Ruqaiya stepped through the Door into a stew of hot air and broke at once into a sweat. She felt like she was breathing steam from a cauldron of boiling socks and smallclothes, and it smelled like it, too. The humidity of Jharoda had little time to register on her, though, for Tigers could be emerging through the door at any moment in pursuit, but her group had infuriatingly come to a stop. The hijra was arguing with Vikrim while the others alternated between trying to go unnoticed and hopping on their feet, ready to race away.
Bahuchara pointed one way. "The gharana is across the river."
Vikrim pointed another way. "Even a great oaf like me knows they'll look there first."
The hijra flustered. "I never said you were an…"
"Enough!" Ruqaiya roared at them. "I don't know any of you people and I don't know this city. But Vikrim does and I trust him with my life. Now do you want to stand around arguing or get out of here before a horde of Crescent Tigers comes out of that Door, because I for one don't want to die today!"
That shut the elegant lady up right quick and good, batting her ridiculously long lashes in surprise. Seriously, how did she even get those? The others hitched their gear, the young woman the child she carried, as if ready to follow. Even Fazil–she swallowed her chagrin at including him in her tirade, but she was in no mood to be accomodating–nodded his head at her words.
Vikrim led them into the explosion of colors and sounds and smells that were the streets of Jharoda, moving quickly, but not running, to avoid undue attention. With the ease of familiarity, he navigated the turns and switches of the chaotic, crowded streets until even her sense of direction–trained hunter that she was–faltered. Only periodic glimpses of three massive structures over low roof lines allowed her to orient herself. In one corner, high on a platform similar to the one in Qaragarh, rose the elegant towers and domes of what must be Sathanam Palace, home of Raj Bhima Sathanam and once the seat of the Maharaja of Suristhanam, before the coming of the Muwahhid. In another corner, the high domes and minarets marked the Ghazanfar Masjid, famed for its Well of Tears. And in the northern corner, a huge, walled building topped with a forest of chhatri could only be the Sard Palace, long ago the landing place of the fabled Concord Jewel from the Radiant Citadel. Well, no longer fabled, since its return made it no longer simply myth.
Her leather vest soaking up the sweat from her body as she hurried behind Vikrim, Ruqaiya kept one eye behind them to see if they were being followed. The others trailed them, their steps stumbling. Urgency and dread were written all over their faces, and anyone with half a mind would see that they were trying to escape something. Except Fazil, almost shining in the surety of his purpose. Grim yes, but so was she. But not bitter. How could he be so grim and not bitter? Driven but not stern? Perhaps the legendary shamsherbaz was simple. He'd have to be to not be consumed by his purpose. Purpose left no room for anything else. If it does not eat your joy, then it is simply whim, not purpose.
Jharoda was a city of contradictions: rotting shrines and gilded statues, wealthy nobles and wretched poor, crumbling ruins and majestic havelis, and everything in between, all mixed together at once. She had thought Qaragarh was overwhelming, and even Bijabad had been more city than she preferred. But this…this was a lot. She yearned to be back in the quiet, rolling hills of Ganraala.
That wasn't going to happen any time soon. Now they'd have to cross the plains and fields of the heartland, probably ten days of walking, just to get to Bijabad. These fools! How did they get mixed up with these people and their nonsense? She and Vikrim should have left once she'd woken from her…her… Curse that devi! She just wanted to go…. She stopped herself before she thought the word home. She had no home. Only her and Vikrim camping and tracking and hunting the Risen. That was her life. She wanted to go back to that life, not race through the streets of this maddeningly sensory overload of a city with a group of strangers who had ensnared her into their city-folk affairs.
The cuts on her face from the Tiger's bagh were stinging from the sweat that ran down from under her pagri. She'd probably have nasty scars once a surgeon got through stitching her up. They wouldn't be her first scars, but first on her face. Why should that matter? The pit she'd carried in her gut since leaving the wards of the gharana in Qaragarh still roiled, she realized, meaning there were undead around her somewhere, lurking in shadows and alleys and attics. Either there were fewer here than in Qaragarh, or she was growing accustomed to the horrific sensation, and she wasn't certain which of those options she preferred.
Vikrim was leading them somewhere not far from the Sard Palace, across the town from the Door. She shook her head at the ramshackle hovels and once-great haveli situated around pristine green gardens with water channels and fountains. The charbagh that they passed through offered some shelter from the sun, but only worsened the humidity with their lushness.
Because all the buildings were such a jumble, she didn't realize they'd come to a small enclosed fort until Vikrim drew to a sudden halt, the others piling up behind them. A rampart rose several stories above them, fronted by a pair of wood-beam doors wide and high enough to ride an elephant between. The doors were closed and two Gayakutan warriors were on guard, with several others looking down from the parapet. Dressed in marigold dhoti and vests similar to Vikrim's, each half-orc sported enough scars and tattoos to signify years of battle experience across their arms and chests. Large maces rested on their heads against the doors, but they were likely rarely used. The sharp tusks and massive size of the guards were probably enough of a threat to keep anyone out.
To her shock, once the guards took in Vikrim, they both clasped their hands together and bowed low to him. Ruqaiya wondered what this place was, and what Vikrim's connection was to it. But only for a second–getting inside and safe took precedence.
"Janipradan, Prince Vikrim," one of the guards greeted Vikrim, the wide sweep of his arm taking in the rest of the party. "Welcome back to Tipaluru Fort."
"Prince?" the hijra said with a start.
Yes, prince, Ruqaiya smirked at the thought. Truth was, she usually gave it so little thought, with Vikrim dirty and farting around their campfires, that she often forgot herself. A prince of Gayakuta hulking around the Ganraala hills with her. She never really imagined what his life had been like before joining her in her mission to rid the land of the Risen. She certainly didn't imagine people bowing to him. As they proceeded through the opened door, she supposed she should ready herself for more.
Tipaluru Fort was an imposing building of white, rough-cut stone, low and squat, lacking the elaboration and gilding she had seen in Bijabad or on their way through the streets of Jharoda but making up for it in the simplicity of its lines. Though towers and crenelations topped the structure, they seemed just as much defense to her eye as embellishment. Outbuildings in the compound confirmed her assessment–barracks and blacksmiths to the right, stables to the…elephants? She had only ever seen them from afar at the Battle of Sherpatta, but there they were, a hundred paces from her, six or seven great grey beasts being washed and fed and spraying water at their handlers. They were magnificent and terrifying, and one of them was charging toward them!
The creature gave a great trumpet from its raised snout and Ruqaiya backed away into whoever was behind her, knocking the person down. A second braying trumpet sounded from Vikrim, one more of joy than of challenge. He was calling to the thing!
She watched amazed as the great mound of muscle slowed and as Vikrim bounded over to it, nestling his head against the beast's, who wrapped his trunk around the Gayakutan.
"Sanchi, my friend!" Vikrim cheered, embracing as much of the elephant's head as he could, and receiving a blaring trumpet blast in return.
So her prince had a pet elephant. What else didn't she know about her companion? Her skin itched, watching him slapping the beast's chest playfully, rubbing its ears, and she shrank into herself. Foolish woman, she chided herself. Of course he had a life before he met you. She didn't like it, though, and it chafed like her damp leather vest.
A child was crying–no, gurgling–and she glanced over to see the toddler the young woman was holding stretching out his arms toward the beast.
"Come," Vikrim beckoned the young woman and child. "Sanchi loves children."
As Laksha started uncertainly forward with the child, Ruqaiya shot out a hand to stop them, then jerked it back just as quickly. It was not her child; let the young woman make her own mistakes. Pointless to pretend she hadn't tried to intervene, she folded her arms haughtily and stepped out of the way.
They all went to greet the mammoth creature, wide-eyed and gawking, running their hands over its wrinkled skin, while she stood apart, examining herself more than the beast. Really, though, it required little examination to see what she was feeling. For eight months, it had been just the two of them, side-by-side, tracking and fighting, camping in the warm nights under the stars, following her undead sense across the hills to the next challenge. He sufficed for her. He, however, had other people in his life–friends, family, and for Iwa's sake, a bloody elephant!
"We don't have time for this," she called to Vikrim. "We can't stay here long."
His smile wilted, and she kicked herself to see it, but she squared her shoulders. "Let's go inside," he conceded, kissing…kissing…the elephant on its expansive cheek.
The first time Ruqaiya had been in a palace, she was slaying Reapers and Grievers who had tried to barricade themselves in during the early days of the civil war. There, blood splashed over fine linens and silver candelabra, gore spilled across lush Zehni carpets and cold marble. The wealth on display angered her almost as much as the twisted zealotry of the Risen who threw themselves at her and the others of the Sewangurak Company, vowing to return victorious in undeath.
Tipaluru Fort was not as opulent as that palace, or any other palace she had ever imagined. It was worse. Gold and silver seemed to gild every surface and every object in the halls they passed through, those that weren't mirrored. Twelve Ruqaiyas seemed to be looking back at her in every room, scowling as she was until she schooled her face. Colorful silks and rich velvets draped windows and doorways, seeming cast about by stray winds. Gems encrusted table legs and chair arms as if they had grown there like tumors. Smoke from competing incenses and braziers burning sweet gums choked her and the others, overwhelming her senses. It was like the harams out of stories she'd been told as a child, a genie's fevered dream, a dragon's horde. And yet crude and gaudy, as if crafted by a mad, blind tawaif. Was this how Vikrim lived? Tusked attendants bowing as they passed by, ready to see to his every whim? More wealth than she could ever dream of waiting to be snapped off the frame of a mirror or knicked off the leg of a table with a sturdy knife?
One of the twelve Ruqaiyas in the mirrors caught one of the twelve Bahucharas looking at her discreetly. Not so discreet after all, when a dozen of you both are reflected all around. If any of them should have had more experience with mirrors, it was the hijra. Probably spent half the day gazing at her perfect skin and washed hair. Bahuchara shifted her gaze when she noticed mirror-Ruqaiya lock eyes with one of her reflections.
The hijra was powerful, no question; she had seen the fireballs with her own eyes across the gharana battlefield. Dangerous, too, like the thorn of a rose–all beauty and delicacy but underneath, countless thorns. The small thief or painter or whatever she claimed to be–the one with the baby–didn't seem to trust the hijra either. Best to keep an eye on that blossom, lest she get pricked. An eye, yes. She quirked an eyebrow and let one of her mirror-Ruqaiyas show a mirror-Bahuchara the directness of her gaze. Indirectly, that is. Through the mirrors.
Because she was watching herself watching Bahuchara, the rooms they passed through slipped by, and the Gayakutan administrators and warriors occupying the rooms or going about their business escaped her attention. Many of both the men and women were barefoot and wore dhoti and vests, although a few skirts in garish colors swished through the halls. There didn't seem to be any servants–shouldn't palaces be filled with servants?–or if there were, they didn't bother with livery. Distracted as she was, she didn't notice the large, skirted half-orc barrel through a side door and tackle Vikrim until they had both crashed to the ground, knocking over a brazier and scattering hot coals and ash across the stone floor.
Ruqaiya swept her talwar free as she leapt away from the scattering embers, while the others hastened back to safety. Only Fazil stayed close, bounding up onto a table to avoid the coals as he unsheathed his own blade. On the ground, Vikrim struggled against the heavily muscled woman who snarled and snorted as the two rolled and wrestled in the ashes. She yanked his arms wide to pin them to his back–she was unarmed? Vikrim wrenched his arms free, shoving a great elbow into the woman's chest to a whoosh of escaping air as she fell back to the ground. Ruqaiya jumped across the field of smoldering coals as the woman's thick hands grabbed Vikrim's vest as he fell, pulling him down with her. Dragging Vikrim over her, the raging woman rolled to crash astride him, pinning him to the ground with her mighty arms, as Vikrim laughed at her victory.
Only as her leaping boots caught the woman on the jaw and knocked her off Vikrim did Ruqaiya understand. The hunter crashed to the ground on top of Vikrim, who was now howling and barking with laughter, his shaking belly jostling her up and down. And he wasn't the only one.
Around them, Gayakutans were hooting and cheering, or slapping shoulders, and pointing at her. Even the attacking Gayakutan woman had sat up and was smiling at her through her bloodied tusks. Bahuchara seemed as bewildered as she did, but to the little one's credit, Laksha had a deadly dagger poised in the hand that wasn't clutching the child to her chest, wide-eyed as she might be. The Kesin seemed to have fallen into a pile of cushions and the dandy was trying to pull him out. Fazil pounced down like a cat and extended a hand to help her up, one upturned corner of his mouth the only evidence of mirth.
"I would'a had you, cousin," the large woman rumbled as she rubbed the bruised chest behind her heavily-beaded vest. She wagged a thick finger at Vikrim. "No fair cheating. She's got a wicked kick, she does, for such a tiny thing."
"Cheating?" Vikrim pushed himself up and held out a hand to his cousin. "You ambushed me! Where's the honor in that, Chanri?"
Chanri brushed ash from her skirt. "You've been gone too long if you think ambushing is cheating. You're getting soft living among…"
The large, fierce woman froze as she took in the others, and she took their measure, stopping at Laksha. With a lumbering step, Chanri closed the distance and wordlessly held out her hands for the child. Ruqaiya's stomach lurched and she took a step to intervene before she realized what she was doing and stopped. Laksha looked past Chanri to Vikrim–they all did–and at the light nod of his head, the girl lifted the toddler up to the hands of the Gayakutan.
"Please don't eat him," Laksha half-mumbled.
Chanri barked a laugh as she held the unfazed child at arms' length and examined him, turning him this way and that, even upside down, while the boy chortled in delight. She even pulled him close to sniff him deeply. Ruqaiya wondered what the woman was looking for until she spoke at last, handing the baby back to Laksha.
"Round ears, no tusks," she shrugged to Vikrim. "Not yours, eh? One day, cousin. Let's chow."
Chanri Kumusapura was the Gayakutan Ambassador to Jharoda and first cousin of Vikrim, Ruqaiya learned in the hall where they all gathered. It was a tradition dating back millennia that the cadet branch of the Gayakutan royal family held such positions throughout Suristhanam. Ruqaiya was grateful for the bowls and plates of food placed on low tables around the room, but even more grateful for the miraculous touch of Fazil, who healed the bagh gashes on her face with his warm, glowing Iwa-guided hand. After he had finished and wiped away the blood, she kept finding herself touching her cheek to assure herself that it had happened.
Everything in the room was just oversized enough to unsettle her and make her awkward. Laksha was holding an enormous golden cup to the child's lips that made even her tiny hand seem smaller. Bihaan had given up trying to put his feet on the ground from the chair he sat in and had just curled them up under himself. Deland sat mystified by the huge platter of lentils, looking furtively around for something to scoop them out with, as if there were not a pile of round breads right next to it. Bahuchara, though…Bahuchara seemed to float like a devi on the cushions piled under her, but she washed her dirty feet with water from a large basin in front of her.
They were all haggard, dirty, hungry, and tired, and the fact that they were washing and eating and tending wounds and talking at the same time in a room encrusted with gems and precious metals didn't seem to phase Ambassador Chanri in the least. The strange balance of hulking and gentle, of uncouth and elevated, that she had noticed about Vikrim in their time together seemed magnified here.
Chanri had heard about the eruption that had wrecked a sizable portion of Qaragarh. News of the event had travelled across the empire with the swiftness of the teleportation Doors, and all of Jharoda buzzed with speculation. Was it an attack of some kind? Could Jharoda be next? Who could be behind such a monstrosity? Furtive glances shot among the members of her party, but no one said a word about Sameer or that strange vajra that Laksha carried. Even if she had thought it her right to share that information, Ruqaiya would have kept her mouth shut. She was moody and sour, and she just wanted to leave for Ganraala as soon as they could resupply for the trip. Let the Proclaimer and the hijra and Fazil handle matters in Qaragarh. She chafed at the pleasantries and the delay.
Chanri might be thick as an oak, but she wasn't dense. The woman's tongue toyed with the tip of her right tusk as she measured their evasive answers. Only a fool wouldn't realize that the four evenly-spaced slashes on Ruqaiya's cheek had come from a Crescent Tiger's bagh. Deland could–and did–claim they were escaping the calamity of the city and ended up together. Oh, he was a golden-tongued man, that one. But Chanri's speculative grunt showed she wasn't yet convinced. Indifferently, Chanri selected a mango from a basin of fruit and then launched it sharply at Vikrim's head.
"What did you bring into my house!" she barked.
Vikrim ducked and threw up his hands. "We just need to rest for a bit, cousin. Get some supplies and then me and Ruqaiya are leaving for Ganraala," he growled back at her in a tone Ruqaiya had never heard him use before.
Chanri pointed to the others. "And them? Going with you? What about the pretty one with the shapely ears?" She leered wickedly at Fazil. "He can stay, if he'd like."
Ruqaiya chuckled despite herself at Fazil's sudden discomposure. She doubted he'd ever been called the "pretty one" before.
"We'll be going to Vibhor," Bahuchara chimed in in her melodious voice, like honey and tanpura strings. "Please don't throw a mango at me, Ambassador," she added hastily as Chanri reached for more fruit.
Chanri barked a laugh at that and waved the Gayakutans from the room. When the doors closed, she leaned forward seriously.
"You're not going to Vibhor," she informed them. "And you're not walking outside these walls," she turned to Vikrim. "You think you weren't spotted coming in here? You think word of your arrival hasn't already reached Sathanam Palace? A shamsherbaz, a hijra, a Gayakutan and a wounded Sewangurak, a Kesin, an aristocratic Pradani, and a young woman with a not-Gayakutan toddler," she added pointedly with a roll of her eyes at Vikrim, "all in the company of what I can only assume is someone from a Concordant Civilization…"
"Godsbreath," Deland supplied.
"...coming through the Door and making their way here." Chanri clucked her tongue. "Not even trying to hide. There's probably a company of Crescent Tigers stationed outside already."
Ruqaiya snatched back the hand that rose to touch her healed face. This was ludicrous. None of this had anything to do with her. "Why did you bring us here?" she scowled at Vikrim. "We can't leave!"
Chanri laughed again, a sardonic chuckle. "Because they can't come in either. This palace is Gayakutan territory. Vikrim knew that, didn't you, cousin?"
He smiled sheepishly around his tusks.
While there was some relief that they were safe within Tipaluru Fort, it did little to temper Ruqaiya's mood. Safe, yes, but trapped. Chanri let them settle into the huge room as their own, since it wasn't clear when they'd be able to leave, if ever. Laksha had made a pallet against one wall and surrounded it with gold-threaded bolsters to protect the toddler that had fallen asleep. Fazil unbuckled and removed his plated leather vest and sword and set them on a table against the wall, his billowy undershirt damp with sweat and dirt. Seeing him do so, Ruqaiya did the same, though she kept her katar in her belt. The leathers smelled, she realized, and so did she. She unwound her pagri, shaking out her short, shaggy, brown hair, and dipped it in the basin of water at Bahuchara's feet to wipe the grime from her face and arms. She was certain Bahuchara wrinkled her nose at her.
The others settled in as well. As Chanri told them all what she knew, Deland had finally figured out how to eat using the bread, and Mohimukta perched on a purple divan and quietly plucked the strings of his rabab as if in thought. Vikrim kept looking at Ruqaiya but she kept her gaze averted. He might have had good intentions, but he had effectively made them prisoners in a gaudy, gilded prison.
There had been Crescent Tigers in Jharoda for several months, Chanri explained. They might be unremarkable in Qaragarh, but to see so many of them this far from their subah of Bazikwahi was astonishing. Chanri wasn't sure what they were doing in Jharoda, but they were bivouacked in Sathanam Fort, so Bhima must have some kind of agreement with Amir Sameer. The Tigers didn't seem to be on any kind of mission. They just insinuated themselves into the city, until people had become accustomed to seeing them. But they eyed them warily: no Jharodan had forgotten that Sameer had led the charge of Firuzeh's army against Nekuzam and his Jharodan and Gayakutan army.
Amir Tordain had closed the gates of Kestrel Mahal, whatever that meant. Ruqaiya gleaned it was a dwarven hall carved into the plateau outside Qaragarh, but she failed to see why it caused such curious concern to the others. It seemed a minor event compared to the devastation of the city.
Bhima was gone, of course. Everyone knew he had gone to Qaragarh for the aqiqah of his cousin's newborn and he hadn't returned. "Rumor has it," Chanri asked as much as said, "that the empress tried to kill him, and now he's proclaimed himself emperor. And him not even Tayyibi."
Bahuchara flashed at that. "Where's Firuzeh? What happened to her?"
"No one seems to know. Dead? Imprisoned? The whole imperial family has disappeared. If that means the same thing to Tayyibi as it does to Gayakutans, well…." Chani held up both hands in question. "Your colleagues, too," she added to Deland. "There's been no word about the Radiant Citadel delegates."
"I am confident they escaped harm," Deland assured her in his mellow, deep tones. "They are not without their…skills."
You either, Ruqaiya thought. His grey hair and crow's feet might mark his age, but she had seen his work with his staff against the Tiger at Aanandamay. Why would Radiant Citadel negotiators need any skills besides diplomacy and math?
"Firuzeh would not attack Bhima," Bahuchara continued, picking at that thread. "But she would defend herself against him if it came to that. Why would it come to that?"
"Rumor also has it," Chanri went on, bracing herself for a reaction, "that Firuzeh was responsible for that crystalline monstrosity that ripped the city apart."
Well that she braced herself, for the hands that Bahuchara threw into the air burst into flame. "Ridiculous! Utter nonsense!"
"I'm just telling you what I heard."
That was an interesting prarthana. Ruqaiya would have to see if she could learn that. It would come in handy in close combat with ghûls. She discreetly raised her hands, mimicking what she thought was the mudra, and dropped them to her lap when Bahuchara noticed what she was doing.
"After all," Chanri went on, "rumor has it that her ancestor has a Dao heritage. It is logical to wonder…"
"Enough with rumors," Bahuchara waved her away. "All you seem to have is rumors. What do you know?"
"Rumors," Chanri casually reached for a mango, and Bahuchara flinched, "are the stock and trade of embassies. They're both our mace and coin. Right, Deland sahib?"
Ruqaiya wasn't the only one to turn eyes to the stoic Proclaimer. Did Chanri know something they didn't? His face revealed nothing, and he didn't reply. Blast it, enough with rumors!
"How can we get out of here," Ruqaiya returned to the only subject that mattered to her. "There has to be a way. A tunnel, a circle…"
"Unlicensed circles are forbidden," Fazil piped in.
"I don't care if it's licensed," Ruqaiya turned on him, "I just want to get back to Ganraala. I don't want to be any part of this," she waved her hand meaningfully at them all.
The knife Chanri was using to peel the mango froze, her eyes locking on Ruqaiya. The others seemed similarly frozen, only their eyes moving to her.
"What is this?" Chanri asked, putting the knife and fruit aside and licking the juice from her fingers. "What have you gotten yourself into, cousin? Just trying to get away from Qaragarh, eh? What were you even doing there?"
Ruqaiya swallowed her tongue under the combined silent reproach of the others, even Vikrim. That hurt most of all. But it was all insane, all of it! Crystal mountains and vajras and the Radiant Citadel and plots and Tigers chasing them across the empire and that damned Ganraala devi and her blasted blessing! She didn't care if the fort was surrounded by Crescent Tigers, she'd fight her way out if she had to.
When no one answered Chanri, the woman shook her head and grabbed the bowl of fruit as she pushed her large frame up. "Get some rest," she warned them. "Whatever you're in, you're it now. And you brought it into my house."
When Chanri had gone, Ruqaiya retreated away from the others to a divan covered in too many cushions. Tossing several aside, she threw herself down. Bahuchara and Deland closed together, talking quietly but rapidly, and Fazil and Laksha joined them. Let them talk; nothing they had to say had anything to do with her. Bihaan had closed his eyes, perched atop his oversized chair, apparently seeking peace inside, while Mohimutka continued his soothing strumming on his rabab. It was soothing, wasn't it? Blast it, she didn't want to be soothed, she wanted to seeth. Vikrim was the only one she wanted to talk to, but right now, she wanted to be mad at him.
"You need to eat," he said, setting a platter of dishes on a low table by the divan. "And you need to rest. You were hurt."
"You have an elephant," she accused him. "And you have a cousin and people bow to you. They bow to you!"
He gave a grim chuckle. "Well, I am the fourth son of a king. I told you that."
"Just…just let me rest," was all she could muster.
He left her with her confusion and frustration, and she rolled over to turn her back to them all, burying her face in ridiculously embroidered cushions that were too large for her head. But there were fried chana on that platter, like her amma used to make, and they called to her. Just a couple, she told herself, rolling back over and reaching for the dish. Not as good as Amma's, but not bad. She didn't realize how hungry she was until she had eaten them all, and all the naan on the platter and some roasted carrots.
With a sated belly, she left the divan and wandered around the room. Laksha had curled up near the sleeping child, a bolster against her back. The others still talked among themselves, including Vikrim, who did more listening than talking. She didn't want to join them–let them figure out what they were going to do. When she had done a circuit of the room and rolled her eyes at every golden encrustation and velvet draping, she put her hand on the latch to the only door. It was unlocked.
"I'm going for a walk," she called to no one and everyone.
"Don't go outside the…" Vikrim started, but ended by simply nodding his head.
She wished he had finished his sentence. Unnecessary, definitely, she knew better than to leave the fort, and he knew she knew that. But it was his solicitation for her, even when unnecessary, that she had grown accustomed to. Maybe he didn't think he had the right anymore, after the way she had treated him. She shouldn't have done that. Why did she do that?
Every room was worse than the last, but thankfully most were empty of occupants. She encountered only a few half-orc Gayakutans in her meanderings, and they merely grunted and asked if she was lost. She couldn't escape the impression that the palace had been occupied by barbarians. Resplendent it may be, overly so, but bulky swords were laid carelessly atop elegant tables, and dirty boots had been kicked off in corners. Like an invading force had decided to take up residence in a mansion.
She found her way to a set of stairs that lead to the flat roof of the palace and looked out over the city as the sun was declining toward the horizon. A gnarled Gayakutan patrolling the roof gave her a curt nod and went about his rounds. Five others were there, a couple with heavy crossbows held at the ready. The light of the fading sun set the towers of Sathanam palace to the west aflame, and beyond it rose the undulating carvings of what must be the Temple of Ardhanari's sikhara. Much taller than the sikhara of Ganraala's temple! None of the temples she had seen in Bijabad reached even half that high.
Ruqaiya drifted to the west parapet. Jharoda stretched out before her, a crowded, old city–older than Bijabad, older than Qaragarh–both decaying and emerging at once. Strings of Chamakutsav lanterns had already been strung across streets, casting circles of colored light. Somewhere north and west lay her home. Somewhere too far.
She wasn't high enough and the angle was wrong to see beyond the walls of the palace, where the Crescent Tigers must have been positioned, surrounding the compound. Don't touch your cheek, she reminded herself. There aren't any scars. They can't reach you in here.
Pushing herself away from the west wall, she felt pulled to the north. The vileness, the wickedness that she could no longer keep out, had diminished when they had passed through the Door in Qaragarh, but it hadn't disappeared. Something was wrong to the north, and she gritted her teeth against the evil seeping inside her as she braced herself against a parapet crenelation facing that way. The forest of chhatri atop the abandoned Sard Palace glinted in the last light of the sun, their points–those that were unbroken–seeming sharp as needles. Whatever was wrong was in that palace, she knew. She could sense it like the center of a target she'd aimed an arrow at.
"It's so peaceful up here," someone said behind her.
Spinning, she found Bahuchara had crept up behind her. The hijra had her dupatta down, but had draped a shawl over her bare arms. Crept probably wasn't right; Ruqaiya had been so lost in her thoughts and focused on the Sard Palace that Vikrim could have lumbered up behind her with his clomping step without her noticing.
"I needed some air." She turned back to the view. "I'm not used to being cooped up. What do you want?"
Was that not curt enough? Apparently not, for Bahuchara sidled up at the other edge of her crenelation and joined her gaze at the Sard Palace.
"Magnificent," Bahuchara breathed. "To think that for millennia, the Concord Jewel landed there, bringing people and riches from the Radiant Citadel. I've only ever seen its chhatri from afar and from the ground. At this height, it looks so…"
"Broken," Ruqaiya finished. "Decrepit. Like an abandoned farmstead."
"Charming," Bahuchara teased her.
"Whatever it was, it isn't now," Ruqaiya said, "and hasn't been for centuries. It's a husk. It should be torn down. Now it's just a sad reminder of something lost."
Bahuchara braced herself on the parapet and inhaled deeply of the mix of roasting meats and spices and dung and dirt that rose from below. "You don't like to be reminded of things that were lost," she observed.
Ruqaiya squared on the hijra. "Why are you here? Are you here to work your wiles on me? Enchant me with your beauty? That's your way, isn't it? Make everyone fall in love with you and do your bidding?"
Even insult couldn't faze the hijra. "Merijaan," she touched Ruqaiya's dirty hair tenderly, "I loved only one, and he is no more." Ruqaiya pulled back from her gentle touch. "Suraj would love you, though. He would love your independence, your fierce strength. Yes, Suraj would be drawn to you like a bee to a flower."
"I am no flower," Ruqaiya parried. "I am the sting of the bee." Bahuchara smelled of sambrani and vanilla, and her skin glowed in dying light. It was difficult to be harsh to such a beguiling flower. "Who is Suraj?" Ruqaiya surprised herself by asking.
Bahuchara waved vaguely. "A young man I know. It doesn't matter. He could never compete with Vikrim for your…"
"Oh, no," Ruqaiya assured her sternly, "no, no. Vikrim and I are comrades in battle. That's it."
She didn't like the long, considering pause before Bahuchara answered, "Of course, dearie."
What nonsense, Ruqaiaya thought, looking again toward the Sard Palace. What did this hijra think she knew? Nothing. She knew nothing. "Did you need me for something?" She just wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
"No, ghazi, I just wanted to see how you were." Bahucara reached into her pouch. "It's sundown. I thought you might like to share the Ash Prayer."
Abashed, Ruqaiya noticed that what Bahuchara was withdrawing from her pouch was a small, silver ash cylinder and a small cup. How could she have forgotten? It was time for the Ash Prayer, and she was mooning at the Sard Palace and silently grudging her state. "I…thank you, yes."
Bahuchara set the cup on the edge of the parapet and tapped ashes into it from the cylinder. "It's been a long day," she condoled. "A lot has happened. Iwa forgive us if we are a few minutes late for the prayer."
It had been a long day, a long series of days, in fact. Almost unimaginable that three days ago, she and Vikrim had been in Bijabad, ferrying the captured Risen Celebrant to Qaragarh. Bahuchara offered her the first sip of ashy water from the small cup as together they recited the Ash Prayer–ashes that just this morning the hijra had collected at the other end of the empire. Some tiny part of her morning prayer was mingled in with those of the others who had been at the gharana musalla, a prayer that was as yet unfulfilled, indeed had strayed far. But that was why the Ash Prayer was important–a bitter reminder that Iwa did not always grant a straight path across the mountains.
As Bahuchara dried the cup with the hem of her lehenga, Ruqaiya returned her gaze to the Sard Palace. The prayer had taken the edge off of her irritation and she softened a bit towards Bahuchara, but it had not quelled the ill in her belly coming from the palace.
Bahuchara seemed to notice. "You sense something there," she observed, stowing the vessels back in her pouch.
"I don't know how you can't all feel it. It radiates like heat from a cook pot. Like stink from a dung heap. I used to think," she mused, "that it was only there when I opened myself and reached for it. But it's been there all the time, all around us. We're all just walking through a stew of vileness and we don't even know it."
"It can't be everywhere," the hijra sought some reassurance.
She pointed to the palace. "No, not like that, maybe. What do I know? This is new for me. Qaragarh had just exploded, and then we came here," she shrugged. "There was so much undeath in the war, and those Risen bastards scattered like rats when it all collapsed on them."
Bahuchara joined her at the parapet as if trying to see the wrong in the palace. "Vikrim is not sure what to do," she said unexpectedly.
Ruqaiya tensed. "About what?" she asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer.
"Go back to Ganraala," the hijra ticked off a finger, "stay here in Jharoda," another finger, "or help us figure out why Sameer wants the vajra. Oh," she put an urgent hand on Ruqaiya's arm, "with you, darling, of course. He says the two of you have to agree; he won't do anything without you."
That was calculated, Ruqaiya knew, saving until the end that Vikrim would not leave her. Could the hijra just not help herself? Was she always trying to manipulate people? She wasn't surprised to hear that Vikrim was considering staying in Jharoda. He hadn't been here in over a year, and he had people here. And an elephant. But to get further involved with the others?
"What's to help? You don't even know what it does or what to do about it. Did you all come up with some kind of plan?"
"Yes." Bahuchara pushed herself away from the parapet and dusted her hands together. "To decide tomorrow. We're safe tonight, and all befuddled. We'll all think clearer after a good night's sleep, don't you think?"
"You should go then," Ruqaiya leaned against the crenellation. "Get some sleep. So you can decide what to do in the morning." She almost chuckled at the indecision she sparked in Bahuchara, who half-turned to go, expecting her to follow, then half-turned back as if to say more. In a situation with almost no control, Ruqaiya found pleasure in at least disconcerting someone.
What she didn't expect was for the hijra to stay. Gathering her skirts, Bahuchara shimmied her way to sit on the parapet wall between the pair of crenellations and settled in as if for a star gaze. Wordlessly, as if without a care in the world, Bahuchara gazed out over the city towards the Sard Palace. Fine, if she wanted to stay, let her. Maybe any arrows from a Crescent Tiger long bow would home in on her golden bangles.
That was unkind, she chided herself. Her father would have pinched her ear for thinking that. "You're not tired?" Ruqaiya asked more kindly.
"What would you do about it?" Bahuchara seemed to have a habit of not directly answering questions.
"I can't make you go to bed."
"Silly," Bahuchara glanced teasing eyes at her. "About the stew of vileness we all seem to be wandering around in. Does it stick to us, like smoke?" She pulled a bit of her lehenga to her nose. "Can you smell it on me?" She extended the bit of skirt to Ruqaiya.
The ghazi seized Bahuchara's hand fiercely, swiftly. "Don't you dare…" she snarled. "Don't you dare make a joke out of this. You have no idea what the Risen have done, how they twist people's lives, how many people they've killed."
Bahuchara pushed herself off the parapet but didn't try to wrench her hand from her. "What would you do?" she asked again, urgently, her face close to Ruqaiya's. "What would you risk to put an end to it?" Ruqaiya let go to pull her own hand back but the hijra grasped it in turn, jerking it closer to her. "The city stinks with it, ghazi, what are you going to do about it?"
"I will kill them," she growled.
"Yes!" Bahuchara goaded her. She placed her other hand atop their joined ones.
"I will slit the throat of every Reaper and Celebrant. I will burn every ghûl and smash their necrodaggers into pieces…" She felt Bahuchara twisting her fingers, no longer just grasping the hand. "What are you…"
The hijra shaped Ruqaiya's fingers one by one, forming them into the mudra she had used earlier to set her hands aflame. "Like this," she explained excitedly. "And then move them to this position."