This unimportant person wishes to inform the most Celestial Emperor that the many refugees from Delhi are growing fewer in number, for which reason this unworthy person has come to believe that most of those who could escape have done so and all that remains now are the few who have become servants to the soldiers of Timur-i left behind to guard the city for his pleasure. Those who have left Delhi tell tales of rapine and continued destruction, both of which have already been visited on that city far beyond its deserts. This person is afraid that anyone left in Delhi must be considered lost to the world.
This dutiful person has seen upheaval in the regions that were not so very long ago firmly allied to Delhi and are now establishing themselves apart from that city and either man claiming to be Sultan there. It is a most upsetting thing, to see how quickly the hold of the Sultans has been lost. Nasiruddin Mohammed bin Tughluq may say it is his right to rule, but there is so little left, this person wonders why he should bother himself over so minor a holding. It makes no sense that Timur-i would waste his troops holding the city for him, when it is clear there is no advantage to be gained from it. This person believes it would be prudent to wait for a year before attempting to establish any contact with Delhi, for it may be that in a year there will be no reason to do so.
This unworthy person wishes to report that there have been accounts of travelers having seen Timur-i wandering the roads, a beggar. There have been rumors before now of his displacement from his leadership, but it is always a tale heard from another, and as such, subject to doubt. This person has not yet heard any story that is convincing enough to gain credence among those who are not awed by the marvelous. Should this person come upon any information that would present creditable evidence that Timur-i is indeed no longer the leader
of his army, this person will speedily inform the Wielder of the Vermillion Brush all he has learned.
Rains will soon come to this part of the land; for the time being, the heat is ferocious. The heat of the great Northern Desert is nothing to it. This heat is like being stifled by a hot, wet blanket. It is impossible to breathe without discomfort; men and women collapse under its impact, which is worse than a beating with bamboo rods. This humble person is glad, just now, that he has no animal to care for, since this weather is sufficiently draining to exhaust even the hardiest pony. Walking may be agonizing, but it can only take a toll on this person, not on any other. Once the rains come, there will be mud, and that, too, will slow the progress possible to anyone on the road; this person begs the most August Emperor to forgive him for needing more time to cover the distance agreed upon, but nothing this person can do will make the roads more passable once the wet comes, or more endurable now that the height of the summer is soon to be upon us. No one could do better than this person has done, and few could do as well, given what this person has had to survive. This most insignificant person does not ask for pity; no, he has no need of it, nor desire for it. He seeks only to help the August Emperor to understand the scope of the demands that are placed upon him as he struggles to fulfill the mission entrusted to him.
This person will send his observations by courier in another three months. May the Celestial Emperor continue to enjoy the favor of Heaven, and may the August Dynasty never cease to rule.
Lum
8
A man with a cracking tenor voice was singing a Greek love-song in the street below; from her window in Sanat Ji Mani's study, Avasa Dani listened, the louvers on the shutters open only enough to admit the spanking breeze off the sea. She was longing for dusk and for the
familiar sounds of Delhi, not this discordant Greek barking. She attempted a smile, telling herself she was being foolish, that had she remained in the city of her birth she would be dead by now. Her laughter was rich: she
was
dead.
From his place on the far side of the reception room, Rogerian looked up, startled by the sound. "Gracious lady?" he asked in her native tongue.
"No," she said in the Greco-Arabic dialect of Alexandria, "You indulge me, and you must not. As much as I want to speak my old language, I must learn this new one, and to do that I must…" She faltered, looking for a word. "I must practice."
"Then," he said in the Alexandrian idiom, "I will do as you ask."
"And you must correct me if I make mistakes, or I will not improve." She ducked her head. "I rely on you to help me learn."
"My master would applaud your decision," said Rogerian, putting aside his household records and approaching her. "It is very difficult, to be so far from home."
"What is difficult is the knowledge that I can never return," she said, the merriment fading from her face.
"You can return, in time," Rogerian said gently.
"No, I cannot," Avasa Dani countered. "There is nothing to return to. Timur-i Lenkh destroyed it."
Rogerian could not disagree. "In time Delhi will be rebuilt."
"Perhaps. But it will then be less my home than it is now." She rose from her seat. "I have no reason to complain. I live comfortably and my needs are met; I have more that is mine than ever I had in Delhi, and yet I miss it."
"That is not uncommon, to miss the place of your native earth." Rogerian frowned, his mind on the problem Avasa Dani's death had produced. He had been enough beforehand to have brought a chest of Delhi earth with them but he knew it would not last much more than a year, when more would be needed.
Again she laughed, but this time the sound was sad. "I never realized how vulnerable Sanat Ji Mani is; now that I am like him, I cannot forget. Soon I must find a way to have the love that will give me life, and I must do it without exposing what I am." She looked up
at the ceiling. "There are not many opportunities for any woman to do that."
"Yes, it is difficult, and not only for women— although the limitations you face are more obvious," said Rogerian. "Those of his blood must come to terms with these things or they will not last long." As he spoke, he thought of the one glaring exception to this: Csimenae, who had fled to the remote peaks of the Pyrenees with the full intention of creating another clan around her when it seemed safe.
"I have not yet decided if I wish to last long," said Avasa Dani. "I can tell that, too, is not an easy decision to make, for I do not yet know what I am to do with the years ahead of me. I cannot batten on Sanat Ji Mani for decades and decades, so I must find a way to live on my own, and to keep away from the scrutiny of the world: I have the chance to live many hundreds of years, but it may be that I will not want to, and how am I to know?"
"You need not make up your mind at once," Rogerian pointed out, his manner appreciative and grave. "No one requires a quick—"
She held up her hand, and went on in her native tongue, her speech coming readily and with an eloquence she did not yet possess in the Alexandrian dialect. "I know; but for myself, I must determine how I am to live before I become accustomed to this life you have provided me, so that I do not expect comfort and protection at every turn, for that is not how my life must be now that I am undead." Her stern demeanor softened. "You have been generous beyond anything I could have hoped for."
"My master is your host," Rogerian said. "I do his bidding."
"You could do his bidding without making my stay as pleasant as it has been; my servants in Delhi did their work well, but it was not given in the spirit of good comradeship you have shown me from the first," she said in a tone that brooked no opposition. "That is why I know I cannot remain much longer, and risk becoming habituated to your cordiality. Once I take this life you have shown me as my own, changing will be increasingly difficult. If Sanat Ji Mani returns, then matters may be different, but if he does not…"
"You say he is alive," said Rogerian. "Your blood-bond is unbroken."
"Yes. He is alive. That knowledge has kept me in this house as nothing else has, not even my lack of understanding of the language."
She turned to the window once more. "But it will not suffice, not for long, and you are as much aware of it as I am: I must find a place in this world where I can live as I must without obligation to anyone, not even Sanat Ji Mani."
"He would want you to remain here as long as you like," Rogerian said, aware that his assurance would have little bearing on her.
"Perhaps. But I would not benefit from it. I would become as I was before, waiting at the pleasure and will of the men around me. All my life, I have been taught that my first worth is how I please my male relatives, from my father to my brother to my husband. My mother schooled me well, teaching me to put men's needs before my own, to be compliant, to make men's satisfaction the goal of all I did. I was an apt student." She rose to her feet. "While I was in Delhi, it was all I could do. But now? here? I need not embrace those limits."
"This place is ruled by Islam," Rogerian reminded her. "Women live much the same way you did in Delhi."
"But some do not. I have watched what happens in the streets and in the market-places, and I know that there are women who do not live restricted lives; I have seen them and I know that they are not compelled to live apart from the city. Alexandria is a port, and all the world comes here." Her smile was automatic but there was a glitter in her eyes that hinted at ferocity. "I have not been here long, but I know Alexandria has its own place in Egypt, unlike any other city." She cocked her head. "That man singing so badly is singing in Greek, and last night I heard an argument in two languages, neither of which I had heard before."
"Many port cities are thus," said Rogerian, trying to discern her intent, and worrying that he already had.
"Yes. This part of the world is like Delhi, in that there are many different peoples here, but it is unlike Delhi in that most of them come by sea from places remote to the port. Venetian and Genoese galleys are at the wharves, as are hulks from the far north with their furs and amber, and the ships of Byzantium, with all the wealth from the Old Silk Road in their holds. I have heard that they come throughout the year: on any day there are forty or more ships in port." She came away from the window. "These men are seeking adventure."
"Many of them are," Rogerian conceded carefully.
"And they want adventure in many forms." She lowered her eyes. "Some of that adventure comes from women."
Rogerian tried not to look dismayed. "Such women live hard lives. You think you will be unobserved in that life? It is not the case. Women providing entertainment for men have to deal with the judgment and strictures of men."
"As do all women," said Avasa Dani, her expression filled with determination. "I am not set upon that life, yet, but I have been thinking of this, and I am considering making an establishment of my own, where I will not have to take on the desires of men, but where I can arrange matters to suit the men but where the women will be guarded and safe, and where the money they earn is not all given to the men who rule them." She folded her arms. "I have not yet worked it out to my satisfaction, but I am well-enough aware that this is one of the few things I can do where my life will not be remarked upon. It is also a life I understand."
"It is a dangerous life," Rogerian warned her.
"And being a vampire is not?" she asked, going on tentatively, "The more I think of it, the more I see that I must not remain a guest here, but must have the means of meeting many strangers, strangers who will not ask questions or hold my desires against me. How else may I have the chance to gratify my needs without exposure? I am a woman, alone in a foreign country— what other course is open to me? If I become mistress of a house of assignation, I will see many men, and I will have the opportunity to select those who interest me, and I could then decide if I desire them enough to pursue them. A man may intrigue me, and because of that, I may lie with him, or visit him in a dream, as Sanat Ji Mani described, while he lies in my house, after which he will be gone, without harm from me, and at most, only the memory of an unusual encounter."
"But such women can be cast into prison," Rogerian exclaimed.
"What is that to me? Do you think a hareem is not prison? There may be fountains and birds and sweetmeats, but there are also guards, so there is no liberty— do you not see that? I have a husband. I cannot be wife to another— how could I bring such disgrace upon myself?"
Avasa Dani asked, her indignation sharpening her tone. "And if I married again, I would be unable to look farther than my husband's door for what I must have."
"But you would be ranked just above a slave, living the life you plan," Rogerian said to her.
Avasa Dani made an impatient gesture. "Do you think married women are not slaves to their husbands?"
Rogerian had heard many of the same complaints from Olivia over the centuries and he knew Avasa Dani was right. "I cannot argue."
She was startled. "Well," she said when she had recovered herself. "Then why should you, or any man, protest if a woman makes what is required of her a means of her living instead of her servitude? Why should I be kept from making my necessity an employment?" She took a turn about the room, and resumed the Alexandrian dialect. "I have not yet decided how I am to do it, but I know what must be done."
