Laldasa (26 page)

He turned his gaze aside and found Bel Adivaram and Duran Prakash watching him rather too closely from a markedly political grouping nearby. They raised their glasses to him; he inclined his head curtly and moved away.

oOo

“You have the voice of Music, Rani Sadira,” the Esteemed One said. “Very rarely have I heard chanting with such power and conviction. You are a true and sincere bhakta. I encourage you to enter the Orders. With your discipline as a Rohin, your fire of devotion, your obvious knowledge of the Sacred Texts, you would make a most worthy Deva.”

Ana blushed profusely and reflexively gave the respectful greeting. “Your words are more than praise, Deva. It has always been my desire to study for Orders, but life on Avasa has not afforded the opportunity.”

The Deva smiled, her eyes glinting. “I hope you will take the opportunity afforded you here. I would consider it a joy to personally oversee your instruction. You have the spirit of a Deva. All you need attain is the colors.” She brushed the folds of her ceremonial stole and smiled. “And these colors would suit you. Now, Mina,” she turned to the Old Rani, “you've been so patient waiting for me to finish my speech. Please continue with the gifts.”

Jivinta Mina presented her gift in three parts. The first part sat in a velvet-draped display case brought to the stage by four of the Sarojin servants. The drape was removed to reveal an array of porcelain cups, bowls, goblets, trays, and vases all decorated with glowing colors and designs both intricate and simple. Guests broke into spontaneous “ohs” and “ahs,” and moved forward, murmuring; jostling to get a good view of the pieces.

Standing by the display case, Mina Sarojin seemed pleased with the response her gift had brought so far. “These exquisite pieces will be here for all of you to admire ... and plot to own,” she announced. “Now, the second part of the gift.”

She looked off-stage, holding out a veined hand. A pretty, but frail young woman dressed in a simple gown stepped from the shadows skirting the platform and up onto its polished surface.

“This is Sushela Kapivastu. She is the creator of these extraordinary pieces.” She waited out the applause that followed, then continued: “Sushela has graciously agreed to reside in Kasi and open a shop in the Sun Crescent. I am certain you will all frequent her business.”

Again, there was applause.

“And now,” said Jivinta Mina, smiling from her eyes, “the third and final part of the gift. Heli, if you would ... ”

There was a cry from the Salon's main entrance and a small girl darted toward the stage, weaving her way through the guests like a frantic shuttle.

Sushela Kapivastu covered her mouth with her hands and burst into tears. She embraced first her benefactress, then the child who vaulted onto the stage and into her arms. There was a scene of inarticulate joy and reunion through which the old Rani smiled, eyes glistening.

In a moment she turned back to her guests and proceeded to astound them further. “Dana Kapivastu was cruelly torn from her family by one of the most respected dalalis in Kasi. I had the ability and, I felt, the duty to reunite her with them. I petitioned the Deva Radha to review the child's case and restore her freedom. I am happy to announce that she did exactly that. Dana Kapivastu is no longer a dasa. She is free, by the grace of Tara-Rama and the Inner Circle.”

A murmur rolled and spread through the crowd like backwash from the prow of a boat.

Ana glanced at the faces of those near her and saw everything from pleasure to uncertainty to shock, dismay, and disapproval. She began to applaud, slowly, rhythmically. Next to her Jaya picked up the rhythm. Ravi, always two steps from his side, echoed him. The Deva Radha also joined in and, with her, the other Holy Ones present. Glancing about the great Salon, the Deva moved to mount the stage next to Mina, her hands keeping up the rhythm, her face alive with something like passion. She raised her hands high over her head, calling for the other guests to applaud with her.

Many did, some nodding, smiling, joining in the spirit of Mina Sarojin's gift. Others slipped quietly away, out of the room, out of the Sarojin Palace, to places where they could talk about the old Rani's scandalous behavior.

oOo

Melantha Sarojin and Duran Prakash went only as far as the main hall.

“I'm sorry you had to witness that display.” Red-faced, Melantha Sarojin did not look Duran Prakash in the eye—but then, she rarely did that, anyway.
 

“Nonsense, my dear,” Duran murmured, laying a consoling hand on the back of her neck. “I'm more concerned that you had to witness it, since it distresses you so.”

“That old woman will forever distress me with her illtimed, misbegotten social blunders. I wonder my husband was able to rise to such respect with that sort of upbringing. By all rights he should have been a royal joke instead of one of the greatest statesmen Mehtar has ever known.”

Ignoring her praise of the deceased Nathu Rai Bhaktasu Sarojin, Prakash made a mew of sympathy. “You mean she has always been like this? I thought perhaps her age ... ”

The Rani laughed curtly. “No, Duran. The Rani Mina has always flown in the face of rita. She speaks of tradition, heritage, social responsibility—in reality they mean nothing to her. Nor does she care what anyone else must endure as a result of her maudlin effrontery. Bringing that dasa into the party as a participant! Celebrating that-that peasant artisan as if she were from the artistic Orders!”

Duran dared to remonstrate with her. “My dear, it was an act of charity. The woman does have a great natural talent.”

“Don't take her side against me,” warned Melantha acidly. “You have no idea what life is like with her—with my son. Neither of them will call the das by their proper names. They treat them as if they were peers. And that damned Ravidas! Jaya has insisted on making him his closest confidant since they were small boys. I thought he'd outgrow it. I was certain of it. But no! First my husband and then his mother insist on supporting Jaya in his iconoclastic tendencies.”

“Iconoclasm? Oh, surely it's not as bad as that,” interjected Prakash.

 
“Isn't it? Now he's brought that woman here. She may be a Rani, she may be a leaf of the Saroj, but—my God—raised on Avasa ... ? Well, what did I expect? I should have known when Jaya's appetites finally conquered him, there would be some ‘kindred spirit' around for him to plant his staff in.”

Duran mewed again. “Do you think he designs to marry her, or is it just a—well—a dalliance?”

“I'd hope for a dalliance, but the girl claims to be Rohin. Jaya does not believe in such things, but he is tolerant, to a fault, of the beliefs of others.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Prakash, glancing back down the hall toward the Salon, “this is merely another form of rebellion. Most men would get their pre-nuptial ... practice at the hands of a cunnidasa or someone from a lower life. In all likelihood, Jaya would consider that taking advantage of his rank. It certainly would provide little challenge. A Rohina or a Rani, on the other hand ... ” He shrugged. “Perhaps he merely wants a relationship with an equal.”

“He's fascinated by her—that much is clear.”

“Has he ... taken her to his bed, do you think?”

“Perhaps. You know what they say about the Rohin. He placed her in a room adjoining his and I've never known that door to be locked. Then again, I know also that both beds are slept in every night. But why should I care if he marries her—or merely beds her? She's a Rani, at least. I don't think she's Genda Sita—even Jaya couldn't be that foolish. Her skin only wants a little tinting. Perhaps she'll even acquire some sophistication. She's not stupid. She couldn't be and impress the Deva Radha.” She glanced at Prakash and smiled. “It really doesn't matter to me, Duran. Not at all. My son may feed his appetites as he pleases and I shall feed mine.”

She looked at him in a certain way, then turned her eyes to the Grand Stair just up the hall toward the Entry. “I'm going up to my suite.”

“Should you be alone just now?” Duran asked significantly.

“No. I think perhaps I shouldn't.”

She brushed his cheek delicately with one scented hand and left him standing in the hall.

He waited a bit—spoke to some fellow guests as they drifted by, telling them the Rani was distressed by the evening's events and had gone up to her rooms. They were sympathetic. He was on fire, but did not show it.

A quarter of an hour later, when the hall had cleared considerably, and sounds of celebration still wafted from the Salon, Duran Prakash climbed the Grand Stair with due speed and soft step. But at the landing, he turned right instead of left and scurried down the gallery to the most ornate of doors. It was unlocked.

He stepped within and stopped to take in the room. So, these were the private chambers of a mahesa. As grand as might be expected. He imagined the Rani's quarters must be even more sumptuous than her son's. Well, tonight he would know—at last.

He moved to what he suspected was the connecting door to the Rani Sadira's suite and opened it. It was a smaller bedroom than the Lord's but just as grand. He found the wardrobe and opened it.

A certain type of clothing was what he sought and—ah, there! The silken, shimmering folds of black and crimson and palest moon beams told him a wealth of tales. Women did not have such things in their wardrobes for their own enjoyment. These were for the pleasure of a man, these were proof of compromise.
 

Duran Prakash smiled and let his personal excitement grasp him. She was waiting for him—dare he hope—wearing something like these? He brushed a hand through the filmy folds. It collided with something a good deal heavier and coarser to the touch. He pushed aside a flimsy bit of gauze and pulled the odd piece of cloth out where he could see it.

It was an insulsuit—clean, but well worn and even mended. On Avasa one did not survive without one. He wrinkled his nose. What an offense for a woman—any woman—to have to wear such a rag next to her skin. He fingered the initials—“AN”—frowned, and shook his head. Why would she bother to keep such a rag? Her name decal had even been effaced. Ah well, perhaps it had some sentimental value—reminded her of home, or something like that.

He grunted and let go of the offensive piece of cloth, then ran his hands, again, over one of the gauzy camisoles, as if to purify them from the insulsuit's alien coarseness.

His craving soared and sent him hurrying toward the wing he knew the Rani occupied. He would be the most sympathetic of companions tonight; a listening ear, a willing provider of any pleasures she desired to experience. He prided himself that what she had experienced so far had been pleasurable enough. He was, if not a master, at least highly skilled at the Kunda arts. After all, it wasn't every man who had the opportunity (or the reason) to study the mysterious sexual disciplines of the Bogar.

Duran Prakash chuckled as he gazed appreciatively at the delicately ornamented doors to the Rani Melantha's private wing. How crazily did life behave. All the cajolery and sweetness and pleasure he had contrived to shower upon the Sarojin queen had never bought for him what her anger had now given away—passage into her intimate chambers.

Who knew? Perhaps before Mitras rose and killed the night, her anger would grant ultimate access to the most intimate chamber of all.

It was well into morning when the last guests wandered from the Sarojin Palace. Jaya was halfway to his room when he realized how tired he was. Beside him, Ana let out an audible sigh.

Jaya stirred out of his own sluggish thoughts. “You too?”

She nodded. “I'm exhausted. I think I'm less tired after a day in the mines. Socializing requires much mental effort. Especially when you have to remember not only what to say and how to say it, but what not to say.”

Jaya glanced at her in dull surprise. “You don't actually work in the mines, do you?”

“What else would I do?”

“I don't know, but I can't quite picture you covered in dust and man-handling drill bits. I guess I ... thought maybe you ...
 
prepared meals ... ” He broke off lamely, feeling as if he'd just stepped into a sink hole.

Ana did not seem to begrudge him his ignorance. “The domestics prepare the meals. That's their job. Mine is mining. My chores run from surveying terrain and assaying ore to driving sandcats and repairing machinery. I'm a very good mechanic. The best, father says. He also says I have gaur savvy.”

“Gaur savvy?”

She grinned. “I know where the ore is.”

They were at the door of Ana's room. Ana glanced at it, then reached out to run her fingers over its sheeny, carved surface. “So hard to believe. I never imagined I would call anything like this ‘my room.'”

Curiosity nibbled. “What's your room at home like?”

She shrugged. “It's small—compared to this, at least. Dark and warm and round, like a cup turned upside down. The walls are white clay with tiny chips and slivers of mica. At night I can open the skylight and lie in my bed and watch Upala Ratri turn the slivers into a field of stars.”