She would need luck on her side.
Priya threw a shawl around her shoulders.
“Priya.” The expression in Malini’s dark eyes was unreadable.
“Yes?”
Nothing. For a long moment.
“I hope you come back safely,” Malini said finally. “I hope you’re well. I’ll be thinking of you.”
Why did Malini keep insisting that she really cared? It made Priya feel raw. She wanted Malini to care for her—wanted to bask into that caring, melt into it. But the rest of her was wary. The rest of her wanted armor.
“Of course you will,” Priya said. “I’m the only ally you have here. You’d be helpless without me.”
Malini did not flinch, but there was something about her stillness that made Priya’s own heart twist, just a little, with unwanted guilt.
“I’ll be back soon,” Priya muttered. “Just wait and see.”
She left the room and walked out onto the triveni.
The darkness beyond was almost complete. The glow of the sickle moon was faint, the lights of the city mere scatterings of gold on black.
She closed her eyes. She felt the pull of magic, a river running beneath her skin. She thought of the way the Hirana had shifted beneath her; the way the carvings had become clearer, resurrecting from their old obliteration on the walls. She thought of the way her connection with the Hirana had grown too.
She sucked in a fortifying breath—and stepped down onto the Hirana’s surface.
The stone was warm beneath her feet. She could feel new moss against her soles.
She took a step down. Another. Another.
RAO
“There’s a woman here to meet your cousin, Lord Prem,” said one of Prem’s men. “A servant, looks like.”
That was a surprise. Prem and Rao met each other’s eyes. Prem’s jaw firmed, mouth thinning.
In the three days since Lord Iskar’s assassination, even the pleasure houses had been gripped by an atmosphere of unease. Prem’s men had briefly investigated the damage to the local area, in the aftermath of the rebels’ attack—and the reprisals from the regent’s men that had followed. They had seen splintered stalls; ransacked houses; beggars dead, felled by horses, lying forgotten in street corners. The pleasure house they were in had survived, it seemed, by sheer luck.
They’d gleaned enough information to assume that Lord Santosh had been behind the damage to the city. “It’s exactly the kind of stupid thing a man like him would do,” Prem had said, distaste in his voice. Rao had nodded, and tried to make sense of General Vikram’s decision to leave the city open in the aftermath. He wondered how the act of one lord tied into the act of another, how Santosh’s brutality had triggered General Vikram’s magnanimity, and what their choices said about the current balance of power in the regent’s mahal. If he’d had more time—and more resources—Rao would have chased answers like a predator with the scent of blood in its nose.
“Who let her in?” Prem asked. “None of the guards stopped her?”
“Why would they stop a maidservant?” said Lata. She sat ensconced in a pile of pillows with a book in her hands. She didn’t look up as she turned the page. “No one stops maidservants.”
“After what happened to Lord Iskar—and at that Ahiranyi temple, let’s not forget—they should,” muttered Prem. “Besides, what if she’s a spy from that jumped-up Lord Santosh? I don’t think he was suspicious of me, but we should be a little careful. What is she—Parijati?”
“Ahiranyi, I think, my lord.”
“Right, probably not one of his spies, then,” said Prem, relaxing. He leaned forward, elbows on his crossed knees. On the ground between him and Rao lay a silk embroidered cross, the necessary board for a game of pachisa. He flung six cowrie shells to the floor with a little clatter. One shell fell aperture up and he swore mildly.
“I’m losing,” he said, “so go if you want.” He gathered up the shells. “Is this a pre-arranged meeting?”
“No,” said Rao. To the guard he added, “Did she say why she needs me?”
“No, my lord.”
Rao stood, wincing at the twinge of his still-healing wound. He listened to the quiet of the evening. The insects humming beyond the veranda. The sound of the fountain’s running water. And he made his decision. “I’ll come.”
The maidservant stood waiting in the corridor. She was a simple Ahiranyi woman in a plain sari, perhaps in her early twenties, with loose black hair and dark skin, a crooked nose and penetrating eyes. She offered him a perfunctory bow of respect, then said, without preamble, “She told me to look for a man who calls himself Lord Rajan, a cousin of a low prince of Saketa. Is that you?”