Laldasa (41 page)

He nodded, hoping he looked suitably weary and rueful. “I have witnesses who will swear the girl paid a baggage handler to bring her luggage to the attention of the concierge just as the Nathu Rai was leaving the Hotel dining room. Naturally the concierge thought the bag belonged to the Nathu Rai, it appeared to have his crest on it. It was a set up.”

“Was it, indeed? Tell me something, Duran ... ” The Rani turned to face him, leaning her elegant body against the huge, white expanse of the hearth face. “Do you love me?”

“What?” Prakash blinked at the non-sequitur. “Of-of course I love you. Why else would I be here?”

“Why indeed? Why are you here, Duran? Why are you telling me this?”

He moved toward her, willing his face to be solemn, earnest. “Because I love you, Melantha, as I know you love your son. I want to protect you, as I know you want to protect him.”

“And what shall I do now, Duran, to protect my son from this woman?”

Ah, good. She did not prolong the game, he could move more quickly.

“Get her out of the Palace and away from him. Before she can influence him further. Before she can hurt him.”

“How can I do that?”

“Confront her. Expose her. Put her in a coach and send her away.”

“How earnest you sound.”

“I am earnest, Melantha. This is a more dangerous situation than you realize.”

Melantha was looking down at her hands, rearranging her rings. “Well, I've already confronted her, Duran. And putting her in a coach and sending her away is out of the question ...
 
since she's my son's dasa.”
 

“She-“ He was thunderstruck. “How-?”

“How did I know? I asked her. She has a cree. Avasans don't have cree as a rule. So, I confronted her with that fact and she admitted she was Jaya's property and not a long lost cousin.”

Prakash licked his lips. “You must have been furious.”

She shrugged. “At first—but of course, I have to be fair and lay the lie at my son's door. I can hardly believe she coerced him.”

“Really? A woman can exert a great deal of power over a man. Especially one such as that.”

“You mean a Rohin woman?”

“They are said to have the Jadu—or at least to think they do—and I've heard they are schooled in Kunda disciplines that make the Bogar rites seem like the play of innocent children.”

Melantha's mouth twitched. “Truly? Should I fear for my son's sanity, then? I would hate to have him go mad from too much pleasure.”

Prakash scowled. The reins of this interview were no longer in his hands. “It has been known to happen.”

She stared at him, bright-eyed, then threw her head back and laughed.

He colored, embarrassment rising from his gorge. “You take this much too lightly, Melantha. The girl is not only Avasan, she's Genda Sita. She's involved him in dangerous undertakings. Surely, you must want her out of your household.”

“No, I don't. And do you know why I don't? Because you seem so very much in favor of it.”

Prakash could only stare at her as if she'd started speaking an incomprehensible dialect. “I-I don't understand ... ”

The Rani shook her head. “I'm not surprised. You stupid man. Do you think I can't tell when I'm being used? Do you think I'm so dim-witted I don't realize I'm being lied to?”

“Lied to!” Prakash felt the blood drain from his face. “The girl may be a dasa, but I assure you, she is also an AGIM agent—owned by AGIM, it appears.”

Melantha Sarojin moved back to her throne and seated herself regally, her gaze eloquent with scorn. “Avasans don't own people, Duran. I've spoken to my houseguests enough to know that. Oh, and one other thing: You say your witnesses will swear she arranged their meeting at a Hotel near the Spaceport? They didn't meet in a Hotel. There was never any confusion over baggage because she didn't have any. They met at the Bazaar where Jaya apparently just kept her from being arrested as yevetha. But the Sarngin refused to let the girl out of their sight—he was forced to have her processed. Poor Jaya, he's always hated the whole concept of das. Another way in which he is like his father.”

Prakash stared at her for several seconds, his body stiffly upright. “You knew all this and yet you let me go on with my ...
 
accusations. Why?”

“I was curious. I wondered how many lies you could tell in the space of five minutes. I counted three.”

“I lied about the girl's identity. I admit that.”

“That was the first lie.”

“I only repeated their lie about the way they met.”

“And added the lie that there was a witness. That was the second.”

“What was the third?”

“That you love me.”

He put his hands out to her, ready to beg, to grovel.

“Melantha, please, I“

“No, don't. It's not important. Just a matter of pride. Bhaktasu always said pride was a fool's surrogate for selfrespect. He was right.”

Prakash dropped his hands to his sides. “What else do you know about the girl?”

“I assume I know at least as much as you do. I know who she really is ... above and beyond being Jaya's dasa.”

His eyes raised, hopeful. “Then you know I'm right about the danger to your son. I assure you, I am neither lying nor exaggerating when I tell you his life is in jeopardy.”

“I believe you. Now, get out of my house, Prakashsama, before I'm forced to have Aridas and his inestimable sons throw you out.”

He left without protest, in a haze of stunned disbelief.

oOo

Melantha Sarojin sat for a while in her throne, her hand on the arm of the one next to it, her eyes trained sightlessly ahead. She recalled a time when that second throne had been occupied. When she and her husband had greeted guests from the Taj Houses of all Mehtar, from the most illustrious and Holy Orders, from the most prestigious schools of Law and Science.

She'd felt respect then—and if it was not directed at her, at least it came to her by way of the man who occupied the other throne.

By God, he'd respected her ... and loved her, too.

Perhaps Jaya was right. Perhaps she'd been a different woman then. A woman worthy of this seat. Worthy of respect ... and self-respect. Now, she didn't have even a fool's pride to solace her.

“Stupid,” she whispered, and allowed her self to weep.

Back from Bazaar, Jaya secluded himself in the study, buried himself in the depths of a cup chair and tried to think. Ana would stay, at least for the time being, at least until this tangled web was sorted out. His own feelings and thoughts were so bound by that web that he felt sticky, muddled.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back against the padded comfort of the chair and took a deep, centering breath. There was yet another confrontation on his schedule for the day and he was not looking forward to it.

His eyes opened on the ceiling with its tastefully muted woodland mural. They fastened on the night sky of one panel.

What did Ana see when she looked at the night sky? Or Ravi, or Jivinta or any of the other believers in some unific Deity. If they saw in the world around them jewels and lights and a fabric of dreams, what did they imagine they saw beyond that world, in those ‘other worlds' they spoke of? Where was the Abode of Ramji? Where was—what had that little book called it —the “Garden of the Beloved?”

“I wish I could believe in You,” he murmured. “I could use the consolation ... and some advice.” Feeling slightly foolish, he dropped his gaze to the carpet.

How I wish Father were here.

He rose and went to find the Rani.

oOo

In the library's adjoining game room, Hadas had pressed Ana into a match of Pariyanti. The board game was unfamiliar and served to distract her from the warring senses of anticipation and boredom. Hadas was beating her soundly when Aridas entered, carrying an envelope on a carved wooden tray.

“A message for you, Rani Ana,” he said and offered it to her with a deferential bow before leaving the room.

She took it almost gingerly and stared at it, then broke the seal with a fingernail, slitting the dark packet. Inside was a single page. The note was written in tiny, hurried strokes on the back of some sort of form. Ana turned it over. It was an inventory sheet from the Badan-Devaki.

She gasped, then reddened when she saw the nature of some of the form's fields: “Hair Color,” “Eye Color,” “Teeth - good/bad,” “Height,” “Figure/ Build,” “Attractive Features.” The last was followed by a series of numbers so the person making out the form could grade the inventory item to a numeric category. There were some other fields as well, of an even more intimate nature, but she ignored them, turning the flimsy over quickly to read the note.

oOo

My name is Vanam Sanoh. I am Avasan. I have been taken by force to the Badan-Devaki and made dasa. I was training as an upstairs serving girl, but a patron inquired about me and I am to be sold at private auction tomorrow morning. I am terrified. My training isn't complete, so I know it's not a serving girl he wants. I heard talk among the workers about the Rani Sadira who has made it her cause to help Avasan prisoners—how she freed Hadas Gupta. I thought Tara-ji had at last heard my prayers. So, I bartered with a Salon guard to send this letter to beg you to help me—to free me as you did Hadas. I can't let myself be sold into dishonor. I have bartered my body once in the hope of being saved; I will not have it abused daily. Help me. My life is in your hands. Your Servant, Vanam Sanoh.

oOo

“Vanam Sanoh,” repeated Ana. She was already heading for the Library vicom terminal.

Hadas followed her. “Is she-?”

Ana, viewing the list of missing Avasans, nodded. “She's here. Vanam Sanoh, eighteen years, from the Tash settlement.”

“Should we tell Jivinta Mina or Jaya Rai? Will you go bid on her?”

Ana took the note and studied it again. “I don't know ...
  
Somehow ... ” She shook her head.

Hadas's eyes narrowed. “Don't you believe her?”

Ana glanced at him sharply, then turned back to the vicom. She keyed it into communications mode and requested an audio-only link to the Badan-Devaki dalali. Hadas, his face like stone, sank into a nearby chair, watching her.

“Good-day, sama,” she said when she was connected with the dalali's receptionist. “This is the Rani Ana Sadira. I've heard there is a private auction tomorrow morning. Is that so?”

“Yes, Rani,” returned the pleasant male voice. “Our schedule does show a private auction at fourteenth hour in the Blue Salon.”

“Wonderful! I'd like to attend, if that could be arranged.”

“Ah,” said the voice. “Well, unfortunately, the schedule shows that auction as being closed—by invitation only.”

Ana made her voice sound slightly peeved. “I see. What must one do to receive an invitation?”

“Well, I ... ” There was a momentary hesitation, then the man cleared his throat. “Perhaps, if you spoke directly to one of the dalal. Devaki-sa is in the Parlor this morning.”

Now it was Ana's turn to hesitate. The thought of holding conversation with Kareen Devaki was daunting. She still dreamed of her—tall, elegant, her coldly assessing black eyes glittering from a statue's pale, perfect face. But she'd gotten this far ...
 

“Yes,” she said, willing her voice to sound confident. “Yes, please let me speak to Devaki-sa.”

“As you wish, Rani. One moment, please.”

It was less than a moment. Kareen Devaki was on the line immediately, crystalline voice pleasant. “Rani Sadira! How delightful to hear from you. How are you enjoying the gift the Rani Mina purchased for you?”

It took Ana an embarrassing moment to realize she meant Hadas. She laughed, her voice husky. “Oh, he's-he's just wonderful!” she enthused. Hadas glanced away.

“I'm so pleased. How may I serve?”

Words! thought Ana. What words?

“You can invite me to a private auction,” she said lightly. “Your receptionist tells me there's one tomorrow morning at fourteenth hour. I've never been to a private auction. It sounds ... exciting.”

“Ah! Well, my dear Rani, the auction was at the special request of a certain patron—a very valued patron, you understand ... ” Her voice dripped her regrets. “However,”—the crystal brightness was back—“as co-owner of Badan-Devaki, I can invite whomever I please to our auctions. Yes, it would please me very much to invite you to this one.”

“Why, thank you, Devaki-sa. I'm looking forward to it.”

“Rani, may I ... ” Devaki paused, her voice tinged with reluctance.

“Yes?”

“Pardon me, I beg you, if I seem presumptuous, but it has long been common knowledge that the Nathu Rai Sarojin despises the buying and selling of das. Does he approve of your patronizing our dalali?”