On the west side, the garden was deep in shadow, and it was there that Sanat Ji Mani found Vayu Ede sitting through the slow afternoon; the poet held a writing-board on his lap and was putting verses down on a scroll.

"Oh," he said, looking up as Sanat Ji Mani approached him in his garments of mulberry-colored silk that blended with the flowers on the shrubs; he rolled the scroll closed at once.

"The ink will smear if you do not let it dry," said Sanat Ji Mani.

"If it is fitting that the words be lost, then so much the better," said Vayu Ede. "Verse is always struggling to escape its words in any case." He set the writing-board aside and put a lid on his ink-well.

"Very true," said Sanat Ji Mani, preparing to take a seat on the opposite bench. "You told the servants you wanted to see me? Here?"

"Yes; yes, I did," said Vayu Ede. "I believe it is time we spoke of-oh, any number of things."

"What might those things be?" Sanat Ji Mani said, finding himself on guard and concealing it. "What do you want to tell me?"

Vayu Ede shrugged. "What might you want to tell me? You are a man with a secret, that much is established."

"Everyone has secrets," Sanat Ji Mani countered with a cordial smile. "Who among us reaches the end of childhood without a host of his own?"

"You prefer the shadows, I see," Vayu Ede observed, as if he had not changed the subject. "Is there anything that bothers you about the light?"

"I burn readily," said Sanat Ji Mani. "For that reason and many others I find the sun can be exhausting."

"Yes; it can." Vayu Ede gestured an invitation to sit. "I have not seen you outside the palace during the day, or at least not since you arrived."

Sanat Ji Mani sank onto the marble bench, choosing the end where the shadows were deepest. "I have preferred to remain indoors, and since Rajput Hasin Dahele has been kind enough to allow me this favor, I have been able to keep from exposing myself to the sun, for which I am very much grateful. Is that why you asked me to come to the garden during the day: to see how I would fare in sunlight?"

"I did not have any presuppositions, but it does appear you are hiding," Vayu Ede observed.

"Does it seem so to you? Then why did you require my presence here-to establish that I fear discovery?" Sanat Ji Mani spoke lightly enough, but his eyes were intent, the blue that flickered in their black depths like a flame.

"I invited you; you make it sound as if I commanded you," said Vayu Ede.

"Given the way in which I and my companion have been received, I would not think a command would be so unexpected." Sanat Ji Mani's features were world-weary now, reflecting his long experience with the high price of favor.

"There is some truth in your expectation," said Vayu Ede.

"And what truth is that?" Sanat Ji Mani inquired. "How am I expected to express my gratitude?"

"It is a good thing that you know when to be grateful. But you have no doubt learned such things in your travels," said Vayu Ede.

"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani, somewhat puzzled by this remark.

Vayu Ede said nothing for a short while, then remarked as if resuming a conversation, "You have some experience of war, have you not?"

"More than I want," said Sanat Ji Mani.

"Ah, yes; many brave men say this as they get older. No doubt you have had time to think about all war has done for you." Vayu Ede tried to appear nonchalant, and failed. "You said your father's land was usurped by your enemies."

"That was a long time ago," said Sanat Ji Mani, thinking back through the intervening centuries to the Carpathians, and the kingdom his father had maintained there.

"Your father and his father and his father before him ruled there: do I understand that correctly?" Vayu Ede put his scroll into the pouch on his belt.

"I told you that some days ago," Sanat Ji Mani said.

"Bear with me for a while, if you would," said Vayu Ede. "Your enemies came from the East, or so you said. Have I got that right?"

"The east and the south," said Sanat Ji Mani, remembering the clients of the Hittites who had over-run his father's kingdom.

"You had allies in the West?" Vayu Ede asked, his tone of voice unchanged.

"I do not know if you would call them allies: those of my people who could escape went westward. It is not quite the same thing. Eventually they settled in a new land; they became a new people, and forgot the old kingdom in the mountains, or most of them did." Sanat Ji Mani had seen where his people had gone, more than a century after they had been defeated by the Romans, when their new kingdom was old.

"A kingdom in the West," said Vayu Ede.

"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani. "West of where the people began." He was careful not to name the people or the lands they had occupied; he was sure that Vayu Ede wanted to know those things, and by holding them back, Sanat Ji Mani felt he had not given up more than he should to this odd old man.

"I see," said Vayu Ede, thoughtfully pulling at his lower lip.

Sanat Ji Mani waited for what was to come next; he did not move, nor did he do anything to suggest he was uneasy. When Vayu Ede stared at him, he endured it without staring back. He finally said, "If you have no reason to keep me here, I would prefer to return to the palace."

Vayu Ede behaved as if he had not heard this. "You have said you saw Delhi in ruins, did you not?"

"I did," said Sanat Ji Mani. "It was a direful sight, one I should not want to see again, or its like." He tried to read Vayu Ede's expression and failed.

"You also said you were bound for Lahore when you and your companion were accidentally separated from Timur-i's army-do I have that right?" Vayu Ede offered Sanat Ji Mani an encouraging smile.

"Yes. That is what happened," Sanat Ji Mani answered.

Vayu Ede put his hands together in a gesture of contemplation. "A most interesting account. We hear many things in this part of the world but we rarely have the opportunity to have a first-hand report given to us. It is most helpful to our plans. I thank you for this."

"I cannot imagine how any of this will serve you, but if something I have said is useful, I am glad of it." Sanat Ji Mani squinted up through the leaves, trying to calculate how much longer he could remain exposed and not burn again.

Vayu Ede noticed this. "You are uncomfortable." He looked up toward the sun. "I do not want to cause you any more discomfort. Return to the palace, if you like."

Sanat Ji Mani rose. "You are kind; I thank you."

"Your thanks are appreciated," said Vayu Ede. "I will remember them in times to come." He leaned back as if he intended to rest a while.

It was a curious remark to make, Sanat Ji Mani thought, but said, "Your gods favor and care for you." He began to move away.

"Sanat Ji Mani," Vayu Ede called after him, as if a last detail had just occurred to him, "it is a pity about your limp."

"It is inconvenient," Sanat Ji Mani responded, not quite agreeing.

"And you came such a long way on foot, in spite of it," said Vayu Ede.

"With Tulsi Kil's help," Sanat Ji Mani said, puzzled by these remarks.

"Ah, yes. The tumbler. A most interesting companion, I should think; capable in so many ways," he said, and waved Sanat Ji Mani away.

Sanat Ji Mani returned to the palace, trying to decide what Vayu Ede had wanted of him, that he had summoned him to the garden for a conversation that might have taken place anywhere and at any time. He made his way along the now-familiar corridors, his thoughts preoccupied and somewhat troubled. By the time he reached the room assigned to him and Tulsi, he was more concerned than he had been when he left the garden; he stepped through the door and was mildly worried that he did not find Tulsi waiting for him. He recalled she had spoken of her plans to bathe, and, deciding she must have gone to the bath at the end of the hallway, he left his room and went to seek her out. At the door of the bath, he called out her name. "Tulsi. May I come in?"

The answer was a moan.

"Tulsi!" Sanat Ji Mani cried out. "What is it?"

"Can ... not ..." Her voice was weak and thready, and there was the sound of feeble thrashing in the water.

Sanat Ji Mani waited no longer; his strength was not as great as it would have been had his native earth been in the soles of his shoes, but concern fueled his body and he was able to shove the door inward, off its hinges, the noise as loud as an explosion. He stood for an instant, taking stock of the room with its three deep marble bathing pools set in the polished granite floor, and one lavish fountain; satisfied she was alone, he moved to the deepest of the three where Tulsi was holding onto the rim of the large marble basin, her face the color of milk-curds, a mess of metal-scented vomit on the stones. "Tulsi! What has happened?" He did not wait for her answer, pulling her from the water and into his arms with all the urgency he could summon.

"Poison. I think." She looked up at him with glazed eyes. "It was ... the fowl ... or the sweet rice-gruel." Her voice was hoarse and each word emerged as if with spikes attached; even breathing seemed painful for her.

"How?" Sanat Ji Mani demanded, then went on, "Tell me later." He wished he still had his vials of medicaments to treat her, but he had run out of them more than two months ago, and could not avail himself of them now. Very gently he laid her down on one of the sheet-covered couches that lined the wall. "Lie still. I am going to bring you water; I want you to drink as much of it as you can, to flush out any lingering poison." He brought one end of the sheet up across her body to dry her.

She blinked. "I ... was sick."

"A good thing, when you are poisoned," said Sanat Ji Mani as he searched for the ladle to bring her water from the fountain. When he could not find it, he filled his cupped hands and brought her water that way.

Tulsi sputtered as she attempted to swallow, her eyes apologetic all the while. "I did not ... think ..."

"That anyone would do this?" Sanat Ji Mani said, his ire concealed under attentiveness. "I would not have thought so, either." He blamed himself that he had not expected something of this sort: anyone enjoying the favor of a ruler-even so minor a one as Hasin Dahele-would acquire enemies as a matter of course: a foreigner like Sanat Ji Mani would be likely to attract more rancor than the usual courtier. "I should have been more on guard, Tulsi; I am sorry you have been hurt on my account."

"No ... oh, no," she said, and tried to hold on to him as he went to bring another handful of water.

"You have paid a price that was mine, not yours, to pay," he said as he filled his hands again, wishing that they were not so small. He came back to her side and trickled more water into her mouth. "This is not your battle."

"If it ... is yours," she said, coughing once, "it is mine." She coughed again, and retched, her face turning dark red.

Sanat Ji Mani rolled her onto her side and braced her while she cast up the last of what had been in her stomach. As she began to sob, he held her, ashamed that he had exposed her to such danger; he wrapped the sheet more securely around her. "It is my fault you are hurt," he said, angry with himself for allowing this to happen. "You have only tried to care for me. There is no reason you should have to suffer on my account."

"No," she said. "You have ... nothing to ... apologize for." Her lids were getting heavy, and there were tears on her face.

"We will settle that later," he said finally, gently wiping her cheeks. "Let me bring you more water. I do not want any of the poison remaining in you to do more damage." He went to fetch some more, all the while mastering his temper: there was a time, perhaps fifteen hundred years ago, when he would have confronted Hasin Dahele to demand answers for how this had happened, but the intervening centuries had taught him discretion; now he realized he would have to approach this more circumspectly, or leave them both exposed to other assaults. As he carried his handsful of water back to Tulsi, he steadied himself as he prepared to nurse her, for he would not entrust her care to anyone else.

"I ...'m sleepy," Tulsi muttered as Sanat Ji Mani put more water into her mouth. "Let me ... sleep."

"You will rest shortly," said Sanat Ji Mani. "For now, I am going to clean the floor and then take you back to our room."

She blinked, chagrined. "You should not ... it is ... wrong."

"Tulsi, I have done far worse than clean floors in my time," he said, and went to get a floor-brush and a rag from the basket containing all manner of cleaning gear.

"You must not ..." Tulsi protested again.

Sanat Ji Mani ignored her as he scrubbed the vomit from the floor and concealed it in the rag. "There. No one will know what happened here," he said as he stood up. He took the rag to the servants' door and dropped it in the basket where other rags were collected. "When they come upon this, they will not be able to tell what happened, or who took care of it."

"I never meant ... that you ..." She tried to sit up and groaned with the effort.

"No, Tulsi. Stay where you are. I will carry you." He took stock of the room, his swift perusal catching all the details of the baths. "It is all right."

She held out her hand to him. "I ... am so ... sorry," she whispered and began to weep in earnest.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You did not poison yourself," he said grimly as he went to pick her up. "Your arms around my neck, if you please, and your head on my shoulder," he told her as he carried her toward the door he had ruined. He paused on the threshold for a moment, wondering why the sound of his breaking in had not brought servants running; the reasons that occurred to him were all sinister, and left him feeling more worried than before. He had had enemies before who had moved against him by stealth: Cyprus was still a vivid memory, as was Frater Ignazius.

"I can walk ... if you ... put me down," Tulsi offered, not quite struggling to get out of his arms.

"It would be best if I carry you, so no one will know you have been hurt," said Sanat Ji Mani, making his way along the corridor to the room they shared. "Let those who are watching us think we are having a tryst."

"How can they?" she asked, smiling weakly.

"They will see what we want them to see," Sanat Ji Mani told her. "For now, it is useful that they not know of your ordeal."

"Why not?" she asked as he carefully lowered her down onto the bed.

"Because we do not know who poisoned you, or why, and it is important that we not let the poisoner know he succeeded," Sanat Ji Mani said, touching her face tenderly. "Let him believe he has failed in his efforts, and he may reveal himself."

"But ... might he not ... strike again?" She put her hand to her throat. "It burns."

"It will improve," said Sanat Ji Mani. "You have my Word."

She nodded, and pinched her nose to try to stop her tears. "I ... This is ... foolish."

"Never mind," Sanat Ji Mani said, and straightened up to look for a serving tray that might contain the remnants of her meal; the servants had removed it. "That is inconvenient," he said to himself.

"What is?" Tulsi stared up at him.

"I was hoping to find out what poison was used," he said. "I would like to have known."

"Why?" She used the corner of the drying-sheet to wipe her eyes.

"Because it might give me some notion of who was doing it," said Sanat Ji Mani, a thoughtful frown deepening in a vertical line between his brows.

She lay back, trying not to cough. "Hurts," she said.

"The hurt will stop," said Sanat Ji Mani, wishing he still had syrup of poppies to give her to ease her.

"I know," she whispered. From her place on the bed she studied him, aware that he was shielding her from the worst of his suspicions; it both pleased and aggravated her that he was so protective of her. "What will you do ... if you find ... who did this?"

"I do not know; yet," he answered, coming back to her side and bending over her. "At least you are not hot, that is something."

"Would heat be bad?" She took hold of his hand and tightened her grip.

"Yes," he said. "It would."

"It might mean ... I would die?" She asked this calmly, though her fingers held his like a vice. "Tell me."

"It is possible," he said.

She nodded, accepting this. "Will it matter ... that I am still ... alive?"

"To me, most certainly," he said. "But for the poisoner, who knows? It may be that you were not supposed to die, only to be frightened." Or, he added to himself, that I was the one the poisoner wanted to kill.

"Or the poison ... might have been ... for you." She seemed to know his thoughts. "They do not know ... you do not eat."

"The thought had crossed my mind," he said drily. "But whether the intended victim was you or me, it still means that we have at least one enemy in this place, and very likely more." He glanced around the room. "What bothers me is that I cannot tell why."

"It may be ... jealousy," Tulsi suggested.

"It may. Or there may be another reason entirely."

"What reason?" She coughed a little, averting her face as if embarrassed.

"I think we are being held for ransom," he said, more bluntly than he had intended. "I think the Rajput is planning to barter with Timur-i, trading influence for us."

"But why should he ... do that? Timur-i has no ... use for us," she whispered.

"I have not yet learned enough to know," said Sanat Ji Mani gently. "But it seems that Vayu Ede believes I avoid daylight because I am afraid of being seen. What else would cause him to think that, than that you and I have someone to fear? And I have admitted being with Timur-i's army." He was annoyed with himself for revealing so much to the poet.

"I know," said Tulsi.

"Vayu Ede and Hasin Dahele must have plans for us. They are keeping us isolated, and the Rajput is arming his country for war." Sanat Ji Mani frowned. "I should have seen it before now."

"Why?" she asked.

"I have been about the world enough to know that ambition leaves its mark on men." Sanat Ji Mani stroked her hand. "I should have seen it in the Rajput, but-"

"Timur-i is ... in Samarkand," said Tulsi, and cleared her throat.

"I doubt the Rajput knows that." He paused thoughtfully. "Considering what happened at Delhi, I cannot blame him for his apprehension."

"Is that ... all of it?" She stared up at him, her grey-green eyes pleading with him for reassurance.

"I cannot tell. Not yet." He looked toward the window. "I fear I have been foolish. I must do what I can to remedy that."

Tulsi lifted her hand to touch his face. "You found us protection ... and safety. That ... is not foolish."

"It may prove not," he said. "If I can find out what is happening. If we are hostages, we will have to be especially careful."

"How will you know ... if we are?" Her voice was growing more hushed, but she persevered. "What will you do ... to find out?"

"I have not decided." There was a keenness in his eyes that held her attention.

"When you do ... will you ... tell me?"

"Yes, Tulsi, I will tell you," he said in a tone that brooked no doubts.

She pulled his hand to her. "And I ... will help you."

"We shall see," he said, aware that she would need time to recover and that during that time she would be vulnerable.

"I ... will help you," she repeated, determination lending sound to her words.

"You have done more than anyone could ask already. If you would please me, help me by recovering." He wanted to remove her from all danger, but knew that was impossible.

"I will ... help you ... to help myself," she said.

He could not argue with her. "Very well; but do not tax yourself. The poison was powerful and you will need time to regain your strength," he said. "You cannot hurry healing."

"As your ... foot shows," she said, doing her best to sound relieved.

"It is not the same thing," he told her, his voice sharper. "I know I will heal in time; you do not yet know how badly you have been injured; I implore you to let your body restore itself at its own rate."

"If I were like you ... if you made me ... like you ... would I die?" She stared at him, her eyes unreadable.

"Yes, but you would not remain dead." He tried not to remember his hasty decision to save Csimenae by bringing her to his life, and what had followed that well-meaning but reckless decision. "It is for you to decide."

"With so ... many enemies, I confess ... I would be ... less worried if ... I knew I ... was safe from harm," she whispered.

He made a gesture of frustration. "We are fighting shadows."

"Worse than shadows," said Tulsi.

Sanat Ji Mani nodded. "Yes; worse than shadows."

"Is there ... nothing we can do? Now?" She twisted his hand with the force of her emotion.

He bore it, knowing she had to release her feelings somehow. "Perhaps. We must be careful and clever. And we must not be frightened: frightened people make terrible mistakes and we can afford none."

"I am not ... frightened; I ... am angry," she said, and ended in a cough as the full strength of her rage shook her; it shocked her to be so taken by wrath.

"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani, taking her hand and bending to kiss her palm. "But anger can make you rash, and that may lead to more trouble than you are prepared to endure. You have had too much to deal with already."

"But I ... am angry," she said, almost choking.

'Well and good," he said, "Let the anger work for you, not against you."

She regarded him skeptically. "Against me?"

He nodded. "You could be spurred by it to take chances in the hope of returning hurt for hurt and only make it easier to be hurt again. Fury, like grief, can suspend your good sense, which you need, especially now, for our enemy has shown his hand, and that means he is becoming desperate. Desperate men are as foolish as frightened ones." He had seen that demonstrated so many times in his centuries of life that he had come to expect it. "School your mind as you school your body and you will prevail."

Tulsi contemplated his face. "Will you ... be angry for me?"

"I am," he said with purpose. "I will."

She managed to smile. "Then I will ... be content."

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Rome to Rogerian in Alexandria; written in the Latin of Imperial Rome.

To that most excellent and long-suffering manservant Rogerian, the respectful greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens from within the city of Rome.

It truly is vexing to have Sanct' Germain gone for so long-it reminds me unpleasantly of Spain and all the efforts you made to find him after he escaped the Emir's son. It is possible, of course, that he has sent you messages that have not reached you: it has happened often enough before. Still, since neither you nor I have had anything from him, I cannot help but believe that he is at some disadvantage and must be unable to get a letter out to us. However, I do not yet think it advisable for you to go looking for him; one of the two of you missing is sufficient, and as I know he has not died the True Death, it is probably wisest to remain where he can find you than to go chasing back to that foreign place in the hope of locating him.

In your letter you tell me that Avasa Dani has found a house that will suit her enterprise and you ask me if you should make the arrangements she requests. Consider her situation: she is a woman, alone, in a country that has little use for women beyond their bodies. What else is she to do? I cannot see how you can deny her, for although it is not what I would choose, it is what she wishes to do, and Sanct' Germain has said he will provide her a living. He has, has he not? And you are honor-bound to see that his pledge is carried out. You may not see the advantage in her plans, but, given what you have told me about her, I am certain that there is merit in her scheme. She is not a woman who knows how to live apart from men, nor does she want to learn to. Her plan to establish a house of assignation is a reasonable one, at least in Alexandria, where such houses are customary and have been for two thousand years. There would have been a time when you would not have hesitated, when the Romans ruled there and the laws of Rome prevailed everywhere. That was the Rome of my living youth. This is not the Rome I knew when I was a child, when the women of the lupanar had their own fortunes and the high regard of the city, but even today, a woman, well-placed and discreet, can make a life for herself. And since this Avasa Dani does not intend to whore herself, but to manage the house, she will undoubtedly become as powerful as women may who have not married powerful men. Be sure she has someone to guard her, and let her take care of the rest. I do not mean to chide you, but I think that Avasa Dani has made a sensible decision, and one that will allow her to protect her true nature most effectively.

You may wonder why I am living within Rome's walls again: I must tell you that I returned to discover my villa was missing most of its roof, which has been temporarily replaced to keep out the winter rains, and then, when the weather improves, there will be new tiles put in place. A few of the walls may have to be rebuilt, and I may decide to expand the north wing while I am about it. This will take time, so I have engaged a house on the Palatine Hill, where I can keep a garden and a small stable. It is suitable for a widow, and although the cost of maintaining it is ridiculous, I have laid out the necessary gold and will remain here until my villa is habitable again. I have reprimanded my steward for neglecting the place so shamefully. Niklos Aulirios is dividing his time between tending to me and supervising the necessary repairs. The only worthwhile outcome has been that I have had an opportunity to renew my acquaintance with the Papal Court-and what a viper's nest it is.

You cannot imagine how the factions have been sniping at one another while His Holiness Boniface IX of the Roman Obedience does his best to be rid of Benedict XIII in Avignon. I thought there was trouble before, but now, I might as well be at the Sultan's Court, with all the intrigue for which the Turks are famous, for they have nothing on this quagmire. Two Popes allied with two countries is madness, and you may see it in all they do. If these men suppose they are serving any purpose but their own, they must have lost their wits. Surely they cannot believe that they are benefitting their religion with such skullduggery: I cannot imagine how they could conduct themselves more reprehensibly than they are doing now. However, they may yet find actions more appalling than what I have seen to heap more shame on themselves and their Church. They would undoubtedly burn me at the stake for what I have just written, so I ask that you destroy this letter when you have done with it. I have no desire to die the True Death just now, or at such messy hands as theirs.

They say the King of England is in prison and his cousin, Henry, son of John of Gaunt, rules in his stead. If that is so, it will, I fear, incite more hatred within the Plantagenets and may lead to feuding. They are a pugnacious lot, and no one seems to be able to talk peace to them. So, if Henry Bolingbroke has his way, Richard will abdicate in his favor, and then that will be the end of Richard II. Henry is not so foolish as to leave a deposed King alive while he is trying to establish his claim. If the Popes were not locked in their own battles, they might have the power to intercede before England gets bloody, but that is too much to hope for, given the climate in Rome and Avignon, and England will pay the price, I fear.

I have visited Villa Ragoczy, and have discovered that it is in rather better repair than mine; I will have the builders inspect it and tend to its upkeep as it is needed. The steward there has been attentive to the property, and his family is providing most of the labor the estate demands. The land is in good heart, the orchards have been bearing well, and the vineyard is flourishing. Sanct' Germain will be satisfied with what he finds when next he visits the place. There is to be a feast for the local farmers at Villa Ragoczy at the Nativity, which the Church approves, and which the steward has provided in Sanct' Germain's name for the last ten years, or so I am told.

So if you will take my advice, Rogerian, remain where Sanct' Germain expects to find you, in Alexandria, and see Avasa Dani established in the house she wants. For now, this is the best service you can render Sanct' Germain. And never fear: when he finally returns I will scold him enough for the both of us.

With the assurance of my friendship,

Olivia

by my own hand at Rome on the 29th day of November in the Church's year 1399.