The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(58)

Chapter 39


Esha breathed a sigh of relief as she wound through the streets of Amali. Finally, she was here, and not a moment too soon—in a week, it would be almost a moon since she had left the Blood Fort, leaving only one more moon before the peace summit.

Amali was nestled right in between the mountains and the desert like a diamond in a jeweled tiara. It was a part of the Parvalokh region, a swath of land that bordered the mountains and was crisscrossed by roads for traders and caravans.

It was a sophisticated system of roads for a region of Jansa whose nobility hadn’t allied with Vardaan, due to their distance from Gwali and proximity to Dharka. And it was the perfect region for Dharkan smugglers looking to bring their wares to eager Jansans who missed the days of open trade and borders.

And now with the drought, it was a key town in ensuring supplies got through to people who were in need. Harun had sent the team here more than a few times. It had made finding the scholar easier, knowing her way around this region.

Esha bit down a smile as she passed a frowning couple arguing over whether they needed to buy their young son a new knife as he stood to the side, playing with his own shadow and oblivious to both of them.

The boy reminded her of a friend she had shared a tutor with at the palace—a happy, silly boy who had too much action and joy in his heart for their poor tutor and his mother. She still remembered how they would climb up lemon trees and lob lemons at anyone who dared to pass by and pored over scrolls in the library till their eyes went crossed.

A type of friendship that only children could have—sweet, simple, and hopeful. Esha took a deep breath at the thought. Her rebels were her friends too, but as the Viper, there would always be a part of her she couldn’t show them. She had a reputation to keep up.

Esha reached the house she was looking for and knocked on the cracked wooden door to no answer. She had raised her hand to knock again when the door banged open and a stout woman with a round face peered out at her.

“I’m looking for a tailor. I caught my hem while on horseback,” Esha said, repeating the phrase Tana had written down for her.

“Yes, in here.”

The woman leaned out, looking left and right, before ushering her into the house. It was a rather small home, made all the smaller by the towers of opened and unopened scrolls that seemed to have been sneaked into every nook and cranny of the house.

“Our mutual friend tells me you used to be a scholar at the university in Gwali,” Esha said.

“I was a scholar of languages when the coup happened. Haven’t been allowed back in the Great Library since then.” She said the words straight, without a plea for sympathy, but Esha winced anyway. The scholar waved her over to a table, where she pulled out two chairs.

Esha rummaged through her pack for the scroll, wondering if it was her imagination or she was missing one. She found the one she needed with a relieved sigh and handed it to her.

“These scrolls should have military information, but there’s something in this one that has caused a lot of trouble.” Esha thought of the Blade who had gone to his death trying to protect it. “There’s also a part burned off, but if you can make sense of it . . .”

“Let me take a closer look.”

Esha had no reason to believe the scholar couldn’t be trusted, but she kept a tight hold on her guard, observing the woman as she examined the reports, as she smoothed out parts of the paper and peered over them. Not exchanging names was only part of that.

After determining there were no weapons—or objects that could be used as weapons—in their direct vicinity, Esha took a moment to relax. The small house smelled like paper and incense, mixing into a heady combination that lulled Esha’s senses. The past few days had been a relentless drive and she was happy to have finally reached Amali. Scrolls overflowed even into the kitchen, and Esha saw a cowherd girl figurine in the corner of one of her shelves.

Minutes later, the scholar raised her head and locked eyes with Esha.

“Tana was right to send you to me.” Her voice was soft but had a strength to it. “I’m one of the only scholars left outside of Gwali who can read this dialect of Old Jansan—it’s from the region that borders the Yavar’s lands. This burned-off part, it’s not clear, but it refers to someone who calls himself Dharmdev.” The scholar snorted. “Of course a man would call himself the Lord of Justice. Anyway, it looks like this report is about a classified Senap search mission.”

The woman continued reading, tracing her finger over the curved letters, mouthing the words. Esha stilled.

A search mission?

Esha could think of only one thing the Fort might be searching for that would be worth killing for—worth framing someone for.

Could it be?

“This phrase, heen rayan, I’m pretty sure it’s what they were looking for,” the scholar said.

“Heen rayan?” Esha repeated.

The scholar lifted her head to look at Esha, a deep sadness spreading across her face as she frowned.

“I never would have believed it had I not seen it written myself,” the scholar said. Esha leaned forward. “Heen rayan. It’s a loose transliteration of ‘Lost Princess.’ There are a few ways to interpret it, but given what we know, it makes the most sense.” Her eyes darted to the cowherd figurine in the corner. “The princess Reha.”