In the Heart of Darkness by Eric Flint & David Drake

Sanga clenched his jaws. He stared at Nanda Lal, not out of rude curiosity, but simply because he could no longer bear the sight of Lord Tathagata’s fat, stupid, pig of a face. Then, realizing that his stare could be misconstrued, Sanga looked away.

In truth, the Malwa Empire’s chief of espionage was a sight to behold. On almost any other man, that huge bandage wrapped around his face would have given him a comical appearance. It simply made Nanda Lal look like an ogre.

Tathagata, recovering from his startlement, transferred his fury onto Nanda Lal.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the Malwa army’s top officer. “It’s outrageous! You have no right to issue commands here! This is purely a military matter, Nanda Lal—I’ll thank you to mind your own—”

Nanda Lal’s next words came hissing like a snake.

“If you so much as finish that sentence, Tathagata, you will discover what rights I have and do not have. I guarantee the discovery will shock you. But only briefly. You will be dead within the hour.”

Lord Tathagata choked on the sentence. His jaw hung loose. His eyes—wide as a flatfish—goggled about the room, as if searching the magnificence of his headquarters to find something that would gainsay Nanda Lal’s statement.

Apparently, he found nothing. Such, at least, was Rana Sanga’s interpretation of his continued silence.

Nanda Lal stalked into the room. He did not bother to close the door behind him. Sanga could see, through that door, a part of a room. One of the Emperor’s own private chambers, he realized. Sanga had never entered that room, himself. The Rajput’s only contact with Skan­dagupta had been in chambers given over to public gatherings. He was now in a part of the Grand Palace which was essentially unknown to him. The very core of that great edifice, and the power which rested within it.

“Why are you here, Sanga?” asked the spymaster. His voice, now, was low and calm.

Sanga began to explain his theory about Belisarius’ escape, but Nanda Lal interrupted him immediately.

“Not that, Sanga. I’ve already heard that.” The spymaster began to make a wry grimace, but the pain in his nose cut the expression short. He waved toward the open door.

“We all heard that much. The Emperor himself sent me in here to stop your shouting.” A hard glance at Tathagata, still gaping like a blowfish. “And his. We couldn’t hear ourselves think, for the commotion.” All trace of amusement vanished. “I ask again: why are you here?”

Sanga understood.

“I want the authority to lead a search for Belisarius to the west. That’s where he’s gone. I’m certain of it.”

Lord Tathagata’s outrage, finally, could contain itself no longer. But—carefully—he made sure it was directed at the Rajput.

“This is insolent madness, Nanda Lal,” he grated. “The stinking Rajput just got tired of—”

He was silenced, this time, by the Emperor’s own voice.

“Bring them both here, Nanda Lal,” came the imper­ial command from the next room.

Tathagata ground his teeth. But he said nothing, even though his face was flushed with anger.

The next words, coming from the adjoining room, caused his fat face to go pale. Words spoken by an old woman.

“Yes, Nanda Lal, bring them here. At once.”

Rana Sanga was surprised by the Emperor’s private chamber. It was much smaller than he expected, and almost—well, “utilitarian” hardly fit a room with such tapestries and furnishings. But, compared to any other setting in which the Rajput kinglet had ever seen his sovereign, the chamber was almost stark and bare.

There were three occupants in the room. Emperor Skandagupta, his daughter Sati, and his aunt the Great Lady Holi. Sanga had seen both of the women before, on ceremonial occasions, but only from a distance. He had never spoken to either of them.

He was struck by their appearance. Neither of the women was veiled. The princess Sati was a beautiful young woman, abstractly, but she seemed as remote as the horizon. The Great Lady Holi seemed even more distant, especially when Sanga met her eyes. Blank, empty eyes. Vacant eyes.

More than their appearance, however, what impressed Sanga was their chairs. Not spectacular, those chairs, by imperial standards. But they were every bit as good as the Emperor’s. No one, in Sanga’s experience, ever sat in a chair which was as good as the Emperor’s. Not in the same room that he occupied, at least.