Mage's Blood

18

Lady Meiros

The Ordo Costruo

Some of those given immortality by Corineus lacked the zeal and fire to join the overthrow of the Rimoni Empire. These ingrates fell under the leadership of Antonin Meiros and wandered for many centuries before washing up in Pontus around 700. They took the name Ordo Costruo (from the Rimoni word for ‘builder’) and among many engineering feats constructed the Leviathan Bridge, in the early 800s. Chapters of the Ordo Costruo dwell in both Pontus and Hebusalim. They claim to prize knowledge above faith, and place themselves above God in many heresies large and small. For this reason they are widely abhorred, except by the greedy and grasping merchant-princes.

ANNALS OF PALLAS

Some enemies come bearing weapons and uttering blasphemies and so you know them. But worse are enemies who come with gifts and gracious deeds. You know them not as foes, until too late.

SALIM KABARAKHI II, SULTAN OF KESH, 922

Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia

Moharram (Janune) to Awwal (Martrois) 928

6–4 months until the Moontide

Ramita and Huriya paced the gardens of Meiros’ palace in Hebusalim, wishing they had wings and could fly over the walls. It felt like a prison, when there was so much to see outside. The central courtyard was sixty paces square. The crushed marble underfoot glowed in the sunlight, and the carved reliefs of the marble buildings shone so brightly that the girls covered their faces with gauze headscarves. The sky was clear, the air was scented with the fragrance of the flowerbeds. Somehow the smells of the city never reached this place. Water tinkled musically in the fountain of carved fish exploding from stone shaped as spume – more water wasted in a minute than Ramita’s family used in a day. She had thought it was drinking water, until a condescending servant had told her, ‘If madam wanted a drink, she had only to ask.’ The fountain water was not drinkable, the servant said, though it looked fine to Ramita, a lot cleaner than the water she used to lug home from the Imuna. People here were clearly over-delicate. There were plants blooming here that she did not recognise; she couldn’t work out how they would be used, but Huriya giggled and told her they were decorative.

Decorative?

They had arrived four days since, and something like a routine was being formed. The girls wanted to go out and explore the city, but her husband forbade it. There was constant shouting outside, but the soldiers would not let her walk on the battlements of the red walls that surrounded the house, so she had no idea what it was about. The palace covered four acres in the heart of the city, she had been told, but she was allowed only in her own rooms, her husband’s study and the central garden, and it was suffocating. Only the tower rooms had a view of the city, but she was forbidden entry. The tower stood like a pale fang, rising three storeys above the walls. It was accessible only from her husband’s rooms.

By the time she presented herself in her husband’s study for Rondian lessons the deep furrows on his brow had returned. He was surrounded by letters and missives and looked beaten down again. His thin hair was tangled by worried fingers. She glimpsed a hall where supplicants waited, a mixture of Rondian merchants and Hebb traders in their check-patterned headdresses, including some women in the black bekira-shrouds that even Rondian women wore in public. Meiros acknowledged her distractedly, then told her his daughter Justina would see to her language tutelage from now on. That had been three nights ago. In the evenings she could see light limning the shutters of his tower-rooms. He did not come to her chamber, and she suspected that he had not slept since returning.

Justina Meiros ignored her requests for language lessons. Olaf was apologetic, but no help. ‘Once the trouble on the street dies down we will summon cloth and jewellery traders for you, Lady Ramita,’ he offered, as if this would satisfy her. What trouble? she wondered.

‘But Rondian speak I desire me!’ she burst out in mangled Rondian. ‘Book need I nigh! Nigh! Nekat chottiya!’ It was very frustrating. Olaf didn’t seem to understand.

When Huriya asked Olaf about the troubles in the street he said, ‘Because of Madam.’ Huriya passed this on, and Ramita laughed nervously: trouble because of her, in the streets of this foreign city? Huriya must have got the words wrong.

On holy day her husband spoke to her briefly before he left under heavy guard to attend a Kore service at the Governor’s Palace. This governor, Tomas Betillon, was rumoured to eat children, the servants told Huriya. ‘Betillon is a pig,’ Meiros remarked with distaste, ‘yet I must dine with him.’ He looked like he wished to spit.

‘Olaf said that there was trouble in the streets because of me,’ Ramita remarked curiously, staring at the intricate mosaic on the floor.

Meiros had grimaced. ‘Someone has put it about that I have kidnapped a Lakh princess, and have her imprisoned in my tower. Some of the Hebb are burning my effigy and calling for my stoning.’ He chuckled dryly. ‘This is normal here, Wife. Don’t let it concern you. It flares up, it dies down.’

‘Justina will not teach me,’ Ramita complained, feeling curiously neglected.

Meiros grunted and dashed off a note. ‘Take this to Olaf. Justina has obligations to this family, whether she likes it or not. It will give her something constructive to do instead of painting her face and nails.’ He stood. ‘I am sorry I have been busy, Wife, but next week you must attend a banquet with my colleagues, and you must be ready.’

After breakfast Olaf took Ramita to Justina’s quarters. Ramita waited impatiently while Olaf haggled with Justina’s housemaid. She wished Huriya was with her, but her friend had been allowed to go with the servants to Amteh worship in the city. Huriya had been full of excitement about seeing Hebusalim. Ramita had asked Olaf to give Huriya some money for the markets, and he had casually handed over enough coins to make even Huriya’s eyes bulge.

Finally a servant came out and led her through to Justina’s private courtyard. Two women were sitting cross-legged on Keshi-style low leather seats with no backs, beside a tiny fountain. Incense perfumed the cool air. Both women wore blue mantles. They looked at her distantly as she entered. Justina waved Ramita to one of the seats, then continued conversing with the other woman.

At least it gave Ramita the chance to study Meiros’ daughter for the first time. She had a long narrow head, and her complexion was pale as porcelain. Her full lips were stained red. Her face was mature, but her complexion was clear and smooth. Meiros had claimed his daughter was more than one hundred years old, but she could not tell if this was true. She was a mage; who knew what was possible? Her lustrous black hair had no trace of grey. She wore simple jewellery, but it was all gold. A ruby as red as her lips hung from a gold chain and pulsed at her neck like a heartbeat: a periapt, one of the magical gems of the magi. Justina had a forbidding beauty, as if she had been sculpted, not born.

The other woman was far less fearsome. Her soft, round freckled face was framed by a tumble of golden curls. She too wore a pulsing jewel at her throat, a large sapphire. She smiled reassuringly. ‘Hello,’ she said slowly in Rondian, ‘you must be Ramita.’ Her voice was warm and sultry. ‘I am Alyssa Dulayne. Welcome to Hebusalim.’ She spoke as if trying to coax a cat to be petted.

Ramita ducked her head, licked her lips. ‘Hello.’

‘So she does have a tongue,’ observed Justina tartly.

Ramita caught the gist of Justina’s remark. ‘Some little Rondian, I have. More Keshi. You Lakh have?’ she added, sticking her chin up a little.

Alyssa chuckled. ‘A good point, Justina. Do you speak her tongue?’

Justina Meiros wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t, and neither do you, Alyssa. Apparently Father expects me to have this girl ready to face the vultures at the next Ordo Costruo banquet. How ridiculous.’

‘What is “rikuless”?’ Ramita asked, trying to quell her dislike.

Justina faced her, looking down her nose. ‘Ri-dic-u-lous. It means “silly”. Do you know silly?’

‘I am not silly,’ Ramita said levelly.

Justina sighed. ‘I never said you were. Kore’s sake, Alyssa, what am I going to do?’

The fair woman laughed gently. ‘Well, why don’t you leave it to me for a while? I’m better at this sort of thing than you are.’ She smiled at Ramita, who felt a sudden fear of what this nice-seeming woman might mean.

Justina drained her tiny cup and rose. ‘Yes, why don’t you, Alyssa? I have no patience at all.’ She bent over, kissed Alyssa’s cheeks and vanished into her suite. Ramita rose, thinking herself dismissed.

‘No, no, sit.’ Alyssa patted the chair Justina had vacated. ‘Come, sit with me.’ She poured green tea, serving Ramita before herself, then she leaned forward and cupped Ramita’s face in soft hands that smelled of rose-water. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll be very gentle, I promise.’

Ramita looked at her, puzzled, then the mage-woman’s gold-flecked brown eyes caught hers, like a hook catches a fish. Her words meant little, but they trilled like a lullaby. Ramita felt strange, caught somewhere between sleep and alertness. Tiny details seemed huge, but she couldn’t have said whether there was anyone else in the little courtyard. Alyssa’s voice brought echoes of Meiros’ lessons to the surface of her thoughts, like bubbles rising in a fountain, and other words were added, a stream of them, as if Alyssa were chanting them into her mind. She felt them sink slowly inside her and slide into orderly formations, schools of words swimming in an ocean of thought. Associations formed, with colours, with numbers, with actions … She felt her eyes fall closed with an almost audible click …

Perfumed hands caught her face and gently shook and she blinked, startled. ‘It’s all right, Ramita,’ said Alyssa, smiling with satisfaction. ‘That went well, though it was hard work getting you to open up.’ The Rondian woman had a sheen of perspiration on her brow, Ramita noticed in surprise. Surely they had just been sitting for a few moments?

Then it suddenly dawned on her: Alyssa was speaking in Rondian, and she’d understood her! Ramita gasped and threw a hand across her mouth. For a second she felt a panicked sense of loss, until she realised her Lakh words were waiting for her, ready whenever she wanted. ‘You Rondian me teach?’ she asked out loud.

Alyssa giggled. ‘Have you taught me Rondian?’ she corrected. ‘Yes, a little – but we’re going to do this for most of the rest of the month so that you can understand Rondian perfectly. All I’ve done is imprint some more advanced grammar and some vocabulary.’ She pointed up at the small square of sky above them. The sun was gone, away to the west. Ramita felt a dizzying wave of tiredness as Alyssa said, ‘We’ve got a long way to go, Ramita Ankesharan-Meiros. A long, long way.’

‘Why not Husband do this?’ Ramita whispered.

‘Oh, I imagine Antonin would not risk it while travelling. Mind-to-mind work like this can be all-consuming, and if you’d been attacked, he would have been almost helpless. And maybe he thought it would scare you; I’m much less intimidating than him. Now he’s returned, he’s very busy. But I find I rather enjoy it.’ The jadugara rose a little unsteadily to her feet. ‘It will take weeks for you to be fluent, but by the time of the banquet I hope you’ll be able to converse comfortably with the other magi.’ She surprised Ramita with a quick hug. ‘You have a nice mind, my dear, wholesome and good.’

Ramita flushed at the strange compliment. She stammered something and tried to rise, but Alyssa sat her back down gently. ‘Wait a little – you’ll be dizzy if you try to move too soon.’ She left, with a friendly waggle of her fingers.

Ramita felt exhausted, but the sound of the fountain was soothing. She wondered if Huriya was home yet and started to rise again, but Justina, reappearing with a steaming pot, said firmly, ‘Sit down, girl.’ She poured out spicy chai and pushed the porcelain mug into Ramita’s hands. ‘Drink some of this before you try to do anything.’ She sat opposite, half in the shadows, and pulled up her hood. She could have been carved in marble. ‘That sort of working is more draining than you realise.’

Ramita took a sip. The chai was sweet and strong, just as she liked it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, then mischievously added, ‘Daughter.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ snapped Justina, ‘I’m not your “daughter”, you backwater pagan.’

‘Baranasi nehin “backwater”!’ she snapped, ‘and Lakh nehin “pagan”. You are.’ How dare this arrogant woman criticise her home town or her people!

‘Nehin? Don’t you mean “not”?’ Justina asked scornfully. ‘Find a dictionary!’

‘What is “dictionary”?’

‘A book of words. Alyssa didn’t do a very good job, did she? Or maybe you’re just not a good pupil.’ She leaned forward. ‘I don’t care who you are or where you’re from. I don’t agree with what my senile father has done to you, and if I had my way we’d send you right back. If any further proof were needed that he has lost his mind, his wedding a Lakh peasant is it.’

‘I nehin peasant, jadugara. My father is a trader in Aruna Nagar.’

‘I don’t give a neffing rukk whether your peasant father owned one piss-pot or two,’ Justina snarled. ‘You’re in Hebusalim now, at the front line of a war, and no matter what price my idiot father paid yours for the right to bed you, you are worth nothing if you can’t get pregnant damned fast. My advice to you is to shut your cheeky gob and spread yourself like a good little whore, and just maybe you’ll get out of this alive.’

Ramita’s temper flared and she raised her fist, thinking I’ll show you – and instantly her whole body was frozen, and Justina’s red ruby was glowing rich as blood.

Her icy eyes transfixed Ramita where she sat. ‘Never ever raise your hand against a mage,’ Justina Meiros whispered. ‘Never, unless you have the power to kill them.’ She stood up and walked around Ramita, whose body remained locked in place. ‘You must learn to control your temper, mudskin, or the first person who goads you is going to have every excuse to burn your face off.’

Ramita’s heart drummed helplessly and her whole body was slick with fear.

‘Alyssa will teach you to speak like us, and I will give you a few pointers on who to talk to and who to avoid, but do not ever make the mistake of thinking that you are one of us. Until you are with child, you are nothing but a particularly expensive whore. Now get out.’

As Ramita fled on wobbling her legs, Justina’s cold voice followed her. ‘By the way, what is a “jadugara”, bint?’

Ramita clutched a pillar by the door and let her legs regain a little strength. She turned her head. ‘Look it up in a dictionary, Daughter,’ she said clearly. Then she ran.

To her surprise, she heard a sudden burst of harsh laughter.

Ramita tottered back to her room. She needed Huriya, to tell her what had happened, but as she went to pull the door-curtain aside she heard a rhythmic thumping sound and a quiet uh uh uh, a girl’s voice. She peered carefully inside, at the hairy bulk of Jos Klein jolting into Huriya’s open body, tiny beneath him. Huriya’s head turned faintly towards the door as if she knew Ramita was there. Then she arched her back and tossed her head with fervent abandon.

Ramita slipped away to her huge, lonely bed. Kazim’s face haunted her dreams.

‘Husband, Huriya has told me of a shrine to Sivraman, here in Hebusalim.’ Ramita proudly said the whole sentence in Rondian. It was the week of the waxing moon and she was sharing coffee with her husband. Though Ramita was not allowed to leave the palace grounds, Huriya was, under guard and during the day, and a Lakh trader from the spice markets had told her of the little Omali temple.

‘What of it?’ Meiros asked distractedly, reading a letter. ‘Hebusalim has shrines to the Kore, the Sollan, the Ja’arathi and the Amteh faiths – every religion in Antiopia can be found here.’

‘But this is my religion, Husband, and I wish to pray there.’ This was her fertile period, until the end of the full moon. Meiros had come to her chambers for the first time the previous night, but his manhood had failed him and he had shuffled away, leaving her untouched and humiliated. She knew there were things women did to excite men, but she had no idea what, so if he couldn’t manage, then it was in the hands of the gods – which was why going to the shrine was vital. ‘Sivraman rides the great bull, he lends us the animal spirits of fertility,’ she explained.

He looked utterly discomforted, and she smiled to herself. I can make this jadugara blush!

Finally he relented enough to agree that the pandit of the shrine could visit to bless them. Huriya brought the holy man, whose name was Omprasad, to Casa Meiros the next evening. He was so thin he was practically a walking skeleton. His beard fell to his midriff in a dirty grey tangle, and he hobbled like a man who had walked the length of Antiopia – and he had. His tattered white loincloth barely covered his privates, and his only other clothing was a dirty orange blanket. He had no fingers on his left hand, just scarred, seared knobs, and he stank ferociously.

Ramita looked at Huriya. ‘My husband will not allow this if he is not clean.’

Huriya’s eyes lit up. ‘Olaf,’ she called loudly, mischief in her eyes.

Pandit Omprasad’s face was so transported when he sank into the warm water of the marble bath that Ramita feared he would expire then and there. The menservants cast sullen looks at the girls as they washed him, which they ignored. Do they think themselves better than a Lakh holy man? Ramita thought. Well, they can just do as they’re told.

Eventually Omprasad was washed and clothed in second-hand servants’ attire, then fed while they waited for Lord Meiros to return home. When the old mage joined them in the little courtyard Meiros looked at the old holy man and gave a nod of resignation. ‘You’ll have to tell me what to do.’

Ramita beamed with relief and pleasure. She squeezed Huriya’s hand. ‘He will bless us,’ she announced, excited to have persuaded her husband to do this for her.

Omprasad spoke lengthily, wheezing and coughing a lot, and none of it made much sense, but that wasn’t relevant; what was important was the blessing of the gods; what was relevant was clasping her husband’s hand and watching him do something for her. As the pandit traced a pooja mark on her forehead she could feel Sivraman’s third eye on her. She would conceive soon, she knew it. She felt renewed determination to see this nightmare through.

While Huriya saw the old man out, giving him a bundle of food and some coins, Ramita took her husband’s wrinkled hand and walked him solemnly towards her private chambers. But as soon as they were out of sight of the servants Meiros pulled her to a halt. His eyes were amused, but also sad. ‘Wife, stop: I appreciate what you are doing. I appreciate your optimism and your willingness to do your duty, but I am tired and I am old. Last night I failed, and tonight I have even less energy: I am worn out.’

She refused to be put off. ‘Then allow me to help you relax, Husband,’ she said meekly.

He seemed about to refuse, but instead he shrugged his assent, and she led him down the small passage that connected their rooms to the small courtyard where the waxing moon shone down. She called for hot water, soap, a razor, bathing oils and incense sticks, and sat him on the cushioned seat, then knelt at his feet. She had done this for her father when her mother was in the blood-room or the temple, and now she sang softly as she worked, pouring hot water and oil, massaging with hard fingers, paring ill-kept nails, making his joints crack. Occasionally she glanced up, and she watched his gaze go from puzzled wariness to relaxed resignation.

Finally she was done and he sighed, ‘Thank you Wife. That was pleasant.’

She stood up and worked up the courage to touch his head. ‘I haven’t finished, my lord.’ She had a plan. She started by pushing her thumbs into his temples and gently worked them, to ease his headache, then she wrapped his head in a warm wet towel and plucked up her courage. ‘Will you permit me to trim your hair and beard, Husband?’

She felt a strange tickling sensation in her mind that made her shiver, then it vanished and he said gruffly, ‘You may.’

She wet his beard and lathered with the sweet-smelling soap, then, swallowing a sudden attack of nerves, picked up the blade. His eyes were closed, his face unreadable. She used the razor tentatively at first until she was sure she had got the hang of it, then she shaved clean his cheeks and throat with careful sweeps, and used scissors to shorten the beard to just an inch long. It took years off him, and for the first time she could see the younger man he’d been: a dogged, patient face, strong-jawed, with a firm mouth.

She turned her attention to his hair, lathered his scalp well, took a deep breath and lifted the razor. The long, uneven, tangled tresses clung to his scalp like dried-out weeds: they had to go. She worked patiently and carefully, taking her time, removing every hair from his scalp and ensuring there was no trace of stubble. Then she rinsed his head, and finished by massaging in a musky oil.

When she was done, a new man sat before her. His scalp was already tanned from the years of encroaching hair-loss, but this new baldness brought out the strong lines of his skull. He no longer looked like some neglected ancient, but regal, timeless. And the smooth scalp felt velvety to touch.

She suddenly became aware that she was bent over him, stroking his scalp. He raised a hand to her face and pushed away a loose tress that had fallen from her hair combs. She looked down and then froze as he pulled her face down to his and pressed his lips to hers.

His mouth tasted of bitter tobacco – almost unpleasant … but not. He had not kissed her before, ever. He pulled her onto his lap, sitting astride him, and contemplated her face. His right hand caressed her shoulder and he examined her salwar. ‘Is this dress of yours a favourite?’ he asked softly.

Huh? ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Good,’ he muttered. He waved his hands, his eyes flared pale blue and every stitch fell apart. She suppressed the desire to claw herself free – sometimes, she forgot that he wasn’t an ordinary man, but never for long, not when he could do things like that. It took all her courage to hold still as he pushed aside the cloth and kissed her left breast, above her heart. She wondered if he could hear it thumping. His hands slid down her back and pulled away the remnants of her clothing entirely. In a dreamy daze – don’t think, do – she unlaced him and wriggled herself onto his erect manhood. She was already moist, with no need for the oils, and she received him easily and rode him gently, the restricted movement keeping him hard inside her, but slowing release, while her own juices flowed sweeter and hotter. Involuntary noises began to escape her throat and she could feel something heavy and sluggish stirring deep inside and rising to the surface of some hidden lake. Almost, almost – she was near that climax she occasionally experienced with her own fingers, but never with him, not yet …

He stifled a cry and his whole body jerked up and into her, making her cry out and almost triggering that blissful release … almost. She arched her back, half-disappointed, half-exultant, and she offered up a prayer to Sivraman and Parvasi, for a child to bless this night.

His hand, warm now, stroked her cheek. ‘Thank you, Wife.’

‘Thank the Gods, Husband,’ she whispered piously.

‘The only divine thing here is you,’ he told her, kissing her forehead.

He held her for a long while, before wrapping her in a shawl and giving her leave to go to her rooms. She prayed for conception, staring out at the moon, until she fell asleep. All the next week he treated her with tenderness, and twice more the mood came upon him to take her onto his lap and let her move until he expended inside her, but she still bled when the full moon waned.

There was no condemnation in his eyes when she told him, only a resigned disappointment and a pledge that they would try again, next month.

‘And Wife, if and when it pleases you, you are welcome to attend me in my chambers.’ He had more energy somehow, as if what they shared had reignited his zest for life. He attended his work with more vigour, and in the evenings his voice carried a certain feistiness that hadn’t been there before. But that invitation, well-meaning and gently made, made her feel guilty: yes, her husband’s company was amiable, and their coupling had become – well, almost pleasurable. But surely it was but a shadow of the rapture that could and should have been? In her dreams Kazim would come for her, sweep her up onto a white horse and they would ride and ride, for ever …

Casa Meiros, like most of the Ordo Costruo houses, lay on the west side of Hebusalim. The city’s vast population, some six million when the Leviathan Bridge opened, had dwindled to perhaps half that since the Crusades began twenty-four years ago. Dhassans had paler, softer features than Keshi, and their language and traditional dress predated the Keshi, they claimed. They subscribed to a milder version of the Amteh, called ‘Ja’arathi’, based more upon the teachings of the Prophet’s disciples, with gentler, more liberal interpretations of the Amteh strictures. The city’s special place in the Amteh and Ja’arathi cosmos was sealed not only because it was the Prophet’s birthplace, but it was also the resting place of Bekira, his chief wife. The huge Dom-al’Ahm was named Bekira Masheed in her honour.

Fewer than sixty thousand Rondians dwelt in the city, living in an enclave around the emir’s palace. Half of them were non-combatant support to the six legions stationed in the area: four on the Gotan Heights to the east, the other two in the city itself. Each legion had its full complement of five thousand men, including a dozen battle-magi.

Meiros took Ramita by carriage through the city, driving westwards to the rise upon which sat Domus Costruo, the Palace of the Builders. He was to preside at the quarterly banquet.

Domus Costruo was a cross-shaped building of glittering gold-flecked black granite. The central hall was positioned beneath a massive gold-plated dome, on the interior of which was a massive painting telling the story of the building of the Leviathan Bridge. The banquet hall was in the west wing, to catch the last of the sun. The marble floors remained cool, even under the hottest summer sun. The Arcanum Guard, the legion recruited in Pontus to guard the Ordo Costruo, filled the grounds.

Ramita checked out her husband from the corner of her eye. She’d been confined to her blood-room for days, her only company Alyssa and her gentle, subtly-tiring language teaching. ‘You look tired, husband,’ she said in Rondian, pleased with her progress. This magic of the Rondians did have some good points.

Meiros yawned. ‘Yes, I am tired. The Kore Inquisition sent a delegation, and their presence has sparked some vicious debate. Those bastards seized Northpoint – the tower at the Pontus end of the Bridge – which permitted the First Crusade. Like it or not, the Ordo Costruo’s primary function is now the maintenance of the Bridge, for the emperor’s use. Old wounds.’ He stroked his shaven skull, as if still unused to it. ‘I’m getting too old for this – though I’m told I look younger since you came, Wife.’

She smiled dutifully, fighting her apprehension about the coming evening. ‘Lady Justina has warned me to be careful tonight, Husband.’

‘Justina likes to be dramatic. Stay near me and I will look after you.’

‘I won’t let you down.’

‘My dear, you will be the talk of the banquet.’ He smiled.

The carriage rolled up a long boulevard lined with palm trees. Trumpets blared as they halted and doormen in red jackets helped them out. Arcanum Guards lined the entrance as Meiros led Ramita up the stairs; she supposed it a credit to their discipline that only half of them stopped and stared, open-mouthed. She presumed none of them had seen a saree before. Or a woman’s bare midriff in public, possibly.

Justina had threatened to burn all of her sarees rather than allow her to wear one in public, but Ramita had sought and obtained Meiros’ blessing, as much to get one over Justina as any other reason. She wore the most ornate of the new collection Vikash Nooridan’s wife had purchased with such great pleasure in Baranasi. The close-fitting gold bodice was embroidered with blue glass beads, which matched the elaborate blue patterns stitched by hand across the saree and bearing the auspicious marks of Gann-Elephant, so skilfully devised that every fold revealed a new pattern, each subordinate to the whole. The final fold she had pulled over her head to shroud her face. Her flat stomach was adorned with a belly-ring of gold. She had her bridal bangles on, and a nose-ring chained to her left ear. Huriya had pasted a bindu gem to her forehead, a scarlet ruby, and her fingernails had been painted by one of Justina’s servants in one of her own polishes. Her lips were coloured dusky red. Huriya had painted henna patterns on her hands and feet that morning. ‘You will turn every head,’ she had whispered while Justina ranted. ‘Don’t listen to what that jealous old hag says.’

Meiros smiled softly at her. ‘You look radiant, Wife. Magnificently alien. And very beautiful.’ She was surprised at the grateful affection she felt at his words.

He guided her to the top of the steps, where a timeless-looking man with grey hair met them, gawping openly at her. She came up to his chest – were all of these whiteskin men giants? He was Lord Rene Cardien, he told her, eyeing the henna uncertainly as he bent over her hand and letting go nervously. His eyes kept crawling from her bodice to her waist and back.

‘If all of the men are going to spend the evening ogling you, I’ll get no sense out of them,’ Meiros remarked quietly as they passed inside the massive doors.

‘Is that not the plan?’ she asked pertly. Everyone in Aruna Nagar knew there were men whose bargaining skills collapsed when confronted with a pretty face. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the market, but she’d certainly learned how to flash a smile at the right moment.

Meiros glanced at her curiously. ‘I may have underestimated you, Wife,’ he whispered. He sounded pleased. ‘But be careful: not everyone here is an old lecher like Rene Cardien. No cheek, remember!’

She bowed her head humbly as they entered a massive hall. Motes of dust danced in the columns of dusky pink light shining through high windows. Their footsteps echoed as they walked between statues of commanding-looking men and women in flowing robes, rendered with astonishing realism in white marble shot with seams of emerald and vermillion. Meiros paused briefly next to one, a slim, lissom woman with big eyes. ‘Lynesse, my first wife.’ He pointed to the statue opposite, an imperious woman with her arm pointing skywards. She looked grim and haughty. ‘Edda, my second wife.’

‘Justina’s mother?’ Ramita whispered.

‘Indeed. Alike in all things,’ he said ruefully.

Ramita repressed a giggle as he led her onwards to where the magi were gathered. Silence fell and every head turned as they were announced.

They had discussed the question of curtseying, not easy in a saree, so he told her not to curtsey at all. ‘It’s a Rondian gesture, Wife; your clothing is making a statement about not being Rondian. Remain standing, and let them all get a good look at you; let them fully realise that you are a foreigner here. Dare them to bend towards you – remember, you are my wife, and they will not want to offend you, for that would be to offend me.’

With ‘Lord and Lady Meiros’ still ringing in the air they paused to let the gathering absorb them. Meiros wore a simple cream mantle; Ramita was a glittering doll, brighter than every woman in the room. Then he led her into the crowd and faces and names quickly became a blur: male magi married to female magi; single magi of both genders; non-magi spouses of magi. Everyone was deferential, and with an unexpected touch of pride she thought, My husband is the mightiest man here.

They were offered glasses of some kind of bubbling wine that was obviously a luxury, but she accepted only a fruit sherbet, as a good Lakh wife should. It looked like she was the only non-drinker there; her father had once told her that all Rondians were sots.

What surprised her most was that almost half the magi were clearly of mixed Antiopian descent, Hebb mostly, she guessed, looking at the dark hair set against pale olive complexions, but there were some striking combinations. One voluptuous woman, introduced as Odessa d’Ark, had dark olive skin and nearly blonde hair: she looked almost offended by Ramita’s saree, but stared at it avidly, as if already planning her next ball-gown. ‘The fashion stakes have been raised,’ Meiros whispered as they passed on.

Thus far she hadn’t even been called upon to open her mouth. She was just beginning to feel a little confident when Justina arrived. She was wearing a silver brooch of a snake coiled about a staff, the symbol of the order of healer-magi she’d founded. Ramita noticed most of the women present were also wearing it. Justina was on the arm of a man whose clothing almost out-glittered Ramita’s.

She left her partner to come and acknowledge Meiros. ‘Father,’ she said, and curtseyed elegantly.

Meiros eyed the man with her doubtfully. ‘Him, Daughter?’ he said in a low voice.

‘Oh, Father, don’t be a grump. Emir Rashid happened to arrive in the next carriage to mine and offer his arm. Be nice, Father, this is a party.’

The emir, who would have shamed peacocks with his glittering brilliance, glided towards them. Justina waved her hand airily, as if displaying an exhibit. ‘Rashid, this is my father’s new wife, Ramita.’

She stared up at the man and caught her breath.

It wasn’t just the costume of opal, mother-of-pearl and even real pearls, woven into a piece of finery that shimmered like a glittering snake. It wasn’t just his perfect, haughty, beautiful face, framed by braided hair and an elegant goatee; it was all of those things, but it was also the confident poise and the grace of a dancer or a swordsman. His eyes, the most piercing of emeralds, glittered beneath his manicured brows. But mostly, she saw Kazim in his natural athleticism and utter belief in the power of his own charm, and for a small second he was Kazim, striding towards her across the floors of this dream palace. She almost said his name.

She swallowed as a cool hand gripped hers and his lips caressed her hand. ‘Namaste, Lady Meiros. Rumour does you no justice,’ he said in Lakh, his voice rich and his accent perfect. ‘I am Emir Rashid Mubarak al Halli’kut and I am your servant.’

‘Uh, Namaskar,’ she started. ‘It is wonderful to hear my own tongue again, Emir.’

‘It is a pleasure to practise it, Lady Meiros.’ He straightened, preening a little.

He loves himself passionately, she noted.

Meiros’ rasping voice was a contrast to the emir’s rich timbre. ‘Emir Rashid, I did not know you have spent time in Lakh?’

‘Oh, I get everywhere, milord, sooner or later.’ He looked at Ramita. ‘Good evening, Antonin. Lady.’ He swirled away to greet Lady Odessa with a florid bow. Ramita had to tear her eyes from him.

After a time the novelty of being looked at but not talked to became frustrating. She was Lakh, and Lakh people were gregarious by nature. There were so many fascinating people here – the legendary Bridge Builders themselves – and yet all she was permitted was to listen to small talk, to simper and smile. She felt restless, and her nerves dissipated, worn away by boredom.

‘Um – where’s the privy here?’ she whispered at last.

Alyssa, hovering nearby, volunteered to guide her. ‘How are you enjoying the party, Ramita?’ she asked, as she led the way through endless corridors.

‘It’s not like a real celebration,’ Ramita sighed. ‘There is no music, no dancing – it’s not really fun.’

‘A party for fun – what a novel idea,’ Alyssa mused drily. ‘We don’t really do those here.’

‘None of you seem to actually like each other,’ Ramita commented. ‘I can tell: everyone is so formal! At home, if you don’t like someone, you don’t invite them to your parties – well, except everyone just shows up anyway. But you don’t have to let them inside and if they make trouble, you just tell one of Chandra-bhai’s boys and they sort it out.’

‘It sounds like you have more fun than we do. Everything here is politics: who you talk to, what you say, who you dance with, sometimes even what you wear.’ She giggled. ‘I think all the women will be trying to be more colourful next time. But the older ones are shocked at seeing your belly, of course.’

‘At home it is normal. Do you think I made the right choice of what to wear?’

‘You did; you’ve caught everyone’s eye. Especially the most handsome of the men.’ She winked at her. ‘I think you’ve made all the right impressions.’

Ramita felt a sudden flush of confusion. ‘I only wanted to establish that I am Lakh and have a right to be myself. I have no desire to attract any other sort of attention.’ She stuck her chin out. ‘A Lakh woman is faithful to her husband.’

Alyssa smiled knowingly. ‘My dear, what lovely sentiments. But when you’ve been married to the same bore for half a century, you may feel a little different. And your husband is so old – some of us wonder if he can still … ?’ She gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘We’re all dreadfully sorry for you, my dear. All we want to do is make your time here as painless as possible, before you are sent home.’

Ramita felt a strange sensation inside her. ‘Sent home? But I will conceive soon.’ Is this what they all think, that I’m just a momentary distraction, even this woman I thought my friend? ‘You’ll see.’

‘Of course, dear.’ Alyssa leaned against the wall, her face suddenly calculating. ‘But to whom, I wonder? So many of the younger men are crying out for fresh meat.’

Ramita flushed red. ‘To my husband,’ she said, gritting her teeth. Do I really have no friends here at all? She fled to the privy, locking the door behind her. For a time she sat there, trying to regain her composure. When she emerged, Emir Rashid Mubarak was leaning against the wall where Alyssa had been waiting. The woman was nowhere in sight.

‘Lady Meiros. Or may I call you Ramita?’ Rashid asked smoothly in Lakh.

She had to swallow twice before she could speak. ‘My lord.’ She moved to step past him and he put a hand on her arm: soft, but steely.

‘Allow me to guide you, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s not easy to find the way in this maze.’ His hand was huge upon her forearm, and she felt herself trembling as he walked her through corridors she didn’t recognise into a small courtyard filled with the rich smell of frangipani. Leafy branches filled the space, enclosing them.

The emir turned to face her, though he was so tall that she came only up to his chest. He still gripped her arm, and she found his proximity intimate and subtly threatening. ‘So, Ramita, it must be hard for you, to be taken away from those you love.’ His mellifluous voice caressed her senses. ‘Family, friends, lovers …’

‘I don’t recognise this courtyard, Emir.’ She tried to keep the fear out of her voice.

‘Did you have any young men in your life, back in Baranasi? Any handsome young men?’ For a second his face caught the light strangely and again she was staring up into Kazim’s face and he was whispering to her on the rooftops, one of those many nights lost in the past, so few months and so many lifetimes ago. She tried to pull herself from the emir’s grip, but he held her firmly. ‘Wait, Ramita – don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you. I’m a romantic, you see. I want to see you live happily ever after. I have a soft spot for young lovers. Like you and Kazim.’

Her heart nearly stopped. He knows about Kazim – and what else does he know?

Footsteps scraped behind them. ‘Rashid.’ Antonin Meiros’ words were harsh and ugly after the beauty of Rashid’s voice, but to her, in that moment, they rang like bells.

The emir’s mouth twitched. ‘Ah, Antonin. I found your young wife wandering, clearly lost.’ He held out Ramita’s hand as if she were a prize. ‘I return her to you. I trust you will be more diligent in future.’

‘Oh, I shall, Rashid, I shall.’ Meiros took Ramita’s hand gently in his. ‘Come, Wife. They are ready to serve the meal.’ He walked her slowly back to the hall, but she barely heard him. Her mind was racing. How could the emir have known—? She had not even thought about Kazim tonight …

Then she had a sickening thought: someone had been allowed freely inside her mind. Alyssa could have picked her mind over at leisure. She felt a chill, like the coils of serpents writhing in the darkness.

*

‘You did well, Wife,’ Meiros said as they were driven home. ‘You were silent, courteous and composed.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘What passed between you and Rashid Mubarak?’

She carefully blanked her mind. ‘It was as he said – but only because Alyssa left me on my own.’

‘Alyssa? That is not like her. Something must have called her away.’

Or someone? She almost voiced her suspicions, but stopped. Meiros had known Alyssa Dulayne far longer than she had, and both he and Justina evidently liked her. Very well, she told herself, but I will end my lessons with her.

‘Was the banquet a success?’ she asked. There had been no dancing and little laughter. It had been a tense and joyless occasion, in her eyes.

Meiros grunted. ‘It was just a continuation of the whole week. Nothing you need concern yourself with.’ He sounded drained once more.

‘Whatever concerns my husband concerns me,’ she replied determinedly.

He looked at her. ‘Very well: I founded our Order to promote peaceful use of the gnosis. But when the Inquisitors seized Northpoint, they forced me to choose between the Bridge, or war. Rightly or wrongly I chose the Bridge, and since that time, the Imperial Inquisitors have effectively controlled the Order. We were allowed to continue functioning solely to preserve and maintain the Bridge, and this has split our Order. Some members have been bought out by the Inquisitors and now give them their loyalty. Others just keep their heads down and do as contracted. Many of the Order now wish to fight, but we have been pacifist for centuries. We have neglected the arts of war, and we are too few. To fight would be to risk complete destruction.’

‘Which side do you take, Husband?’

‘I take the side of peace, as I always have, but it is not easy, though as founder I have right of veto. The militants outnumber the pacifists, but they are divided between Crusade and shihad. Rashid Mubarak favours the shihad. Rene Cardien leads the Crusader faction. I stand between them, trying to hold the Builders together in adherence to our founding principles of education, commerce and peace.

‘Wife, I am losing. My son is dead. My daughter squanders herself. Only my divination holds out hope, that if you and I have children, they will somehow save the Order – that is why you and I must be fruitful, though it will be twenty years before our children are ready to play their part. We must survive this Moontide, and the next, and it feels like a forlorn hope. But I have lived this long, and I can endure longer.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry to lay such burdens upon you, my lovely wife.’

He looked almost lost, like a small boy. She had understood only a fraction of what he said – politics was hard, and she had more pressing worries. What else did Alyssa learn of me? The thought made her feel ill, but for now she pushed aside her fear. She put a hand over his and squeezed.

Captain Klein let them into the house and she followed Meiros up the stairs. He walked her to her door, but she shook her head. ‘“A good wife should stay with her husband when he is troubled and sooth his brow”,’ she said, quoting Omali scripture.

He gave a small smile. ‘I fear I will not be good company, Wife. I am so very, very tired.’ He kissed her goodnight gently and hobbled away.

Her dreams that night were disturbing, images of Kazim and Rashid overlapping, confusing her, leading her in circles, while Alyssa watched, laughing callously. She woke more than once, wishing she was not alone.

The banquet marked the end of Janune, the first month. Febreux and Martrois drifted by and still she did not conceive. She refused further language lessons, and had Huriya shut Alyssa out the one time she visited. She was still too frightened to make her suspicions known to her husband, as Justina’s friendship with Alyssa clearly ran deep. Suddenly nothing felt safe. She felt isolated despite the growing warmth of her relationship with her husband and Huriya’s constant friendship. When she had travelled north, she had feared all manner of real and imaginary perils, but she had never thought to make offerings against loneliness: no one visited her, and even Huriya and the other servants had more freedom than she did.

But her bubble of safe solitude burst at the end of Martrois, when Huriya came bursting in one morning, threw herself at Ramita, crying, ‘Mita, Mita – you will not believe this, but I’ve seen him – in the souks! I spoke to him!’

‘Spoke to whom?’ Ramita asked, shaking off her sister. ‘Who have you seen?’

‘Jai – I’ve seen Jai, right here in Hebusalim—’

‘Jai? My brother Jai?’

‘Yes, idiot, your brother Jai – he’s here in Hebusalim.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes, here!’ Huriya’s vivid face was inches from hers. ‘It’s so wonderful – Kazim is here too!’

The whole world lurched.