since they had met again, under the most unexpected circumstances, stopped weeping. Her name was Jijabai, and her mind was lost in horror. But perhaps, Shakuntala thought-hoped-the horror would begin to recede and sanity return. Horror had begun for that woman when she had been taken from her princess. Now that her princess had returned, perhaps Jijabai could return also.
But there was nothing more that Shakuntala could do for Jijabai at the moment, beyond hold her. So she gazed elsewhere.
The Maratha woman seated immediately to the prince’s right blew out her own cheeks, smiled broadly, and leaned into the prince’s shoulder. The prince’s arm enfolded her gently. She closed her eyes and nuzzled the prince’s neck.
Shakuntala knew a bit about this one, from her conversations with the prince the day before. Her name was Tarabai, and she was the prince’s favorite. Prince Eon had asked her to return with him to his homeland and become one of his concubines. Tarabai had readily agreed.
The prince had obviously been delighted by that answer. Almost surprised, like a boy whose idle daydream had come true.
Shakuntala had found his delight quite informative. She had been trained to observe people by the most observant man she had ever known. A man whose sense of humor was as keen as his perception-and that, too, that wry and tolerant way of perceiving people, Shakuntala had learned from him.
So, on the one hand, she was amused by the prince’s delight. What woman in Tarabai’s position-a Maratha captive cast into a hellhole of a slave brothel-would not have jumped at the chance to become a royal concubine? (A true concubine, in the honored and traditional sense-not one of the abject creatures which the Malwa called by the name. A woman with a recognized and respected status in the royal household. Whose children would not be in line for the succession, but would be assured positions of power and prestige.)
But there had been nothing supercilious in Shakuntala’s amusement. Quite the contrary. She had respected the prince for his bemused delight. She had been taught to respect that kind of unpresumptuous modesty. Not by teaching, but by example. By the example of a man who never boasted, though he had more to boast about that any man produced by India since the days chronicled in the Mahabharata and the Ramayana.
(But that thought brought pain, so she pushed it aside.)
Tarabai’s actions, and the prince’s response, told Shakuntala much else. Her own father, the Emperor of Andhra, had possessed many concubines. Shakuntala had often observed them in her father’s presence. Her father had never mistreated his concubines. But not one of them would have dared initiate such casual and intimate contact in the presence of others. Her own mother, the Empress, would not have done so. (Not even, Shakuntala suspected, in the privacy of the Emperor’s bedchamber.)
A cold, harsh, aloof man, her father had been. Every inch the Emperor. He had brooked familiarity from no one, man or woman. Nor, so far as the princess knew, had he ever expressed the slightest tenderness to anyone himself. Certainly not to her.
There was no grievance in that thought, however. Her father had been preoccupied, his entire life, with the threat of Malwa. Years ago, Shakuntala had come to realize that, in his own hard way, her father had truly loved her. He had placed her in the care of a Maratha chieftain-in defiance of all custom and tradition-for no other reason than that he treasured the girl and would give her the greatest gift within his power. To that gift, the princess owed her very life.
(That thought, however, brought pain again. The princess forced her thoughts back to the moment.)
So, a gentle and tender prince as well as a modest one. A warm-hearted prince.
And a resourceful one!
Shakuntala repressed a giggle. Childish! Stop.
It was difficult. The princess had an excellent sense of humor, when her temper was not aroused. And, for all its tension, the episode had been rather comical.
The prince had found her in the cupboard where Raghunath Rao had hidden her. Just as planned. On a shelf barely big enough to fit a girl, a jug of water, a bit of food, and-her nose wrinkled slightly, remembering-a bedpan. With a stack of linens piled on top of her.
As soon as he had taken possession of the guest suite in a corner of the palace, Prince Eon had sped to open the cupboard and retrieve Shakuntala. In passable Marathi, the prince had begun to explain the details of the scheme. Shakuntala had kept her eyes averted, for the most part. The prince had been in a hurry to wash the blood and gore off his body. (The princess, hearing the sounds of the battle raging in the palace grounds, had been hard- pressed not to climb out of the cupboard and watch.)
So his man-dawazz was his title-had poured the bath for him right there in the bedchamber, while Eon stripped himself naked. Shakuntala had peeked, once, not so much out of girlish curiosity as imperial assessment. A very impressive body, the prince had. But she had been far more impressed by the casual, unthinking way in which he cleaned the grisly residue of mayhem from it.
So. A courageous prince. Skilled and experienced in battle, for all his youth. As princes must be, in the new world created by the Malwa. She had approved. Greatly.
The sound of voices-Rajputs quarreling with foreigners-had come through the door. The prince’s man immediately seized a huge spear. But the prince hissed quick instructions in their own language. Suddenly, the dawazz leaned the spear against a wall and began ambling toward the door, wearing such a grin as Shakuntala had never seen in her life.
The prince instantly raced to the cupboard and removed the traces of Shakuntala’s habitation. There was very little to hide-simply an empty water jug and a bedpan half filled with urine. The prince placed both items in plain view, after emptying the bedpan in the bloody water of his bath.
Then, before she quite realized what was happening, Eon had seized her and flung her onto the bed. A moment later, the prince-still naked-was lying completely on top of her. He swept the bed linens over them, and immediately began heaving his buttocks vigorously. Shakuntala herself had been completely hidden-partly by the linens, but mostly by the prince himself. He was not that much taller than she, but twice as broad. She had felt like a kitten lying under a tiger. She could see absolutely nothing except the prince’s bare chest.
A moment later, the voices had entered the room, still quarreling. She could understand the Rajput, now. Belatedly, Lord Venandakatra had ordered a search of the entire palace and its grounds. The Rajput officer in charge of the squad was apologetic. Without quite saying so, he made clear that he thought the entire exercise was idiotic. A great lord in a childish snit, squawling at the world indiscriminately. The criminals had obviously fled the palace entirely. Hadn’t the three Ye-tai dogs guarding the front gate been found butchered, the morning after the massacre? Almost two full days had passed since. It was absurd to think-but-orders were orders.
Prince Eon had raised his head, then, a bit. Roaring royal outrage. But his buttocks never ceased plunging up and down, his groin thrusting at her own. Her body, of course, was still clothed. But the Rajputs had no way of seeing that. The only visible part of the princess was her hair. Long, black hair, in no way different from that of most Indian women. And then, a moment later, a little hand which reached up and clutched the prince’s neck with apparent passion. Quite apparent passion, judging from the unknown girl’s soft moaning. (Shakuntala hadn’t been quite sure she was making the right noise. But, like all bright girls in a large and crowded palace, she had done her share of eavesdropping, in days past at Amavarati.)
Keeping their eyes averted from the prince at his sport, the Rajputs conducted a very hasty search of the suite. Then, uttering many apologies, scurried out.
As soon as they were gone, Eon had immediately climbed off Shakuntala. Had made fulsome apologies, stressing the dire necessity which had precipitated his actions. Emphasized the depth of his respect for the imperial personage and dignity of the princess. Reiterated the perilous Shakuntala had waved off his apologies. Had responded with a most dignified-indeed, regal-acknowledgment of the sincerity of his regrets. Had uttered the most royal-indeed, imperial-phrases assuring the prince that she recognized both the necessity of his actions and appreciated the quickness of his wits. Had added further assurances that she had no doubt of his own regal propriety, good breeding, and monarchical majesty.
But then-unable to resist-had added demurely:
“Yet I fear, prince, that one of your provinces is in revolt.”
It had been hard to tell. The prince’s skin was even darker than a Dravidian’s. But she thought he had definitely blushed.
Especially after the dawazz added, with that amazing grin:
