“The truth only, then. That should be no problem.”
Damodara studied him for a moment. But he could read nothing whatever in the old eunuch’s face. Nothing in his eyes, his tone of voice, his posture. Nothing but—a lifetime of intrigue and subterfuge.
“Go, then,” he commanded.
Narses bowed, but did not make to leave.
Damodara cocked his head. “There is something you wish, before you go?”
“Yes,” murmured Narses. “The fastest courier in the army. I need to send new instructions to Ajatasutra.”
“Certainly. I shall have him report to your tent immediately.” He cleared his throat. “Where is Ajatasutra, by the way? I haven’t noticed him about lately.”
Narses stared at him coldly. Damodara broke into sudden, subdued laughter.
“Never mind! Sometimes, it’s best not to know the truth.”
Narses met the laughter with a chuckle. “So, I am told, say the very best philosophers.”
* * *
Ajatasutra himself might not have agreed with that sentiment. But there was no question at all that he was being philosophical about his own situation.
He had not much choice, after all. His needs required that he stay at one of the worst and poorest hostels in Ajmer, the greatest city of Rajputana. And, so far as Ajatasutra was concerned—he who had lived in Constantinople as well as Kausambi—the best hostel in that hot and dusty city was barely fit for cattle.
He slew another insect on his pallet, with the same sure stroke with which he slew anything.
“I am not a Jain,” he growled at the tiny corpse. His cold eyes surveyed the horde of other insects taking formation in his squalid little room. “So don’t any of you think you’ll get any tenderhearted philosophy from me.”
If the insects were abashed by that grisly threat, they gave no sign of it. Another legion, having dressed its lines, advanced fearlessly to the fray.
* * *
“This won’t be so bad,” said the older sister. “The lady even says she’ll give me a crib for the baby.”
The younger sister surveyed their room in the great mansion where Lord Damodara’s family resided in the capital. The room was small and unadorned, but it was spotlessly clean.
True, the kitchen-master was a foul-mouthed and ill-tempered man, as men who hold such thankless posts generally are. And his wife was even worse. But her own foul mouth and ill temper seemed focused, for the most part, on seeing to it that her husband did not take advantage of his position to molest the kitchen slaves.
In her humble manner, the sister had become quite a philosopher in her own right. “Are you kidding? This is great.”
* * *
Below them, in the depths of the mansion’s great cellar, others were also being philosophical.
“Start digging,” commanded the mercenary leader. “You’ve got a long way to go.”
The small group of Bihari miners did not even think to argue the matter. Indeed, they set to work with a will. An odd attitude, perhaps, in slaves. But they too had seen the way Ajatasutra gave instructions. And, like the two sisters whom they did not know, had reached an identical conclusion. The assassin was deadly, deadly. But, in his own way, a man who could be trusted. Do the work, he had told them, and you will be manumitted—and given gold besides.
There was no logic to it, of course. For whatever purpose they had been brought here, to dig a mysterious tunnel to an unknown destination, the purpose had been kept secret for a reason. The slaves knew, as well as any man, that the best way to keep a secret is to kill those who know it. But, somehow, they did not fear for their lives.
“Oddest damned assassin I’ve ever seen,” muttered one of the mercenaries.
“For what he’s paying us,” said the leader, “he can sprout feathers like a chicken for all I care.” Seeing that the tunnel work was well underway, he turned to face his two subordinates. His finger pointed stiffly at the casks of wine against one of the stone walls of the cellar.
“Do I have to repeat his instructions?”
The other Ye-tai shook their heads vigorously. Their eyes shied away from the wine.