Heir of Iron (The Powers of Amur Book 1) (3 page)

A dreadful determination settled in her belly. She sat at the corner of the bed, holding her father’s hand and looking at his wrinkled and spotted skin. She would say no word of this to Taleg. Her father didn’t have long to live. But she wouldn’t wait—she and Taleg had promised, and she knew what she had to do.

A boisterous shout echoed through the courtyard below the door to the chamber. Veshta’s laugh bubbled up to them, followed by a call of, “Cauratha, have you heard?”

Mandhi quickly wiped the corners of her eyes and hid by the door. A moment later Veshta burst through the curtain with his belly heaving and his fleshy face flush with sweat and joy. “Srithi is with child! In six months we’ll have a baby!”

Cauratha’s face lit up as if the bitterness of the previous minute had never been. He and Veshta began speaking rapidly, in that proud but removed way men had when speaking of wives and children. Mandhi spied Srithi waiting outside the door, her slender smile showing a mixture of joy and embarrassment, and Mandhi slipped through the curtain to her side.

“He’s as happy as I said he’d be,” Mandhi said.

Srithi put her hand over her mouth. “Maybe I should have waited longer. Now I’m nervous, and everyone in the house looks at me differently.”

“You couldn’t hide it much longer anyway. Better the household find out this way.” Mandhi touched the star-iron rings on her finger. One for her, one for her brother. “Srithi,” she said, “how many saghada do you know in the city aside from my father?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps ten. Why do you ask?”

“Find me one from the East Quarter, not nearby, who is trustworthy and can keep confidence. One who doesn’t know my father. I need to speak to one as soon as possible.”

Srithi peered at her with an expression of surprise and concern. “What on earth for? Mandhi, you have to tell me.”

Mandhi put her hand over Srithi’s. “I will. But not yet.”

Mandhi dropped the pouch of coins into the muddy palm of the slave merchant. He rifled his fingers through them to count, then smiled at Mandhi broadly.

“I keep the rowers by the wharf,” Bhila said, gesturing through the open door that spied on the open docks along the Maudhu river. “This guy was going to get sold onto a galley tomorrow, so it’s a good thing you came. Follow me.”

He sauntered out the door, brushing crumbs of roti from his mustache, and gestured for Mandhi and Taleg to follow. Once outside he spat on the ground and rubbed his greasy hands on his shirt. “Right over there.”

Bhila’s office slouched on the shoulder of the bluff that overlooked the wharf district. At the bottom of the bluff was a narrow floodplain between the city and the Maudhu river, which was filled with dozens of square courtyards protecting roofless warehouses. Ochre mud walls fenced in bales of tea and silk, boxes of cardamom and cinnamon, ceramic jars of spikenard, long bundles of sugar cane, and sheaves of pressed palm leaves. Bhila’s drooping finger picked out a nondescript rectangle tucked into the middle of the jumble, apparently empty except for two dozen or so men slumped against the walls.

Without a word Bhila descended the stone steps cut into the side of the bluff. Mandhi glanced back to make sure that Taleg was behind her, then followed. The dank, swampy smell of the river rose to smother them. A few moments brought them into the warren of warehouse passages. Bhila stopped when they approached a group of four guards sitting outside a bronze-barred wooden door set in a mud-brick wall. “Get me the man named Navran,” he said to the first of the guards.

The man grunted and lumbered up onto a ledge in the wall and bellowed over the top. “Which one of you is Navran? Get to the door. You’re leaving. No, the rest of you stay back or we’ll beat you away. I’ll stab your eye out if I have to. You don’t need eyes to row.”

The other guards raised the bars holding the door shut. Mandhi’s pulse quickened. In a moment two years of searching would end, and she would no longer be the only child of Cauratha. She glanced up at Taleg. His expression was impassive, but the knuckles of the hand were white where they gripped the staff.

The leather hinges creaked. A man stepped out. Mandhi’s breath caught, and a shock of revulsion passed through her before she could muster any conscious thought. His hair was filthy with dirt, hanging freely off his shoulders in knotty locks. His beard and mustache were untrimmed and colored by dust. A mud-browned shirt hung from his knobby shoulders, cinched at the waist with a fraying bit of rope. Below the waist he wore only a loincloth. Thin, rickety legs led to feet with cracked yellow nails.

“You’ve got the muscle to keep him in line if he decides to bolt,” Bhila said, gesturing to Taleg. He went on, but Mandhi didn’t hear any more. She was searching the man’s face. If there was any trace of her father there, she couldn’t make it out beneath the dirt and untrimmed mustache. His gaze, though. He stared back at her with unflinching fearlessness.

“… yours now,” Bhila finished. “You’ll follow me back up the hill?”

Mandhi blinked away her reverie. “Yes, of course. Taleg, you keep the slave, the man, in front of you.” She couldn’t bring herself to say his name.

Taleg nodded and pointed where he wanted Navran to go. Bhila continued to talk aimlessly as they left the warehouse district and climbed into the city proper, his words scattering harmlessly away from Mandhi’s ears. At the top of the stairs, she thanked Bhila and dismissed him, then motioned for Taleg and Navran to follow. She did not look back at them. She couldn’t.

They walked half the distance back to the estate, then Mandhi stopped. No use going any farther. She glanced behind her, saw Taleg and the miserable debt-slave standing behind her, and motioned into an alley.

“There may be a mistake,” she said as soon as they were reasonably private. “But if so, never fear, we’ll release you with no harm done. Tell me truly, now. Do you belong to the Uluriya?”

The man’s mouth opened slowly and his tongue flexed, as if he were unsure how to speak. “I don’t know,” he said. His voice was deep and hoarse.

“You don’t know? Don’t try to fool me. You’ve got nothing to lose here. We are looking for a man that we believed to be Uluriya, as we are. But your beard is untrimmed and your hair untied, so I want to know if we have the wrong person.”

The man looked between Mandhi to Taleg with that same dark, unsparing gaze. He took a very long time to answer. “I was born Uluriya,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”

Mandhi pulled the second star-iron ring from her finger. “And this? Do you recognize this?”

The man appeared startled, and a shade of anger flashed in his eyes. But a moment later the impassive mask descended again, and he simply nodded.

“Is it yours?” Mandhi went on. “Why didn’t you keep it?”

“A man took it from me.”

“A man. You mean Rishakka, the slave trader in Ahunas.”

Navran did not respond. He continued to stare at Mandhi.

“So? Was that the man or not, or are you trying to deceive me?”

“It was a slave trader. I don’t remember his name.”

Mandhi shoved the ring back onto her own finger. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

The man’s gaze slipped to the pair of rings on Mandhi’s finger. “Maybe not.”

She wasn’t going to pry anything else out of him, now. With a grunt of disgust she turned out of the alley and into the traffic of the street.

When they reached the estate and entered the outer chamber, she heard Habdana shouting
Mandhi and Taleg have returned
through the house before them. Navran stepped into the room and looked around. His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as if a curtain of suspicion fell over them. She imagined how it looked to unfamiliar eyes: colored tiles and fine rugs on the floor, lacquered tables and silk cushions against the walls, and the air scented with cinnamon and rose. It meant wealth and comfort and the strong possibility of a trick, or some more insidious slavery.

She pointed Navran to the door of the men’s ablution chamber. “Through there. Taleg and a serving boy will help you get clean, which you so desperately need. Then—oh, no.”

The curtain over the door of the men’s chamber parted, and Cauratha came through supported by Habdana’s hand. Her father’s steps stuttered into the room, and the boy eased him onto a bench near the wall and put a cushion under his feet. Cauratha took a moment to gather his breath, then said, “Navran.”

Navran turned to Cauratha. Mandhi could barely stand to watch her father’s face. His eyes took in the man’s unkempt hair and filthy garment, and his visage crumpled into confusion and disappointment. “Mandhi, is he the one?”

“As far as I can tell. He says it’s his ring.”

Cauratha raised his hand. “Bring it to me.”

Mandhi twisted the second ring off her finger and passed it into her father’s palm. He glanced at the ring, then up at Navran. “Is this yours?”

The man shifted from one foot to the other in evident discomfort. “It was.”

“Where did you get it?”

“My father gave it to me.”

“Your father. Yes, that may be the case. Did he ever tell you where it came from?”

“No.”

“You never asked? Because you must have seen it wasn’t an ordinary ring.”

Navran slouched and lowered his head, as if attempting to fold in on himself. “I didn’t talk to my father much.”

“Well.” Cauratha seemed ready to say something, but he swallowed his words and shook his head. With a creaking sigh he reached for Habdana’s hand. “Let us go in. You will need to be cleansed and dressed properly, and you must wear your beard in the Uluriya style. I’ll call for a barber.”

He rose to his unsteady feet and shuffled forward. Navran stood awkwardly at the entrance to the men’s ablution chamber. Taleg prodded him gently from behind, and with a glance backwards he stepped through the curtain.

Mandhi pushed through the curtain into the women’s chamber and washed her hands and feet rapidly, muttering prayers and curses with equal vehemence. For once, she had returned before nightfall and could forego the full ablution—and good, because she had no patience for it. She shook the drops of water off her hands and charged through the inner door, straight into Srithi.

“Oh!” Srithi shouted and tumbled backwards, catching herself before she fell. “Mandhi! I was coming to see you. Did you find Navran?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.” Mandhi brushed passed her towards the door to the men’s chamber.

“Wait!” Srithi shouted. She tugged at the sleeve of Mandhi’s choli and cupped her hand to Mandhi’s ear. “I found the saghada.”

“Oh.” Mandhi’s fury abated a little. None of this was Srithi’s fault. She unclenched her fists and turned to her friend. “Thank you. Who?”

“His name is Ghauna. Do you know him?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“But it’s better that way, no?”

“Yes, probably.” Of course, even if he had met Mandhi or Cauratha, he would have no idea who she really was. Or else he would never agree to what she was going to ask.

“I thought so. I told him that a young Uluriya woman needed help and discretion, and he seemed willing enough. He’ll see you tonight.” Her voice dropped. “I think he’ll want coin, though.”

Coin was no problem. She could just ask—ah, no. She
couldn’t
ask her father, nor Veshta who normally supported her and Cauratha. “I don’t suppose you have anything you could give me,” she whispered.

Srithi grinned. “Of course I do. But you have to tell me what this is about.”

Mandhi grabbed Srithi’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “I will. Afterwards. I promise.”

She glanced down the hall. Cauratha had emerged from the men’s ablution chamber and rested on a stone bench next to Taleg.

“I have to go talk to Taleg and my father,” she said. “Later, tell me exactly how to get to Ghauna. And tomorrow you can know everything.”

She hurried to where her father sat, the folds of her sari rustling insistently around her.

“Just not yet,” Taleg said when she came within earshot. “He still has the mind of a laborer and a slave. You heard him. He barely speaks. He doesn’t understand why he’s here. His religious upbringing was defective. We can’t, we
can’t
simply drop the whole weight of the Manjur inheritance on him at once.”

Cauratha closed his eyes. “Mandhi, do you hear what Taleg is saying? He thinks we should hide Navran’s name from him until he is ready.”

Mandhi’s heart leapt into her mouth. She had hoped for something like this, but she felt intense relief that Taleg had brought the word and not her. “Yes. He will be ready, but not yet.”

“I can’t lie to him.” Cauratha’s lips trembled. He folded his hands on his lap and thought for a while. “But tonight we can let him rest and eat in peace. Tomorrow, after we perform the sacrifice, we will dine together, and I’ll tell him the truth. Most of the truth. We’ll see when he is prepared for the rest of it.”

The sun had slid behind the distant horizon of the west, leaving the last bit of orange to leach out of the sky. Mandhi counted the coins in the purse Srithi had given her, while Taleg stood watch at the corner of the house. By all appearances, he was merely an escort for a merchant’s daughter going out for a nightly walk. As intended.

“I don’t know, Mandhi,” Taleg said quietly.

“You don’t know what?” This was dissembling. She knew
exactly
what he meant.

“I don’t like going against your father’s wishes. He has trusted me with so much. With you, to begin with.”

“He said I had latitude to choose, as long as he had another Heir. I’ve delivered him his Heir, and now I’m choosing. And if I have to choose against my father’s will, at least we’ll be within the law of Ulaur. So we agreed.”

“Yes, we agreed, but…”

Mandhi straightened and drew as close to Taleg as she dared without violating their pretense. “Do you love me?”

Taleg looked at her, directly and intently, his pale eyes like chips of moonlight. “Yes,” he said. He threw back his head and turned to the road. “Tell me where we’re going.”

It was a short walk through the Uluriya Quarter of Virnas, thick with wealthy merchant estates and the homes of prominent saghada. But they had to get farther away. They crossed the city, passed beneath the shadow of the king’s palace, and came to the East Quarter, the artisan’s quarter, where the silversmiths and silk merchants mingled their shops around the long market road. Many of the doors had the pentacle over them, and Mandhi began to count the ones they passed. The roads at this hour were empty save wanderers like themselves and a few stray goats. The forges were quelled, but the district still stank of charcoal and the tang of borax.