A loud boom startles me. “What was that?”
Deven smiles at my jumpiness. “Performers. They entertain for coin.”
I crane my neck and see people assembling in a small courtyard to watch a woman dancing to a drummer’s beat. Her movements are strong and purposeful, her theatrical gaze steady and direct. Bells chime around her ankles, jingling with each rhythmic step. She aims her startling stare toward me, and I look away. My gaze snags on someone across the road with honey eyes. I freeze, and the Burner grins at me.
“Deven.” I yank his arm. “The Burner.”
“Where?” In one movement, he reaches for his sword and pushes me behind his back.
I peer around Deven and point to the spot where I saw him. “He was there.” I search the shifting crowd for his face. “He’s wearing a dark headscarf, and he has golden eyes.”
Deven’s attention jumps to me. “Golden eyes?” He returns his sharpened gaze to the market and whistles. Manas and Yatin immediately come to our side, Natesa with them. “The Burner is here. Manas, find him. Yatin and I will get the girls to the palace.”
Manas takes off, and we shoulder our way to the other end of the market. There, Deven pays a man more coin than I have ever seen for his two horses. Natesa rides with Yatin. I settle into the saddle in front of Deven. We race uphill, streaking past decrepit buildings and dirty faces. I watch for the Burner, but there are too many shadowed doorways where he could be hiding.
The scenery briefly opens to stone pavers curving down to a wide, muddy river jammed with people washing clothes and bathing. We return to the winding, enclosed streets and climb higher. Near the top of the mountainous city, a great white wall surrounds the palace.
Imperial guards spot our approach and open the golden gates. We burst inside, and Deven yanks on the reins, bringing us to a sudden halt. He helps me down and runs his hands over my shoulders.
“Are you all right?”
I nod, coldness pooling inside me. The Burner must have come to collect on our bargain. But what could he want as payment for sparing my life? Coin? Land? Valuables? Whatever he seeks, I have only the clothes on my back.
Deven grasps my upper arms. “You’re protected here, Kalinda.”
I should be grateful to be standing at the threshold of Rajah Tarek’s palace, but I am too paralyzed by trepidation about what awaits me to thank the gods for my safety.
We scale the marble steps to the main entry, Yatin and Natesa following silently.
The Turquoise Palace is a verdant oasis, everything the lackluster city below is not. Clean white walls glow in the sun. Sapphire, canary, and ruby draperies billow from lofty balconies. Warm air, thick with the perfume of evaporated morning dew and desert flowers, clings to the breeze. Tall silver-plated doors adorned with elephant faces, their gold trunks coiled into handles, mark the entrance. An imperial guard opens the door, and I step into the rajah’s stronghold.
11
Deven guides us past the grand double stairway to an arched doorway. Two imperial guards in dark uniforms with khandas slung at their hips defend its threshold. A thin copper-hued drapery blocks our view inside. My heart trips into a fall.
Rajah Tarek could be waiting within.
I am not alone in my unease. Yatin shifts on his big feet, and Natesa wrings her skirt.
Deven draws the muslin shade. “Kalinda and Natesa, follow me. Yatin, you may go.”
Natesa throws her arms around Yatin’s brawny waist, stunning me with her openness and affection. Yatin pats her head and says, “I will see you soon, little lotus.”
Natesa lets him go, and we enter the receiving hall. Translucent fabrics drape above our heads, lowering the high ceiling and bringing the massive chamber a lavish coziness. A peacock, a bird that I have seen only in books, struts across the carpet, pecking at stray sand fleas. The bird’s eye-catching feathers mimic the brilliant array of colorful floor cushions scattered about.
Deven kneels before a dais raised three hands above the ground, where a stunning young woman lounges on a gold-and-jewel-encrusted throne. She invites Natesa and me forward with the flick of her red-painted fingernail. I am suddenly aware of every granule of sand in my hair and every speck of dust on my clothes.
We pass down the silk-laden aisle. A wide-open balcony behind the dais ushers in ample daylight, which warms the smooth marble floor. The brighter lighting adjusts my first opinion of the lady’s age. Her curves are taut and sinuous, and her skin has the flawless sheen of a rose petal, but her overall look speaks of the maturity and refinement of a woman forty years through her life.
A girl about my age stands beside the lady, propping her elbow against the throne. She is dressed exquisitely. Her ebony hair is tied in a braid, ornamented with calla lilies.
“Will you introduce us, Captain?” says the seated woman, her voice a smoky purr.
Deven bows. “Kindred Lakia and Lady Anjali, this is the rajah’s final viraji and his newest courtesan.”
The kindred, the rajah’s number one wife, is the older woman. Lakia is the deadliest rani in history. The girl, Anjali, must be one of the rajah’s courtesans.
Anjali sizes up Natesa. “So you’re the viraji Tarek traveled far and wide to find.”
“You have it wrong,” Lakia says, pointing a red fingernail at me. “She was claimed to be rani.”
Anjali glances between Natesa and me. “Are you certain?”
“I’m certain it isn’t your place to correct me, Anjali.” Lakia’s voice wields an edge. “You may be one of my husband’s favored courtesans, but you are still only a courtesan. Now, leave me and the viraji alone, all of you.”
Servants so quiet and hidden that I had not seen them flee from the recesses of the hall.
Anjali steps off the platform and struts to Natesa. “I will show you to the courtesans’ wing,” she says. “It isn’t as grand as the wives’ wing, but it’s less dull.” She tries to loop her arm through Natesa’s, but Natesa wrenches away.
“You won’t be the rajah’s favored courtesan for long,” says Natesa.
Anjali smirks and forces her arm through Natesa’s, securing the crook of her elbow. “You will do just fine here.” She leads a stony Natesa to the door, and Deven follows.
“Captain,” Lakia calls, “please escort them to their wing and return here.”
Deven hesitates and then ducks out. I brace myself against the kindred’s hard, glittering gaze and pray that he returns quickly.
Lakia sweeps her gold-embroidered silk sari behind her and steps off the pedestal. “What’s your name?”
“Kalinda.”
The kohl lining her eyes makes them look tapered. “No surname?”
“I’m certain I have one, but I never met my parents.”
Lakia fingers my sandy headscarf and then brushes off her hands. “Remove it.”
I do, letting my hair hang loose. She circles me, and the peacock struts behind me. “I am the kindred. Do you know what that means?”