Mage's Blood

9

Enriched

Religion: Omali

And herein is a mystery: that there is but one God and many Gods; but all Gods are Aum and Aum is the sum of all.

THE SAMADHI-SUTRA (THREAD OF ENLIGHTENMENT),

HOLY BOOK OF THE OMALI

Aruna Nagar, Baranasi, Northern Lakh,

on the continent of Antiopia

Shawwal 1381 (Octen 927 in Yuros)

9 months until the Moontide

Despite the death and discord tearing at Ramita’s family, and Meiros showing no sign of fulfilling his traditional role in a Lakh wedding celebration, there was no way Ispal and Tanuva were going to send off their eldest living daughter without making the right offerings, observances and prayers. To do otherwise would be to invite the anger of the gods on a union that already held many risks. Guru Dev was summoned, together with Pandit Arun, a wispy priest looking like he was made of twigs and hair, to devise a plan for Ramita’s spiritual cleansing, for marrying a heathen required special propitiation. Vikash Nooridan ferried messages between Ramita’s betrothed and her family, conveying what would and wouldn’t be permitted. Fortunately the skilled negotiators of the Aruna Nagar marketplace were more than a match for the old ferang: the final outcome was not too much of a departure from tradition, though it would mean a lot of fasting and prayer.

Ramita remained shut in her room, mostly alone, as Huriya was tending her dying father. She fasted between sunrise and sunset like an Amteh in Holy Month, growing weak with hunger as she was given just curd and chapattis to eat before dawn and after dusk, to purify her body, they told her. Finally, she was summoned downstairs for the two wise men to reveal their plan for her wedding preparations: an array of tasks involving offerings to almost every Omali god in Paradise, as far as she could see.

The sanctifying of Ramita began in earnest a week before the ceremony. A bevy of neighbourhood women clad in bright saffron sarees and led by Mother’s best friend, Auntie Pashinta, arrived before dawn to take her to the ghats. They held a makeshift tent made of sheets about her for privacy, and she slipped out of her white shift and immersed herself naked in the cold winter waters of Imuna, repeating it six times: one for Baraman the Creator and the next for his wife Sarisa, goddess of learning and music. Another for Vishnarayan, the Protector, and one for his wife Laksimi, goddess of wealth. One for Sivraman, Lord of Destruction and Rebirth, and the last especially for his dutiful wife Parvasi, who must be her role model for the time ahead. Enter me, Holy Queen: make me a vessel for your patience and virtue. Infuse me with your obedience and loyalty. She prayed with a fervour that shocked her, as if something in all the fasting and fear and loneliness of the past few days had brought out some inner being she had never before been aware of. She wondered at this strange overwrought creature she had become, who prayed aloud so vehemently, her words taken up by the women about her. The crowds faded from her consciousness as she was consumed with her quest for the courage to endure.

Once she had bathed, they walked along the banks of Imuna, she wrapped only in a sheet, calling aloud for protection from demons, asking for luck and blessings. The women echoed her cries and sang prayers to Aum, the all-God, as she stumbled barefoot through water and mud and rotting garbage and cow muck without even noticing until they reached the burning ghats. There Guru Dev and Pandit Arun were awaiting them, clad in saffron loincloths with their faces marked by white paste patterns, wardings against evil. The two holy men poured handfuls of ash over her wet hair and smeared it on her face, the ash from the wood of the pyres, and called upon Sivraman to protect ‘this benighted girl’. The women twisted her ashy hair into thick knots and rubbed ash over her breasts and belly with their hard callused fingers to aid her fertility. She fell to her knees and bombarded Aum with her prayers, shouted aloud, heedless of the spectacle she made. She felt empty and light-headed, more than a little insane. She shrieked away her fears, purged herself of doubt and sorrow, until she felt some kind of force flow through her, drawing her to her feet and setting her dancing to unheard music. She cared nothing about the filthy sheet that barely covered her, for there was a spirit inside her, moving her limbs. This was real, primal: she felt the eyes of the gods on her.

At last she fell into Pashinta’s waiting arms. The women gathered her in, their eyes wide, concerned. They feel it too, she thought.

When she had calmed down, Guru Dev touched a sacred tilak to her forehead. Pandit Arun declared her dancing an auspicious sign. Demons beware, this girl is strong, he told the gathering. She felt wild and untouchable. Tremble, Antonin Meiros!

The remaining days of the week were spent on a pilgrimage to Baranasi’s seventy-three temples, her entourage growing as other brides-to-be joined her for luck. She became a kind of celebrity, like one of the many crazy people that lived on the ghats – Baranasi drew such people. Pilgrims touched her dirty sheet to their foreheads: holy madness was powerful magic. The temple priests made approving noises, counting the crowds and asking for donations. Street-vendors hovered at the fringes, selling their wares.

At night she ate like a starved tiger and slept like one of the dead, then rose like a zombie the next morning, only finding clarity in the chilly bite of the river-water. She felt hollowed out, like a coconut that had been carved open and all the milk and flesh removed, waiting to be refilled with something stronger. This is strengthening me, I feel it. Kazim didn’t seem real any more.

When they took her home two days before the wedding, wet and shivering in the cooling air, her mother was there to welcome her. ‘Those old men have finished making you holy,’ Tanuva whispered. ‘Now we’re going to make you into a bride – starting with some food and water. Look at you! I can count your ribs!’ She was fed and sent her to bed, and while she slept, the house bustled with labour.

She rose early the next morning and joined in the work. There was so much to do. The courtyard had to be decorated, rangoli patterns of rice-powder dye painted onto the stone work. She helped Jai decorate the piris, the low stools the wedding couple would be seated upon. People came and went, dropping off food, spices and pots of dye. Everyone had a sympathetic word for her, but lost in the work and the bustle and the brittle gaiety, she felt a curious sense of unreality. It was only when she stopped to think that she felt the sting of tears. She would miss all these good people so much!

That morning, Ispal took Jai to bury Raz Makani. They returned with Huriya. Ispal brought the sobbing Keshi girl straight to her and bade her, ‘Give comfort to your sister Huriya.’

Huriya threw a shining glance at Ispal: he had named Huriya Ramita’s sister, offering Huriya a place in his house for ever – it was not unexpected, but it was confirmation of something she had prayed for. ‘Sister,’ Ramita whispered in Huriya’s ear as the girl sobbed in her arms.

Huriya squeezed her shoulders. ‘Take me with you, to the north,’ she whispered.

Ramita’s throat tightened. She had so wanted to ask, but to drag Huriya to such a terrible place as Hebusalim was selfish and cruel. But now the offer was made, and she could not refuse it. ‘Of course! I was afraid to ask.’ They cried together while the entire household bustled around them.

They turned the cramped kitchen into a mandap, where the actual vows would be spoken. They dug and rebuilt the cooking pit into a place suitable for the wedding ritual. The strange weight of expectation flowing through all this work, unlike any other wedding she had been part of – and those were many, weddings being the chief entertainment around here. She had not been told the amount, but she knew lots of money was changing hands. The family would be transformed. The community was rallying about, but in her lowest moments she imagined this was only because of the gold – then she chastised herself. The people of Aruna Nagar always pitched in for weddings, or when someone needed help; they were here because they were all one family, first and foremost.

Jai took the cart of gifts for the groom, donated by the friends of the bride. Mostly these were food, primarily fish, which were auspicious for fertility. Ramita was trying not to think too hard about all this fertility symbolism, but it kept intruding, and the thought made her queasy. Nonetheless, she had to bless the cart as it left. The joke was that the fish of Imuna were so bony, weddings that did not have divine favour would be prevented by the groom choking on fishbones. It had been known to happen.

The cart returned at midday with Jai sitting by the driver and his friends perched all over it. The immense Rondian, Jos Klein, and three of his soldiers led the way. All had suspicious faces. The cart’s contents were covered by a dirty brown canvas. Faces appeared at every window and peered over the fences as they guided it into the courtyard. Jai and his friends took the gifts from her betrothed upstairs, to be opened on the morning of the wedding, then he sat down to sip chai, surrounded by the family, and told them, laughing, how the ferang lord had greeted the cart of food and river-fish. ‘Most puzzled he was! Vikash had to explain them all. Really, how do they get married where he comes from?’

Though she had dozens of girls about her, sisters and cousins and friends, Ramita’s final meal as a maiden was marred by the mystery of the groom’s identity. They were unsure whether to celebrate or commiserate with Ramita, and the evening, which should have been a joyous occasion, was awkward. She felt as if she’d already left them.

Late after the feast, Ispal knocked softly on Ramita’s door. She and Huriya were awake, sitting with arms about each other staring out of the open window at the huge face of the moon, three- quarters full, which filled the northeastern sky. Its face was gouged, its light harsh. Ispal sat on the end of Ramita’s bed. ‘I want to tell you both something,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘It is about what I saw in the north – about my friend Raz Makani, and how we met.’

You’ve told us a hundred times, Father, Ramita thought, but she nodded mutely.

Ispal gazed at the moon, then closed his eyes. His voice was uncertain at first, but as he spoke it took on the resonance of a scholar reciting an epic. ‘Daughters, I have told you before of my journey north, twenty-three years ago. I decided to join the throng of merchants who went every twelve years to trade with the Rondians in Hebusalim. I had a wagonload of Baranasi silks, purchased with all of my savings. The trip north took months, and was a tale all of its own. Eventually though, I reached Hebusalim. The city was full, so I camped outside the walls. Everyone was excited, toasting the Bridge Builders. We dreamt aloud of the fortunes we would make from these foolish white people with purses full of gold.

‘It was a chancy time, though. Not all Keshi welcomed the ferang, and there had been trouble already, with both sides guilty, so there were many soldiers. A squad of Keshi was camped near to my site: white-robed Keshi from Istabad with braided beards and hair. They had drink and girls, and discipline was lax. I kept having to shoo them from my wagon – they wanted to use it to bed their women.’ He shook his head. ‘One of them was Raz. He would apologise when he was done and drop me a coin, then leave me to wash the top layer yet again. Dirty prick!’

Huriya pulled her head from Ramita’s shoulder and they exchanged glances. Ispal had never told the tale like this before.

‘Ah, my friend Raz … he was full of life, and a demon with his scimitar. We used to watch the men sparring, and he was the best. He had powerful shoulders, and his belly was taut and muscular, his thighs solid and toned. He could take them on two or three at a time and still win. We would watch and place wagers, and I always bet on him.’ He sighed. ‘His woman Falima had hair to her waist and eyes like full moons. She was the most beautiful of the camp-women, and everyone understood that she belonged to Raz alone.’ He looked at Huriya. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this about your mother, but this is a night for truth. Falima was a girl they picked up on the march, not the daughter of a merchant as you’ve been told. These are facts, but they need not leave this room.’

Huriya nodded tensely.

‘We had such dreams of the wealth to be made fleecing the ferang traders, and we waited for them with bated breath – but instead, the Emperor of Rondelmar unleashed his legions. All that month, while we were gathering in Hebusalim, he had been marching his men along the Great Bridge. They say Antonin Meiros could have stopped them, but he did not. The emperor secured the complicity of the Ordo Costruo. Meiros let that army through, and the world was plunged into war.’

Ispal paused and took Ramita’s hand. ‘That is the man you are to marry, Ramita: the man who opened his Great Bridge to the legions. Some say he had no choice, but most revile him for that.’

She said nothing. This was legend, not something real people did. Huriya’s eye’s were wide. Ispal caught her chin in a firm grip. ‘Yes, Huriya-daughter: Ramita is to marry Antonin Meiros, and you must carry this secret. Do you swear?’

Huriya was struck mute, half in amazement, half in disbelief.

Ispal continued his tale. ‘I talked to him of this when we spoke of marriage. In my heart I had decided that if he was to marry my beloved daughter, he must answer one question above all. “Why did you do it?” I asked him, looking into his eyes to see his soul. I wanted to know if this was an evil man, a weak man, or a man of honour left with only evil choices.

‘What I saw was pain: genuine and still fresh. There was no vindictiveness, no malice, no race-hate, no cunning, just terrible, all-consuming pain. I saw that he suffered as a result of that decision, that he regretted it every day. “I thought I was saving lives,” he told me. “To stop them, I would have had to destroy the Bridge, my only option at that juncture. One hundred thousand men would have plummeted into the sea, and the link between Yuros and Antiopia would have been gone, perhaps for ever. Though I received assurances that the soldiers were there to guard the traders, I was doubtful. But what they did – the slaughter, the slavery – truly, I had no idea they would commit such atrocities.”’

Ispal ran his fingers through his thinning hair, sighing heavily. ‘This he told me, Ramita, and I believe him. I think he was trapped. He is not evil. He told me that he loved Hebusalim and had laboured to make it a paradise on earth. He built huge aqueducts, bringing water from the mountains and turning the landscape green. He built hospitals, where his magi tended the sick. He gifted a palace for the Dhassan Sultan made of golden marble, and built a massive Domal’Ahm, the largest in the north. His daughter founded an order of healers and his son created a public library, larger than that of the mughal. His Ordo Costruo were revered, some even believed them to be angels of Ahm. We had only seen their benevolent side. We had never seen a magi in battle. That was about to change.

‘The Rondian legions marched over the Bridge, but they were preceded from the air: windships had been massing out over the sea, beyond the horizon. No one even suspected they were there until they moved over the city at dawn on that awful day. Imagine it, daughters, all of those windships, hanging above us in the sky, bristling with men, and magi in flowing robes standing in the bows like figureheads.

‘At first people cheered, thinking this was a merchant fleet, the greatest ever, and that our fortunes were made. I thought so too at first – we were standing on our wagons waving to the ships, jumping about like children eager for sweets.

‘But Raz looked at me, and he said “Those are warbirds”, in a voice I will always remember. “Take care of Falima”, he told me and then he was up, pulling his tunic over his head as he ran across the camp calling to his men, “Arm yourselves, you slobs!” At first I didn’t understand, or maybe I didn’t want to. Then the Rondians struck. Catapults on their decks swung their arms and hurled burning pitch down on us, which exploded all about us. Tents and buildings and wagons alike burst into flames, trapping screaming men inside. As the ships came in lower, archers poured arrows into the crowds and the magi struck down the captains and anyone trying to rally resistance, pale-blue bolts of energy stabbing from the skies like lightning. It was dreadful. We were helpless.

‘I remember grabbing Falima to prevent her from following Raz. She fought me like a hellion. Raz entered his pavilion and as he emerged clutching his breastplate, buckler and scimitar, the tent behind him exploded. The concussion threw us against my wagon and when we could see again, there was a crater where the tent had stood. The shadow of a warship hung above us, a young mage at the prow, pouring fire from his hands into the stampeding crowd. As we watched he torched a crowd of traders trying to flee. Then it seemed that he saw me. He raised his hands, and I pulled Falima under the wagon, then all was heat and fire, the air blazing as sand melted to glass right where I had stood a second ago. Falima and I scrambled out the other side, and this time it was Falima pulling me away as I tried in my madness to rescue my silks!

‘We found Raz kneeling before the crater where his tent had been, staring at the blackened bodies in the hole. The air throbbed with the cries of dead and living. The warship above swung eastwards, towards the next camp, but others hovered overhead. Every direction seemed wrong, but Raz chose to lead us toward the city. As we ran we fell in with others, swarms of citizens and soldiers fleeing towards the city gates. For some reason we all imagined we would be safe inside the walls.

‘Among the large warships were dozens of tiny little windships the Rondians call “skiffs”, each with a mage and a few archers. They were faster than the warships, and they swooped over us, attacking randomly. Some came close enough that we could see their faces clearly. They were so young, and almost childishly excited, like hunting quail for the first time. “Is this sport to them?” I remember Raz shouting angrily, waving his sword. The Rondian archers could hardly miss, the lanes were so packed. The noise became deafening as we were swept along, then we came to a sudden jolting halt and I remember an awful convulsion running through the whole crowd as we realised that someone in the city had shut the gates. I heard a roar of terror behind me as a skiff came straight along the lane, out of the rising sun. There was a figure in the prow, silhouetted against the light, arms raised. The lane ran between two- and three-storey stone buildings and we were jammed cheek to cheek. As the skiff came, the magi in the prow did something that made the ground shake and pulled the buildings on both sides of the lane down on top of the people. This mage was a woman, clad in red, and her mouth was open as if she were screaming too, in utter terror of herself. I saw buildings collapse behind her, falling like tiles on a game-board and crushing people by the dozens, as she swept towards us.

‘We were swept along by the crowd, everyone frantic to escape this terrible queen of destruction. People fell and were crushed. I clung to Falima as we stumbled over the bodies of the fallen, propelled helplessly towards the closed gates and towering walls of Hebusalim. Raz was carving a way through for us, hurling people aside, his shouts inaudible beneath the dreadful rumble behind us of buildings collapsing and the screams of the dying. Suddenly he darted sideways, yanking Falima and me out of the press and through the doors of a tiny dhaba. The crowd stumbled past, rushing headlong to their deaths.

‘Falima had hurt herself, but he had no time for that. “Come!” he roared, pulling her over his shoulder. He led us through the shop, past a frightened family cowering inside. “Out! Out!” he bellowed at them, never pausing as we ran into a back yard where, unbelievably, a donkey was staring at the sky placidly, chewing his feed. Then there came an awful crack, as if the earth itself were splitting, and the dhaba collapsed, falling away from us in a deafening smash. A blast of air knocked me sprawling into the donkey, which kicked my left shoulder, and I felt my shoulder-blade break, the most awful pain. The donkey found its feet and was gone, the gods only know where. The tumult moved on to the next building and the next, leaving all the world covered in swirling dust.

‘We choked helplessly, until the dust began to settle, showing us the extent of this horror. The whole row of houses were destroyed, collapsed by the woman-magus in the skiff as she soared by. Dreadful new sounds were audible: people trapped beneath rubble. Raz was kneeling, his arms about Falima. He looked at me. “Lakh-man, you live!” he coughed. “Ahm protect us. What have they done?”

‘What indeed! And why? What could possibly justify this carnage? What could they possibly want that they could not get by trading with us as friends? Where was the need for war? Where were Meiros and his Bridge Builders? Where were the gods, to see this dreadful crime and let it happen?

‘“We have to move,” said Raz, who seemed to me at the moment to be a demigod, so full was he of tenacity and courage. I felt I was in the presence of greatness, and this gave me courage. My shoulder was in agony, but I was determined not to be lacking. We climbed over the rubble, trying not to think of the hundreds, maybe thousands, trapped beneath. Behind us the Rondian skiff was running along the wall of the city, raining down lightning and arrows on the archers on the ramparts. Then it turned away from the wall towards us and headed for another alley, the one we were heading towards. We froze.

‘The red-clad mage woman was perhaps one hundred yards away, close enough to see clearly, and approaching fast. Her face was bone-white, her hair the colour of an orange. Behind her a tall, pale-haired man was shouting orders, his face composed. They swung to the mouth of the alleyway, just above the roofs, and the four archers started firing indiscriminately. That alley was as packed as ours had been, and the people were still unaware of what she was going to do – they had not seen the destruction she had already wrought. Raz kissed Falima, told her to wait, and ran towards the alleyway that the skiff was about to destroy. I thought he had gone insane.

‘He leapt a fence in a superhuman bound, then made a great leap through the first-floor window of a house. I was stunned – I had heard of men and women doing amazing feats when they forgot their limitations, but to see it! Raz tore through that building, and still I could not see what he intended. He emerged onto a roof, as another awful crack! drew our eyes back to the head of the alley, where the mage-woman had begun to collapse more buildings. Raz had put himself in her path. Falima fought me to go after him, and with my broken shoulder I could scarcely hold her back.

‘Raz Makani emerged onto the roof as the skiff surged forwards, buildings falling to either side as it passed. The noise of destruction and the howl of the mob assaulted my senses. Falima clung to me as we watched Raz. He was holding a length of timber and crouching down, and as the building beside his began to fall, he pushed off and began to run towards the skiff as it soared to a point before him. His own roof began to collapse. Falima hid her eyes.

‘Raz reached the lip of the building just as it began to topple and propelled himself through the air – it was impossible: he was carrying a piece of timber that would take four men to bear! Yet he flew straight at the skiff – I saw him strike it! The heavy spar he carried battered the entire crew, sending them straight into the close-packed mob below. I cried out exultantly, but the witch at the front did not even stagger. She saved the officer beside her too. Raz lost the spar, and sprawled against the mast of their skiff. Just the pale-haired officer and the witch remained aboard. Raz drew his scimitar and they crossed blades, he and the pale man, as the witch tried to regain control of the falling craft, which skewed sideways, veering towards Falima and I as they descended. I will never forget the sight of Raz Makani, raining frenzied blows against the Rondian’s straight sword, and the witch-woman shrieking as her skiff struck a high wall on our left and with a crunching sound plummeted to earth. The hull splintered with an almighty crash.

‘“Stay here!” I shouted to Falima and then I was clambering through the rubble towards the broken skiff. All about me Dhassan men were pouring through the still-standing buildings, people Raz had saved by his actions, dozens of them, snatching up weapons, spears or swords or knives or pieces of wood, desperate to strike back. My broken shoulder in agony, I clambered onto a shed roof and found the perfect vantage point as the Dhassans reached the mage-woman.

‘She was in great pain, but she pulled herself upright against the side of the skiff. I realised with a shock that she was very young, barely twenty. She had an angular face, with tiny freckles scattered over her white skin. Her loose-curled hair was bright gold, and streaked with ash. Beside her, the officer had stumbled to his feet and lifted his sword as the first of the Dhassans tried to leap the wall. The witch raised her hands and blazed a bolt of blue light into his chest. The Dhassan, just a youth with a stick, was flung backwards, but two more came, and again she raised her hands and sent a stream of flames at them, torching them as they came. One fell backwards, howling, but the other came down in the courtyard and the captain stabbed him through the chest. I was terrified, too afraid to move least her dreadful fires be turned on me, but I could not look away. The witch screamed to her gods and wave after wave of fire billowed from her hands as she charred man after man, but still they came, those Dhassans! A madness had taken them, now they had an enemy they could reach. Women joined the charging press, brandishing makeshift staves, and they died too, burned to a crisp. The incinerated dead piled about the walls of the yard. The officer cut down those few who got through. He fought like a cornered lion. And her: I could see every strained line on her face, and it was then that I realised a new thing: she was crying, weeping as she killed. She wasn’t even seeing the people she slew now; she was just staring at her hands as if she were appalled at what they were doing. As if they were not hers.

‘Then I saw Raz! He was lying inside the skiff like a corpse, but I saw him move. The Dhassans were still coming, climbing the smouldering dead with deliberate steps now, exhausted and impeded by their own dead. Men and women, a few soldiers, all moving like the walking dead of stories, knowing they were doomed, but attacking anyway. The mage-girl kept killing them. I realised one of her legs was injured, and her fires were less now. She was exhausted, using her last energies.

‘Raz struck! One second he was lying there, his hand straining towards his fallen scimitar, and then he was up and sweeping his blade at the witch’s neck. In that split-second she was helpless. She never even saw the blow coming, so consumed was she with her dreadful labour. But the blow never landed. The straight-sword of the officer interposed as he flung himself between Raz and her. She was batted to one side and I saw her shin snap in two even as the Dhassans broke and fled. Only one remained, a girl-child who had been clinging to her mother as she joined that awful assault. The mother was a blackened corpse now, but the girl walked on, too shocked to comprehend. The witch saw only movement and blasted away, and I could see her eyes widen, saw her desperately trying to retract her spell, but it was too late. The sight of that child broke her concentration – she had flinched when she should not – and the consequences were horrible: her own hands burst into flame.

‘She knelt in the sand, staring wide-eyed as her hands became blackened pieces of bone. The child shrieked and fled. All this distracted the officer, and Raz stabbed, his blade piercing the man’s mail and thrusting right through his belly and out his back. Raz twisted and wrenched it clear, bellowing in triumph as the man fell. The witch turned, her eyes wild, her hands just stumps. She must have been in agony, but she pulled some last reserve from her very soul. Her hands were useless, but her eyes flashed and fire poured from them, two funnels of awful heat and flame that flung Raz backwards, his robes alight.

‘That broke me from my trance. I leapt down and kicked my way through the fences into that dreadful arena. The witch was bent over, her head bowed, her shoulders shaking. Her hair hid her smoking face. The officer was trying to crawl to his fallen sword, clutching his belly. Raz was rolling about, beating the earth. I ran to him, keeping well clear of the officer. The witch heard me and looked up, and I nearly screamed: where her eyes had been, there were now two blackened craters. She had burnt out her own eyes delivering that last dreadful gout of fire. She whimpered a name: Vann. Her officer’s name, perhaps, for he had found his sword and was dragging himself to her side.

‘That sword he pointed in my direction. The threat was clear – but I wanted only to aid Raz. I threw myself onto him, beating at his burning robes, until he went still. When I could look at him, the sight was dreadful, but he was alive, and a hero, had there been any there to acclaim him. I turned him over and looked for something to succour him. There was a water-trough against the wall. I crawled to it, cupped my hands, though the pain of using my left arm was immense, and carried a few drops to him. All the while the officer watched me, one arm around the witch. Her lips were moving and pale light was forming in filigrees around her hands and those blackened pits on her face. I remember feeling utter terror, that she would repair herself and tear me limb from limb, but she didn’t. She slumped against the Rondian.

‘To my surprise, he spoke in Keshi. “Here,” he said, and pulled off his helm and tossed it to me. “Water.” I was stunned, but I filled it and bathed Raz’s burns. I drank some myself, then on an impulse I filled it again and placed it just within his reach, though I couldn’t explain why. He fed it to the girl-witch, who murmured something, looking at Raz strangely. She said a word I didn’t know: Dokken. I learnt it means “dark” in their tongue. What she meant I have no idea.

‘Had I called for aid, they would both have been taken, but I would almost certainly have died, and so would Raz. I am not a hero like him, so I remained quiet as a mouse. The only thing I found courage to do was to ask the officer, “Why?” He just shrugged. “Orders.” Orders. I felt sickened. They had no more idea why they were killing us than we did. I stared at him, aghast, and he looked back at me, clearly in dreadful pain – his belly wound was one of those that kills over hours and days – And he muttered, “Sorry,” finally; “I’m sorry.” Then the witch said something, and his attention focused back on her. She was shaking uncontrollably, but a web of light was still crawling over her skin and face, and I could see cuts and scratches vanishing, and the bones in her leg knitting together – it appalled me, somehow. She touched his belly, and the light spread. His breathing became less ragged. Then she sagged and stopped, just her chest rising slowly, her mouth open, her breath hissing.

‘The Rondian tossed the helm back to me and said, “More water. Please.” I wanted to fling it away, to hurt him, but instead I filled it and carried it to him. If I had been a hero, maybe I could have snatched away his sword and slain them both – but I didn’t. I helped him drink, and we talked a little. His name was Captain Vann Mercer; he was the son of a trader and had come here as a child with his father, selling furs. He asked me of my home. It was surreal, to talk with an enemy about home while all about us the city was being destroyed, but for a time we were alone in the world, the only survivors. He told me the witch was just eighteen and would likely be blind for life. His voice told me he was in love with her, would care for her regardless.

‘Finally, a shadow fell over us, another skiff, and before I knew it, there were Rondians all about us, carrying the witch and the captain to safety. I thought they would kill me and finish off Raz, but the captain said something and they left us. Then they were gone, up into the air.’

Ramita and Huriya stared at each other, realised the other was crying. They looked back at Ispal. This was nothing like the story they had been told before; the tale of Raz and Ispal they knew was colourful and funny. But this dreadful story rang true.

Ispal gave them both a measuring look. ‘I have told you different versions of that story before, to protect you, but that is the true accounting of how Raz and I became brothers. I brought them south with me, for though he was burned dreadfully, Falima never left his side. She married him, and bore his children: she was as heroic as he, Huriya. Your parents loved each other with a love that towers above we mortals. Be worthy of them.

‘Ramita, I tell you this tale to honour my friend, my brother Raz Makani, but also so that you know what your husband-to-be has let loose. I do not believe him evil, but he permitted an evil thing to happen, and he is tormented by this. He seeks to give recompense to the world. You must help him. Respect him, but do not fear him.

‘Remember also the reason Captain Vann Mercer gave me for this treacherous assault: “Orders”. Daughter, you are going to meet men who give “orders”. Beware of them, I beg you. People do the worst evil when they do not have to take responsibility themselves but can blame others.

‘And third, I want you to remember that these ferang, for all their power and strangeness, are also people. That captain, and others I have met since, have been as much a mix of good and ill as any person I could name here in Baranasi. Condemn an evil deed, but know that few men are fully evil; most just follow “orders”.’

He shook his head. ‘I hope this tale will help you understand the world a little. It is a muddled, complex place, and anything can happen, with no clear moral or purpose. Sometimes I wonder if all the gods are blind.’ He looked up at the moon. ‘Maybe the moon has made them all go mad.’ Without another word he leant over the girls, blessed them both and left.

The girls were silent, stunned by this new version of family history. They clung to each other for hours, but neither slept for a long time.

When Tanuva shook Ramita awake it was still dark outside, but the moon was on the other side of the sky and dawn was beginning to glimmer in the east. ‘Come, daughter. It is your wedding day.’ Her voice sounded haunted.

Huriya snored on in the corner, her head thrown back in abandon. Ramita envied her, exhausted from vivid nightmares of witches with burned-out eyes. Ispal was waiting downstairs in the kitchen and together they knelt beside the tiny fire he had kindled. The twins were asleep there, wrapped in blankets, since their room had been taken over for the wedding. Pashinta let herself in the back door. There was water and a bowl of curd into which Tanuva was stirring rice flakes. But first they had to bathe in Imuna one final time. Ramita wrapped herself in a blanket and they walked through the pre-dawn alleys, treading the familiar path to the ghats. In Lakh there were always people around: men stumbling home drunk or servants scurrying about some task while their masters slept. Traders, sleeping in the streets to guard their tiny stalls and shops, from sturdy buildings to holes in a wall, even just space for a blanket on the ground. A lonely cow, mournfully watching them pass. The alleys were smoky and filled with rivermist.

Other women joined them, rising from their doorways as they passed: Tanuva’s friends, come to share in the final preparation of the bride. Ramita had known them all her life, but now she loved them, wanted to be one of them, to grow old among them – but the gods wanted her to go north with a strange old man who had doomed the world.

There were ten women, the most auspicious number, clustered about her as she disrobed and walked into the Imuna, letting the cold water stroke her thighs, her belly, her breasts, her face. Wash me away, Imuna. Wash me away, and leave just a husk to go on. Let my awareness remain here always, whilst an empty shell lives out my mortal life. Hear this prayer, Holy River. But if Imuna heard, she did not care to grant this wish. Maybe the river was listening only to the women about her praying for her to enjoy a happy and fruitful marriage. Her soul remained firmly in her cold, wet body as she emerged from the river into a warming blanket. The chanting women waited for the sun, which rose golden and burned through the mist, pouring light upon all the other hundreds and thousands of people here, to the left and to the right, all with their hands raised to greet the dawn.

At last there were no more excuses, nothing that remained to be done. She felt numb, in no way ready, despite all the prayers and privations. Her mother and Pashinta took her hands and pulled her erect. Their faces were stony. Time did not wait, even for her.

At home her parents fed her with their own hands, then Ispal led her quietly back to the bedroom, where a fresh nightdress lay, a new one, not even a hand-me-down from Pashinta’s daughters. She squeezed his hand, then shooed him away, pulled off her sodden shift and put on the virgin linen. Within a short time she was snoring as deeply as Huriya, who hadn’t moved.

When Ramita woke again it was well into the morning and Huriya was lying there waiting for her eyes to open. ‘Sal’Ahm,’ she murmured.

‘Sal’Ahm,’ replied Ramita, a lump in her throat. My wedding day. Her stomach felt queasy. She would not be able to eat again until the wedding feast. The next time food passes my lips, I will be married to that dried-out old man with dead eyes.

‘Let’s go and see the gifts,’ urged Huriya, ‘and pick out what you’re going to wear.’ However sorry Huriya might be for Ramita, she was eager to go north and see the world.

She wouldn’t lift a finger to stop this wedding if she could.

Hand in hand they went downstairs, where the kitchen was in full flow. Cakes and biscuits were piling up in heaps as they were swept off the griddle by gap-toothed aunties. Pots of daal were being stirred, perfuming the air with chilli and garlic. Jai and his friends were outside playing cards in between chores. Musicians were tuning their instruments in the yard. Ispal was at the centre of things, giving instructions, paying helpers, but her mother was the one really in command, giving ‘hints’ to her husband whenever something specific was needed. Everyone was singing or gossiping, the noise so loud she wondered how on earth she had slept so late.

When her parents saw her, they both came and hugged her. ‘Every day is a gift,’ Ispal whispered, ‘but you will remember this one above most others. Cherish it, my dear daughter.’

How can I? Yet she put on her dutiful face as they all went upstairs to the twins’ room, a stale little cell with no windows now piled high with mounds of vegetables and piles of bundles, her wedding gifts, unwrapped by her parents. Ispal lit a candle, then lifted a blanket covering a lumpy mound on the bed. Ramita caught her breath as Huriya clapped her hand excitedly. The light of the candle was reflected everywhere, in golden brocade, glittering jewellery, silver chalices and brass statuary.

‘Gifts,’ Ispal said hoarsely, ‘from Antonin Meiros to his wife-to-be.’ He wrapped an arm about her. ‘You will be the finest bride in Baranasi.’

She gaped, speechless at the sight of more riches than she had ever dreamt of.

‘Vikash Nooridan was given money,’ Ispal murmured. ‘He went with his wife to the finest shops, the ones the princes use – that bull of a ferang captain went with him. Vikash says that his wife nearly fainted with the pleasure of it. Come, choose jewellery; you too, Huriya, you also are my daughter. But remember, Ramita, you will wear your mother’s wedding saree. These others will be for other occasions. When you are visiting the princes of Hebusalim, perhaps.’ He looked almost happy for a second. Then he turned and left the room.

Tanuva picked up first one item then another, staring at them with glassy eyes, then she simply fled, her eyes streaming. Ramita went to follow, but Huriya caught her sleeve. ‘She needs to be alone, sister.’ The Keshi girl picked up a necklace, fondled it greedily, then thrust it at Ramita. ‘Try this on!’

They spent a long time going through it all. Ramita was too stunned to comprehend that all of this was hers, but she enjoyed Huriya’s almost ecstatic pleasure at the wealth spread about them. The Keshi girl was in her element, and her boundless enthusiasm drew Ramita in. They sorted through the earrings, nose-rings and lip-studs, the bangles, anklets, rings and the necklaces, until rubies and diamonds and even pearls seemed as common as the chickpeas and lentils in the kitchen below. They caressed the silken saris and salwars and dupattas, stroking the heavy brocade as they marvelled at the intricate patterns and vivid colours. Ramita gave to Huriya the things she most drooled over for the sheer pleasure of her reactions.

‘Isn’t this worth it?’ Huriya demanded. ‘He’s just an old man – he’ll die soon, and then we’ll be free and rich.’ Everything was ‘we’ for Huriya now she was permitted to accompany Ramita north, but Ramita was grateful for that. She needed a ‘we’ because she couldn’t do this alone.

Late afternoon, the Rondian soldiers arrived, stepping into the colour and frenzy like steel bugs. Captain Klein tramped through the gate and his jaw dropped at all the garish ribbons and the brightly attired women of the ghats. His brutish face loosened into a hint of a smile as he took it in, though he was clearly still nervous about the press of people. Everyone stared at him, this outlandish creature straight out of a story; he certainly looked the part of a ferocious Rondian giant.

Only once all day did she think of Kazim, after a disturbance in the alleys, when she thought she heard him call her name, but nothing happened. Meiros’ guardsmen kept everyone away, even the curious street-toughs sent by Chandra-bhai, the local crimelord. Ispal would need to hire guards to stop other men from robbing them – they had never had possessions worth stealing before. For the first time it occurred to her that this new wealth might be a mixed blessing. How would the princes receive a newly rich trader? She began to chew her lip as every new difficulty occurred to her.

No one noticed her silence with so much going on. Some of the older men and women were dancing gently, and the smell of cooking was drawing people of all description. Ragged skin-and-bone children were begging at the gate and whenever she appeared, everyone stared at her. When it became all too uncomfortable she went back inside and slowly, reluctantly, began to prepare in earnest for the evening’s ordeal. Time was both frozen and racing past.

She and Huriya washed in the tiny privy with a bucket of hot water. Once they were dry, an army of women crowded into their dressing room, gushing over their saris. Then they saw the jewellery, and were struck dumb. Ramita saw their faces change as it dawned on them that however mysterious this marriage was, there were very material reasons why it was happening. Some of the faces turned envious, peering at Ramita as if wondering: Why her, why not my daughter? Others fawned over Tanuva, praising her motherly skills, reminding her of past generosities. Her mother, sensing the change in mood, chased everyone out, declaring that the girls needed time and room to get ready. Only Pashinta was allowed to stay, her tough face sober as she helped clear the room. Tanuva looked on the verge of tears as she called out to Jai to watch over the gifts.

The girls dressed in silence. Only Huriya took pleasure in the riches they hung about themselves. Ramita’s handed-down wedding saree was a richly patterned maroon and gold piece, the best – indeed, the only fancy piece of clothing the family had owned before today. It was a family treasure; this would be its fifth wearing in eighty years. For all that, it was the plainest saree here, outshone by the new ones purchased with Meiros’ money.

Ramita felt strange to be hung with gold and gems when all she had worn previously was cheap brass and cut glass. The big looped nose ring piercing her left nostril and fixed to her ear by a chain felt especially uncomfortable, as if it might pull her ear off. The gold and glass bangles on her arm clattered with every movement. Pashinta powdered her face, rouged her cheeks and coloured her eyelids in black kohl. They took a bowl of sandalwood paste and marked her face in a dot pattern sweeping from cheekbone to cheekbone, in the traditional bridal patterns. It took for ever.

Pashinta looked at her critically. ‘You are a pretty girl, Ramita. Your groom will be well pleased.’ She knew who that groom was, of course. Tanuva trusted her with such secrets. ‘Ramita dear, you are doing a brave thing,’ she murmured, ‘but I don’t think this is an auspicious wedding. You are being asked to fly too high. We are simple people. We are not meant to have gold and gems and silks and riches and to walk with princes. Ispal, Vikash and all the other men, they are thinking only about money. I pray you will not be the one who pays the price for their greed.’

‘We’ll be all right, Auntie,’ Ramita said in as firm a voice as she could muster. ‘Father has done a good thing.’ The assertion sounded hollow, even to herself. I have to believe I am doing this for the good of my family. I cannot afford to doubt.

Pashinta looked away. ‘You are a good daughter, Ramita. Parvasi watch over you.’ They heard a blast of trumpets outside, and everyone froze. Pashinta looked from the window, her face stricken. ‘By all the gods, he is here.’

Ramita sat on her piri stool in the kitchen, her henna’d hands clinging to Huriya’s so hard her knuckles were pale. She could hear everything and see nothing as Pashinta, in the traditional role as female friend of the house, greeted the groom. Beside her, Father was perspiring thickly. Conch shells blew and the assembled women chanted as they sprinkled rosewater over her groom as he entered the courtyard. She shut her eyes tight and began to pray. This was no dream. Instead of marrying Kazim, as she had prepared her life, she was to be given to a elderly stranger and taken to another land.

‘Where is Kazim?’ she whispered to Huriya.

Her friend whispered through her veil, ‘He’s at the Dom-al’Ahm, with Father’s body. He told me to tell you that he misses you, that he loves you, that he will be yours for ever.’

She peered through her veil, not fooled. ‘What did he really say?’ she demanded.

Huriya hung her head. ‘Stupid, foolish things,’ she said in a flat, unforgiving voice. ‘He’s angry. He has these new Amteh friends and won’t talk to me any more.’ Her face hardened. ‘If he doesn’t need me, then I don’t need him.’

Oh Kazim! Don’t hate me. I will always be yours, whatever happens.

And suddenly there was no time left. Her mother brushed the back of her hands with trembling fingers, then went upstairs. It was bad luck for mothers to watch their children wed. Huriya handed Ramita two banana leaves, one for each hand. She drew them under her veil, then lifted them to cover her face. She quelled her mounting panic. I will not disgrace my family.

Jai and his friend Baghi came in, clad in gleaming white and orange, their faces grim. They bent over her and seized two legs each of her piri stool. ‘Ek, do, tin,’ Jai muttered, and they straightened. She had to let go of Huriya’s hand as they carried her awkwardly into the courtyard to the sound of conches and deafening ululation. She could see the outline of her groom in his pale robes, standing in the middle of the tiny yard, his guards about him. Jai and Baghi bore her around him slowly, the seven turns required by ritual. Meiros, his face hidden deep in his hood, followed her progress. Through the veil, she caught fragments: Father’s face, beaded with sweat; Huriya’s greedy eyes; a sea of straining faces. Finally the seventh circle was completed and she was held before him. The marigold garland about her shoulders filled her nostrils. She hid behind the two banana leaves and waited.

Meiros raised his arms and pulled back his hood. The entire crowd sucked in their breath, finally able to see the mystery groom. Whoever they had been expecting, it wasn’t a whiteskinned old man. She heard gasps of pity and anger as they compared his ancient features to the youth of his bride, and murmurings: how dare Ispal sell his daughter to this old pallid creature? It was an affront to nature. She felt the tension rise about the crowded courtyard.

Pandit Arun stepped through the soldiers and laid a garland of marigolds about Meiros’ neck. She cowered behind the banana leaves and closed her eyes. She felt Jai and Baghi lift the front of her veil and settle it over Meiros’ head, and the world shrank to a tiny space. The torches and lanterns cast a reddish light through the lace. She could hear his breath, smell his rosewater scent. He smells old …

Vikash Nooridan’s voice intruded, speaking Rondian words to Meiros, explaining the ceremony. ‘My lord, this is the unveiling of the bride. You must await her. She will lower the leaves when she is ready and gaze upon you. Then you must exchange garlands.’

She was not obliged to hurry. For a second she thought about remaining motionless for ever.

‘Well, girl?’ came that dry, rasping voice, speaking in Lakh.

She swallowed. ‘My father does not think you are an evil man,’ she found the courage to say.

A small chuckle. ‘That puts him in a minority. I suppose I should be grateful.’

‘Is he right?’ she dared to ask.

That made him pause. His eventual reply was reflective. ‘I’ve never believed that a man is good or evil. Deeds might be, but men are a summation of their actions and their intentions, words and thoughts. I have always done what I thought was best.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Not everyone agrees.’

She opened her eyes, stared at the trembling leaves. ‘Will you treat me well?’

‘I will treat you with respect and dignity and honour. I will treat you as a wife. But do not expect love. I have none of that left. Death has claimed those I loved and left that river dry.’

‘Father says you had a wife and a son?’

‘My wife died many years ago. My daughter is barren. My son … My son was murdered. They bound him so that he could not reach the gnosis and then tortured him while he was helpless. Then they butchered him and sent me his head.’ His voice lost its flatness. It was tinged now with loss and anger. Then emotion fled, and the dry voice said, ‘I am sorry to take you from the life you thought to have. I cannot give you that life, but I can make this one comfortable, and filled with beautiful things.’

I don’t want your beautiful things, she wanted to say, I just want Kazim.

‘Who is Kazim?’ he asked.

Her heart lurched as she finally realised that this man was not just ferang, but a true jadugara, a magician who could pull thoughts from her mind. She felt a shuddering jolt of fear. ‘The one I was to marry,’ she whispered.

‘Ah. I am sorry.’ He sounded vaguely regretful. ‘You will be bitter, to have your life so rearranged to be the broodmare of some ghastly old man. I can’t help that. I can only say that this life will have its rewards also, beyond what you can imagine. But I cannot give you back your dreams.’

They fell silent. Outside their tiny tent the hushed crowd, held in suspense, strained to hear the low conversation. Would she refuse him? What would happen if she did? The moment dragged on and on.

Finally, somewhere inside herself, time ran out. Kazim, forgive me. She slowly lowered the leaves and stared into the watery blue eyes of the jadugara. They were alien, unreadable. His grey hair and beard were thin and straggly. His face had none of the traditional Omali groom-marks. His lips were thin and his demeanour impatient. His eyes widened slightly as he took her in.

How do I seem to him, with my dark skin and painted face, my patterned hands and glittering jewellery? Does he see all the way into my soul with his jadugara eyes?

‘Why me?’ she whispered. ‘I’m just a market-girl.’

His eyes never left hers. ‘I have great need of children, and you are highly likely to breed many, quickly. I have divined that the path of greatest safety lies in siring children swiftly, to a Lakh wife. When I say “safety”, I mean not my own, but that of the whole world. There must be children, multiple children of the same birth, to you and I. Those children will be magi, and they will unify the Ordo Costruo and bring about peace. I searched long, but life is perilous here and lineage often uncertain. You are the only one to have the requisite genetic history and race, and I am nearly out of time. You – and our children – represent a chance to stave off disaster, assuming it is not already too late.’

‘I am just your broodmare,’ she said flatly.

‘I am sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I have no fable of love with which to comfort you. There is only this hard fact: you have the requisite genetic and cultural mix. I will treat you with dignity, but I must also sire children, and that will not be dignified at all. If you must know, it fills me with shame. I never wanted this. I have my pride. I can see the revulsion in your eyes when you look at me. I am no old lecher who craves young girls, but I have no choice. Believe me, I wish I had.’ He stopped and half-smiled. ‘I think these young men are tiring of holding you, girl.’

It was as if her instincts decided for her paralysed mind. With trembling hands she pulled the garland of orange flowers over her head, reached out and jerkily placed it over his head. He did the same, smoothly and calmly. She heard the sigh of the gathered people, the letting out of anxiously held breath. A few people cheered, but most just stared. Then the veil was pulled away and she was in the middle of a sea of dark faces, white eyes and teeth gleaming in the torch-light. Smoke and incense hung in the air, almost choking. She found her cheeks wet with tears and could not wipe them, for her hands were locked in his garland, shaking wildly.

Meiros was taken into the kitchen where a fire waited, to complete the ritual. Jai and Baghi, panting now, carried her in and placed her before the fire-pit. Huriya, at the door, reached out and stroked Ramita’s arm as she passed. Only her father, Vikash, Guru Dev, Pashinta and Pandit Arun were within. ‘Now come the vows, Master,’ Vikash Nooridan told Meiros.

The jadugara turned and offered her his hands. He pulled her to her feet, surprisingly strong. Her legs felt wobbly, sore from sitting for so long. She shivered as cool, bony fingers tightened around hers: patchy white skin coiled about young dark hands. Her throat was tight, her breath laboured.

She scarcely heard the words spoken, about loyalty, about trust and companionship, about duty. Gods were invoked, blessings made. Then Vikash instructed Meiros to walk about the fire three times. She followed him, stepping on plates and shattering clay pots, kicking over candles and little cups of water, following tradition, as Arun chanted the prayers and propitiations. Then her hand was joined to his again and they slowly promenaded together about the fire. The final circuit. They were wed.

She felt faint and dizzy, and clung to Meiros’ arm while people cheered uncertainly. Ispal called Tanuva downstairs, and she embraced her weeping parents. They both looked nervously at Meiros, and then Ispal cautiously extended his hand. Meiros took it briefly and inclined his head slightly to Tanuva. Then Huriya bustled in and kissed Ramita and hugged her. She looked fiercely exultant, as if this wedding was something she had laboured long towards.

You are the only truly happy person here today, Ramita thought.

The Keshi girl curtsied saucily to Meiros and then struck a pose. ‘Music!’ she called to the drummers and sitar players, and they started a familiar tune. Huriya spun, then stopped, her body arching, breasts straining the fabric, then she danced about that tiny space, graceful, light-footed, nimble. She twirled graceful patterns with her hands and arms, her face alive, expressive. It was a story-dance from Kesh. Ramita saw all the northern soldiers drink in her curvy body and narrow waist, especially the monstrous Klein. The gold ring in her belly-button held a bell that tinkled as she spun and swayed. People clapped, the drumming increased and Jai called out in a loud voice and leapt in beside her, clapping his hands, cavorting about, dancing a fierce male role. She had never seen her brother look so masculine, and she felt a surge of pride. Then everyone was dancing as if this were a wedding like any other, a day of universal joy and celebration.

Food platters appeared before her and she realised just how hungry she was, and dizzy with the stress and strain. Meiros led her to a waiting carpet and settled her on cushions. Up close, she noticed that the air about him shimmered, at times seeming almost to push her away. It gave her a prickling sensation. He noticed her curiosity and leant towards her. ‘I am shielded,’ he told her. ‘From missiles. You will become used to it.’

Shielded: another display of his mysterious magic. She inched away from him, her skin crawling.

Meiros fed her with his hands, as tradition demanded, and she him. He seemed almost human now, laughing at her shaking hands that missed his mouth most of the time, but all she could see in her mind’s eye was the way she had imagined this would be with Kazim. Where are you, my love? Do you know what is going on here? Do you care? She caught a sober glint in Meiros’ eyes and stilled her mind, afraid again. Will I always have to guard my thoughts around him?

‘No, you won’t,’ he said, startling her by answering the unspoken question. Then he flinched, as if cursing himself, and added, ‘I’m sorry, I should not be listening. I will teach you how to protect your mind. It isn’t hard. In the meantime, my apologies.’ She shuddered, not in the least consoled.

Her husband – that old man beside me is my husband! – looked to be enjoying the occasion, and whenever anyone dared to meet his eye, he nodded graciously. Still no one but she and her family knew his name, for fear of what might occur. Klein still glowered over everything, misliking this chaotic press of people. Clearly my new husband has dangerous enemies.

Traditionally there would be singing and dancing until the bridal couple left, then the married women would shepherd their daughters away and the hard drink and ganja leaf would appear. The gamblers would bring out cards. It would be a long and wild night. But Ramita could dance only with her husband tonight, and she did not think him a dancing man. Anyway, she did not want to dance.

The moon, nearly full, sailed over the buildings, bathing the celebration in silvery light, and she whispered a prayer to Parvasi: ‘Watch over me, Queen of Light, and watch over my Kazim. Speed him my love.’ Then she glanced guiltily at the old magi and let her mind go still.