Her name was Aishwarya, and she was a dancer. Very fair were her features, though her skin was dark as the western dusk. Alone of all those in the village of her birth, Aishwarya had escaped the wrath of Sitala. It was said that when the pox-goddess' fire had burned all the rest of the children, she had looked on the face of Aishwarya and repented. It might have been true, or not; none lived who were willing to say. But it was true that she was very beautiful.
She served in the halls of the foreign overlords, the British, whom men called the Raj. A strange thing it might seem to be sure, but they had use for dancers- use beyond the common run. Men besotted by drink and music might yet hold their wits close, but when Aishwarya danced there was no man alive who might hold his tongue should she wish for him to speak.
* * *
Aishwarya scowled, kicking a bundle of fallen flowers out of her way as she stormed off the stage. Behind her she could hear hooting and clapping, and the sounds of frantic begging in at least three languages; she ignored it. "Rashmikant!" she called, stalking towards the rooms the Embassy had set aside for her. "Where are you?"
"Right here, mistress." Rashmikant's head popped out of the suddenly-open door. The little man had been her servant since childhood; she trusted no one else around her things. "Did it work? Have you finally-"
"No." She flung the door the rest of the way open herself and threw herself onto the divan just inside. "I don't understand it! I have done everything, everything the texts say! Are the Chinese made of stone? Is he blind?"
Rashmikant nibbled his lip, then scurried off for a moment. Her face buried in the pillows, Aishwarya could still hear the sounds of chai being brewed. She sighed theatrically and rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand. "He is not blind, mistress," Rashmikant answered over the sounds of steam. "I have seen him in the market, arguing over colored cloth. He can see, I am sure of that."
"Arguing over-" Aishwarya sat up. "Tell me he didn't see you?"
"No, mistress, of course not," Rashmikant hastily reassured her. "I have not approached him, I swear! I have only watched him from the safety of crowds. He cannot have seen me."
Aishwarya sighed, nodding. "Very good," she said, and then she pouted. "But if he is not blind, then why is he not even the least bit moved? Every other man the British send to see me- even those poor Datil eunuchs! All of them respond. He does not. He sits there in that uniform, with his helmet at his side- you would think-"
"Think what, mistress?" asked Rashmikant, who had gone to fetch the tea.
"He is a sailor. He has been at sea for months. Even if he were the sort to lie with other men at need you would think there would be something!" She shook her head and said in a mournful tone, "The consul will not forgive me if I cannot get this Chinaman to talk. Not in a hundred years!"
Rashmikant started to speak, but there came a soft knock at the door. Sighing, he offered his mistress her tea before setting the tray down and trotting off to answer.
Aishwarya sniffed the tea briefly and sipped at it. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that it was good. She was in no mood to allow anyone else more success than that today. Rashmikant would just have to wait for his praise.
As if on cue, the little man appeared. His eyes wide and the palms of his hands pressed together, he said, "Mistress- it is the Chinaman. . ."
She scarcely had time to get to her feet before the visitor shouldered his way in. To her surprise, he was not so tall as she had thought- he stood a bare half-head taller than Aishwarya herself. Perhaps it was the manner of his hairstyle, pulled back tightly into the same bun most of the Chinese in this city wore? That made sense. His face was more angular than most of the Chinese she'd seen, bearing a hint of what might have been the look of Tibet. No- not Tibet, Aishwarya thought. Nepal. The angles were far too delicate to be Tibetan. Anyway, he didn't have the barrel-build of the wild mountain folk. The Chinese naval uniform hid much, but what she could see spoke only of whipcord muscle and innate grace.
no subject
She served in the halls of the foreign overlords, the British, whom men called the Raj. A strange thing it might seem to be sure, but they had use for dancers- use beyond the common run. Men besotted by drink and music might yet hold their wits close, but when Aishwarya danced there was no man alive who might hold his tongue should she wish for him to speak.
* * *
Aishwarya scowled, kicking a bundle of fallen flowers out of her way as she stormed off the stage. Behind her she could hear hooting and clapping, and the sounds of frantic begging in at least three languages; she ignored it. "Rashmikant!" she called, stalking towards the rooms the Embassy had set aside for her. "Where are you?"
"Right here, mistress." Rashmikant's head popped out of the suddenly-open door. The little man had been her servant since childhood; she trusted no one else around her things. "Did it work? Have you finally-"
"No." She flung the door the rest of the way open herself and threw herself onto the divan just inside. "I don't understand it! I have done everything, everything the texts say! Are the Chinese made of stone? Is he blind?"
Rashmikant nibbled his lip, then scurried off for a moment. Her face buried in the pillows, Aishwarya could still hear the sounds of chai being brewed. She sighed theatrically and rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand. "He is not blind, mistress," Rashmikant answered over the sounds of steam. "I have seen him in the market, arguing over colored cloth. He can see, I am sure of that."
"Arguing over-" Aishwarya sat up. "Tell me he didn't see you?"
"No, mistress, of course not," Rashmikant hastily reassured her. "I have not approached him, I swear! I have only watched him from the safety of crowds. He cannot have seen me."
Aishwarya sighed, nodding. "Very good," she said, and then she pouted. "But if he is not blind, then why is he not even the least bit moved? Every other man the British send to see me- even those poor Datil eunuchs! All of them respond. He does not. He sits there in that uniform, with his helmet at his side- you would think-"
"Think what, mistress?" asked Rashmikant, who had gone to fetch the tea.
"He is a sailor. He has been at sea for months. Even if he were the sort to lie with other men at need you would think there would be something!" She shook her head and said in a mournful tone, "The consul will not forgive me if I cannot get this Chinaman to talk. Not in a hundred years!"
Rashmikant started to speak, but there came a soft knock at the door. Sighing, he offered his mistress her tea before setting the tray down and trotting off to answer.
Aishwarya sniffed the tea briefly and sipped at it. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that it was good. She was in no mood to allow anyone else more success than that today. Rashmikant would just have to wait for his praise.
As if on cue, the little man appeared. His eyes wide and the palms of his hands pressed together, he said, "Mistress- it is the Chinaman. . ."
She scarcely had time to get to her feet before the visitor shouldered his way in. To her surprise, he was not so tall as she had thought- he stood a bare half-head taller than Aishwarya herself. Perhaps it was the manner of his hairstyle, pulled back tightly into the same bun most of the Chinese in this city wore? That made sense. His face was more angular than most of the Chinese she'd seen, bearing a hint of what might have been the look of Tibet. No- not Tibet, Aishwarya thought. Nepal. The angles were far too delicate to be Tibetan. Anyway, he didn't have the barrel-build of the wild mountain folk. The Chinese naval uniform hid much, but what she could see spoke only of whipcord muscle and innate grace.