The Kushan commander scanned the room. By now, with another five Kushans crowding in, the room was packed like a meat tin. Three of them had subdued the assassin whose arm the commander had half-severed upon bursting through the door.
“That’s enough,” he commanded. “See to the Empress.”
“No need, Kungas,” murmured one of his men. The Kushan soldier had pushed back the curtains in one of the windows. “She’s on her way here already.”
“Damn the girl!” growled Kungas. “I told her to stay back.”
The Kushan commander strode to the window and glared out onto the street below. The Empress—the supposed “Empress” at the head of the column—was sitting on her horse. The girl was beginning to shake, now. A trembling hand came up and removed the veil. She wiped her face, smearing off some of the dye which had darkened her skin.
But Kungas was looking elsewhere, farther back along the column of cavalry escort. At the figure of another small girl, urging her horse forward. Unlike the “Empress,” this girl was wearing simple and unadorned clothing: nothing more than a colorfully dyed tunic over pantaloons, the garments of a typical camp-follower—a soldier’s common-law wife, perhaps. She, also, was dark-skinned. But her skin-tone was natural, and there was not the slightest trace of trembling in her hands.
“You’re going to catch an earful,” said the Kushan standing next to Kungas. “She looks angrier than a tigress guarding her cubs.” He added cheerfully: “Of course, she’s a small tigress. For what it’s worth.”
Kungas grunted. For a moment, something that might have been a sigh almost escaped his lips. But only for the briefest instant. Thereafter, the mask closed down.
On the street below, the true Empress halted her horse long enough to see to the well-being of her double. Then she dismounted and charged into the entrance of the tenement building.
She was lost from Kungas’ sight, but he could hear her stamping up the narrow wooden stairs leading to the rooms on the upper floor. He could also hear her voice.
“How can such a small girl have such a loud voice?” wondered the other Kushan. “And how can slippers make such a stamping clatter?”
“Shut up, Kanishka,” growled Kungas. Kanishka smiled seraphically.
The Empress’ voice, coming from below:
“Never again, Kungas! Do you hear me? Never again!”
She burst into the room. Her eyes immediately fixed on those of Kungas. Black, hot eyes.
“Never again! Jijabai might have been killed!”
Kungas’ iron face never wavered. Nor did his harsh voice. “So might you, Empress. And you are irreplaceable.”
Shakuntala glared at him for a few seconds. Then, recognizing the futility of trying to browbeat the commander of her bodyguard, she glared around the room. When she saw the bodies of the family, she recoiled.
“Malwa beasts,” she hissed.
“It’s how we spotted them,” said Kungas. “Our spies saw that this building seemed lifeless, everyone hiding in their rooms. Then they smelled the bodies.”
He glanced at the bombard. Three of his men were already disarming the weapon. “But we only discovered them just in time. It was a well-laid ambush. Their only mistake was killing the family too soon.”
“The baby would have squawled all night,” com-mented Kanishka.
Kungas shrugged. “So? It would hardly be the only shrieking infant in a slum.”
Shakuntala grimaced. Kungas, in his way, was the hardest man she had ever met.
She tore her eyes away from the pitiable sight of the dead family and stared at the assassins. “How many did you keep alive?”
“Two,” replied Kanishka. “Better than we hoped.”
“They’ll talk,” said Kungas. “Not easily—not Malwa assassins. But they’ll talk.”
“They won’t know much,” said Shakuntala.
“Enough. I was right. You will see.”
The Empress stared at Kungas. After a moment, she looked away. “That it would come to this. My own grandfather.”
“What did you expect?” came a voice from the door.
Shakuntala turned. Dadaji Holkar was standing in the doorway. Her imperial adviser’s eyes scanned the room, coming to rest on the piled-up bodies of the dead family.
“Malwa,” he said softly. The word was not condemning, nor accusatory. It was simply a term of explanation. Self-evident. His eyes returned to Shakuntala. “What did you expect, girl?” he repeated. “You threaten his kingdom with Malwa’s gaze, and Malwa’s fury. You organize a private army in his largest seaport. You disrupt his streets with riot and tumult.”