The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(32)

Their neighbors to the north didn’t face the same daily hardships, as the river still ran strong there from its starting perch in the Aifora Range. That worried Kunal—it indicated there was only so much time before all of the midlands were engulfed in drought. The capital and other cities in the south could rely on the ocean and trade.

These people would have nothing.

The king held no warm place in his heart, but this felt irresponsible, cruel even. Kunal was realizing how sheltered he was from the reality of Jansa’s land and its people. He had spent the past decade fighting on the borders or engaging in training missions, oblivious to all of it. Not questioning or looking beyond his own life.

For those who lived off the river, their land was all they had. They had no stake in the wars of this king who stole their land and lives.

Kunal left Raju’s stall an hour later, some special homemade rotis that Raju insisted he take tucked into his pack alongside the freshly made green pea cakes he’d bought.

He had a lot to ponder, especially the realization that no one had heard the general had been killed. Perhaps the Fort was keeping it under wraps until the Viper could be found.

Instead of taking the straight path back to his mare at the outskirts of the city, Kunal veered off to explore the rest of the small town by way of narrow, cobbled alleys. He needed to see for himself all Raju had described.

Shops started to nestle together and clothing transformed, as the bright embroidered colors and big turbans of the market area’s wide, open streets dissolved into the faded, muted tones of the poorer shanty streets.

After crisscrossing the rest of the town, he had unearthed no Viper but had seen more than enough—families of eight or ten crammed into huts no bigger than Raju’s stall, dried wells that were abandoned.

The stares became hungrier, and something inside Kunal cracked open.

So much he had ignored, overlooked, stayed quiet about in his life. No more.

A pair of boys tumbled into the street in front of him, tugging at each other. They came to a stop in front of him, faces open in wonder—and fear.

Kunal glanced down at his armor, clinking his nails against the gold cuffs on his wrist. Two rough tugs and the cuffs were off. He knelt to the ground, dirt coating his light-colored cotton dhoti, and handed them to the boys.

He would find new clothes as well, something that allowed him to blend in more in the towns he searched. The advantage that came with this armor wasn’t one he wanted anymore. He saddled his mare, tossing the thin strap of leather and stirrups over her back. She tried to nip at his hand playfully, but he didn’t have the heart to engage in their little game. Not today.

Once she was saddled, Kunal took off, telling himself it was to be efficient rather than to leave behind the images of these people’s pain.

As it was, he would never be able to forget them.





Chapter 19


Esha stepped over the man drugged and asleep on the wooden floor, limbs sprawled like unraveled threads, to cross the room.

Half-opened scrolls littered a small table, a candle and looking glass next to them. She had hoped the sleeping man’s expertise as a scholar would provide some useful insight into the scrolls she had stolen, but no luck yet.

Esha twirled in the new outfit she had acquired, the cool silk of the new sari like water against her skin. It was long enough that she was also able to strap her knife and whip to her thighs—a necessity when on the run. The sleeveless blouse was a deep blue, embroidered with gold and threads of purple, and fit her torso like a glove.

Her head jangled as she moved, a teardrop of gold adorning her forehead, her braided hair woven with thin strands of gold. A row of gold bangles sat on both of her wrists, shimmering with small crystals. Jansan fashion was bright and flashy, which was the opposite of inconspicuous. Esha rather liked the idea of hiding in plain sight among all the other baubles at the bazaar today.

She melted the tip of the kohl pencil over the small candle, dragging it over the outlines of her eyelid. Her breath came easy and she found herself with a smile on her face. A semblance of safety could do that to a girl. No one would find her here—she hadn’t entered this inn room through conventional means. The actual occupant lay prone on the floor two paces to her right, knocked out with an herbal draft.

An image of Kunal, his hand tossed over his eyes as he slept, passed through her mind. Why hadn’t she killed him right there in the light of the forest? One swipe and he would have been out of her hair.

But something had stayed her hand.

Despite the stories of the Viper, Esha wasn’t one for unnecessary bloodshed in her missions. She did what she needed to. Nothing more, nothing less. Her ability to blend in and take on any story was ideal for a rebel spy. While she did get her hands dirty, many of the Viper’s most famous exploits were embellished or pure fabrications.

Someone’s sister told someone’s cousin and soon enough, there were stories of her stopping an entire Senap squadron en route to the port. Not that she couldn’t have accomplished some of the feats attributed to her, she just hadn’t. Yet.

Killing for the sport of it would make her no better than the wretched Pretender King on Jansa’s throne. Esha was a soldier and spy for her people, and she had her own duty to honor.

Esha stepped back from the mirror, admiring her handiwork. A smoky black line clung to her lashes and eyes like the last mists of a summer rain. Her lips looked bitten by berry kisses. All in all, she looked like a pampered rich girl. Esha adjusted the anklets at her feet, fiddling with the hook as she frowned.