In the corner, a slim woman in a yellow sari reclines on a woven-grass bench. Mathura’s stately elegance places her just under forty, slightly younger than Lakia. She is lovelier than the kindred. Her kindly countenance lacks Lakia’s jealousy. I join Mathura and look over the other bathers.
“Don’t be concerned with anyone noticing you. They’re preoccupied with their own business.” Mathura smokes a handheld pipe and stretches out her legs. Through her gauzy trousers, I see a scar on her right knee. She notices me staring at it. “Lakia challenged me to a tournament duel. The steam helps with the ache; the pipe helps with the memory.”
“I thought ranis only challenge other ranis.”
Mathura puffs on her pipe and exhales a stream of smoke. “The kindred can challenge any courtesan or rani. The ranis do not duel to the death, but until first blood or one of them concedes. Otherwise the rajah would lose too many wives in the tournaments. Lakia has no need to challenge us courtesans, and only does so for sport—or, in my case, to prove a point. I could have refused, but striking her was too tempting.” Mathura smiles and offers me her pipe.
“No, thank you. What was Lakia trying to prove?”
“That she’s the best. Yasmin’s spirit will always haunt her. Lakia would not have married Tarek if it weren’t for her older sister.”
“I thought the rajah claimed them at the same time.”
“He did—at Yasmin’s request. She would not leave her younger sister behind.”
My arms ache for Jaya, and my mind replays our final moments together in the temple. I must return for her. “What happened to Yasmin?”
Mathura glances at a couple coming in. “Not here. Follow me.” Hobbling along on her ruined knee, she leads me out a side door to a hushed corridor. I link my arm through hers to steady her. “Thank you,” she says. “My son did not exaggerate your virtues, Viraji.”
“If the captain claims I have virtues, then he was exaggerating.”
She laughs. “I admire your modesty. Humility is the most undervalued godly virtue.” Mathura’s mouth tugs downward. “I’m becoming an old crone. Someday Tarek will tire of me and sell me.”
“He would do that?”
“On rare occasion, when select courtesans grow old or ill, or an injury interferes with their duties, they can be granted a pension for their years of service and released. More often, we are sold or gifted to less powerful benefactors. But no one else massages Tarek’s feet like I do, so he keeps me.”
I glance askance at Mathura’s arresting face and take in her calming spirit. I doubt that foot massages are the only reason he retains her.
We step onto a balcony overlooking Vanhi. We are so high that the rustle of palm tree leaves in the garden comes from below. The landscape here is desolate in comparison to that of the verdant Alpanas, but where life blooms, the desert’s splendor is unmatched.
“This is the closest I get to the city.” Mathura rests against the balcony edge and stares at peaks of terra-cotta roofs under the moonlight. “Tarek took me in when I was your age. Yasmin and I were raised in the same temple. She was two years older than me. Lakia was a year older than me.”
“How did Yasmin die?”
“In childbirth.” Mathura’s brow is marked with grief. “After the delivery, there was a misunderstanding. Tarek was told their baby was alive, but when he went to see them, Yasmin and his son were dead. Tarek was inconsolable. He drank to ease his heartache, but that only unlocked his temper. After Yasmin died, he summoned women to his bedchamber and took pleasure in causing them pain.”
I cross my arms over my flip-flopping stomach and grip my elbows.
Mathura stares out at the city unseeingly. “One day, Tarek gathered his women of court and declared that he was reinstituting the rank tournaments. Many centuries ago, Tarek’s ancestor had abolished the tournaments when Ki’s sister warriors refused to battle each other, but Tarek took in dozens of wives and forced them into the arena.”
My mind struggles to absorb her every word. The sisters had never spoken of a hiatus in tournaments. They led us to believe that rank tournaments were a certainty and had operated continuously since the days of Enlil’s hundredth rani.
“The women would not fight,” Mathura continues. “So Tarek set archers above to shoot resisters. Those first tournaments were dark days, but tonight, Tarek was the happiest I have seen him since Yasmin was alive.”
I touch a finger to my pinched windpipe. Though I have removed Tarek’s gift, the spirit of his first rani’s necklace remains corded around my throat.
Mathura regards me. “They say you’re Enlil’s hundredth rani reincarnated and you will be the greatest rani in all of Tarachand.”
I shift away from the railing. “People say a lot of foolish things.”
“Even so, the women of court are watching you. Tarek has never changed the tournament rules for anyone. His fondness for you will incite jealousy in some and inflame anger in others.” Mathura offers me a sheathed dagger that she had hidden at her side. The robin’s-egg-turquoise handle is the same color as the necklace Tarek gave me. “It was Yasmin’s.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“The second I saw you stand up to Tarek in the declaration ceremony, I knew you were sent by the gods. I have never seen anyone do that, except for Yasmin. It seems appropriate that you should have her dagger. Carry it with you. The tournament isn’t so much about what takes place in the arena as what happens in the palace.”
“Thank you.” I slip the sheathed blade against my hip, my fingers trembling. “Will someone try to sabotage me?”
“Almost certainly.” Mathura looks out over the city. “Not all of us come from temples. Anjali is cocky now, but she was scrounging up gutter scraps in the street when Tarek found her. Life as a courtesan is an improvement for most. Here we have food, shelter, clothes. That’s more than we had outside the palace. If it were not for the ranis, none of us would know life could be any better. This would be as good as any girl could hope for.”
Mathura’s gaze pulls inward. She and the other courtesans serve the rajah for the same kind of reason that I participated in the Claiming. I owe everything to the Sisterhood and our benefactors, just as the courtesans owe all to Rajah Tarek. I do not understand why the gods have made it so that every woman’s lot in life is to owe her security to a man. Maybe if it were otherwise, we would not put up with them. But is silent obedience our divine role? Or has Tarek undermined the very strength the Sisterhood was built upon? I cannot discern the gods’ will from men’s; the layers of truth are too muddled together.
“I don’t blame my challengers for wanting more,” I say. “I would too.” And I do. I want what I have always wanted—freedom to decide my own fate and live in peace.