all, that an enemy would stalk him for so long in those woods without making his presence known.
Why would Malwa waste time apprehending a foe? Here? In the very heart of their power? With a small army of soldiers at hand?
The panther shrugged off the signal, again.
Two hours later, his already still form became absolutely rigid. Something was happening.
A party of Rajput horsemen rode into the open courtyard before the main door to the Vile One’s palace. Escorts for half a dozen Mahaveda priests and over twenty of the mahamimamsa carrion-eaters.
The door of the palace opened, the majordomo emerging. The man was small and corpulent. His rotund form was draped in fine clothing and a positively splendiferous turban-as befitted one who, though ultimately a servant, was the most august member of that lowly class. August enough, at least, that the squad of Ye-tai who accompanied him did not evince a trace of the rowdy disrespect which they typically dealt out to servants.
And to others, for that matter. As soon as the Ye-tai spotted the Rajput horsemen they began bristling, like a pack of mongrels in an alley, faced with alien dogs. The Rajputs, purebreds, ignored the curs.
The majordomo barked them to order. There was an exchange of words. Moments later, the priests and the mahamimamsa dismounted and were ushered within the palace. Just before entering, one of the priests turned and spoke some words to the officer in charge of the Rajput cavalry troop. The Rajputs turned their horses and trotted out of the courtyard. Ye-tai jeers and taunts followed them. But the Rajputs neither looked back, nor responded, nor gave any indication that they even heard the deprecations.
Once the Rajputs were gone, the Ye-tai swaggered back into the mansion. They did not fail, naturally, to cuff aside the servant who held the door for them.
For a half hour or so thereafter, all was still. Silence, except for the normal faint sounds issuing from the palace-the noises one expects to hear emanating from a palace populated by an army of servants.
Very busy servants. The lord of the palace was expected to arrive soon. It was well known-not only to the servants, but to all the villagers nearby. The news had thrown the servants into a frenzy of activity. The villagers, into a fearful withdrawal to their huts, for all save the most necessary chores.
Frantic, now, the man in the woods. But there was no sign, except, perhaps, for the slightest tremor in his long, powerful fingers. He had hoped, he had prayed, he had spied, he had schemed-and now, he had run out of time.
The man in the woods closed his eyes, briefly, controlling the frustration that seemed to burn him from inside like a raging fire. Frustration such as he had never experienced in his life. Frustration caused by one thing only.
By one man only, actually. One man, and the others of his ilk whom he led.
The panther opened his eyes. For the hundredth time-the thousandth time-his quick mind raced and raced, coursing over the same ground he had covered before, over and over again. And with the same result.
It cannot be done. It just cannot be done. It would be pure futility to even try. They are simply too good. Especially-him.
Him.
The panther knew the man’s name, of course. He had known it for weeks, almost since the day he had arrived at the palace. He had winkled it out of the villagers, and the servants who lived in the village, just as he had winkled out so many other things.
It had not been difficult. Neither the villagers nor the servants had suspected anything. A friendly, cheerful man; addled in his brains, a bit-by horrible experiences, no doubt. Another hopeless refugee in a world of refugees, willing to do the occasional chore in exchange for what little food the villagers could spare; and conversation. Much conversation. A lonely man, obviously. Dim-witted, but harmless and pleasant. A bit of a blessing, actually, for village women who often found people unwilling to listen to their chatter.
True, he was Maratha, not of their people. But the villagers held no allegiance to the Malwa. No, none at all. Nothing but fear, and a deeply hidden hatred. An escaped slave, most likely, although he bore no brand. Perhaps he escaped before branding. Instinctively, the villagers shielded him from prying eyes. Said nothing to the authorities.
(And to whom would they have reported, anyway? The majordomo, like most of his ilk, was a petty tyrant. Best avoided at all costs. It was unthinkable for polluted castes such as comprised the villagers to approach the Mahaveda priests-and none but lunatics even looked at the mahamimamsa. The Rajputs ignored villagers as they would have ignored any other vermin. The Ye-tai would do likewise, unless, as often happened, they were in the mood for amusement-and woe to the man, much less the woman, who served as the object of their entertainment. Who, then? The Kushans, possibly. But the Kushans were preoccupied with their special duty, had neither the time nor the inclination to busy themselves with any other concerns. No, best to say nothing. He was just a harmless half-wit, after all, with grief enough to bear as it was.)
Him. Yes, the panther knew his name, but never used it, not even in his own mind. Why bother? He was the central fact in the panther’s life. Had been for weeks now. Who needed to give a name to the center of the universe?
Him. That cursed, hated him.
Oh, yes. Cursed, often-by a man who rarely cursed. Hated, deeply-by a man who did not come to hatred easily.
But not despised, never. For the hatred was a peculiar kind of hatred, despite the raging depth of the emotion. The panther had never in his life hated a man the way he hated him. Had never hated a man so terribly, wished for his destruction with such an aching, yearning passion; and, at the same time, found no fault in the man at all.
Not even service to the Malwa, in the end. For the man had little choice in the matter. That the panther knew, with the knowledge of a great student of human affairs. History had condemned the man he hated, and his people, to vassalage. Their strength and skill in battle had recommended them to others. But they had not been strong enough, nor skilled enough, to decline the recommendation. And so, like many others before them-and others who would come after-they had bowed their stiff necks.
No, it was for no fault of the man himself that the panther hated him. He was not personally responsible, nor had he done anything himself. Rather the contrary, suspected the panther. The treasure of his soul was unharmed, either in body or in spirit, despite her long captivity. He knew, for he had seen her, from a distance. Seen her many times. Always in the company of him. Him, and his men.
She was not happy, of course. She was filled with her own hatred and despair, he knew. But he had also seen the way she looked at him. Not with friendship, no. But not with hatred, either, or with anger, or disgust, or contempt.
And the panther had also seen, from a distance, the way he looked at her. It was not easy to read his emotions. He had a face as hard as iron, as cold as a stone. But the panther understood the man.
In the end, perhaps, it was that understanding which filled the panther’s heart with such a pure fury, like the very flame of God’s heart. The panther hated him as he had never hated a man in his life. And knew, as well, that in another time, another place, another turn of the wheel, he would have treasured the man’s soul.
And then, suddenly, he was there. Emerging from the door of the palace, into the courtyard. After him filed the men under his command. The commander’s subordinates were all members of his own people. Of the same clan of that people, in fact, the panther had learned. A tightly-knit band of veteran soldiers, sworn to their leader by oath, by blood, and by blooded experience.
The panther recognized all of them. He knew every face. They were all there. The entire detachment.
The panther willed himself to absolute stillness. Perhaps-maybe. This might be the chance! Almost hopeless, true, but hope was gone in any event. Never had they allowed the princess to walk about in the courtyard. Her daily exercise was always limited to the garden perched atop the battlements of the palace. For the first time, the panther would only have to fight his way through them, on level ground.
He could not prevent the grimace. Only. With his bare hands. An assassin’s hands, true. But he did not even have to examine them to know what he would see. (Although he did, of course, for the thousandth time.) The discipline, the spotless helmets and armor, the well-oiled gleam of the swords and spear blades. Worst of all, the poise and confidence. The poise and confidence that comes only from battlefields mastered and survived.
Only. But-there would be no other chance. Slowly, imperceptibly, he gathered his haunches beneath him, preparing to spring. He would wait until the princess herself emerged and was well away from the door.
He waited. And waited. Grew puzzled.
