by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

— CHAPTER 5 —

  In which Ana becomes a member of the House Sarojin and Jaya makes up a story to explain his new "cousin."

Ana reflected that the coach in which she sat and rocked was the perfect metaphor for her current state. She moved, but not of her own will, the reins were in someone else’s hands and she could only fold her own in her lap, sit impotently and watch the world go by outside. Jivinta Sarojin might think the mountain of parcels in the carryall represented a sort of progress, but to Anala it represented only distraction from purpose.

“I’m sorry about the drill bits, Ana,” said Mina softly.

She pulled herself from her study of the blur beyond the window. “I’m being discourteous,” she said. “Forgive me.”

“Nonsense. You aren’t being discourteous, you are being absorbed. I know the look. I’ve seen it on my grandson’s face often enough.”

Ana smiled. “You’re very kind, Jivinta. It’s just so frustrating. To have to wait two days for those bits!” To have to sit here, like a lump while the situation on Avasa deteriorated, she didn’t say. To be separated from my family, from news of my family.

“Perhaps Jaya could check into the delay.”

Anala uttered a crack of laughter. “Wouldn’t it seem very odd for the Taj Prince of Kasi to take a sudden interest in drill bits?”

Jivinta chuckled. “A good observation. Well!” She sat back. “I’ll tell you what. To take your mind off your father’s machinery, we’ll get Helidasa working on that dascree when we get home.”

Ana grimaced and glanced at her palm. “That would be nice. I can’t wear gloves everywhere I go. Of course, I could just stay in the house.”

Mina’s eyebrows arched in amusement. “My dear, it isn’t even safe for you to be without gloves in the Saroj. Even a Rani is expected to give the courteous greeting to a Deva or a Dandin, and you may meet either in our halls. In fact,” she added, “there will be a reception at the Saroj on Bhaktar-eve for the Mesha Festival.”

A cold tickle of fear fluttered beneath Anala’s breast bone. “But surely I won’t attend.”

“Ana, you are a member of our household. The Rani assumes you to be of the Sarojin Clan. Your presence will be expected.”

“What shall I do? About my hand, I mean.”

“Don’t worry,” Jivinta Mina reassured her. “Helidasa has magic you cannot imagine.”

Half an hour later, with her new wardrobe being put away by Helidasa’s capable daughters, Ana came downstairs in a soft bodysuit, beyond relief to be rid of that alien bit of amber fluff she’d been wearing. It felt good to have her arms and legs covered.

Mina met her in the solarium, eyeing her with approval. “Green is a good color for you. Are you more comfortable now?”

“Yes, Jivinta. Thank you.”

“Good. Now, come along to the kitchen. Heli has a concoction she’s sure will help.”

She led the way down a short corridor and through a wide, swinging door. The room was huge, spotlessly clean, and flooded with sunlight. At its center, at a tile-topped table, Helidasa stood with a variety of items spread out before her. Grinding away at something in a small mortar, she looked like one of the witches of Ana’s childhood fantasy, surrounded by the odd tools of her mystic trade.

She smiled when she saw Anala and Mina, and beckoned them to join her at the table.

Anala peeked into the mortar. “What is it?”

Helidasa dumped the yellow powder into a bowl and added an amber liquid that looked like tea. “A powder made of saffron,” she said.

“A table spice?”

“Which also makes a fine yellow dye. And this” —she held up a bottle of tan powder—“is another herb that makes a pale stain. Put them together and one would have to have a creescan to tell whether one wore a dascree or raicree or no mark at all.”

“If it’s that easy to disguise them, then why haven’t you changed your own and escaped?”

“Escape?” repeated Heli blankly. “Escape what, Rani? What is there I should escape?”

Ana remembered Mina Sarojin’s presence; her face tingled with embarrassment.

“This is my home,” continued Heli. There was no offense in her voice or expression, only motherly patience; as if she was forced to explain a bemusing concept to a small child. “It was my mother and father’s home and the home of their parents before them. And of the Mata Jivinta before them. I am dasa, Rani Anala. It is rita. But you are not dasa—you are free, no matter what the mark in your palm says. For me it’s a truth. For you, it’s a lie.”

Ana nodded, pretending to understand what she did not. Had this woman become content with slavery, she wondered, or had slavery, in her case, transmuted itself into something she did not recognize as such? From her studies as a bhakta, Anala well understood the spiritual concept of servitude. Was this what Helidasa believed her existence to be, or had she, with the words, ‘it is rita,’ simply relinquished all thought of freedom? Instinct told Ana that slavery was slavery, no matter how pleasant, and freedom was worth any sacrifice or hardship.

Yet, something in her empathized with the dasa. She found that disturbing.

Jivinta Mina, watching Ana’s face with opaque eyes, brought them back to the matter at hand. “So, Heli, how is the lie to be removed?”

“First, the yellow dye.” Heli began the process of carefully mixing ingredients. “We fill in the areas inside the pattern of the dascree so the skin has an even, yellow tint, then we dye the other palm as well, so they match. And then, the pale stain covers all. It should darken the skin very little. When that has been done, a very fine red dye will do to retrace the pattern and add the taj, making you a Rani of the Saroj.”

“Since few people would have the audacity to aim a creescan at the palm of a Sarojin,” Mina added, “the chances of you being found out are thin.”

An hour and twenty minutes later, Anala surveyed Heli’s work with amazement. “It looks so natural.”

Heli nodded, satisfied. “And only you know how much lighter your palms were before. To anyone else...” She shrugged.

“Still...” said Mina, turning Ana’s left palm into the bright light from the overhead lamp, “Still, perhaps a little more camouflage for the party. A hand-dazzle, I think. We purchased several today. And we must fabricate an id wristlet or necklace for you—a leaf with the Sadira legend on it. Until then, I have a brow stamp that should suffice to announce you to the casual observer.” She patted Ana’s hand. “Jaya should be home. See what he thinks of Heli’s little miracle.”

With much to tell him, Ana tracked Jaya to the garden where he stood, flinging stones into a deep, clear pool separated from the patio by a band of low trees and shrubs. She observed him silently for a moment, noticing the tiny tongues of silver, flame and crimson that darted beneath the surface of the pond at the fall of each stone.

Ana chuckled inwardly. Even the Sarojin fish flew the Clan colors. “Meditation might more profitable, Nathu Rai.”

He turned, eyes sharp, almost angry. They met Ana’s and the anger twisted awry. “But not nearly so satisfying,” he said.

“Are you sure? When was the last time you meditated?”

“A long time ago,” he admitted. “I’m sure you’ll tell me I should try it again.”

“I would suggest it, yes.”

The almost-anger flickered again briefly in his eyes. “I’d be happier if I meditated, I suppose?”

Ana cocked her head slightly and eyed the now serene pond. She did not think the anger was directed at her, but it was hard to tell. “I don’t know. But the fish certainly would be.”

Caught unawares, Jaya laughed.

Anala watched him silently, her hands clasped behind her back, until the laughter spent itself. Better.

“Damn, that was a relief!” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I was all set to be furious with you.”

“Forgive me,” said Anala, “for whatever I did that angered you.” She solemnly gave the respectful greeting, drawing it out like the sinuous moves of a Kunda dance.

Jaya stared. “Your hand!” She held it open in the afternoon sun so he could inspect it. “That’s amazing! Heli did this?”

Ana nodded. “With herbs and oils. She says it should last three or four days before needing to be restained. Do you think I’ll pass inspection?”

“The most discriminating eyes will pass you as the Rani Ana Sadira, on holiday from Avasa. A cousin of mine—blossom of the Saroj.” He glanced again at Heli’s masterpiece and shook his head.

“Good. But, now hear what I have to tell you. At lunch today, I saw one of the thieves who attacked me!”

“What? Where?”

“At the Kiritan. I saw him walking below us in the main dining room. Jivinta Mina asked our server if he knew the man, but he didn’t. Only that he’d seen him before.”

“How in creation did he get into the Kiritan?”

Ana pulled her hand away and moved back a step. “Through the front door, I imagine. That’s the way he left.”

“Ana, will you be serious? The Kiritan doesn’t usually admit thieves.”

“He didn’t look like a thief. He looked like a respectable sama. A Lord, even.”

“A successful thief, apparently,” commented Jaya wryly.

“If my 20,000 dagam was an average day’s taking, he must be.”

“There must be some way of finding out who he is.”

Ana shrugged as they turned in unison and started back to the house. “Naru is keeping watch for him. Jivinta Mina told him the fellow is an old friend of yours and that she needs his name so she can send him a dinner invitation.”

“Even if he did get a name, Ana, there’s no guarantee it would be a real one.”

Idiot. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.

Jaya laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

oOo

What Jaya did was coax Anala into yet another outing at the Kiritan. She resisted at first, giving in only when he pressed the idea that she might see the thief again.

She didn’t. She saw only a restaurant full of strangers, all of whom seemed to be staring at them. She quickly wished she hadn’t come. She had felt casual curiosity from the roomwhen she had been here with Jivinta Mina, but this was different. There was an undercurrent to the interest their appearance together evoked that she did not like.

There were, inevitably, those who had to breach the privacy of the Sarojin box to discover who Nathu Rai Sarojin’s dinner companion was. Notably, the portly, over-dressed Vadin of the Port Zone, Bel Adivaram. He was polite, flattering and very interested in the Sarojin “cousin.” He seemed to take their fabricated relationship at face value, amused at Jaya’s description of how a piece of baggage bearing the Sadira-Saroj leaf and colors had brought them together at a hotel near the spaceport.

“I knew I didn’t own a piece of luggage like that,” Jaya lied (something he seemed to do easily). “Yet, there it was, wearing my clan leaf. While I was standing there, staring at it like an idiot, this beautiful young woman arrived to claim it.”

“Ah!” purred Adivaram, beaming. “And you then discovered you could claim her!” He tilted an eyebrow at Anala. “Congratulations, Rani, on finding your way into the warm embrace of your Mehtaran family.”

Ana said “Thank you” in a voice that was not at all thankful. The Vadin did not seem to notice.

When he finally excused himself, Jaya sagged exaggeratedly into his chair. “That man is one of the most efficient gossips in the Seven Provinces. I guarantee you that by Bhaktar-eve, the entire Port Zone and adjacent districts will know that I have a young, beautiful, unmarried, female cousin under my roof. So, at our Coming of Spring reception there will be a plethora of scheming parents and hopeful daughters...and now hopeful sons, as well.”

“A display of ego, Nathu Rai?”

“Hardly. I have no illusions that either scheming parents or hopeful daughters are the least seduced by my charm and great beauty. I am, however, a Sarojin and a Varmana and, therefore, considered a good match.”

Ana’s lip curled against her will. “Should I be impressed, mahesa?”

“I’d be disappointed if you were.”

She studied him and decided that he was serious. She was also compelled to acknowledge that he would be perfectly justified in a display of ego. He was a Sarojin, after all, and a Varmana. And he was, despite his self-deprecatory remarks, a strikingly beautiful man. His hair tumbled to his shoulders in waves of gleaming black; his eyes were a dark, liquid brown. If she had met him in a channara in Onan or Raratok, she would have admired his looks. In fact, he would have probably taken her breath away at first glance. She would have been warmed the first time she surprised the child hidden in the man’s eyes. But here, in this place, everything was different. She felt...unnatural, alien.

“You surprise me,” she told him. “Most powerful men are at least a little impressed with themselves. Your Vadin was impressed with himself. You seem...dissatisfied.” It was a rude, even unkind thing to say and she felt immediate contrition. “No, forget I said that.”

“But you’re right...in part. All that I have was given to me. I did nothing to achieve it. I have yet to accomplish anything of my own.” He shot her a wry smile. “Maybe that’s why I want to buy your drill bits and catch your thieves. I want to accomplish something.”

“Being a Varmana isn’t accomplishing something?”

Jaya gazed at his rice bowl as if he expected it to do something fascinating. “Being a Varmana is something I inherited from my Father. It was his achievement, not mine.”

“What you’re saying, then, is you don’t want to accomplish anything.”

His eyes met hers sharply. “Of course that’s not what I’m saying.”

“No? Then, I don’t understand. Surely, accomplishing something on the Vrinda Varma is your decision. You’re certainly in a position to accomplish a great deal.”

His eyes were instantly wary. “Such as grant the Guild independence from the Consortium?”

The silence sat between them like a wall of thick glass while Ana struggled with her temper. “If you feel the Guild deserves independence—if it is right for all concerned—yes.”

“You can’t possibly be that objective.”

“I can try.”

“Without wanting to beg me for help? Without wanting me to plead your case?”

“I must try to be objective.”

“Because you’re Rohin.”

He was half-trying to incite her temper, she thought. He would fail. She refused to rise to the bait, merely inclining her head.

Jaya’s eyes dropped to his food again. “You take that very seriously.”

“That surprises you?”

He nodded, smiling. “It’s hard to imagine a woman of your age—and beauty—choosing a life of asceticism.”

Caught off guard, Ana let out a peal of surprised laughter. “Asceticism? Who said anything about asceticism? A Rohin is not an ascetic.”

“No?”

“No. The Upper Path is not about deprivation, it’s about...detachment, and devotion. Detachment isn’t ‘not having.’ It’s a lack of attachment to ‘having’ or ‘not having.’ In a word, balance.” She was suddenly amused. How like someone with much material wealth to equate spirituality with poverty. “So, you thought I lived alone high on some barren mountain, wearing sail cloth and eating the bread crumbs dropped by passing birds.”

“Something like that.”

She had embarrassed him and felt a perverse gratification in it. She did not yet wish to temper that gratification with contrition. “Well, you were wrong. Mice.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My bread crumbs are brought by mice.” She shook her head, pulling a concerned frown across her face like a party veil. “Jaya Rai, someone has been telling you stories!”

“Yes,” he said, and the corners of his very serious mouth twitched. “Indeed they have.”

There! There was the child again. She’d surprised him out of hiding. She laughed, warmed, and wishing that she had, after all, met him in a channara in Raratok.