‘Well, alright then I suppose. My Thieves Guild can take care of it. Guess that’s that. I support the plan.’

Kritavarman let out a gusty sigh, then nodded. Krishna turned to Balram. ‘Yes, for the sake of our people,’ Balram said. ‘But mind, no burning of innocents to pull off your Vachan trickery. We taint our souls with such games.’

‘Fine,’ Krishna agreed, exhausted.

‘But what is this city to be called?’ Akrur asked.

‘Alantris,’ Balram answered. Krishna had told him the name of the island last night.

‘To Alantris!’ said Satyaki.

Krishna shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. ‘Not Alantris,’ he said, his eyes surveying them with a disquieting gleam. ‘It is our Gate to the Future. It will be called the City of Gates: Dvarka.’

I

Shishupal was having one of his epiphanies, an out-of-the-body experience, much like a fish being jerked from the placid waters of the lake that had hitherto been its universe, by some cruel god. He was to leave for the Panchalan swayamvar in two days, battle with the heroes of Aryavrat, and somehow bag a fresh new wife.

It was not that he was incapable of such a feat. He could swing a sword well enough. He was, after all, an Imperial Contest winner, the same tournament his brother Dantavakra was currently jousting and goofing around in. But Shishupal had never made wind-sounds with fast sword swipes to catch the female eye. Such posing felt like a sham to him. He had not drawn his sword even when Krishna had run away with his betrothed. Some said, with her consent. Others claimed abduction. But the truth that mattered was that Krishna had wed Rukmini a week later.

Since the incident, Shishupal had grappled equally with his doubts and his anger about what had happened. He nurtured no real desire to kill Krishna, but he would not mind if someone else did the job for him. Now here he was again, headed to yet another swayamvar, where Krishna would no doubt be present, with his ropes and climbing tools at the ready should the Panchalan Princess feel shy about using her own drapes to escape her lonely tower.

Why me? His depressing thoughts were interrupted by a flying splinter that narrowly missed his head to tear into the fabric of the Magadhan banner behind him. Being a Ksharjan of royal blood, he had a seat in the upper tiers to watch the Contest. It was a prime position, but it did come with the occupational hazard of dodging stray axes and arrows flung from the arena.

The winner of the Contest received a boon from the Emperor, and could expect doors, otherwise closed, to open for him or her, especially in the Imperial Service. The melée had been going on for hours, and just four warriors remained. Splinters of wood lay scattered around like seeds in a ploughed field during planting season. Light played mysterious tricks, bouncing off dented armour.