has been dealing with Rustam Iniattir and his relatives most effectively. You and the House of Iniattir have made a fortuitous alliance that will continue to benefit you and them for many years to come. It was wise of you to enter into your trading with them." He was obviously far more comfortable discussing business than the missing
woman; his eyes brimmed with enthusiasm. "I have records you may want to examine, all recorded on palm-leaves, as my grandfather taught me. He must have served your father; you cannot have been a merchant for almost fifty years. You do not seem as ancient as you would have to be." This last was dubious again.
"I do not look my age, I have been told," said Sanat Ji Mani smoothly. "If your grandfather trained you in his ways, then I will be satisfied."
"He did that," said Bhismali's grandson. "From the time I was very young. I have sworn to train my oldest son to take my place." He smiled. "You and your father have been most reliable, most honorable; my family is grateful to you."
"As I am to you," said Sanat Ji Mani, and glanced toward the warehouse. "Perhaps we can step out of the sun: as you see, I have been burned by it recently." Although he had not seen his reflection since he had awakened to vampire life, he could tell from the way his skin felt that his face was red and peeling.
Bhismali's grandson was chagrined. "I should not have kept you here. Of course we must go into the warehouse and I must show you all that has been done, what has been shipped from here, what is expected here, and the values of it all." He straightened up. "It will be a great pleasure for me to explain all that has been done. This warehouse is the older one, and the smaller. There is a newer and larger one on the next pier down."
"This is very good of you," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I received information about the second warehouse a few years ago, as I recall."
"It is a fine place. You will be proud," said Bhismali's grandson.
"No doubt I will," said Sanat Ji Mani, allowing the factor to escort him into the older warehouse. "Do you think it might be possible that this woman might have gone to the newer, larger warehouse?" He tried to make the question casual, but he could see from the expression on the factor's face that he had failed.
"It would be a most unsuitable thing to do," said Bhismali's grandson. "I cannot believe that any woman would do such a thing."
"She is not like your wives, or your daughters," Sanat Ji Mani said steadily. "She would not hesitate to present herself there, if that was where she was sent." But even as he declared this, he wondered if it
was so. On her own in a strange place, Tulsi Kil might not behave as he expected.
"You may inquire there; it is your warehouse," said Bhismali's grandson in a manner stiff with disapproval. "But let us attend to this after I have shown you the records for the last several years. You will see that the disruption in the north has increased our trade, and as much as it damaged the markets of Delhi, it has brought more ships here to Chaul, and that has been fortunate for us. The Wheel turns for all of us."
"That it does," said Sanat Ji Mani, pleased to get out of the sun, although with his native earth in the soles of his boots, it no longer hurt him to be in the light. He went into the ante-chamber that served as a reception room and office, and gave his full attention to the records Bhismali, his son, and his grandson had kept for Sanat Ji Mani.
It was getting dark by the time he left to visit the larger warehouse; Bhismali's grandson had excused himself, saying he had duties to attend to at home, and promised to meet with Sanat Ji Mani the next morning. Sanat Ji Mani did not argue; he went along to the pier where three large warehouses sat, and approached the one with his eclipse painted on the side: Bhismali's grandson was right— the warehouse was half again as large as the older one. As he approached, two men with truncheons came up to him.
