THE WARLORD'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER 6
The village that lay just beyond the palace walls was small, dusty, and nearly colorless, its homes and buildings made of clay, sand, and silt. Nothing taller than three floors. Among the inhabitants were variants of small merchants and tradesmen, all who paid a tithe either annually or monthly—whichever they could most afford—for the protection offered by living in the immediate shadow of Siddig El Fadil's home. Other residents were connected to the palace's workforce, like the families of the staff. Then there were the prostitutes for the men of Siddig's security force or those considered in a monogamous relationship with them. Those living beyond the village—goat herders and the like—brought their wares to sell at the village bazaar.
The bazaar provided a range of colors and sound to the otherwise pallid, quiet atmosphere of the village. Items of every kind were sold, from sheep and other animals to textiles, pottery, glassware, and just about anything else someone in the remote region might need. It served also as the community's news hub. Those who could read shared information from newspapers, while those less literate filled in news and gossip related to others in the village or information from family who lived elsewhere in the country or the world at large. All providing a hum of constant conversation beyond the hawking and haggling of the vendors and the bleating of animals. But it would not be much longer before all retreated from the growing heat of the blue-sky day.
Melisande frequented the bazaar not only to ward off boredom but because she enjoyed moving among those who were not a part of her extended family, people whose day-to-day lives were vastly different from hers. Unlike her family, she felt no disdain for these people; she respected them for their daily struggles to provide food and clothes for their families. She particularly liked to carry on conversations with the merchants, especially the women. She even enjoyed negotiating over prices of items she might be interested in. It was unnecessary, of course, since money was no object in her world, but she knew the merchants expected it. Usually she let them win so she had to spend more of her father's money. After all, the villagers needed it more than she or her father. Today Melisande's visit to the bazaar was only an excuse to update Henri on her father's marriage plans, but first she played the part of avid shopper while Henri, as bodyguard, shadowed her closely.
One of her first stops was the stall owned and run by Diya Panjabi. The young woman sold pottery and hand-embroidered scarves as well as corn husk dolls. The latter were strategic products—the dolls drew the interest of children, who would tow their parents over to Diya's stall, even if they were not interested in scarves or pottery. By the time they left, they often had bought more than just a doll. Melisande liked Diya's enterprising strategy.
"Good morning, sahiba," Diya said with her usual humble reserve.
"Good morning."
Two other women looking over Diya's goods quickly moved on, wanting to give the daughter of Siddig El Fadil all the space she needed.
"What can I help you with today?" Diya asked Melisande. "I have some new pieces."
Diya's brown eyes flicked toward Henri a couple of steps away, villagers passing by giving him plenty of room. Interestingly, no fear in Diya's eyes, unlike others, just a bright interest, an interest that stirred Melisande's jealousy. Of course Diya was not the only woman whose gaze lingered on Henri whenever he was beyond the palace walls. Young or old, married or single, women could not help but admire Henri's good looks. At such times, Melisande fervently wished she could openly claim him as her own. Then those other women would be the jealous ones, not she.
"May I see that blue scarf?" Melisande pointed to an indigo-colored scarf hanging at the back of the stall.
Diya quickly retrieved the item and presented it, draped across her outstretched forearms. Her attention again flicked toward Henri. Her dusky cheeks reddened slightly, causing Melisande to look curiously at her husband. Henri's expression remained dutifully unreadable, and his eyes avoided Diya.
Melisande considered Diya's shapely form. Although she weighed more than Melisande, she was not overweight in any way; how could she be, subsisting on what she made from selling her wares at the bazaar? Melisande was unsure of Diya's past, whether she had been married before, and if so, where her husband was now. She had only seen the young woman with one man, and that was someone reported to be her uncle, but he came and went on business, so Diya was often alone. Maybe she made ends meet by entertaining some of Henri's men. Two of Melisande's cousins claimed Diya did just that, but Melisande knew they loved to gossip and make others look small. She would ask Henri if he knew the truth about Diya. Surely he would know if his men ever frequented Diya's house, for he allowed them to keep no secrets from him, even when it came to their personal lives. And certainly men gossiped about their conquests to their comrades.
Melisande took the scarf from Diya and held it up, displaying the length of it to the sunlight beyond the stall's shade. The blue reminded her of the peacocks that adorned some of the palace courtyard archways. In fact, the scarf had small peacocks in the embroidery design, the birds themselves as well as the eye-like coloring found on their tail feathers. Gold satin trimmed the scarf's edges. The fabric felt like water flowing smoothly between her fingers. A beautiful piece of work.
"Do you like it?" Diya asked hopefully. Another glance at Henri.
"It's beautiful. I think my mother would like it."
"It would look nice on you as well, sahiba."
Melisande smiled at Diya's saleswoman flattery. "It is lovely."
"I could make another like it, then you and your mother would each have one."
"Hmm. No, I have enough scarves." Melisande turned to Henri, using this as an excuse to see if he was looking at Diya. "Mr. Ducard," she beckoned with a waggle of her finger, drawing him reluctantly forward. "Don't you think my mother would like this? Indigo is her color."
Henri bowed his head slightly to Melisande. "She will love any gift from her daughter."
Diya looked a bit wounded. "You don't find the scarf beautiful, sahib?"
Still stoic, he replied, "On the contrary, Miss Panjabi; your work is always excellent."
Diya looked downward, the pink returning to her cheeks as she murmured, "Thank you, sahib." Her fingers worried the edge of the green and gold scarf she was wearing, one that matched her somewhat faded sari. Again, her gaze went to Henri, and she looked as if she wanted to say something more to him, but Melisande purposely drew her attention back by draping the indigo garment about her own shoulders, examining it further. A part of her suddenly wanted to set it down and walk away without providing a sale to Diya, but her kinder side niggled at her. It really was stunning, and she knew her mother would like it.
With one hand absently caressing the scarf, Melisande glanced pointedly at Henri and asked Diya, "What price are you asking?"
Henri retreated across the narrow space separating the two rows of stalls while Melisande haggled over price. Diya's heart did not seem in the pursuit, though, her attention again flicking toward Henri. Melisande found herself more curious than annoyed. Diya's interest in Henri struck her not so much as simple attraction but something more personal, judging by a hint of unease in her eyes.
Finally settling on a price, Melisande thanked Diya, and began to move on. As Henri stepped after her, Diya called to him, "Sahib, forgive me, but may I speak with you for a moment?"
Surprised, Melisande glanced back at him. He did not seem to hear Diya, his eyes fixed forward. Or was he merely ignoring her boldness in addressing him so openly?
"Please, sahib…"
Melisande paused, caught his gaze, about to call his attention back to Diya, but there was a sudden darkness to his gaze, a set line to his jaw, and he gave Melisande a pointed look, a silent command to move on.
"Did you receive my letter, sahib?" Diya called anxiously. "I asked one of your men to deliver it…"
Now Melisande stopped walking, stared at Henri, who continued to ignore Diya's hail. He came straight at Melisande, his tall form now blocking out the young woman. Never would he touch her in public, but now he surreptitiously took a hold of Melisande's elbow and forced her to continue on.
"Diya's calling to you. Don't you hear her?"
"Yes, but it's unimportant. Continue your shopping."
"What's unimportant?"
"The matter she wants to discuss," he said quietly and coldly into her ear as he ushered her further along the bazaar's avenue.
"But how do you know what she wants to discuss?" More than curiosity drove her questioning now as she thought of Diya's frequent looks Henri's way at her stall. "She said she sent you a letter. Why would she do that?"
"Let's talk about this later, privately."
Melisande could not contain her small huff of annoyance. "But—"
"Please," he said with finality. "Let us not cause a scene here. It will be bad for both of us."
She scowled and sighed but obeyed. He freed her elbow, then stepped back to his usual shadowing position. Diya could not safely abandon her wares, and no doubt she feared retaliation if she continued to shout after Henri and draw unwanted attention to him, so her calls ceased. As Melisande progressed through the bazaar, she could scarcely pay attention to the vendors because of the intrigue burning through her.
From the bazaar, Melisande headed to a café where she ordered chai and sat at a small table tucked into a back corner. The other patrons, mainly old, sun-battered men, looked at her when she first entered, then never again, lest her bodyguard take umbrage. Conversations softened into private tones. One fearful man quickly slipped out the back door. Normally when Melisande came here, whoever was guarding her remained standing nearby, vigilant, but today she made a show of calling to the proprietor to bring a coffee to Mr. Ducard; he would be sharing her table.
"Do you think this wise?" Henri quietly asked, obviously thinking not.
"We must talk. I will be discreet. No one will hear."
"We should wait until we're back at the—"
"No," she said. "I want to know what's going on, why Diya Panjabi sent you a letter. And how? She can barely write anything but her name."
Henri frowned and glanced around. He hunched over the table, a table which was far too small for him; he had to splay his legs out to avoid his knees touching hers. "A while back, I taught her how to write a little." He looked pointedly at her.
"You tutored her? Why on earth would you…?" Her voice trailed off in confusion.
"Melisande," he said in a cautioning tone, "listen to me. It was before we were married, before we were together."
Her throat began to constrict. Had her cousins been right about Diya? She tried to speak but could get nothing out as she stared at her husband.
"She meant nothing to me then," he continued, "and she means nothing to me now."
"But…but why did she write to you? What did the letter say? I want to read it."
They paused as the proprietor delivered their drinks, bowing and backing quickly away.
"I destroyed it," Henri said. "It was nothing of consequence. Just a young girl who got the wrong impression about our…relationship."
Although Henri did not blink or look away as he said this, Melisande was unconvinced. While she believed that he had no feelings for Diya, she failed to quite believe that the letter had little consequence. Diya would know that angering one of Siddig El Fadil's soldiers could end badly for her, so something significant must have motivated Diya to reach out to Henri.
When Melisande shifted her gaze to her drink, Henri softly said, "You know the palace guards come to the village regularly; you know there are women who—"
"Of course I know," she quickly said to stop him. "I'm not a naïve child."
He straightened in his chair, his large hands engulfing his coffee cup. "I wasn't implying that you are. I just want you to understand that before you there were…others. We lead a lonely life of service to your family."
Melisande nodded absently and sipped her drink, feeling unsatisfied and hollow. "Just because I know, it doesn't mean I have to feel happy about it."
"Of course not. But I need to know you believe me about Diya. You have nothing to worry about, just as I know I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you and Jamal Hussein."
Her attention returned to him. The situation with Diya had made her forget her purpose for coming to the village with him today. "But there is something to worry about," she said. "My father has promised me to Jamal. Mother told me this morning. There's no stopping it. She's already looking for someone who can quietly dissolve our…" she caught herself at the last moment, "…our contract."
"I am aware."
"You are?"
"Of course; I was in the room when your father and Hussein discussed it."
His lack of outrage wounded her. "There is nothing for it now—we must run away, before it's too late."
"There's no need for that."
"How can you say that?"
"I will take care of the situation with the Husseins."
The cold glint in his eyes worried her, reminding her of the now-dead Qazi who had married them. "How?"
"I won't tell you that, for your own safety. But know this—no one but I will ever be your husband. Haven't I already promised you that?"
Melisande frowned self-consciously. "I know, but…my father…"
One of his hands came away from his coffee cup, advanced slightly toward her before he stopped himself from reaching for her hand. "Don't worry." He offered a small smile of reassurance.
"I still think we should run away. Then there would be no need for you to take any dangerous chances with…whatever it is you plan to do." She hesitated. "I'm frightened. What if it doesn't work? And even if it does, Baba will just find someone else to take Jamal's place."
"You must trust me on this. It is for the best. I will take care of things."
Her frown deepened, and her fingers drummed nervously against her teacup.
"Now," he said, with a winning smile, "drink your tea, and let us return to the palace." He raised one eyebrow. "Perhaps you will find some reading time this afternoon in the guesthouse. Your father has given me the rest of the day off now that the Husseins have gone."
The day's red, glaring sun had set behind the yawning expanse of the Thar Desert, leaving its hills trimmed in tawny crimson and burnt orange. From the doorway of the palace's lower level, Henri Ducard admired the sight and listened to the soft, high-pitched voices of bats, could just make out their flitting forms against the fading sky. Such misunderstood creatures, he reflected. To him, they were intelligent and noble, not to be feared, operating in the safety of darkness, just as he often did.
He glanced behind him, back down the main hallway of the lower level. Languid voices drifted to him, occasional laughter. His men who were off duty had finished their supper and were now gathering to play cards in the common room, while servants who were finished with their daily tasks shared some social time in their own rooms or in the hallway itself, leaning casually against the walls.
"Heading out, boss?" Ibrahim Dawoud had come into the small courtyard near the servants' entrance where Ducard stood. He smelled of cigarettes. Ducard could not abide the habit.
"Yes," Ducard said, stepping away from the doorway.
Dawoud paused next to him, grinning. "Heading to town?"
"For a walk," he replied, ignoring the licentious glint in Dawoud's gaze. "Enjoy your evening."
The man chuckled gutturally. "You, too, boss."
Ducard passed beyond the small, tree-lined courtyard through an archway that opened far to the left of the palace's main door. Automatically, his attention traveled over the assigned posts of his men, near the door as well as to the left where a broad archway led toward the main gate. All were attentive, seeing him and nodding or raising an acknowledging hand, rifles at the ready. They were fresh, having just eaten and started their shifts. He did not pause to speak with any of them as he made his way beyond the palace gate; as their commander, he did not fraternize much with his men, though neither was he overly aloof. They knew he had their best interests at heart but demanded professionalism from them always.
The village was relatively quiet and dark. He blended easily with the shadows in the narrow lanes and alleys as he traveled with even, long strides. Once, when he heard a woman's soft, seductive laughter through the open window of one dwelling, his animal instinct stirred, and he revisited the time spent in Melisande's arms earlier today in the guesthouse. A private smile broke through his serious veneer, but it did not last, destroyed by the fresh memory of Diya Panjabi's scene in the bazaar and Melisande's ensuing questions.
Soon he arrived at the exterior stairs leading to Diya's second-story, two-room dwelling. He paused there, the only access point to her dwelling. A light glowed faintly from one of the two windows, the threadbare curtain drawn to allow in the cooler air that was to come later. He remembered the place well from his visits there, not because of nostalgia but simply from the practice of being familiar with all his surroundings.
When he had first met Diya, he had felt sorry for the young woman, though that was not his motivation for having a liaison with her; no, that had been straightforward physical hunger. Seeing her so often alone in the village, knowing how the women gossiped about her, he sensed her loneliness. He had been lonely at the time, too, when he first took notice of her, and so he had struck up a conversation with her at the bazaar, and things had progressed easily enough from there.
He had had little interest in the village prostitutes, not simply because he disdained such baseness but because he felt it unwise to share the same women with his subordinates. Diya made it plain that she was not of the same ilk as those women. She resisted his advances at first, though half-heartedly. He knew his own magnetism and was not shy about using it to his advantage. Diya's surreptitious glances and half-suppressed smiles made it obvious that she was attracted to him, and he plied her with kind words and a couple of gifts. She was wise enough to avoid him when her uncle was around, for she had told Ducard how her uncle reminded her every time he was in town that it was dangerous to engage an El Fadil man in any way. Ducard admitted that her defiance of her uncle and her bravery in forging a relationship with him made him have a certain admiration and served to fuel his quest to have her.
Making no sound, he climbed the narrow stone steps. Somewhere a dog barked, and a woman called angrily to a wayward child coming home late. The wafting scents of a fresh meal reached him from Diya's window before he knocked upon the door. A pause. He craned his neck to see through the window, then pulled back when Diya came out of the bedroom, moving hesitantly.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Henri Ducard."
In an instant, the door opened, and she quickly waved him inside, eyes wide with surprise. Her gaze darted down to the deserted lane before she closed the door.
"My apologies for coming here at this hour," he said, though it was a superfluous platitude, since most of his past visits had been after dark.
"I'm so glad you came." Diya gestured to a small, well-worn sofa. "Would you like some chai? I just made a fresh pot." She gestured to the tiny stove in the corner of the room that served as kitchen and dinette, complete with a rickety table barely large enough for two chairs.
"Thank you, but no. I won't take up your evening."
"It's quite all right," she said with a small smile. "I don't get much company these days."
"Is your uncle home?"
"No. He won't be back until next week." She gestured again. "Please, sit."
After removing his shoes near the door, he reluctantly sat, mainly because he sensed looming over her was making her uneasy. Did she fear that he had come here to punish her for the scene she had made in the bazaar today?
"Are you sure you won't take some chai?"
"No, thank you. But, please, don't let me stop you from a cup. I hope I haven't interrupted your supper."
"No, I just finished. I have some left-over biryani, if you would like it."
He smiled, remembering the delicious meals she had cooked for him in the past. "That's very kind of you, but I just got up from the dinner table myself."
"You've always been too thin," Diya said. "Nothing but muscle and bone. I could send some back with you."
"That's not necessary, but again, thank you. I need to speak with you about the letter you sent to me. Please, sit."
Absently, she settled in a worn armchair across from him. "I'm sorry if I upset you this morning, but when I didn't get a reply to my letter, I thought maybe you hadn't gotten it, so I didn't know what else to do. I thought you needed to know."
Ducard hesitated, lips pressed together with concern. "Are you quite certain about it?"
Her hand drifted to her belly. "Yes."
"Have you seen the doctor?"
"Yes."
Leaning slightly forward, forearms on his thighs, he clasped his hands together, studied her, thought again of what to say.
"Are you angry?" Diya asked.
"No. I'm just surprised. I thought you had taken precautions."
"Those…precautions do not always work, Henri."
"Yes, of course, but—"
"I have only been with you, if you're wondering whether the child is yours. I could do a paternity test if—"
"No, no. There's no need for that." He frowned, pressed his laced fingers momentarily against his lips, stared at the threadbare brown and green rug beneath his feet. He believed her; in his line of work, it was necessary to be able to read whether a person was telling the truth, and besides that, he knew her well enough to know she was not one to entertain other men. For whatever reason, she had it in her head that she was in love with him.
Diya moved her hands restlessly, smoothing her faded saffron sari. "I'm not sure what to do, what you want me to do…about…it."
"How far along are you?"
"Two months."
He nodded, silently cursing himself. "Have you considered an abortion?"
Diya stared in horror. "Kill…a child? Our child?"
He frowned. "I'm sorry if I sound heartless. But I'm thinking of how your uncle will react if he finds out." He paused. "You haven't told him, have you?"
"No. I wanted to talk to you first."
"The procedure could be done away from here so no one in the village might speculate. I would pay your expenses to travel and for the procedure itself."
The color continued to drain from her round face, and tears rose in her eyes like a surging wave about to break upon a rocky shore. "So…you want me to…to…" Words failed her, and she stood up to pace back and forth behind her chair.
"I'm sorry, Diya, but you have to know I didn't mean for this to happen. I can't marry you, and, trust me, you wouldn't want to be married to someone like me, even if it was possible. And if your uncle finds out, there's no telling what he would do with you. No doubt at least the same as what I am advising you to do. But the sooner it's done, the better for you."
She did not look at him as she paced, a short, agitated path in the cramped room. "I don't think I can do it, Henri; kill our child, I mean."
"You can't think of it that way."
Her hands rested on her belly again. "How can I not?"
"You must."
She wiped the silent tears from her cheeks with one hand. "I could be a good wife to you. We could live here, together."
"Diya, please don't fool yourself; you know who and what I am. Do you truly want to be married to someone like me? Besides, it's not possible."
"Why not?" She stopped behind her chair, her fingers gripping the seatback, her gaze pleading. "Do you mean because I'm Hindu?"
"No, that has nothing to do with it. Please, just listen to me—"
"I know you aren't a religious man. That doesn't matter to me."
"Diya," he said more stridently, silencing her rush of words. She studied him, fingers kneading the seatback, tears again brimming. "I can't marry you. It's impossible because…because I'm already married."
Her gaze darted to his left hand. "Married?" she breathed in disbelief.
"Yes," he said softly.
"But why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it just happened recently…since I stopped seeing you. In fact, that's why I stopped seeing you."
"You mean…you were seeing me when you were seeing her?"
"It's too complicated to explain. I'm sorry. As I've told you before, most aspects of my life I can't discuss with you."
"But I've never seen you with a woman. Does she live in the palace?"
"No. She lives in Jaipur."
Diya returned to her chair, sat heavily, as if suddenly drained of energy. She stared at the floor between them.
"I'm sorry, Diya, but perhaps now you can understand."
Slowly she shook her head. "I am such a fool."
"No, you're not. This is on me. That is why I will take care of this. No one needs to know."
Tears slid down her cheeks, a hand again drifting to her belly. "What if I want to keep it?"
Ducard studied her. "Why would you want to? It would only make your life more difficult."
"But it's not the child's fault. It shouldn't have to pay for my mistake."
"You have your whole life ahead of you. Think about it; what man will marry you if you have another man's child? And how will you pay for the child's upbringing, just working at the bazaar?"
"My uncle—"
"We both know your uncle. He could leave you to fend completely for yourself, you and the baby." He shook his head. "No. There's only one solution." He stood. "I will get in touch with you once I've made the appointment for you. I promise it will be discreet."
She stared at him, agape, eyes following him as he turned for the door.
"After you've reflected on it overnight, I'm sure you'll realize this is for the best."
Before she could recover and stand or speak, he paused in the doorway and turned back briefly to face her.
"We will speak again soon." His tone had taken on a hard, professional edge; he needed to convince her. "Say nothing to anyone. It could put you in real danger." He let the veiled threat linger in the air between them, then he left her.