The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(8)

A string of curses came from outside the door, and Kunal smothered laughter as he recognized the voices. He was friendly with everyone in the Fort, but Alok and Laksh, the unfortunate souls outside, were the two Kunal considered to be true friends. Kunal kept his eyes shut, face resting on his forearms as he listened to his friends’ movements outside the door.

A grumble and more curses, a rustle and a firm knock.

“Yes?”

“Get up, you lazy cow,” Alok shouted.

When Kunal didn’t respond, they banged on the door again. Vulgar shouts of complaint arose from the other soldiers’ rooms outside.

Kunal groaned. His body was so used to waking with the sun that nothing could change it. But without the intrusion from his friends, he could’ve happily languished in bed awake, letting thoughts of chestnut eyes and thick, dark curls fill his mind.

Now he would have to get up, if only to save Alok from starting another brawl and landing in irons for the evening. Laksh would let it happen, chuckling as he watched, unwilling to interfere. Typically, Alok brought levity to their friendship and Laksh was the scales, balancing Alok’s moments of ridiculousness with Kunal’s tendency toward rigidity. But Laksh enjoyed watching them butt heads, only coming in at the end, if at all.

So, Kunal pulled himself out of bed and wrapped his dhoti around his waist on his way to the door. He swung it open just as Alok moved to ram it and Alok fell to the floor in a sprawl. He sprang up and dusted himself off while rubbing his shoulder, eyeing everything with round eyes. Laksh strolled in after, rolling his eyes.

Kunal said nothing, watching them both with faint amusement as he leaned against the door.

Alok gave him a dirty look. “What were you doing? Curling your hair?”

“I was sleeping. As is everyone else in the Fort,” Kunal said.

Alok’s brow furrowed, his frown deepening. “You were also the only one who didn’t have extraordinarily too much to drink. I would’ve expected you to already be down in the sparring yard.”

“Getting soft?” Laksh said, leaning his lanky frame against the wall. “No longer aiming to be the best at the Fort, making us all look bad?”

“One day. I ask for one day to lounge in my bed,” Kunal said.

“Well, I wish I were lucky enough to be General Hotha’s nephew, then I’d have a bed and not a hard cot. You didn’t get where you are by sleeping in,” Alok replied. He pointed to Kunal’s jeweled armband resting on the shelf. “You didn’t get promoted into the Senap Guard by doing that.”

Alok poked his head into the hall to yell at a nearby door, “Unlike you, Rakesh! You got exactly where you are by sleeping in and being useless. Nowhere!” He turned back to Kunal with a satisfied grin.

Kunal shook his head at him.

“Rakesh will make you pay for that later, you know,” Laksh said, his mouth a wry twist.

“Yup, I’m fully aware,” Alok said. “It’s worth it.”

“Is it?” Kunal’s question ended up being rhetorical as Alok spun past him and Laksh.

Alok looked around in assessment of the room. “Sparse. Boring. Kind of like you.” He moved to the shelf on the side of the room, picking up a paintbrush and Kunal’s small marble miniature of the capital city of Gwali, which he tapped on its smooth bottom.

“Haven’t done much with it yet, have you?” said Laksh.

Kunal had moved into this small room, which was barely more than four corners and a bed, only a week prior. Most soldiers bunked together in the rooms below, set up by regiment and squadron. The room was his first taste of power and privacy as a newly promoted Senap guard, one of the elite warrior squadrons of Jansa. Trained as hunters and deadly fighters, Senaps ran the king’s most important missions and acted as his palace guard in Gwali. His training had been intense—physically and mentally.

He had yet to be officially promoted or know where he’d be posted, but his uncle had fought for him to get this room. He’d said that after all the years of strict training and difficult missions to become a Senap, he deserved a bit of a reward.

It was a rare moment of pride and affection for his nephew, and Kunal hadn’t forgotten it. It was their conversation after that that hadn’t been so pleasant.

Alok tossed the marble miniature up in the air and Kunal lunged forward, just as the miniature landed back safely in Alok’s hand. Laksh looked up, hiding a snort at Kunal’s face.

Kunal wondered, not for the first time, if Alok had a death wish or if he simply wasn’t disciplined enough as a child.

“Did you come in here simply to insult my room?”

“No, that was a happy benefit. I wanted to take advantage of the fact that no one will be in the training courts. Maybe get in a round or two. You could show us that shield trick of yours?” His words had a studied nonchalance, but Kunal could see his fingers tapping on the sheath of his sword. “Your room really is a bore. Can’t you at least get some jute mats or a small silk tapestry, maybe of the mountains?”

Kunal pretended a frown, which seemed more appropriate with the continuous stream of insults being thrown his way. Alok wasn’t good at asking for help, preferring to bluster rather than let anyone in. The fact that he was asking was groundbreaking in and of itself.

“You think you could handle it? I don’t know. I think you’d need to be leaner here”—Kunal punched Alok lightly in the gut—“and stronger here”—a swift slap to his biceps—“to really master the move. But I guess I could show you.” Alok punched him back in the shoulder.