The Spice Gate, page 1
Dedication
To my grandparents, and the infinite worlds they carried in their frail bodies
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Dramatis Personae
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
A Note on Pronunciations
Kingdoms and Spices
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
Dramatis Personae
In Raluha
Amir: A Carrier
Karim bhai: A Carrier, also a servant of Suman-Koti, Minister of Silks
Kabir: Amir’s brother
Noori: Amir’s mother
Hasmin: The chief of the chowkidars
Orbalun: The thronekeeper of Raluha
In Halmora
Harini: The rajkumari of Halmora
In Illindhi
Fylan: the commander of the Uyirsena
Makun-kunj: A guardian of the Spice Gate, the twin of Sibil-kunj
Sibil-kunj: A guardian of the Spice Gate, the twin of Makun-kunj
Kalay: An acolyte of the Uyirsena
Kashyni: The stewardess of Illindhi, one of the Five Chairs
Mahrang: One of the Five Chairs, the high priest of the Uyirsena
Munivarey: One of the Five Chairs, a scientist
Shashulyan: One of the Five Chairs
Alinjya: One of the Five Chairs
Madhyra: The thronekeeper of Illindhi
At the Afsal Dina in Jhanak
Rani Zariba: The thronekeeper of Jhanak
Ilangovan: A pirate and renegade Carrier
Sekaran: A pirate; Ilangovan’s right-hand man
Raja Silmehi: The thronekeeper of Talashshukh
Rani Asphalekha: The thronekeeper of Kalanadi
In Vanasi
Bindu: A merchant
In Amarohi
Rani Kaivalya: The thronekeeper of Amarohi
Chapter 1
A man who offers you tea without ginger is more miserly than one who doesn’t offer you tea at all.
—Morsels of a Bent Back, Volume 1
Amir stood within the ring of erected stones encircling the Spice Gate in the midst of the saffron fields. The spicemark burned on his throat, sensing his proximity to the arch. Karim bhai shuffled next to him, stoic as ever, hair ruffled, beard unkempt, age wrinkling his forehead. He held a pinch of turmeric in his hand.
Amir counted the others. Forty Carriers in all. Twenty each to Vanasi and Halmora. Squatting beside tilted sacks or perched on cartons filled to the brim with saffron, cardamom, and rhubarb, and vials of honey and crates of rosewood. Jhengara, the accountant, whistled an old tune at the front of the queue, a stack of papers beneath his arm and an anxious tremble that was visible twenty feet away.
Amir shivered.
Because no amount of experience could settle the nerves when it came to walking through the Spice Gate. Not for the first time; not for the thousandth.
It loomed ahead like a monstrous archway upon a pedestal, dressed in gray marble and ancient stone, its base withered and swamped with creeping vines that twisted around the pillars in a gnarled choke hold. But what caught Amir’s attention as always was that swirling tempest beneath the arch, a veil like a melted mirror that held a storm within its prison.
The soul of the eight kingdoms ran through its crevices.
A soul I want no part of.
“Salaam,” Karim bhai greeted one of the chowkidars. The guard waved a pike in their direction, its tip grazing Amir’s elbow. Karim bhai raised his hands in supplication and continued. “If you’d be so kind to tell us what we’re waiting for?”
The chowkidar shrugged and moved away. Amir clenched his fists but prevented himself from prodding the chowkidar further. There was added security by the Gate today, and Hasmin, the chief of the chowkidars himself, stood by the Gate’s arch, casting a derisive frown at the column of Carriers waiting to sift through.
Amir whispered in Karim bhai’s ear, “Don’t tell me that now, of all times, they got a hunch about Ilangovan prowling Vanasi.”
He was careful to temper the tension in his voice as he mentioned the most wanted man in the eight kingdoms. Karim bhai sounded far less anxious. “They can pursue him all they want. But make no mistake, in those Mouth-cursed towers, I’d no sooner find a dropped cardamom.”
It ought to have allayed Amir’s fears a little. But as a bowler of Raluha, as a gatecaste Carrier of the eight kingdoms, his fortunes, like those of Karim bhai, flickered like a candle about to be extinguished.
And there’s never been enough wax to begin with.
Ilangovan was a source of light for Amir and the gatecaste. Amir just needed it to hold steady a while longer. Or, better yet, go shine somewhere else, far away from Vanasi. Of course, Amir was not certain if Ilangovan was even in Vanasi—no one could ever really know where he’d be when he was not in the Black Coves; the renegade Carrier was as much a spirit as a pirate. But there was one thing Amir was certain was in Vanasi: the Jewelmaker’s Poison.
And much as he desired to meet Ilangovan, now was not the time. In fact, the time would only come if he could get his hands on the Poison, and it would be a gatecaste irony, where one desire was upset by the appearance of another.
No—he would get the Poison. It had to be in Vanasi. He’d sacrificed three fortnights’ worth of spices to be certain. He’d climbed enough vines, delivered enough contraband, and crawled on enough rooftops to know that the Jewelmaker and his elusive Carnelian Caravan were supplying the Poison to the denizens of the upper levels of Vanasi’s bramble-choked towers. And all Amir needed was one vial.
Karim bhai must have sensed the trepidation in his voice, the vacancy in his eyes as his thoughts plunged into darkness. “Ho, pulla. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Amir blinked. “What? Oh, yes—of course, yeah. What do you mean, bhai! I have to do this.”
He immediately regretted those words. Making it a compulsion sounded insensitive of Karim bhai and the other bowlers, who harbored no desire to upend their fates. Or at any rate put their lives at stake for it.
But Ilangovan had. He had broken free.
Karim bhai chuckled. “So much for not wanting to be like your father. You remind me of Arsalan in more ways than one.”
“Is that what you think I am? Delusional?”
“It’s not very far from reckless, pulla. The line between them blurs as you get more desperate.”
Amir forced himself to not think of his father. He raised his head stiffly, to regard the mountains looming beyond the Spice Gate, and the dense hold of trees hugging their bellies. Beautiful and treacherous, the stench of death in the air and the promise of darkness. No, he was nothing like his father. Unlike Appa, he had a plan.
“The Jewelmaker is in Vanasi,” he said. “I am certain. I will have the Poison in my hands before nightfall, bhai.”
“By the Gates I hope you do.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Amir. “Just give my letter to Harini.”
Karim bhai, who had begun cleaning his teeth with a bristled leaf, clicked his tongue. “She’s going to be upset you’re not on the roster for Halmora today.”
“I have explained it all in the letter. Just ensure she reads it.”
“I will do what I always do: deliver. But remember, pulla,” warned Karim bhai, “if the thronekeeper of Halmora finds out his daughter is reading letters sent to her by a bowler of Raluha, things will get ugly real soon, and this whole dream—of joining Ilangovan, of getting your mother and Kabir to the Black Coves—it disappears.”
Amir had thought about this possibility too many times to be truly bothered by Karim bhai’s warning. “She’s not like the other thronekeepers.”
At that, Karim bhai laughed. “If I had a peppercorn for every time the abovefolk thought that of themselves—”
“No, she truly is not. It’s not her saying this but me. I trust her. Ten years of carrying, twenty years in the Bowl. Do you think I do not know the thousand ways the abovefolk discriminate against us? Do you think, after the lashes, after the stink, the seclusion, I would consider opening my heart to one of the abovefolk, to a princess of Halmora, if I was not certain?”
“You’re certain of a lot of things today, pulla.” Karim bhai continued chewing the leaf, massaging his teeth as he did so. “I fear for these assurances you’ve got going on in your head. It reeks of having control over one’s lives. And we? Pulla, we’re not the ones in control. We’re not bred to be certain of anything except the pain of passing through the Gates.”
Amir wanted to argue further—and the Gates knew he was tired of repeating his arguments to Karim bhai day and ni
At one point, Karim bhai stumbled, and Amir groaned. A whip fell on the old Carrier, and he dropped the sack with a wince. Karim bhai lowered himself to the ground, wheezing, one hand twisted to massage his back, and the other pulling the dropped sack closer to him. Amir’s eyes widened as Hasmin loomed behind the old Carrier, a snarl on his face that he had come to loathe.
“Ho, that wasn’t necessary!” Amir protested.
Yet Hasmin ignored him and, like a predator patiently enjoying the struggles of its prey, watched Karim bhai pick himself up, and the sack with him. Karim bhai almost fell again, teetering against the weight of saffron. Any temerity, any social capital Karim bhai had built over five decades of carrying, vanished in that moment as he enslaved himself to the tenets of his duty. That’s all that remained once stripped of the brittle comforts to which the bowlers had clung to. That frenetic moment of picking the spice-laden sack and hoisting it upon their shoulder—that was the only permanence. That, and the aroma of spices that surrounded them, of course.
If not for the sack on his back, Amir would have stood erect, with his chest out, and glared at Hasmin. He’d have spat at him if there were enough saliva in his mouth.
Fortunately, he could do neither.
Remember, you need the Poison. Keep your mouth shut.
For a moment, Amir wondered if Hasmin would grab him and shove him to the ground. Or perhaps, cup him under his chin and crush the bones of his jaw.
Wishful thinking.
What Amir got was, instead, a projectile of mucus right in his face. All the wealth of a hydrated body, conjured in that working of tongue and cheek muscles.
Hasmin would sooner parade naked in front of the bowlers than touch one of them. But whip them? Spit on them?
That he did without compunction.
Amir, who needed both hands to cling to the sack, felt the spittle dribble down his cheek and along the line of his throat where the spicemark rested, and could do nothing about it. Even looking the chief of the chowkidars in the eye could be seen as an act of defiance.
Jhengara’s tune ended. A whistle from the Gate broke Hasmin’s glare. The second signal had arrived. Carriers shuffled ahead. Hasmin spat once more, this time so Amir had to sidestep the wad as it smacked into the dirt at his feet. The chief bellowed for the Carriers to maintain their line. A low breeze wafted in the scent from the saffron fields, stalks swaying, bulbs frolicking.
The rest was clockwork. Amir trudged on, not trying to be too eager. Usually, he would scurry to the end on all the duties—all except Halmora, when he’d always be excited to meet Harini. With those other deliveries, he’d hope against hope that, by the time his chance came, Hasmin would hold him back; announce that there had been a mistake, that the Carriers who had been ferried ahead were sufficient to complete the trade. That he, Amir, could return home, no harm done.
But in his ten years of carrying, he had never been blessed with such fortune.
Now, though, he wanted to get through. Needed his fortune to keep Hasmin from holding him back. Once Karim bhai sprinkled turmeric on the veil and disappeared through the Gate to Halmora, Amir took a deep breath and a step forward, his head spinning as the swirl beneath the arch shimmered with a steady thrum. A thrum that hammered into his bones. A thrum he wanted to stop screaming in his ears.
He adjusted the sack of saffron and hoisted it higher over his shoulder. It was amazing to think that such tiny strands or ground bits of a seed could weigh so much, but stuffed into a burlap bag until near-bursting, it was enough to bend the strongest back—which Amir could hardly claim to have. He gritted his teeth but said nothing as Hasmin poured some of the powdered leftover nutmeg on Amir’s extended palm. His key through the Gate.
His mind wobbled. He was not sure if the scent on Hasmin’s person was of orange or ginger. Amma would know.
The jumble continued, the Gate making it hard for him to focus. A lash fell on his back. He yelped. One of the chowkidars screamed at him to keep moving.
He swallowed hard and stopped a retort from escaping his mouth. The gatekeepers were only doing their jobs, yet in the presence of Hasmin, they appeared like extensions of him, like poisonous tentacles tethered to a heartless monster.
“I better not discover that you have strayed from the spice trail,” Hasmin growled, low enough for Amir to hear, then nudged him up the steps. Hasmin’s shadow eclipsed any warmth Amir might have felt as the Gate’s essence vibrated in his chest even louder.
Amir climbed the seven steps to the Gate, panting as his sack threatened to drag him down. When he was within a foot of the arch, he opened his fist and cast the nutmeg into the veil. The mirror shimmered violently, jerking and shuddering, dispelling a wave of heat—like masala thrust into boiling water—before transforming into a rippling shade of golden brown. It pulled the air toward itself, like a vacuum.
The Gate worked. Amir had no choice. He lifted his chin and stepped through, giving himself to the spice god, and as always, the great Gate tore him apart.
There was nothing like it. Moonfall after moonfall, and that weightless, evanescent folding of himself was still something that stole Amir’s breath. The spicemark on his neck singed and flared like a wound that was being tortured with fire whips. His consciousness strained in that flicker as he glided through layers in space. That’s what Karim bhai called it. Space. Emptiness. Impossible, inhospitable—unknowns separating two far-flung kingdoms. And a tether in between.
Amir’s younger brother, Kabir, had questioned him a hundred times about it in curiosity over the years and all he could manage to tell the boy was this: Imagine yourself being pulled and pressed at the same time, from all sides, until you can no longer feel any sensation but pain—a harsh, searing pain. Your ribs, folding. Your flesh, compressed, like a ball of tamarind to be boiled. And before the realization of that impossibility sinks in, you’re on the other side, in a new land, denying that it had ever happened. Only the pain remains with you, lingering in the screaming shadows of the mind’s trauma, never to be forgotten.
Amir sucked in the air as that memory now swam inside him once more. He found his body struggling to accommodate this new intake of breath. Pain clogged his pores, and he ended up panting. He dropped the sack. The agony of passage—that he was used to. But why was every muscle on fire? He stayed there, kneeling, oblivious to the shifting footfalls around him.
Without Karim bhai, Amir suddenly felt alone. The other Carriers were similarly pained, and their glances spoke of that same wonder, as to why the Mouth was tormenting them more today. Was this punishment? Did the Mouth, in some inexplicable way, discover that Amir had switched his name from the Halmoran roster to the one heading to Vanasi by bribing Jhengara with a pouch full of cumin seeds? Had he inadvertently caused harm to his fellow Carriers?
As with each time through the gate, however, the pain dimmed. His eyes ceased to water, and the surroundings came into view.
The Spice Gate at Vanasi grew on a mound of earth, overlooking the fourth tower. The Gate was less haggard than the one in Raluha. Amir craned his neck, standing in the midst of the twisted vines, and gazed at the nine towers that surrounded the Gate. They were, each, at least three hundred to five hundred meters wide, and twenty stories high, piercing the sky like crooked fingers of stone. No two towers looked alike, but they were all unmistakably in the grasp of the forest they sprouted from. Bridges spanned overhead like cross ropes, connecting the towers at every few levels. The pathways were swamped by the movement of carts, wagons, and people, hanging markets and banners that children swung down from to move between levels, steps and ladders, and wooden mechanical lifts operated by pulleys that gave Vanasi the look of a constantly stirring jungle. And through it all, the vines and trees weaved a tapestry of nature, impossible to untangle.
