“No arrogance here,” I warn Gul, giving her the same advice Govind gave me before I went to have my pin made. “Keep your apologies ready, and pretend to be young and foolish. I will not be able to come inside with you.”
Gul frowns, seeing the sign next to the entryway: NON-MAGI MUST USE THE BACK ENTRANCE.
“Try to get into Rani Janavi’s household,” I tell her. “Or Rani Farishta’s.” Two of Lohar’s younger—and reputedly more spoiled—queens, they were the least likely to notice any real changes to their servants. Another girl won’t make a difference, Latif told me. I wait under a peepul tree while Gul goes inside. To my surprise, she comes out much quicker than expected, a badge gleaming on her left shoulder.
“I was lucky,” she says. “The officer had left his assistant in charge, and she didn’t even bother asking me how I lost my badge! ‘Oh, you must be from Rani Amba’s household,’ she said before I could even say anything.” Gul grins.
I don’t grin back. “What did you say afterward?”
“What was there to say? I said nothing. She handed the badge over to me! I know you mentioned those two other queens, but does it even matter? Amba is Lohar’s oldest and most powerful queen. She probably has a lot more servants than the other two combined.”
“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “But Amba also keeps track of everything that goes on in the palace, unlike the other queens, who are more concerned with getting the king’s attention or power for themselves. The likelihood of her not knowing the names of her serving girls is slimmer than the edge of a sharpened dagger! So, yes, it does matter, and you could not have picked a worse rani to work under.” When Amba gets angry, maids get whipped, on and on until their skin peels off along with their clothes. I decide not to mention this when I see Gul’s face slowly leeching of color.
A long silence reigns between us, broken only by the cry of a lone crow.
“Let’s go.” I begin walking again, sharply turning away from the blue stairs to another, rougher path. “May your sky goddess help us all.”
18GUL
May your sky goddess help us all.
I can’t help but agree with the sentiment. The closer we get to the queens’ palace, the more imposing it appears, its many windows blinking like eyes. The legends are right. The magic in the air of the Walled City is strong. Unlike other parts of Ambar, even arid villages like Dukal, where the magic in the air seeps into the earth and nourishes the crops, here, magic remains in the air itself, leeching it from your lungs if you breathe too loudly. No wonder these people do not laugh.
I glance at Cavas, whom I’ve once again disappointed without trying. Let him be, Kali would say. You cannot win over everyone. I turn away, trying to pay attention to the road ahead, but instead, my thoughts wander to Kali and to Juhi, two people who never let me feel unloved. I wonder if they’ve found and read the letter I left for them on my cot: It’s time I found my place in the world. Please don’t look for me.
I imagine Amira calling the letter maudlin. Telling them it’s probably good riddance that I left. Yet, useless though I may seem to her, I’ve come this far. The thought gives me courage, and I finally ask Cavas about the detour he took, leading us away from the palace gates and closer to the wall surrounding the city.
“Servants don’t enter through the front gate,” he says. “We come and go through the rear gate—the Moon Door.”
I do my best to recall the map I’d drawn of the palace, cursing myself now for destroying it a few days ago. From what I can remember, the Moon Door is at the east end of the complex. Which means the Raj Mahal lies in the west, on the opposite side.
“The place looks huge from here,” I comment, hoping I don’t sound as intimidated as I feel. “Do people ever get lost?”
“Some do. If you get lost, just follow the yellow moon, which is painted in various phases all over the fort walls. The closer you get to the Moon Door, the fuller the moon gets.”
He tells me that there are a couple of temples within the complex, too, and another, smaller palace, called Chand Mahal.
“In Chand Mahal, there’s supposed to be a room full of mirrors that turn blue on the night of the moon festival. There’s also a room of miniature paintings, their colors so bright that the figures within the frames look alive. Or that’s what the palace workers say.” He shakes his head, as if freeing it of the web of wonder he’s spun around us.
“I wouldn’t know for sure,” he continues. “Rani Amba is the only queen with access to Chand Mahal. Her ancestors built it thousands of years ago—along with Rani Mahal itself. Brace yourself now. We’re approaching the gate.”
The guards at the Moon Door are tall, their skin gleaming green with scales, their fingers long and webbed. They gesture for us to stop and then, with glowing white eyes, assess my badge and Cavas’s turban pin. An infinitely long moment later, they nod, letting us through.
“The guards are makara,” Cavas says quietly. “Pashu who are part crocodile, part human. You cannot fool them with disguises; their magic is too strong for that.”
“What happens if they do discover an impostor?” I ask.
“Supposedly the wearer turns to ash. But I’ve never witnessed such a thing.”
I suppress a shudder. I had read about makara, the way I’d read about other Pashu, but I had never seen one before. I
