“Oh, the soldiers. That, I know.”
“The poet saved me,” murmured Rao, thinking of Baldev’s fury. The knife that hadn’t even grazed him, for all the anger with which it had been slammed into the floor. “He didn’t have to.”
“Ah.” Prem took another puff of his pipe. Released a breath of smoke. “And why did he do that?”
Rao rose to a seated position with difficulty. “I earned his trust.”
“How?”
“I told him I’d read the teachings of Sunata.” There was a pause, a silence that stretched until Rao said ruefully, “You don’t know who Sunata is.”
“Not all of us like books as much as you.”
“Sunata was a sage.” Sages were wise men and women with no affiliation to any faith or creed. “Sunata’s teachings underpin—never mind.” Rao shook his head. Winced. He’d forgotten for a moment that his body was a pummeled bag of bruises. “He wrote that there is no meaning in the universe: no fate, no high blood, no rights of kings over land. Everything is emptiness. The world only has meaning when we give it meaning.”
“He sounds astute,” murmured Lata, still applying a paste of spices with unnecessary firmness to Rao’s bruised ribs.
“I don’t understand,” said Prem. “Make it simpler, Rao, there’s a friend.”
“People who follow his teachings reject all kings, all royalty, all empires. They believe in… self-determinism. I suppose that’s the closest explanation.”
“Ah,” said Prem again. “I expect his teachings aren’t popular with kings, then? The high prince wouldn’t much approve of that.”
“His books were burned in Parijat,” said Rao. “And in Alor. In Saketa—”
“So, everywhere,” said Prem.
“Not among sages,” said Lata. But of course, Lata was a sage herself, and they would never burn books. It was anathema to their calling.
“Have you read him, then?”
“No,” said Lata. “I don’t care for that brand of philosophy, particularly.”
“I’d hoped that we could use what the rebels have,” said Rao. “I hoped… well. It doesn’t matter now.”
“The rebels are masked brutes,” Prem said. “They want to tear down Parijatdvipan rule, Rao. They want the good old days of the Age of Flowers back.” His lip curled, a little. No scion of a city-state of Parijatdvipa thought of the Age of Flowers, the era before the mothers defeated the yaksa, with anything resembling nostalgia. “Even if the rebels have the support of highborn Ahiranyi in kicking the rest of us out—what did you want to achieve? We’re hardly here to help the Ahiranyi get their freedom from imperial rule.”
“A way to getherout.”
Prem exhaled again. “Always that.”
“Of course,” said Rao. “Of course.”
Prem did not call Rao a fool. Not over this. Perhaps he pitied Rao too much to do it. Instead he said, “I’m sorry. I know how much she means to you.”
As always, embarrassment curdled in Rao’s stomach at the thought that Prem—that anyone—misunderstood the situation.
“But you’ve done all you can,” Prem was saying. “And so have I. The regent won’t see me again.” Another curl of smoke. “A shame, really. Emperor Chandra will replace that one soon enough. And Lord Santosh is a damn idiot. He’ll just be Chandra’s puppet—setting a new bunch of poor girls on fire and harping on about the purity of Parijati culture, as if the rest of us are as low as the Ahiranyi and need to be led.”
But there were other people in Ahiranya who could prove useful, Rao thought. Nobility who were not as likely to lose their positions as the regent. Ahiranyi highborn, who were perhaps funding rebels—rebels who could be utilized to support a coup against Chandra and see Princess Malini freed.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here,” Lata said, the familiar disapproval of her voice almost a balm. “Go outside, Prem.”
“Is he such an invalid?”
“No,” said Lata. “But I don’t like the scent of it. Go.”
“As the sage orders,” Prem said, inclining his head with a smile. He turned to go, wreathed in smoke. He lowered the pipe. Looked back.
