Shishupal had heard of Bhagadatt from Jarasandh. He was King of the savages of the East. A poor nation by all counts, their only claim to fame were the airavats they bred. Bhagadatt was a cautious man, subtle, reasoned, deliberate; even lazy to a degree. Shishupal saw for himself how the man weighed the consequence of every word he spoke.

‘You were a minor under duress when you were made to sign the treaty with Mathura, Bhagadatt,’ Kalyavan reminded him, patting Bhagadatt’s back. It looked like a squirrel cosying up to a crocodile. ‘It doesn’t hold true.’

‘The Laws of Men,’ Bhagadatt allowed himself the briefest of smirks, ‘are so malleable, ever twisted to suit themselves. I understand you want my airavats for your war effort, but I simply cannot acquiesce. I gave my word to the Mathurans when I signed the Treaty, and words are like arrows. They cannot be returned to the quiver, no matter the magic your lawscribes wield. We should return to the feast. The East can certainly learn from these Riverlanders how to liven a celebration.’

Kalyavan was unfazed by Bhagadatt’s cold demeanour. He was only a boy, made to play the games of men, oblivious of the rules. ‘Then you should learn not to spoil a party. Can you imagine me riding one of your airavats, entering conquered Mathura? Now wouldn’t that do wonders for your reputation, Bhagadatt?’

‘Your frankness is refreshing, Archon.’ As refreshing as a dissected corpse.

‘The lads and I are going hunting tomorrow,’ Kalyavan rallied, not hearing the subtle insult in Bhagadatt’s words. ‘Now that is refreshing. Care to join us?’

‘During the day?’ Bhagadatt asked, sceptical.

‘Where is the fun in that? Tonight. We are having a wager on who bags the most shadowcat hides,’ Kalyavan responded with a laugh.

The boy was cursed with all the arrogance of youth, unleavened by the survival instinct of self-doubt, wed to the narcissism that came so naturally to those born strong and skilled. It will be the death of him, thought Shishupal.

‘Yes, I will come,’ he said, surprising Shishupal. Bhagadatt did not look to be the social sort.

‘Splendid,’ Kalyavan chirped. ‘And you, Shishupal?’

‘Not I,’ Shishupal said immediately. ‘There is a tournament on the morrow, is there not?’

‘Well, the three of us are not participating. Bhagadatt for his race, Shalya for his age, and I for my colour. But my coin is on you, Shishupal. Shalya?’ Kalyavan asked again, seemingly unoffended by the fact that though invited to the swayamvar, he had been subtly informed not to participate in the tournament. It was hardly surprising. No man would willingly give his daughter to a Mlecchá.

Shalya laughed, pointing to his girth. ‘I fear I would become the hunted rather than the hunter.’

‘Rubbish!’ Kalyavan scoffed. ‘I never allow my bait to get hurt.’