Shalya laughed. ‘Guilty. But if stars capture your attention, may I interest you in Kalyavan’s prophecy instead?’

The Greek, who was lounging on a divan, groaned. ‘Not again, Lord Shalya,’ he complained weakly. It was apparent he really wanted the story to be told. He cut quite a dashing figure, foreign blood aside. Shishupal had heard tales of this Kalyavan – a civilized warlord of the North-West, who led the Vedan-Greeks, the Yavanas, on raids across the water-starved West.

‘Pray tell,’ Lady Rasha replied frostily.

Shalya coughed. Assuming a voice appropriate to the recitation of prophecy, he intoned: No Man born in this Age can kill Kalyavan, the Last of his Kind.

Shishupal frowned. That was vague. He was well read enough to know they were in the Age of Dwapar, and an Age was roughly ten thousand years, and Dwapar was nowhere close to its twilight. They might as well have kept it simple and declared Kalyavan invincible. Unfortunately for all of them, prophets often thought of themselves as poets. Not that Shishupal believed in such blather.

Lady Rasha seemed to share his reservations. ‘So, if I were to take the dagger from your belt right now and slowly slice your throat, you would let me?’

‘My dear Lady Rasha, I would let you cut me in any way you desired,’ Kalyavan said gallantly, rising, apparently in ignorance of the obscene yawning cavity his toga had exposed; or worse, fully aware of it.

‘Lord Kalyavan…’ Shishupal began.

‘Call me Kalyavan,’ he smiled.

Gods, he is just a boy! No more than seventeen summers. ‘Kalyavan, speak that way to Lady Rasha again and we will discover the truth about that prophecy; whether no man born…’ he fumbled.

‘In this Age,’ Shalya supplied.

‘Yes, born in this Age, can imprison Kalyavan, the Last of his Kind.’

Shalya laughed. ‘I like this one. But I feel there may be some credence to it, Claw.’ Shishupal groaned but felt it impolite to update the Lord of Madra about his voluntary demotion. ‘Our dear Kalyavan here has never lost a battle, a duel or even a raid for that matter. Unbeaten. He has… I don’t know… killed thousands without a scratch on his perfect olive skin.’

‘Why, Lord Shalya, it sounds like you are in love,’ Lady Rasha said. ‘Maybe you should give up your seat in the Hastina Union’s Council of Eight so that you can spend more time with the lad.’

‘It is envy, Lady Rasha, not love. For there was a time my belly looked like his, rather than one that might have given him birth.’

The conversation stopped dramatically as the imperial horn sounded outside. Surajmukhi hastened away from Shishupal’s thighs to the safer spaces behind Lady Rasha’s skirts. An appropriate response, considering the Emperor had arrived.

IV