A Feast In Exile (Saint-Germain #14)

Built at the crest of a small ridge, the funeral pyre stood out against the evening sky like a ruined temple. Tulsi had supervised its hasty construction, insisting the logs that formed its base be tied together with oiled rags; the four men who had been the escort for her wagon had obeyed her orders explicitly for fear of what the Rajput would do if they failed.

"Take him on a litter and put that on top of the pyre," Tulsi said as soon as they were done making the pyre and had returned to the wagon where Sanat Ji Mani lay.

"It is not very sturdy-the pyre is not," said Kantu Asar, pointing up at the pyre and shaking his hands.

"It is sturdy as it needs to be," she said, using their language with an ease that surprised them. "It will be ashes by morning, in any case."

"That it will," said one of them. "Is he ready to be carried? Are there any more rituals, or have you prepared him?"

"He is ready," said Tulsi, who had found washing and dressing Sanat Ji Mani's supposed corpse for burning an unnerving experience; he had looked so lifeless, so unnaturally still, his skin so waxen, that she wondered if he had actually slipped away from her. Only a covert squeeze of her wrist had reassured her and given her the inclination to go on, clothing him in pale cotton robes and leggings that made it appear his right leg was twice the girth of his left. The wrappings she had used would provide protection for his feet after he escaped from the pyre, and could be used to cover his skin to avoid sunlight. The thought of these things made her shudder, but she concealed her anxiety and stayed with the four men who had been her escort as they bore the litter through the camp and up to the pyre.

After the men set the litter on the pyre, they moved away. "Do you need a torch?" one of the Kheb cousins asked.

"I need something to light it with," said Tulsi, a bit sharply. "Is the Rajput going to watch?"

"No," said Challa Bahlin. "He will send Vayu Ede to observe for him. It is what the Rajput has declared."

"Because the Rajput has what he wants," said Tulsi, letting her bitterness show. "Very well. Bring me a torch as soon as Vayu Ede gets here." She glanced behind her, and saw that the ridge backed onto a defile with a trickle of water at the bottom of it. She gauged the distance from the ridge to the floor of the defile and decided it was worth the risk.

"Do you have any prayers to give?" Kantu Asar asked.

"I gave them when I prepared the body," said Tulsi, looking up at the still figure on the pyre: would this work? she asked herself.

"Then it is only a matter of Vayu Ede seeing," said Sambarin Kheb. He looked down at the camp. "They will watch when the fire is lit."

The other three made sounds of agreement.

"Be sure you stand well back. You do not want to be burned," said Tulsi, wishing she could limber up with stretches and jumps, but that, she knew, might reveal more than she wanted of what she was about to do.

"You will be in danger," said Garanai Kheb. "The fire-"

"That is my concern," said Tusli, her expression forbidding. "Do not linger; go down the hill, fetch me a torch, and wave to me as soon as Vayu Ede is here."

The men put their hands together and bowed as formally as they might have to an officer-a tribute none of them had ever before offered a woman-then turned away and did as she had ordered them; a short while later, Challa Bahlin returned with a lit torch which he handed to Tulsi in silence, then retreated down the slope, as hurriedly as he could without risking falling. A number of soldiers had gathered at the foot of the rise, curious enough to want to see the immolation.

Tulsi looked over her shoulder again, checking out the defile. It was deep enough to be dangerous in its way, but not so deep that falling into it was nothing less than suicide. She felt her body thrum with readiness. How much she wanted this to be over! "Where is Vayu Ede?" she asked the wind. "It will be dark soon." It was an effort to contain herself, for it would be so easy to set the whole pyre alight now, but it would dishonor the Rajput, and that could cause the soldiers to stop the burning. Shaking her head, she paced around the wooden structure to provide some outlet for the tension building in her. Finally the wizened figure of Vayu Ede emerged from the gathering crowd. He lifted his hands and began to recite some poetry that Tulsi had never heard before; she stopped still and let him go on. When he became silent, she went to the far end of the pyre, lifting her torch, and set it to the oiled rags holding the structure together.

At once the fire leaped up, stinking of oil and burning cloth; the green wood sputtered but was slow to light. Coughing in the billow of acrid smoke, Tulsi selected another large knot of fabric and lit it as well, sending a new mass of smoke into the evening breeze. Her eyes watered and she batted at the dark cloud as she tried to reach a third knot. The cloth caught fire and this time the wood began to crackle and hiss as the fire finally got hold of it. Now was the time. Tulsi flung the torch over the edge of the crest into the defile, and as it fell like a burning star, she sprang into the air and leaped atop the pyre, her hands raised so she might be seen. But her footing was uncertain and the cloth knotting the logs and branches together were burning brilliantly, and the whole of the pyre began to shift, the supports starting to give way.

There were shouts from below, and one of the four escorts started toward the pyre, only to be held back by his fellows.

With a moan, the pyre broke apart, most of it tipping toward her, away from the camp and toward the defile, the litter on which Sanat Ji Mani lay in a stupor sliding toward her. For a long, terrible moment, they teetered together, and then the pyre went to pieces, flinging Tulsi and Sanat Ji Mani backward into the defile with burning debris and charred branches falling with them. Cries of horror and dismay followed them down into the defile until they landed amid logs, branches, and scraps of burning cotton on the low-growing scrub that lined the shallow creek at the bottom.

The constellations of early summer told Sanat Ji Mani that it was after midnight when he finally opened his eyes. He smelled the residue of the fire around him, and he realized his clothing had been partially burned, leaving a stretch of his thigh exposed. As he tried to sit up, a sharp pain told him he had broken a rib, which explained why it had taken him so long to come to himself. It would be two or three years before the bone knit again; he had endured broken ribs before and knew what he would have to stand while it healed; he hoped he had enough cloth in the padding on his leg to wrap his chest. He had to wait while the dizziness passed, then he struggled to his feet, testing his right foot with care. Moving with great care not only to keep his balance but to go along silently, he began to search the defile, looking for Tulsi, his night-seeing eyes able to pierce the darkness as he made his way over the uneven ground and in among the bushes that crowded up to the stream. Knowing that he would have to find shelter before morning, he made his search diligently and swiftly, circling out from where he had come to, half-afraid that he might find her injured or worse.

Toward dawn he found an overhang that led to the small mouth of a cave. He hesitated before going in, for he knew he was in no condition to fight for the space with anything much larger than a mongoose. Finding a stone ledge just inside, he climbed onto it, easing himself down in order to minimize the hurt from his rib, and promised himself to search again at nightfall. He would be able to call for her then, for the Rajput's army would be gone. He tried to chuckle and winced instead at the thought that he was finally free.

With sundown came wakefulness and a new level of apprehension, for there was the smell of carnage on the air. Emerging from the cave, he prepared himself to find Tulsi's body, but although the odor of blood and feces was strong, he did not see her. Reluctantly he followed the smell to four carcases, men who had died hideously, their bones exposed where scraping knives had gone as far as the netting that confined the men would allow. Their heads had been cut off and set up beside the remains of their bodies: Sambarin Kheb, Garanai Kheb, Challa Bahlin, and Kantu Asar stared with empty sockets that swarmed with insects at the partially reassembled pyre. Sanat Ji Mani put his hand to his face, knowing these men had died because he and Tulsi were not found. The only scrap of hope he took from these wretched remains was the certainty that Tulsi was not dead.

All through the next night he searched for Tulsi, calling her name and trying to pick up a trace of her; by the end of the night, he had to admit that she was gone. He accepted this with resignation, telling himself that she might have struck out for Chaul at once, for fear that the Rajput's men might search the defile, as he had seen they had done. In addition to the four pathetic carcases, he had seen the tracks of many men on the second night, and had supposed that there had been an enormous effort had been made to find them, or at least to determine what became of their corpses. If Tulsi had not lost consciousness, had been relatively unhurt, or had been truly terrified-she might have tried to rouse him and failed-she could have decided to press on as she said she would do. For the first time he regretted that she had chosen not to come to his life, to complete the blood-bond that would forever link them no matter how far apart they were. But she had chosen not to come to his life, and all he could determine was that he had no sense of her death. As he settled down for another day in the cave, he knew it was useless to linger in the mountains any longer; it was time to go westward, to the coast, and down the coast to Chaul.

It was difficult traveling alone: he was able to catch birds and small animals for sustenance, but there was no companionship, and he found his loneliness more intense than either his hunger or pain. In the short summer nights, he often waited on the outskirts of villages, not only to snare ducks and geese but to hear the sound of human voices. He fashioned a walking-stick out of a branch, and spent his dawns and sunsets carving Tulsi's face into it with the metal tongue of a beltbuckle he had found half-buried in the road, telling himself that he could use this likeness to show others when he searched for her in Chaul, not because he longed for her.

The first storms came almost a full month early, and his travel was slowed by wind and rain. He needed shelter more than ever now, for there was running water everywhere so that even at night he could find no relief from it. He was weak and exhausted, unable to travel far at night, and utterly helpless in the daytime. His journey was arduous, made more difficult by his growing concern that even if Tulsi reached Chaul, he would not be there in time to find her before she moved on to Lithuania and Kiev. By the time he reached the coast, he was desperate, and pressed himself to go farther each night, trying to take advantage of the lengthening darkness to cover as much ground as possible. His clothes by now were little more than rags, and he used what little cloth he had left to wrap his chest and genitals, and to put some protection on his foot. Although he was rarely seen, his injuries required care and he could not forsake the habit of modesty acquired more than thirty-four hundred years ago.

When he finally arrived at Chaul, he made for the docks where his warehouses and ships were. The night was far-advanced and only dogs and rats were abroad. He slipped through the streets he had learned many years before, past temples and market-squares, past fine houses and hovels, until the odor of the sea was strong in his nostrils and he could hear the sough and sigh of the waves, and the creaking of timbers from ships tied up at the piers. At last he had reached a haven; he found his warehouses and slipped in through an entrance he had made for his own use more than fifty years before. The hinges shrieked in protest as he swung back the hidden door far enough to allow him to get inside.

The aromas here were strong: pepper, ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, and coriander all vied for dominance in the air ; crates of the precious seeds, barks, roots, and powders were stacked against the walls and in clusters on the floor. At the point in the warehouse farthest away from the water were two ancient chests, banded in metal with his eclipse embossed on their ends, old and neglected in appearance: these were what Sanat Ji Mani sought, and to him they were more precious than casks of jewels and gold, for these contained his native earth. Setting his carved walking stick down, he worked the lock on the larger of the two, swung back the lid, and climbed in, pulling the lid closed on top of him. The annealing presence of the Transylvanian soil enveloped him as if in a maternal embrace, and he finally was able to rest.

He came to himself shortly after mid-day, when all of Chaul drowsed under the warmth of the brassy sun; he felt much restored, the pain from his foot and his broken rib had receded and he had regained a measure of his strength. Emerging from the chest with care, he pulled out a sack from the foot of the crate that contained clothing, weapons, his eclipse pectoral, and a small pouch of alchemical gold. Brushing himself clean of any smirches, he wrapped his chest and foot, then dressed in a kandys of black damask and leggings of heavy silk twill of dark, dull-red, and Russian boots with his native earth lining the soles. The fine fabric felt alien on his skin, and he suspected he still looked much the worse for wear. Taking up a dagger, settling his pectoral in place, its heavy silver links all but black with tarnish, and tying his pouch of gold to his sash, he readied himself to approach the factor who supervised his warehouses and shipping. He picked up his walking stick, ran his fingers through his hair and set off through the warehouse toward the front door.

The factor was dozing on a bench, a cup of strong, sweet tea standing half-finished on the arm of the bench; flies were already gathered on the rim. He blinked as Sanat Ji Mani approached him, as if uncertain if he actually saw someone or was dreaming. Slowly he sat up, his strong, dark visage registering his confusion. Belatedly he stood, put his palms together and bowed.

Sanat Ji Mani returned the gesture. "You would be Bhismali's son? I am the foreigner Sanat Ji Mani. You are my factor."

"Bhismali's grandson, Reverend Sir," said the factor, doing his best not to stare. "Oh, what a predicament ... To meet you like this ... I did not think ... I did not know ..." he stammered, trying to achieve the decorum their meeting demanded.

"I apologize for surprising you," said Sanat Ji Mani smoothly. "I have been traveling and have only just arrived." This slight mendacity did not trouble him; he went on smoothly, "It has been a hard journey."

"I should think so," said Bhismali's grandson, and Sanat Ji Mani could not help but wonder how he looked to deserve such a response. "Are you alone?"

"Alas, yes. There has been war to the north-east of here, and that made for difficulties," Sanat Ji Mani said.

"Yes. We have heard that the Rajput of Deogir defeated that upstart Hasin Dahele, and put his head over the gate of his city, where birds can pick it clean." Bhismali's grandson nodded his approval. "They say half the soldiers of Beragar are now Deogir's slaves."

Sanat Ji Mani was silent for a moment. "How do you know this?" he asked, knowing how quickly rumors could become accepted truth.

"Merchants from Asirgarh brought word of it, not ten days ago," said Bhismali's grandson. "I myself spoke with them, for they are part of the House of Iniattir."

"The House of Iniattir," Sanat Ji Mani repeated, and smiled.

"If you came through that fighting, it is no wonder you did not have an easy time of it," said the factor. "Everyone knows that there was fighting. There were many people on the roads, having lost their villages and their homes. Some of them still wander, and will for months to come."

"They have come here?" Sanat Ji Mani asked, thinking back to the many nights the roads had seemed empty; he had avoided villages and encampments, which, he thought, may have been a mistake-he might have learned something of Tulsi had he sought out other travelers. As he chided himself, he knew that such exposure was dangerous and that the chance of finding her by such random methods were slight, but he could not keep from thinking it might have worked.

"A great many; most have moved on, a few have gone back, now that it is over." The factor looked puzzled. "Surely you saw something of this."

"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani. "But I did not realize how much of it was due to the fighting." He paused to consider. "And you are sure that the Rajput of Beragar is dead?"

"Yes. Everyone knows it is so, as everyone knows Timur-i is trying to attack the Land of Snows." The factor made a gesture to emphasize the obvious. "To think that you came through the fighting, though."

"Not quite through it," Sanat Ji Mani said.

"Then near enough to have trouble because of it," said Bhismali's grandson.

"It was difficult, and I fear that was my fault. Had I not been lax, we would not have been in danger; I hold myself responsible for what has happened." His voice changed, becoming more forceful. "My companion and I were separated; I had hoped I might find her here," he said as if a woman by herself were nothing remarkable.

"Her? You traveled with a woman?" Bhismali's grandson exclaimed. "Did you not have guards? Was it just you and the woman?"

"There were four guards," said Sanat Ji Mani. "All dead, some days ago." His dark eyes were deep and full of sorrow. "That is why I am most concerned for my companion." He held out his walking stick. "This is her likeness. She is from far to the north, with hair lighter than mine, and blue-green eyes, shaped like those of the Chinese."

"Um," said the factor, staring at the carved portrait. "I have not come across anyone who looks like this."

"She is a tumbler and an acrobat. Perhaps you saw her perform in the market-place," Sanat Ji Mani suggested.

"I am here when the market-places are active. My household tends to our purchases there." He contemplated the face on the walking stick. "Tall or short?"

"Not quite as tall as I am," said Sanat Ji Mani, knowing that she would be tall in this region. "Very strong."

Bhismali's grandson shook his head. "I know none such," he said. "Nor have I heard of any."

Sanat Ji Mani did his best to conceal his discomfiture, telling himself that this was just the first step in his search, that he could not expect to find her upon his arrival, not after they had been apart for nearly three months. "Well." He took back his staff. "I shall want to find her."

"Immediately?" Bhismali's grandson exclaimed.

"As soon as may be," said Sanat Ji Mani, fighting the sense of futility that threatened to overcome him.

"Where shall you want to look?" The factor was baffled but did his best not to show it.

"Everywhere in this city, and then north, along the coast, all the way to Cambay, if necessary." Sanat Ji Mani kept his tone level. "We will arrange matters shortly. For now, I must learn how trade has been and what news you have had from Alexandria."

"Ah, Alexandria," said Bhismali's grandson, nodding knowingly. "Yes. I have received regular messages from your factor there, Rogerian, who has been most concerned for your welfare. He has been diligent in maintaining your interests and expanding your markets; he has been dealing with Rustam Iniattir and his relatives most effectively. You and the House of Iniattir have made a fortuitous alliance that will continue to benefit you and them for many years to come. It was wise of you to enter into your trading with them." He was obviously far more comfortable discussing business than the missing woman; his eyes brimmed with enthusiasm. "I have records you may want to examine, all recorded on palm-leaves, as my grandfather taught me. He must have served your father; you cannot have been a merchant for almost fifty years. You do not seem as ancient as you would have to be." This last was dubious again.

"I do not look my age, I have been told," said Sanat Ji Mani smoothly. "If your grandfather trained you in his ways, then I will be satisfied."

"He did that," said Bhismali's grandson. "From the time I was very young. I have sworn to train my oldest son to take my place." He smiled. "You and your father have been most reliable, most honorable; my family is grateful to you."

"As I am to you," said Sanat Ji Mani, and glanced toward the warehouse. "Perhaps we can step out of the sun: as you see, I have been burned by it recently." Although he had not seen his reflection since he had awakened to vampire life, he could tell from the way his skin felt that his face was red and peeling.

Bhismali's grandson was chagrined. "I should not have kept you here. Of course we must go into the warehouse and I must show you all that has been done, what has been shipped from here, what is expected here, and the values of it all." He straightened up. "It will be a great pleasure for me to explain all that has been done. This warehouse is the older one, and the smaller. There is a newer and larger one on the next pier down."

"This is very good of you," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I received information about the second warehouse a few years ago, as I recall."

"It is a fine place. You will be proud," said Bhismali's grandson.

"No doubt I will," said Sanat Ji Mani, allowing the factor to escort him into the older warehouse. "Do you think it might be possible that this woman might have gone to the newer, larger warehouse?" He tried to make the question casual, but he could see from the expression on the factor's face that he had failed.

"It would be a most unsuitable thing to do," said Bhismali's grandson. "I cannot believe that any woman would do such a thing."

"She is not like your wives, or your daughters," Sanat Ji Mani said steadily. "She would not hesitate to present herself there, if that was where she was sent." But even as he declared this, he wondered if it was so. On her own in a strange place, Tulsi Kil might not behave as he expected.

"You may inquire there; it is your warehouse," said Bhismali's grandson in a manner stiff with disapproval. "But let us attend to this after I have shown you the records for the last several years. You will see that the disruption in the north has increased our trade, and as much as it damaged the markets of Delhi, it has brought more ships here to Chaul, and that has been fortunate for us. The Wheel turns for all of us."

"That it does," said Sanat Ji Mani, pleased to get out of the sun, although with his native earth in the soles of his boots, it no longer hurt him to be in the light. He went into the ante-chamber that served as a reception room and office, and gave his full attention to the records Bhismali, his son, and his grandson had kept for Sanat Ji Mani.

It was getting dark by the time he left to visit the larger warehouse; Bhismali's grandson had excused himself, saying he had duties to attend to at home, and promised to meet with Sanat Ji Mani the next morning. Sanat Ji Mani did not argue; he went along to the pier where three large warehouses sat, and approached the one with his eclipse painted on the side: Bhismali's grandson was right-the warehouse was half again as large as the older one. As he approached, two men with truncheons came up to him.

"Here. We will have none of that." The accent of the man who spoke was rough and his attitude surly.

"That is my warehouse," said Sanat Ji Mani mildly, indicating his eclipse pectoral and the painted symbol on the side.

"So you say," growled the second man, hefting his truncheon. "We want no thieves here."

"Neither do I," said Sanat Ji Mani. "If you are worried, would you take me to the factor. You may watch me at every step."

"Do you think-"The first began, only to be interrupted by the second.

"If we go with him both ways, and watch him, we can be sure he does nothing." He ducked his head, pleased with his cleverness.

"That we can." The first contemplated the plan and accepted it. "Yes. It will do."

"Have you had many thieves here?" Sanat Ji Mani asked as he resumed his progress toward the door to the warehouse.

"Since the fighting, yes. We have been kept busy," said the second man. "Ever since mid-summer, you would be surprised."

A sudden Hare of hope went through Sanat Ji Mani. "And is this pier always guarded?"

"Day and night," the second man said. "Has been for months."

Sanat Ji Mani held up his walking stick, turning it so that the last afternoon sun struck the face he had carved. "Would either of you have seen this woman?"

The first man laughed. "What woman would come here?" He barely glanced at the carving.

The second man took the time to look at the portrait. "No. No one has come here with that face. A foreigner like that, we would notice, and remember."

They had reached the door to the warehouse; Sanat Ji Mani halted, saying to the two men. "Thank you. I shall not be long."

"We will watch for that woman, if you like," the second man volunteered.

Sanat Ji Mani gave a single nod, although he knew it would prove useless. He would search for her, but knew with a conviction almost as strong as the blood-bond itself, that he would never find her; Tulsi Kil had done what she had told him she wanted to do, back in the Rajput's palace in Devapur-she had vanished. "I will be grateful," he said, then scratched at the door before going inside.

Text of an account presented to Timur-i Lenkh in Samarkand.

To the favored of Allah, the Lord of the World, the Conqueror Timur-i Lenkh, the Triumphant, this requested information is being submitted in full submission and devotion to your Will; May Allah give you long life and a thousand sons:

Of the captives we took from Delhi, we have sold more than a thousand of them-1,268 to give the exact number-as was your order, the gold from which has been used to purchase supplies and food for your army. This money was sufficient to provide enough money to have three measures of gold still remaining, and set aside for the purpose of purchasing food and supplies. Here in Samarkand, your most wonderful city, we are amply cared for and there is no need to draw on this money, so we have not done so; it is kept toward our next campaign.

Of those remaining with the army, most are Muslims and have made themselves part of your support forces for the good of our True Faith. Among these 427, 118 have been executed for improper acts over the last half-year, and their flayed skins left out as a warning to others. Of the 309 left, all but six are fully assigned within the army, most to the cooks and maintenance crews. They have shown themselves loyal and deserve your good opinion.

The remaining six may give you some concern; to begin with, none of them are Muslims, and their lack of religion is troublesome:

Abhu the metalworker has been willing to work in the smithy along with our own men, and has not let his adherence to false gods interfere with his labors. For now I would recommend keeping him where he is and taking care to inspect his work to be certain he is not compromising the quality of our weapons.

Iksander Mawan, the eunuch, has been most useful in keeping records for us; he reads several tongues and that is a useful thing. While I have reservations about him, I would recommend keeping him at his books for a while, although I do think it would be best to leave him here in Samarkand rather than take him on campaign; he is clever enough and strong enough to be able to flee, which I fear he may do if given the opportunity. The wound to his head has fully healed, and it would be foolish to rely on his injury to keep him docile.

The soldier, Mutaz Shikhara, has been unreliable of late, filled with dark thoughts and cast into lethargy; he is not a good man to send to troops or into battle. Let him be given a simple task that gives him no weapons, and perhaps he will cease to dwell in the darkness of his losses; if he does not, then perhaps he should be sold. Since he has done nothing against you or your rule, execution may not be called for, but certainly he will never be a soldier again.

Nahar Erai, the shirt-maker, is a most useful fellow; he is willing to ply his trade for as long as he is given meat and drink; he is not loyal, but neither is he disloyal. He wishes only to earn his living, and I see no harm in him, as well as a great deal of use. So long as his fingers are nimble and his eyes do not dim, I would recommend keeping him with the army. He poses no danger to anyone, including himself.

Josha Dar is a puzzle, but a useful one. He has provided me with much useful information, all of which has been proven correct, and that inclines me to favor keeping him. But I cannot help being uneasy about him; there is something in his eyes that makes me question the reasons for his cooperation, and for that reason alone, I want to take time to observe him before giving a final recommendation to you regarding him. It may be that I am worried about nothing, but when a man is willing to betray his own people without reservation but will not pledge his dedication to a new master, I am not sanguine about him. For the time being, he is useful, but I fear he would make himself useful in the same way to anyone who would pay him, or keep him. Let me withhold my final decision regarding him for another half-year.

Timin Yamut, the leather-worker, has been growing sickly; he wheezes when he walks and his feet swell often. He has lost strength and his appetite is failing. The physicians tell me that he will not live long, and so there is no reason to recommend anything regarding him; his fate, as is the fate of everyone, is in the hands of Allah.

This is the whole of my report, and I present it to you with all humility. May it aid your deliberations, and may you grow increasingly wise from your contemplations.

Tolui Sati

Monitor of the Captives

At Samarkand on the Balance of Day and Night Toward Winter