The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(6)

Esha readied her whip, imagining how she would sneak into the room and wrap the thin metal end around his neck as he slept. It would be a quick death, though he didn’t deserve one, and she would recover the report before escaping. She could see it so clearly.

Her breath hitched as she took her first step, anticipation buzzing in her veins. She had spent years imagining this moment, the elation and relief she’d feel when the deed was done.

She had reached the top of the staircase now. No light flickered in his room.

It was silent.

Too silent. She put a hand against the door and it shifted; it was open already.

Within seconds, Esha had her knives drawn and her back to the stone wall.

What was going on? The general wouldn’t have left the door open himself—she had been prepared to pick it with a special-made pin, forged for this mission. Esha thought about sprinting back down the steps, but steeled her heart. She hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

If there was someone in there, she would simply kill them and the general.

She pushed the door with the toe of her sandal. It swung open without a sound. Only the light from the moon illuminated what had once been the queen of Jansa’s bedroom, a faint smell of ash floating through the space. Esha moved as quietly as she could as she surveyed the room. It was sparse, uncluttered. There was no adornment past the bare necessities—a jute rug, a fireplace, and a dark wood desk. Weapons lined the wall across from the fireplace.

“Have you come to kill me as well?” A low voice rumbled like gravel from the bed.

Esha’s heartbeat stuttered. The general’s voice was a strained whisper as his eyes opened and he lifted a hand from his stomach. Blood dripped down his fingers, into the wound that pierced his stomach.

Moon Lord’s mercy. Someone had gotten here first.

She lunged into action, pushing away the shock and fear that coursed through her at the realization. She needed to leave now. The general looked weak and pale, his wound minutes old. He had lost a lot of blood by the look of his red-stained sheets.

Someone had wanted him to suffer. Or to leave him alive long enough for her to find him. Did the murderer know she was coming? Did they know about the report?

Esha sprinted over to the open windows, looking out over the thin curtains. It was too high up for a drop and there was no indication of ropes tied to the windows.

“Wait. End it. Please.”

Esha whirled around, fury now overtaking her fear. She moved to his bed, her knife out.

“Why. Why in the name of the sun and the moon should I, after all you’ve done? How can you claim mercy as your right?” Her voice was rough, low, infused with hatred and years of pain.

Recognition alighted in his eyes. “You’re not one of them. You’re one of the Dharkan rebels, those Crescent Blades. What is it you say in your land? We’re all the Mother’s creation. We’re all—”

“How dare you—”

“We’re all flawed. We all deserve mercy. Right?”

“So did hundreds of innocent Dharkans. So did the soldiers you captured and tortured for simply fulfilling their duty. And especially after what you did in Sundara to those civilians . . .”

“Vardaan and I, we had grand dreams. Better dreams.”

Esha recoiled at the name of the Pretender King, Vardaan Himyad, the one who had led the coup and now ruled Jansa. “But it was war—” he continued.

“It was a coup. Why am I even letting you speak? I should cut the tongue from your throat, General,” she said, her voice acid.

She moved to leave but whirled back around, incensed. That this man, even when at Death’s doorstep, could act so righteous. The general tried to sit up but fell back with heavy breaths.

Esha’s fingers clenched into a fist. “You controlled the fabled armies of Jansa. What more could you have wanted? Was your greed worth it?”

“Was it greed? Or conviction? After the War in the North . . .” He seemed to be considering it, a man who realized he had but a short time to think on his life.

Esha had run out of patience. She was pulling closer, ready to slit his throat in the former bedroom of the queen he had murdered, when she spotted it.

Under the bed, to the side, was a replica of one of her whips, identical to the one strapped to her hip. Her mind leaped to action even as her hand froze.

A trap?

She grabbed at the rug underneath the whip and tugged. It rolled over, no wire or weapon tied to it. She bent to examine it, tamping down on the fear that had bubbled back up. The heft was all wrong, and the metal was different, but it looked the same as the weapon in her hand, snakes emblazoned on the handle. It was an exact replica of her whips, the weapons that characterized her as the Viper, the ones she had custom made for her by one of the rebels’ top blacksmiths. Her whips were one of a kind.

Someone was trying to frame her.

“I knew I would never have a peaceful death,” he said, staring at her as if he knew she only moved closer to his bed to guarantee his death. Another shaky breath, a weak tremor in the body of the once-powerful, all-knowing general. He pushed the hand against his wound tighter, screwing his eyes shut.

“You gave that up long ago.” Esha took a shaky breath. “Who was it?”

“Does it matter? Does any of it matter now?”

She wanted to slap him. “You’re leaving this world having ruined the janma bond with the land, our one gift from the gods. Everything matters. You have the chance to save people.”