A Feast In Exile

"I have been thinking about what you told me," said Avasa Dani as she leaned over Sanat Ji Mani, her arms going around his neck from behind; it was a still evening, with the lingering heat of the day drawing the aroma of flowers and greenery into the air, so that the library of his house smelled of jasmine and ginger.

"And what was that?" Sanat Ji Mani countered, turning his head to kiss her before rolling up the scroll open before him.

"About what would happen to me if you and I were to fulfill our needs together again; I have had many weeks to consider what you said." She rested her head on his shoulder, her arms remaining around him. "You said that if we lie together one more time, I would partake of your nature, and become like you upon my death if my body was not beheaded or burned."

"Or your spine severed in any other way," Sanat Ji Mani said somberly; he put the scroll aside and swung around to face her. "It is not something to consider lightly."

"So you informed me," she said, and kissed his brow. "I would have to live on the passion of the living, and their blood. I would have to avoid full sunlight unless I was guarded by my native earth. I would not be able to cross running water. It is all very troubling," she admitted. "The more I consider it, the more reservations I feel."

"Good; give full attention to those reservations. I do not want you to change to my life if you have any doubts about it: it is a momentous step to take, and it is not an easy way to live," he agreed. "There are necessary precautions I mentioned to you, and which you must include in your lucubrations: I keep chests of my native earth with me in my travels whenever I can, and I line my soles with that earth once a month. Direct sunlight is still uncomfortable for me, as it is for all who come to my life. I have my native earth in my saddles and the floors of my carriages, but it is sometimes not sufficient to keep me from real pain; without such protection, open sunlight can be agony for me. It would be the same for you."

Avasa Dani sighed. "If my children had lived, I would not consider any of this," she said slowly. "But they died shortly after they were born, poor, shriveled creatures not many weeks old, and looking ancient as men of fifty."

Sanat Ji Mani stared at her. "You did not mention your children."

"No." She looked toward the window. "There is little to mention. There were two of them, three years apart, both girls, which embarrassed my husband, who was sure he was at fault for taking pleasure in the body, and so he stopped. Then he gave himself to the Buddha, and put his dead children behind him forever."

"I am very sorry," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I should have realized it was more than hurt about your husband leaving that was in you. If there is anything-"

"You can make me like you," she responded at once. "I will have no grandchildren, and so I must have longevity, or perish completely."

"Longevity at a price," Sanat Ji Mani reminded her. "And one has already been exacted from you." He was puzzled by her state of mind, and sought to find a way to understand. "You will not be able to reclaim a family."

"I understand that." She smiled wistfully. "But I will have something that is mine-a life that I have shaped, not that has been shaped for me."

"You cannot entirely escape the demands of those around you; none of us can," Sanat Ji Mani warned her. "If you make the attempt, you will draw unwanted attention to yourself, and you will be thought a monster."

"Even over time?" Avasa Dani asked. "Will it always be thus?"

"It has been so far," he answered somberly.

"Yet you say that you have lived long," said Avasa Dani, "for all you must do to keep living."

"Longer than you can imagine. More than three thousand years." He knew she did not truly believe him, but he went on. "My father's kingdom was overrun by his enemies, his children slain or made slaves; I was one of the latter; they did not know that I could not be killed by the method they tried, for I had been initiated into the priesthood of our people, and was proof against most deaths. I could also have no children from the time I was initiated, as is true of all who come to my life." His hand went to the center of his torso; he could feel the old, white scars left over from his disemboweling that had put an end to his breathing life, so long ago.

"You are not dead," said Avasa Dani; her silver earrings rang their high notes.

"Not in the usual sense, no," Sanat Ji Mani replied. "But I do not live as you do, nor any of those around you."

"Did you have children, when you lived?" Avasa Dani held her breath as she waited for an answer, her hand brushing his arm as if to gain strength from that minor contact.

"I was given to our god, who made me like him when I was still a boy. Those born at the dark of the year did not have heirs. I had nephews and nieces, but it is not the same thing," he said steadily.

"No, it is not." She tried to laugh and failed. "Why do you tell me this? You make yourself more a stranger than you are."

"Because I do not want to expose you to an existence you may not desire for yourself. It is difficult to maintain this kind of life. Once you become of my blood, you will be a stranger wherever you are, and however you live, because you will not be one of the truly living. Those of my blood live in constant exile, and nothing can change that, Avasa Dani, not fortune, not honors, not the fulfillment of your heart's desire. Do not discount the price of being always a stranger: it is exacted in many, many ways." He took her face in his hands. "You do not have the opportunities I do; women in this part of the world are not often given much liberty." Nor did they have it in other parts of the world, he added to himself, but there were places where the limitations placed on women were not quite so severe. "Here most women lead sequestered lives, and the few who do not are scrutinized constantly. You cannot readily travel on your own, or establish yourself in many cities beyond the Sultanate without putting yourself at risk."

"I might find a way to accommodate your life, and mine," she ventured. "If I decide to be like you, I may not need to relinquish everything from my life."

Sanat Ji Mani shook his head. "You cannot change by halves: I want you to understand that once you are one of my blood, you cannot turn from it unless you die the True Death."

"The True Death," she mused aloud. "It sounds dreadful."

"I cannot say; I have not yet experienced it," he told her, recalling the torment he felt whenever one of his blood came to the end of life. "I do know that once one of mine has died the True Death, the blood-bond is broken, but not until then." He kissed her mouth gently. "You will not dishearten me if you prefer to stay as you are."

She kissed him with fervor. "You say the bond endures until the True Death?" she asked when she could speak again.

"Yes. Once you have changed, once you have died the first death and come to my life, the bond is constant, one of the few consolations of our state." He touched her cheek, so lightly that the breeze through the room seemed more palpable. "Do not think that living as one of my blood must live is easily done for male or female. I fear it is nothing of the sort."

"You are going to warn me once more that I may have difficulties if I become like you, are you not? that I will have to change how I live. You want to protect me, I assume, and I am grateful that you do." She moved back a step, out of his immediate reach. "I know I should listen to you, and consider all you say; I have thought of little else for the last six weeks, and meditated on all you told me, and written down my thoughts as they became clear to me, so that I might contemplate them further. Among other things, I have pondered the adversities of travel, and the daunting prospects of being among strangers in faraway places. Then I have compared those risks to those I would encounter remaining here in Delhi, as I am, and I know I should be prudent, circumspect-but I am not so willing to set aside the advantage you offer as you want me to be."

"How do you mean?" he asked, his dark eyes on her, his demeanor serene, his voice mellifluous and level.

"You have told me the disadvantages, but there must be advantages, other than living longer than most do. You have not elected to live as you have for as long as you have because it is an abhorrent obligation." She let the observation hang between them. "For all the difficulties you encounter, they are not sufficient to-You are not so overcome by the demands of your circumstances that you find it more a burden than a benefit."

"That does not mean it is not a burden," Sanat Ji Mani said seriously. "On occasion I feel it most heavily. All of us do."

"Life as the living know it can be that way as well, for some without surcease," said Avasa Dani. "You do not suppose that all of us never have much to bear."

"No; I do not suppose that. Life demands much of the living," said Sanat Ji Mani, his memories roused by her remark.

"Then you should also realize that many of us would not reject out of hand what you offer," she said somberly.

Sanat Ji Mani said nothing for a short while, then told her, "Many have, and for excellent reasons. There are stringent demands on women who choose this existence."

"There are demands on a woman in this existence, and well you know it," Avasa Dani countered. "To be hemmed in and constrained on every side by law and tradition from the day of birth to the end of our lives, to-"

"And that will not change simply because you do," Sanat Ji Mani warned her. "You will not escape the strictures of the place in which you live. You will always be isolated once those who were your living companions have died and you remain alive. In fifty years all your contemporaries will be gone, in a century, most of their grandchildren will be. If you remain here, you will quickly become an object of fear, so you will need to leave Delhi. You must go to where you are not known." He thought of Olivia, her annoyance at her self-imposed banishment on Rhodes, and wondered if she had returned to Rome yet, to her native earth and the sanctuary it provided. "Hazardous as travel is for men, it is more so for women, and those of my blood need to travel."

"You are discouraging me," Avasa Dani accused him. "You may tell me as many times as you like, you will not frighten me."

"I am not trying to: I am trying to tell you what you will have to face," he replied quietly, a lonely tenderness in his dark eyes. "To be of my blood is irrevocable. There is no retreat from it, no modification of our true nature, no means to avoid our need. You cannot be half a vampire and half a living woman. So I repeat: you may not want to do all that you must to live the life those of my blood must live. Once you change, you cannot return to what you were." A sharp image of Heugenet fixed in his thoughts, and he realized one of the most pressing reasons for his reservations regarding Avasa Dani was linked to Heugenet, who had knowingly come to his life only to relinquish it a decade ago when she no longer needed to protect her son and his position.

"But you will help me," she said, kissing his ear. "To live your life."

"When I can," he assured her. "But we will not often be together, and you will need to fend for yourself."

She rested her hands on either side of his neck. "Then you will not take me with you when you go?"

"You may be living still then," he reminded her. "Your uncles would do their utmost to keep me from taking you from this city, no matter what rights your husband granted me."

"I do not care. If you go, you must take me with you, living, and put me where I may wait for death without fear," she told him.

"Your husband's family would be-"

"I would be gone, so it hardly matters what they would be. My family might have to pay back my dowry, but otherwise they would not mind, since I can provide them money enough that no cost will come to them. I am something of an embarrassment to them now, and they would not be upset if I were no longer here." She sounded more saddened than angry, but her hands tightened. "If I am in a place where you are, I will be safe enough. You will not discourage me, Sanat Ji Mani. You have offered me a gift, and I accept it with full understanding."

"Perhaps," he said enigmatically, then went on, "since you have decided to be one of my blood, when you die I will aid you if I can. But I may not be able to, and if you are alone, you will have to be prepared to manage for yourself." He turned and looked at her, concern for her making his ariose voice a bit rougher than usual; his penetrating dark eyes held her as surely as his arms could. "Avasa Dani, be certain: to be one of my blood is not a decision to be made on a whim, or assuming you will have no risks. I cannot emphasize that enough. That is why I have repeated the dangers to you, so that you will encompass the whole of what you will become. You will not free yourself from the exigencies of life, for that would remove you from humanity. We do not dance on the burning ground, with Shiva, nor do we revel in the mortality of the living, knowing it will not easily touch us." As he said this, other memories, this time of Csimenae filled his mind, unbidden: she was still alive and in her remote self styled adytum, far away in the fastness of the Pyrenees. "You will not be able to shape the world to your liking simply because you have come to my life."

"I had not supposed I could," said Avasa Dani, frowning slightly.

"Coming to my life is no guarantee of centuries for living," he added. "The world can impose upon you in ways you cannot escape."

"You made that clear before. I comprehend your reservations, or as much as I can do, living as I am." She reached out and took his hand, kissing his fingers one at a time. "Yet you tell me that what we do we do in love."

"If that is what we seek, yes," he said carefully. "There is fulfillment in love that cannot equal anything that dread and fear can offer."

"If what you have given me is any example of what those of your blood can do, then I must suppose that I can also achieve the same when I am like you." She smiled at him. "I do not wish to change to your life to remain your mistress; I am wholly cognizant that is impossible. You made it very clear that once I am like you, we can no longer be lovers, but that until the moment of my death, we can."

"That is so," said Sanat Ji Mani, watching her intently, and pulling his hand back from her.

"I have been missing you, these last months, and I am alive. I long to be embraced again, to know passion as you waken it in me." She came up to him and sank onto his lap. "You do not know how much I treasure your love."

"You are willing to accept my life when you die?" he asked as he smoothed a few wisps of loose hair back from her face before enfolding her in his arms.

"I am willing to enter into your life when I die, to live as you live, to seek the living as you do, to keep myself in all the ways you have described; I know you will not always devote yourself to me, and that I must find others to nurture me once I die. I know that many I find I will have to approach subtly, unperceived but as a dream. I grasp it all. You have shown me what I will have to do in order to flourish, and I am certain I am capable of the life you describe. I am not a desperate woman wanting only to be rid of an inaccessible husband, I am looking beyond that, to what my life could be, were I like you," she said, her tone of voice gently musical. "I will be one with you through the blood-bond, and I will find love to sustain me."

"You do realize that those of my blood are hated and feared?" He kissed the arch of her brow. "Most of the living despise us, and seek to destroy us. Very few among them are capable of giving their love knowingly, and fewer still are willing to risk becoming-"

"Night demons?" she suggested. "Creatures of Shiva?"

"If you will," he granted her.

"You have found me, and others before me, and will find others after me," Avasa Dani said tranquilly. "I will find others, as well. I am content with that."

Sanat Ji Mani drew her close against him, "It will be necessary, if you are to survive. And there is solitariness even when there is love."

"Yes. I understand that," she said. "I may have lived my life thus far within the walls of my father's and my husband's house-and yours. But I have read widely, I have studied much, and lately, since you have allowed it, I have listened to the pilgrim Lum, and heard him tell of all he has seen, and I have wished-oh, I have wished-to see those things for myself, to know all the marvels that fill the world. I know it is unsafe in the world beyond these walls, but I am not afraid. What terrifies me more than anything you have described is that I might remain sequestered until the day I die, and know nothing more than the house of my father, my husband, and you. It is not enough, Sanat Ji Mani. It is not enough." She kissed him slowly, her mouth soft on his. "I know what I want, no matter what may come," she said before she kissed him again, her acquiescence in the intensity of her embrace.

His hands moved over the silk of her garments, molding the fabric to the curves of her body, the urgency of his touch echoing her own. "Since you will have me, Avasa Dani ..." He rose, lifting her in his arms as he did, and carried her to the window-niche on the far side of the room; it was wide and deep, with a dozen silk-covered cushions piled in it, opulent and inviting. He sank onto his knees and laid Avasa Dani on the cushions as the scents of the garden grew stronger. Slowly, luxuriously, he loosened her clothing. "You are magnificent," he whispered as he bent to kiss the rise of her breasts.

She trembled, feeling heat and chill at once. "You are everything," she murmured as his tongue flicked her nipple. Nothing in all her instruction for erotic pleasure had revealed what Sanat Ji Mani had imparted to her and which she welcomed now as the deliverance she sought; her skin tingled in excitation, her body softened, her mind floated. Gradually she surrendered to the rapturous sensations that had wakened with her desire. A delicious languor came over her as Sanat Ji Mani slid her garments back from her torso, to lavish kisses where the silk had been. "Yes. There," she breathed, as Sanat Ji Mani lifted her clothes from the top of her thighs and began lightly to stroke her hips and abdomen; her flesh trembled under his caress.

He was astonished and gratified by the frenzy of passion that welled in her; he responded to her every movement, every sigh, every nuance of reception she offered him. He felt her gather, gather, gather, and release in deep, blissful waves; he continued to fondle the sea-scented folds at the top of her thighs, seeing her amazement as she stared at him in disbelief. "There is more, Avasa Dani. I want you to know it."

"How ... ?" She closed her eyes as the vividness of her rapture took possession of her, more prolonged and profound than any she had known before; she gave herself over to ecstasy and Sanat Ji Mani. When Avasa Dani could trust herself to move again, she began by opening her eyes and turning her head; Sanat Ji Mani still lay beside her. "You knew it was ..." She could not find the words to finish.

"Let us say, I sensed," he said, so gently that she wanted to weep.

"It is done?" she asked, though she had no doubt.

"It is done," he assured her.

She curled into a ball amid the cushions. "Good," she whispered.

He remained where he was until she began to drift into sleep; then he moved away from her, her fading elation still within him. He walked toward the door so silently that as he opened it, he found Hirsuma hovering near-by with no apparent reason to be there.

"My master," said Hirsuma, putting his hands together and bowing. "I did not know ... that you were in your library."

Sanat Ji Mani regarded Hirsuma wearily. "If you must lie, then please lie well," he said. "You wanted to know what was happening in the library, did you not." He knew the answer, but waited to hear what Hirsuma might say.

"I was curious, my master. Nothing more. Just curious. All men are curious. I am no different: you are foreign, and-" He stopped as he saw the expression in Sanat Ji Mani's compelling eyes.

"Were you paid to spy on me, or was this simply an opportunity of the moment?" Sanat Ji Mani did not sound angry, but Hirsuma took a step back from him. "You may as well tell me now, for I will find out eventually."

"You will beat me," said Hirsuma, who expected nothing less. "Or you will order Garuda to beat me."

"No. I have said I do not beat my servants, and I will not make an exception for you, no matter what you have done." Sanat Ji Mani moved a short distance away from Hirsuma. "But you were warned what would happen if you continued on your disloyal course, so be all this on your head. You have persisted in your betrayal, and now you will answer for it. You will be dismissed, of course, and I will tell anyone who asks that you served me poorly."

Hirsuma smiled weakly. "An empty threat. You are a foreigner and my fathers have lived here for generation upon generation."

"You do them no honor," said Sanat Ji Mani with an inflection that struck Hirsuma as much as a sudden cold wind would.

"You are not the one to say so," Hirsuma blustered, his fear making him want to run from Sanat Ji Mani, now much more imposing than Hirsuma had ever thought he was.

"Perhaps," said Sanat Ji Mani. "Still, you know what will become of you now. You may collect your belongings, then come to the servants' hall; you will leave from there, where all the others may see you go."

Hirsuma shook his head. "I will go, but not with the household watching."

"There, I am afraid, you are wrong," Sanat Ji Mani said smoothly. "You will do as I say, or I will find you and take you before a magistrate, and I will have all the household to support my complaint of you. That will be far more unpleasant than leaving from the servants' hall; suborned servants are branded, are they not."

"Yes," Hirsuma said, turning pale.

"If you think you can leave this house secretly and I will not find you, you are mistaken," Sanat Ji Mani said; Hirsuma believed him. "Do not take too long. Garuda will have the servants waiting to see you go."

Hirsuma nodded in capitulation. "I will come there as soon as I have my belongings together."

"Good. Do not dawdle about it," Sanat Ji Mani told him before he slipped back into the library to light a few more of the oil-lamps that hung there.

A little while later there was a scratch on the door; Rojire said, "Hirsuma is gathering his things."

Sanat Ji Mani opened the door. "Thank you, old friend. Did you happen to notice how long he was trying to listen?"

"Not very long. Garuda has been observing him, as has Bohdil, and they are quick to tell me of anything suspicious." Rojire paused, glancing over his shoulder to be sure they were not under surveillance. "He has not conducted himself properly, and that offends the others. Had you not caught him, they would have, and they would have turned him out far more angrily than you will."

"Then it is just as well I discovered him." Sanat Ji Mani glanced at Avasa Dani, who was sleeping soundly. "If you will remain near-by until it is time for Hirsuma to leave?"

"Of course. It will not do to have another take up where Hirsuma has left off," Rojire said.

"And the next one might be more subtle than Hirsuma has been." Sanat Ji Mani frowned slightly. "Do you know to whom he has spoken? Is it that same scrawny rascal who has been following me and Rustam Iniattir?"

"I believe so. I gather he reports to one of the Sultan's deputies," said Rojire. "I have seen Hirsuma meet the fellow twice since he was told not to."

"Just as well to have him gone," said Sanat Ji Mani, his tone distant. "The other servants will be reassured."

"Yes," said Rojire. "I will do what I can to see how they respond when he is gone."

"Thank you," Sanat Ji Mani told him. "I must suppose that Hirsuma is not beyond causing mischief, and may go to Avasa Dani's family to speak against her, in the hope that accusations will be brought against me. I will have to avert that."

"Avasa Dani should be able to thwart any efforts they may make," Rojire pointed out. "She is a resourceful woman."

"Yes, she is," Sanat Ji Mani agreed. "I am often struck by it. But she is still a woman, and that may yet work against her in this city."

"Do you think she may be at risk?" Rojire asked.

"I do. And so do you, or we would not be having this discussion." Sanat Ji Mani paused, sunk in thought. "Something must be arranged, and soon. I will have to speak with her uncles."

"They will want gold, whatever you do."

"That they will," said Sanat Ji Mani. "Unlike her husband."

"As pious as Lum and as ready to leave the world," said Rojire. "She has asked Lum to explain it."

"And has he?" Sanat Ji Mani wondered aloud, expecting no answer. "She must be protected. It will be arranged."

Rojire inclined his head. "Then I will leave you, my master."

"For now. Summon me when Hirsuma is ready to depart." He went toward the door with Rojire and let him out. "You have done well."

"I might have done better, had I realized what Hirsuma was doing when he began; I put his actions to spite, not to malice," said Rojire. With that, he was gone, leaving Sanat Ji Mani to restore order to Avasa Dani's garments and to place a scroll near her, so that it would appear she had fallen asleep over her studies. That done, he returned to his own quarters to dress for seeing Hirsuma off the premises.

By the time Rojire came to escort him from his apartments, Sanat Ji Mani presented his usual self-contained appearance, but in a grander presentation than was his habit: his black brocade Persian kandys was perfectly draped, his wide, dark-red-leather belt neatly in place, his black-silk Hungarian gatya tucked into low Persian boots. The silver collar around his neck was studded with rubies and held his eclipse sigil displayed in silver and black sapphire, as did the ring on the Saturn finger of his left hand. His foreignness added to his dignity, as he intended.

Bohdil was clearly distressed, wringing his hands and saying, "How will I explain? How will I explain?" over and over again.

"Hirsuma is a kinsman of Bohdil's," said Garuda, to account for this uncharacteristic behavior. "It is a disgrace for all his family." The oil-lamps in the servants' dining hall were lit, casting a brassy light over everything, and making the night beyond the windows seem darker by contrast.

"Why?" Sanat Ji Mani asked, although he knew the answer. "Only Hirsuma spied on me. The rest are blameless."

"That is not our way, my master," said Garuda, clapping his hands to silence the servants. "Where is Hirsuma?"

Rojire moved away from the main table to avoid being an interloper among the others.

"He is still in his quarters," said Javas, who tended the horses. "He must be summoned."

"I'll do it," said Sipati, the inventory-master. "Since he is to be dismissed, he must be brought from his quarters so that no one can say he did any roguery on his way out of the house."

Sanat Ji Mani shook his head once. "Very well. Garuda, if you will? Go fetch Hirsuma from his quarters."

Garuda did not quite smile, but he squared his shoulders at this granting of authority and left the dining hall at once for other parts of the house. An awkward silence descended at his departure, which was broken only when Daltil, the under-cook, brought a pot of mint tea from the kitchen.

"Very good," Sanat Ji Mani approved, and stood back so that the servants could fill their cups without fear of insulting their master.

No one spoke as they drank their tea, but some began to fidget when the time passed that Garuda should have returned with Hirsuma. The time dragged on, and Bohdil began once more to wring his hands.

"Rojire," Sanat Ji Mani said softly, "if you please, see what has become of Garuda?"

Rojire did as he was asked, slipping out of the room almost soundlessly. He returned quickly, his ususal calm demeanor disturbed; all those in the servants' dining hall turned toward him. "My master, you must come. Garuda has been struck unconscious, and Hirsuma is gone."

Text of a report from Azizi Iniattir at Sirpur to his uncle, Rustam Iniattir, carried by Askari Daitya, caravan leader, to Delhi.

To my most esteemed uncle, the leader of our family, the respected Rustam Iniattir, your nephew and factor in the city of Sirpur sends his most dedicated regards, and takes this opportunity to report on our business in this place.

Your caravan from Rajmundri and Hanamkonda will bring this account to you. I will entrust it to your caravan leader Askari Daitya, who has much to present to you of his own industry. His caravan has done very well, and, barring trouble on the road, should arrive in good time to add to the fortunes of our family. He secured some fine silks from China, which were traded for the Turkish goat-hair yarns he took to Rajmundri. He has also bought rare woods, which he traded spices to get, and pearls, which he received in exchange for the carded wool bales from Trebizond. He has been astute in his dealings, and I have complied with his request for two more mules to carry these goods to Delhi.

I have also spoken with the leaders of caravans from Assam and Malabar. There is concern among them all that prices in the northern ports and cities may increase sharply as Timur-i's forces continue to harry about the world, destroying all in their path. I have also heard that many believe that Timur-i has been overthrown and cast out, and a younger man now leads his murderous horde. I have seen no proof of this, nor have I discovered a convincing denial. Whatever may be the case, from the Black Sea to Kashmir, all merchants go in fear of what Timur-i's horsemen will bring. It matters little if Timur-i is in the van or no.

For that reason I would recommend that for the next several years, you concentrate your efforts to the south and east and leave the north and west to Timur-i. I do not say this for my advantage alone, although I do acknowledge that what may be misfortune for many others would be advantageous for me. Situated as I am, I can bend my efforts to the family's benefit, so that while others are forced to risk much for an increasingly unsatisfactory return, we may profit from these unsettled times and make the most of this opportunity. I am not indifferent to the suffering of those in the path of Timur-i's fury, but I would be foolish not to see how it could work to our family's advantage. If you will send your next two caravans in my direction, I will see to it that they go to places where they may trade safely, and where they will have full value for their goods.

The caravan of Manah Spentas has not yet returned from Jajpur, but I am not yet alarmed, for the weather has been severe, and that may cause delays as much as more dire events. I will send out scouts to look for them if I do not see them in a month. Manah Spentas told me, on his way out to Jajpur, that he anticipated doing good business this time, for the merchants in Jajpur have come to trust him and are eager to see what he brings. I would recommend you marry one of your daughters to him, so that he will continue to work for our family and not be lured away by promises others might make to him. I have only two daughters and both are promised already, or I would venture to make such a marriage myself. You, as I recall, have three daughters who will need husbands. Manah Spentas is Parsi, and he comes from a family in good standing. Consider it, I ask you, for the sake of the family and of the business we do in the eastern cities. One day, you might install him as factor in Jajpur, which would be a most advantageous arrangement for us all.

The caravan of Ismalli Heitan, our rival, arrived yesterday from the south; it was well-laden and Ismalli Heitan was boasting of his achievements. I paid him little notice, but I did glean one bit of information which may prove useful to you: there has been a ruction among the brass-workers in the south, and as a result, the quality of the brasses has suffered. It may take some time before order, and quality, has been restored. I mention this as a caution to you, for it was the one disappointment Ismalli Heitan mentioned in his otherwise fulsome chronicle of his journey.

In the fervent hope that more Light than Darkness fills your life, and that our family prospers as a result, I apologize if I have written anything that gains your displeasure, and I beg you will consider it is the plight of any man charged with the task of providing accurate information.

Azizi Iniattir

At Sirpur, seven weeks past the Summer Solstice