The Sword Lord (7 page)

“What are prostitutes?”

“Women who sell their bodies for sex. They make the best spies because men are vain creatures who will always boast to the women they make love to. Everyone knows that.”

Namita looked shocked. “I have never heard such things.”

“You do not listen enough.”

“But why should Kanju make an alliance with Maghalla? The king of Kanju is one of our father's oldest friends.”

“I do not know why. I only know that it has happened. Kanju and Maghalla are united. Together they stand against Karakhor. Perhaps now other kings and kingdoms will join them.”

“But why should they? Karakhor has no enemies, except Maghalla.”

“Karakhor is rich, Namita. Our wealth is the envy of all the other kings and kingdoms. While we are the stronger, they are our friends. But if enough kingdoms unite against Karakhor, then greed will sway the rest. They will all want their share of plunder.”

“How is it that you hear so much?”

“I listen, and I ask questions. There are many young nobles and guard captains who like to air their knowledge, especially when they think I am impressed by their bold talk and their promises to protect me and our city with their lives. It is not necessary to use sex to make a fool of a man, Namita. The coy flutter of an eyelid is usually enough.”

“Maryam, you are shameless.”

“Perhaps,” Maryam smiled a little, but then the smile fled and her troubled face became serious again. “Oh, Namita, this is all my fault. What am I to do?”

“But how is it your fault?” Namita clasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. There were tears in the gold-brown depths and suddenly Namita was afraid. “How can you be responsible for what happens in Kanju? What are you talking about?”

“It is my fault that Karakhor is threatened. If I had not refused Sardar then Karakhor and Maghalla would be united. There would be nothing to fear from a unity between Maghalla and Kanju.”

“But you could not forsee that Kanju would betray us.”

“It is still because of me that Sardar has declared war, and any fool could see that Maghalla alone is not powerful enough to destroy Karakhor. Sardar would have to seek allies.”

A tear rolled down Maryam's cheek and splashed onto her gold–and-white sari. Her anguish was deep and overflowing. Namita clutched her older sister helplessly, not knowing what to do or say.

“I should have agreed to the marriage,” Maryam said bitterly. “Because of my refusal all of our people—all of Karakhor and Maghalla, and Kanju, perhaps all the world—all must now suffer the horrors of war.”

“But Sardar was so old—and ugly—his face must have been repulsive even before it was scarred. You would have been married to a cruel old monkey.”

“It was my duty,” Maryam insisted. “To our father. To our people. To Karakhor.” She bit her lip to stop it from trembling and her teeth drew a small globule of blood. “Perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps our father could send messengers to Maghalla—to tell Sardar that I will go through with the marriage. It is a woman's privilege to change her mind. Men can accept that.”

“Kara-Rashna will not accept this change of mind. Not now. And neither will Karakhor. We have all seen the ugly face of Sardar. We all understand and share in your repugnance for the monster. Kara-Rashna will not send you to Maghalla. Our brothers would not allow it. There is not a noble house in Karakhor where the young men would not gladly die fighting rather than see you forced into a union which they all know you will abhor.” Namita shook her head sadly and now there were tears in her eyes also. “It is too late to change things, Maryam. There is nothing you can do.”

Maryam bowed her head. “Oh, how I wish Kananda were here,” she cried desperately. She did not know how her brother would help or counsel her. She only knew that in times of crisis he was her truest friend and greatest comfort. But Kananda was not here, and she could only rest her head upon Namita's shoulder. The two princesses held each other and wept together.

 

 

 

In the high-columned, gold-tiled audience hall of his palace, Kara-Rashna sat on blue silk cushions on his marble and ivory throne. Two huge, elaborately carved elephant tusks, formed an arch at the back of the throne, and two smaller tusks formed its arms. The monarch wore loose robes of white, with a broad crimson sash across his chest that was emblazoned with the rising sun insignia of Karakhor set out in a thousand diamonds and other precious stones. A simple, jeweled turban sufficed for his head, the ceremonial crown being much too heavy and uncomfortable for everyday wear. He was a man of sixty-five, strong in will, but failing now in health. His physicians had diagnosed the sharp chest pains he had recently suffered as warnings from the gods. One severe attack that had rendered him temporarily unconscious had also left him partially crippled in his left leg and with limited mobility in his left arm. With his right hand he could still wield a sword, but the attacks had aged him and carved his face with deep pain lines. He tired easily and was often irritable, more with himself than with those around him, although it was those around him who bore the brunt of his irritability. A tyrant might have been removed at this weakened stage, but Kara-Rashna had generally ruled wisely and not too greedily or harshly by the standards of other monarchs. Prince Kananda, his natural heir, was strong enough to block the line of succession, but was possessed of love and a strong sense of loyalty to his father that curbed his own ambition. Also the king had staunch friends in the High Priest Kaseem, and in his senior general, Jahan, the Warmaster of Karakhor.

It was Jahan who had brought the news that had aged Kara-Rashna's face by another ten years in half as many minutes. The warmaster general was a man of sixty, grey and grizzled, but still as tough as teak and as sharp as the great, ruby-hilted sword that was slung at his left hip. The purple sash across his blue tunic was embroidered with the head and shoulders of a snarling tiger, and the clasp that secured the front of his purple turban was a single red gem-stone, as hot and fire-bright as a tiger's eye. He was tested and experienced in a dozen battles, both in single combat and in the direction of a widespread military campaign. The far-flung web of his intelligence-gathering operations had always ensured that when he spoke he spoke with certainty as well as authority, and his words were rarely doubted in the palace councils. Now Kara-Rashna was torn by doubt, and the tumult of emotion within him forced him to voice it.

“Jahan, can there be no mistake in this news you bring me? Kumar-Rao, the King of Kanju, is one of our oldest friends. I would have trusted him almost as I trust you. I cannot believe that he would align with Maghalla against us.”

“It is true, sire.” Jahan bowed his head and his voice rumbled deferentially but firmly. “I have waited until the news has been confirmed by almost a score of my most trusted sources. It is common knowledge in Kanju and Maghalla. The prince, Zarin, oldest son of Kumar-Rao, has been married to the princess Seeva, one of the daughters of Sardar.”

“But why would Kumar-Rao do this?”

“I think, sire, that the king of Kanju has been tricked.” Jahan chose his words with care. The news was carried to Kanju that Sardar was to be married to the princess, Maryam. What was withheld from Kumar-Rao was the later news that Princess Maryam had refused Sardar, and that the marriage had not taken place. My sources suggest that Kanju's king was deceived into believing that Karakhor and Maghalla were already alligned. Kumar-Rao then believed that he could safeguard Kanju, and his friendship with Karakhor, by making his own alliance with Maghalla.”

“But how could Sardar succeed in such a deceit?”

“Unaided, he could not succeed.” Jahan frowned and now he was angry. “There is intrigue in the palace halls of Kanju. Bharat, Kumar-Rao's brother, aspires to Kanju's throne. And Bharat is the favourite uncle of Prince Zarin. In peace, Bharat can never hope to rule, but in times of war, kings and princes may die upon the battlefield, and bold men can make their own opportunities. One of my reports says that Kumar-Rao sent messengers to Karakhor to invite Kara-Rashna and his queen to attend the wedding ceremony of Prince Zarin, even though he could not understand why his old friend had failed to invite him to attend the wedding of Princess Maryam. I need not tell you that those messengers never arrived in Karakhor. It is my belief that they were slain in the jungle somewhere along the way. And I smell more than the hand of Sardar in all of this. I smell the hand of Bharat.”

Kara-Rashna groaned and held his head in his hands. “Is there no way we can resolve this situation?”

Jahan shrugged his massive shoulders in a hopeless gesture. “The marriage was properly performed, with all due sacrifice and ceremony. It is blessed by the gods and cannot be undone. Prince Zarin is now a prince of Maghalla, he is duty-bound to stand with Sardar, and Kanju must stand with him. Kumar-Rao will resist, he will counsel peace and reconciliation. But if Sardar is adamant, and we know that he will be, then Kumar-Rao cannot avoid entering the war. Unwittingly Kumar-Rao committed Kanju when he sanctioned the marriage with Maghalla.”

There was a long silence in the audience hall. In addition to the king and his chief general there were a dozen men gathered there, not counting the guards, slaves and priests. The noble houses of the city were all represented; the princes Sanjay and Devan, younger brothers of Kara-Rashna were there, looking grim and angry, while the princes Rajar and Nirad, the younger sons of Kara-Rashna by his second queen, stood together like two resplendent young fighting cocks both burning to be unleashed.

It was Rajar who spoke first. “Why do we wait for Kanju and Maghalla to attack?” he cried fiercely. “If Kanju has formed this alliance against us, then let us attack Kanju now. We can easily strike at Kanju before Maghalla can come to their aid. Kanju alone cannot stand against Karakhor. And once Kanju is defeated, we can deal with Maghalla in their turn.”

“No.” Kara-Rashna lifted his head sharply and half rose from his chair. “If Kanju comes against us with Maghalla, we will fight them both. But I will not strike Kanju first. I will give Kumar-Rao time to find his own way out of his dilemma.”

“But if Kumar-Rao cannot find his way out?” Prince Devan shrugged and left his sentence unfinished. He was a strong fighter with little imagination and less faith in the politics of peace. In his own heart and mind he knew there would be war.

Kara-Rashna glared at him and repeated, “I will not strike the first blow against Kanju. We owe that much to our oldest friend.”

Prince Sanjay was a tall lean man, famous as a charioteer, from which he could throw a javelin as accurately as any man in Karakhor. He looked to Jahan and asked calmly: “How will Karakhor compare, matched against the combined forces of Kanju and Maghalla?”

“We have eight hundred war elephants and almost as many chariots. And we can field up to five thousand foot warriors.” Jahan had the facts ready at his fingertips. “Kanju has four hundred war elephants, some six hundred chariots and can field three thousand foot warriors. Maghalla has three hundred war elephants, four hundred chariots, but can field almost seven thousand foot warriors. We are outnumbered in chariots and warriors but numbers do not win battles. Many of our warriors and charioteers are highly skilled in battle.”

“Kanju may be soft,” Devan reflected, “but the Maghallans are renowned for a cruelty and ferocity that makes up for their lack of skill.”

“We can defeat them,” Jahan predicted confidently.

“Providing they do not find any more allies.” Rajar would not defy his father by repeating that they should attack Kanju first, but his tone conveyed as much.

Kara-Rashna beat his fist against his forehead. “All this talk of war with Kanju is madness. I still cannot believe that this is happening.” A sudden nameless but vaguely identifiable fear lanced through his heart and he put it, unthinking, into words. “I wish we had not sent Kananda and Kaseem to the South. I wish Kananda were here.”

The young prince Nirad was only eighteen and prone to quick speech, which he often regretted almost immediately. “You do not need Kananda,” he blurted. “You have Nirad—and Rajar. We are your sons too. We are as brave as Kananda.”

Kara-Rashna turned on him swiftly, but then let tolerance mellow his reply. Pride and boldness, even when they were out of place, were qualities to be carefully nurtured in young princes. “I mean you and your brother no slight,” he reassured the boy. “But in this hour of danger, Karakhor needs all her sons.”

“And you are right to be concerned, sire.” Jahan had no time for sibling rivalries and kept to the point. “Now that Sardar has won Kanju to his banner he will be more open in his search for more allies. If so it may prove a mistake to have sent the princes Kananda and Ramesh to fly our banners along our southern borders. Sardar may be tempted to attack our hunting party, and if he can make a successful attack against two royal princes, then that will impress the monkey tribes. Kananda and Ramesh will not know of these new events that will make Sardar more audacious. They may be in grave danger.”

“Then we must recall them,” Kara-Rashna decided.

“If they returned in haste it would be taken as a sign of weakness,” Jahan advised. “'Let them be warned, so that they may be vigilant, and return without any apparent haste as soon as the prince Ramesh has killed his tiger.”

There was a murmur of approval, and the monarch nodded his agreement. Only Nirad and Rajar looked displeased. With Kananda absent from the city the crisis might have proved their opportunity to shine more brightly.

The debate would have continued, but at that moment there was a terrifying interruption. A faint growl of thunder filled the hot, still air, growing swiftly in power and volume until it vibrated through the entire city. The fearsome sound echoed like a monster's roar beneath the golden domes, and the slender columns of the audience hall shook and trembled. The assembled faces turned ashen as the blood drained away from every man. The guards stood transfixed. The priests sank onto their knees and prayed. The slaves fell on their bellies and faces to whimper and cower. Kara-Rashna made a great effort to struggle up from his throne, but then slipped feebly back again.