Chapter 1
A light breeze wafted through the latticed windows of the royal bedchamber, carrying with it the scent of night-blooming jasmine and drying the sweat on Katyani’s brow. The night was warm—too warm for spring. She’d been waiting for the assassin for over an hour, hidden behind the half-drawn drapes, inhaling their musty odor and trying not to sneeze. Her right foot had gone to sleep, and the windowpane dug into her back, but she dared not move. A nightjar called, its trilling coo startling her before devolving into a series of clicks. She clutched the wooden pipe in her hand, her nerves thrumming with anticipation.
Moonlight filtered into the room, hiding more than it revealed. But she knew every inch of the space, from the ornate wardrobe in one corner to the gilded mirror opposite, from the rich tapestries that covered the wall to the massive four-poster bed in the middle—the bed on which the king and queen of Chandela would have slept tonight had Katyani not made them switch rooms. The blue butterfly tattooed on her neck gave a single reassuring beat of its wings. The queen was safe—for now.
The door edged open, and her heart jumped. She strained her eyes, peering through a crack between the drapes. A dark figure crept into the room, moonlight glinting on the blade in his hand. Black-masked, cat-footed, silent as death, he approached the bed and raised his blade.
Now. Katyani stepped out and blew the sleep dart from her wooden pipe. It flew straight and true toward the intruder’s chest. At the last moment, alerted by the minute whoosh of air, he tried to twist out of reach. But the dart buried itself in his shoulder. He clutched it and staggered back to the door, which had been left unguarded for him.
He had great vitality; she had to give him that. The dart would have paralyzed an ordinary person instantly. But he managed to make it out the door before collapsing.
She went into the corridor and rang a brass bell embedded in the wall to summon Garuda, the elite royal bodyguards. Then she bent over the unconscious assailant to examine him. Torchlight flickered from sconces further down the corridor, revealing a bald, skinny man clad in a black cotton tunic and pants, his face covered with a mask that appeared to be melded to his skin. His hand was still curled around the hilt of his weapon: a double-edged dagger with an ivory handle. There was no insignia on his clothing or his blade, but interrogation would soon reveal who he was working for. Triumph welled up in her. They’d finally caught one of the bastards alive.
Five burly guards dressed in the Garuda uniform—dark gray knee-length tunic, leather sword belt, baggy pants, and white turban—came running up as she patted his body down for weapons. At their head was Tanoj, the chief of Garuda, a heavyset, gray-haired, middle-aged man with piercing eyes and an unmistakable air of command. He frowned as he took in the scene.
“One of the men can do that, Katyani,” he said, a note of reproof in his deep voice. He’d known her for years, taught her what she knew of sword fighting, and he still never got used to seeing her manhandle male offenders. His attitude irked her, but she wasn’t going to argue with him in front of the others.
“Yes, sir.” She withdrew a kukri knife from one boot and a push knife from the other and handed them to Falgun, a junior guard. “Have these examined. Be careful. The edges might be poisoned.” As they’d learned to their detriment from the first assassination attempt, six months ago. The guard who’d handled those weapons had been sick for weeks.
Falgun bowed and took the knives with a gloved hand.
Tanoj squatted beside the comatose man. “Have you identified him?”
“We’ll soon see.” She began to peel the mask away from his face. A smell of burning flesh seeped into her nostrils, and she snatched away her fingers. “Damn!”
His face was melting before her eyes. She tried to smooth the mask back into place using the hilt of her dagger, but it was too late. She coughed and scooted back, her gut clenching.
Tanoj backed away as well, his lips pinched, his eyes hard. The third time in six months an assassin had died before he could be questioned. The king and queen would not be happy.
“What happened?” sputtered a guard from a safe distance behind her, holding his nose.
She sighed and got to her feet, tasting the bitterness of defeat in her mouth. “He’s dead.”
“But we haven’t interrogated him yet,” said Falgun, sounding outraged.
Tanoj rose, rubbing his chin as he contemplated the body on the floor, the face a ruin of melted flesh and bits of burned cloth. “The mask was poisoned,” he grated. “Only his handler could have removed it safely. A clever way of ensuring his silence.”
“What are we to do now?” asked another guard, his hand on his sword, as if a sword would solve this mess.
“Try to find out who he is,” said Tanoj. “Take all precautions when removing his clothes and examining his weapons. Wash your hands afterward. I don’t want anyone dying of carelessness.” He leveled a finger at Katyani. “You. Report to the king and queen.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir.” That was her job as his second-in-command, especially when there was nothing good to report. It was not a task she was looking forward to. The queen would be disappointed in her failure, and she hated disappointing the queen.
She turned away as the guards rolled the corpse onto a sheet. The royal couple were sleeping in the west wing of the palace tonight. She’d made them and Crown Prince Ayan change rooms every night since her network of spies had gotten wind of yet another assassination attempt. And she’d made sure the room they actually slept in was different from the one ostensibly planned by the palace staff. The assassin might get wind of the room switching, but he couldn’t read her mind. That strategy had paid off tonight.
Partially paid off. As she walked down the marble corridor, she replayed the events of the last hour in her head, wishing she had not been so eager to pull off the assailant’s mask.
She’d been promoted over the heads of older, more experienced men in Garuda. No one grudged her this; they all knew the special relationship she had with the queen. Still, Prove yourself, said their eyes. Prove you’re worthy of your post. Every moment of every day since her promotion, she’d been judged on her abilities, her successes, her failures.
Her record so far? Six months, three assassination attempts, and zero leads. Queen Hemlata would not be pleased with her latest blunder. She would certainly not consider Katyani’s request to get out of accompanying the princes as their bodyguard to that remote school run by—what was his name?—Acharya Mahavir.
Katyani didn’t want to leave the palace. She wanted to stay right here and protect the queen. What would happen to the bond she shared with Hemlata if she was away from her for so long? But the queen had dismissed all her pleas and concerns with implacable calm.
Copyright © 2022 by Rati Mehrotra
