coins. But my mind finally settles on two people: the major who killed my parents, and the king who started it all.
Major Shayla. King Lohar.
I repeat their names over and over, memorizing them the way I would a lesson. A prayer.
“Kill Major Shayla,” I whisper. “Kill Raja Lohar.”
The idea is instinctive, ludicrous. Yet, for the first time since my parents died, my shivering hands grow steady. I wipe the tears off my cheeks. Slowly, under the watchful gaze of the mare, I unearth a bit of string lying on the stable floor and push my mother’s beads through it, one by one. Seconds after I tie the cord around my neck, exhaustion creeps up on me, and I fall into an uneasy slumber.
* * *
The wealthiest landowner in Dukal has gray hair, a greasy smile, and teeth that shine yellow in the light of the fanas he holds over his head, flames dancing in the lantern’s clear glass confines. I peer at Zamindar Moolchand through the window next to the Jwaliyan mare’s stall, watching him talk to three traveling women who have asked to spend the night. The mare, whom I’ve named Agni for her fiery coat and mane, nudges my shoulder playfully. Over the past four days, we’ve reached an understanding: I duck out each night to steal food from the zamindar’s kitchen, and Agni is awarded carrots for not giving me away. I don’t know why Agni has taken a liking to me. Or why I instinctively feel safe in her presence.
“Anandpranam.” The happiest of salutations. Even with his palms respectfully joined, Zamindar Moolchand makes the ancient greeting sound perverted. “Be my guests for the night, ladies. Sate your hunger with my bread. My home is your home.”
“Sau aabhaar, zamindar,” says the tallest of the women. A hundred thank-yous. Another woman might have added the Common Tongue honorific ji, perhaps even delivered the greeting flirtatiously. This woman doesn’t, even though she smiles, her deep-brown skin glowing in the moonlight. The pallu of her simple homespun sari slides down her head, revealing streaks of blue in her midnight hair. Ma once told me that it’s the sort of blue that can’t be covered up with soot or the oil from a jatamansi plant or magic. The mark of someone from the seafaring kingdom of Samudra.
The sight of it makes Zamindar Moolchand’s unctuous smile slip. Had the woman been out in daylight with her head uncovered, the very look of her would have raised unspoken questions. The deadly Three-Year War between Samudra and Ambar ended fourteen years ago, but everyone still remembers the bloodshed: the corpses littering Ambari streets, the high screams rising from firepits where soldiers with blue-and-black hair burned Ambari citizens alive.
“My father married a woman from Samudra before the Great War,” the woman says now. “She died when I was a baby.” She speaks our language perfectly, her Vani smooth, the accent crisp and airy. It holds no trace of the sea. “We are headed back from Sur, where one of my daughters had a baby. The zamindar would do us poor women a big favor by offering us a place in his stable for the night.”
The zamindar turns his attention to the other sari-clad figures. One has shielded herself from his gaze, tucking her pallu like a veil over her mouth and nose. The other, a pretty, pale-skinned young woman, looks unperturbed by his leer.
“What’s your name, my dear?” he asks her.
“Kali,” she says.
“Kuh-lee,” he enunciates slowly, as if savoring the sound of the word. “Why don’t I offer you and your friends more comfort? My only brother is in the army and no longer lives here. I have five guest bedrooms. It can get lonely in this big old house.”
If I could speak to any of these women, I would tell them not to do it. Every female in Dukal—old or young—knows how unwise it is to meet Zamindar Moolchand alone or to accept any favors from him.
“We prefer the stable.” A hint of steel cuts through the quiet deference in the older woman’s voice. “Our horses are tired; we need to ensure they are well rested. And with so much thieving in Ambar these days, one can never be too sure.”
She stares at the zamindar until he averts his head and nods.
“Of course. Of course.”
I duck behind a bale of hay in Agni’s stall as Moolchand opens the door to the stable, letting in the women.
“Come on, Ajib. Gharib.” The women click their tongues