Not until the last ship disappeared into the rain did they summon their howdah.
“Thank the gods,” muttered the viceroy.
Ganapati’s expression was sour.
“For what?” he demanded. “The damage may already have been done. A courier arrived this morning from Vanji. The Malwa have been issuing the most pointed and severe threats. They are demanding that the King arrest Shakuntala and return her to captivity.”
The viceroy shook his head.
“They can hardly expect the King to do that. She is his granddaughter, after all.”
“Probably not,” agreed Ganapati. He shrugged. “Hopefully, they will be satisfied with the fact that we have expelled her—and her followers—from Keralan soil. I will immediately dispatch a courier with the news.”
The elephant bearing their howdah loomed up in the rain. Hurriedly, the two Keralan officials scrambled aboard the great beast. Despite their haste, they were soaked through by the time they reached the shelter of the howdah.
Ganapati’s expression was still sour.
“Cursed monsoon,” he muttered.
A sudden, freakish gust blew aside a curtain and drenched his companion.
“Cursed monsoon!” cried the viceroy.
“Blessed monsoon,” stated Kungas cheerfully. The commander of Shakuntala’s bodyguard leaned over the rail of the ship and admired the view. He did not seem in the slightest aggrieved by the fact that he was soaking wet. Or that there was no view to be admired.
Neither did the man standing next to him.
“Blessed monsoon,” agreed Dadaji Holkar. “No-one will be able to see which direction we take. Let’s just hope that the rain keeps up.”
“This time of year?” demanded Kungas, chuckling. “Be serious, Dadaji! Look!”
He pointed eastward. Their ship was not more than two miles from the shore, but the coast of Malabar was completely invisible.
“Can’t see a thing,” he pronounced. “It’ll be that way nine days out of ten, for at least another month. More than long enough for us to reach Suppara, even with this slow fleet.”
Dadaji began to stroke his beard, but quickly left off the familiar gesture. It was a bit too much like wringing a sponge.
“True,” he murmured. “And there is this additional advantage, as well—the refugees won’t know where we’re going either. Most of them will continue to think we’re heading for Tamraparni until the very day we sail into Suppara.”
Kungas cast him a sidelong glance.
“Might be a bit of trouble, then.”
Dadaji shook his head.
“I don’t think so. I had many spies in the camps, and they all reported that the great majority of the refugees are devoted to the Empress. I believe they will accept her decision. Besides, she intends to offer those who don’t want to return to Majarashtra the alternative of Tamraparni. Whichever so choose, she will provide them with the necessary ships to make the voyage. After we’ve seized Suppara, of course.”
A thin smile cracked Kungas’ face.
“Not much of an alternative, that. The King of Tamraparni is not going to be pleased when he hears how Shakuntala used his name in vain. His own son in marriage, no less!”
Holkar made no reply. For a few minutes, the two men simply stared out at nothing. Nothing but beautiful, blinding, concealing, sheets of rain.
Eventually, Kungas cleared his throat.
“Speaking of marriage,” he stated.
Holkar grimaced. “She refuses to even discuss it,” he said softly. “Believe me, my friend, I have tried to broach the subject on many occasions. Each time, she says the question is premature.”
Kungas twitched his shoulders. “That’s not the point. For her to marry anyone now would be premature. She has nothing to offer, at the moment, in exchange for an alliance with real forces. But after we take Suppara—after we demonstrate to India, and all the world, that Andhra intends to hold southern Majarashtra—then the question of a dynastic marriage will pose itself. She must start thinking about it, Dadaji. Or else she will be paralyzed when the time comes.”
The Empress’ adviser sighed. “You know the problem, my friend.”
Kungas stared out to sea. Nodded once, twice. “She is in love with Rao.”
Holkar blew out his cheeks. “Please,” he growled. “It is the infatuation of a young girl with a man she knew only as a child. She has not seen him—hardly at all—in two years.”