Mage's Blood

4

The Price of Your Daughter’s Hand

Magi Lineage

The Ascendant Magi of the Blessed Three Hundred were initially concerned with the overthrow of the Rimoni Empire and exploring their new powers. When it came to reproducing, they discovered that the gnosis potential was directly linked to reproduction: magi breed magi, and the quantity of ‘mage-blood’ directly affected the might of the children. New dynasties were founded, the purer the better – but it was also found the purer the blood, the lower the fertility, in both genders. Therefore the pure-bloods were also compelled to breed with humans to increase the number of magi to meet the numbers the empire required, which has resulted in a few strains of pure-blooded families who dominate the empire, disdaining the ‘lesser blooded’, yet relying upon them to provide the battle-magi the legions need.

ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS

Aruna Nagar district, Baranasi, Northern Lakh, on the continent

of Antiopia

Rami 1381 (Septinon 927 in Yuros)

10 months until the Moontide

Ispal Ankesharan could have been blind and deaf, yet he would still have known exactly where he was by smell alone, here in Aruna Nagar Market. Every aroma was familiar, the spices and coffee and tea and piss and sweat of the largest marketplace in Baranasi, the Jewel of Lakh. It was a place of pilgrimage, a bend in the river where once Gann-Elephant had sprayed water from his sacred trunk to fill the river basin, creating a flow that still ran thickly and slowly across the red-dirt plains to the impassable seas. Here he bought and sold everything that he thought might turn a profit. In this arena he matched wits with buyers and sellers, made friends and enemies, lived and loved. This was the home where he laughed and cried and thanked all of the Thousand Gods of Omali for his beautiful life.

For Ispal Ankesharan had everything: a wonderful community, the love of his gods, a dutiful wife, and many children to carry on his name and pray for him when he was gone. His home was in easy reach of the holy river Imuna. He was not so rich that the mighty were jealous, nor so poor that his family went without. It was a fortunate life, despite having seen war and death at close hand.

He opened his eyes and stared through the hazy light of autumn. The morning’s coolness was dissipating fast under the sun’s bright glare. He had taken his family to the river that morning with Raz Makani, his blood-brother, though Raz was Amteh. Raz and his two children had watched while Ispal’s tribe prayed to Vishnarayan and Sivraman, and of course to Gann-Elephant for good fortune. Luck was Gann’s preserve, a less mighty-seeming gift than those of the greater gods, but one you should never be without.

Afterwards his wife Tanuva shepherded the children home while he and Raz shared a pipe and spoke a little of the old days. To those who did not know him, Raz was a nightmare figure, his burns disfiguring still after twenty-two years. He was a man of bitter silences. They had met in 904, when Ispal had travelled north, having heard that great profits could be had by trading with the whiteskinned ferang in Hebusalim. It had been his first time out of Baranasi, let alone Lakh, and what a journey it had been – deserts, mountains, rivers, what an experience! And what a nightmare: for the ferang had sent soldiers instead of traders, and Ispal had lost all of his goods and nearly his life. He, who was a man of peace.

Still, he had survived, and he had saved the life of the fierce Keshi warrior Raz Makani, who was so badly burned it seemed he would not survive. When the war was over he had brought Raz and his woman south, and now they were brothers, men who had looked death in the eye and survived. Raz’s woman had stayed with him, though Raz was ravaged by fire, and borne him two children before she died. They had shared much together, Ispal and Raz, and now Raz’s son was pledged to Ispal’s daughter, to seal their bond in a way that would surely please the gods.

That morning, as usual, he left Raz in his favourite place, watching the river from the shade. He left a wad of tobacco, heavily laced with ganja, and a flask of arak. Other friends would look in on Raz, spend time with him. He might be a fearsome sight, but he was familiar, part of the community.

Ispal walked the market, sniffing out the new produce. Carpets from Lokistan were arriving, bearers unloading them under the watchful gaze of Ramesh Sankar. Ramesh saw him, calling out, ‘Ispal, you old rogue, would you like to buy a carpet?’

‘Not today, Ram – maybe tomorrow. Good quality, hmm? Safe this time?’ They laughed together, for Ram’s previous shipment had included a cobra, sleeping inside one of the carpets. A snake charmer had calmed the frightened serpent and kept it, so all was well for everyone.

Together they watched other shipments being unloaded. Neither man had a shop – they dealt in bulk from warehouses nearby – but it was here the deals were cut. More traders gathered, men who knew each other like brothers, to inspect all manner of goods as they arrived, bidding for whatever interested them: spices and tealeaves from the south, their earthy fragrances wafting through the warm air. Sacks of acrid chillies, cardamom and cinnamon, all laid on blankets on the ground by women with sun-blackened skin. Men roasted peanuts on smoking braziers. One did not stride here, one hopped from space to space. More and more people kept pouring in. This was the cradle of life; its cacophony hung in the air, thicker than the smoke of the cooking-fires. Music played, monkeys performed tricks, out-of-towners gawped: easy marks for the unscrupulous, and there were plenty of those.

The market was busy today; tomorrow was the last day of the Amteh Holy Month and Amteh worshippers – about a quarter of the people here in Baranasi – were making their final obeisance to Ahm on this last day of privation, in which they took neither food not drink whilst the sun was in the sky. But tomorrow night would be insane: drink would flow, food would be consumed by the wagonload, people would sing and dance to celebrate Eyeed, the Feast of Thanksgiving, and the traders would all make small fortunes selling the provender to facilitate this happiness.

‘Ispal – Ispal Ankesharan!’

Ispal turned to see Vikash Nooradin making his way towards him, waving a hand. Vikash was slender, with wavy hair and quite pale skin for a Lakh. He was more rival than friend. Ispal patted Ramesh farewell and greeted Vikash cautiously. ‘Vikash, how may I help?’

Vikash glanced at Ramesh, then drew Ispal close, his narrow features more animated than Ispal could ever remember seeing them. ‘My friend, I have news of a deal that may interest you. An exclusive deal.’

Ispal raised his eyebrows in surprise. Vikash Nooradin was not the sort to share knowledge of deals with the likes of him. ‘What sort of deal?’ he asked curiously.

Vikash met his eyes frankly. ‘The deal of a lifetime, Ispal – and only you and I can pull it off.’ Vikash put a finger to his lips, and didn’t speak more until they were well into the alleys, in a shadowy doorway where they could not be overheard. He huddled closer to Ispal. ‘My friend, there is a stranger in town. He is looking for something that only you have.’

Ispal cocked his head, bemused. ‘What do I have that no one else has?’

‘A wife who produces only twins and triplets, who was daughter and granddaughter of women who produced only twins and triplets.’ Vikash leant closer. ‘This stranger desires such a wife: he is very rich, and he is in urgent need. I have spoken with his agent. His needs are particular.’

‘Is this a joke?’ ’ He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not. ‘My wife is my wife, and I do not wish to part from her, even if Omali Law allowed divorce, which it does not.’

Vikash shook his head. He was sweating uncharacteristically: Ispal had never seen him look other than cool and debonair. ‘No, your daughter, Ispal: Ramita – this stranger, this rich stranger, may be interested in her. His agent stressed secrecy and urgency. He has promised vast sums of money – vast sums!’ He mopped his brow.

‘But Ramita is betrothed already, to the son of my blood-brother. Perhaps if your stranger were to wait a year or two, one of the younger girls will have bled, and—’

‘No, Ispal, it must be your marriageable daughter or you will miss out. He wishes to be wed this month. He cannot afford to wait.’

Ispal shook his head. ‘Vikash, this is insane. Marriage is sacred: it is a bond before the gods. We do not give our daughters to strangers.’ He turned away. ‘Thank you for the tip, Vikash, but no.’

Vikash grabbed his arm. ‘Ispal, wait – this man is very, very rich. Please, at least talk to him—’

‘No, Vikash, really, this is becoming ridiculous.’

‘Please, Ispal – the agent will pay me one thousand rupals just for introducing you, much more if a deal is struck. Think what he might pay to you …’

Ispal froze, stunned. One thousand rupals, just for introductions? By Laksimi – what would such a rich and profligate man pay to the people who did the real business? He wavered, caught in a sudden fantasy of marble palaces and servants galore, with soldiers at his command and a whole caravan of wagons. By all the gods, think of a whole multi-floor shop full of wares, the Maharaja himself visiting him to make lavish purchases …

Vikash looked at him intently. ‘It would not hurt to talk to this man, would it, my friend?’

Their eyes met. Ispal took a deep breath, feeling slightly dizzy, and nodded.

Vikash Nooradin led Ispal to an old haveli with carved wooden gates that were falling apart, and into the dishevelled courtyard beyond. Clumps of incense sticks were burning in braziers to mask the smell of rot. A disused fountain was green with pond-slime, and the verandas were shadowy against the stark sunshine. They sat beneath the shade of a tree on some old chairs, and a servant brought iced tea. Vikash took a sip, then spoke. ‘Ispal my friend, this is an opportunity to die for. Inside there is a Rondian called Lowen Graav – you know Rondians, of course, Ispal; you have fought their soldiers, have you not? Well, this man Graav is an agent of a rich ferang. This ferang is seeking a wife – a very fertile wife; a wife guaranteed to bear him twins or more. Like your daughter.’ He laughed. ‘We all know about your wife’s line, Ispal: you are a local legend. Poor Ispal, such a curse, every birthing an army, we say.’

Do you? I have always regarded it as a blessing, he thought.

‘The rich ferang is from far to the north.’ Vikash smoothed his hair and dropped his voice. ‘From Hebusalim,’ he whispered.

Ispal rocked back, silenced. Hebusalim: the birth-place of the Amteh Prophet, where he had lost his goods and nearly died. Where he had rescued Raz Makani from certain death. Vishnarayan protect me.

His inner turmoil must have shown on his face, for Vikash spoke urgently. ‘Ispal, this man has promised a king’s ransom for the hand of a daughter such as yours. A king’s ransom – think of it; is it not what we all dream of? The one massive deal that will change our fortune for ever—’

‘But my daughter—’

‘A daughter is a commodity, Ispal,’ said Vikash reprovingly. ‘Yes, yes, we talk of love-matches and eternal bliss, but the truth is daughters marry who they must to advance the family.’

‘That is true, but she is already betrothed.’ He fell silent, struck dumb by visions of influence, a role amongst the powerful of the city, though he knew that sometimes it was best to go safe and unnoticed in this turbulent land. ‘Perhaps it will do no harm to talk to him,’ he said finally, hating himself.

Vikash went inside, and returned with a whiteskinned man of middle age: a Rondian. His chin was clean-shaven, but he had bushy grey moustaches and was clad in Keshi garb. He was soaked in perspiration, despite the relative coolness of the air – but then, his homeland was far colder than this.

‘Master Graav is a mercantile agent from Verelon,’ Vikash said, pronouncing the foreign names awkwardly. ‘He is based in Hebusalim.’

Graav spoke in Lakh, with a slight rustiness and a Western inflection, but he was easily understandable. He asked about Ispal’s family, nodding when Ispal reassured him that every pregnancy that anyone could remember of his wife and her ancestors had resulted in multiple births.

‘There must be a lot of you,’ Lowen Graav observed, ‘many girl-children of the line.’

Ispal frowned. ‘Not so many; the trait does not appear to pass down the male line, so my mother-in-law’s sons have not fathered such daughters. And bearing successive multiple pregnancies is hard on the women. My wife had six sisters; three are dead. One dwells in a village not far from here, but she married late and has only youngsters. Her daughters will not flower for six or seven years yet. Her other sister bore only sons and is now barren after miscarriage.’

‘And what of your own family?’

Ispal wondered a little about the wisdom of telling such things to a stranger, but Vikash smiled reassuringly. ‘I married my wife Tanuva when she turned fifteen, after I returned from my first trip to Hebusalim, in what you ferang call the “First Crusade”. Our first children together were my eldest son Jai and a stillborn twin – that was the only such mishap we have had. The following year came twin daughters, Jaya and Ramita. Two years later we had twin boys, before I was conscripted into the mughal’s army and forced to march north again. That was during what you call the “Second Crusade”. What a mess! The mughal and the sultan could not agree, so there was no cooperation. We never even reached Hebusalim before we ran out of food and water. Only my experience and the rank that gave me saved my company. When we got back, people thought we were ghosts, so thin and ragged we were, so blackened by the sun.’ He patted his gently rounded belly. ‘It has taken me many years to recover my shape.’

‘The Second Crusade was in 916,’ Lowen ruminated. ‘Bad years for traders. And since?’

Ispal finished his tea and looked around for another. Vikash motioned to a servant. ‘Whilst I was away, the plague came through – it always follows the wars, you know. Poor Jaya was taken, and both boys, so there were just the four of us, for a time. But Tanuva and I made more: twin boys, then triplets. A fever took one of the triplets two years later. Jai is now seventeen and Ramita has just turned sixteen. The twin boys are ten and the surviving girl triplets are eight – six children in all, and that is enough, I am thinking.’ He laughed. ‘Poor Tanuva says she has to work too hard!’

Graav leant forward. ‘So, this daughter Ramita is the only marriageable daughter you have?’

Clearly Lowen Graav was keen to resolve this deal and return north. Good. A wise man does not bargain in haste. ‘Clearly, Lowen-saheeb,’ agreed Ispal. ‘She is promised to another, however: the son of my blood-brother. This has been arranged for some time now, and she and the boy are very happy – indeed, they are quite in love.’ He smiled benevolently, the caring father who has pleased his daughter in his marriage arrangements.

Vikash Nooridan frowned, clearly wanting Ispal to roll over on this deal, not play hard to get.

Ispal ignored him. ‘Who is your client, my good sir?’ he asked. ‘What is his good name?’

Lowen shook his head. ‘My client is an elderly man of great wealth – a man of Yuros. Recently, his only son and heir died. He needs children, he doesn’t care what race or creed, but he demands fertility, that above all.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘He allowed me to say that for a man of his age, every arrow must count. Those are his words. Master Ankesharan, your daughter sounds the most promising girl I have come across. We have travelled far and met no one else with a similar lineage.’

Good, that is another bargaining chip for me. Ispal leant forward, as if mildly interested in something purely academic. ‘Let us suppose, just for an instant, that I would break my daughter’s heart and break her betrothal to the boy she adores. Let us suppose, for the slightest moment, that I would consider sending her far to the north where I would never see her again, one of the great lights of my poor existence.’ In truth, before every god, Ramita is a joy, the most dutiful of daughters. ‘Suppose even that I was prepared to risk my own wife’s chastisement for destroying her dreams – for what? Do you not know that the Great Convocation has declared shihad? The mughal has spoken: Death to the ferang – death to the Crusaders! Everywhere Amteh and even many Omali are mustering. My blood-brother is a burnt husk through the agency of one of the cursed magi. So why should I wish to deal with you? Why should I not go out in the streets now and call for fifty stout lads who wish to get a head-start in the ferang-killing trade, hmmm? Answer me that?’

Lowen Graav tugged nervously at his moustaches. ‘All that is true,’ he agreed, ‘but my client bids you consider this offer: in return for the totally anonymous marriage, you will receive one crore upfront, plus one lak every year that she lives, and another lak for every child born to them – payable even after your death, to your surviving family.’

Ispal Ankesharan jerked away in shock and the old seat couldn’t hold him. He barely noticed as he landed in the dirt, visions of rupals falling like stars about him. One crore: ten million rupals! One lak: one hundred thousand – every year! Every. Year. For. Ever, repeating like the refrain of a song, over and over …

Some negotiator you are, Ispal Ankesharan! He let Vikash help him up. Lowen Graav sat there like a big white toad, trying not to laugh. Ispal clambered into another chair, panting. One crore, and one lak, every year my daughter lives. One lak alone was more money than he could have dreamed of earning in his lifetime. A crore was beyond those dreams. Such a fortune was enough for diamonds and pearls and gold and silks from Indrabad, and a palace on the river. Enough for finery and servants and a small army of soldiers: riches to outshine all but the princes of Baranasi. Insane money – this ferang is mad!

He brushed himself down, desperately trying to think. This must be either some elaborate hoax … or it must be real.

‘May I take it you are a little interested?’ enquired Lowen Graav, his voice laced with amusement.

Ispal Ankesharan took a deep, deep breath and closed his eyes. Think, Ispal, think! Is this offer real? Would you accept if it were? Money is one thing, but people would ask questions. It would have to be managed discreetly – to appear that he had become fortunate, a great commission, a deal with a northern merchant of great wealth, perhaps. Some plausible story – and then it would secure the fortune of his family for ever. I could marry Jai to a princess!

Ispal knew there would be tears at the sacrifice Ramita would have to make – but that was what dutiful daughters were for, to do what was needful for the family, to be a bargaining chip in profitable alliances. He would need to be careful, breaking it to Raz Makani, and to Raz’s fiery son Kazim. Kazim loved Ramita passionately. And Tanuva – she would produce a storm of tears to rival Gann’s great trumpeting – she would cry a new river.

But in the end, would it not have all been for the best? Would they not all look back and agree that it had been so? Why, with such wealth they could visit Ramita every year if they so wished. They would not lose her for ever. Graav’s client was an old man; surely he could not last too long? Just long enough to father children on Ramita would suffice. He licked his lips, trembling.

Graav smiled and offered his hand. Ispal looked at it and then allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. ‘I will need to meet your client before I agree to this. I will need his surety as to the good treatment of my daughter. I will need credible guarantees of his wealth and reliability. I will need to know his name.’

‘Of course.’ Graav glanced at a rickety door, which twitched open as a tall figure emerged from the haveli. The sunlight caught on a large ruby bound to his brow. Ispal caught his breath. Surely not …

The newcomer was twig-thin, but very tall, more than six feet tall. These ferang are all giants. He was very pale, his beard a dirty ash-grey, his thin hair tangled, but his robes were rich indeed, deep blue bordered with gold braid. It was the ruby at his brow that drew the eye though: the size of a thumbnail, bound there by a circle of filigree gold, impossible to value. It pulsed like a heartbeat: a periapt – which meant this man was a mage.

He bowed very low, suddenly terrified.

The old man’s voice was husky and thin, but there were echoes of great authority. He looked beaten down by age, though still a man to be reckoned with. His eyes were ancient, dark-circled, eyes such as a god might have, an old god who has outlived his worshippers. ‘Ispal Ankesharan,’ he whispered. ‘I am the man who would marry your daughter. I am Antonin Meiros.’

His jaw refused to unlock and he couldn’t speak. Fear held him immobile, as it had in Hebusalim all those years ago. His heart drummed so violently he thought his ribcage would burst. He thought he might expire with fright. I should fall to my knees. Or produce a dagger and plunge it into his heart—

The old man reached out and touched his sleeve. ‘Do not be afraid,’ he said gently. ‘I wish you no harm. My offer is genuine. Please, sit with me.’

Ispal allowed himself to be guided back to his chair. As Meiros sat beside him, Lowen Graav and Vikash Nooridan moved back a little. Meiros spoke the Lakh tongue fluidly – but then, he would, he who had lived so long and done so much. Clearly he’d been listening to the earlier conversation, somehow. He is a mage, of course he heard us. ‘How—? Why—?’

Meiros understood. ‘They killed my son – the light of my life. And I am an old man, very, very old. We magi breed seldom – perhaps it is some kind of punishment for usurping God’s powers on Urte … But I have so much I must hand on before I die, things a father can trust only his own child with, a child of his own blood. So I need a wife, a fertile wife. I do not care if she is Lakh or Rondian or Rimoni, or the child of some nomadic raider, just that she is fertile.’

Ispal’s mind spun. This could not be happening— He pinched his arm, but he did not wake. ‘My wife’s line has always bred multiple births, lord,’ he said huskily.

Meiros nodded gravely. ‘I will require records – proofs, documents, if such can be had here.’

Vikash Nooradin raised a finger in the air. ‘I can speak to this. Such records do exist, in the prince’s archives, and I can show you those. But I vouchsafe that Ispal speaks truly.’

Meiros nodded. ‘I can feel the truth of his words,’ he said, the light of his periapt twinkling, making Ispal’s mouth go dry. The old mage leant forward intently. ‘Describe her to me, Ispal Ankesharan, not as a father describing a daughter; I care not for looks or grace. I need to know her character. Describe her as you would were you assessing a businessman with whom you wished to transact.’

Ispal blinked. Women do not do business. But he dared not say so to this ferang, whose ways were not his. So he thought of his daughter, and chose his words carefully. ‘She is a good girl, lord: honest, but not blindly so. She can negotiate, and she knows when to say no. She does not giggle and gabble as most girls her age do. She is responsible, and can be trusted with money and with children. I have been fortunate in my children.’

‘It is as Ispal says, lord,’ Vikash put in enthusiastically. ‘She is accounted a good catch for any young man of Aruna Nagar. And though you say you care not, she has a sweet face, lord.’

Ispal smiled his thanks. ‘But I still do not understand, lord,’ he said to Meiros boldly, ‘you have lived centuries – surely you have all the time in the world?’

Meiros sighed. ‘Would that I had, Master Ankesharan.’ Ispal waited for more, but Meiros fell silent.

Then he is mortal after all …

‘Any children of mine will inherit wealth and power,’ Meiros said finally. ‘They will be of the Blood; the Mage’s Blood, descended from an Ascendant. I am a peaceful man, Ispal Ankesharan, whatever you might have heard to the contrary. If your claims of her are true and you permit me to wed her, I will treat your daughter well. I will honour my promises.’

Here I am, Ispal thought, Ispal Ankesharan, son of a storekeeper, sharing arak with the most hated man in all of the lands: Antonin Meiros, a name to strike fear and loathing in young and old. The man who joined two continents separated by impassable seas with the greatest bridge ever made, then let the Crusaders pass. A miracle worker, a myth made flesh – and he is here, asking for the hand of my daughter! It was like a tale from the holy texts, of demon-kings tempting the good man. His hands shook. Be still my heart, do not explode inside me!

‘Let us assume the records will verify your claims.’ Meiros said. ‘Do we have a deal? May I wed your daughter?’

Ispal walked shakily home. He had to sit often, overcome with dizziness. Vikash Nooridan was excited, more excited than he. How much gold have you earned, Vikash? But he couldn’t follow the thought through; there was so much else to think about. How to tell Raz Makani and remain blood-brothers. How to tell Tanuva and remain welcome in his own house. How to tell Jai, who loved his sister. How to tell Kazim and survive.

How to tell Ramita.

It was a pale, shaking Ispal who stumbled into his small, happy house to destroy that happiness. He heard his wife singing with the younger children as she cooked. Jai and Ramita would still be at the market until nightfall. He clutched the door, thanked Vikash in a throaty voice and waved him away. Vikash bounded off, full of energy, but Ispal felt exhausted, as if from crossing the desert again, with but a pittance of food and water, his men dying about him. It was this memory that finally gave him strength. It was all for a purpose, my cheating of death in two Crusades. It was all for this.

He took a deep breath and called his wife.