Chapter 19: Rao

RAO

After Rao heard about the executions and the women who were burned, he sat with Prem and worked through three bottles of wine grimly, methodically.

He was painfully relieved that Prem did not mock him for it; only poured out his glasses, and allowed Rao to lean on him, and told him rambling stories of their youth, to which Rao could only manage slurred responses.

“Remember,” Prem said, “when you and Aditya tried to learn to dance for my aunt’s wedding? Remember that?” Prem had long since stopped drinking, and was smoking his pipe, his face wreathed in a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. “You were truly shit. Both of you. I couldn’t believe it when Aditya gave you a black eye.”

“It was a traditional Saketan dance,” Rao managed to grumble out, even as the room kept on spinning dizzyingly around him. “We’d never danced with sticks before.”

“Not much different from using sabers, is it? You should have been fine.”

It hadn’t been like using sabers at all. That had been the problem. They had both been clumsy, awkward, more used to scholarship and weapons than dance. And Aditya had tried to fling his twin dancing staves like sabers. That was how he’d thwacked Rao in the face.

Aditya had apologized profusely about the black eye. I should have shown more sense, he’d said, in that martyred, earnest way of his. Sorry, Rao. I need to practice harder. A pause. On my own, probably.

Rao told Prem as much, as he rested his head on Prem’s shawl-cloaked arm, feeling the rise and fall of Prem’s shoulder beneath him, moving in time with his breath. Prem hummed and laughed in all the right places, and Rao finally went quiet, closing his eyes. The room was still spinning. He was probably going to be sick later, he realized. He didn’t care.

“How is he?” Lata’s voice.

“Oh, fine, I suppose.” Prem’s voice was as light as ever. “He’ll be asleep soon.”

Lata sat down—he heard the rustle of her clothes, the thump of her body—and she and Prem began to speak in low voices, as Rao drifted in and out of consciousness.

“… the sacred wood,” Prem was saying. His voice sounded muted. Rao heard the tap of his pipe, as Prem cleared it of ash. “Tell me if you believe it’s true.”

“The Ahiranyi believe that when the yaksa died, their sacrifice made those trees,” Lata said, after a moment. “They believe its wood is imbued with the yaksa’s power. As for what I believe—who can know for sure what it can do?”

He’d never taken Prem for a man interested in the faiths of others, Rao thought drowsily. Maybe one day, when this was all over, he would have to take Prem to the most ancient holy gardens in Alor—the ones where you could read old fates carved into the living trunks of trees. Maybe Prem would like that. Rao would have to ask him.

Then sleep took him, and he heard no more.

The next day he woke with a throbbing head and a woolly tongue, none of it unexpected. He allowed himself to feel sick for one morning, and one morning only.

Then he returned to the task of trying to see Malini freed.

Prem stared at him in silent judgment as he dressed like a Saketan lord, in clothes borrowed from Prem himself, all of it in pale greens and blues. As he tucked a shawl around his shoulders, Prem said, “At least take a blade whip with you. You can borrow one from one of my men, if you like.” He gestured at the two guards standing at the door, neither of whom looked as though they welcomed the idea.

Rao shook his head.

“No Saketan highborn would go anywhere without his weapon,” Prem said.

No Aloran prince went anywhere without his weapons either, as a rule. But Rao had put aside his chakrams and his daggers for the sake of subtlety. He didn’t say so to Prem, who knew that perfectly well, and was just seeking to needle Rao.

“Anywhere?” Rao repeated, tying his sash. “The amount you drink, I’m surprise you still have all your limbs, then.”

“We’re trained to handle battle in any situation,” Prem said, with mock affront. “Including inebriation.”

“Well, I’d still rather not carry one. I’m more likely to cut my own hand off than defend myself with it, sober or not.”

“I should teach you. Widen your repertoire.”

“Maybe later,” said Rao. Lata was waiting, and although she did not look impatient, there was a slight arch to her eyebrows that suggested she wasn’t well pleased with the delay.

They rented palanquins to carry them from the pleasure house to the traditional Ahiranyi mansion where the lord they were meeting lived. Servants led them to a receiving room, where he was propped up by pillows on a low divan. There were vibrant red lilies carefully arranged in pots by the lattice windows. One pot sat by the side of the divan, a splash of color next to the old man’s pale robes and the white blanket spread across his legs.

Lata had arranged this introduction, making subtle inquiries via the sages in the city who had received support and patronage from Ahiranyi highborn. There were always people who valued the conversation of a sage and sought to learn something of the scholarship each sage carried with them. This man was Lord Govind, the last male scion of an ancient Ahiranyi highborn family, who had expressed interest in Lata’s teachings and wanted to meet her and her patron.

Today, Rao was that patron: Lord Rajan, Prem’s cousin and a Saketan highborn with scholarly leanings. He reminded himself of this as he and Lata offered Lord Govind their greetings and respects.

Lata gave an elegant bow before kneeling down by the divan alongside Rao. She had carried gifts with her: books, written in her own hand, bound in silk. Rao could not imagine how long it would have taken her to complete such large manuscripts, the hours by lantern light, but she handed the books over willingly. She described their content as she did so—the tales she had gathered, the philosophies she had recorded and dissected—much to Lord Govind’s obvious delight.

“These are a humble gift, my lord,” she said. “But a gift nonetheless, from my patron Lord Rajan, who heard of your interest in my scholarship with great joy and interest.”

“Ah, a gift from your patron! I see, I see. How generous of you, Lord Rajan,” Govind said genially, taking the silk-bound books from Lata with hands that trembled. He placed the books upon his lap, pressing a frail finger reverently against the surface of silk. As he did so, Rao had a sense of how Govind would read those books when he was alone: slowly, savoring each page, cupping the spine to protect the fragile pages.

“It is a priceless thing, knowledge,” Govind continued. “But the hours of work put into creating these are worth coin of significant measurable value, and that I appreciate even more. I thank you for your time, sage.” Lata bowed her head in response, accepting his praise.

“What prompted such generosity, Lord Rajan?”

“Many things, Lord Govind,” Rao said with a smile, allowing a little edge of a Saketan accent to inflect his words. Verisimilitude was important, after all. “But the joy of pleasing a fellow scholar cannot be underestimated.”

Govind gave the mildest snort. “Parijatdvipan lords rarely visit Ahiranya for intellectual discourse.”

“So I’ve been told,” Rao said. He wondered if Lord Govind knew that Prem and his entourage were living in a brothel. He decided not to ask.

“They come here to do things that would be considered improper, beyond Ahiranya’s borders,” Lord Govind continued. “For example, I did not think Saketans considered it proper to travel with young women they are not married to. Did you bring no female elder as chaperone, Lord Rajan? For shame.”

Ah. Rao had not even considered the impropriety, not as he should have. He had assumed there would be maidservants present in the room to attend on their master and his guests, but Lord Govind had waved any servants away upon Lata and Rao’s arrival. And he and Prem had traveled with Lata enough that the strangeness of being alone with her had long since eased.

Despite himself, Rao felt his face go hot. It was tempting to keep his smile fixed, to wear it as a mask, but instead he allowed his face to grow solemn, and gathered up the sort of words and phrases he’d need to shave away the barbed edges of this conversation.

But Lata spoke first.

“My own teacher educated Lord Rajan’s sister,” Lata said. “That makes us family of a kind, my lord, in scholarship.”

“Cousins in scholarship?” Govind asked, eyebrow raised.

“The bond of students who share a sage can be greater to us than a bond of blood,” she said. “Or so many sages believe. In my eyes, it is entirely honorable to be in his company.”

“And in the eyes of society?” Lord Govind murmured, something chiding in his quavering voice.

“Parijatdvipa is not an empire of unified values, my lord,” said Lata, smiling.

“Indeed. Indeed it is not.” There was a shrewd look in Govind’s eyes. “Well, it’s no business of my mine,” he added mildly, as if he had not just made it his business. “You want something from me, I think, Lord Rajan. Perhaps you intend subtlety. But I am an old man. I have no patience for such games any longer.”

Although Lord Govind was certainly old and frail, Rao did not think he lacked patience for politics. But Rao did not say so. He sat straight, clasping his hands before him with the neatness of the lord he was meant to be—a lord used to wielding pen and ink rather than sword, and leaned forward. Spoke.

“I seek a wise man’s counsel, Lord Govind. You are my elder, a man who knows the… often tumultuous politics of Ahiranya intimately. I wish to understand Ahiranya’s politics somewhat—better.” These words were a risk. But when Lord Govind did not freeze in fear, did not react as if Rao was going to drag him before the regent as a traitor—only narrowed his eyes slightly in interest—Rao pressed on.

“We understand there are Ahiranyi highborn who fund poets. Singers. Scribes and sages. And… other rebels.”

“Funding art should not be rebellion,” Govind said, with what struck Rao as false mildness. “It should merely be a sign of culture.”

“The rebels in Ahiranya do not simply write poems or sing songs,” Rao pointed out. “We hear things in Saketa, also. We are aware of violent resistance. Of merchants and highborn of importance to the empire, murdered.” He paused, thinking of the man he was meant to be, right now in this moment. “We are all three of us interested in scholarship, my lord, is it not so?”

Govind tipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Then let us speak as scholars,” Rao said. “Theoretically, of concepts that have no bearing on what we may or may not truly do.”

“We share an understanding,” murmured Govind. “Continue, Lord Rajan.”

“Theoretically, then—there is great anger here. I’ve seen hungry people, beggars, in Ahiranya, my lord. Far more than in Saketa.”

Rao had never actually been to Saketa, but Prem had remarked on the number of sickly people in Ahiranya, the breadth of poverty. And certainly it was far more than Rao had witnessed in Alor or Parijat. “It makes rebel violence understandable. Sympathetic, to some.”

“Anger,” Govind repeated. He massaged his own throat as he coughed. “It is a shallow understanding of Ahiranya you must have, to call what fuels rebel violence anger.”

“Then what should it rightly be called?” Rao asked.

“You must understand, there is no one unified rebellion in Ahiranya,” Govind replied. “The methods of each rebel group are different. But it is a vision that unites them all, not rage. A dream.”

“What do they dream of, my lord?”

“For the sake of the scholarly interests we three share, I will hypothesize this: Every city-state of Parijatdvipa, every highborn and king and prince, is bound to Emperor Chandra by ancient vows. But Ahiranya is not bound by vow or choice. Ahiranya is a conquered nation. So of course, all rebels in our land dream of an Ahiranya that is free.”

“But what freedom means, I imagine, is a more complicated question,” Lata murmured.

Govind inclined his head. “And so, those Ahiranyi highborn who share the rebel dream—they fund it as they will. Some think freedom is won by killing. Some seek a path in art.”

And what path do you take?Rao thought. Do you have connections to rebels who seek blood? Can you ally with us, and see our princess set free?

“Interesting,” Rao said politely, instead. “That dream of a free country is—an admirable one.” He waited a moment then added delicately, “The Ahiranyi are not the only ones with a dream of a different world.”

He could have said it then: that there were many in Parijatdvipa who would see a different emperor on the throne; many who dreamt of an empire of joyful unity, instead of one crushed by an emperor who believed that Parijat stood supreme. But Govind scoffed, falling weakly back against his pillows, shushing Rao with a wave of his hand.

“Indeed, indeed. But what happens beyond our borders holds little interest to me. In truth, even what happens within our borders no longer concerns me as it once did. Dreams are dreams,” he said. “I learned long ago the limits of a vision built upon faith and ideals. And the dangers.”

“Lord Govind,” Rao said, even as the man shook his head.

“You’re a young man, Lord Rajan, and young people believe in things. Often they die for them. Kill for them. The regent burned women, Ahiranyi women, did you hear?”

Rao swallowed. Kept his expression calm. “I did, Lord Govind.”

“Did the regent believe he acted correctly, in service of higher ideals? Somebody did, certainly,” Govind said, and Rao had no doubt that by somebody he meant Lord Santosh. “But his act of faith will cost us all. He killed for faith, and now the rebels will do no less in return. If you will listen to an old man’s counsel, then I advise you to leave the city while you still can. Leave Ahiranya entirely. Go swiftly. Forget our troubles. You will find no help here, Lord Rajan, from me or from any other. You would best be somewhere else, when the rebels seek blood in compensation. And it will not be long, I think.”

“Think, or know?” Rao asked, doing away with subtlety. His heart was pounding.

Govind shook his head, which was no answer. Then he closed his eyes, clearly unutterably tired.

“It has been a long time,” he murmured. “A long time since I have talked so much. I thank you for the books, Lord Rajan, young sage. These will bring me joy in the times to come. Whatever they may be. But I think now I must rest. You should be on your way.”