Enemy Territory
They drove back to the Palace so fast it felt like the bus’ wheels hardly touched the ground. Pranay said she received some medical training during her years of studying abroad, and reported that she’d likely suffered a ruptured eardrum in the blast. Preet’s injuries were far beyond her ability to diagnose however, much less treat. The injured soldiers were taken to an audience hall on the first floor, a space large enough to use as a makeshift medical ward. Preet was whisked away with Pranay into one of the spare bedrooms on the upper floor, leaving Priya and Prem to wait outside. The Rani ordered a doubled watch, and once Kurien’s injuries were tended to, she put him both in charge of security and of handling the mob of reporters demanding a statement on the evening’s events. Prem approved of that—injured or not, Kurien didn’t seem the type to be easily intimidated, and he certainly wasn’t squeamish at the idea of hurting someone.
Prem found herself sitting in a squat-backed bamboo armchair in the hallway outside of her sisters’ sickroom. She rested her head against the wall, both eyes closed. Guards stood at both ends of the hall, so for the moment it was quiet, as peaceful as a night like that could hope to be. And yet: “Stop pacing, Pri.” Prem opened one eye. “I can barely hear myself think with all your shuffling.”
“I don’t know how you can be so calm after what’s happened,“ Priya answered. She hadn’t even changed clothes after their return, and now wore a dark line through the crimson carpet with her boots as she paced back and forth, her duster flapping with every step. “Why haven’t we heard anything?”
“Doctor Zaidi’s examining them now. He’ll tell us something when there’s something to tell.” That reassurance did nothing to calm the Rani’s nerves, but Prem expected as much: this was Priya’s first major test, her first real crisis as monarch. It was the culmination of two chaotic, capricious days of activity and planning that had completely unraveled in one, fiery instant. Privacy allowed Priya the luxury of showing off rattled nerves and asking pointless questions.
Prem was tired. Her body ached all over, her head wouldn’t stop throbbing, and the heavy thump-thump-thump of her sister’s boots grated on her. Finally, repressing a growl in the back of her throat, Prem slapped her knees with both hands and sat up straight, but even that didn’t stop Priya’s striding back and forth. Prem rubbed her eyes, steeled herself for what was coming. “Whose idea was it?”
Priya didn’t stop pacing. It reminded Prem of their father, at how he took long walks through the upper halls late at night when they were children. “What idea?” Priya said.
“That foolishness with all of the busses, of hiding out with Gomati in some unsecured building down in Industrial instead of bringing him back here, and…all the rest of it.” Prem waved a hand, as if that could encompass the entire mess of an evening all at once.
“It was secure.”
“Right.” Prem grunted, rolled her eyes. “I guess I overlooked that, what with the flying razors and the explosions and all.”
“Prem, this isn’t the time—’’
“So when is it time, Pri?’’ Prem leaned forward, resting both elbows on her knees. “Enough with the excuses. ‘It’s my job to let you do your job,’ remember? Did Preet make the suggestion about where to take Gomati? That sounds like her, always thinking with her ego, believing she’d be smart enough not to get caught.”
Priya stepped closer, puffing out her chest, an angry look on her face. “Prem—!”
“Or was it you?” Prem stood up, face to face with her sister now, staring Priya down. “You get tired of playing House? Always sitting back, watching everyone else have all the fun while you got stuck at home, so you decided to join in this time? Had to get your hands dirty for once?”
The Rani straightened, trying to make herself taller again. “Prem, I mean it—!”
“So it was you.’’ Prem kept her voice calm and level, contrasting with Priya’s rising tones. “You wanted in on the action this time. You couldn’t content yourself with sitting back and always hearing about what happened after the fact. You hatched this plan, ordered Preet and Pranay to go along with it, then kept me in the dark because you knew I’d tell you that your plan was ridiculous and that you were all idiots. Isn’t that right? And now look at what’s happened, all because—’’
“Stop it!’’ Priya shouted, body shaking, her hands curled into fists. She looked so angry Prem suspected that Priya wanted to strike her; she seemed unable to form a coherent word without losing her temper.
Prem didn’t speak any further. If Priya actually did try to strike her, Prem knew of at least four ways to evade the attack, and five more ways to quickly subdue her sister, not counting the methods she could used if Priya had a weapon…but Prem knew Priya wouldn’t do anything.
In seconds, Priya’s anger started to fade, leaving new fear and panic behind. “Gods, Prem. I… Preet could be dying right now.’’ The Rani’s voice gave a slight tremor, like she was ready to break. “And it’ll be my fault.”
Prem took hold of her sister by the arms, gave her a sharp shake. It seemed to shock something back in Priya, making her eyes open a little wider, catching her in the middle of a sobbing gasp. Leaning in close, Prem spoke low and quick. “We fought for you tonight, Pri. Pranay broke the law to protect you. Preet and the Guard—your Guard—risked their lives to capture Gomati for you. All of them did good work for you, because of you.’’ Prem released her grip but kept Priya pinned under her stare. “You’re the Rani now, Pri. You don’t get second chances and you don’t get to second-guess yourself. If someone gets hurt, you have to find a way to live with that.”
”I know all of—!”
The door opened, cutting Priya off before she could say more. A short, balding man with a wrinkled chestnut face and a halo of silver hair stepped out, pulled the door shut behind him. He walked with a stoop, leaning on a polished steel cane. Achara Zaidi was their family physician, having attended all four of the sisters’ births, and even treated their parents right up until both of their deaths.
Priya sniffed, cleared her throat. “Doctor Zaidi, how are my sisters doing?”
The doctor smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pranay should be fine,” he said. “She’s experiencing some discomfort and temporary hearing loss, given the state of her injury, but I expect her to recover fairly quickly.”
“And how is Preet?”
Zaidi’s smile slipped, vanished. “Well…magic can’t fix everything, after all. Your elder sister sustained some chemical burns, as well as a broken leg—I’m told the blast was quite powerful.” When Priya nodded, Zaidi sighed. “She also suffered a great deal of internal hemorrhaging, several broken ribs, and a severe concussion. Pranay insisted on helping when I felt she should be resting, but that jinn of hers was most helpful, so much of the physical damage was repaired. I fear that the Seneschal’s head injuries will be far more difficult to recover from, however.”
“Will she live?” Prem said, ignoring Priya’s scolding look.
“It is…difficult to say for now,” the doctor answered. “For the time being, she’s unconscious and resting as comfortably as possible. I’ve given her an injection of mannitol to keep down the swelling in her brain, and she’s receiving intravenous therapy to stay hydrated.” The doctor pushed himself higher on his cane, grimacing at the strain, and squeezed the bridge of his nose tight before taking a breath. “She may wake up in the morning, or it could be a number of days while her brain attempts to heal itself.”
Priya and Prem shared a look, but neither of them spoke.
“That’s my most optimistic diagnosis—I’m sorry I can’t give a brighter outcome. For now, your sisters need to rest, and we’ll simply have to wait for any signs of improvement to present themselves.”
Priya looked grim. She pressed her lips tight together and nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll make sure someone’s with Preet at all times, and that you’re informed if there’s any change.”
“I know you will, Majesty. I’ll wait with them until someone arrives.” Zaidi dipped his head in a show of respect, then stepped back inside the bedroom and shut the door again.
A long silence followed, heavy with dread, as Priya rubbed her eyes. When her hands fell, she looked lost and helpless. “This is all my fault.”
“Stop it.” Prem took Priya’s arm, physically pulled her away from the door, down the hallway toward the stairs. Vati was starting to whisper again, urging Prem to act, to get moving, to do something. “That is exactly what I was just talking to you about. If you want another scolding, right now you’re out of luck. Now’s the time for acting, not talking.”
“What are we going to do, Prem?” Priya didn’t struggle or fight, but sounded truly at the end of her wits. “What am I going to do?”
“You’ll do your duty, Pri, just like Father did. Preet and Pranay have been tended to, but there are good men and women waiting downstairs who need you to tell them that everything’s going to be alright.”
“And what will you do?” When Prem didn’t answer right away, Priya grabbed Prem’s arm in return. “Do you have a feeling again?” The young Rani seemed hesitant and hopeful at the same time.
Prem paused, looking down at her sister’s hand, then at her face. She still saw fear in Priya’s eyes, but her face was more serious, focused, even stronger somehow. “Maybe. Why? Are you going to try and talk me out of going out again?”
Priya looked both directions up and down the hall, then pulled Prem into another bedroom and shut the door behind them. It was the Red Room, painted in stripes of pale ruby streaked with silver moonlight. The window was closed, but there was still a slight chill in the air. It reminded Prem that she needed to change clothes.
“I want you to find out what Kunaia’s up to,” Priya said.
Prem didn’t blink, but her sister’s words were unexpected. “What? Why her?” She kept her voice neutral, for the moment.
“Because I have a feeling, too.“ Priya leaned back against the door, scrubbed her face with both hands. “I’ve got nothing more than a hunch, but I want to know what she’s up to. I just hope that I’m wrong.”
“Tell me.” Prem knew a lot about hunches and acting on feelings. “What do you feel?”
Priya paused. “It was just before you came home, after Father died, and Mother… Well.” She bit her lip. “In the week leading up to my coronation, Kunaia wouldn’t stop trying to stuff her constables down my throat while constantly going on about ‘protecting the right of succession.’”
“I recall her mentioning that when she first came to visit.”
“But now? After there really has been an attack? The Press is here like always, and the Police are still parked outside our gates like we’re under some kind of siege. It’s the perfect opportunity for Kunaia to show up and preen for the photographers, but…where is she?”
“Maybe she’s still off licking her wounds from earlier this morning.”
The Rani shook her head. “She was practically living in the front parlor last time, Prem. The palace was swimming in bluecoats by tea-time on the day of Father’s funeral. Something feels off, like you said before. Kunaia has to know that we’d suspect her. She’s lying low, and that’s not like her at all. I don’t like it.”
Prem smirked, not bothering to hide it. “Isn’t espionage on behalf of the Royal Family illegal, just like holding prisoners?”
Priya snorted, one as strong as Preet could’ve managed. “If I’m going to pick and choose what laws I start breaking, I may as well pick the right ones before Parliament can start screaming about it. Kunaia practically lives at the Parliament House, so you should look for her there.”
It almost made Prem laugh, hearing her sister talk in such a way. Priya was acting and talking more like the ruler Prem thought she should be. New optimism shone in Priya’s eyes again, a determination and energy that Prem found it infectious. “Keep this up and you’ll start sounding just like a proper criminal,” she said.
Now Priya showed off her own smirk as well. “If this is how they want to play the game, then I’m changing the rules while I can get away with it. Kunaia can complain about it later—after the threat’s over. Now, tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
Priya beckoned with both hands. “I want to hear about your feeling.”
Prem wasn’t sure what to say, or if she should say anything. But her emotions, bandaged and hidden away for so long, were at risk of being exposed—what she’d confessed to Pranay about Vati would get back to Priya eventually. That appeared to be her life now: old secrets were going to be hard to keep. And yet, against her better instincts, Prem wondered if that wasn’t somehow for the best. “Gomati mentioned that there was another woman. That, and the person who attacked us tonight…I’ve seen them before—the night at the Red Eye Temple.”
“You saw him?“ Priya’s eyes went wide. “On the night you were attacked? When you saved Mariander?”
“I’m sure of it. It was only at a distance, but I think he, she, whoever it is, has been following me since that night. But it’s more than just that.” It took Prem a long moment to build up the bravery to speak, to confess the truth to Priya: “Vati, my Kushin—I think he’s trying to warn me.”
“The spirit inside you?” Just like Pranay, Prem saw that Priya was fascinated by the subject. Still, that was better than the sorrow and pity Priya had shown at the beginning when Prem first came home. “It speaks to you?”
“He…” Prem paused, trying to decide what she should say, and what was best to keep to herself. “He doesn’t speak to me directly, it doesn’t work that way. It’s difficult to explain. I see him in my dreams, and after he…” She paused again, her voice trailing off.
“What?”
Prem shook her head. “I’m not sure. Vati keeps warning me about killing, like he’s preparing me. Think about what Gomati said, warning us about a woman—I think Preet was right about Kunaia being able to afford a contract like this one, but given what he told us, it’s possible that he never spoke to Kunaia at all. Kunaia wouldn’t risk crawling into the gutter to visit the likes of Gomati in person, and he said the woman was young, like me. Like us. Maybe that’s who Vati’s preparing me to meet.”
“Does that have anything to do with the question you asked him?” Priya said. “About some kind of feud between the gangs when you were gone?”
“It’s the one loose thread that hasn’t been explained yet. I still don’t understand it.”
Priya pursed her lips. “Gomati kept calling you ‘Sachin.’ Who’s that?”
“Me. It’s the name I used when I was away from home.” Prem thought it best not to go into further details. She sighed then, already knowing the answer, but asking the question anyway: “Pranay told you her suspicions about those newspaper clippings, didn’t she? The ones about the blood feud, and about how most of them were all about me.”
Priya nodded.
“I thought as much.” Prem forced down another sigh. “She asked me about what happened.”
“What did you tell her?” Priya’s voice was gentle, but Prem still heard a slight urgency in it, trying to coax more of the truth that Prem wasn’t sure she wanted to share yet.
“Enough.” Prem didn’t know what else to say yet. She felt tongue-tied with Priya, who seemed both the older and younger sibling at the same time—Priya was the Rani now, after all. “I’ll tell you about it later.” She wanted to say more, but her thoughts kept tossing and turning, adrift on an endless gray sea that refused to calm. She felt apprehensive and excited, nervous and cautious, a mix of emotions and questions that she couldn’t sort out just yet. “Anyhow,” she continued, rather than let the silence deepen, “I should go.”
Priya stared at Prem for a moment, then embraced her. It felt like an impulsive thing, and Prem instinctively went tense for an instant, then forced herself to calm her quickened heartbeat and to loosen coiled muscles. Priya even kissed Prem on the cheek before stepping back. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
“I—… Well, yes.” Prem’s cheeks felt warm as she nodded.
“Good.” Priya smiled, led the way out of the Red Room, back into the empty hallway, where they saw the back of one tall Guard walking down the hall. “Kurien?” Priya sounded surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Rani!” Kurien turned around, sounding more pleased than surprised. His right arm was in a sling and a bandage on his scalp covered his swollen eye. “I was looking for you.” He nodded at Prem next. “Mari Prem, you’ll want to hear this, as well.”
Prem didn’t feel the need to correct Kurien on what he called her like she had with Mariander. Prem liked Kurien. He reminded her of Preet: professional, competent, a soldier through and through, and without Preet’s occasional penchant for bitchiness. “What is it?”
Kurien raised his good left hand and exhibited four chakram, fanned out in his fingers like playing cards. “We collected these. Two of them struck Gomati in the chest and another nearly cut his head clean off. If not for that trick of turning himself to stone, it probably would’ve succeeded.”
“Then the attacker was after Gomati?” Priya said.
The Guardsman nodded. “It looks that way.”
“So why attack all of us?” Priya sounded frustrated, angry. “Why cause that explosion and hurt so many people?”
“Probably to make sure they finished the job,” Prem said. “That person would’ve known about Gomati’s abilities, and wouldn’t want to risk him surviving the attack.”
Priya took one of the round blades, carefully turning it over in her fingers. “Were these all of the weapons you could find, Kurien?”
“Just the ones the men could collect, Rani,” Kurien said. “I’m told one was embedded so deep in the wall they gave up trying to pull it out.”
Priya looked at Prem. “This is an assassin’s weapon, isn’t it?”
Prem nodded. “Weapons are an acquired taste; everyone has their favorites. A chakram isn’t my first choice, but it’s something an assassin would use, yes.”
“Could you use one?”
“If I had to. There’s plenty out there better than I am, though. I’ve seen someone kill at fifty paces with one of those.”
Kurien whistled.
“But if the assassin could kill at a distance with it…why didn’t they hit me?” Priya looked down at the weapon, continuing to turn it over and over in her hands, looking thoughtful and upset at the same time.
“Maybe they’re not as good a shot as they thought,” Kurien said. Prem didn’t see fit to correct him.
Priya looked up again. “Kurien, would you send someone to relieve Doctor Zaidi and sit with my sisters for now? I want to make sure someone’s stationed in the room with them at all times.”
“Of course, Rani.” Kurien stood straight and saluted with his left hand. “I’ll take the first watch myself.”
“It’s just up the hall,” Priya said, pointing to the room several doors down. “Knock and he’ll let you inside.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kurien hurried down the hall, knocked on the door before stepping inside, then shut it behind him.
Priya gave a tiny smile. “I can see why Preet likes him.”
Prem blinked. “Preet? And Kurien?”
Priya’s smile got bigger for a moment, then she handed Prem the chakram. “I’m going down to see my men. Go change clothes, and be careful.” The young Rani headed in the direction of the stairs while buttoning up her leather coat. The pair of Guards at the end of the hall followed her around the corner and they all disappeared.
For a moment, Prem looked down at the weapon, which she tilted back and forth as if trying to see her own reflection. The thought of Preet wanting to kiss Kurien left her feeling strange and confused. Then she thought about kissing Mariander again and muttered to herself, trying and failing to ignore all of the uncomfortable sensations that came with such distracting ideas. She stepped back into the Red Room and locked the door behind her.
Parliament House was an enormous, circular building that was far too ostentatious for its own good. The building had tall, white marble columns evenly spaced along the exterior walls, each topped with a blue-and-gold Jairan flag flying on a tall pole. The white walls and columns stood upon a foundation of black basalt, decorated with bas-reliefs upon its entire face around the entire structure. On dark evenings like that one, the upper edifice looked like it was floating in midair. On that night, the moon was low in the sky, so the bas-reliefs blended together into long, textured shadows. The building sat in the heart of the Gilded Quarter, where land prices went at a premium at any season. The wide lawn was kept fresh and green year-round, lined with blooming flowerbeds and shade trees with wide boughs, with trimmed hedges lining the narrow footpaths. Long reflecting pools stretched out on all sides of the House like the rays of a star, possibly a small nod by the original architect to the country’s royal family. Prem still remembered her father teaching her all about the history of the House and of Parliament when she was young. Those days now seemed very, very far away.
But Parliament’s vanity would be to Prem’s advantage that night: there was only one source of water large enough to keep a lawn that large so green and verdant—it was pumped all the way in from the Genja, and that meant Prem had a way in. As she emerged from one of the pools, Prem did so slowly and carefully, scanning the grounds with keen eyes. The bottom of the pool was covered in coins of silver, nickel, copper and brass, all of them shimmering in the moonlight shining down from the blue-black sky.
The House yard was dotted with tall lamps lighting the way along the footpaths, while bright spotlights shone upon the exterior walls, highlighting every flag at the top of each column. Some distance away, Prem spotted a group of four men marching in rhythm, their heavy boots snapping in time as they walked, swinging their right arms and balancing rifles on their left shoulders. They were elite members of the Honored Battalion—more analogous to the Royal Guard than the rest of the Parliamentary Police, the Battalion was charged with the protection of the Parliament House itself. The bright buttons of their coats, bayonets and polished helmets twinkled in the dark as they marched together, going right by Prem’s hiding place without looking left or right.
Prem was patient and stayed out of sight, counting off in her head until the next group passed by. The patrols seemed regular and if she timed it right, Prem was sure she would make it. Once the fourth patrol passed, Prem slid out of the pool and rolled into the grass. By the time she reached the lawn’s edge she was already dry, leaving a near-invisible trail of water behind her. Her garb was dark blue, from the hem of her leggings wrapped tight around her ankles, up to the hood pulled over her head and a mask tightened across her face, leaving just a sliver of bronze skin and the pale shine of her eyes. Her bare feet never made a sound on the paving stones as she darted across, passed under the shadow of the great building and pressed herself tight against the dark bas-relief sculptures.
The first test came when the next patrol approached. There were no trees or hedges to hide herself in, so Prem stood perfectly still, bending her body with the shape of the carvings to suit her need for camouflage: it was a scene of a funeral march, with mourners bearing the body of some forgotten Raj to the cremation pyre. It was a sight that those soldiers had likely marched past hundreds or thousands of times, day and night, so the men never noticed one more shadowy figure pressed in amongst the others.
Once they passed by, Prem turned and tightly gripped the smooth stone, feeling the texture and sensation of it on her fingertips. The real truth was that no stone was ever completely smooth: there were tiny, nigh-invisible cracks and imperfections in the rock just waiting for her to find them. She pressed her hands hard against the carvings and found those invisible flaws, and with Vati’s power her fingertips melded right to the rock, slipping into the microscopic cracks and crevices. She pulled herself up along the basalt carvings, crawling up with fingers and toes like a macaque climbing up the side of a sap-sticky tree trunk.
She reached the top and rolled onto her back on the dark basalt block, waited for another patrol to pass by. Her pulse was quick, fluttering at the base of her throat. Nobody she knew was ever foolish enough to want to break into Parliament House, and Prem was an assassin, not a thief. But after catching her breath, she licked her lips behind her mask, moved around to the backside of the nearest column and made the rest of her ascent in darkness until she reached the top of the wall and flipped over it, dropping into the shadow of the battlements above. The roof was unmanned, to Prem’s surprise. Humming generators with large spinning fans worked to cool the House’s huge interior, even late at night. Prem crept through the clouds of warm steam, avoiding the large puddles leaking from the condensers. The concrete felt harsh and rough under the bare soles of her feet as she crossed over to the other side and looked down at the interior grounds.
Parliament House had three main wings. One housed the headquarters of the Parliamentary Police, seated atop the private gaol they used for high-profile prisoners. The other two wings were used by the two separate houses of government: one for popularly-voted Parliament members, and the other for the Council of States, representatives of Jaira’s individual provinces and their local governments. All three wings were connected to a central hall at the very center of the complex like the hub of a huge wheel, topped with a great dome and a bell that rang when the Hall hosted a special joint session, or whenever a foreign head of state or Jaira’s monarch might visit to make a speech. That bell also rang on the morning of Priya’s coronation. Prem remembered hearing it from a distance as she stumbled through the streets, trying to reach the Ooncha Mahal, half-delirious from hunger, exhaustion and Vati’s illusions. If not for Priya taking the throne, Prem would still be a slave to the demon inside of her. Priya had saved Prem that day, but Prem had never found the strength to tell her so. She was starting to comprehend why she wanted to fight for Priya, why she needed to protect her sister, but there was no time to think about such things just then—she was Sachin again, and her prey was close.
A number of offices were still in use, their interiors lit up even at such a late hour. Theorizing that Kunaia would want one of the rooms on the uppermost floor, she jogged around the circumference of the outer wall, spied an open skylight and made for it. It was cracked open, allowing the cool evening air inside; the lack of security would’ve offended Prem if she’d been a real thief. Slipping out one of the kukris from behind her back, she popped the hook latch, swung the glass door open wide after checking for any squeaking or protesting hinges, and stuck her head down inside. The wide hallway was painted in pale blue tones and had expensive-looking artwork: large paintings of river scenes, idyllic fields of golden wheat, crowds of figures carrying the Jairan flag. Paintings shared wall space with busts of what Prem assumed were dead or important politicians, placed in regular intervals on white pedestals. The marble floor was black and white in a checkerboard pattern, just like the Police’s criminal processing building. The gas lamps were turned low, pinpricks of dull orange in the shadows.
Prem slid her knife back into place, hooked both hands onto the skylight’s frame and lowered herself down, letting her legs dangle for a moment above the floor before she dropped, landing on all fours to muffle the sound of impact. The floor felt chilly underfoot as she crossed to a nearby wall and crouched under the bust of a man with a bald head and a long beard that curled out in three places like a bushy pitchfork. She couldn’t be sure if Battalion members patrolled the inner halls at the same frequency as the patrols outside, but Prem wouldn’t have bet money on it—someone like Kunaia probably valued her privacy over being interrupted by regular security check-ins.
Prem couldn’t hear anything except for the soft clicking of a typewriter in the nearest office as she crept up to the door. It was made of heavy wood, but there was enough of a gap at the bottom for Prem to slide the edge of her fingertips underneath, pushing up to relieve some of the weight in case of squeaky hinges. She turned the knob with quiet, slow precision before cracking the door to peek inside. As soon as she did, Prem knew it was the wrong office: a bald man with a short beard and spectacles sat at a small desk typing away, eyes focused on the paper in front of him, never even noticing the door opened and then closed again in total silence.
After flexing her fingers, Prem looked around in the dark. She started up the hallway, following the light of the dimmed lamps. Further ahead there came the clicking of shoes on the stone floor and Prem ducked behind another pedestal. It was an older woman carrying a tall stack of folders and loose papers, straining under her burden while fighting with a door knob before pushing the door open. “Your Excellency—’’
“Oh, what is it?! I’m busy!” Kunaia sounded annoyed, even angry.
The woman seemed surprised. “I, ah, you asked me for those figures from the Head Barrister—’’
“If I wanted a lesson in incompetence, I’d have asked for one. Leave that stack on the other desk and go bother someone else.” The tone was curt, dismissive. “Good night.”
“Yes! G-good night!” Prem heard the shuffling of papers and quick footsteps as the woman stepped back into the hall and shut the door. After passing a hand across her face and puffing up her shoulders, she headed down the hall away from Prem’s hiding place, muttering something unpleasant under her breath.
Curious, cautious, Prem crept up to the door. It hadn’t creaked when the woman opened it and the knob was well-oiled, so it opened silently. Kunaia didn’t react a second time; on the contrary, she was speaking to someone else: “—care about is that she goes through with it. I expected her to lose her nerve after tonight.”
Prem froze, held her breath. When no one raised the alarm, Prem slipped inside and shut the door behind her. The room she entered was small with barely enough space for a desk, now piled high with paperwork and a small typewriter. An empty coat tree sat in the corner, next to a solitary wooden chair against the wall. The floor was made of dark, paneled sheesham wood. Kunaia’s adjoining office was much larger, as opulent as the tiny room was cramped and utilitarian: the wood paneled walls were hung with framed broadsheet copies, photographs, plaques and other paraphernalia. A silken rug was topped with expensive furniture, a long couch with a matching chaise lounge and several tall, overstuffed chairs.
A truly monstrous desk—there existed no other word to describe it—occupied the far end of the room where Kunaia sat, but she was turned away, her back to the door. The desk was conspicuously empty of paperwork. Under the desk lay a kanni, a sleek-bodied hound with a long, tapered head. Prem went stock-still and held her breath again, but the animal showed no reaction to her presence and appeared to be asleep, curled up in a dark lump.
Under the window sat a vocalgraph, a technological luxury of the rich that allowed two people to speak to one another across a long distance. It was made in the shape of a tall, clockwork owl, a symbol of wealth and luxury; the gears in its belly were gold and silver, and its red eyes were lit up. A loud, tin-sounding voice came from a small speaker inside the opened beak: “I told you, I intended to scare them. If you wanted more, you should’ve said so and paid for it.”
“Why is this taking so long?” Kunaia’s anger sounded stilted to Prem’s ears, more akin to helpless frustration than true rage. “You could’ve cut the lot of them down all at once tonight! We agreed that the deed would be done before the New Year—that was what I wanted from you, that is what I paid for! So far you’ve failed at holding up your end of the bargain.”
“I’ll give you what you asked for, Minister, don’t worry.“ The speaker was another woman, who sounded amused at Kunaia’s frustration. “You’ll get your dead Rani by New Year’s Day, just as I promised, but I’m going to do it my way.”