As one, they retreated into the shadowy hall of the mandapa of the temple. Peering around the columns they hid behind, they saw a dozen or so soldiers making their way through the gate, sword in one hand, clawed bagh on the other. The flaring skirts of the orange and black kurtas they wore under their breastplates marked them clearly as Crescent Tigers, and there was no doubting their mission. They were looking for Sameer's vajra. Laksha felt someone behind her pulling on the satchel over her shoulder, and she spun her head to see Fazil shoving the vajra inside the sack.
"I don't want it," she protested, trying to pull away. She didn't want to be anywhere near the thing.
"Be still." Fazil pushed the rod home in the bag and drew his shamsher. "Stay in the shadows."
He couldn't possibly be going to face the Crescent Tigers alone, could he? That would be certain death. She shamed herself for looking for a way out the far side of the mandapa. Perhaps if they just threw the sack to the Tigers, they'd leave them alone. That was a foolish thought; they'd tortured Salim to get her name. They wouldn't leave without the one who'd stolen from the amir.
The screech of metal drew her eye to Ruqaiya, who slipped her talwar from its scabbard with one hand and took up her katar with the other. Vikrim unhooked his mace from his belt. What were they doing? She couldn't believe they were foolish enough to take on that many warriors. And for what? She was the thief, not them. "Don't do this," she pleaded, "this isn't your fight."
Sameer's troops pushed their way through the refugees and small campfires as if looking for someone, for her, and the injured and grieving shied away from them. They barked words that Laksha could not hear, but it was clear that they were asking the refugees about her and where she might be. She prayed that, in the aftermath of the calamity, no one would remember one small, young woman in an abaya with a sack over her shoulder.
"It is Iwa's fight," Fazil answered her, "and therefore it is the fight of all the righteous." The light of fervor glinted in his golden eyes. "I will smite these servants of the treacherous Sameer bin-Nabeel and send them to Iwa's justice. Who is with me?"
"By Iwa," Ruqaiya assented, clanging the blade of her sword against Fazil's.
Vikrim smacked the head of his mace in the palm of his free hand. "Let them live to regret this day."
"Darling," Bahuchara tugged at the fabric of her lehenga for them to see, "I'm not dressed for this sort of thing. I'll stay back and see what I can do from here. Do be careful."
Fazil nodded and turned to Bihaan and Mohimukta. The Kesin held out his empty hands helplessly–he had neither knife nor sword nor any experience in battle. His elegant companion merely gave an encouraging pat to Fazil's shoulder, and it was clear he too lacked any martial skills. "Stay with them," a dispirated Fazil ordered Deland Longully, whose grip on his staff showed he used it for more than just walking.
The three warriors readied themselves as Deland guided the others to the far side of the mandapa. Laksha wished she were back in the painting room of the kitabkhana, she wished she hadn't stolen the vajra, she wished the eruption hadn't destroyed part of the city, she wished she didn't have a child in her arms, or that she hadn't come to the gharana. They were going to get her and kill her and these idiots were going to die trying to stop it from happening. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she muttered over and again as she sank against a column with the child in her arms. She looked helplessly up at Bihaan, standing nervously pulling at his braids, and at Mohimukta, who bizarrely had slung his rabab to the front and began strumming it. Deland and Bahuchara had stayed across the mandapa, hidden in the shadows.
Through the forest of the temple columns, Laksha watched the milling soldiers, willing them to go away, until an old man among the refugees raised a finger and pointed it to the mandapa.
"Here we go," Fazil said through the gritted teeth of the battle-braced.
What Laksha had read about battles in the books at the kitabkhana were glorious, valiant affairs with heroic deeds and mighty sweeps of swords. They said nothing of the sound of a severed limb thudding to ground, the horrific wails of the wounded, the sight of warriors soiling themselves, or the spray of blood showering down across the dirt. Her bowels turned watery from fear and it seemed that she cried an unending half-scream of trepidation for the duration of the fight.
Fazil leapt from the mandapa platform to race at the Tigers, but it was Vikrim who got there first. Stamping his great, booted foot, he trumpeted a cry like an elephant and charged into the approaching soldiers, who had been expecting nothing more than a hiding young woman. The massive warrior crashed through the gathered troop, swinging his mace wildly around him, knocking several down and smashing others with the weapon.
Then Cantiran swept out his bright shining blade
That shimmered like silver he poured on the glade
To lighten the shadows and brighten the night,
And shone with the stars over lovers' delight.
With a small part of her mind that was not overwhelmed by the threat, she became aware that Mohimukta was singing, but it didn't seem any more absurd than the battle taking place outside the mandapa.
Stunned by Vikrim's charge, the Crescent Tigers struggled to rally. Half turned to pursue the hulking warrior while the others looked to the temple for what else might be emerging from its shadows. Fazil and Ruqaiya fell on them like kestrels, swooping in a flurry of targeted strikes. Three of the Tigers were down before Laksha could take another breath to continue her scream. She had no words for what Fazil was doing, only that he seemed to move his talwar like it was one continuous motion across one's neck and another's side. Ruqaiya had blocked a blade with her own and then with a spin, sank her katar in her opponent's throat.
Startled locals and refugees across the courtyard scrambled for the gate, leaving behind whatever they had rescued from their homes. Outside the walls, the funeral drums had grown louder and more numerous, pounding as if in discordant beat to the battle and to Mohimukta's song.
His devas were weakened and many were strewn
Like the petals of flowers that withered too soon.
But Cantiran rallied, and flew on the wing
At Agnikaand, wicked, of dragons the king.
And Bahuchara danced. Her step was fierce, the muscles of her arms clenched with each sweep, her fingers flexing like claws. Her bare feet slapped loudly against the temple's stone floor, but not in rhythm to the drums or to the music. The song she danced to was her own, and Laksha was awed by the potency of it. When Bahuchara planted her feet finally and thrust forward her hands, fire erupted from them, striking two of the Crescent Tigers by Vikrim and burning them into smoldering corpses.
Fierce was their battle, the fire and the moon,
A clashing of mountains, a burning typhoon,
A raging explosion, tumultuous woe,
As blood showered down on the watchers below.
There were too many places to look; it was all happening so fast. When she shot her eyes again to Fazil and Ruqaiya, she saw the ghazi down on one knee, bagh scratches on her face. Fazil moved as quick as a wolf, darting in for attack, jumping out of reach, but there were so many of them. So many. Vikrim trumpeted as he spun his mace, going for the legs, or the arms, it seemed, but never the head. Several cuts bled on his exposed arms and legs, but still he raged on around him. So many.
The Katpur erupted, the villainous lair
Of Agnikaand, dragon, his pit of despair,
Where Curiyan struggled to wrest from the haze
Of smoke and the ashes that darkened her rays.
So fast, but it kept going on, when would it end? She wanted it to end. Suddenly there were Tigers in the temple, and Laksha bolted to her feet with the child in her arms. Three of them, she couldn't tell, she wasn't counting, they had come through the fore-hall. Their eyes searched the shadows, found her and the others, found Bahuchara. Like peas exploding from a pod, they splintered, one after Bahuchara, one at Deland, one at her and Bihaan. Deland didn't wait, racing towards his attacker and swinging his staff so that it blocked the arc of the blade swiping at him. She had no moment to watch Bahuchara, for the warrior was almost upon her and Bihaan, who…suddenly wasn't there. And then was behind the warrior in a blink, tripping him with an outstretched, bare foot. The Tiger clattered to the ground, smacking his face against the stone floor, his sword sliding away.
An agonized cry drew her eyes to Bahuchara, her hands crackling with the same blue energy that shocked her assailant. The armored man staggered back but quickly recovered, pushing the hijra to the ground. With a wicked grin, he raised his sword.
Funeral drums pounded, mourning chants echoing from the streets, grunts and roars and trumpets, the clang of steel on steel, Bihaan banging a head against stone, the swish of Deland's staff. Mohimukta singing:
The claw against metal, the sword against scale,
Cantiran harried his foe to impale.
The valiant deva, Pradan as guide,
Met the blast of the dragon and brushed it aside.
"Leave her alone!" she shouted, and wrapped her arms around the child to join her hands in the mudra. The practiced mantra came quickly to her lips and the hand formed. The hand she had used for thieving, the hand she had used for painting. What could it do against a Crescent Tiger poised to strike?
She poked him in the eye. Hard.
Blinded, the Tiger stumbled, dropped his sword. And it was enough. Bahuchara crawled close enough to grasp his leg and ignite the hem of his kurti in a fire that raced up and over his body. Screaming in agony, the Tiger tumbled off the mandapa platform and writhed in agony until his howl ceased.
Bahuchara fell back on her rump, drained. "Chhote haath," she said in puzzled thanks.
"Don't call me that," she answered by instinct.
It wasn't over. Bihaan's Tiger was unmoving on the floor, but the last one in the mandapa was futilely trying to strike down Deland. His shamsher seemed to glance away from the Proclaimer with each sweep, but Deland's staff found purchase on his head, his gut, his arms. Outside, the clang of swords rang, and she could hear Ruqaiya laughing–laughing! The grim laugh of a dance with death. Vikrim trumpeted, blows resounded. And the Tiger in the mandapa was down.
Cantiran cut at the lava-red wings
And sliced a few sinews like tanpura strings.
Agnikaand faltered but wasn't undone.
The fight with the dragon had only begun.
Daring the danger, Laksha slipped to a column facing the courtyard and her stomach roiled. Blood and entrails and bodies littered the open space, abandoned campfires still burned, funeral drums and chants still echoed, and Fazil was stabbing a Crescent Tiger through the abdomen. Ruqaiya was still by him, but there were no Tigers left within reach. The last was facing Vikrim, and he seemed painfully aware of his fallen companions around him, who–while still alive–were badly injured and maimed. The Tiger backed away, threw down his sword, and bolted for the gate.
"Kill him!" Fazil barked to Vikrim.
The Gayakutan lowered his mace and watched the warrior escape.
"Kill him! Vikrim!"
"He does not kill the living." Ruqaiya spat blood into the dirt.
They had survived. By Iwa, they had all survived. She should be dead–they all should be dead.
"I have to get out of here," she announced, heading for the gate. With a shrug and a shake, she let the sack with the vajra fall from her shoulder. Churapoor, she'd take the Door to Churapoor. She could easily disappear into its crowded market streets, take up thieving again if she had to. She didn't know anyone there, and no one knew her.
"Laksha!" Bahuchara called after her.
"Throw it in the river," she said, looking back over the child's head. "Melt it down, I don't care."
"Laksha, why don't you stop so we can talk."
She didn't want to but she did. Bahuchara's request sounded so reasonable, so calm. It was more than that, though, she knew when she turned to see Bahuchara releasing the mudra she had used to compel her. The hijra's sullied lehenga swished as she picked up the sack and held it out to Laksha.
"You dropped something, dear."
She had done this, she knew, she had put them all in danger by stealing the vajra. But it had begun before then–when she'd agreed with Salim's bargain, no, when the vizier had caught her stealing a pendant and she'd…. She'd made the mistake of feeling safe in the kitabkhana, as if those days were long behind her. She could never escape them, though, it seemed, destined to forever to suffer and cause suffering for her actions that one day. It was her burden, this was her burden. She could try to run away from it, but it would always find her.
Grimly, she slung the sack over her shoulder. "I'll throw it in the sea."
"I can take it," Deland suggested. "We can get it safely to the Radiant Citadel, where it…"
"No," Fazil cut him off. "The vajra belongs to Suristhanam. It is a holy relic of our founder…"
"Can you argue about it later?" Ruqaiya snapped, sheathing her weapons with metallic clicks. "They'll be back with more soldiers soon because someone," she glared at Vikrim, "let one of them escape. We need to get out of here. Head for the Hall of Doors. Now!" she roared when none of them moved.
They all jolted but looked at one another for direction. "Oh, bloody…" Bahuchara finally muttered. "Come on."
They huddled just inside the gate of gharana as Bahuchara disappeared into the street to make sure they were not being watched. The prayers for the dead rang poignantly through the sound of shuffling feet, as mourners moved down the street carrying their departed. Drums, all out of sync with one another, pounded and rattled and echoed down the alleyways in a sad cacophony, and sound never moved away. It was everywhere, the dead were everywhere.
Miraculously, the child, bound in a sling to her chest, slept deeply through the noise and the tension of waiting. Deland Longully had pulled a cowl over his head to hide his face, and beads of sweat ran from his hairline and dropped onto the stones of the courtyard. He held his staff with both hands, as if preparing to use it, if necessary. The others were ranged behind them, ready to move the moment a signal was given. Only Mohimukta, in his bright blue, embroidered silk kurta, seemed unfazed. He stood with a detached, slight smile, like a courtier in a receiving line, waiting to bow to the next guest.
"Come!" Bahuchara said, her head appearing around the gate post from the street, startling Laksha. "Come, come!"
She waved them after her then disappeared, and Laksha and the others hurried after. Bahuchara had pulled the hood of her gold and burgundy dupatta over her hair and was moving to the wide street leading south. Laksha tugged the edge of her hijab lower to hide her own face, furtively scanning the street for any sign of Crescent Tigers.
Ruqaiya paused inside the gateway looking uncharacteristically hesitant. Vikrim scooped her up in his massive arms and cradled her like a child. When the Gayakutan emerged, the woman he held tensed in every muscle, wincing in pain. "Just go," the ghazi barked to her companion. Laksha was bewildered but didn't have time to ponder what was happening. Fazil brought up the rear, barking whispered orders for Bihaan and Mohimukta to move faster.
Like a muddy river, the city's mourners moved slowly down the street ahead of them, carrying their dead on hastily constructed biers or planks of wood. Sheets, white as could be managed from the rubble and ruins of the city, wrapped the unmoving forms raised high above the mourners. They were carrying their dead to the river, to be purified in fire on the Cinder Shores and released from this world. Elsewhere in the city, Laksha realized, was another slow moving river of mourners, headed east outside the city to the Iwahhid cemetery.
But south was where they needed to go to cross the river and reach the Hall of Doors. And so they joined the mourners, merging into the throng and treading painfully slowly through the dusty street, shuffling their feet. Laksha did not know the Pradani prayers for the dead, but she offered up Muwwahid prayers through dry lips, hoping neither god would begrudge her.
Though she moved slowly and respectfully, her every sense was overwhelmed, and it was all she could do to not break from the crowd and race toward the river. No amount of wrapping could contain the smell of blood and decay from the torn and mangled bodies. Heat pulled sweat from the mourners' unwashed bodies, packed all around her. Wails punctuated the unrhythmic chanting of the multitudes, and the deep, mournful pound of the drums shook her bones. Flies had begun to swarm to the dead, their buzz pervasive and close to her ears. The sun beat down on the top of her hijab, leaching into her scalp. Laksha took a few quick steps forward so she could nestle in between two men who carried a body on a broken door, so that she and the toddler she held could walk in the shade of the dead.
The further south they moved to the edges of the city, the less damage she noticed. The narrow streets broadened, with more haveli and respectable shops, and people crowded the balconies on either side paying their respects to the passing mourners and the dead. Laksha fought the urge to swivel her head around to check on the others, knowing it would only draw attention. She had to trust that they were following, but her heart pounded in her chest. She worried most about Vikrim and Ruqaiya being spotted. Gayakutans were a very rare sight in Qaragarh, but the raised biers might give him some cover. She glanced ahead to make sure Bahuchara was still within sight, leading the way, and caught a glimpse of the glittering hem of her skirt peeking through the legs trodding in front of her.
Suddenly she realized the person passing ahead of her was Fazil, a dusty blanket draped over his head, covering his armor. The shamsherbaz paced beside Bahuchara, and Laksha hastened her step to join them.
"We're approaching the warehouses, and beyond that, the bridge," he said without looking at either of them. "There might be Crescent Tigers at the bridge."
The mourners would be turning west at the river, down to the Cinder Shore on this side, Laksha realized. To reach the Hall of Doors, they'd have to break from the throng and approach the bridge alone. They'd be exposed.
"How will we get across?" she whispered to Bahuchara. "What's your plan?"
Still walking, Bahuchara twisted her head around, exasperated, with an arched eyebrow. "I don't have a plan. Do you have a plan?"
Laksha was taken aback. "No, I don't have a plan," she rasped indignantly. "This is just like the time you wanted to nick gold thread from that seamstress in…"
"I had a plan then," Bahuchara growled back.
"She almost put out my eye with her shears!" They had both barely escaped without injury.
"But I had a plan," Bahuchara hissed with finality.
"Enough, you two," Fazil cut off Laksha's retort, and they both fumed silently, kicking up dust with their shuffling feet.
Laksha felt Bihaan worming his way behind her and leaning forward.
"What's the plan?" he whispered.
"We're working on it," both Laksha and Bahuchara hissed, spinning their heads.
Whatever they were going to do, they needed to decide soon. The street had begun to slope downwards, a sign that it was approaching the Jangalee Ghodon River. The row houses and shops along the way were dwindling, replaced by first small warehouses, but they would grow larger as they drew closer to the river. Too short to see over the moving stream of people in front of her, she looked around her at the buildings to try to identify landmarks, and noticed guards at the corners of the streets of the warehouses. They were locals, hired by the merchants to protect their goods, but they were armed nonetheless with rough swords and stout cudgels. This far from the center of the city, the warehouses had survived the eruption, their precious silks, paper, hardwoods, and other goods on their way to the Northern Plateau safe behind stone walls.
A few imperial warriors were scattered among the guards, and as they moved through the warehouse district, but they all bore emblems from various companies attached to Qaragarh. Only once did she see Crescent Tiger, and she turned away and slipped between two mourners to escape notice.
Once past the last row of warehouses, the crowd began to spread out into the open area between them and the Jangalee Ghodon, down a slight slope, and Laskha felt Fazil pull on her abaya to draw her back from the crowd, close to one of the stone buildings. The others joined them, gathering together in the shelter of the wall, separated from the bridge down below by the throng moving into the cinerary fields. From this higher vantage, Laksha could see down to the bank of the river, barren of grass but covered as far as her eye could survey by mourners and pyres. Hundreds must have been consumed by the flames already, but hundreds more were streaming down, and still the river of people stretched back down the streets of Qaragarh.
"Iwa preserve us," she breathed, stunned by the enormity of the calamity.
Smoke filled the river basin, rising lazily from the dying fires of the rows of pyres. The smell of rotting flesh was replaced by the acrid, sweet smell of burning flesh. So many people. So much loss. How could the people ever recover from this? And this but a portion–out east of the city, whole acres of soil were probably being turned to inter the Muwwahidin who had perished.
The child strapped to her sneezed itself awake from the smoke and sought her eyes with a hand to her cheek.
"They go to their rest," she affirmed to the child. "May your parents…" Helpless for the words, she looked around her for Vikrim, who had draped a dusty blanket over his head and had set the unsteady Ruqaiya on her feet. "I don't know the prayers for his…He should hear…"
Vikrim began chanting low in a language she did not know as he lifted the child from its sling. The words were the same that echoed grimly and piercingly around her from a thousand voices, but his were gentle and soothing, even to her, though she couldn't understand them. The large man held the child up to his face, their eyes locked together as he prayed the Pradani prayer for the dead, and the child once again latched on to one of his lower tusks. He turned the child, still raised, to face the field of pyres as he finished his prayer, then returned him to Laksha.
"Thank you," she said, taking the child back.
"What's the plan?" Ruqaiya broke into the moment of serenity that had fallen upon her with Vikrim's prayer. "There's at least a dozen soldiers on the foot of the bridge. Crescent Tigers among them," she added, catching sight of their orange and black uniforms.
"There is no plan," Bihaan dolefully informed her.
Mohimukta, looking cool and almost regal in his brilliant silk, leaned forward. "I trust there will be. Without question. I'm sure it will be grand."
"Why are you here?" Ruqaiya squared herself with her hands on her waist.
"Because Bihaan is here," the handsome young man replied as if it were obvious.
"I don't know," Bihaan shrugged helplessly.
It would be foolish to approach the bridge across the open space, for the Tigers would spot them at once among the much smaller stream of survivors seeking transit away from the catastrophe through the Hall of Doors. Around Laksha, the others tossed and dismissed ideas among them, each more foolish or reckless than the last. She would wait until they settled on one. Someone had to come up with something, and then she'd follow along. While they bickered and bantered among themselves, she gazed out at the bank covered in pyres and mourners.
Something had shifted among the mass of people. The chanting of prayers had diminished, replaced with a babble that seemed to be growing more heated and angry. Squabbles were erupting among the piles of ashes and lines of biers waiting to be burned. The restless rumble was creeping up the bank and back through the line still stretching into the city. At first she struggled to grasp the cause of the frustration and commotion, until she realized that there were only a few pyres still burning, though the bank was filled with bodies to be cremated.
There was no more wood.
Qaragarh was a city on the edge of a desert, built out of stone carved from the cliff face. Trees were rare, and most still in the ground and green. There wasn't enough dried wood available for all the bodies that needed to be cremated; the grief and loss were turning to anger among the mourners. They all deserved to be cremated.
"There's wood in the warehouses," she muttered to herself. Piles of it, waiting to be shipped up to the Northern Plateau. It seemed so obvious.
Bahuchara leaned closer. "What are you talking about?"
"There's wood in the warehouses," Laksha repeated so they could hear.
She was met with quizzical glances, but it didn't matter. She knew what she needed to do.
"There's wood in the warehouses!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "The warehouses are filled with wood, and paper, and fabric! To the warehouses!"
The cry was taken up by the mourners around her, and when she heard it echoing down the line to the bank and back down the street, she pressed herself up against the wall and pulled Bahuchara next to her. Confused, the others joined her, and together they watched as a throng swept up the bank into the warehouse district in search of wood.
Bahuchara grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. "Are you mad? What are you doing?"
From just outside the walls, they could hear the roars of mourners challenging the hired guards, who tried vainly to keep the horde back. And then they heard the crash of stone and wood as the grief-stricken, desperate people broke into the warehouses along the closest street. Ragged cheers rose once they had apparently breached the first few buildings, and Laksha winced at the destruction she had unleashed. She hoped no one had been injured in the riotous and wonton pilfering.
"Look," Laksha answered Bahuchara, pointing down the road to where the soldiers had come to alert at the edge of the bridge. They edged forward only a few steps as they watched and listened, assessing the threat.
Bahuchara's eyes had taken in the sight. "They're not moving."
"They will," Fazil asserted. Laksha knew he had realized what she was trying to do, but the look he gave her was full of reproach.
The soldiers shuffled, uncertain, looking to their company leader for direction. But when mourners began returning to the bank holding intricate wooden jali screens and delicately carved chairs and tables high above their heads in victory, even the Crescent Tigers moved to intervene at last. As a unit, they rushed up the slope of the street into the mob, swiping people with the flats of their blades and barking at them to retreat from the district. Still the crowd surged through the district, overwhelming the dozen soldiers and swallowing them in their midst to flail about with little effect.
"They're protecting the valuables," Ruqaiya spat in disgust.
Mohimukta bowed his head to her. "I did say it would be grand, I believe."
"An empire needs money," Fazil admitted.
"They're supposed to protect the people," Ruqaiya argued.
Laksha wanted to agree with Ruqaiya, but she knew it wasn't true, which is why she knew her plan would work. "Now is our chance, we can argue about it later."
She hitched the child tighter and wound her way through the tumultuous river of people, some rushing back through the city gate, others carting down bolts of cloth and stacks of paper to where the biers of their departed waited for the flicker of purifying fire. Even the doors of the warehouses, smashed from their hinges, were making their way to the bank to be set alight. Laksha ducked and dodged several times to avoid collision with wooden furniture as she, and her companions, wove like fish through the stream of mourners. Once free, they trotted down the slope to regain the road to the bridge. Laksha wanted to race across the open distance, but she slowed when she noticed that Deland Longully was struggling to keep up, using his staff almost like an oar to propel him along.
The wide Jangalee Ghodon River moved swifter than its placid surface suggested. The bridge spanning the river was wide enough for two laden carts and teams of camels to traverse side by side, and it stretched flat across to the far bank. Built and carved by the Kestrel Mahal dwarves, like the rest of Qaragarh, the bridge was supported by rows of stone pointed arches, and along its length, gilded chhatri provided moments of shade from the unrelenting sun overhead. The bridge, the only one across the river into Qaragarh, usually bustling with merchant traffic from the caravan through the Maaph Desert, carried only a thin stream of people who must be making their way to the Hall of Doors to abandon the city, for nothing stretched beyond it but desert. The only other structures beyond the bridge were a few small warehouses and buildings, and the Vermillion Serpent, the last caravanserai in the string of serai that stretched across the desert.
Laksha had never crossed this bridge. All her life had been spent inside of Qaragarh. Though she'd only briefly had a home here, with her mother and father, before ending up orphaned and living on the streets, she still thought of the city as her home, the only place she had ever known. She knew its streets and its alleys, the bazaar vendors who would slip her a pistachio sweet or a piece of fruit. She knew to seek the cool, dark damp of the Jabahzed Stepwell on the unbearably hot days, and she had a favorite spot in the hammam where near-scalding water would ease the aches she received from Salim's thrashings. Though unwillingly inducted into the kitabkhana, she had learned to read there, opening her mind to the enormity of the world. Beyond her difficult childhood. Beyond Qaragarh.
And now she was faced with the world beyond. With a backward glance at the city she was leaving, she stepped onto the bridge and jogged ahead. As she looked down to the bank on her right, she could see pyres burning again, mounds of flaming stretching around a bend in the river, as if the whole edge of the city had been set aflame. She would be back, she vowed to herself.
She heard her name called out by Fazil behind her, so she slowed. The shamsherbaz had stopped to look back, and the others gathered around him, taking a moment to mop their brows and catch their breath. Vikrim looked mournfully over the carved stone railing at the cremation field.
"The guards will be coming back," he told them flatly, still scanning the crowd moving in and out of the warehouse district.
"They'll be alright?" She wanted the words to be a statement, but they came out as a question.
Bahuchara slid the dupatta from her head, letting the breeze that ran down the river basin rustle the sweat out of her thick black hair. "He means they're dead, meri jaan. He's just being gentle with you."
The eyes Fazil turned to Laksha told her the truth that his words withheld, and she winced. Shame settled in her chest like a physical blow. Her knees weakened, threatening to topple her, so she leaned against the stone railing.
"You didn't kill them," the hijra comforted her cooly. "They chose to run into that riot. That was clever of you."
Laksha looked to the shamsherbaz for agreement, and his stoic silence gave the lie to Bahuchara's words. She hadn't planned for them to die; she had just wanted them to leave the bridge so she and the others could escape the city. That technicality did little to ease her guilt over their deaths. She was sure their families would not be convinced by the argument.
Fazil turned his back on her to look down the bridge to the desert, and whether he meant it so or not, Laksha read it as a rebuke. Still, he had recognized what she had set in motion when she had begun, and he had not stopped her. Perhaps he was chewing his own shame, if elves even felt shame.
"We need to keep moving," he announced. "There are no guards at the far end, but there are certain to be several at the Hall of Doors."
Fazil began walking without waiting for the others, and they quickly fell in line. Bahuchara trailed in his wake without a look backward, as if pulled by his clarity of purpose. Ruqaiya gave Laksha a curt nod in passing, but Vikrim kept his head down, and Bihaan's jog past her, with Mohimukta close behind and his rabab bouncing against his back, seemed designed to avoid acknowledging her.
"It isn't easy," Deland Longully said, extending a hand to help her stand.
Grateful for the gesture, she took his hand and let him pull her away from the railing. "What isn't?"
"You must answer that," he said in a deep, rolling hum that sounded almost like a chant. Together, they quickly walked at the back of the others. "I don't know what you are struggling with. No one can know what another is going through, even when they try to tell you. Even for a Proclaimer, sometimes words are insufficient to express what dwells and roils in our hearts and minds. But I can see you are struggling with something now. There is something for you that isn't easy. And that gives me comfort," he smiled down to her and squeezed the hand he still held in his.
She slipped her hand from his. "You know what I did. How can that comfort you?"
"Because it isn't easy, no? If it were easy, I would worry, for what else might you be capable of?" he chuckled, and even that had a rhythm to it. "You feel the cost of your decisions, and you empathize with others. The hijra," he pointed ahead at Bahuchara with his staff. "I do not think she would struggle so much as you do if she had been the one to lure the guards away from the bridge to their death, if it meant she could escape."
Laksa winced at his all too accurate description of what had happened. She opened her mouth to defend Bahuchara, but then swallowed the words she'd been about to say. It wasn't Bahuchara she had been about to defend, it was Suraj, the boy who had taken her under his wing in Salim's den of urchins. Suraj, who had taught her tricks of thievery, who shielded her from Salim's abuses, who shared his filthy pallet with her on the barren floor of the den and made sure she got her share of whatever food they could scrape together.
Bahuchara, though. Bahuchara appeared pleasant and engaging and entertaining, and she cultivated an air of grace. But the woman Suraj had become and that Laksha was only now beginning to know seemed detached. She performed the appropriate behaviors and emotions, but she didn't seem to feel them. Her laughter seemed a little forced, her sympathy a little cool, and her interest was easily diverted. Insincere. No, she chided herself, Bahuchara's grief at the death of her gharana sisters had been very sincere, as had her care for the refugees that had found shelter in the gharana after the eruption. She had shown the same depth of compassion then as Suraj had shown to a young Laksha in the den. Perhaps Bahuchara had simply moved on, found a new focus. Laksha wasn't sure that made her feel any better about her old friend.
"I think there are other things that aren't easy for her," Laksha answered at last.
"Well said!" Deland chuckled, easing some of her shame.
The Hall of Doors loomed ahead of them at the far side of the bridge, its dome rising far above even the three stories of the Vermillion Serai. From the roofs of the inner city, Laksha had seen its vast bulk from a distance, but now it seemed to rise like a palace built for giants, its height accentuated by the absence of other large structures around it, only flat, dry dirt that turned quickly to desert sand a little southward.
Seemingly carved out of a single massive reddish-brown rock that once might have sheared off from the Northern Plateau and tumbled into place, the Hall of Doors served as the gateway to much of the empire. The creation of Gurkani Tayyib, its portals had allowed him to move his armies across the lands in his sweep to unify Suristhanam into his great empire. Now, the building served a more egalitarian purpose as the nexus of domestic transport, and Gurkani and his successors had elaborated on what was initially a crude construction to create an elegant symbol of the grandeur of the empire.
Five stories rose above Laksha and the others as they approached the far end of the bridge, each story skirted by a flanged, stone border carved in repeating details. Windows and balconies pierced the face of the structure, running in uneven lines as if the building were constructed of tall rectangular blocks, some projecting out from the others. Delicate stone jali screens gave the flat walls bursts of dynamism, and columned walkways created arcades here and there. Countless lines of kalashas ran across the edges of the rooftop, each finial wrapped in gold. High above but slipping from view as they moved closer, numerous square-cornered domes rose to points in various sizes. Above them all in the center, a great rounded glass dome of sard-colored Ribhus glass glittered in the sun.
On the west of the road opposite the Hall, the more humble Vermillion Serai was a great square building, three stories tall, built of cut stone. Caravans were still arriving at the rustic but imposing serai from across the Maaph Desert, but it seemed they were jammed in large groups, unsure if it was safe to enter the city. They serai would clog with new arrivals, already well on their journey across the desert. The merchants couldn't simply turn back–they had goods to sell, and it would take them five days to return to the Akela Pass through the Undra Ghatta, another two weeks to Churapoor.
"We have to go in there?" Ruqaiya gaped when they gathered at the edge of the bridge, refugees moving past them with their bundles and wheel carts of salvaged possessions.
"Perhaps we can blend in with these folk," Vikrim suggested.
"Me maybe," Ruqaiya quipped, "but a blind peacock would see you coming. Do you see any other Gayakutans?"
Laksha looked around at the passing refugees. Mostly humans of all types, but also a contingent of gnomes likely headed back to the foothills of the Undra Ghatta; a group of Laoben kobolds, their carts piled high with cookpots and dried peppers; a family of topaz skinned tieflings, feathered bands around their heads; even three yuan-ti moving closely together, probably diplomats returning to their kingdom in the south. But no other Gayagutans towering above the rest.
Fazil pulled his blanket further down his forehead. "Vikrim is right. Our only hope is to pass unnoticed. We should split into smaller groups. Where are each of you going?"
"Bijabad." Ruqaiya pointed at her and Vikrim.
Laksha shifted the child in her arms. "Churapoor."
"Really?" Bahuchara gave her an arch look. "That den of thieves?"
"Really?" Laksha tilted her head mockingly. "You want to argue about this now?"
"I'm going to Jharoda," Bahuchara answered Fazil, ignoring Laksha. "I can lay low at Vibhor Gharana." She turned to Bihaan. "You can come with me, you'll be safe there."
Laksha saw the uncertainty in the Kesin's eyes. "I'll stay here." He looked down at the ground, shrugging. "I'll be alright here. It's a big city."
"They saw your face. You heard what they did to Salim." Spiteful delight flashed through her at the thought, but it was overwhelmed by dread of the result. "You're not safe here. Don't be ridiculous, go with Bahuchara."
A resigned nod from Bihaan, and an, "I'm rather curious to experience this Jharoda," from Mohimukta, and it was settled. "Deland?" Bahuchara turned to the delegate. "Can you get back to the Radiant Citadel from the Hall?"
Deland shook his locs slowly. "Not yet, not for a few more months. The new portal is not finished yet. Besides," he pointed at the sack over Laksha's shoulder, "I'm not leaving that."
"Nor am I," Laksha was relieved to hear Fazil announce. "If Sameer wants it, that's reason enough to keep it out of his hands. You fought valiantly back there, Proclaimer, but I do not know you, or your intentions. I will see to its safe keeping until I can find a way to turn it against Sameer bin-Nabeel."
A flick of her eyes to Deland, but nothing to read there, except a hint of an assenting nod. But to what was he assenting? She, too, had no idea what Deland was after, but she wanted to trust him. They had bonded over books and stories, which were the keys to the lockbox of her attachment.
Bahuchara slipped thin golden bands from her wrists and handed them around, explaining that they'd need to pay to use the Doors. Laksha cradled the band in her hand, more wealth than she had ever held, or hoped to hold, and Bahuchara had just passed them around like pieces of an orange she had divided. The time had come to separate, yet they stood awkwardly, goodbyes unsaid, all of them understanding that their lives had been abruptly changed. By her. She felt miserable and small and petty and terrified and bitter all at once. "I'm sorry," she said to the ground. "I'm sorry."
Bahuchara lifted her chin with a hand. "Be careful, Laksha. It was good to see you again, my friend."
Bahuchara left first, followed by Bihaan and Mohimukta. Laksha watched her spin away, draping her dupatta over her head and swinging it around to cover the lower part of her face. She'd waited too long to sort things out with Bahuchara, and now it was too late. They would be in opposite parts of the realm.
"Blessing of Iwa," Ruqaiya gravely nodded her head to Laksha and the others as Vikrim tickled the toddler's chin, and then they were gone, disappearing into the stream of refugees once again.
"Move like you know where you're going," Fazil advised her and Deland, prodding them forward.
She looked back even as she headed for the Hall of Doors, at the city she was leaving behind. Smoke from the Cinder Shore clouded the view of the rising domes and minarets. And cruel, brilliant light splintered from the mounded column of crystals piercing its heart.
Laksha kept her head low and walked between Deland and Fazil, following closely behind a group that might have been family or just colleagues. With the many others, she passed under the pointed arch of the wide iwan and into the vast hall of the building, light from countless hanging lamps picking out the bright colors of tesselated tiles covering the walls between columns. The main hall was crossed by a long hallway stretching both ways across the long rectangle of the building, and people were queuing up at the twenty or so arched niches along its walls–one for each destination. Well, not so much queuing as thronging, eager to escape to safer places. Her eyes gave the spectacular Hall only a cursory glance, as they flickered around her nervously, fearing to be spotted. Fazil seemed to know which Door led to Churapoor, and she followed his sure step.
Shuffling painfully slowly forward, she caught sight of Bahuchara, Bihaan, and Mohimukta two Doors down. Risking a look around the rest of the hall, she found Vikrim and Ruqaiya at what must be the Bijabad Door, restlessly waiting their turn. Turning back to watch Bahuchara, she spotted seven or eight orange and black uniforms passing down the hall toward them.
"Fazil," she rasped.
"I see them," he answered, still facing the Door.
He wasn't moving, nor was Deland. "They're going to get them."
"We need to get the vajra away from Qaragarh."
Yes, but…no. Not like this. Vikrim had spotted the Crescent Tigers approaching Bahuchara as well, she could tell from the furtive glances he was shooting their way. He tugged at Ruqaiya's shoulder but she shrugged him off. The ghazi just wanted to get home.
"We have to do something," Laskha said, shifting the child in her arms to bring her hands together.
But Fazil placed his hand over the mudra she was forming.
"Don't," he warned her.
Helplessly, she watched the Tigers stomp down the hall, their sights set on the trio. Then she saw Bahuchara's arms swaying, saw her feet rising and falling in rhythm even as she was seemingly unaware of the impending threat. Then with a flick of her cracked nails, eldritch blue ferocity arced through the queued throngs to pierce one of the Tigers, who shuddered and fell to the ground.
The Hall erupted with fleeing travellers, uncertain what was happening, startled by the blast. Every which way they ran, dropping their bags and abandoning their pushcarts, dragging young ones by the arms.
"Gadhey," Fazil growled, drawing his talwar and throwing off his blanket.
Laksha jostled behind Fazil as he pushed through the mad crowd, Deland half a step behind her. The blue light flashed again, and she heard someone scream in agony. She couldn't see over the throng's head, but they cleared after only a few more steps.
Bihaan and Mohimukta had retreated to the edge of the niche, and Bahuchara was spinning so quickly in her dance that her lehenga spread out around her. Gale-force wind plowed into the Crescent Tigers, pushing them back and a few off their feet, as well as Laksha, who caught her fall with one arm behind her. Then Vikrim plowed into the tumbled soldiers, his mace knocking several back, as Ruqaiya set about with her sword. It was Deland who surprised her, though, stepping close to three of the Tigers. His low voice rumbled like rolling thunder, and when he planted his staff with both hands, a wave of force knocked them several feet away to the ground, where they stayed unmoving.
"We have to leave, now," Fazil ordered them, dispatching the last of the Tigers with a piercing strike. "More will be coming." He caught Laksha by the shoulder as she spun back to the Churapoor Door. "No, this one."
There by the Jharoda Door cowered the novice that powered it, trapped in her spot by the battle that exploded before her. Laksha did a turn and found everyone else had fled.
"Bijabad!" Ruqaiya pointed toward the Door across the Hall.
Bahuchara was already moving to the terrified novice, who had pulled her hijab over her face as if it would protect her from the ravages of the fight. She slipped more bracelets from her arms and dropped them at the young woman's feet. "We need to go to Jharoda."
The woman lowered her veil and quivered at the sight of them, then hid her face again.
"Darling," Bahuchara soothed the novice while her hands twisted and turned in a complex mudra. "Would you be a dear? It's such a simple thing, and we do dreadfully need to be on our way. We would be terribly grateful for your assistance."
The suggestion was so powerful that Laksha took a step forward to trigger the Door, though it was something only the novice could do.
The novice trembled, her lip quivering as she answered. "Alright." Straightening herself, she wove a pattern with shaking hands in the air, which set the Door to shimmering in the niche.
"And dear," Bahuchara added, gathering her skirts to step through. "I don't think you need to tell anyone where we went, do you?"
"No, I guess not."
Bahuchara went first, followed quickly by a few of the others. Laksha froze when it came her turn, staring at the shimmering light of the Door, trying to see what was beyond it. She could see nothing. Her future lay beyond it, a future she couldn't discern.
"Move!" Fazil barked at her from behind.
She jolted and then stepped forward.
To Jharoda.