Mage's Blood (11 page)

Ispal cocked his head, bemused. ‘What do I have that no one else has?’

‘A wife who produces only twins and triplets, who was daughter and granddaughter of women who produced only twins and triplets.’ Vikash leant closer. ‘This stranger desires such a wife: he is
very
rich, and he is in urgent need. I have spoken with his agent. His needs are
particular
.’

‘Is this a joke?’ ’ He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not. ‘My wife is my wife, and I do not wish to part from her, even if Omali Law allowed divorce, which it does not.’

Vikash shook his head. He was sweating uncharacteristically: Ispal
had never seen him look other than cool and debonair. ‘No, your
daughter
, Ispal: Ramita – this stranger, this
rich
stranger, may be interested in her. His agent stressed secrecy and urgency. He has promised
vast
sums of money – vast sums!’ He mopped his brow.

‘But Ramita is betrothed already, to the son of my blood-brother. Perhaps if your stranger were to wait a year or two, one of the younger girls will have bled, and—’

‘No, Ispal, it must be your marriageable daughter or you will miss out. He wishes to be wed this month. He cannot afford to wait.’

Ispal shook his head. ‘Vikash, this is
insane
. Marriage is sacred: it is a bond before the gods. We do not give our daughters to strangers.’ He turned away. ‘Thank you for the tip, Vikash, but no.’

Vikash grabbed his arm. ‘Ispal, wait – this man is very,
very
rich. Please, at least talk to him—’

‘No, Vikash, really, this is becoming ridiculous.’

‘
Please
, Ispal – the agent will pay me one thousand rupals just for
introducing
you, much more if a deal is struck. Think what he might pay to you …’

Ispal froze, stunned.
One thousand rupals, just for introductions? By Laksimi
–
what would such a rich and profligate man pay to the people who did the real business?
He wavered, caught in a sudden fantasy of marble palaces and servants galore, with soldiers at his command and a whole caravan of wagons.
By all the gods, think of a whole multi-floor shop full of wares, the Maharaja himself visiting him to make lavish purchases
…

Vikash looked at him intently. ‘It would not hurt to talk to this man, would it, my friend?’

Their eyes met. Ispal took a deep breath, feeling slightly dizzy, and nodded.

Vikash Nooradin led Ispal to an old haveli with carved wooden gates that were falling apart, and into the dishevelled courtyard beyond. Clumps of incense sticks were burning in braziers to mask the smell of rot. A disused fountain was green with pond-slime, and the verandas were shadowy against the stark sunshine. They sat beneath the shade
of a tree on some old chairs, and a servant brought iced tea. Vikash took a sip, then spoke. ‘Ispal my friend, this is an opportunity to die for. Inside there is a Rondian called Lowen Graav – you know Rondians, of course, Ispal; you have fought their soldiers, have you not? Well, this man Graav is an agent of a rich ferang. This ferang is seeking a wife – a very fertile wife; a wife guaranteed to bear him twins or more. Like your daughter.’ He laughed. ‘We all know about your wife’s line, Ispal: you are a local legend. Poor Ispal, such a curse, every birthing an army, we say.’

Do you? I have always regarded it as a blessing
, he thought.

‘The rich ferang is from far to the north.’ Vikash smoothed his hair and dropped his voice. ‘From Hebusalim,’ he whispered.

Ispal rocked back, silenced. Hebusalim: the birth-place of the Amteh Prophet, where he had lost his goods and nearly died. Where he had rescued Raz Makani from certain death.
Vishnarayan protect me
.

His inner turmoil must have shown on his face, for Vikash spoke urgently. ‘Ispal, this man has promised a king’s ransom for the hand of a daughter such as yours.
A king’s ransom
– think of it; is it not what we all dream of? The one massive deal that will change our fortune for ever—’

‘But my
daughter
—’

‘A daughter is a commodity, Ispal,’ said Vikash reprovingly. ‘Yes, yes, we talk of love-matches and eternal bliss, but the truth is daughters marry who they must to advance the family.’

‘That is true, but she is already betrothed.’ He fell silent, struck dumb by visions of influence, a role amongst the powerful of the city, though he knew that sometimes it was best to go safe and unnoticed in this turbulent land. ‘Perhaps it will do no harm to talk to him,’ he said finally, hating himself.

Vikash went inside, and returned with a whiteskinned man of middle age: a Rondian. His chin was clean-shaven, but he had bushy grey moustaches and was clad in Keshi garb. He was soaked in perspiration, despite the relative coolness of the air – but then, his homeland was far colder than this.

‘Master Graav is a mercantile agent from Verelon,’ Vikash said,
pronouncing the foreign names awkwardly. ‘He is based in Hebusalim.’

Graav spoke in Lakh, with a slight rustiness and a Western inflection, but he was easily understandable. He asked about Ispal’s family, nodding when Ispal reassured him that every pregnancy that anyone could remember of his wife and her ancestors had resulted in multiple births.

‘There must be a lot of you,’ Lowen Graav observed, ‘many girl-children of the line.’

Ispal frowned. ‘Not so many; the trait does not appear to pass down the male line, so my mother-in-law’s sons have not fathered such daughters. And bearing successive multiple pregnancies is hard on the women. My wife had six sisters; three are dead. One dwells in a village not far from here, but she married late and has only youngsters. Her daughters will not flower for six or seven years yet. Her other sister bore only sons and is now barren after miscarriage.’

‘And what of your own family?’

Ispal wondered a little about the wisdom of telling such things to a stranger, but Vikash smiled reassuringly. ‘I married my wife Tanuva when she turned fifteen, after I returned from my first trip to Hebusalim, in what you ferang call the “First Crusade”. Our first children together were my eldest son Jai and a stillborn twin – that was the only such mishap we have had. The following year came twin daughters, Jaya and Ramita. Two years later we had twin boys, before I was conscripted into the mughal’s army and forced to march north again. That was during what you call the “Second Crusade”. What a mess! The mughal and the sultan could not agree, so there was no cooperation. We never even reached Hebusalim before we ran out of food and water. Only my experience and the rank that gave me saved my company. When we got back, people thought we were ghosts, so thin and ragged we were, so blackened by the sun.’ He patted his gently rounded belly. ‘It has taken me many years to recover my shape.’

‘The Second Crusade was in 916,’ Lowen ruminated. ‘Bad years for traders. And since?’

Ispal finished his tea and looked around for another. Vikash motioned to a servant. ‘Whilst I was away, the plague came through – it always follows the wars, you know. Poor Jaya was taken, and both boys, so there were just the four of us, for a time. But Tanuva and I made more: twin boys, then triplets. A fever took one of the triplets two years later. Jai is now seventeen and Ramita has just turned sixteen. The twin boys are ten and the surviving girl triplets are eight – six children in all, and that is enough, I am thinking.’ He laughed. ‘Poor Tanuva says she has to work too hard!’

Graav leant forward. ‘So, this daughter Ramita is the only marriageable daughter you have?’

Clearly Lowen Graav was keen to resolve this deal and return north.
Good. A wise man does not bargain in haste
. ‘Clearly, Lowen-
saheeb
,’ agreed Ispal. ‘She is promised to another, however: the son of my blood-brother. This has been arranged for some time now, and she and the boy are very happy – indeed, they are quite in love.’ He smiled benevolently, the caring father who has pleased his daughter in his marriage arrangements.

Vikash Nooridan frowned, clearly wanting Ispal to roll over on this deal, not play hard to get.

Ispal ignored him. ‘Who is your client, my good sir?’ he asked. ‘What is his good name?’

Lowen shook his head. ‘My client is an elderly man of great wealth – a man of Yuros. Recently, his only son and heir died. He needs children, he doesn’t care what race or creed, but he demands fertility, that above all.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘He allowed me to say that for a man of his age, every arrow must count. Those are his words. Master Ankesharan, your daughter sounds the most promising girl I have come across. We have travelled far and met no one else with a similar lineage.’

Good, that is another bargaining chip for me
. Ispal leant forward, as if mildly interested in something purely academic. ‘Let us suppose, just for an instant, that I would break my daughter’s heart and break her betrothal to the boy she adores. Let us suppose, for the slightest moment, that I would consider sending her far to the north where
I would never see her again, one of the great lights of my poor existence.’
In truth, before every god, Ramita is a joy, the most dutiful of daughters
. ‘Suppose even that I was prepared to risk my own wife’s chastisement for destroying her dreams – for what? Do you not know that the Great Convocation has declared shihad? The mughal has spoken: Death to the ferang – death to the Crusaders! Everywhere Amteh and even many Omali are mustering. My blood-brother is a burnt husk through the agency of one of the cursed magi. So why should I wish to deal with you? Why should I not go out in the streets now and call for fifty stout lads who wish to get a head-start in the ferang-killing trade, hmmm? Answer me that?’

Lowen Graav tugged nervously at his moustaches. ‘All that is true,’ he agreed, ‘but my client bids you consider this offer: in return for the totally anonymous marriage, you will receive one crore upfront, plus one lak every year that she lives, and another lak for every child born to them – payable even after your death, to your surviving family.’

Ispal Ankesharan jerked away in shock and the old seat couldn’t hold him. He barely noticed as he landed in the dirt, visions of rupals falling like stars about him. One crore: ten
million
rupals! One lak:
one hundred thousand
– every year!
Every
.
Year
.
For. Ever
, repeating like the refrain of a song, over and over …

Some negotiator you are, Ispal Ankesharan!
He let Vikash help him up. Lowen Graav sat there like a big white toad, trying not to laugh. Ispal clambered into another chair, panting.
One crore, and one lak, every year my daughter lives
. One lak alone was more money than he could have dreamed of earning in his lifetime. A crore was beyond those dreams. Such a fortune was enough for diamonds and pearls and gold and silks from Indrabad, and a palace on the river. Enough for finery and servants and a small army of soldiers: riches to outshine all but the princes of Baranasi.
Insane money
–
this ferang is mad!

He brushed himself down, desperately trying to think.
This must be either some elaborate hoax … or it must be real
.

‘May I take it you are a little interested?’ enquired Lowen Graav, his voice laced with amusement.

Ispal Ankesharan took a deep, deep breath and closed his eyes.
Think, Ispal, think! Is this offer real? Would you accept if it were? Money is one thing, but people would ask questions. It would have to be managed discreetly
–
to appear that he had become fortunate, a great commission, a deal with a northern merchant of great wealth, perhaps. Some plausible story
–
and then it would secure the fortune of his family for ever. I could marry Jai to a princess!

Ispal knew there would be tears at the sacrifice Ramita would have to make – but that was what dutiful daughters were for, to do what was needful for the family, to be a bargaining chip in profitable alliances. He would need to be careful, breaking it to Raz Makani, and to Raz’s fiery son Kazim. Kazim loved Ramita passionately. And Tanuva – she would produce a storm of tears to rival Gann’s great trumpeting – she would cry a new river.

But in the end, would it not have all been for the best? Would they not all look back and agree that it had been so? Why, with such wealth they could visit Ramita every year if they so wished. They would not lose her for ever. Graav’s client was an old man; surely he could not last too long? Just long enough to father children on Ramita would suffice. He licked his lips, trembling.

Graav smiled and offered his hand. Ispal looked at it and then allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. ‘I will need to meet your client before I agree to this. I will need his surety as to the good treatment of my daughter. I will need credible guarantees of his wealth and reliability. I will need to know his name.’

‘Of course.’ Graav glanced at a rickety door, which twitched open as a tall figure emerged from the haveli. The sunlight caught on a large ruby bound to his brow. Ispal caught his breath.
Surely not
…

The newcomer was twig-thin, but very tall, more than six feet tall.
These ferang are all giants
. He was very pale, his beard a dirty ash-grey, his thin hair tangled, but his robes were rich indeed, deep blue bordered with gold braid. It was the ruby at his brow that drew the eye though: the size of a thumbnail, bound there by a circle of filigree gold, impossible to value. It pulsed like a heartbeat: a periapt – which meant this man was a mage.

He bowed very low, suddenly terrified.

The old man’s voice was husky and thin, but there were echoes of great authority. He looked beaten down by age, though still a man to be reckoned with. His eyes were ancient, dark-circled, eyes such as a god might have, an old god who has outlived his worshippers. ‘Ispal Ankesharan,’ he whispered. ‘I am the man who would marry your daughter. I am Antonin Meiros.’

His jaw refused to unlock and he couldn’t speak. Fear held him immobile, as it had in Hebusalim all those years ago. His heart drummed so violently he thought his ribcage would burst. He thought he might expire with fright.
I should fall to my knees. Or produce a dagger and plunge it into his heart
—