Another low prince or city-state royal might have demanded more obsequiousness from Vikram than he would have enjoyed providing, but Prince Prem was a genial, frivolous lecher and no trouble at all, requiring nothing but the typical courtesies. He’d visited Vikram a few times since his arrival, and had largely been pleasant if rather unedifying company. He held his liquor well and had brought an excellent Saketan vintage with him on every visit. He played pachisa with the grace required not to irritate, his moves measured and his repartee witty.
It would have been a pleasant evening, much like the ones that had come before it, if not for the presence of Lord Santosh. The man had refused to play pachisa. “I know the other nations of Parijatdvipa like it,” he’d sneered. “But in Parijat we are more refined.” He hadn’t touched Prem’s Saketan wine, or the array of Ahiranyi liquors arranged in beautiful colored casks upon the table for the delectation of guests, instead demanding that a proper Parijati liquor be brought for him. This, he did not share.
As he drank, he interrogated Vikram about Ahiranya’s rebellions, which had grown notably bloodier since Emperor Chandra’s coronation. He commented on the high number of Ahiranyi servants in the mahal—“If this were my mahal, General Vikram, I would fill it with our countryfolk”—and asked question after barbed question about the routines of the guards, based on the observations his own men, scattered through Vikram’s forces, had fed back to him.
After an hour of Santosh’s attention, Vikram’s patience was wearing thin, and Prince Prem was attacking his wine with worrying enthusiasm, a false smile fixed to his mouth. And still, Santosh continued.
This is the man Emperor Chandra sends to sniff around my regency, Vikram thought with hysterical despair. This buffoon. I should let him have it. Either he will destroy Ahiranya within a year, or it will destroy him.
But Vikram would not, and could not, give up his regency so easily. For years, he had held this fractious nation together, paying every necessary price to see it survive under his rule. Until Emperor Chandra commanded his removal, he would fake ignorance of Santosh’s purpose and do his best to maintain everything he had.
That Emperor Chandra liked Lord Santosh well enough to allow him to prod at Vikram’s authority did not reflect well on the emperor. Chandra was nothing like his elder brother, Aditya, who had at least had the semblance of a good ruler: a suitable coterie of friends and advisors, drawn from across the nations of Parijatdvipa, and therefore the full support of the empire’s city-states. And a sense of honor that would have stopped him from indulging in anything too ambitious.
A shame that he’d found a new faith and left his duties behind.
“Tell us about Parijat,” cut in Prem. “How is it in the capital? Is Harsinghar as beautiful as I remember it?”
“Harsinghar is always the most beautiful of cities,” said Santosh seriously. “The palace is being redecorated.”
“How so?” Vikram asked. He did not have any particular interest in architecture, but he would feign an interest if he had to.
“Statues are going to be built for the new mothers in the imperial court, so they may be thanked and worshipped for Parijatdvipa’s glory,” Santosh said proudly, as if he’d had a hand in it.
Smiling at such a pronouncement was difficult. Vikram wore prayer stones and prayed to the mothers, lighting candles for them morning and evening in the family shrine. He did not know how to find any common ground between Emperor Chandra’s version of faith and his own. But smile he did.
“Fascinating,” said Prem, sounding suitably awed. “And how will they fit that many statues in the court? Is it being expanded?”
A beat of silence. Vikram reached for his own wine and drank.
“The statues will be for the mothers Narina and Alori alone,” Santosh said. “The other women were given a gift—were purified—but they lacked the qualities to be true mothers of flame.”
Not highborn, Vikram translated. But he said nothing and did not allow himself to feel revulsion. It would have been hypocritical, after all he himself had done.
“Ah, my mistake,” Prem said blithely.
Santosh gave him a tight, displeased smile, then looked at Vikram. “Anyway, General Vikram,” he began. “I wanted to discuss your advisors. Your Lord Iskar is from Parijat—”
“Ah, Santosh,” Prem protested. “I’m here to drink and have fun, not to talk politics. Shall we converse about something else?”