The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(29)

Kunal looked out with him.

The red and gold of the landscape of the northeast twinkled in the midday sun.

Kunal looked back at the other three boys, the sunlight glinting off their armor. He took in the picture: Rakesh straining at keeping his seat, Amir glancing back regretfully in the direction of the Fort, Laksh saying something to Rakesh that made him go red.

Something in the wind whispered that this moment would never return and that after this, nothing would be the same.

Rakesh’s voice broke him out of his thoughts. “Don’t even consider following me,” he stated with simple menace before rearing his stallion back and galloping off toward the coast. The other horses whinnied, eager to be running and free as well. He could feel the muscles of his mare tense, as if she could sense the decision he was weighing.

“I guess this is goodbye, boys,” Laksh said. “Can’t say I wish you all luck.”

He nodded at the two of them, throwing Kunal a lopsided grin, four fingers to his chest. Kunal touched his fingers to his heart in response.

Laksh winked at Kunal and spurred off in the opposite direction from Rakesh.

“We’re the last ones. Do you know where you’re going?” Amir asked.

Kunal nodded and pulled at his reins. Forward.





Chapter 18


Kunal made his way to the center of the small town of Ujral, having left his horse at a stable near the outskirts of town. The market stalls and food stands stood tall against the sky, swatches of red and blue and green against the gray stone and wood buildings. They varied in size, some larger food stands set up like tents while the smaller market stalls were lined up in rows.

A welcome sight. The rumble of hunger in his belly had become an ache about a mile ago, and Kunal was dying for toasted mustard-seed flatbread and a jug of buttermilk to cool the fire of the sun beating down on his neck.

The light purple turban wound around his head was the only thing keeping him cool, and from being drenched to his toes in sweat. The heat was sweltering with a layer of bronze metal against his skin. He had forgotten how hot Jansa had become since the Bhagya River started to dry up, how oddly cool the weather down near the Fort was. It was a sweaty reminder.

Where would a Viper hide?

Ujral was the first town on the map of known rebel hideouts he’d made at the garrison he had stopped at a day ago. Faor was next, then Adartha. He’d sketched it out, adding as much as he could from memory.

He would bet on his armor that she would stop by one of the cities at some point, even if she was hidden. He’d hoped that’s where his tracking skills would aid him, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized how little he knew of her.

Senaps were taught to identify targets based off their clothing, accent, or demeanor. But Esha’s accent had betrayed no region—she spoke with the broadened vowels common to the Varulok region and used the contractions favored by the Parvalokh region. Her sari border didn’t have the stitched insignia of any one region or house—in Jansa or Dharka. The only identifying thing he remembered was that sari pin she had worn the first night he had met her. It was in the shape of a jasmine flower, a flower that bloomed widely in Dharka.

What that spoke of her, he didn’t know. All it said was that her background didn’t match her mask.

So, instead, he had decided to track her based off the one thing she couldn’t change.

Kunal reached into his pack, making sure the rolled piece of paper with his drawing of Esha was still there. He was so occupied by making sure his drawing was still in his pack that he didn’t look where he was going or hear the shout of warning.

Kunal barreled into a wide expanse of cloth that was hanging off a stall, and it enveloped him. He stumbled, knocking over a bunch of custard apples as he righted himself.

The shopkeeper ran out, nostrils flared and eyes ablaze, shouting. Kunal ducked his head, resettling fruit as quickly as he could, an apology on his tongue.

“You will not steal from me, you . . .”

Kunal braced himself for more, but the shopkeeper stopped short about a foot from him. Before he could register the look that crossed the small man’s face, the shopkeeper was prostrating himself on the gritty, sandy ground, the top of his thickly wound beige turban almost touching Kunal’s feet.

Kunal looked at the man in bewilderment, reaching down in an instant to pull the man to his feet. It was his own fault he had gotten lost in his worries.

Instead of pulling the man up, he knelt in front of him and clasped him by the shoulder. The shopkeeper was babbling, something about the flimsy material and how he had told his assistant to bolt down the fabric.

It seemed to be an apology. For what, Kunal didn’t know.

“Master, I humbly apologize. I had no intention of stealing and if I’ve done any damage to your stall, I’d like to pay for it.”

Kunal removed his hand from the man, who had gone still at the contact, and reached toward his purse. The shopkeeper slapped his hand away, and then looked aghast again at his action, his eyes round as the stainless steel plates he was selling.

“I’m so sorry,” the shopkeeper offered, words spilling forth. “I did not see—did not recognize—with the turban—” The shopkeeper paused. “Emenda, sir. No. I cannot accept it,” he said, wringing his hands.

Kunal rose to his feet. He had only ever heard General Hotha be addressed as emenda. The honorific had only come into fashion after the king’s usurping of the throne—Jansa used to be an egalitarian society.