by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

When one sees eternity in things that pass away and infinity in finite things, then one has pure knowledge. But if one mrerly sees the diversity of things then one has impure knowledge. And if one selfishly sees a thing as if it were everything, independent of the ONE and the many, then one is in the darkness of ignorance. — Krishna, Bhagavad Gita 18:20-22

— CHAPTER 1 —

In which Jaya Sarojin, Lord Prince of Kasi, meets a strange refugee and becomes an unwilling slaveholder.

oOo

She experienced her emergence through the layers of darkness and pain as an uphill struggle through an oppressive storm. Every breath came at a price; every movement was agony.

Had she lost her breather? She didn’t remember. She gasped for air, expecting the sting of wind-driven sand on her skin, the taste of it in her mouth. But the air was too thick, too warm, too humid.

How could that be? It was autumn. Snow and ice were the only forms of moisture natives of the Kedar knew at this time of year.

Up through the muddle of sensations she climbed, groping toward light. She smelled vegetation, lush and sweet, heard the soft trill of water over rocks.

Wrong—that was wrong. Surely she was hallucinating.

Adrenaline seeped into her veins. She knew, too well, one familiar scenario that would account for hallucinations—that she had fallen through an old sink shaft into a pocket of manda gas. She willed the adrenaline to rouse her; manda fumes were slow poison. They fogged the mind, befuddled the senses, and eventually destroyed both.

She saw light and leapt after it. Made out indistinct shapes—a play of sunlight and shadow. But the sunlight was too bright, the shadows too dark.

She came to on a surge of near panic, disoriented by surroundings that made no sense. She was lying on a bed of grassy turf, overshadowed by softly waving greenery. Ferns—alien, and dripping with dew.

Wrong. Oh, wrong. There were no plants like these...

She tried to lift her head and all but swooned again at the pain. Memory rode the storm of agony. Fragmentary, but complete enough that she knew she was not on a mountain slope in the Kedar. She was not even on Avasa. She had come to the inner planet of Mehtar to...

There the memory failed. She rolled onto her back, slowly, carefully. Her right hand and forearm plunged into cold water.

Gasping in surprise, she rolled again onto her right side, bringing all her senses to bear on the stream. It was no more than a rill, wending its way through the foliage, sparkling where the sun kissed it. But it was clear, cold, and liquid.

She brought her face close to the surface of the water, used a cupped hand to fling it into her face, carry it to her mouth. Her senses steadied and cleared. The pain in her head steadied too, seeming to subside with every breath she took of the warm, moisture-laden air.

The nape of her heck stung when she trickled water over it. She touched it gently with trembling fingertips. They came back spotted with blood. How had that happened?

She breathed, drank water, bathed her face, and waited for the answer to come. It did not. Finally, she dared to sit up. She was at the bottom of a little slope in a tree-shaded glen choked with ferns. The air was heavy with the sweet perfume of alien flowers. Sitting, she was challenged to see over the nodding fronds.

Above her, clouds roved the sky, fat with the threat of rain, now masking the sun, now revealing it. Below her a jumble of colorful carts, tents, and stalls were scattered across an open meadow. People scurried around and between the little nomadic shops, rolling out awnings, setting out wares. On any world that was recognizable as a bazaar.

Memory fluttered. She had come to Mehtar, to the capitol city of Kasi, to buy mining supplies.

The flutter became a flood. She had had money, but no more. It was gone along with her pack, her cloak and—she put a hand to her throat—the necklace that had held her leaf, her personal identification.

Despite the warm air, a hard chill settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew who she was—she was Anala Nadim of Onan, Kedar province, but on this alien world she was no one. She had no identity, no money, no family, no friends. And she had no idea what to do or where to go.

But go, she must.

Shakily, Anala got to her feet and stumbled down slope toward the bazaar. Before she had taken two uncertain steps, it began to rain.

oOo

Aridas, in the midst of clearing the breakfast dishes, was still rattling on when Jaya Sarojin left the morning room. The door slid shut behind him, cutting off the flood of words in mid-sentence. Aridas was a man of a strong and numerous opinions. Jaya was certain he must have heard every one of them.

This morning the subject had been the growing friction between the Kasi-Nawahr Consortium and Avasa’s Guild of Independent Miners. Aridas had been following the story closely in the heralds and had developed copious opinions about it, as with all things.

Jaya Sarojin grimaced, pulling a thick cloak around his shoulders and checking the pale grey sky through the skylights overhead. He’d taken more than one critical sermon on the social evils of allowing das to have opinions about anything. Society seemed compelled to keep things as they were. It was rita, said the pundits, the natural order of things. Stagnation, he called it.

He reached the end of the broad, light-washed hallway and left the house. A damp wind hit his face, making him catch his breath. He waved away his Horseman, who had appeared to hover at his side.

“I’ll walk, Kenadas. Thank you.”

He took deep sips of the wet breeze, savoring its crispness. Even a residence the size of the House Sarojin could become stifling. No, size was irrelevant; it was the Sarojin name that made it oppressive—the centuries of tradition that laced its atmosphere, the political responsibility that encrusted every molding, the social grandeur that gleamed from every inch of polished floor and column. He had grown up with it. For his own survival, he had various escape routes. He was taking one now.

Tomorrow morning he would be in the Council chamber poring over petitions from the Avasan Guild and the Consortium, and would probably be there every morning after that, indefinitely. So today, he escaped, wishing he could relinquish his seat on the Vrinda Varma to Aridas the Opinionated. Ari obviously had more interest in the subtleties of government than his master.

He walked. Paths of pink-veined kumuda gave way to coarser stone, then to sun-baked brick, then to dirt and grass. He stopped at the top of a gentle rise and gazed down the lea and smiled at last. Here was life at its most chaotic. Colorful flags and rags fluttered damply over the ridgepoles of a thousand billowing tents and garish stalls.

Here, there was only foot traffic. No aircars scorched the grass with their dragon’s-breath or flattened it with their air cushions. No cycles rutted the fresh earth. Only the merchant’s wagons came here. The Bazaar was technologically sacrosanct—one of the few traditions of Kasi society Jaya Sarojin applauded.

Each breath sucked in a thousand-thousand teasing, tempting smells. His steps were quick now, and brought him to a well-known stall of pungent and pleasant fragrance.

A round, shiny face peered out at him from under the striped awning. “Nathu Rai! Lord!” The face lit up like a hundred candles. “It’s been a week! Have you been ill?”

Jaya laughed. “I’m healthy enough. Only my humor is ill.”

“Well, then let me cheer you.” The woman waved a chubby hand at her baked goods. “What’ll it be this morning? Choose quickly, before it rains.”

Jaya threw a glance at the silvery sky, but his eyes were drawn quickly back to the table full of temptation. He chose two pastries and bought a cup of hot channa. Then he wandered.

People who recognized him, or at least recognized the signature of rank on the breast of his cloak, greeted him amiably or respectfully, depending on their own station. He bought gifts for the family das and for his grandmother, the Jivinta Mina, who loved such things as the hand blown glass falcon he found.

It was too early for the tent shows and he was contemplating a second mug of channa when the clouds broke.

The rain was relentless. When it became apparent it would continue, Bazaar dismantled itself tent by tent and disappeared into the colorful wagons that had brought it here. The stalls pulled in their wares and closed their awnings.

Jaya Sarojin watched it all with lazy fascination and a little disappointment, standing under the broad leaves of an ancient tree—watched the merchants and hucksters scurrying to fold and pin and lock down tight.

Something caught his eye—something that seemed out of rhythm with the orderly chaos of the disintegrating Bazaar. Just below where he stood at the edge of the wood, a tall, slender figure in mud-stained blue staggered, fell and rose to stagger forward again. It was a woman, he realized. She was clutching her head and obviously injured.

Jaya left the protection of the trees. Drawing nearer, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the woman was under surveillance by two Sarngin—guardians of law and order—who were even now moving toward her. Curious. He wondered what she might have done to merit their interest.

Jaya stepped into her path as she stumbled on a tuft of grass. Grasping her shoulders, he steadied her when she would have fallen. She stared at him, mutely, through eyes the color of the clouds where Mitras burned. A wave of hot static swept down through his body, granting him a moment of intense, if pleasant, surprise.

She was truly exotic—skin the pale gold of a freshminted coin, hair the hue of black cherries, eyes in which one could imagine he saw a winter storm. He took her to be somewhere in her twenties. Her clothing—a blue, one-piece coverall made of rugged material—suggested she came from a rural region, or even from Mehtar’s sister-planet, Avasa. She wore no id at either her neck or wrists. That she had once possessed it, Jaya surmised by the thin, red line of welts on her neck. He took her left hand and turned it palm up. It was innocent of markings.

The Sarngin were hurrying toward them now. Impulsively, Jaya pulled off his cloak and threw it around the woman’s shoulders. The Sarojin crest gleamed even under the clouds. Grimacing, he hugged her to his side as the Sarngin drew level with them.

Their eyes had not missed his scanning of her palm, and would understand the gesture of the cloak in that context. They knew what he knew—the woman was yevetha—unmarked, unregistered. Their eyes told him that as they each gave a crisp rendition of the respectful greeting.

“Good day, mahesa,” said one of them, a sergeant in rank.

“Our blessings, Nathu Rai,” murmured the other.

Jaya smiled and nodded. “A good day to you, friends,” was all he said and mentally urged them to simply move on.

“The day is rather cool and wet for Chaitra,” returned the first officer, “but you don’t mind the rain, I see.”

Jaya let his gaze flick to the woman’s stricken features. “No, Sarngin. Rain brings blessings.”

The sergeant nodded and bowed, a slight gleam of irritation entering his eyes before he averted them. “Then enjoy your blessings, Nathu Rai Sarojin. Peace.”

Jaya inclined his head. With the Sarngin gone, he released the woman, turning her so he could see her face. The static curled below his stomach as he checked her eyes for dilation.

“Are you all right?” he asked and got no answer but a blank stare. It was followed momentarily by a slight nod. When he continued to search her face, she nodded again, more emphatically, and managed something that might have been intended for a smile.

The Sarngin still watched, and Jaya suspected they would follow him for no other reason than to see the law was obeyed by the Taj caste as well as shaped by it. He considered his options for a moment. He could attempt to elude the Sarngin and get the woman to the House Sarojin. He might then be able to help her recover her id or have some fabricated. Or he could obey the law and take her to a dalali for processing.

That felt wrong. Legal, proper, but wrong.

Jaya began to walk, holding the young woman at his side, half-supporting her tenuous steps. The Sarngin moved at a distance, shadowing. Well, he would at least go through the motions of taking her to a dalali. Once inside, he could wait the length of a processing and exit again. The thought of circumventing caste law was a perversely pleasing one, and Jaya Sarojin savored it.

Meeting the road to the spaceport, he hailed a public aircar, which carried him and his dazed companion back into Kasi. Here, her eyes scanning the buildings beyond the vehicle’s windows, the woman finally spoke.

“Where am I?”

Jaya smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “At last! Words! I was afraid you’d been knocked dumb. You’re in Kasi. Did you mean to be in Kasi?”

“Yes...but not like this.”

“What happened?”

“Thieves,” she said. 

He nodded as the car slowed to a halt before the dalali of Ashur Badan and Kareen Devaki. “They took your id,” he said, and felt her stiffen.

Her face went white as she raised a hand to her neck. “I know. I go to prison?”

He paid the driver and helped her out onto the gleaming walk. “No. You go here.” He turned her to face the dalali’s glistening facade with its intricate pattern of inlaid tiles. As he did, he saw the Sarngin again, getting out of their blue aircar up the street. His reputation must have preceded him: Nathu Rai Sarojin, disrespecter of order, who treated das as if they were free men.

“What is this place?”

“A...brokerage. Come.”

He led her gently, still thinking, still watching the Sarngin, into the sumptuous foyer. From behind the long gleaming service counter across from the doors, a clerk saw the Nathu Rai Sarojin and rang upstairs for the proprietors. The whisper of his name brought them both down to the foyer.

Jaya saw them at the top of the green-carpeted stair—Ashur, short and fat; and the svelte, handsome lady Kareen Devaki, still beautiful though graying. He smiled, then saw that the Sarngin had come into the foyer behind him. He nearly swore aloud. No faking then, unless he dared use his status to induce the brokers to run a bogus processing.

He gritted his teeth. No. He would not ask a law abiding business to break the very law he was honor-bound to uphold, even if that law itself soured his stomach.

Next to him the woman, her eyes on the couple descending toward them, murmured, “Who are they?”

Jaya’s hand tightened on her arm, trying to soothe the fear he could hear in her voice. “Trust me,” he said. “Do as you’re told and you’ll be all right. What’s your name?”

“Anala. I’m not going to prison?” she asked again.

“No prison, Anala. Just follow instructions. Good day, friends.” He spoke loudly for the benefit of the Sarngin and held his hand out to be taken by the two dalal, each in turn.

“This is a rare privilege, Nathu Rai. How may we serve you?” asked Kareen, appraising first him, then his companion. Her eyes, as always, told him he attracted her, and sent an invitation he always refused, though graciously. It was almost a ritual by now, having taken place at every meeting since he’d reached fourteen years.

Ashur Badan was more interested in the woman. “Yours?” he asked with characteristic bluntness.

“It would seem. I found her wandering without id. She’ll need processing.”

Ashur took Anala’s hands and turned them palms up. He grunted delicately. “Unmarked.”

Jaya feigned affront. “You think me a thief?”

“You think me a fool? But you do have a reputation, Nathu Rai.“

“Not for pirating dasa. I would have purchased her.”

“You, mahesa, have never purchased a dasa in your life,” said Ashur, with the familiarity of one presuming on an old family acquaintance. “This we know. You merely surprise me.” He turned his gaze back to the woman, assessing her with an expert eye. Breath hissed between his parted lips. “Exotic! Her coloring, her eyes. She would bring a rare price at auction, Nathu Rai. Would you—?”

“No.” Jaya cut him off, disgust leaving a sour taste in his mouth. “I need to have her processed.” Jaya sent the two watchful Sarngin a meaningful glance.

Following it, Kareen raised her artistically shaped brows. “Can it be that rita has finally caught up with our rebellious Sarojin?”

“Well, convention has, at any rate,” admitted Jaya wryly. He lifted off his personal id leaf and draped it around the woman’s neck. “How long?”

“How much do you want done?” asked Ashur. “She has a natural beauty—won’t need much painting. So pale. Is she Avasan?”

“I don’t know.” Jaya surveyed the silent woman. “She needs bathing—clothing.”

“Consider it done.” The dalal fingered the medallion at Anala’s throat. “Your personal seal?”

“Yes.”

“As you wish.” He signaled a clinician to his side and sent the woman away with her. “Will you wait here? We have refreshment...”

“No, I have some business to do next door. I’ll come back for her.”

Jaya replied to Anala’s last, pleading glance with one he hoped was reassuring.

oOo

Anala’s present circumstance terrified her in a way the dangers she had faced almost daily on Avasa had never done. She had been in a mine when a pocket of manda gas was loosed; she had piloted a sandcat through a red blow. This was nothing like that. This was worse. Her mind felt muddy, her thoughts tangled, her body weak. There must have been at least one chance for escape—a chance she could have taken.

All she had to hang onto at the moment were the assurances of a total stranger that she was not destined for a Mehtaran prison. Now she was being led away from even that contact—denied the only hint of safety she’d known since the thieves had attacked her.

She fought her fear under control and clutched the cloak closed over the medallion. Those had to mean she’d be returned to him. He seemed kind. At least, she hoped it was kindness she saw in his face. He was obviously someone whose words were more than casually heard.

The clinician guided her through an archway into a nearly sterile corridor of white tile that opened into an equally immaculate warren of dazzling white and chrome. Steam rose from a myriad shower nozzles along the walls where clinicians bathed their female charges or watched them bathe themselves.

“Please disrobe.”

Anala turned her head too quickly and staggered against her attendant.

“You’re injured. Here, let me see.”

She was seated on a tile bench while gentle but businesslike fingers made an inspection of her forehead.

“Quite a lump. Fortunately, the cut is not deep and it’s above the hairline. It won’t be seen. We can dress this with ointment. Now, your clothes.”

Those were summarily peeled off and her personal garments tossed into a bag. Her protector’s cloak and necklace, however, were carefully handled by a young white-robed attendant whose sole task seemed to be their safekeeping.

Two women guided her now, taking her to a shower and washing her with embarrassing thoroughness. Her hair was cleansed, her wound cared for, and her body and hair both dried by a device that spewed warm air. Then she was perfumed from head to foot. It was all dizzying—all relaxing. She wanted to sleep, but her tenders kept her on her feet.

The bathing over, she was drawn into yet another tile chamber. Her eyes rebelled at the glare of white unveiled by steam. They closed against it.

“No inspection for this one,” said a half-familiar voice. “Nathu Rai Sarojin will be back shortly. Process her and dress her...” A hand captured her chin, then brushed her cheek. “And put some blush on those cheeks. She’s deathly pale.”

“Yes, Devaki-sa.”

It was the woman from the foyer.

“And those cuts,” the woman went on, briefly touching her neck, lacerated where the chain of her id had cut. “They’ll need to be covered. She’s to have the mahesa’s personal seal.”

“Yes, Devaki-sa.”

A swirl of skirts and the fading of her pungent scent signaled the proprietress’s departure, and Anala was guided forward again. She was stopped before a vicom terminal with a luminous dome cabled to it. One clinician took her left hand and placed it atop the small dome, holding it there. The other woman touched the terminal’s keys, calling an image to the screen before her. Nodding in approval, she tapped a final keystroke.

Anala jumped as the dome blazed with light, sending a burning tingle through her palm and up her arm. The hand was then turned palm up and a rod of purple light passed over it. To her surprise, her palm glowed with an intricate golden pattern.

Still tingling from the light globe, Anala was taken to a carpeted room with walls the color of an ice lake. Her eyes opened wide to take in the racks of bright clothing. Nearby, clinicians tried shimmering prints on a dark-skinned girl with a cap of curly black hair and a sullen expression. Around the room others were being fitted before large mirrors.

Anala was led to her own mirror to have a variety of materials tried against her complexion while her attendants debated which colors suited her best. They decided on a deep saffron dress, fitted her with undergarments and shoes, touched up the scars with flesh paint and her cheeks with tawny color. Minutes later, she stood dressed, curried and perfumed in a staging area near the dressing room.

“Good,” Kareen Devaki approved her. “The mahesa will be pleased. Hold her here until he returns.”

oOo

Carrying a new cloak and a package of roasted nuts, Jaya Sarojin entered the dalali through the long foyer to have a grinning Ashur Badan appear to escort him.

“Your timing is perfect,” enthused the dalal. “She’s ready and waiting. If you will follow me, please?” He led the way to a small, but sumptuous gallery with a stage and walkway.

“Very grand,” commented Jaya wryly.

The dalal was obviously pleased by the compliment. “We’re justifiably proud of it. We just bought out Asta Kagum, next-door. That makes Bedan-Devaki the largest dalali in Kasi—and the most prosperous. We now have eight showrooms. Three on the ground floor and five upstairs—plus private facilities. We guarantee every purchase...if it passes our inspectors, of course,” he added, “in the case of this girl...”

“I understand. This is one of your showrooms, then?” Jaya glanced around the small gallery and up the carpeted walkway.

“One of our private showrooms,” explained Ashur. “We have a larger gallery which we use for our regular auctions. This room, you understand, is only for clients of the Taj. Now, please sit, and we’ll bring your dasa to you.”

At a signal from the dalal, the curtains parted and a black-robed attendant led the dazed Anala down the walkway to the circular pedestal at its end. There, she was turned about so Jaya could see the transformation.

He caught his breath on a wave of pure sexual attraction. He’d thought her exotic before, now she was stunning—a jewel of garnet and topaz. But the jewel was flawed; the silver eyes screamed terror.

He stood and moved forward, gesturing at the attendant to bring her down the carpeted steps to floor level. The new cloak went around her shoulders immediately.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked the dalal.

“One hundred dagam for partial service, mahesa.”

He paid in cash, retrieved his own cloak and medallion, and the bag containing Anala’s effects and took her to a waiting car. She was silent. Thinking she must be starving, he offered her the roasted nuts. Her hands shook as she put the nuts into her mouth. Three handfuls was all she took before she was sucked into a seemingly bottomless sleep.

He carried her into the House, directing Aridas to have a meal ready for her waking, and assigning Ari’s wife, Helidasa, to be her attendant. Then he retired to his personal quarters, feeling irritable and morose. When he caught Aridas glancing at him warily, he laughed.

“Sorry, Ari. I’m finding new rooms in life, is all. And I’m not sure I like them very much.”

He got out the presents he’d bought then, still safely stored in his belt cache, and gave them to Aridas to present to his family, all indentured servants of the House Sarojin. The little glass bird he took himself, carrying it reverently to the wing of the House occupied by Jivinta Mina.

He found her in her dayroom, enjoying a break in the clouds. She sat in pillows beneath a skylight, holding her sharp featured face to Mitras’s brief smile.

“Jivinta,” he said softly.

Her bright eyes opened and snapped to his face. She was bird-like in her movements—sprightly despite her advanced age.

“Gauri!” She smiled and a thousand tiny wrinkles transformed her face into a thing of art.

He didn’t mind the childish pet name from her—or from Aridas, who also used it in private moments. He would always be their Golden One; it would be useless to protest.

“A present, Jivinta.” He held the glass bird in a shaft of watery sunlight and watched her eyes sparkle at it.

“A bird!” She took it from him. “Ah, a falcon! How like you it is—the sharp eyes, the proud head.”

Jaya laughed. “And I thought how like you it was.”

Mina Sarojin was pleased. “Well, we are of a kind, you and I... You got this at Bazaar?” At his nod, she leaned forward as if conspiring. “Take me with you next time you go.”

“Jivinta, your leg won’t carry you over that rough ground,” he protested.

“Then we’ll take a palanquin. Promise you’ll take me.”

Jaya smiled. “All right, yes, I promise...” His smile knotted itself into a grimace.

“What is it, boy? Tell your Jivinta.”

Boy. He sat at the edge of her hassock, scratched at his close-trimmed beard, and mused that every hair in it would be white before Jivinta Mina would stop calling him ‘boy’ and expect him to share all his secrets with her. And he would share them—every last one. There were no secrets between him and Jivinta Mina.

“I found a woman at Bazaar today and brought her home.”

“A woman? What kind of woman? Why am I not meeting her?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“You wore her out already?”

He ignored that. “I found her wandering—hurt, confused, without id. That was stolen. I think she may be from Avasa, by her coloring.”

“Is she pretty?”

“She is...” He tilted his head from side to side. “...stunning would be the right word, I think.”

The old woman’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, and you rescued her!”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, the Sarngin saw her. I had to take her to the Bedan-Devaki.”

Mina laid a wrinkled hand firmly over his. “Poor Gauri. And you vowed not to take any dasa to yourself. Well, you can always return her to the brokerage.”

Disgust was quick to engulf him. “What, and have her sold into some...business?”

“A kaladan,” said Mina bluntly. “You can say the word—I’ve heard it before.”

“To a kaladan. Or as cunnidasa to a private owner.”

“And what will you do with her? Your mother has wanted you to take a cunnidasa for some time. Perhaps this is an opportunity to appease her.” She tilted her head to study his averted face. “Does she attract you, this woman?”

He nodded. “When I look at her, Jivinta, it’s like...” He chuckled, making a gesture of dismissal. “I can’t describe it.”

“What? My grandson has never felt lust before? Liar.”

“Not lust...sakti...the force of life.” He grimaced. “Maybe it’s past time for a cunnidasa.”

“Cunnidasa are for the management of lust—for exorcising such demons as cloud perception. Lust clouds, sakti illuminates. Know what you feel before you act on it.”

He smiled at her and she smiled back, adoring him with her eyes. “I’ve heard father and Uncle Namun both say that.”

“Ah. And where do you suppose they got it?”

“Are you always right, grandmother?” he asked her.

“I try to be,” she said. 

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