My heart sank. This subject had little to do with him. If he was speaking now, it was surely to rebuff the proposal.
“That is a fine idea,” he said. I gaped at him. His eyebrow went up slightly, and I snapped my mouth shut. “Our merchants may be more willing to part with their sons if they know their daughters may help them. We are always in need of more soldiers.”
I had truly not even thought of that benefit, although it now seemed an obvious way to appeal to a Minister of War who cared about recruiting soldiers, if not aiding women. I saw a few men nodding along. But on a Mantri Parishad with fifteen members, I would need more than a few.
Another man cleared his throat, and this time I knew it would not be in my favor. Manav rarely spoke, but as religious advisor he was quite devout and traditional. “That is blasphemy. The sages have been clear on this point—allowing women to sell in the market would certainly offend the gods.” He spoke as if it were the last word on the matter.
But I had prepared for this objection. “The sages would defer to our king, if he thought it in the best interests of the kingdom. After all, they want Ayodhya to prosper, as do the gods who have blessed us with their favor. If this new rule improved our city, I do not think the sages would have objections.”
At this, Suresh joined in, “Allowing women to sell might encourage trade too, for merchants could make more trips and leave their wives to tend their stalls.”
One after the other, most of the advisors spoke up briefly. I counted nine who agreed with my proposal. Ultimately, though, the decision lay with Dasharath.
I looked up at him, giving him a small smile, and entered the Binding Plane. My husband seemed in agreement, but I was gripped with a sudden worry that my first proposal would fail. I hesitated for a moment, then found the strong cord between us and gave it a featherlight touch. It is a good idea. Most of your council supports it. The idea traveled down our bond, and when it reached Dasharath he gave a small nod. “I am convinced,” he said. “This seems a wise decision.”
I could not hold back my beaming grin.
As the men filed out, I sought to catch and thank Virendra. But before I could, Manav loomed before me, blocking my path to the door. “I wish you would reconsider, Radnyi Kaikeyi,” he said softly. His voice held a disquieting energy. I did not step back, but I entered the Binding Plane as a precaution. The thin bond between us jumped this way and that.
“I am sorry we disagree,” I said politely. “But why not give this idea a chance? There is wisdom in it, and benefit to our people.”
“Perhaps. But you cast aside the words of the gods so easily,” he said. “This will anger many.”
I did not respond, for I could tell he would not listen. But neither did I pay him any heed.
On quiet evenings, when there was to be no dancing or music in court and the children were soundly sleeping, Sumitra, Kaushalya, and I would gather with our favorite ladies and servants and talk. We would pretend to busy ourselves in embroidery or the like, but mostly we would sit on the soft cushions in our rooms, lamps lit like so many tiny stars flickering around us, and tell stories about what we had heard around the palace.
One such night, we sat in my quarters sampling delicate sweets made of crushed pistachio and spun sugar—Riddhi’s magical creation—giggling at Sumitra’s story of happening upon a newlywed noble couple acting amorously in the corridor outside the main hall. Kaushalya gave a quite undignified snort, and the shock of that sound coming from the most elegant of us sent us into another round of laughter. It was at this moment that a knock sounded on the door.
This quieted us, for it was unusual for anyone to call at such an hour—everyone who might have done so was already here.
We straightened, trying to recapture a sense of decorum, and Asha answered, opening the door only a crack. I heard the voices of two other women speaking in hushed tones. My lady-in-waiting turned to us. “It is two serving girls from the kitchens,” she explained. “They seek an audience.”
It was strange to hear such a formal request, but seeing that my fellow radnyis had regained their composure, I waved the girls in and asked Manthara to serve them tea. Only once they were settled and drinking did I ask, “How can we help you?”
One of the girls, the younger of the two, straightened her spine and stared right at me. I immediately liked her. She looked to be fourteen or fifteen, with large brown eyes that held a barely contained spark.
“My name is Saralaa, Radnyi. Hers is Mugdha. We are from Chedi.”