Rao was still slapping the wall. Maloji snorted.
“Stop this, old friend!” He reached over and pinned Rao’s hands to the stones. “You are being foolish, and you know it. Another report came in from Bharakuccha just this morning. More Malwa troops are stumbling into the city, seeking a haven. Entire garrisons, as often as not, from some of the smaller towns. The whole land is seething rebellion. The Great Country is coming to a boil. There is no chance in the world that Malwa will strike at the empress. Not today, for a certainty.”
Rao stared at him. For a moment, he tried to pry his hands from under Maloji’s. But there was no great conviction in that effort.
“She is still insane,” he muttered stubbornly. “This whole scheme of hers is insane. It . . . it . . .” He took a breath. “She is endangering her purity—her sacred lineage—for the sake of mere statecraft.”
For a moment, Rao’s usual wit returned. “A masterstroke, I admit, from the standpoint of gaining Maratha allegiance.” Wit vanished with the wind; the deep scowl returned. “But it is still—”
“Stop it!” commanded Maloji. Suddenly, almost angrily, he seized Rao’s wrists and jerked the man away from the wall.
Startled, Rao’s eyes went to his. Maloji shook his head.
“You do not believe any of this, Rao. You are simply afraid, that is all. Afraid that what you say is true. Afraid that the girl who comes to you today is not the girl you longed for, but simply an empress waging war.”
After a moment, Rao’s eyes dropped. He said nothing. There was no need for words.
Maloji smiled. “So I thought.” He released Rao’s wrists, but only to seize the man’s shoulders and turn him toward the stairs leading down to the city below. Already, they could hear the sound of the great gates opening.
“Go, go! It’s long past time the two of you spoke.” He began pushing Rao ahead of him. Majarashtra’s greatest dancer seemed to be dragging his feet.
“And let me make a suggestion.” Maloji chortled. “I think you’d better stop thinking of her as a ‘girl.’ ”
* * *
They were alone, now. Even Kungas had left the room, secure in the knowledge that his empress was in the care of a man who was, among many other things, one of India’s greatest assassins.
Rao stared at Shakuntala. It had been three years since he saw her last. And then only for two hours.
“You have changed,” he said. “Greatly.”
Shakuntala’s eyes began to shy away, but came back firmly.
“How so?” she asked, straightening her back. Shakuntala’s normal posture was so erect that she always looked taller than she was. Now, she was standing like an empress. Her black eyes held the same imperial aura.
Rao shook his head. It was the slow gesture of a man in a daze, trying to match reality to vision.
“You seem—much older. Much—” He waved his hand. The gesture, like the headshake, was vague and hesitant. He took a breath. “You were a beautiful girl. You are so much more beautiful, now that you are a woman. I do not understand how that is possible.”
There was perhaps a hint of moisture in Shakuntala’s eyes. But her only expression was a sly smile.
“You have not changed much, Rao. Except there is some gray in your beard.”
Rao stood as erect as the empress. Harshly: “That is only one of the reasons—”
“Be quiet.”
Rao’s mouth snapped shut. For a moment, his jaw almost sagged. He had never heard Shakuntala speak that way. The Panther of Majarashtra was as stunned as any of the pampered brahmin envoys who had also been silenced by that ancient voice of great Satavahana.
When Shakuntala continued, her tone was cold and imperious. “I do not wish to hear anything about your age. What of it? It has never mattered to me. It did not matter to me when I was a girl, held captive by Malwa. It does not matter to me now, when I am the Empress of Andhra.”
She snorted. “Even less! No untested young husband would survive Malwa, so I would still be a widow soon enough.”