The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(36)

Esha looked up to tell the girl as much, to apologize.

Suddenly, Tana went limp. Esha quickly unwrapped and hid her whip, attempting to shake the girl awake.

But she stayed unmoving, slumped against the wall.

Esha cursed.





Chapter 22


Kunal drifted through the bustling streets of the bazaar, keeping an eye out for anything peculiar but mostly enjoying the throngs of people around him.

He had spent time stopping and talking to townspeople the last few hours, showing them the drawing of Esha and telling a story about her being his betrothed who had run away, due to cold feet, which had worked surprisingly well. Many townspeople had been willing to talk, but he had gotten no new leads.

His only break from tracking Esha had been a note he had received by hawk that morning from Alok. Alok’s reply had lifted his spirits, not just because of his friend’s humor but because he felt like he had an ally again. He wasn’t alone.

Kunal,

I should curse you for taking this long to write to me. Even Laksh sent a note earlier. As for news . . .

Alok told him about trouble between Vardaan and the nobility. Vardaan had begun giving out wealth and land as gifts, often land that was already owned by a noble house that was in disfavor. One of the victims of this redistribution was Baloda, the lower noble house Rakesh was from.

Kunal had tucked away the knowledge to ponder later. For now, he looked around.

He could lose himself in a bazaar like this one—watching and reading people, drawing laughing eyes, wrinkled skin, and colorful clothes in his mind. His hand itched for a brush, but he hadn’t touched a canvas in years, sticking to charcoal and chalk, which were easier to hide. It was a part of him better left in the past, according to his uncle. The sketch he had drawn of Esha was the first time he had shown anyone his work in many moons.

He had obeyed his uncle, respected him as his general, even loved him. But without Uncle Setu looking over his shoulder, maybe Kunal could finally become the man he had wanted to be—not just who his uncle had wanted him to be.

This mission he owed to his uncle, but after that?

He lifted his head high, letting the warmth of the sun settle on his cheekbones, breathing life into his thoughts.

Maybe he’d paint again, without having to hide it.

It’d once been his dream, to be a painter, when he was younger. But he had left it behind, as he had many other parts of his childhood. He could feel the idea, that hope, fly back to him on quiet, uncertain wings.

The bazaar was color come to life, texture and dimension and delicious smells of spice and fried foods. Rows of colored glass bangles were lined up to his left, richly decorated earthenware jugs to his right. A seller farther up was calling out his wares, waving around his merchandise: long sandals with beaded straps that were traditional to this area.

The scene called to Kunal, begging him to stay and live in its world for a moment.

The open-air section of the bazaar caught Kunal’s eye and he wandered over. It was curiously colorful, with tented stall covers of mismatched hues stretching as far as his eye could see. The cracked, aging stone of weathered columns outlined the bazaar, casting shadows and lights in various places. The street here was wide, but he saw it narrowed as he got farther away from the center, the buildings rising higher with multistoried bell windows adorning their fronts and old stone arches connecting them to each other.

An array of paints were laid out on the sun-worn damask throw. Kunal reached out, barely brushing his fingertips against each of the bottles. Ideas bloomed in his head, shifting and turning into the images that lived in his heart.

And at the forefront were chestnut eyes—hard and calculating, soft and lost—a mystery that he longed to get on canvas. Something in his heart had opened in Ujral, a fire kindled to open his eyes to the world and not accept things as they seemed.

So he didn’t fight the confusing weave of feelings that rose in his heart at the thought of the Viper, or the girl he thought he had been getting to know. Instead, Kunal let it color the painting he had in his mind’s eye, feeling it swirl around the curls of her hair and the bronze sheen of her skin.

Kunal was about to engage the shopkeeper when he saw a commotion in the distance where a small crowd had gathered.

He moved forward, his curiosity piqued, listening to the murmurs of the market-goers. There was a sale on woven jasmine hair ornaments and a dancing monkey somewhere up front that one man swore was secretly a child in disguise. Some expressed anger over the king’s latest edict on thievery and some were excited that mangoes were almost in season—that is, if the drought hadn’t ruined the crop.

Kunal was taking in the sights around him, ambling toward the crowd in the front, when he felt it.

A tingling at the back of his neck, like he had missed something right in front of his eyes.

An instinct Kunal had learned not to ignore.

He looked through the crowd with a closer eye, and spotted movement a few paces away, an unusual tread in the crowd.

He would recognize that walk anywhere. Without a second thought, he took off in pursuit, unsheathing his knife.





Chapter 23


Esha winced as she held the girl, propping her up against the alley wall.

Tana awoke a few seconds later, and terror gripped her features as she noticed who was holding her up. Esha gave her the briefest of nods.

She had chased down more than a few deserters, never hesitating before—but this time felt different. It wasn’t just that Esha had been wrong about her having framed her, it was that she couldn’t get the note out of her head.