The tiger at midnight, p.2
The Tiger at Midnight, page 2
“We wouldn’t want that.”
Esha shook her head solemnly. “No, we wouldn’t want to start a riot over a few extra poppy seeds.” She squinted at him. “Think about it. ‘The Poppy Seed Rebellion.’ What a horrible name.”
“At the very least, it would be an interesting tale. That is, if I managed to keep my head in said rebellion.”
She was doing her best to defeat her own traitorous smile. “It would be the first thing to go. Your head for the extra barrel of poppy seeds.”
“Pity. I do have such a nice head.” He grinned at her and she grinned back.
Despite herself, she liked him.
Too bad she would have to betray him.
Chapter 3
She pulled her hand away first, turning to follow the path. But something stilled her steps and she looked back, shivering in the cool sea breeze of night.
The soldier unwrapped his own uttariya in one swift movement and had it around her shoulders in the next. With that he put four fingers to his chest in salute and turned around, marching up the rocky path toward the Red Fortress.
Or the Blood Fort, as it was called by everyone on her side of the water. One of the many names Dharkans had for the regime of the Pretender King of Jansa.
Esha could feel her heart beating in her chest as she fingered the thick silk of his uttariya over her own, drawing it tighter around her body. The faint remnants of a smile flitted on her lips as she saw him draw near the door—until a jeweled armband on his upper arm caught the moonlight and she realized what he was.
She scowled at his back. Only a Senap guard wore those armbands, the worst sort of Fort soldier. They offered warmth with one hand and ripped lives apart with the other. She knew the latter firsthand.
Esha took a deep breath and continued down the path, turning near the large boulder for a better look at the side door to the Fort. She ducked behind, sliding into a low crouch and patting the knife strapped to her thigh.
Esha pushed aside the old, painful memories that threatened to resurface, making space for the clarity she would need to accomplish her mission. There was a reason she had asked for this one, even demanded it be assigned to her.
If she could pull this off, it would be a great win for the Crescent Blades and her rebel team at home.
And for the girl she used to be.
She’d spent too many nights haunted by nightmares—the image of a soldier in bronze armor holding a curved blade, and Setu Hotha, the general of the Fort, behind him. His lips were always set in a pleased slant. She would never be free of that nightmare, never be able to wipe away those memories of the night Vardaan Himyad took control of Jansa by coup.
Vardaan Himyad, a former prince of Dharka, the younger brother of Dharka’s reigning monarch, King Mahir. That night marked an unbelievable betrayal of both countries.
It was also the night her parents had been murdered in front of her eyes.
Setting up this mission after the cease-fire had been a masterful idea by Harun, the current crown prince of Dharka, giving her the distraction she needed to slip in. She welcomed the cease-fire, as it allowed Dharka’s smaller military to recuperate and gave both nations’ people a respite from the war. The conflict had started off as a simple border issue after the coup ten years ago, when the Pretender King pushed past the Ghanta Mountains, the natural border between Jansa and Dharka, to claim Dharkan land.
But both country’s futures had always been closely tied—they both relied on the Bhagya River’s tributaries and were bound to the land by the janma bond, the pact of blood and magic that Jansa’s and Dharka’s founders had made with the gods to keep the Southern Lands thriving and alive for all future generations. After the Pretender King had broken the janma bond by killing the queen and the royals, it had become an all-out fight for the future of Jansa—and the Southern Lands.
Ten years of on-and-off war and countless failed cease-fires later, she had a chance to claim a great win for Dharka, to take a step toward toppling the Pretender King. It was even more vital now, after what the scholars had told her about the janma bond—time was running out for Jansa and soon Dharka would be engulfed in drought as well.
The next ritual would be the last.
Her mission? Assassinate the brutal General Hotha and intercept a stolen report, one a fellow rebel had died protecting and that contained new information about the janma bond.
Two birds, one stone. The Blades would deliver a great blow to the Pretender King, eliminate his trusted adviser, and recover valuable intel. Tonight’s celebration of the cease-fire, when the Fort’s guard was down, would be their best, and only, chance.
Esha tilted her head around the boulder, watching the soldier slip inside the fort door. In a few seconds he disappeared behind the heavy stone.
The maid’s entrance.
Or it used to be the maid’s entrance, when the Fort had been a palace.
When Esha had last been here, the Fortress was alive with people and color. The land surrounding it had been healthy, and when moonlight struck the cliffs, they glimmered like hardened rubies.
Now the land was dying and the Fort stood on the top of the hill, bleak and ominous, its heart ripped out ten years ago on the night of the coup. The inner residence had been destroyed, according to their rebel reports, to make way for training grounds.
She remembered the vivid paintings on those walls, of the origins of Dharka and Jansa. The twin demigods of boy and girl, Naran and Naria, who had built their nations side by side on the peninsular Southern Lands.
She had spent so many afternoons as a child tracing them, listening to stories from her father, learning about the two royal lineages who had descended from the twins—the Samyads of Jansa and the Himyads of Dharka. Even now, she could picture how her father’s long handlebar mustache had shaken as he took on different voices to tell the stories, making her erupt in peals of laughter.
Esha sprinted up the path, desperate to avoid any watching eyes. She grabbed the edges of her sari, bunching the fabric of the dress together and pulling it through her legs to create a dhoti. She tucked the long length of fabric over one of her shoulders into her waist sash, freeing up her arms.
Esha tugged at the door. After steadying her breath, she reached out to hold the large gold lock in her shaking hands.
How had the soldier done it?
A twist to the right, a tug forward. Had the next step been clockwise or counterclockwise? She chose the latter but the lock didn’t budge.
She suppressed a curse.
The soldier had given her the information she needed—she only had until midnight. She had been briefed on the Fort rituals before she left and she knew that the commander ran training exercises and drills in the evening and the early morning hours.
It wasn’t a lot of time, but she had no choice. There was too much at stake for this mission, especially with the new cease-fire. Worse than failing, if she was caught, it could jeopardize everything. She had to keep her head about her.
Esha focused her breath until it steadied. The anxiety she felt now—she had felt it a million times. In every mission she had run, there was a moment when all felt lost. When the military plans had been impossible to steal, the blockade impossible to break.
This was her biggest mission to date. She focused on transforming her fear into excitement.
This was her chance, aside from all other obligation, to take the first step toward her revenge. One she had been dreaming about as frequently as she had tossed and turned from nightmares.
She took a deep breath and looked around her. The red stone walls in front of her were slabs, thick and sturdy. The walls around it were made of the same smooth, tall stone. Impossible to climb.
She tried the lock again, to no avail. By the third time, her palms were sore and frustration tore at her throat.
A faint shuffle of feet on the other side of the door shot her back to attention, and Esha shoved herself into the wall shadows. She tried to make herself as small as possible as the footsteps became louder and more clear.
A young soldier pushed through the door she had been trying to open, walking outside with an unsteady stance and a darting gaze. He moved toward the cliff and began to relieve himself, breathing heavily and barely keeping himself upright.
Esha held her breath and waited. The door wasn’t open enough for her to sneak in and he hadn’t moved far enough away, only about twenty paces. She kept her eyes on him as he moved back toward the door.
She moved forward to get a better look and stepped on the sharp point of a rock. Esha bit back a yelp of pain as quick as she could, but the soldier’s hand stilled, and with a firm motion he threw the door shut.
He whirled around, a curved short sword in each hand, the metal shining like malicious smiles in the moonlight. Though he swayed slightly in the breeze, his eyes were alert and he stalked closer to where Esha stood, hidden in the shadows.
She berated herself—this wasn’t a normal mission. Soldiers at the Blood Fort were second best to the elite Senap Guard. They weren’t sell-swords or conscripted farmers but highly trained, skilled warriors.
Esha went deathly still, the only sound in the air the faint traces of laughter and loud cheers from inside the Fort. She was almost out of time.
She crouched to the ground as the soldier drew closer to her corner, reaching toward the strap around her thigh for her knife.
The soldier stopped a breath away from her spot in the shadows.
Esha grabbed a stone and chucked it far behind him, away from the door. He started and turned, looking at the stone with bewilderment.
A small movement, but the distraction she needed. Esha lunged out of the shadows, smashing the hilt of her knife into the back of his head. He groaned and caught her arm, her bad one. She winced in pain but moved to hit again as he aimed his fist at her stomach. But he hesitated when he locked eyes with her.
Good.
She clocked him in the head and then kicked him in the kidney for good measure. He tumbled over, but as he fell he grasped her ankle, pulling her with him. She fell with a grunt and fury rose in her chest. Esha gripped the hilt of her knife as she kicked him.
One slice and he would be dead.
The thought beckoned at Esha, but she chose stealth over bloodthirst. She grabbed a stone nearby, swinging it at the soldier’s head to knock him unconscious.
If he never woke up, it would be the will of the gods. She had given him a chance.
Esha scrambled to her feet and tugged the unlucky soldier toward the Fort. He was heavy, and she huffed as she pulled him upright against the stone wall. She took the flask of liquor at his hip and dumped its contents on his head. She hoped anyone who found him would simply smell the pungent scent of alcohol and think no more of it.
Esha stared at him, and to be sure, slapped his cheek once, hard. Nothing.
Her hands ached, but Esha didn’t stop to wrap them and ran to the entrance. She followed through the motions and this time, the door opened.
Esha fell against it in a moment of gratitude, her palms flat, her forehead welcoming the cool touch of the smooth red stone.
With careful precision Esha pushed into the darkness of the Fort, taking care to move quieter than the wind and not let a single sound escape. She had left enough of a mess already.
She was in.
Esha slipped into the general’s room as the soldiers streamed out for midnight exercises below. She had almost been caught a few times, having taken a wrong staircase or two, but her memory of the palace—now turned fort—kept her from getting too lost. At last, she reached the highest floor of the Blood Fort, a towering spire that rose into the sky.
The general would be in his room, alone. Her contact had told her that the midnight trainings were run by the commander, as the general liked to turn in and rise early.
Esha readied her whip, imagining how she would sneak into the room and wrap the thin metal end around his neck as he slept. It would be a quick death, though he didn’t deserve one, and she would recover the report before escaping. She could see it so clearly.
Her breath hitched as she took her first step, anticipation buzzing in her veins. She had spent years imagining this moment, the elation and relief she’d feel when the deed was done.
She had reached the top of the staircase now. No light flickered in his room.
It was silent.
Too silent. She put a hand against the door and it shifted; it was open already.
Within seconds, Esha had her knives drawn and her back to the stone wall.
What was going on? The general wouldn’t have left the door open himself—she had been prepared to pick it with a special-made pin, forged for this mission. Esha thought about sprinting back down the steps, but steeled her heart. She hadn’t come all this way for nothing.
If there was someone in there, she would simply kill them and the general.
She pushed the door with the toe of her sandal. It swung open without a sound. Only the light from the moon illuminated what had once been the queen of Jansa’s bedroom, a faint smell of ash floating through the space. Esha moved as quietly as she could as she surveyed the room. It was sparse, uncluttered. There was no adornment past the bare necessities—a jute rug, a fireplace, and a dark wood desk. Weapons lined the wall across from the fireplace.
“Have you come to kill me as well?” A low voice rumbled like gravel from the bed.
Esha’s heartbeat stuttered. The general’s voice was a strained whisper as his eyes opened and he lifted a hand from his stomach. Blood dripped down his fingers, into the wound that pierced his stomach.
Moon Lord’s mercy. Someone had gotten here first.
She lunged into action, pushing away the shock and fear that coursed through her at the realization. She needed to leave now. The general looked weak and pale, his wound minutes old. He had lost a lot of blood by the look of his red-stained sheets.
Someone had wanted him to suffer. Or to leave him alive long enough for her to find him. Did the murderer know she was coming? Did they know about the report?
Esha sprinted over to the open windows, looking out over the thin curtains. It was too high up for a drop and there was no indication of ropes tied to the windows.
“Wait. End it. Please.”
Esha whirled around, fury now overtaking her fear. She moved to his bed, her knife out.
“Why. Why in the name of the sun and the moon should I, after all you’ve done? How can you claim mercy as your right?” Her voice was rough, low, infused with hatred and years of pain.
Recognition alighted in his eyes. “You’re not one of them. You’re one of the Dharkan rebels, those Crescent Blades. What is it you say in your land? We’re all the Mother’s creation. We’re all—”
“How dare you—”
“We’re all flawed. We all deserve mercy. Right?”
“So did hundreds of innocent Dharkans. So did the soldiers you captured and tortured for simply fulfilling their duty. And especially after what you did in Sundara to those civilians . . .”
“Vardaan and I, we had grand dreams. Better dreams.”
Esha recoiled at the name of the Pretender King, Vardaan Himyad, the one who had led the coup and now ruled Jansa. “But it was war—” he continued.
“It was a coup. Why am I even letting you speak? I should cut the tongue from your throat, General,” she said, her voice acid.
She moved to leave but whirled back around, incensed. That this man, even when at Death’s doorstep, could act so righteous. The general tried to sit up but fell back with heavy breaths.
Esha’s fingers clenched into a fist. “You controlled the fabled armies of Jansa. What more could you have wanted? Was your greed worth it?”
“Was it greed? Or conviction? After the War in the North . . .” He seemed to be considering it, a man who realized he had but a short time to think on his life.
Esha had run out of patience. She was pulling closer, ready to slit his throat in the former bedroom of the queen he had murdered, when she spotted it.
Under the bed, to the side, was a replica of one of her whips, identical to the one strapped to her hip. Her mind leaped to action even as her hand froze.
A trap?
She grabbed at the rug underneath the whip and tugged. It rolled over, no wire or weapon tied to it. She bent to examine it, tamping down on the fear that had bubbled back up. The heft was all wrong, and the metal was different, but it looked the same as the weapon in her hand, snakes emblazoned on the handle. It was an exact replica of her whips, the weapons that characterized her as the Viper, the ones she had custom made for her by one of the rebels’ top blacksmiths. Her whips were one of a kind.
Someone was trying to frame her.
“I knew I would never have a peaceful death,” he said, staring at her as if he knew she only moved closer to his bed to guarantee his death. Another shaky breath, a weak tremor in the body of the once-powerful, all-knowing general. He pushed the hand against his wound tighter, screwing his eyes shut.
“You gave that up long ago.” Esha took a shaky breath. “Who was it?”
“Does it matter? Does any of it matter now?”
She wanted to slap him. “You’re leaving this world having ruined the janma bond with the land, our one gift from the gods. Everything matters. You have the chance to save people.”
“Vardaan thought he could maintain the bond by himself. We were wrong, and for that, I am sorry.” He closed his eyes and coughed up blood. He grabbed on to her, his bloody fingers a cuff on her wrist. “The fireplace.”
“What of it?”
“The fireplace. And my nephew . . . ,” he whispered.
Before she could register his words, the general of the Red Fortress, her target and mission, died with one last gasping breath. Her knife was still warm in her hand, had been ready to end his life. But just as he had cheated her in life, he cheated her in death, stealing away the moment she had longed for.
Fury coursed through her veins and she wanted to shake him for taking this from her as well. Instead, she watched as life faded out of him, etching a new memory of the man who had plagued her nightmares, fueled her hatred for years. Her ghosts whispered, and she closed her eyes, letting their insistent voices wash over her.
