The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(10)

Thankfully, he laughed. “We’ll all look a bit worse for the wear today. We did reach a cease-fire last night, soldier,” Saran said, holding a hand to his head. The wine had clearly had its way with him. “Means the Dharkans understand they are no match for us. Our might will win.”

Kunal nodded, as was required of him. That was the basic gist of what they believed at the Fort. Kunal could recite the story of the Fort’s rise by heart, as clearly as their Rules of Order.

He could hear his uncle’s voice behind his words, steel and smoke.

A decade ago, Jansa had been weak under Queen Shilpa and the other Samyad queens, open to threats and obedient where they should have been dominant. Conceding instead of conquering during the War in the North thirty years ago. Vardaan taking rule was the natural order of things, as might would always win. His Himyad blood, the blood of kings, and prowess as a military adviser made him a natural choice for a leader. The rightful ruler over the weak Samyad queendom.

Since then, Jansa had been ruled by martial law, city councils and courts had been dismantled, and it had become illegal for large groups of people to gather. Before, the differences between the cultures of Jansa and Dharka—Jansa’s commitment to honor, Dharka’s love of mercy—were celebrated as two halves of a whole. But Vardaan’s rhetoric changed Jansa after the coup, drawing the nobility and upper class into the idea of regaining their honor through might. Now Dharka’s mercy was seen as a weakness.

He had never agreed with that, no matter how many times his uncle had made him recite the Rules of Order or King Vardaan’s new edicts. But Kunal could never voice that here.

Kunal slipped back into the conversation as they finished discussing the feast last night and who owed who a new sword after the games of dice.

“I’m glad for the cease-fire, truly, but I’m already itching for something to do after our victory at Sundara. Our Senap squadron was just given orders and I hear we’re going to the coast,” said Saran, before turning to Kunal. “I’m excited to welcome you to our brotherhood, Kunal.”

Kunal bowed his head in thanks, four fingers to his chest, and Saran responded in kind.

“The coast?” Laksh said, appearing from behind Saran. “That’s a terrific assignment. I’d wrestle you for it if I didn’t think the commander would miss me.”

“It’s a terrible assignment, just manhandling smugglers and the odd bandit, I bet,” Saran said. “We haven’t even been told what our mission is yet.”

“It won’t be so bad. You’ll have the beauty of the ocean nearby, and you can visit the old temple ruins, full of exquisite stonework and mosaic tiles. And the food. The jalebis.” Kunal looked up toward the skies, and the Sun Maiden, at the thought of the syrupy fried dough. “If you’re looking for a taste of divine nectar, jalebis are as close as you’ll get.”

Alok and Laksh exchanged eye rolls, having heard this many times from him.

Saran laughed, slapping Kunal on the shoulder. “You always have the most interesting way of saying things, Kunal. We should name you the poet of the Fort.”

Kunal flushed, unsure of what to say, but Laksh cut in. “There are also plenty of gambling houses and an underground fighting ring.” At that Saran’s face lit up, and he and Laksh walked ahead, deep in discussion about the gambling scene up the coast.

They crossed the sun-worn stones of the open courtyard and were about to turn in to the residence wing where the dining halls were when Alok’s hand shot out to stop Kunal.

Kunal’s head went up in an instant, his hand at his knife.

He scanned the area. No immediate threat. Kunal relaxed his posture and followed Alok’s gaze.

They hadn’t noticed the soldier in irons, slumped against the sandstone in the shadows. It was common to be slapped in irons for punishment, a way to teach soldiers a lesson and make them stronger.

Kunal shook his head at Alok and moved to keep walking. He recoiled in the next instant, understanding Alok’s shock.

The soldier was dead. Kunal’s heart sank when he realized that he recognized him.

It was Udit, the young recruit who was born in the southwest of the Varulok region, like him. Only a week ago they had spent a meal reminiscing about their favorite childhood games in the tea plantations that covered the hills of Varulok.

His chest constricted, and he felt that familiar tug of frustration at his heart. What infraction could have possibly deserved this? His body out in the heat, uncovered.

“It’s not right,” Alok whispered, echoing the thoughts Kunal refused to speak. “Why wasn’t his body cleaned, readied for the pyre?”

Kunal steadied his shaking hand, breathing in and out in the way Uncle Setu had taught him to master his emotions. Control.

“There must be a reason,” he said, his voice now even. He looked away sharply from Udit. “He must have broken the Rules of Order. Or worse.”

“Would that be a reason to disgrace his soul?” Alok asked, looking sidelong at Kunal.

“Alok,” Kunal said, his voice a whisper. The Fort was always listening; many of the servants, and even soldiers, reported any hint of dissent directly to his uncle. “That is what happens when you break the rules.” Kunal spoke fast, rushing his words.

“He was a boy, young and inexperienced,” Alok whispered back. “They’ve branded him a traitor by leaving his body out like that.”