Nanda Lal hesitated. In the silence, Toramana elaborated the question. “Assume, for a moment, that I returned from the Roman war covered with glory. The victor on a hundred battlefields.”
“Possible,” grunted Nanda Lal. “Not likely.”
Toramana’s inquisitive look became almost inquisitorial. Nanda Lal sighed, and—again—revised upward his estimate of the man’s intelligence.
“No real chance at all.”
The Ye-tai nodded. “Purity of blood has always lain at the center of Malwa rule.” He gave the priest a little nod. “As well as at the center of Mahaveda creed.”
The statement did not seem to be accompanied by any anger or chagrin. In fact, the Ye-tai chuckled. “So be it. I am an ambitious man, Lord, but not a foolish one. The world has limits. So it is, so has it always been, so will it always be. I simply wish to reach my own, and nothing less.”
All humor left the hard face—half-Asiatic; half-occidental, as was the usual Ye-tai visage—to be replaced by stolidity. “Now, perhaps, you understand.”
Silence, once again, filled the pavilion. For quite a long period, this time. Perhaps five minutes in all. Five minutes during which a Ye-tai general and a Malwa spymaster stared at each other; and a Mahaveda priest, knowing he was well out of his depth, tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
“Good,” stated Nanda Lal, at the end of that silence. “Not even ‘good enough.’ Simply: good. We understand each other, I believe.”
The Ye-tai general’s nod was more in the way of a bow of fealty. “Yes, Lord, we do. Allow me to advance as far as I may, in this world that is, and you need have no fear at all of the consequence.”
Nanda Lal spoke his last reservation. “The day might come—with Rana Sanga as your brother-in-law—when, perhaps . . .”
“If that day comes, Lord, which would surprise me greatly—rest assured that I will do what needs to be done. True, blood flows thick. Ambition flows thicker still. Like a glacier out of the mountains.”
“And even a poet!” exclaimed Nanda Lal. Smiling cheerfully, he rose to his feet. For all his thickness of body, and decades of life, Nanda Lal was a vigorous and muscular man. He was on his feet before the priest had even started to rise.
“I look forward to long and mutually satisfactory relations, General. And I will make it a point to attend your wedding personally, whenever it might happen. And come what may.”
Toramana, now also standing, bowed deeply at the waist. “I am honored, Lord.” When his head came back up, there seemed to be a slightly mischievous twist to his lips. “But I give you fair warning—I will hold you to that promise. Come what may.”
* * *
Nanda Lal waved Vishwanathan out of the pavilion ahead of him. After the priest had left, the spymaster paused at the tent flap and gave the statue in the corner a hard and scrutinizing gaze.
“Ugly damn thing,” he murmured.
Toramana was standing a few feet away. The Ye-tai glanced at the statue, then made that little shrug.
“Ugly indeed. Much like me. And, like me, serves its purpose.”
Nanda Lal chuckled and left, revising his estimate of Toramana’s intelligence yet again. Upwards.
The thought—now—filled him with good cheer. Not so good, of course, that he didn’t instruct one of his spies to keep an eye on the general at all times.
* * *
The spy, unfortunately, did not really share his master’s estimate of Toramana’s brains. So, late that night, the Ye-tai general had no difficulty eluding him in the darkness. Had no difficulty, even, in keeping the spy completely unaware that he had done so.
And, since Narses was equally adept at evading the spies which had been set upon him, the two men made the rendezvous which had been agreed upon earlier that evening, in the course of an exchange of a pound of tea for an equal value of incense made by two of their servants in the informal “market” which the soldiers and local villagers had set up on the banks of the Jamuna.
The exchange was also, needless to say, unobserved by Nanda Lal’s spies. Both Toramana and Narses knew how to select servants.