“It’s a terrible assignment, just manhandling smugglers and the odd bandit, I bet,” Saran said. “We haven’t even been told what our mission is yet.”
“It won’t be so bad. You’ll have the beauty of the ocean nearby, and you can visit the old temple ruins, full of exquisite stonework and mosaic tiles. And the food. The jalebis.” Kunal looked up toward the skies, and the Sun Maiden, at the thought of the syrupy fried dough. “If you’re looking for a taste of divine nectar, jalebis are as close as you’ll get.”
Alok and Laksh exchanged eye rolls, having heard this many times from him.
Saran laughed, slapping Kunal on the shoulder. “You always have the most interesting way of saying things, Kunal. We should name you the poet of the Fort.”
Kunal flushed, unsure of what to say, but Laksh cut in. “There are also plenty of gambling houses and an underground fighting ring.” At that Saran’s face lit up, and he and Laksh walked ahead, deep in discussion about the gambling scene up the coast.
They crossed the sun-worn stones of the open courtyard and were about to turn in to the residence wing where the dining halls were when Alok’s hand shot out to stop Kunal.
Kunal’s head went up in an instant, his hand at his knife.
He scanned the area. No immediate threat. Kunal relaxed his posture and followed Alok’s gaze.
They hadn’t noticed the soldier in irons, slumped against the sandstone in the shadows. It was common to be slapped in irons for punishment, a way to teach soldiers a lesson and make them stronger.
Kunal shook his head at Alok and moved to keep walking. He recoiled in the next instant, understanding Alok’s shock.
The soldier was dead. Kunal’s heart sank when he realized that he recognized him.
It was Udit, the young recruit who was born in the southwest of the Varulok region, like him. Only a week ago they had spent a meal reminiscing about their favorite childhood games in the tea plantations that covered the hills of Varulok.
His chest constricted, and he felt that familiar tug of frustration at his heart. What infraction could have possibly deserved this? His body out in the heat, uncovered.
“It’s not right,” Alok whispered, echoing the thoughts Kunal refused to speak. “Why wasn’t his body cleaned, readied for the pyre?”
Kunal steadied his shaking hand, breathing in and out in the way Uncle Setu had taught him to master his emotions. Control.
“There must be a reason,” he said, his voice now even. He looked away sharply from Udit. “He must have broken the Rules of Order. Or worse.”
“Would that be a reason to disgrace his soul?” Alok asked, looking sidelong at Kunal.
“Alok,” Kunal said, his voice a whisper. The Fort was always listening; many of the servants, and even soldiers, reported any hint of dissent directly to his uncle. “That is what happens when you break the rules.” Kunal spoke fast, rushing his words.
“He was a boy, young and inexperienced,” Alok whispered back. “They’ve branded him a traitor by leaving his body out like that.”
“He is a soldier, first and foremost. We both know there can be no exceptions to the rules. And what if he was a traitor?”
“Remember the last time someone was labeled a traitor? How an innocent boy died? The commander went off the word of the accuser instead of allowing a proper trial.”
Kunal remembered. It had happened only a few moons ago. He couldn’t even recall the soldier’s defense now, only the accusation. It had been wrong of the commander to mete out justice without a trial.
“I’m sure the general was just following the rules.”
“But if the rules don’t make sense?”
“Not this again.” Kunal shook his head, feeling his hands clench. “If you want to survive at the Fort, you’ve got to uphold your duty, and that is to follow orders.”
It’s not worth disobeying.
Kunal had learned that early on in his ten years at the Fort. He had the scars to show.
This conversation was one that had been happening more frequently over the past couple of moons, which worried Kunal. If Alok stuck his neck out too much, it might mean more than a beating.
Alok’s nostrils flared, his eyes lighting up in a way that told Kunal he was ready to fight. Kunal grabbed him and dragged him up the ramp, away from Udit’s body and prying ears.
“Alok, don’t be stupid. You think things will change just like that?”
Alok only glared at him and walked away.
Kunal pressed the heels of his palms into his temples. Despite his harsh words, he felt the same as Alok.
Control.
The general wouldn’t have condoned this—would he? He resolved to find out.
Kunal closed his eyes and released his held breath as he reached the top of the spiraling stairs, willing his heart to stop thudding.
Every time.
Even now, the thought of facing Uncle Setu sent a shiver of nerves down his spine. He was certainly stronger, taller, more experienced than when he had first come to the Fort at the age of eight—but facing this door always brought back memories of the first time he had seen the menacing height of the Fort above him. His new home.
Kunal ran through his arguments, knowing heated words wouldn’t win over General Setu Hotha of the Red Fortress. Uncle Setu appreciated logic and reason, so Kunal would remind his uncle of the noble houses, like House Rusala, and the textile merchants still bitter about the conscription. Leaving their sons’ bodies unconsecrated wouldn’t help that.
He sighed, unsure if his words would make any difference. But something stirred him to try after talking with Alok, even if he ended up in irons himself.
When he reached the door of his uncle’s room, it was slightly ajar. Kunal stopped. His uncle never left the door open; he valued his privacy and didn’t take kindly to visitors.
Cautiously, Kunal raised a hand and knocked.
No response.
His uncle wanted him to act more like a leader of the Fort. Take more initiative. He had said as much the last time they had spoken.
Kunal pushed open the thick door.
The bloody bed was the first thing he saw, a pool of red in a sea of stark white. Then his uncle’s still body, sprawled across his beautiful embroidered pillows.
Shock hit him like a slap and he felt his heart stop, as if time itself slowed in the face of his disbelief.
He slammed against the wall, hand at his knife, quickly circling the perimeter of the room to see if the murderer was still there.
The room was clear.
That’s when he broke with his training, crossing the distance to his uncle’s bed in a few strides. Blood was everywhere, pooled and streaked across the sheets. Kunal grabbed his uncle’s wrist. Put two fingers against his cold throat.
Disbelief, grief, fury coursed through him as he grasped his uncle’s lifeless hand. Kunal felt his control, the one thing his uncle taught him to never lose his sight of, slipping.
First, he needed to alert the commander. The clotted blood around the wound and his uncle’s cooling skin indicated his death had been hours ago, not recent, but he couldn’t be sure.
He was a soldier and he had seen death before, but it had never been so personal.
Uncle Setu had been killed in his bed. Without a chance of fighting back. What kind of dishonorable man would do such a thing? Kunal had blood on his hands he could never clean, but it was all done on a battlefield. Honorable face-to-face fighting in the name of Jansa. Assassination was cowardice.