Had the Wind himself delivered the strike which had sent this mahamimamsa to his doom, the torturer would have been dead before he hit the floor. But the blow had been delivered by another, who, though she had learned her skill from the Wind, lacked his hurricane force.
No matter. The Wind was not displeased. Truly, an excellent blow. Skillfully executed, and-to the Wind’s much greater satisfaction-selected with quick and keen intelligence. The man might not die immediately. But, however long he took, he would never utter more than a faint croak in his passing.
In the event, he died now, instantly. The Wind saw no reason for his existence, and finished his life with a short, sudden heel stamp.
The blow was delivered almost idly, however, for the Wind’s primary attention was on the final foe, and his demise.
Here, the Wind found cause for displeasure, disgruntlement. Deep grievance; great dissatisfaction.
As was her unfortunate tendency, the imperious princess had not been able to resist the royal gesture.
True, admitted the Wind, she had obviously started well. The swift, sharp kick to the groin. Well chosen, that, from the vast armory the Wind had given her. A paralyzing blow-semiparalyzing, at the very least-and, best of all, paralyzing to the vocal cords. A sharp cough, a low moan, no more.
She had delivered that kick first, the Wind knew. Knew for a certainty, though the Wind had not been present in the room.
Just as the Wind had taught her, when dealing with two opponents. The quick, disabling strike to one; the lethal blow to the other; return and finish the first. (It was a simple sonata form which the Wind itself did not always follow, of course. But the Wind was a maestro, skilled in variations because it was master of the tune.)
So far-excellent. But then-impetuous hoyden!
The Wind puffed old exasperation. How many times had the child been told? How many? Headstrong girl!
But the raging vortex was fast disappearing. Faster than it had gathered, in fact, much faster. Emotions which came easily to the Wind were pouring back in, singing their return. Among these-great among these-was humor.
Truly, in its own way, a comical scene.
A large, heavy man. Heavy head, atop a heavy neck, atop a heavy torso. Clutching his groin. Groaning. Grimacing with pain. Staggering about like a wounded buffalo. With a girl-a smallish girl, mind, for all that her extraordinary body had been shaped under the Wind’s ruthless regimen-hanging on to that massive head with both little hands.
Perfectly positioned, those hands, that the Wind allowed. The left, clutching the shaggy beard; the right, rooted firmly in the shaggy mane. Perfectly positioned for the deadly, twisting, driving contraction that would snap the man’s neck like a twig.
If, that is, the man had been half his size, and she twice hers. As it was, it was a bit like a monkey trying to break the neck of a buffalo. The buffalo staggering about, swinging the monkey wildly to and fro.
The furious black eyes of the princess met the gaze of the Wind. The Wind stooped, hopped about, made soft monkey noises, scratched. The black eyes blazed pure rage.
“Oh- all right! ” she hissed. She released her grip, bounced onto her toes. An instant for balance, an instant for poise, an instant for thought.
The swift kick to the knee was excellent-a copy of the one delivered by the Wind to a torturer in the room beyond. His had pulverized the knee, hers simply dislodged the kneecap. No matter-the man was disabled either way. And the position of his head Yes! The Wind was deeply gratified by the palm-strike to the bridge of the nose. For the Wind, that blow was itself lethal. But the girl- this time — delivered it as she had been taught. Speed, fluid grace. She simply didn’t have the mass and sheer male strength to shatter strong bones with every blow. So, for her, the palm strike was to daze the foe, turn his head, set up The elbow smash to the temple which followed, like a lightning bolt, was a perfect duplicate of the one which the Wind had delivered to another mahamimamsa in the adjoining room, less than a minute earlier. True, the Wind’s strike had slain his man instantly, whereas the princess needed two more before her opponent slumped lifeless to the floor.
So?
Only the soul matters, in the end.
The Wind died away, then. Fled, dancing, back to the Great Country. It would rise again, like the monsoon, when Maharashtra called. But for now, it was gone.
Only the man Raghunath Rao remained, cradling the treasure of his soul in his arms, whispering her name, kissing her eyes, weeping softly into her hair.
Epilogue
“To move along the line of natural expectation consolidates the opponent’s balance and thus increases his resisting power… In most campaigns the dislocation of the enemy’s psychological and physical balance has been the vital prelude to a successful attempt at his overthrow.”
A soldier and a general
Once he was satisfied that his men had finished all the necessary preparations for their departure, Kungas decided that it was time to pay a courtesy call. It would be a long journey to the Emperor’s camp at the siege of Ranapur. At least a month, probably more, judging from the appearance of the caravan-and his past experience with the caravan’s master. He and his men would be spending a considerable time with the party of foreigners they had been assigned to escort. Best to be introduced properly, in advance, so that no unfortunate misunderstandings would arise.
Especially with those foreigners, thought Kungas, as he passed through the courtyard of Venandakatra’s palace. He stopped for a moment, to admire the scenery.
A harsh life had taught Kungas many lessons. One of those was to keep your sentiments hidden. The world had always presented a hard face to him; he returned the compliment. Old Iron-face, he knew, was one of the nicknames his men had for him. He did not object. No, not in the slightest.
Still, even for Kungas, it was hard not to grin.
Four of the Ye-tai were still alive, barely. One of them was even still making some noise. Small, mewling sounds. With luck, thought Kungas, that one might survive another day. Another day of agony and hopelessness.
Kungas would be gone by then, but he would be able to cherish the memory. He and his men had been assigned the task of cutting the stakes and spitting the Ye-tai. It had been the most pleasurable duty they’d had in years.
His eye fell on a figure perched among the Ye-tai, and his pleasure vanished.
Not all of it.
They had done what they could for the old woman. They had tried to smuggle in a longer stake, but Venandakatra had spotted it and forbidden its use. The servant was to be spitted on the same short stakes as the Ye-tai, in order to prolong the agony.
The mental grin returned. It was a bleak, bleak grin.
But we’d expected that. Too bad we couldn’t get any real poison, in the short time we had. But the women in the kitchen mixed up what they could. Venandakatra watched us like a hawk, to make sure we didn’t slip her anything to eat or drink. But we’d expected that, too. By the time we fit the poor soul onto the stake, the stuff had all dried. Venandakatra would have had to scrape the stake itself to spot it.
He started to turn away. Then, moved by an impulse, turned back. His eyes quickly scanned the courtyard. No one was watching.
