“Sima should do it, then,” Priya said.
“Me?”
Priya turned and looked at her, raising an eyebrow in challenge, and Sima said, “Ah yes. Me.”
“You’re going to get your advisor to wrestle a bunch of men?” Romesh asked.
“Hey now, Sima is my advisorandmy chief arm wrestler,” Priya protested. “We’re more like family.”
“We’ve known each other since we were children,” said Sima. “I think I can take my lady’s place, just this once.”
“It’s a bet, then,” Romesh said, after more cheery heckling from the crowd.
Priya shuffled out of the way, and Sima sat. Cleared her throat.
“Soldier, if a maid may be so bold as to give you some advice…”
“Go on,” he said, putting his own arm forward.
“It’s never wise,” Sima said, taking his hand, “to bet on arm wrestling against an ex-laundress.”
The encampment was celebrating rowdily by the time Priya meandered her way back to Malini’s tent. The guards at the entrance let her in without comment.
New lanterns had been lit, filling the tent with a warm glow. And there, at the heart of it, sat Malini. She’d removed her crown of flowers, her jewels. She was in nothing but her sari, her braid snaking along her shoulder, fraying a little into curls.
Their eyes met.
“You went out,” Malini said. Her voice was carefully neutral.
“I have Saketan wine.” Priya slunk deeper into the tent, over canvas onto plush carpet—the monstrously expensive, hand-knotted silk thing that lay beneath Malini’s bed. She could see the stains of her river-excursion marked into it: a snaking drip from one edge to the bed, a crescent of dark water-ink. She liked the sight of it, and didn’t really want to consider why.
“Do you,” said Malini. She was sitting at her low desk, surrounded by maps. She was alone, at least—no sign of her inner court about. She had a piece of paper laid out in front of her, inked words drying on its surface.
“Cheap Saketan wine,” Priya amended. She held it up, loosely, and thought of Malini during her imprisonment—Malini forced to drink drugged wine again and again, poisoned, hallucinating. She hesitated, no words leaving her mouth, unsure if she had overstepped.
But Malini was watching her, still. Her eyes were darker than ever in the lantern light.
“You should share it with me,” Malini said.
She held out a hand, and Priya crossed the floor. Placed the bottle in her waiting palm. Malini tilted the bottle back, forth.
“This is half empty.”
“Sima and I drank some of it,” Priya admitted. “It was only fair.”
“Was it now?”
“Sima won it in a game of arm wrestling.”
Malini raised an eyebrow.
“Who did she wrestle?”
“One of Prince Ashutosh’s men,” Priya said with a shrug. “Don’t worry, they seemed impressed.” Priya looked around again. The noise of the camp seemed very distant here. There was incense lit—a soft, rich fragrance of sandalwood. “Where are your people?”
“Celebrating,” said Malini. “Just like you were.”
“Shouldn’t you be celebrating too?” Priya sat down next to her, legs sprawled in front of her. She leaned back on her elbows, nearly lying on the floor. She tilted her head back, feeling the starry warmth of the alcohol swimming through her. “You should always celebrate when you do well in battle.”
