“You know that his rudeness to me and to you will not be the end of it, General Vikram,” Prem said, placing an arm loosely around Vikram’s shoulder. As if they were friends. “We should certainly meet again, you and I, even if not for games or wine. You may be Parijati but not the sort, I think, that will do well in this new age.”
Dangerous talk, bordering on treasonous. Vikram said nothing.
Prem leaned in, voice lowered, eyes intent. He was, perhaps, not as drunk as Vikram had believed.
“I am saying, General Vikram, that Emperor Chandra is changing Parijatdvipa.” His breath was sweet with aniseed. “He thinks that because the mothers forged his line and the city-states remember their debt, we’ll kiss the hand of any inbred Parijati he favors. But we Saketans don’t forget that he’s not the only scion of the mothers with a right to that throne. And I don’t think you forget either, General Vikram. There is another way.”
The prince would not be the first to think—or say—it. And Vikram was almost tempted to agree. Almost. He knew Prem had something to offer—some bargain to make, some information to exchange.
But Vikram had not achieved his status by taking unnecessary risks.
His last meeting with the freshly enthroned Emperor Chandra, just after Emperor Sikander’s death, was seared upon his brain. Back then, the new emperor had not yet begun to remove non-Parijati advisors from their posts—had not ordered the execution of old, venerated Dwarali war ministers or Saketan treasurers, or burned a noble lady of Srugani descent and a princess of Alor. He had burned a famed courtesan and all her attendant women, but popular rumor suggested she had been a favorite of Emperor Sikander, and Chandra had been well-known for his virulent distaste for impurity in women. It had struck some of the nobility as cruel—but they overlooked it as the type of blood and tumult that was to be expected when a new emperor rose to power.
They hadn’t yet begun to understand the horrible depths or the commitment of Chandra’s faith.
Chandra had been genial, welcoming. He had smiled at Vikram, thin-lipped, accepting his bow with grace. Offered him a Parijati sherbet made of sugarcane and crushed flowers, handed to Vikram by a lovely maidservant. Chandra had exchanged pleasantries. Light conversation.
Then he’d said, Tell me how you did it, General Vikram. Tell me how the temple council burned. Tell me how they killed the children.
Vikram would never forget the look on the emperor’s face.
Despite his years of service, he had believed that people were not innately cruel. Everyone Vikram had ever had a hand in killing—even the temple children—he had killed out of necessity. But Chandra… Chandra listened to every excruciating detail, with a light in his eyes and a smile on his mouth. And everything he had done since that first meeting had been a confirmation of that first smile, that first flash of teeth that had sent a foreboding chill down Vikram’s spine.
I have use for a man like you, he’d said.
Those words. The pleasure in them.
Vikram had understood that a man like that should not be crossed.
Prem must have seen that his expression had grown suddenly shuttered, because the smile died upon his face.
“General Vikram,” he said. “Perhaps I’ve overstepped.”
“Yes,” said Vikram. “I fear indeed you have.”
It was almost a relief when a guard barreled down the corridor. A young, green one, followed by the commander of Vikram’s personal guard.
“The princess,” said Commander Jeevan. “The conches have been sounded.”
“It has been a pleasure, Prince Prem,” Vikram said. “Perhaps we will meet again soon.”
Prem agreed politely enough. But they both knew Vikram had rejected whatever overture he had been offering.
Vikram would not meet with the Saketan prince again.
Vikram climbed the Hirana slowly, laboriously. He was too old for such exertion and most miserably of all, the rain refused to relent. The servant at his back was holding a parasol above his head that was pitifully ineffectual against the downpour. Every time the surface of the Hirana dipped, the man wavered, the parasol teetering and tilting in his grip.
At least Jeevan was with him: a solid, reliable presence, watching his back, bow and arrow in hand.
The only small pleasure was that Santosh had not accompanied him. The man had tried, but he was clearly terrified of the Hirana, and the liquor had made him too unsteady on his feet. He’d clambered up for two minutes then relented and returned to the ground. He’d sent one of his own Parijati guards in his stead, who followed behind Jeevan, clutching the guiding rope as if his life depended upon it.