But then, moving quickly but easily, Valentinian removed the helmet from his head and dropped to one knee in front of the boy. Seeming completely oblivious to the naked blade not more than inches from his neck, he reached up a hand and parted the coarse black hair on his head.
“You can still see the scar,” he said quietly. “Feel it, too, if you want to.”
Rajiv lowered the sword, a bit. Then, slowly and hesitantly, reached out his other hand and ran fingers over Valentinian’s scalp.
“It’s a big scar,” he said wonderingly. And now, in a tone of voice more appropriate to his age.
His mother finally spoke, after clearing her throat. “My husband always said the Mongoose was an honorable man. And certainly not a bandit or cutthroat.”
Ajatasutra sighed with relief and sheathed his own dagger. “Nor is he, Lady Sanga. Nor am I or the men who came with us. I apologize for killing and injuring your Rajput companions. But we had no choice.”
Mention of those men brought home to Ajatasutra that all noise coming from without the wagon had ceased. Clearly enough, the battle was over.
Proof came immediately. Making very little noise, Kujulo landed on the balcony and stuck his head into the interior.
“The Ye-tai are all dead. We’re driving off those gutless cart-drivers now. Killed three so far. We thought to leave two, maybe three alive.”
Ajatasutra nodded. “Just so long as they’re driven far away. Near enough to see the caravan burn, but too far to see any details.”
“What about the one guard? He’ll never use that shoulder again—not for much, anyway—but he’ll live if we take care of the wound. So will the old man.”
Ajatasutra hesitated. There had been no room in his plans for bringing badly injured men with them. But, seeing the new stiffening in Rajiv’s stance, he decided the alternative was worse. Clearly enough, Sanga’s son—probably the mother, too—would put up a struggle to save their close retainers.
“Bind them up,” he ordered curtly. “We can probably disguise them as diseased men. Or simply the victims of a bandit attack. Who knows? That might even help keep prying eyes away.”
That done, he turned back to Lady Sanga. “We did not come to kill you, but to save you from harm. It is all very complicated. I do not have time now to explain it to you. You will just have to trust us, for the time being. We must move immediately or—”
“Malwa,” hissed Lady Sanga. “Men and their stupid oaths! I told my husband they would play him for a fool.” Seeing her son stiffening in front of her, she reached out a hand and swatted his head. Half-playfully, half . . . not.
“Stupid!” she repeated. “Even you, at twelve! Malwa will ruin us all.”
When her eyes came back to Ajatasutra’s, the assassin was almost stunned by the warmth and humor gleaming in them. For the first time, he began to understand why the great Rana Sanga had such a reputation for fidelity, despite the lack of comeliness of his wife.
* * *
An hour later, as they rode away from the scene of an apparent massacre, a pillar of smoke rising behind them, Valentinian claimed to have almost fallen in love with her.
“Would have, actually, except not even that woman is worth fighting Sanga again.”
“You’d do anything to get out of doing a stint of honest work,” jibed Anastasius.
Valentinian sneered. “Pah! The way she arranged the bodies from the cemetery? Perfect! Didn’t even flinch once. Didn’t even grimace.”
The cataphract turned in his saddle and bestowed a look of mighty approval on the woman who was following them not far behind on a mule, wearing the clothing of a bandit’s woman and clutching a rag-wrapped bandit’s child before her. Two other bandit children—wrapped in even filthier rags—rode tandem on a mule alongside hers.
“I’ll bet you my retirement bonus against yours that woman can cook anything. She probably laughs while she’s chopping onions.”
* * *
By evening, Valentinian was feeling positively cheerful. As it turned out, Lady Sanga apparently could cook almost anything.