Sandstorm (46 page)

“Are you off to practice?”

“Yes. Would you like to keep me company?”

“That sounds delightful.”

Nanda’s practice room was the very room in which Shah had first encountered him; once a free room of the castle, it had been turned into one for his exclusive use. Only the grand hall was better in regards to sound. The room was fairly stark, containing nothing more than the bare essentials and a few cushions for him and rare visitors – generally just Shah and the rest of the harem.

He had practiced for four hours – several strenuous songs meant to ever improve his dexterity and fluidity with the strings. Complicated songs that required all his concentration and skill, one of which he could not quite do properly. But he was getting better. The last hour was spent working on a piece of his own composition, and as he finished he shifted into lighter, easier tunes, humming along and then singing, mouth tilting in a faint smile when Aik’s voice, trained by the recitation of prayers nearly as intricate as his songs, joined in.

When the music faded away, Nanda set his instrument aside and crossed the space between he and Aikhadour, falling into the arms that welcomed him eagerly, tasting the tea of which Aik was so inordinately fond. His own soft-cinnamon skin looked pale next to Aik’s skin, dark caramel from all the time he spent in the sun.

He was just beginning to find more of that sun-darkened skin when the door opened. Nanda shuttered his expression and stood, Aik standing beside him. The servant’s expression was a familiar one – too used to the ways of the late King, even after all these years, they would never grow used to the fact that Shah had never minded, in fact encouraged, that they love each other as they did him. But the opinion of servants no longer troubled him; he had ceased caring about most opinions long ago. “Yes?” he asked, polite but brief.

“Lord Nandakumar, there is a visitor to see you. He says he brings a message of importance and will speak to no one but you. We have placed him in the private waiting room.” Nanda did not react, but he knew Aik had sensed his displeasure. “Thank you,” he said. “I will go and see him at once. Please make sure there are at least two guards present.” He thought a moment. “Also inform the Queen, if she has not already been informed.”

“Yes, Lord Nandakumar.” The servant bowed to them and left.

“Who would be coming to visit me?” Nanda’s hands went automatically to his hair, ensuring it was still bound and neat, a nervous habit of old. Aik’s fingers soothed up and down the length of his spine. “I guess we had best go see.”

The man waiting was not familiar, and Nanda felt something inside him untwist. They were gone and not coming back; he had nothing to fear any longer. “I am Nandakumar.”

“Yes,” the man said. Around his shoulders was a length of cloth that once he left would be draped over his head and face, to protect from the heat. His clothes were dusty, stained, as if he had been traveling for quite some time. “You look much like your father and brother did.” Nanda felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Did?”

The man nodded, expression tight, as if he were holding back his own pain. “I regret that I must bring such news to you. Your parents and brother were killed two weeks ago in a rockslide on Gold Mountain.”

“Thank you for bringing me the news. Your kindness is appreciated.” Nanda motioned to one of the guards. “See that he is taken care of. His Majesty will want to speak with him.” Duties attended to, Nanda ceased to notice anything, overtaken by a heavy numbness. He noted distantly that Aik was leading him back to their chambers, felt the softness of a bed, warm skin pressed along the length of his own, and then blessed darkness.

Nanda hummed as he traversed the halls; low, so no one would know what he hummed.

Really he should not be humming at all, but he was too nervous and excited not to.

Tomorrow was the day, and he would learn if it was all some grand joke, a brief moment
already forgotten by the King he had not really seen since their brief encounter…or if it truly
was what it had seemed it was going to be.

He smoothed his hair, which reached well to his knees, and immediately remembered that he
would have to get up even earlier than usual tomorrow if he was going to have time to
prepare it properly for the performance. His presentation had already been approved, the
request signed by King Shahjahan himself. It made him anxious all over again.

Voices caught his attention as he entered the suite of rooms allotted to his family in the
palace. His father and mother, and from the sounds of it another of their political comrades
for whom Nanda did not care at all. Always they talked, voices low so that no one would
catch so much as a word of the plots and plans they were forever weaving. His parents
treated the court and its affairs like a game – and one they had never lost.

Nanda stood outside the door, half-listening so that he knew when it would be all right to
interrupt and ask if his costume for tomorrow had arrived yet. He saw no sign of it in the main
room and it would not be in his own bedchamber.

“…it’s all arranged then?”

“Yes. During the performance.”

“Should we do it then? It would be safer to do it sooner.”

“Safer is not the issue. We won’t make a statement if we play it safe. How many times do you
want to debate this?”

“Of course. Forgive me. You know I get anxious the closer we get. I still cannot believe the
first went so smoothly…”

A laugh. “You expected anything less? Are we or are we not the best? Your man will be in
place by the beginning of Nanda’s performance. Listen close, b/c Nanda is lazy about his
songs –he mashes them together rather than stopping one before starting another. Does he
know the songs?”

“Do not be insulting. He attacks during the Dance of Spring.”
Nanda started to shake, and hugged himself to ward off a sudden chill. Surely they did not
mean what he thought. His parents? Did his brother know about this? What was ‘the first
one’?

But he thought he knew. Whispers of possible assassination had abounded for months after
the late King had died in a routine tour of his land. An accident, it had been declared. But
there were always whispers, and Nanda had known his family disliked the changes made by
King Shahjahan’s father. Changes that Shahjahan continued to support, with the cooperation
of most of the council. But his family thrived on disliking; discontent was a major factor in
their games.

Would they really assassinate Shahjahan? Had they already planned and carried out an
assassination?

Nanda felt sick. He turned and fled, terrified. How had he missed all this? Who did he tell?

How? Would anyone believe him?

“Nandakumar!”

He turned around and swallowed. “Mother.” Had they caught him running?

His mother frowned, her pretty face pinched with annoyance. “Where have you been?

Wandering the halls, making yourself a nuisance? Come along, your costume has arrived
and we need to make sure those idiots didn’t make any mistakes. You must be perfect if
you’re going to be of any use to us.”

“Will I be of use, mother?” He bit back what he really wanted to ask. “I would like my songs to
be useful to you, for once.”

She didn’t look impressed, more secretly amused. It made him sick. “Yes, you will. The court
will come apart at your performance. It will be fabulous.”

“I’m glad to be of help to you, mother.”

“It is a nice change, isn’t it?” She grabbed his arm and led him back to the suite. “Now come,
let us adjust your costume and then you will play everything through for me so I know you’ve
got it right.”

Nanda bit his tongue. Of course he had it right. He had it better than right – he had it perfect.

Nor had he told anyone of his brief, treasured encounter with the King. And now he was
grateful, so grateful he would be shaking with relief if his mother wasn’t clinging to him.

He had to figure out something to save Shahjahan. And he thought he knew what. But it hurt,
and didn’t it figure, that so close to everything he’d ever wanted – his family snatched it away
in the cruelest way possible.

Nanda woke slowly and under heavy protest. He didn’t want to wake up – he wanted the dark back. But then he realized he was being held against a familiar chest, surrounded by the incense and outside that was Shah. His arms moved of their own accord, and he held his King tight. “I—“

“Shh, Nanda.” Shah stroked his hair, which had either come free or been freed while he slept. It would be a pain to redo it all again. “It’s all right.”

“I shouldn’t be upset,” Nanda finally managed. “I wasn’t sorry to see them go.”

“They were still your family, and watching them go is not the same as knowing they are dead.

Why do you think I spared them?” His short beard scratched, familiar, comforting, as Shah kissed Nanda’s wet cheek, then took his mouth, until Nanda was not so tense in his arms.

Nanda took several deep breaths, willing his mind back into order, calling up the discipline that had been drilled into him practically from birth. He sat up, and though he didn’t leave Shah’s embrace he felt more like himself. “A rockslide, right?”

“Yes,” Shah said slowly. “But in the time you’ve been asleep – nearly a day – it has come to light that it was probably an arranged slide.”

“So someone killed them, not simply something.” Nanda spoke dully. “Why?” Shah stroked his hair, his side and back. “You do not need to ask all these questions, Nanda.

It will do you no good.”

“And I will not be so weak as to live in ignorance,” Nanda countered, a bit of his familiar bite in the words. “What were they doing?”

“I do not know. I did not follow the investigation that far – only enough to learn it was not accidental. But my guess is that they probably decided to tangle with someone who did not think exile sufficient punishment.”

Nanda closed his eyes, arms tightening around Shah. “So they never learned a thing. Not a one. Even after you spared them.” He buried his face against Shah’s chest. “I—I wish it hadn’t gone the way it did.”

“I know,” Shah said softly. “But I hope you do not regret the choices you made.”

“Of course not,” Nanda looked up, temper flaring slightly. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”

Shah laughed. “Because if you still have that temper you so cleverly hid from me for so long, I know you will be all right.”

Nanda blinked, then scowled. “I didn’t hide a thing.”

“Of course not.”

Around them, sitting quietly to the side, Aikhadour, Witcher and Beynum laughed. The noise seemed to shake off what remained of Nanda’s anguish-induced lethargy. “Was I really asleep so long?”

“And probably would have slept longer,” Bey said. “But you started to have nightmares. Only reason we woke you – well, the only reason Shah finally let us wake you.” Shah shook his head at Bey. “Nanda wakes when he wants; if you wake him sooner you have only yourself to blame.”

“Of that I am all too aware,” Bey said dryly, playfully shoving Aik when he started laughing.

He crawled across the distance between he and Nanda to kiss him softly. “Are you done sleeping now?”

“I suppose I am.” Nanda let go of Shah and let them help him up. He welcomed and returned the embraces of Witcher and Aik, murmuring a quiet thanks in the latter’s ear, for he knew it had been Aik who had remained with him until Shah returned. “Dare I ask if the news has spread?”

“Of course it has,” Witcher said with exasperated amusement. “I particularly like the one about Shah arranging everything.” He shook his head. “Honestly, Shah – where do you find time with all these plots?”

Shah grinned. “Between running a country and the four of you? I wish I knew – I should like to make some of it available for the occasional nap.” He held his hand out to Nanda. “Come

– we’ll have a nice, quiet but showy dinner and I’ll make an announcement about it. Did you want to play them something?”

“I…” Nanda frowned. His family had always derided his music except for the one moment where it had proven useful – where it would be so distracting an assassin would have easy access the new, young King. “Yes. Even though they’d probably hate it.”

“Or maybe because they’d hate it,” Bey offered as they began to prepare themselves for dinner.

His hands were slick with sweat, and trembling too hard for him to hold a drink. If he tried to
eat, he would regret it – and that regret would wind up on the floor of the great hall.

He didn’t really know what to do. Rather, he didn’t know if it would work. And it made him
want to scream or cry, that the moment he’d been dreaming about for two months was never
going to be.

Dozens of other schemes – leaving a note, talking to Shahjahan or someone close to him –

were thought of and then immediately discarded. There was no guarantee his note would
make it or who would read it. No one would let him near Shahjahan and he absolutely no
idea who to trust.

Nanda stooped to pick up his instrument, relieved that his hands immediately steadied. Here
was something he could handle, no matter what turmoil went on around him. And music was
the only way he’d reach Shahjahan now. Assuming, of course, that the King caught on.

Realized. Because Nanda didn’t know what to do if his pathetic plan didn’t work.

Surely someone would realize what he was trying to say. Someone not involved in the plot,
ideally.

It wasn’t fair! Nanda set his instrument down before he gave into the urge to break it to
pieces. Why did they have to do this? Why couldn’t they just whisper and mutter and attend
his concert and see his ‘nonsense’ earn him the position of first in King Shahjahan’s harem?