“Not long,” I say. “A few months.”
Deven doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make one of those little noises to show he’s listening. He just lets the silence stretch between us until it grows so uncomfortable that I’ll say anything to fill it, even if it means violating tradecraft by asking a question. “How long have you known Japa?” I ask.
“Longer than a few months.” I’m working up my courage to ask him to be more specific when he says, “I’ve never seen you at the bookshop before.”
“Well, I’ve never seen you there either.” My tone comes out with more bite than I intended. Both Mani and Deven look at me with identical quizzical expressions. I sigh. “I’m not there that often.”
“And what do you do when you’re not at the bookshop?”
Mani stiffens at my side. “You ask a lot of questions,” I say, and this time the tone is deliberate.
He laughs and it sounds warm and rich like chocolate sauce. “I only asked two questions.”
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Deven can’t be seen with us. It’s too dangerous. For us. For him. Maybe I can tell him that we have plans. It’s been so long since Mani and I did anything for fun. We could stop for flatbread and take it to the park to feed the birds. Mani used to love to do that. He would rip the bread into tiny pieces to stretch it as far as he could. The memory makes me smile.
Mani lets out a chain of barky coughs and stops to put both hands on his knees. The park is an impossible fantasy; I need to get him home. I rub small circles on Mani’s back until the coughing subsides and then look up to see Deven watching us, his eyebrows pulled together in concern.
“How long has he been like this?” Deven is staring at Mani’s white shirt sucked against his ribs. More questions.
“A couple of years,” I tell him, because this question is answerable. This question isn’t about how I kill men in my spare time.
Deven emits a low whistle and rakes a hand through his hair. “That’s a long time,” he says, and then narrows his eyes at me. “Do you know what’s wrong?” His tone is all wrong, more a challenge than an inquiry.
“He almost drowned when he was five,” I say softly so that Mani can’t hear. “His lungs haven’t ever fully recovered.” An image of Mani lying blue and lifeless on the bank of the Kinjal River rises in my mind, but I quickly slam a door on the memory.
Mani starts coughing again. His lips are white, his expression panicked from lack of air.
“Breathe, monkey,” I tell him. “You’ll be fine in a minute. Just breathe.” I keep pressing circles on his back with the heel of my hand. His coughing calms and he manages to suck in a lungful of air. “Good, Mani. That’s good.”
Deven is still watching me. “It seems to get better for a while and then worse again,” I tell him.
He gives me a curt nod and then turns toward Mani. “It doesn’t seem like you’re up for walking today, pal.” He scoops Mani up and lifts him onto his shoulders. Mani gives a startled little yelp and then flashes me a huge grin from high above the ground. It looks all out of place on his face, still drawn tight and pale from coughing. The sleeve of Deven’s shirt has bunched up under Mani’s knee, revealing a small tattoo. At first I think it’s the Raksaka, but it’s not. It’s just the bird by herself, her blue-and-green wings stretched in flight.
“Lead the way,” Deven tells me, and now I have no choice but to let him follow us home. I am praying to all the gods I know that Gita isn’t there when we arrive.
Mani leans his upper body on top of Deven’s head and is soon asleep. Deven carries him like he weighs nothing. We walk in silence for a while, and then Deven clears his throat and starts talking. “I’ve known Japa for years,” he says. “He’s like family. I work for him running errands, delivering messages. He’s a good man—loyal to the kingdom and to the Raja.” He glances over at me like he’s measuring my response. I wish I could tell him that I’m loyal to the kingdom too, that I work for the Raja delivering messages of a different sort.
But admitting that I’m an assassin—even for a kingdom Deven obviously loves—would put him in more danger than he’s already in by walking through the streets of Bala City with me, so I try to change the subject.
“Garuda is my favorite too,” I tell him. His eyebrows rise in a question. “Your tattoo,” I say. “I like it.”