Aditya had apologized profusely about the black eye. I should have shown more sense, he’d said, in that martyred, earnest way of his. Sorry, Rao. I need to practice harder. A pause. On my own, probably.
Rao told Prem as much, as he rested his head on Prem’s shawl-cloaked arm, feeling the rise and fall of Prem’s shoulder beneath him, moving in time with his breath. Prem hummed and laughed in all the right places, and Rao finally went quiet, closing his eyes. The room was still spinning. He was probably going to be sick later, he realized. He didn’t care.
“How is he?” Lata’s voice.
“Oh, fine, I suppose.” Prem’s voice was as light as ever. “He’ll be asleep soon.”
Lata sat down—he heard the rustle of her clothes, the thump of her body—and she and Prem began to speak in low voices, as Rao drifted in and out of consciousness.
“… the sacred wood,” Prem was saying. His voice sounded muted. Rao heard the tap of his pipe, as Prem cleared it of ash. “Tell me if you believe it’s true.”
“The Ahiranyi believe that when the yaksa died, their sacrifice made those trees,” Lata said, after a moment. “They believe its wood is imbued with the yaksa’s power. As for what I believe—who can know for sure what it can do?”
He’d never taken Prem for a man interested in the faiths of others, Rao thought drowsily. Maybe one day, when this was all over, he would have to take Prem to the most ancient holy gardens in Alor—the ones where you could read old fates carved into the living trunks of trees. Maybe Prem would like that. Rao would have to ask him.
Then sleep took him, and he heard no more.
The next day he woke with a throbbing head and a woolly tongue, none of it unexpected. He allowed himself to feel sick for one morning, and one morning only.
Then he returned to the task of trying to see Malini freed.
Prem stared at him in silent judgment as he dressed like a Saketan lord, in clothes borrowed from Prem himself, all of it in pale greens and blues. As he tucked a shawl around his shoulders, Prem said, “At least take a blade whip with you. You can borrow one from one of my men, if you like.” He gestured at the two guards standing at the door, neither of whom looked as though they welcomed the idea.
Rao shook his head.
“No Saketan highborn would go anywhere without his weapon,” Prem said.
No Aloran prince went anywhere without his weapons either, as a rule. But Rao had put aside his chakrams and his daggers for the sake of subtlety. He didn’t say so to Prem, who knew that perfectly well, and was just seeking to needle Rao.
“Anywhere?” Rao repeated, tying his sash. “The amount you drink, I’m surprise you still have all your limbs, then.”
“We’re trained to handle battle in any situation,” Prem said, with mock affront. “Including inebriation.”
“Well, I’d still rather not carry one. I’m more likely to cut my own hand off than defend myself with it, sober or not.”
“I should teach you. Widen your repertoire.”
“Maybe later,” said Rao. Lata was waiting, and although she did not look impatient, there was a slight arch to her eyebrows that suggested she wasn’t well pleased with the delay.
They rented palanquins to carry them from the pleasure house to the traditional Ahiranyi mansion where the lord they were meeting lived. Servants led them to a receiving room, where he was propped up by pillows on a low divan. There were vibrant red lilies carefully arranged in pots by the lattice windows. One pot sat by the side of the divan, a splash of color next to the old man’s pale robes and the white blanket spread across his legs.
Lata had arranged this introduction, making subtle inquiries via the sages in the city who had received support and patronage from Ahiranyi highborn. There were always people who valued the conversation of a sage and sought to learn something of the scholarship each sage carried with them. This man was Lord Govind, the last male scion of an ancient Ahiranyi highborn family, who had expressed interest in Lata’s teachings and wanted to meet her and her patron.
Today, Rao was that patron: Lord Rajan, Prem’s cousin and a Saketan highborn with scholarly leanings. He reminded himself of this as he and Lata offered Lord Govind their greetings and respects.
Lata gave an elegant bow before kneeling down by the divan alongside Rao. She had carried gifts with her: books, written in her own hand, bound in silk. Rao could not imagine how long it would have taken her to complete such large manuscripts, the hours by lantern light, but she handed the books over willingly. She described their content as she did so—the tales she had gathered, the philosophies she had recorded and dissected—much to Lord Govind’s obvious delight.