He leaps over the balcony. I rush to the railing and look down at the shadowed garden. The Burner is gone; he has vanished, like a quenched fire without a trace of smoke.

21

Yatin enters my chamber the next morning. Asha finishes brushing my hair, and I go meet him at the door.

“Did you find Jaya?”

“She sends her apologies. Her husband forbids her to see you, but she wishes you luck in the tournament.”

I set my jaw. Gautam forbids Jaya to see me? We will see about that.

“Thank you, Yatin. I’m ready to go now.”

I took my tonic this morning. Though the Burner’s warning rang clear in my mind, I could not afford to be feverish.

Asha adjusts a fold of my skirt. The gold sari swathes me like a cloud, the silver embroidery along my bodice the ethereal lining. Strokes of kohl line the corners of my eyes, and juice stains my lips red. Asha has outdone herself, but this illusion of glamour cannot ease my anxiety. Today is the first day of the tournament.

Yatin and Manas escort me to the main foyer. Imperial guards are stationed every few feet down the maze of corridors. More guards border the grand entrance hall, which is swarming with ranis and courtesans, all buzzing about today’s scheduled battles.

I notice two things about the guards. First, none of them is Deven. Second, every guard is on edge.

“What’s going on?” I ask Manas.

He answers a rung above a whisper. “An intruder tried to break into the rajah’s chambers early this morning. We’re still looking for him.”

I scan the guards. Did the Burner leave me and go to the rajah’s rooms to search for the Zhaleh? Whether he did or did not, I cannot fathom how we will meet again with every guard in the palace looking for him.

Imperial guards descend the grand stairway, Rajah Tarek between them. Tarek is dressed exquisitely in a gold tunic coat, with a silver paisley print, over dark trousers. A satin turban is wound around his head. I had thought that Asha wanted me to look my best for the people of Vanhi, but now I see that she dressed me to match our ruler.

The rajah draws the attention of every woman in the hall, but he comes to me. “You’re more beautiful every day, love.” He kisses my cheek, souring my stomach. Even at this early hour, he smells of apong and another woman’s perfume. Tarek rubs a circle on my hip. “I’m a patient man, but I don’t know if I can wait until our wedding night.”

I lower my eyes in disgust. I can wait a thousand lives.

With his hand on my waist, he steers me down the palace steps into the open courtyard. To the east, the early sun charges into the sky with the glory of a desert god. On the other side of the gates, people press against the divide, cheering for the ranis and courtesans surging out of the palace behind us. I glance over my shoulder, uncomfortable to have my contenders at my back. Any of them could have slipped the asp into my bed. I do not know them well enough to definitively say who, but the most likely contender is Anjali. She could not stay out of Tarek’s lap last night, and she clearly wants to be one of his wives.

Across the way, Anjali speaks with a group of courtesans. I search her face for surprise that I am alive, but she does not glance in my direction.

The courtyard teems with servants, soldiers, and imperial guards. Among them are exotic animals I have seen only in books. Tarek stops before an elephant with shoulders nearly as tall as the outer wall. A howdah, a box carriage with a red silk canopy, is belted to the back of the beast.

“We are riding that?” I ask Tarek over the din.

“I assure you it’s safe.”

Servants push a rolling staircase up to the elephant’s side, and we climb into the high, swaying carriage decorated with winking rubies. As I sit in the top-heavy howdah, I twist to see a line of four more elephants behind us. Four carriers are tied to their backs, one for each of the rajah’s favored four.

Lakia climbs another rolling set of stairs into her howdah. She hates me more than all of my challengers combined, but she did not slip the asp into my bed. Lakia wants the tournament over with almost as much as I do. Killing me before I wed the rajah would force Tarek to claim yet another viraji to be his final rani, as I am not yet his wife, and this extravaganza of death would start all over again.

Imperial guards assemble the rest of the ranis and courtesans. They will either walk to the amphitheater or ride on camels adorned with gold-tasseled saddles. From above the disorder, I scan for my guards. Yatin has found Natesa and hovers near her side. Manas hoists the Tarachand Empire’s scorpion banner. I cannot see Deven. His absence should not bother me, but we left off so abruptly yesterday that I am concerned that he thinks I am angry with him. Perhaps Taline’s execution has changed his mind about staying on as my guard.

Tarek swallows a drink from a flask that was waiting in the carrier. “Kali, you are quiet.”

His neutral tone puts me on edge. I immediately smooth out my frown. “I asked my guards to help me set up a meeting with Gautam’s wife. The general married my friend Jaya. Remember her from skill trials?”

“Ah, yes. Natesa cut her cheek.”

Because of you. I pinch off my resentment before it pours from my voice. “I would very much like to see her. Could you arrange it?”

He kisses my cheek. “For you, love. Anything.”

My smile of gratitude doubles as one of gloating. Gautam will have to let me see Jaya now.

A gong sounds, and then a dozen servants heave the gold palace doors open. An infantry troop clears the way, their horses pushing back people to clear the road. The sky and ground jerk as the howdah rocks side to side with the elephant’s impressive strides. I clench the passengers’ bar in front of me and pray that I do not fall out. Tarek grins, his boyish delight genuine. I can scarcely believe that he is the feared rajah of the Tarachand Empire.

Vanhi’s streets are hardly passable. Clay huts clump together behind peasants standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the roadway—children, men, and women all clamoring for a view.

“Viraji!” they cry, waving the empire’s red-and-black flag.

Their adoration stuns me. Not long ago I was a lowly temple ward. I have not accomplished anything to secure such adulation.

“Wave to your admirers,” says Tarek. “They believe you to be Enlil’s hundredth rani reincarnated. You are a legend come to life.”

I fight off a frown. I want to tell them that I am no such hero, but their belief in what I represent stops me. I cannot rob their faith in the gods. Smiling tightly, I wave to their dirty faces. Many wave back with arms so skinny that they could be staffs and with robes that have more holes in them than the roads. The gaudiness and wealth of our procession shames me. One ruby off this howdah could feed a family for many moons, yet no peasant dares cross the barrier of armed soldiers to filch one. Tarek may be able to sit on a gold throne and not despise himself, but I cannot.

While Tarek is turned away, I rip a handful of rubies off the side of the howdah and toss them to the crowd. The gems rain down on the people, and a ripple of recognition travels fast. Needy hands and bodies swarm over each other in a mad dash for the jewels. Soldiers dismount their horses and barge in to break up the riot.

“What is the disturbance?” Tarek calls down to a guard.

“The viraji threw rubies into the streets,” his man reports.

Tarek slides his arm around my shoulders. “Wasn’t that charitable?” he says for all to hear. His guards return to their duties, and Tarek’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Do you mean to infuriate me?”

“I meant to devote them to you, Your Majesty.” My lie tastes like dust on my tongue. More soldiers stop to tear apart the mob.

“You needn’t throw them jewels to gain their devotion. My people love me. Do you know why?” Rajah Tarek kisses my earlobe, his lips hovering there. To all the world, we are lovers sharing an intimate conversation. “I give them what they hunger for most. Not bread or clothes or coin.” His intrusive voice fills my head. “I give them the rank tournaments. I give them blood.”

Almost an hour after leaving the palace, the amphitheater’s rounded walls soar into view. Spectators stream through the open gates stationed around the exterior of the mighty stone-and-brick structure. Our elephant rocks to a stop beside a high-arched entry, and servants push forth a staircase for us to climb down.

On the ground, I look out over the mass of people, their faces as numerous as grains of sand. Tarek takes my hand and lifts it into the air. Our audience hurrahs, and then he and I lead the court procession through the entry and into the dim corridors of the amphitheater.

The imperial box is at the center of one of the narrower ends of the oval stadium, set apart from the other tiers by solid stone walls. A flat marble platform—the podium—spans the area below us. Tarek’s wives and courtesans gather on the first tier, vying for the best view of the arena. Two more tiers rise to our right and left, circling the stadium. The benefactors occupy the second tier. Most are already deep into their cups, despite the morning hour. The third and highest tier is for the lower class.

A tattered canopy shades a portion of the tiers, and above its flimsy ceiling, brass gongs gleam as golden moons. I stare in amazement at the incredible breadth of the amphitheater and sea of people. The whole population of the City of Gems must be here. Tarek sits on his throne and motions for me to occupy the one to his left. Lakia takes the throne to his right. The rest of his court will watch from the terrace below.

Drummers emerge from an underground level through metal gates. They strike up a marching cadence and cross the arena, their music silencing the audience. The hand drummers form a line before the imperial box and thump their final beat.

In the sudden stillness, Rajah Tarek approaches the banister and addresses his people. “Welcome to my hundredth viraji’s rank tournament!”

Thousands of spectators answer with deafening applause. The benefactors are the loudest, pounding their feet. They are why Deven did not want me to think that he enjoyed attending the tournament. He is not the sort of man who belongs here.