They lay tangled in their sheets, her leg across his, her head on his arm, his hand in her hair. From the open window the night wind bore in the scents of blooming and rotting flowers mixed with the more distant tang of smelted ore from the foundry located a short walk from the palace; this single reminder kept it apparent that the appearance of peace was illusory, for otherwise the whole of the city of Devapur presented the semblance of prosperity and the outward display of invulnerability.

In the fortnight since they had arrived at Devapur, Sanat Ji Mani and Tulsi had settled into a kind of routine, visiting Hasin Dahele every few days, having polite discussions that seemed to be cordial enough but without much substance; occasionally the poet Vayu Ede joined them, but most of the time he did not, preferring what seemed to be chance encounters in the corridors, or after sunset in the gardens. The servants of the palace treated Sanat Ji Mani and Tulsi with respect, presenting them with more fine new clothes and offering them savory meals: generally they were left to their own devices so long as they remained inside the palace grounds; Sanat Ji Mani had not yet been able to discover what Vayu Ede had meant: I know who you are.

Tulsi stirred, blinked at Sanat Ji Mani, and settled down on his shoulder. "You were not asleep, were you?"

He gave a single, small shake to his head. "I sleep very little."

She laughed softly. "And during the day."

"Whenever possible," he said.

She considered him seriously, contemplating his attractive, irregular features in the spill of moonlight. "Tonight would make four times," she said after a long silence.

"Yes; it would," he agreed. The silken sheets rippled on his silkwrapped shoulder like water; he did his best to smile at her, curious to discover what she intended.

"I would still be safe from you, would I not?" She laid one hand on his cheek where he had shaven off his beard.

"Yes, for this time and the next. After that, you would become one of my blood upon your death," he reminded her. He shifted a little so that his night-robe would not bind against his arm.

"I understand that," she said. "Does that mean we can only make love six times, and then must stop?"

"No. There is no limit on how often while you live if you are willing to come to my life later. If you are not, then five times is all you can be sure is safe. Six times generally ensures you will come to my life when you die." He said nothing more, waiting for her to decide.

"Well, tonight at least, let us make love. I have now and another time before I must make a final decision, do I not?" She stretched to kiss him, all the hesitation that had worked upon her now gone; her mouth was eager on his, her lips open, her tongue busy. Her hand slid into the top of his robe, moving over his deep chest and down to the top of his scars. Breaking off the kiss, she said, "I cannot imagine how dreadful this must have been."

"It was: dreadful." He did not stop her touching the white band of skin, although he found it unnerving.

"You must have suffered a lot," she went on, still keeping her hand on the hard, white skin. "They took so much."

"I do not remember it well," he lied; the event remained vivid in his memory through all the centuries since it happened. "I know I howled with the pain of it."

"So did my father-he howled," said Tulsi, and moved to kiss him again.

Evading her kiss, Sanat Ji Mani said, "I hope it did not last long, for both your sakes," with a depth of feeling that surprised Tulsi; little as he liked to admit it, he was troubled by combining such memories with their awakening passion.

"It seemed ages and ages, but it was just an afternoon," she answered, staring at the bright wedge of moonlight that lit the foot of their bed. "I can still remember the smell."

"You should not have had to see it," said Sanat Ji Mani. "You should not have been there."

"Timur-i commanded that everyone see," said Tulsi. "I hid some of the time, but I heard it all." She put her hand on his chest. "Do you not want me to become one of your blood, Sanat Ji Mani-is that it?"

"No, it is not," said Sanat Ji Mani. "If I wanted that, I would never have touched you, no matter how famished I became."

She stared at him for a while. "You are a very strange creature, Sanat Ji Mani," she said finally, and resumed the seductive movements of her hand, but this time staying above the line of scar tissue, along his chest and shoulder, softly insistent. "I still want to know why-why would you not take what you needed from me? We were all alone on the road. No one would have stopped you."

"Because," he said as patiently as he could, growing tired of repetition, "I wanted more than your blood. If you doubt that now-"

"No," she said, stifling a giggle. "I just like to hear you say it: you want more."

He touched her face tenderly. "Never doubt it." At the back of his compelling eyes was an ancient pain, one that took her unaware.

"Have I upset you?" She moved closer to him, seeking consolation as much as wanting to bestow it. "I did not mean to."

"It is not you, Tulsi; it is something from long before I knew you," he said, remembering Nicoris, and how she died the True Death.

"It is another woman," said Tulsi with an irritated tinge to her words. "It is, Sanat Ji Mani. Do not lie to me."

"No; I will not lie." He fingered the opening of her silken robe. "I was recalling another woman, yes, but not in comparison." It was far more complicated than that, but he did not know how to explain it without causing Tulsi distress.

"I cannot believe that. Why else would you think of her now?" She pushed herself up so that she was half-sitting beside him, both hands joined and holding her raised knee.

"I would think of her because she, too, did not want to believe my love." He said it simply, making no excuses, offering no larger explanation.

"Was she like me?" Tulsi demanded.

"No: no one is like you, or like her," said Sanat Ji Mani, his eyes on hers until she looked away. "Tulsi?"

Tulsi considered this for several moments, her expression distant. Then she looked down at him. "I have a favor to ask of you, Sanat Ji Mani."

"I will do it if I am able. What is it?" The steady assurance in his response gave her the courage to go on.

"For tonight, and the next night, can we pretend I am the only woman? The only one you have ever had, or ever will have? That there have been no others?" The plaintiveness of her request moved him.

"You do not want me to lie," he pointed out, "and that would be lying."

Outside the window a night-bird began to sing, its liquid melody pouring out through the garden, as sweet as a serenade; Sanat Ji Mani had an instant's recollection of being a troubador in France, fifty years before, and wishing he had been able to improvise just such a wonderful song then.

"No," she protested. "It would be pretending. I know there have been others and will be others, but just for now, let me pretend that I am the only one. Please."

Sanat Ji Mani was uncertain how to answer her. "I cannot deny the love I have had, as I cannot deny loving you."

"I do not ask you to deny it," she said, exasperation making her curt.

"You want me to pretend," he said before she could repeat it. "You would like me to have my love be for you and no one else."

"Yes. Tonight, and the next time we lie together. Say you love me and only me. Or, if you cannot do that, say nothing of anyone else. If there is a time after that, I know it will have to be different. But I want you to see: I have never had someone who was mine alone. I would like to know what it is like." She leaned toward him a bit, laying her hand along his face. "You can do this; I know you can."

"But almost no one has had someone who was theirs and theirs alone, even the women in the hareems have children, if they are fortunate, as well as their husbands, and devoted as they are to the man they have married, they defend their children most constantly," Sanat Ji Mani said. "To suppose otherwise is an illusion; and those who do have one and only one person to complement their lives are not always pleased with the arrangement."

"I do not care," she said petulantly.

"It would lessen what we are to each other," he said as kindly as he could. "Why do you ask it of me?"

She tossed her head, letting her hair fall about her shoulders in soft disarray. "It is what I want: is it so impossible?"

Sanat Ji Mani rolled onto his side and laid his hand on her joined ones. "No, Tulsi. It is not impossible," he said, his voice low. "All right. If you like, tonight there is just you and me, no one else, ever. I will love you and only you."

She sighed. "Thank you." Beneath his hand, her fingers loosened.

"Do you know what else you want?" He carried her nearer hand to his lips, kissing each finger and then the palm.

"Yes, and I know I cannot have it," she said, glancing at him and away, pulling her hand out of his.

"Ah. You would prefer me not to be impotent," he said with understanding sympathy. "That I cannot change." He was surprised that she would be willing to set aside her dread of pregnancy for him, but also suspected that one of the reasons she wished for it was its safe impossibility.

In the garden, the serenade had become a duet, two birds twining melodies together in an endless string of variations. They rhapsodized leggiadrously, expanding their song as they went, as if to enchant the whole palace with their spell.

"It is unfortunate," said Tulsi, and added nothing more.

Sanat Ji Mani let himself be charmed by the birds, eventually reaching out to Tulsi, running his hand along the silk covering her arm. "This is lovely cloth, but your skin is far more exquisite."

Tulsi began to smile. "Do you like it, really? My hands are rough from my work." She looked down at her short, blunt nails and her worn palms with their calluses and healed cuts.

"Not so rough that they are incapable of caresses," he said, seeking to give her the sense of satisfaction she longed for.

"Perhaps, if you have not had softer," she murmured.

"I will not make comparisons," said Sanat Ji Mani.

"Then I will: I have seen the Rajput's women once or twice; they are like wonderful flowers. I am a weed." Tulsi pointed to the well-defined muscles in her leg. "I am not soft and pliant as they are."

"Oh, you are pliant," said Sanat Ji Mani with a hint of laughter. "I have seen you bend backward, balance on your forearms, and rest your feet on your head. As beautiful as the Rajput's women may be, they are incapable of half your feats."

"That is not what I meant," said Tulsi, trying to look haughty and instead appearing vainglorious. She quickly changed her demeanor. "I sometimes wish I could be more like them."

"From what I know of you, you would enjoy it for a day or two, and then the restrictions would chafe at you and you would long for the market-place and a crowd to watch your tumbling," said Sanat Ji Mani. "You are too free-spirited for the life those women live. Think how confined they are."

"They are confined," she agreed, "but they are cared for."

He studied her face, trying to find the source of her distress. "That they are, because they must be," he said, tracing the line of her brow, her cheek, her jaw with one delicate finger. "They cannot manage for themselves."

"They are freer than the women of a hareem," said Tulsi, following the movement of his finger as if it left a trail of scented oil. She arched into the caress as a cat would, doing her utmost to feel the whole of his touch.

"While that is true, it is also an admission of limitation," said Sanat Ji Mani, continuing down her neck to her collar-bone, tracing its elegant bend from neck to shoulder and back again, unhurried and sensuous.

"I could not live in a hareem," Tulsi admitted, and took a sharp breath as his finger began to descend through the loose opening of her robe.

"No, I do not think you could," said Sanat Ji Mani, opening his small hand so all his fingers were touching her, moving between her breasts; Sanat Ji Mani rose enough to be able to face her, both hands now working on her flesh without haste, luxurious as the feel of silk, but more persuasive; her robe was open from top to bottom, giving him access to her body and concealing her flesh at the same time. All the while he watched her face, seeing every nuance of expression and using it as a guide to her gratification.

"Why is it?" Tulsi asked suddenly, "That women must be wholly subjected to men? I know the priests say it is what their gods all command, but they are men themselves."

"That they are," said Sanat Ji Mani, still stroking her. "You are not so very subjected to men, are you."

"Not as much as many women; they do not even think about it, do they?" she conceded. "But I am still-It is unfair."

"Yes. It is unfair," he agreed.

"And there is no way to avoid it," she said. "If I am to be with you, it must be as your woman."

"That is not what I want, Tulsi." Sanat Ji Mani regarded her steadily. "I do not think it will satisfy you."

"I want all this with you, and more, but I do not want to capitulate to my desires." She stopped his hands and half-closed her robe.

"I wish you were more able to trust me," said Sanat Ji Mani, watching her with dawning ruefulness in his eyes. "I cannot undo what has been done, but I am sorry I cannot bridge the gap. You deserve better."

"It is not a lack of trust, exactly," she said.

"What is it, then?" he asked.

She took a little time to gather her courage. "If I come to your life, I will not have to devote myself to you, will I?"

Sanat Ji Mani shook his head. "No; you will have to make your own life. All those of my blood must do so. Those who do not," he added, wincing inwardly at the image of Csimenae, "put themselves and all of our kind in danger."

She nodded. "I see." For a short while she sat unmoving, then she took his hands in hers. "Go on. I want you to go on."

He recommenced his ministrations, still moving slowly, all the while contemplating her face. "I will not demand anything of you that you do not wish to give, now or ever; I do not love that way," he promised her. "It would appall me if you suffered on my account any more than you have already." Gradually he eased her robe open again.

Tulsi's eyes were half-closed. "Better wandering the roads with you than riding in a wagon with Timur-i's army," she murmured.

For a response, he moved a little closer to her, using his lips to accentuate what his hands were doing, to enhance the pleasure he gave; her shivers and sighs marked his progress and led him to more discoveries as the silken robe brushed against his face. He did not speak, concentrating instead on unspoken things, and their touching, where sensation blurred and ran between them, anticipating the moment of fusion when their contact would reach to the depths of their souls.

"How do you ..." She paused as new feelings awakened in her, some of them in her body, some in a more remote quarter, "um ... do you ... you ..." She was silent but for her deepened breathing.

He did not shift his position, but he broadened his search; his hands moved leisurely, deliciously, from her breasts to her hips and back again, never demanding, never intrusive; he felt her begin to move with his hands, and ardor glowed in his dark eyes. His mouth grazed her taut belly and moved lower, gradually working his way to her opening legs. He found the nubbin that awakened to his touch, thrumming as wonderfully as the birds' song. Lingeringly he began to draw out the first trembling prelude to fulfillment; he would not rush her, and so, when her release came, he did not cease his coaxing, but continued to evoke pleasure from her until a second, more intense culmination shook her the length of her body and to the limits of her passion. He cradled her in his arms, their bodies touching from neck to knee, while her elation reached its greatest peak of intimacy, then began to fade; he lifted his head from her neck.

Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed with the enormity of her abandon, and the joy that suffused her face was like sunlight. Gradually she returned to herself, opening her eyes slowly, as if reluctant to give up the rapture she had achieved. "I did not know," she said at last.

"I hoped," said Sanat Ji Mani, still holding her close to him.

"Nothing ever-" She moved enough to be able to lean forward and kiss him; in the garden the birds' song seemed suddenly very loud. "You never told me-"

"There are things that cannot be told, only felt," Sanat Ji Mani said, kissing her gently on the arch of her brow.

"But how did you know?" She put her hands on the back of his neck and held their faces less than a thumb's-length apart. "You knew."

"I hoped," he repeated, meeting her luminous gaze with his own.

She took a deep breath. "The other times this did not happen, not this way. It was pleasant before, very pleasant, and I was satisfied. But this-"

"I had not yet made myself trustworthy to you," Sanat Ji Mani told her. "I am honored that you are willing to trust me."

"How can this be a question of trust? Why should trust matter?" she asked, and brought one hand around to stop him from speaking. "Do not tell me anything. I do not want to be told. I will think about it, and then you and I will discuss what I have learned, when I understand more than I do now."

He nodded. "If this is what you want," he said around her fingers.

"It is," she said, letting go of him and lying back, her happiness already diminished by what she knew was around her. "I feel as if I could fly off into the night, that I could fly across the world."

"A wonderful feeling," he said, stretching out beside her.

She stared up at the ceiling. "I wonder if I am dreaming, if all this is nothing more than a sleep-vision, and that I will wake in the morning and it will fade; I will forget it all, and you will have no notion what I mean when I say that you lifted me out of the world." She smiled her contentment. "Even if it is only a dream, it is a splendid one."

Sanat Ji Mani touched her nearer hand. "It is no dream. In the morning you may be sure of it."

Suddenly her eyes opened and she turned to him in alarm. "When we do this, it does not hurt your foot, does it?"

He chuckled. "No, Tulsi, it does not hurt my foot." In fact, he added to himself, the nourishment she provided would help to heal the lag-mending wound.

"Oh. Good." She closed her eyes once more, and sprawled back on the cushions at the head of the bed. "This had better not be a dream."

"My Word on it; it is not," he said, his voice deep and sweet. "If you doubt it, touch your neck and you will know better."

She murmured a few fragments of words as she succumbed to slumber; her breathing grew regular, her body relaxed, and her face softened. After a little while, she said, "Loving," and a bit later, she added, "Keep safe."

Sanat Ji Mani lay beside her hardly moving, his body still feeling the last thrill of their intimacy; he kept watching her and listening to the birds with their limitless improvisation; the moonlight slid across the bed and started up the far wall before the sky paled and the nightbirds gave way to the dawn chorus of day-thriving creatures. All the while he could not rid himself of the conviction that he and Tulsi were under observation, a thought that made him uneasy. As dawn broke in the east, Sanat Ji Mani rose long enough to shutter the window, and to return to the bed for a morning of slumber.

When he awoke, Tulsi was busy practicing her tumbling and acrobatics in the limited space of their room. Sitting up in bed, Sanat Ji Mani watched her, admiring the limberness and strength of her body, and the expert control she had achieved.

Although she did not stop her work, she said to him, "You had better ask the servants for food. They will wonder if you do not."

"What would you like to eat?" Sanat Ji Mani asked as he rose from the bed.

"A little fruit and some fowl. I have had breakfast already, some time ago." She did a back-flip, then sank into the splits. "I need to practice in a larger space."

"I will see what can be arranged." He shed his robe and reached for the loose pyjamas of embroidered dark-red silk the Rajput had provided him. Dressing quickly, he was just buttoning the front of the long, skirted tunic when a palace servant presented himself to ask for his orders. "I would like some fruit and a leg of fowl, if you would."

The servant pressed his palms together and bowed double, saying, "At once, Honored Guest."

As soon as the servant was gone, Tulsi sighed. "I wish I knew the language they speak. I recognize a few words, but for the most part, I might as well be deaf and mute." She brought one leg up along her body and guided her foot behind her head. "In this place they are not so impressed with these postures," she said as she did the same with the other leg. "Their mystics tie themselves in all manner of knots. I would not bother to practice them, but I must keep working to retain my flexibility."

"A sensible precaution," said Sanat Ji Mani. "It may not impress the people of Devapur, but it impresses me."

"Then I shall continue," she announced, and got herself out of her tangle of limbs. "Could you teach me to speak their tongue?"

"I do not speak it expertly," he reminded her. "But I can help you to learn a few phrases that can be useful." He sat down on the hassock farthest away from the window. "If you decide to come to my life, you will need to learn how to acquire a language, so you can travel more easily." He contemplated the air. "First, listen to the habitual words: greetings, affirmations, negations, names. This will give you a feel for the forms of the language. Then learn the words for specific things, such as the foods you like, landmarks, clothing, and all manner of things. With that much you can make yourself understood at a rudimentary level. Then you need the words of action: give, take, move, put down, and all the rest."

"I know a few words; I have figured them out. I can recognize a number of names, or perhaps titles. But I do not know enough to use them." She was walking on her hands, approaching and retreating.

"Listen carefully, and you will learn more," said Sanat Ji Mani. "When the servant brings the food, pay attention to what he says, and we will discuss it when he has gone."

"Very well," she agreed, hopping along on her hands. "You should have seen me perform for Timur-i-I would go through six hoops of fire, each one in a different way, and end up on a pole, holding myself out to the side, like a banner in a stiff wind. He gave me silver coins for doing it. I mistimed once, and set my hair on fire."

"What did Timur-i do?" Sanat Ji Mani asked, looking at her askance.

"He laughed," she said. "Timur-i finds the misfortunes of others amusing." There was no condemnation in her tone, no self-pity in her demeanor. "He gave me extra coins because I finished the performance."

"As well he might," said Sanat Ji Mani. "You were in grave danger."

"Not so much as those who work with bears, or tigers." She sat down not far from him. "I have seen a tiger swipe a man's head off with a playful pat. The worst that has ever happened to me was a broken arm, years ago; my parents were still alive. One of the farriers set it, and it healed straight and true."

"You were lucky," he said.

"Not so very much: if the farrier had bungled the work, Timur-i would have had him stoned to death." Tulsi shrugged. "He does not accept failure."

"That is apparent," Sanat Ji Mani agreed, looking up as there came a knock at the door. "Yes? Who is it."

"I have brought your food, Honored Guest," said the servant, his voice raised only enough to carry through the door.

"How much of that did you understand?" Sanat Ji Mani asked Tulsi quietly, calling out, "I will come shortly."

"I think he said food and called you what all the servants call you," she replied.

"Very good." He got up and went to the door where the servant was waiting with a brass tray. "I will take that."

"Let me, Honored Guest," the servant protested.

"You are kind, but among those of my blood, eating is a private thing. I thank you for bringing this. I will return it when I am done," Sanat Ji Mani said as he took the tray from the servant's hands. He was about to step back into his room when something occurred to him. "Why is the foundry so busy?"

"The foundry?" The servant seemed mildly surprised by the question. "They are making weapons. I thought you knew."

Sanat Ji Mani shook his head. "Why are they doing that?"

"In your honor." The servant bowed deeply. "We are preparing for war."

Text of a report from Azizi Iniattir at Sirpur to Rustam Iniattir in Fustat.

To my most excellent kinsman and worthy uncle, the greetings of your obedient nephew at Sirpur, and the prayers of my family for the welfare and happiness of your own.

The goods you shipped to me have arrived and I am eager to get them to the markets around me and on to those our caravans can reach, particularly the textiles and the fine vessels. These are unlike most seen in this region, as you know, and for that reason alone should fetch a good price. I shall set my older sons to making arrangements for the sale of these items. As to the jewelry from Venice-wherever that may be-I do not know what market we may discover for them. They are unlike what is worn here, but their novelty may be enough to create interest in the pieces. As you say, they are small and can bring a good price for each piece-providing someone wants them.

I am waiting for the arrival of our caravan to Assam, for there should be goods in those chests that will be most useful to you. I would like to think that you will be able to sell jade where you are, and the brass bells that so many caravan-drivers like. I have also been told that there will be some fine knives and daggers in that load, and those most surely will be good items for you to offer to the merchants of Fustat.

I anticipate sending a new shipment to you after the dark of the year, which is coming more rapidly than I would like to admit. Soon it will be a full year since Timur-i sacked Delhi and all our of family was thrown into confusion. I cannot yet grasp the enormity of that event, although I have seen for myself its impact upon the land and on the people. I will include in the shipment as much information as I have been able to piece together about what has befallen those who were residents of Delhi and have been scattered to the winds as if they were seeds in a field. I have asked the caravan-leaders to make inquiry wherever they go, and I am gradually assembling enough information that it could be useful, and that I will gladly pass on to you.

The rains are heavy this year; since they began in midsummer, we have had to deal with flooding. Already we have been taxed to help pay for a replacement bridge and to clear a landslide from the road. I do not often want to lay our money, but in these instances, the results will benefit me and our family, and so I have sent double the amount to the Rajput here, with the request that half of it be held in reserve against other emergencies. I am certain this degree of participation in the welfare of this region will stand us in good stead at other times.

We are beginning to hope that our fortunes will be restored in part before another two years pass-that is, if there are no new battles or plagues to impinge on our business and to rob us of our caravans. I have made offerings to gain us the favor of Light, as I know you must have done. I do not want to see us in such straits as we have been, and I am prepared to devote myself to bringing about our complete restoration of wealth and reputation. I ask you to join me in this venture, for without you, I cannot do any of this without placing myself beyond the family, which it is not my intention to do. When you have decided, send me word, and I will abide by your edict; I also pray that your thoughts are in accord with mine, so that all our family may prosper and flourish once again.

With all respect and devotion, I dispatch this to you with the ardent hope that you will have it in hand before the dark of the year is sixty days gone.

Azizi Iniattir

Merchant of Sirpur