Chapter 26: Bhumika

BHUMIKA

She learned of the fire when the conches sounded. Someone had attacked Lord Iskar’s haveli, a captain told her, when he came with extra soldiers to guard her manse. But he knew no more than that.

She waited in her rose palace to see if anything—anyone—would attack the mahal too. She had no idea if her husband was alive. She could only sit, and think, and force herself to remain calm.

The most vulnerable members of the mahal joined her: the youngest and oldest maidservants, a few children, and the handful of rot-riven who served quietly in her household. They stood at the very edge of the room, in shadow, as the children sniffled through tears and the maidservants stood in stoic silence.

Among the rot-riven, she saw the boy Priya had brought into the household. Khalida had not been happy when Bhumika had allowed the boy to have a position. But the boy had not caused any trouble since. No complaints had been brought to Khalida or, by extension, to Bhumika herself. Bhumika had, in fact, thought little of him since allowing his employment.

She thought of him now. It was easier to look at him—his hunched shoulders and his lowered chin, the way he held himself small and alert in the exact way Priya had, when Bhumika had first brought her home—than it was to contemplate what could be happening beyond her manse’s walls.

“Come here, boy,” she said, beckoning lightly to him.

He approached slowly, then stopped and sketched out an awkward bow. He was dressed in a serviceable tunic and dhoti, the kind of clothing given to any servant of the mahal, but the shawl he wore over it was dirty, frayed at the edges.

“Your shawl is filthy,” she said. “Do you have nothing else?”

He shook his head. “No, my lady,” he said, his voice a croak of nervousness.

“Did you ask?”

He shook his head once more.

She glanced over at Khalida, who communicated—by the arch of an eyebrow and a slight shake of her head—that the boy had not requested a new shawl or asked for help of any kind.

“If you could, Khalida,” Bhumika said.

“My lady?”

“My spare brown shawl,” she said. “Please.”

Khalida brought the shawl over. It was plain, but well made from very fine and sturdy wool. It would keep him warm without showing stains easily. She placed it over his shoulders, telling him so.

She realized he was shaking.

“Rukh,” she said, and he startled. “There is no need to fear,” she told him gently. “We are at the heart of the mahal, and well protected. All will be well. You will be well.”

The boy nodded slowly, not meeting her eyes. He wrapped the shawl tighter around himself, touching the cloth as if it were precious, priceless. More worthy than his own skin.

A guard rapped on the doors and strode in.

“My lady,” he said. “He’s here.”

Bhumika rose as swiftly as she could, which was not half as swiftly as she would have liked.

“Take me to him,” she said.

Vikram was lying on the bed in his private chambers, his tunic removed. A physician was rebandaging a fresh wound in his side, a cut that was deep and bloody. He looked up at her and Bhumika exhaled, a wordless noise of relief and of horror. “Husband,” she said, and moved to sit by his side. Vikram took her hand in his own. He smelled of smoke and blood.

“I am glad,” he said brokenly, “so glad you were not there.”

He told her everything. Lord Iskar had been celebrating the birth of his son. It had been a beautiful event. Then the rebels had attacked.

“And Lord Santosh?” she asked.

“Unharmed,” he said. “He insisted on leading a force into the city to search for the rebels.” His jaw tightened visibly with frustration and pain. “I tried to stop him, but my wound hindered me.”

“Were the rebels found?” she asked. But that was not what she really wanted to know. What had Santosh done in the city, with no oversight from her husband? How many innocent bystanders had he injured? How many homes and businesses had he damaged? How much destruction had followed in his wake? Frustration and anger gripped her at the reality that her injured husband could not lead the charge; that Santosh was accordingly gaining power more swiftly than she had even expected he would.

“I don’t know. I have sent men to follow him. I’ll have news of the damage soon enough,” Vikram said grimly. “But for now, I remain in ignorance. I could not leave. I could not follow him. I remained with Lord Iskar’s body after—his wife…” He swallowed spasmodically. “There was so much blood.” His voice was choked. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t speak of this to you.”

“Lord Iskar is dead?” Bhumika knew her horror had bled into her voice once more.

“Yes.”

“And his wife?”

“Yes. Among others. Yes.”

She made appropriately soothing sounds of comfort, brushing her thumb over his hand, even as her mind raced.

She thought of Ashok with fury.

“What happens now?” She kept her voice low. She tried to sound as if she feared for Vikram specifically, and not for anyone or anything else.

“Lord Santosh is already using this tragedy as an opportunity to increase his influence,” said Vikram. “And the emperor… the emperor will want what he always wants.”

“I see,” Bhumika said. “If that is the way of things… what must you do, husband?”

“I will remind Santosh that he is not the regent of Ahiranya. Until the emperor names him as such, that title is mine.” His voice was hard. “I will maintain my rule. I will kill the rebels. Every masked one of them. And if the emperor demands that women be burned…” An exhale, pained. “I will do what I must. We will have peace.”

This is not how you quell conflict, thought Bhumika. But she did not say so. She stayed silent.

“I am tired,” he said, his knuckles against his forehead, his face a picture of exhaustion. “Tired of killing. Tired of trying to make something of this forsaken place. But it is the only throne I have, and I shall seek to keep it. I have done my best by Ahiranya and I will continue to do so.”

“The rebels killed Lord Iskar, mothers ease him, because of the poet and his women who were put to death,” Bhumika said gently. So gently, as if her voice were a footstep on the most fragile, spun-sugar ground. “Perhaps more death will only worsen this business.”

“Be glad you were not there,” said Vikram. “Or you wouldn’t say such foolish things.” He smoothed her hair. He believed he was comforting her. “There will be more death, one way or another. But I promise you, my path will be far less bloody than the one Santosh would carve.”

Bhumika remained by her husband’s side in the tense hours that followed, assisting the physician to administer a weak mixture of wine and needle-flower, and the maids to daub away the remaining blood and ash on her husband’s body. After the physician had been dismissed, Bhumika helped her husband redress into a new tunic and dhoti of light silk that would not aggravate his injury. Although she was mindful of his wound, he was still grayer than ever with pain by the time the task was done.

A moment later, there was a clamor beyond the door. Commander Jeevan strode in without being announced, his white-and-gold armor scuffed with dirt and blood, his expression dark. His gaze flickered to Bhumika, then away, as he bowed.

“My lord,” said Jeevan. “Are you well?”

“No pleasantries,” Vikram said shortly. “Tell me everything.”

Jeevan did.

As he described what Lord Santosh and his men had done in the city, Vikram’s expression grew stormier. By the time Jeevan fell silent, Vikram’s face was so tight with pain and anger that Bhumika reached automatically for the needle-flower concoction the physician had left. When she began to pour it, Vikram made a tight, angry gesture with his hand.

“No.”

She lowered the cup and the pitcher back down, offering him nothing.

“Bring Lord Santosh to me as soon as he returns,” Vikram said to the commander. “The second he arrives, I want him brought here. The second. Am I understood?”

“He’s on his way back, my lord,” Commander Jeevan said. “My men are watching his progress. I’ll see to it.”

“Go,” said Vikram.

Commander Jeevan bowed once more, then turned on his heel and departed.

“Bhumika,” Vikram said eventually. “You must leave now.”

She shook her head and cupped one of his hands in her own, her eyes lowered. “I won’t leave you until I’m sure you’re well,” she murmured, every inch the devoted wife. Before he could protest again, she squeezed his hand tight and released it, saying, “But I will wait on the balcony until Lord Santosh is gone. I promise.”

She swept out onto the shaded balcony, giving him no time to order her away again. From here, she could see the grounds of the mahal. The sky. Standing at the far edge of the balcony, she was no longer visible to him from his bed. He would have to stand up if he wanted to seek her out, or shout if he wanted to send her away. She wasn’t surprised when he remained silent.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again, and Lord Santosh was announced.

The voices were muted, but Bhumika could hear the heavy thud of Santosh’s boots. His greeting. Vikram did not greet him in return.

“I have heard what you’ve done, Lord Santosh,” said Vikram.

There was a tone that Vikram used when he spoke to Santosh. It was a tone for diplomacy; for placating, for manipulating, for maintaining peace while navigating the thorniest of politics.

That tone was gone. This bloodied night had clearly shattered his patience. With a bite to his voice, he said, “Shall I tell you what my soldiers witnessed? Buildings ransacked. Men and women running for their lives, their homes destroyed. Beggars with their throats slit.”

“Ahiranyi beggars,” Santosh said dismissively.

“You also damaged the pink lantern district,” Vikram said. “The source of income for Ahiranya’s highborn. You’re aware of the value of the pleasure houses to Ahiranya’s economy, surely? To the emperor’s coffers? You must be. So tell me, Lord Santosh. Why did you do it?”

There was a beat of silence.

“The Ahiranyi killed Lord Iskar,” Santosh said slowly, incredulous. “They nearly killed you.”

“Why did you do it?” Vikram repeated, voice clipped.

Bhumika winced. Her husband was not hiding his anger.

He should have consumed the needle-flower when she had offered it to him. Softened the edge of his pain, for the sake of controlling his usually well-restrained temper. Agony had unleashed it far too well.

“I did what was necessary to remind the Ahiranyi of their place,” Santosh said, after a pause. His voice was suddenly oily, cloying. Bhumika tightened her hand upon the balustrade and listened to the cadence of it—the warning his sudden obsequiousness carried with it. “You’ve long been absent from the heart of the empire, General Vikram. Perhaps you do not understand the kind of governance Emperor Chandra expects of you. When brutes like these Ahiranyi kill our own, they must be crushed with greater might. They must all face justice.”

“You clearly do not understand Ahiranya, Lord Santosh,” Vikram said, in a level voice that did nothing to hide his fury. “You do not understand its people. Not as I do. You do not know how to handle them. Your way will turn them into rabid dogs, biting the hands of their masters.”

She heard a grunt, a noise of agony, as he adjusted himself on the bed. When she had left him, he’d been leaning back against the bolster cushions. Now, hearing the intentness of his voice, she could well imagine the way he was leaning forward, pulling his wound, his eyes upon Santosh. She wished she were in the room, where she could read their faces and their bodies. But she could stand and listen, measuring her husband’s strained breaths and the weight of Santosh’s heavy silence.

“Here is something I know about the Ahiranyi,” Vikram said. “When a rebel is put to death—be he a scribe or a poet or a murderer—the Ahiranyi people say to themselves, ‘The man broke the law. Perhaps he deserved to die.’ When the women burned, the people said, ‘She was a rebel, was she not? She must have done something that brought her fate upon her. What happened to her will not happen to me.’ They look for reasons, for rules, and through those rules, they learn that as long as they are obedient, they will be safe. Their fear trains them. But tonight, Lord Santosh, you killed men and women who were not rebels, who knew nothing of what happened to Lord Iskar, who saw a lord of Parijat—you, Santosh—attack them without provocation. Those Ahiranyi will look at your work and they will be frightened. Angry. They will believe an injustice has been done to them. Highborn and commoner alike.

“When the temple children burned,” he added quietly, “I learned exactly how far the Ahiranyi people can be pushed. How an apparently senseless act can make enemies of them. And you, Lord Santosh—you have pushed too far. You have united the Ahiranyi. The emperor will not thank you for that.”

Santosh said nothing. But oh, Bhumika could well imagine the expression he wore.

You’ve said too much, husband, she thought.

Santosh was not a man who would take well to being chided. His pride was far too overblown, and Vikram had shattered it. She was afraid Santosh would gather the wreckage of it, all those splinters hewn off by Vikram’s words, and make knives of them.

And her husband had not stopped speaking quite yet.

“I will have to be lenient, to make up for your lapse in judgment,” Vikram went on. “I should shut the city, for the sake of safety. But the Ahiranyi will want to celebrate the festival of the dark of the moon.”

“A heretical festival,” Santosh said, in a thin, petulant voice.

“A festival of value to the Ahiranyi,” Vikram said, still deliberate and level, “that I will allow them to celebrate despite the actions of the rebels, as a demonstration of the emperor’s benevolence, and my benevolence. I will not make new rebels out of Ahiranya’s citizens, Lord Santosh. I will let their gratitude soften their outrage.”

Santosh made a noise. A laugh. Sharp, high. Oh, she wished she could see his face. The look upon it.

“I see,” he said. “You’ll make friends of them, will you? Of course you will. You, with your little Ahiranyi wife and your precious Ahiranyi highborn allies. You’ve practically become one of them.” Disgust dripped from his voice.

She heard the thud of footsteps. For one moment, she wondered if he would storm out on the balcony, and readied herself, softening her shoulders, widening her eyes—she would make herself seem small, unthreatening, anything but the intent listener she was—and then heard him stop, and speak. His voice was more distant now, as if he had crossed the room.

“Ahiranya will not be yours forever,” Lord Santosh said. “It is barely yours now. Try to win the favor of the Ahiranyi, if you like. Let them run their whorehouses and worship their monstrous gods. Let them! But winning their favor won’t save your regency, Vikram. The emperor is the one who will decide who rules. The emperor sent me here. He will give me Ahiranya.”

“Whatever the emperor asks of me, I will do,” Vikram said. “Whatever he demands, I will give. But he has not named you as my replacement yet.” A beat. “It has been a pleasure seeing you as always, Lord Santosh.”

She heard a door slam. Santosh was gone.

When she was sure that he would not return, she stepped back into the room. Vikram was leaning back once more, eyes closed, his mouth slightly parted as he breathed through the pain. She moved beside him, already considering what consequences that unfortunate conversation would have for her husband’s regency. For Ahiranya.

She carefully did not think of how her husband had spoken of her people. There were a great many things she was careful not to think about around her husband.

She poured the wine into the cup.

“Drink,” she said, and placed the cup against his lips. She kept her voice tender, her expression compassionate, as if the conversation had meant nothing to her at all. “You need your rest. Let your wife take care of you, just this once.”

Without opening his eyes, with utter trust, he drank.