restricted as the country mourned.
The Arabs were going to test run TS-18 soon, and their plan was to unleash it on the world immediately afterward if the test was successful.
Changa would empty a useful chunk of India immediately afterward, using his Sharmas as the first shock troops, followed by the army and then Royal Guard, all stationed in Chilongo for the days of mourning.
The king had to die when Changa said so and not before.
Changa approached the royal bed slowly, head bowed, shoes making no sound on the slate floor, as the Old Ways dictated.
He studied Jomo carefully when protocol dictated he could raise his eyes.
What was it like for Jomo? Did he feel his spirit leaving him, inch by inch? Was he making his peace or raging against his fate?
Jomo was too much the king to show.
The royal bed was covered in a scarlet silk bedspread, Jomo’s hands lying on top of the spread. The king shot a glance at his majordomo, who had served the king all his life. The servant, who would never work again after Jomo’s death, sprang to the bedside.
“Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing low. Jomo gestured up at the heavily carved headboard, with the dragon crest on top.
With another deep bow, the manservant gently pulled the king up as a man would a sick child, placing a mountain of damask pillows against the king’s back, holding on to one withered arm so that the king wouldn’t topple over.
Sitting up, Jomo was even more pathetic, his sunken chest lost in the elaborate silk embroidered robes. His hand beckoned Changa forward, a clawlike finger curling up.
General Changa stepped to the bed, hiding his disgust at the smell of human waste surrounding the king.
“General,” the king murmured, “come closer.”
The stench of death hung around Jomo. Changa hid his disgust well. Soon he would inherit an empire. This was a small price to pay.
Jomo beckoned again and Changa bent down, grateful for the incense sticks burning, smoke wafting up to the ceiling fifteen feet overhead.
“Highness.” Changa bowed. “I am yours to command.”
“General,” the king wheezed. His lips had a blue cast. “Take care of my people.” The effort to speak exhausted him. He lay his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Changa wondered if the king even heard him. No matter.
Changa bowed again, the deep bow everyone expected, in the secure knowledge that soon, very soon, his bowing days would be behind him.
He backed away still bowing and straightened next to the princess. He opened his nostrils to breathe in her scent, fresh and clean, overriding the stench of putrefaction from the miserable creature on the bed.
“Princess,” he said quietly. “May I have a word with you outside? It is a matter of some urgency.”
The princess’s black eyes narrowed as she studied him openly. Changa repressed his impatience.
The princess bowed, the merest dip of her head. “I would love to, General.” Her beautiful eyes were dark and opaque. She waved a graceful hand at the royal bed, where the king had fallen asleep. “But as you can see, a higher duty calls me.”
Insolent bitch.
Every cell in Changa’s body tightened with rage. She was the sister of the king, a royal princess. Under Nhalan law, he had no power at all to bend her to his will. But soon, very soon, he would. And she would bitterly regret her insolence.
For the moment, however, in a room full of courtiers who had been trained from birth to regard the king as a god, he had to curb his anger. Under the new reign he would institute, under the rule of his mercenaries, this absurd veneration for the royal blood would cease. And Princess Paso would rue the day she was born.
So he bowed his head, knowing that his time was coming.
“As you wish, Princess. I merely wished to tell you that Dr. Merritt will be landing soon.”
Changa watched her reaction closely. It was the princess who had put forward Lucy Merritt’s
The Arabs were going to test run TS-18 soon, and their plan was to unleash it on the world immediately afterward if the test was successful.
Changa would empty a useful chunk of India immediately afterward, using his Sharmas as the first shock troops, followed by the army and then Royal Guard, all stationed in Chilongo for the days of mourning.
The king had to die when Changa said so and not before.
Changa approached the royal bed slowly, head bowed, shoes making no sound on the slate floor, as the Old Ways dictated.
He studied Jomo carefully when protocol dictated he could raise his eyes.
What was it like for Jomo? Did he feel his spirit leaving him, inch by inch? Was he making his peace or raging against his fate?
Jomo was too much the king to show.
The royal bed was covered in a scarlet silk bedspread, Jomo’s hands lying on top of the spread. The king shot a glance at his majordomo, who had served the king all his life. The servant, who would never work again after Jomo’s death, sprang to the bedside.
“Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing low. Jomo gestured up at the heavily carved headboard, with the dragon crest on top.
With another deep bow, the manservant gently pulled the king up as a man would a sick child, placing a mountain of damask pillows against the king’s back, holding on to one withered arm so that the king wouldn’t topple over.
Sitting up, Jomo was even more pathetic, his sunken chest lost in the elaborate silk embroidered robes. His hand beckoned Changa forward, a clawlike finger curling up.
General Changa stepped to the bed, hiding his disgust at the smell of human waste surrounding the king.
“General,” the king murmured, “come closer.”
The stench of death hung around Jomo. Changa hid his disgust well. Soon he would inherit an empire. This was a small price to pay.
Jomo beckoned again and Changa bent down, grateful for the incense sticks burning, smoke wafting up to the ceiling fifteen feet overhead.
“Highness.” Changa bowed. “I am yours to command.”
“General,” the king wheezed. His lips had a blue cast. “Take care of my people.” The effort to speak exhausted him. He lay his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Changa wondered if the king even heard him. No matter.
Changa bowed again, the deep bow everyone expected, in the secure knowledge that soon, very soon, his bowing days would be behind him.
He backed away still bowing and straightened next to the princess. He opened his nostrils to breathe in her scent, fresh and clean, overriding the stench of putrefaction from the miserable creature on the bed.
“Princess,” he said quietly. “May I have a word with you outside? It is a matter of some urgency.”
The princess’s black eyes narrowed as she studied him openly. Changa repressed his impatience.
The princess bowed, the merest dip of her head. “I would love to, General.” Her beautiful eyes were dark and opaque. She waved a graceful hand at the royal bed, where the king had fallen asleep. “But as you can see, a higher duty calls me.”
Insolent bitch.
Every cell in Changa’s body tightened with rage. She was the sister of the king, a royal princess. Under Nhalan law, he had no power at all to bend her to his will. But soon, very soon, he would. And she would bitterly regret her insolence.
For the moment, however, in a room full of courtiers who had been trained from birth to regard the king as a god, he had to curb his anger. Under the new reign he would institute, under the rule of his mercenaries, this absurd veneration for the royal blood would cease. And Princess Paso would rue the day she was born.
So he bowed his head, knowing that his time was coming.
“As you wish, Princess. I merely wished to tell you that Dr. Merritt will be landing soon.”
Changa watched her reaction closely. It was the princess who had put forward Lucy Merritt’s
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