Karna’s stomach growled in anticipation. The smell of chicken marinated in yoghurt and spices, being baked in the searing heat of a clay oven, tickled his nose. Sudama followed the trail like a hound, to a seating section where the Royals sat on low golden chairs. Some had already begun partaking of the sumptuous feast: stews simmering in spices and butter, rice scattered with dried fruits and vark-covered nuts, fresh baked flatbreads, including corn and millet rotis cooked with buttermilk. There was also roasted pheasants adorned with their own gilded tail feathers, and partridges stuffed with nuts and raisins, which simmered in copper pots of saffron-spiced butter. Nearby, there was a whole lamb, slow-roasted over applewood for three nights and flavoured with cardamom, ginger, saffron and cinnamon, complete with a pomegranate in its mouth. Attendants passed with bowls of finely ground gram flour for guests to dip their fingers into, to cleanse them of grease, and brass bowls of scented water to rinse their hands when they were done.

‘There are no separate food stalls for Reshts, Namins and Ksharjas,’ Karna observed.

‘More food for us then,’ Sudama smiled, nodding in understanding beyond his years.

Karna ruffled his nephew’s hair and looked about awkwardly. All around him men and women of note were spearing delicious morsels with dainty prongs and chewing with elegant precision. While there may have been a common banquet table for all castes, Karna had never before thought that there was a higher-caste-way of eating food. He now realized his mistake. There were no separate stalls because no one anticipated a Resht amidst the guests.

Karna saw an old man with a thin mane of silver white hobbling along doggedly with the aid of a son and a cane to meet Duryodhan, who had been talking to Lord Dharmeyu of Sivi and his son Lord Niarkat, of Mathura. The son had curious blue skin.

‘King Bahlika the Ancient,’ Shakuni explained as he joined Karna. ‘Said to be the oldest King in the realm. Believe it or not, he is Uncle to the White Eagle.’

Karna gasped. ‘That would make him…’

‘Ancient, aye. He was in line to the Hastina throne but love took him to the exotic West. Don’t be fooled by the colour of his hair. He may be half-blind but has the sharpest foresight. Sometimes I suspect he is an Oracle. He has won more wars than Hastina has seen, without shedding a single drop of blood.’

‘How so?

‘Economic warfare, they call it; bankrupts kingdoms instead of bombarding them, and spits in the name of all Ksharjas. The one beside Bahlika is his son, Bhurishravas. He has the traditional Balkhan blue skin colour. I think you have met his granddaughter, Vahura.’

‘Only in passing. She’s a scholar, I hear.’ Vahura had been more interested in the alchemical properties of the breastplate attached to Karna’s skin. ‘I remember Arjun made an open wager that he could bed her.’