21
Yatin enters my chamber the next morning. Asha finishes brushing my hair, and I go meet him at the door.
“Did you find Jaya?”
“She sends her apologies. Her husband forbids her to see you, but she wishes you luck in the tournament.”
I set my jaw. Gautam forbids Jaya to see me? We will see about that.
“Thank you, Yatin. I’m ready to go now.”
I took my tonic this morning. Though the Burner’s warning rang clear in my mind, I could not afford to be feverish.
Asha adjusts a fold of my skirt. The gold sari swathes me like a cloud, the silver embroidery along my bodice the ethereal lining. Strokes of kohl line the corners of my eyes, and juice stains my lips red. Asha has outdone herself, but this illusion of glamour cannot ease my anxiety. Today is the first day of the tournament.
Yatin and Manas escort me to the main foyer. Imperial guards are stationed every few feet down the maze of corridors. More guards border the grand entrance hall, which is swarming with ranis and courtesans, all buzzing about today’s scheduled battles.
I notice two things about the guards. First, none of them is Deven. Second, every guard is on edge.
“What’s going on?” I ask Manas.
He answers a rung above a whisper. “An intruder tried to break into the rajah’s chambers early this morning. We’re still looking for him.”
I scan the guards. Did the Burner leave me and go to the rajah’s rooms to search for the Zhaleh? Whether he did or did not, I cannot fathom how we will meet again with every guard in the palace looking for him.
Imperial guards descend the grand stairway, Rajah Tarek between them. Tarek is dressed exquisitely in a gold tunic coat, with a silver paisley print, over dark trousers. A satin turban is wound around his head. I had thought that Asha wanted me to look my best for the people of Vanhi, but now I see that she dressed me to match our ruler.
The rajah draws the attention of every woman in the hall, but he comes to me. “You’re more beautiful every day, love.” He kisses my cheek, souring my stomach. Even at this early hour, he smells of apong and another woman’s perfume. Tarek rubs a circle on my hip. “I’m a patient man, but I don’t know if I can wait until our wedding night.”
I lower my eyes in disgust. I can wait a thousand lives.
With his hand on my waist, he steers me down the palace steps into the open courtyard. To the east, the early sun charges into the sky with the glory of a desert god. On the other side of the gates, people press against the divide, cheering for the ranis and courtesans surging out of the palace behind us. I glance over my shoulder, uncomfortable to have my contenders at my back. Any of them could have slipped the asp into my bed. I do not know them well enough to definitively say who, but the most likely contender is Anjali. She could not stay out of Tarek’s lap last night, and she clearly wants to be one of his wives.
Across the way, Anjali speaks with a group of courtesans. I search her face for surprise that I am alive, but she does not glance in my direction.
The courtyard teems with servants, soldiers, and imperial guards. Among them are exotic animals I have seen only in books. Tarek stops before an elephant with shoulders nearly as tall as the outer wall. A howdah, a box carriage with a red silk canopy, is belted to the back of the beast.
“We are riding that?” I ask Tarek over the din.
“I assure you it’s safe.”
Servants push a rolling staircase up to the elephant’s side, and we climb into the high, swaying carriage decorated with winking rubies. As I sit in the top-heavy howdah, I twist to see a line of four more elephants behind us. Four carriers are tied to their backs, one for each of the rajah’s favored four.
Lakia climbs another rolling set of stairs into her howdah. She hates me more than all of my challengers combined, but she did not slip the asp into my bed. Lakia wants the tournament over with almost as much as I do. Killing me before I wed the rajah would force Tarek to claim yet another viraji to be his final rani, as I am not yet his wife, and this extravaganza of death would start all over again.
Imperial guards assemble the rest of the ranis and courtesans. They will either walk to the amphitheater or ride on camels adorned with gold-tasseled saddles. From above the disorder, I scan for my guards. Yatin has found Natesa and hovers near her side. Manas hoists the Tarachand Empire’s scorpion banner. I cannot see Deven. His absence should not bother me, but we left off so abruptly yesterday that I am concerned that he thinks I am angry with him. Perhaps Taline’s execution has changed his mind about staying on as my guard.
Tarek swallows a drink from a flask that was waiting in the carrier. “Kali, you are quiet.”
His neutral tone puts me on edge. I immediately smooth out my frown. “I asked my guards to help me set up a meeting with Gautam’s wife. The general married my friend Jaya. Remember her from skill trials?”
“Ah, yes. Natesa cut her cheek.”
Because of you. I pinch off my resentment before it pours from my voice. “I would very much like to see her. Could you arrange it?”
He kisses my cheek. “For you, love. Anything.”
My smile of gratitude doubles as one of gloating. Gautam will have to let me see Jaya now.
A gong sounds, and then a dozen servants heave the gold palace doors open. An infantry troop clears the way, their horses pushing back people to clear the road. The sky and ground jerk as the howdah rocks side to side with the elephant’s impressive strides. I clench the passengers’ bar in front of me and pray that I do not fall out. Tarek grins, his boyish delight genuine. I can scarcely believe that he is the feared rajah of the Tarachand Empire.
Vanhi’s streets are hardly passable. Clay huts clump together behind peasants standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the roadway—children, men, and women all clamoring for a view.
“Viraji!” they cry, waving the empire’s red-and-black flag.
Their adoration stuns me. Not long ago I was a lowly temple ward. I have not accomplished anything to secure such adulation.
“Wave to your admirers,” says Tarek. “They believe you to be Enlil’s hundredth rani reincarnated. You are a legend come to life.”
I fight off a frown. I want to tell them that I am no such hero, but their belief in what I represent stops me. I cannot rob their faith in the gods. Smiling tightly, I wave to their dirty faces. Many wave back with arms so skinny that they could be staffs and with robes that have more holes in them than the roads. The gaudiness and wealth of our procession shames me. One ruby off this howdah could feed a family for many moons, yet no peasant dares cross the barrier of armed soldiers to filch one. Tarek may be able to sit on a gold throne and not despise himself, but I cannot.
While Tarek is turned away, I rip a handful of rubies off the side of the howdah and toss them to the crowd. The gems rain down on the people, and a ripple of recognition travels fast. Needy hands and bodies swarm over each other in a mad dash for the jewels. Soldiers dismount their horses and barge in to break up the riot.
“What is the disturbance?” Tarek calls down to a guard.
“The viraji threw rubies into the streets,” his man reports.
Tarek slides his arm around my shoulders. “Wasn’t that charitable?” he says for all to hear. His guards return to their duties, and Tarek’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Do you mean to infuriate me?”
“I meant to devote them to you, Your Majesty.” My lie tastes like dust on my tongue. More soldiers stop to tear apart the mob.
“You needn’t throw them jewels to gain their devotion. My people love me. Do you know why?” Rajah Tarek kisses my earlobe, his lips hovering there. To all the world, we are lovers sharing an intimate conversation. “I give them what they hunger for most. Not bread or clothes or coin.” His intrusive voice fills my head. “I give them the rank tournaments. I give them blood.”
Almost an hour after leaving the palace, the amphitheater’s rounded walls soar into view. Spectators stream through the open gates stationed around the exterior of the mighty stone-and-brick structure. Our elephant rocks to a stop beside a high-arched entry, and servants push forth a staircase for us to climb down.
On the ground, I look out over the mass of people, their faces as numerous as grains of sand. Tarek takes my hand and lifts it into the air. Our audience hurrahs, and then he and I lead the court procession through the entry and into the dim corridors of the amphitheater.
The imperial box is at the center of one of the narrower ends of the oval stadium, set apart from the other tiers by solid stone walls. A flat marble platform—the podium—spans the area below us. Tarek’s wives and courtesans gather on the first tier, vying for the best view of the arena. Two more tiers rise to our right and left, circling the stadium. The benefactors occupy the second tier. Most are already deep into their cups, despite the morning hour. The third and highest tier is for the lower class.
A tattered canopy shades a portion of the tiers, and above its flimsy ceiling, brass gongs gleam as golden moons. I stare in amazement at the incredible breadth of the amphitheater and sea of people. The whole population of the City of Gems must be here. Tarek sits on his throne and motions for me to occupy the one to his left. Lakia takes the throne to his right. The rest of his court will watch from the terrace below.
Drummers emerge from an underground level through metal gates. They strike up a marching cadence and cross the arena, their music silencing the audience. The hand drummers form a line before the imperial box and thump their final beat.
In the sudden stillness, Rajah Tarek approaches the banister and addresses his people. “Welcome to my hundredth viraji’s rank tournament!”
Thousands of spectators answer with deafening applause. The benefactors are the loudest, pounding their feet. They are why Deven did not want me to think that he enjoyed attending the tournament. He is not the sort of man who belongs here.
Tarek waits for the commotion to settle and continues. “The Tarachand Empire prepares to enter a new reign of supremacy. Soon, I will be the most powerful sovereign on the continent. I swear to you our time of leniency will end. My first act will be to rid our great empire of the demons plaguing us. Then we will move on to the rest of the world, until we are free from bhutas once and for all!”
His people thunder their feet against the floor in approval, hammering fear into my chest. The Tarachand Empire has the most powerful army on the continent. So long as Tarek is at war with the bhutas within his borders, his resources are tied up. Exterminate them here, however, and he is free to expand his conquest elsewhere.
“Let the tournament begin!” the rajah shouts.
Men stationed in the towers strike the gongs, clanging them in unison. Through the lower gates, two courtesans march into the arena, armed with metal shields and helmets. They may choose to duel hand to hand, with staffs, or with blades.
A tournament official announces the challengers, Ameya and Shanti. Each woman thrusts her weapon to the sky when her name is called. I scarcely recognize them this far above, but their names are familiar. Ameya looks especially small. She is armed with a haladie, the double-bladed dagger. Wise selection. I doubt that she is strong enough to swing a heavier blade. Still, I do not anticipate her outlasting her larger opponent. I pray that she proves me wrong.
Asha explained the tournament rules this morning. Four duels will take place each day, starting with eight contenders battling in pairs. The four winners of those duels will then face off in a victors’ match. The last woman standing wins the finalist title for the day. This goes on for three days, and on the fourth day, the three finalists will battle me in a championship match. The odds sicken me. Only three challengers out of twenty-four will survive to face me in the arena.
“Faster,” Lakia snaps at the servant fanning her with ostrich feathers. Lakia does not fight until the last day either. She and her challengers will battle as the opening act for my match.
More servants fan the courtesans and wives below. Those contenders not slated to fight today sit forward in their seats. Soon it will be their turn. Any of the women in the arena could someday be their adversary, or mine.
The gongs ring, signaling the start of the duel. The taller, stronger fighter, Shanti, dives at her opponent. The little courtesan, Ameya, is nimble and spry. She dodges her opponent’s khanda and blocks blows with the haladie. Shanti slices the little one’s hand, and Ameya retreats. I want to shut my eyes and shield myself from the blood, but even though these women battle each other, they are challenging me. I will not be able to look away in the arena, and I will not now.
Shanti circles Ameya. My fingers curl down on the armrests of my throne. Ameya slashes forward, and her smaller blade grazes Shanti’s back. Shanti assesses her uncritical injury and then retaliates. Ameya evades Shanti’s blade, but Shanti anticipates her lateral move. Shanti swings back around and drives the sword into Ameya’s stomach. The slighter woman crumples like a paper doll torn down the middle, dropping in a bloodied heap.
Unshed tears burn my nose. I had anticipated it would be like this, but I am struck by the carnage, the horror, and the nauseating stench of blood rising up from the arena floor.
Lakia yawns. “I hope all your courtesans aren’t defeated so easily.”
“Yes, it will make for a tedious day,” Tarek replies, sipping his flask.
I cut them a glare. Ameya just sacrificed her life. She wanted freedom from being a courtesan so much that death was a better alternative. I want to shred Tarek’s pampered face with my nails, but I do as Mathura said. I absorb my hatred and let it feed me, transforming it into something bigger, meaner, uglier.
I will wait.
I will crouch in the dark until the time is ripe, and then I will eat Rajah Tarek alive.
Servants wheel a handcart into the arena and pile Ameya’s body onto it.
“Where will they take her?” I ask.
“Where do you think?” Lakia considers her painted nails. “The rajah has no use for her now. She’s refuse.”
Indignation snarls through me. “Her body must be prayed over before she’s laid to rest.”
“The gods don’t care about dead whores,” Lakia replies, bored.
“The gods care about honor and sisterhood, not this spectacle of death.” I lower myself from my chair to my knees and bow my head.
“Get up,” Lakia hisses.
“Not until I pray.”
“Kalinda.” Tarek’s voice is deadly low. “Sit.”
Hanging my head, I look through the slats in the banister at the lower balcony. Natesa peers up at me, her eyes teary. She must be thinking of her older sister, wondering if anyone prayed over her body.
I lower my chin and speak. “Gods, bless Ameya’s soul to find the gate that leads to peace and everlasting light.”
Below us, Natesa repeats the Prayer of Rest, and then Shyla speaks the blessing on Ameya’s soul next. Then Eshana and Parisa lend their voices. Idle chatter dies to a hum of shushed murmurs. The prayer ripples out to the other ranis, each bowing her head in respect. Every courtesan and rani, besides Lakia, honors the fallen young woman. A surge of pride pushes me to my feet, and I sit back down.
Tarek leans toward me and taps my knee, his tone quiet. “Have a care, Kali. You do not wish for me to tire of your boldness. I still find you amusing, but that could quickly change.”
I shrink away from him, my insides boiling. Only Tarek would view a prayer as rebellion, but I need not show my support for the defeated challengers again. My message has been felt by his court. Those who perish in this tournament are not refuse. They are our sisters.
Gongs ring in unison, followed by a tournament official proclaiming the start of the second duel. Witnessing the bloodbath of the next two duels does not get easier for me; however, Lakia’s smile widens with each passing death. One less woman with whom to share her husband.
At midday we pause for a meal. I wave off the food tray, too nauseated to keep anything down. The dirt arena floor, once brown, is splattered with blood. When the time comes, I do not know how I will find the courage to add to the gore.
When the midday meal finishes, Anjali is summoned with Cala for the fourth duel. Tarek remains relaxed in his throne, displaying no worry for the youngest of his favored four. The gongs ring, and Cala lunges. Anjali dismembers Cala’s arm in the first blow. Cala sinks to her knees with an agonized yell. Anjali silences her with a clean blow to the heart.
Tarek claps loudly, and Lakia scowls at him. I cringe away from both of them. Seeing Anjali fight, I am certain she could defeat me. Someone with her skill would not need to stoop to sabotage. A different courtesan slipped the asp into my bed, and with four competitors already dead, I may never know who.
The four winners are called out for their final match of the day. All save Anjali bear injuries from their earlier battle. Selfishly, I wish for their speedy deaths and a swift end to this butchery.
A rapt silence blankets the crowd. The gongs boom, reverberating down to the marrow in my bones. The attacks commence. Tired arms swing heavy blades. Pained grunts carry over hushed spectators. The first challenger defeated falls, awakening the spectators’ voices. Then a second fighter is downed. There is more frantic applause. Only Anjali and Shanti remain.
Tarek sits forward, his gaze fixed on Anjali. His favored courtesan paces around her opponent, but she is limping, and her khanda is lowered. Anjali is losing strength. Shanti swings at her. Anjali dodges and kicks Shanti in the kneecap. Shanti drops to the ground.
I wince, and the audience roars. Anjali brandishes her sword, swinging it flagrantly for all to see, and then stands over her injured opponent and drives the blade between Shanti’s eyes. It is a ruthless triumph that petrifies me to the soul.