Now the procession turned into a broad boulevard, passing beneath the windows of some of the wealthiest merchants in town—and the ones who had lost the most to the thieves. Revilement and abuse poured from the windows above, turning into a chant:
This is the thief who has been robbing the whole city! Let him tremble now, for Randhir will surely crucify him!
Unfortunately, the man didn't look like the villain they described—anything but. Now that he was cleaned up and riding tall, straight and proud in the ruddy light of sunset, that light showed him to be handsome, very handsome, carrying himself with pride and bravery, meeting the jeers of the people with a faint sneer. Wicked or not, everyone knew of his strength and courage, and in the silks and satins the king had put on him, he looked like a prince himself. His gaze was calm and steady as he glared with disdain at the tormentors about him.
They saw, and redoubled in their rage. "Let him tremble now! Let him tremble now!"
But Charya did not tremble; instead, his lips quivered, his eyes flashed fire, and deep lines gathered between his eyebrows. Finally, his face creased into a sardonic smile.
A scream echoed above the clamor of the crowd, a scream that pierced their noise enough so that many of them broke off, staring upward at the window in the grand house that the procession was passing. There, at a second-story window, stood an unveiled woman, very young, who was staring straight into the robber's eyes, for on his camel, he was only a few feet below her, and not a dozen feet away. She went pale, and quivered as though his glance was a flash of lightning. Then she broke away from the fascination of his gaze and turned to the old man beside her, saying something with great force as she pointed at Charya. As the procession moved on, Shea came near, and heard her say, ". . . Go this moment and get that thief released!"
But Shea looked at the old man's face and gasped, "Malambroso!"
So it was, or his exact double. Shea grabbed Chalmers' shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other. "Look, Doc! Our kidbaooer!"
No, Chalmers said, his eyes on the woman, "my wife."
Shea stared at him, then whirled and looked again at the young woman. It was Florimel—except that she had black hair and a much darker complexion. But hair could be dyed, and so, for that matter, could skin—not that an enchanter of Malambroso's stature would need to resort to such crude techniques to change a person's appearance. "You're right, Doc! That's either Florimel's exact double, or Florimel herself in disguise! But why would Malambroso . . ." His voice trailed off as the answer struck him.
"Yes," Chalmers said grimly. "How better to hide her from us? We would be seeking reports of a fair-skinned, brown-haired woman!"
"And, of course, that would be the only way to make her fit in with the local populace." Shea nodded. "Good hiding place, now that you think of it—but it seems to have backfired on him."
Malambroso was pleading with Florimel. "My darling Shobhani, that thief has been pilfering and plundering the whole city, and by his command scores of citizens were killed! Why, then, at my request, should our most gracious Rajah Randhir release him?"
Almost beside herself, Florimel exclaimed, "If by giving up your whole property, you can induce the Rajah to release him, then instantly do so—for if he does not come to me, I must give up my life!"
She turned away, covering her head with her veil, and sank down weeping, while Malambroso stared down at her, wounded to the core.
So was Chalmers, at seeing Florimel so obviously in love with another man.
"He called her's hobhani,' " Shea said quickly. "Maybe it's not Florimel after all, just her double! Then inspiration struck. "Maybe each universe has analogs of the people in our universe! Maybe that old man is just an analog of Malambroso!"
"No," Chalmers said, his face turning wooden. "That is Malambroso, and the young woman is indeed my Florimel."
"Oh, yeah?" Shea, in another fit of inspiration, turned him and pointed at the thief, whose face was in profile to them as he stared at the young woman. "Think of him without the beard and the muscles! Think of him as a withdrawn young scholar! Who does he look like?"
Chalmers stared, and turned ashen. "He is me!"
"A younger analog of you," Shea said quickly. "The real you is still here! But this is what you would have looked like if you had been born a Hindu outlaw! No wonder she fell in love with him!"
Chalmers' face sagged. "I feel very old, Harold!"
"You feel old! How do you think Malambroso feels?"
"Very angry." Chalmers turned back to the window, suddenly afraid for Florimel—or Shobhani, whichever she was. Sure enough, Malambroso's face was suffused with rage—but even as they watched, all the fight went out of him as anger gave place to misery. He nodded with resignation and said, "I shall try to give you what you want, my child." He turned away from the window, and Shobhani looked up in sudden hope.
"He does love her," Chalmers said in surprise. "Her happiness means more to him than his own!"
"I never would have guessed it of him," Shea agreed.
Malambroso came running out into the midst of the parade and threw himself to his knees in front of Randnir's horse. The Rajah necessarily reined in—why lose a perfectly good taxpayer?—and Malambroso cried, "O great king, be pleased to receive four lakhs of rupees, and to release this thief!"
But the rajah replied, "He has been robbing the whole city, and by reason of him my guards have been destroyed. I cannot by any means release him."
"Alas!" Malambroso cried, and scuttled back into his house, his face in his hands.
"I never thought I would feel sorry for the man," Chalmers murmured.
The procession moved on, but Shea turned back in his saddle to watch the end of the domestic crisis. Malambroso appeared again in the window and explained, "Shobhani, I have said and done all that is possible, but it avails me naught with the Rajah. Now, then, we die—for I shall not outlive you!"
"Father, you must not!" Shobhani/Florimel cried, taking his hands.
"You are dearer to me than life itself, and I made plans weeks ago for the manner in which I would slay myself if anything brought about your death."
"You must not!" she cried again, "but I must! I must follow my husband and die when he dies!" And she darted away from the window. Malambroso stood a moment in shock, then ran after her, crying, "No, Shobhani! Stop!"
But Chalmers was trembling. "Husband? How can Florimel have another husband? Even if Shobhani is only Florimel's analog, how can she be married to a thief?"
Shobhani darted from the house to take up her place by the side of Charya's camel.
"Away!" snapped a guard, riding up beside her.
"I cannot," she replied. "I fell in love with him at first sight."
The guard drew back, aghast, and Randhir moaned faintly. 'The poor child!"
Malambroso burst from the house to fall on his knees in front of Shobhani. "No, my child! Come back inside!"
"Away, old man!" The soldier raised his spear-butt, threatening. "How dare you dissuade her from her pious duty!"
"Pious duty? What is he talking about?" Chalmers demanded, white showing all around his eyes; but Shea, more practical and less involved, leaned down to catch Malambroso by the arm and haul him up to his saddle. "Okay, Malambroso! Explain—and it better be good!"
The enchanter looked up at him, then stared in shock. "Harold Shea!"
"And Reed Chalmers." There was a note of incipient mayhem in Chalmers' voice, and Shea realized with a shock that even the gentle Reed might be capable of a crime of passion. "Explain what we have seen! Is that Florimel, or not?"
"She is, she is!" Malambroso yammered. "I enchanted her body into the coloring of the local people, I enchanted her mind into forgetting that she was Florimel, to believe instead that she was the maiden Shobhani, reared out of sight of men, never being allowed outside the high walls of the garden, because her old nurse, who died when she was only five, gave me, her father, a solemn warning—that Shobhani should be the admiration of the city, but should die a sati-widow before becoming a wife. A harmless piece of nonsense, surely—but reason enough for her father, who kept her as a pearl in a casket."