The Eunuch's Heir (14 page)

Pretending to adjust his horse’s reins, Wolfram hesitated. When Dawsiir pulled closer to see what the trouble was, Wolfram clapped him on the shoulder, and flashed a wicked grin. He caught the thong of the flask, and uncorked it for a final swallow. The pair rode on in silent companionship behind their proper elders, on the path that Wolfram had chosen.

The road teemed with people. Most went on foot, toting baskets with the straps across their foreheads, or pairs of jugs balanced on sticks. Several of the oxcarts were loaded down with a dozen or more people packed together, some hanging on to the sides. These mostly wound their slow way down toward the seaport. On the wagons heading for the palace, many of the men wore the eye patches Wolfram had
noted earlier, though most of these were simple scraps of cloth with no painted decoration. He called out the question to Esfandiyar, who straightened in his saddle.

“For the royal women, Highness Wolfram, a sign of respect that they shall not look fully upon them.” The words came haltingly, and Wolfram dismissed them immediately but made note of the deception.

Turning to Dawsiir, he placed a hand over one eye, and made as if to ask him.

Dawsiir immediately shuddered, and replied, “Ashwadi.” He made a strange gesture, and frowned, before letting loose a stream of words that made no sense. At last he shrugged and pulled something from his shirt, passing it over.

The guard’s eye patch was leather, with a well-painted eye on the outside, and Wolfram examined it, but there was no hint of what its purpose could be. He offered it back, but Dawsiir shook his head, patting his shirt to indicate that he had another. Shooing gestures convinced Wolfram that the man meant him to keep it. He nodded his thanks and tucked it away.

Smaller dirt roads twined off among the brown fields in both directions, leading toward distant clumps of trees, or small, tilted buildings surrounded by dark-skinned children. Oxen carts laden with huge barrels headed toward these dwellings, greeted by shouts and running women. Wolfram’s suspicions grew.

At last, they came to a halt near a band of trees and dismounted. The older guard followed a path through the trees while Esfandiyar hung back, fussing over his saddle. The area was trampled by large, flat feet—elephants, he assumed. Wolfram and Dawsiir shared a look, and even the young guard seemed suddenly apprehensive. The man returned, shaking his head and waving his arms. Esfandiyar snapped at him, then broke off to grin at Wolfram.

“We will rest a moment. Would you care for drink?” He offered a flask of water, and Wolfram drank deeply.

“What was the man looking for?”

The eyes flickered away. “Just seeing to natural needs, yes?”

Wolfram nodded slowly. Then he announced, “Me, too,” and set off for the path.

“Highness Wolfram, please! There are stinging plants.” Esfandiyar hurried after him, plucking his sleeve, but lacking the courage to lay hands upon him. “There are snakes, and insects!”

Shrugging him off, Wolfram took longer strides, and immediately came through the trees to a narrow strip of grass beyond. A riverbed wound its way among the trees. At the bottom, a puddle of muddy water stood, the last of whatever river there had been.

Esfandiyar stood beside him, looking down at the puddle. He called something back over his shoulder, and the guards shortly appeared, leading the horses to drink. Wolfram walked a little ways along the bank, following its curve until he was out of sight of Esfandiyar’s bleak gaze. Just around the bend, he found a dam of mud and stones. Several huge barrels rested on their sides, bung holes empty and dry. He turned and walked in the other direction, past the silent priest, and found a similar dam there as well. Slowly, he returned to where he had stood, arms folded.

“There is no river, is there?” he asked gently.

Shoulders stooped, Esfandiyar shook his head.

Together, they watched the horses quench their thirst. “It is the dry season. There has been river, and there shall be,” Esfandiyar said.

“Why have you pretended there was one? Someone wasted all of those barrels here, just to convince us.” No answer was forthcoming, and Wolfram remarked, “Faedre must have been awfully disappointed that I slept through the display.”

“We wish for you to see the bounty of our country, Highness Wolfram. It is misfortune, only, you come when the season is so dry. When we have rains, the road even here is flooded. Some people must live on boats, with their cattles.” He waved his arms, indicated a field of water. A measure of life had returned to his voice.

Wolfram nodded again. “That would be something to see.”

“Perhaps you are staying so long, yes?” Esfandiyar turned with his familiar grin.

“We’ll see. This would be a lovely place, when the river is high.” He studied the trees opposite; no telltale bundles of grass hung in their branches, nothing to indicate that a flood had been here for many years.

“Indeed, yes, Highness Wolfram. Shall we ride?”

“Let’s do that.” Wolfram accepted his reins, and followed them along the path, not looking back to the dead river they left behind.

DARKNESS HAD
fallen before they returned to the palace, and Dawsiir bowed to Wolfram with a twinkle in his eye as he led the horses away.

All afternoon, Wolfram had been on his best behavior, allowing himself to be led here and there, shown the finest houses, and wells in the valleys where he could draw up good water. Now, he turned to his guide. “Thank you, Esfandiyar, I enjoyed that immensely. I think I just needed to stretch my legs a while.”

“You are most welcome, of course, and I hope that you feel better now?”

“Yes, much—in fact, I’m starved!” They had taken a simple luncheon at one of the fine houses, but that was a long time ago.

“Then we shall find again our quarters and food shall be brought there.” Esfandiyar brought him to the stairs, then raised his plucked eyebrows. “Unless you would care to lead?”

Wolfram chuckled. “No, I couldn’t manage that one. I have no idea where we really started out. I only found this place because of the smell.”

“Ah,” said the priest. “I had wondered that. Do not fear that I shall reveal your secret.” He wriggled his little eyebrows and took the lead.

Following his slow pace—Esfandiyar clearly was unused to such a long ride—Wolfram contented himself with confirming the way he had suspected they would follow. He had
already tipped his hand to an alarming degree that morning, but Esfandiyar seemed content with the explanation. The priest’s rooms were nearly at the opposite side of the palace and quite a hike from the stables, which were in an older or less fashionable area. Somewhere between the two lay the forbidden women’s quarter, and he was beginning to put together the clues as to where.
Good work for one day
, he thought.

As they arrived, Esfandiyar asked carefully, “Would you wish to see your sister tonight, or has the day tired you, as I know it has done for me, Highness Wolfram?”

Wolfram yawned broadly, and sighed. “I would like to see her, but I think I can wait until the morning. Besides, don’t you still have your evening ritual to perform? Faedre mustn’t be too happy having to wait for you.”

Bobbing his head, Esfandiyar said, “You speak truly, Highness. But I shall see to your supper before I must go.”

They ate a quick meal together, and, after Wolfram declined the services of the favored slave, Esfandiyar took his leave. One of the ever-present servants coaxed a monkey down from the trees and tucked it into a bag, which he handed off to the priest. Esfandiyar wrinkled his nose, and Wolfram offered an understanding smile. Carrying the squirming, shrieking sacrifice, the priest vanished out the door.

Wolfram lingered over his mead a little while, then retired to his chamber, quickly snuffing the lamps and pulling off his boots. He listened to the shuffling of the servants outside as they cleared the remains of the meal, and took advantage of an argument that rose between them to slip through the curtain of beads, their clinking hidden by the other sounds. The door to the outside stood remarkably unguarded—Esfandiyar was more the fool than he seemed. Wolfram moved through the ill-lit corridors with the air of royalty and purpose, nodding as the servants turned their faces to the wall for his passage. When he found himself at the tiger’s yard, he strode confidently along the side and disappeared into the shadows at the far corner, where he quickly doubled back and crouched, peering through the darkness.

Three burly guards lurked around the larger central door, armed with spears and swords. No chance for a frontal assault. Melody had said that her room was near a garden on the outside wall. If he could scale it—but that would be just as absurd. The roof stairs were not far away, and he wouldn’t have to pass too near the tower where Faedre’s ritual was taking place. He won free to the rooftops, letting his eyes adjust to the glow of the moon before he set out as softly as he could. Keeping to the stone roofs less likely to carry his sound to those below, he returned to the tiger’s yard, and from there made a beeline for the outer wall. When he found it, he saw that the garden was quite large, and had many shrubs and paths, and even vines that swarmed over the wall toward the outside. A fountain gleamed at the garden’s center, with a main pathway leading toward the shadowy entrance of the chambers within. If there were guards, he couldn’t see them from here. He’d have to take his chances on the ground.

As he climbed down a sturdy vine, he wondered why other men hadn’t made use of this to visit the ladies. Or perhaps they did it all the time. He quashed a chuckle as he let himself down. Now, all he had to do was find Melody’s room and entice her out here for a private and serious talk.

Soft grass grew in the paths, coddling his bare feet, and he let the sensation relax the tension his secrecy compelled. The flowers Melody had mentioned perfumed the air though he could not make them out in the darkness. Somewhere ahead lay the fountain he had glimpsed from above, which must mark the center of the garden and his best hope for checking the status of any guards at the doors. Most of the way there, a slight movement arrested him. Not far off, he caught an unexpected gleam of white in the darkness. He took a stealthy creep forward and came to a little opening.

At its center, a figure leaned back upon her hands, her head flung up to face the moon. She wore only a light chemise that revealed far more of her than it concealed. Her small breasts pointed skyward, trembling a little with her breathing. Again, she shook her head a little—the motion that had caught his eye—and resettled her hair upon the
grass around her. The gleaming black hair flowed in waves over her shoulders and trickled toward the flowers. When she had moved, a tendril of it fell so close Wolfram could see the near-violet twist of one curl resting by his finger. If she were to stand, the hair must reach below her knees, nearly to her ankles, even.

She was an image of peace and perfection—a kind of peace that Wolfram had never known. Wolfram caught his breath, imagining, just for a moment, the feel of that silken hair trailing over his chest, stroking away the demon that haunted him. Almost without thinking, he inched his fingers closer and allowed himself to draw one trembling finger over the vulnerable curl.

He let it twine around his rough finger, the fine hairs catching on his tiny scars and dry skin. His mouth, too, felt dry. Shaking with the impulse, he raised the lock ever so carefully to his face and breathed in her scent—sweet, and strangely familiar. He breathed in the serenity that she possessed and shut his eyes to hold it deep within his chest.

Silently, he kissed the curl, letting it slide back from his unwilling fingers.

She arched her back, then raised her head, her shoulders straightening.

Just for a moment, the hair caught over his hand, and she turned to free it.

The scream sent him jolting to his feet.

She, too, jumped up, flinging the treasure of her hair behind her to face him—all the way to her bare ankles, some tiny part of him saw. The scream went on and on, her eyes white with terror, her flimsy dress catching on the bushes behind her as she backed away.

“No, it’s all right, I didn’t mean anything.” He took a half step forward, and the scream seemed to choke off. She flung up her hands to ward him off.

Her slender arms waved before him, cutting a pattern into the sky, and he was suddenly as frozen as if he had forgotten how to move. His mouth hung open dumbly, his eyes still fixed upon her. He could hear shouting behind
him, catch glimpses of light as guards entered the garden, but he couldn’t turn, couldn’t bolt for the wall and the safety of the rooftops. What had she done?

The woman took a careful step forward, and he saw her eyes reflecting the moonlight—Deishima’s eyes, he was sure of it. Great Goddess, but he’d dropped himself in it now.

Her tongue darted out at the corners of her mouth and she hugged herself as if she could be cold in this boiling night. Suddenly, she shot out a hand and made a grabbing gesture, pulling her fist away.

The paralysis lifted, and Wolfram stumbled forward, the way he had been leaning. She sprang away from him, but he hadn’t the slightest intention of staying. He spun and ran for the vines, cursing under his breath.

The movement caught the guards’ attention, and they crashed after him. One of them caught his leg, even as he was nearly above their heads. Strong hands jerked him down, tumbling to earth with leaves clutched in his skinned hands.

Wolfram rolled and dove for an opening, back for the door or the far wall.

Tripping, he smashed headlong into a spiky bush, the fragrance of roses filling his senses as if to mock him.

Hands laid hold of him again, pulling him free. He struggled desperately, all the strength of the demon wild within him, his head roaring, his throat sore from cursing.

He’d shaken off a few, but one man had hold of his wrist and yanked him off-balance, then flung him into the wall.

Dazed, Wolfram let the stone support him, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the vines.

The guard loomed up again, gripping the front of Wolfram’s shirt. He pulled his prisoner toward him, then smacked his head and shoulders back against the wall. As the moonlight faded from sight, Wolfram thought that might have been the blow to finally release the demon and set him free. In place of the moon, he saw Erik’s pale face, the mouth flapping at him, shouting blood.