The Descent of the Drowned by Ana Lal Din

Author:Ana Lal Din [Din, Ana Lal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: White Tigress Press
Published: 2020-11-29T20:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 26

Patrons streamed in one at a time and dropped fals on fals in the veil. Peering down at the glinting copper, Roma saw her worth in the coins with their Middle Khansāri numbers imprinted on the metal. Prostitutes should know the face value of a coin. How else would they measure their own worth? She clasped the cobra pendant around her neck until it bruised her palm as bitterness rose within her. The coins seemed to taunt her with their coppery shine in the torchlight.

She was aware of the scars on her shell, of their shape and depth. The ones Alan Saheb had caused and the ones she had caused. Their rigid existence bred a restiveness in her that she was never able to soothe. It augmented now when she stood in the auction chamber with the gods as her witnesses and transformed into the talons of a beast that craved blood. She wouldn’t make it painless. No, she would draw it out until he begged her like she had begged him for relief. The Panchayat would sentence her to death for his murder, but death no longer frightened her.

Sādin Saheb stepped toward her with downturned lips, his robe dragging over the ground. “Well,” he said in a thwarted tone, squinting at the fals. “The gods aren’t happy, child.”

A laugh caught in her throat. Knowing the receivers of the coin were the Firawn and Sādin Saheb made her want to comment on his lie—if only to observe the shock on his face when he realised she knew what a fraud he was—but she swallowed her remark. He wouldn’t matter to her soon enough, nor would his venomous lies.

Nothing would matter.

The thick, purple veins on the back of his hands twitched as he gathered the veil and summoned a birandasi to take it from him. “Your service to Alan Saheb will have to account for your poor worth, I suppose,” he continued, turning toward her with an arrogant smile. “Indeed. Alan Saheb has spoken for you. A man with an injured pride is dangerous, child. He won’t be kind. Now, it’s time—”

“Hold your chants, priest.”

The aggressive companion of the Firawn’s son—the one called Junho—sauntered into the auction chamber in an orange kurta over black trousers. His nosepieces winked as he passed the torches on the wall.

Sādin Saheb glowered at him. “You,” he snapped. “How dare you enter the sacred temple of the High Lord, boy?”

“Don’t choke.” Shaking a leather pouch full of coin, Junho tossed it to Sādin Saheb. With a frown on his face, Sādin Saheb untied the pouch. His eyes widened at the silver. “That’s your payment from Leviathan Blackburn for the dēvadasi. She belongs to him now.”

The air snagged in Roma’s throat while her mind scrambled to understand. The Firawn’s son was bidding on her. He bought her. She never thought highly of him, but she considered him above this. Hadn’t he defended Khiraa’s honour? Hadn’t he touched Ghanima Mai’s feet in respect and listened to Kanoni’s accusations in silence? He had pulled Roma out of the fountain.

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