The rebels prod us down a pathway through the garden. The untended flower beds are overrun with weeds. Palm trees molt dead fronds, and the topiaries need a trim, but the grounds are still verdant and smell of sweet citrus and flowers.
We enter the palace through a side door. Familiar jewel-toned draperies sweep across terrace doorways. Cool marble-tiled floors, white with rivers of nickel, echo our footsteps. Aromatic scents waft in from the high-arched open corridors: desert sand, budding neem trees, and coconut oil. The corridors that once bustled with servants, court officials, and guards are lonely. Only a flamboyant peacock struts down the hall, dragging its brilliant tail feathers behind as it searches for sand fleas to dine on.
Silence pours out of the courtesans’ main entertaining hall. No music plays or jade glass bottles clink. No hint of hookah smoke hazes the entry or scent of women’s perfume lingers. The absence of life startles me. Natesa slows and then quickens her gait away from the deserted wing. Her servitude as one of Rajah Tarek’s courtesans is a time she would rather forget.
The doors to Tarek’s chamber and atrium have been torn off. Within his private quarters, furniture and cushions lie about haphazardly, as though swept up by the wind and dumped in a jumble. Glass shards sparkle like frozen teardrops across the tile floor. Torn draperies hang lopsided, and piles of sand gather in the corners. The destruction of the rajah’s quarters makes Hastin’s rule more tangible.
We are guided to the top floor of the wives’ wing. Arched casements open to a view over the garden, palace wall, and forsaken city. Past them, dunes ripple into the horizon. Streaks of red, soldiers in their uniforms, swarm the main city gate and launch boulders from catapults. A gut-shaking boom resounds in the distance.
“The army will break in,” I say, mostly to myself. “It’s inevitable.”
“They’ll enter the city only when we’re ready.” Anjali’s cryptic reply tests my assumption that the rebels pulled back to protect the palace.
“How?” I ask.
She scoffs. “Think, Captain. What’s the city wall made of?”
All at once, their strategy becomes clear. “Clay bricks.”
“And where does clay come from?”
She is patronizing me, but I answer all the same. “The land.”
“My father stationed Tremblers around the city to uphold the wall. As I said, your army won’t enter unless we allow them.”
“As I said, we aren’t with the army.”
“If my father suspected you were, you’d be dead.” Anjali stops at the doorway to the Tigress Pavilion. “Hold your breath.”
“What—?”
A wind barrels at us, smacking my breath away and pushing us back. My unit skids across the floor and through the pavilion threshold. A final gust slams the door shut after us.
In the sudden stillness, I blink dust from my eyes. The Tigress Pavilion, the ranis’ main social area, comes into focus. I never spent much time here, but it, too, looks different. The black-and-white tiled fountain has run dry, the water basin slimy and stagnant. Barren weapon racks line the far portico wall. Gone are the countless blades and staffs that the rajah’s wives trained with.
“General Naik,” Opal says, her stance alert. “We aren’t alone.”
Brac steps out from behind a low wall. My whole body locks with shock.
“General Naik?” Brac strides to me. “We have been apart a while.” He hauls me into a hug, my arms pressed at my sides. My brother’s golden eyes gleam. I am struck by how alike they are to Chitt’s.
“What are you doing here?” Natesa thumps him in the shoulder. “We’ve been searching for you, you dolt. You scared the sky out of Deven!”
“I only scared Deven?” he teases, and Natesa hits him again.
Yatin grabs Brac up in a wholehearted embrace. My brother’s voice squeaks out. “Missed you too, big man.” Yatin puts Brac down and rubs his head, mussing his coppery hair. Brac scans Opal up and down. “You look worse off than I do. Where are Rohan and Mother?”
Opal turns away, teary. I let Yatin explain. His gentle burr cushions everything he says.
“Mathura is well, but Rohan . . . won’t be joining us.”
Brac’s eyes spread in understanding. He lightly touches Opal’s arm. “My sympathies.”
Across the pavilion, behind low walls and lattice screens, shuffling noises and whispers sneak out from the wives’ divided dining patio.
Brac whistles. “You can come out! It’s just my brother.”
Just his brother?
“Gods alive, Brac,” I say. “I thought you’d been captured!”
He glances from me to Opal and back again. “Didn’t Opal tell you I got away?”
“That was days after I followed the imperial army looking for you!”
A flood of women pours into the main pavilion from the dining patio. The assembly is made up of ranis, courtesans, and palace servants, each group differentiated by their hair and attire. Ranis wear their long hair loose down their backs, and their saris are elegant and intricate, while the courtesans tie their hair back in braids, their apparel more garish in design and color. Servants wear plain robes that are boxy in shape. Children of all ages accompany them, holding hands with and carried by nursemaids. The stunning ranis and courtesans, all scarred in one way or another from their days competing for rank in the arena tournaments, file into the pavilion until it is full.
Brac explains in a hushed voice. “I was thrown from the wing flyer when we were struck in the sky. I fell into the Morass and the crash knocked me out. The army probably thought I was dead or would be soon. When I came to, I found the crash site, but Opal and the army were gone. I didn’t know how to get to you and Mother in Lestari, so I went to the nearest village, borrowed a horse, and rode here. I walked up to the palace gates and surrendered to Hastin. He gave me the option of rejoining the rebels or staying with the women. After what he did to you and Kali, I couldn’t stomach serving him again.”
“You’ve been here, with these women, all this time?”
“Good idea, eh?” Brac winks at a pair of very pretty ranis, and they giggle. At my short sigh, he sobers. “I knew Kali and you would eventually return for the ranis. Coming here was the surest way I could think of to find you.”
I grip the back of his neck and drag him against me. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“You too.” He pats my back and lets me go. “We should probably address the women. They don’t have much patience these days.”
Our audience’s stares pull me back. A few courtesans whisper to each other. I hear one slur Natesa’s name like an obscenity. She holds herself with an air of aloofness, but stays close to Yatin’s intimidating bulk.
A servant steps forward. Long-healed red scars run down her cheek and over one eye. “Where is Kindred Kalinda?”
The whispers cease, and Yatin sets his mouth in a grim line.
“I don’t know.” My voice falls off, dragged away by worry.