It was a good thing a ritually ordained Vachan worked the same way for both the Mortals and the Daevas. Faraladar had brayed on about how Men and Daevas had essentially the same map within their bodies; the same nadis through which blood, dirt and soul flowed in and out of their hearts. A Vachan had the effect of binding these nadis in chains, that made the soul, or what the Daevas called atman, stronger. Made stronger in the manner a man wrapped in iron chains becomes when he is forced to work bearing such weight. But Vachans were nasty business. And they were unbreakable. If one was inclined to break his Vachan, the chains would contract around the atman, and the oathbreaker would be obliterated.

Asha looked up. ‘Shall we go in, Muchuk? Best not to keep King of Daevas waiting.’

III

They passed into the Main Hall of the Sanctum, where enormous suits of armour belonging to Drazeuses long dead, stared down at them. Around these dented armour-suits were weapons the Drazeuses had presumably used, rather thoroughly by the look of them. One did not need to be a sleuth to understand the Drazeuses had never shirked from a fight. It was for this reason that Muchuk thought it rather odd when he found Thorin Drazeus engaged in something as unwarlike as painting.

‘My ancestors,’ Thorin said, standing crabbed over a canvas and wielding a paintbrush instead of a sword. He had the mannerisms of a kindly grandfather, but Muchuk knew better. Failed artists made the worst tyrants. ‘You know, not one Drazeus in the last two millennia has died in his bed. Source of pride, that.’

Of course, quite a few of them had died in other people’s beds, if Savitre was to be believed, but Muchuk felt it prudent not to mention this. ‘Indeed, Your Worship.’

Thorin turned from the portrait he had been working on and wiped his red-stained hands on his robe. Turns out he had drawn a lurid portrait of himself, standing atop a battlement with a sword held aloft, an army of grateful men behind him. Muchuk gaped at it for a moment, hardly knowing whether to cry or laugh.

‘Mankind, such a dashing species I’ve always thought,’ he remarked with a fading smile. ‘I mean, the Vanaras are pompous and the Nagas, venomous, but one always feels there is something grotesquely gracious about the human will to survive.’

Muchuk exchanged a smirk with Asha, and proceeded to bow humbly. Two blonde-haired, slender female guards took their places on either side of Thorin as he approached a basin to wash his hands with ether. The Twins. The long purple cloaks that trailed behind them had cowls that covered their heads, but even with half their faces hidden, they possessed an angelic beauty that was breathtaking. But then the world was full of demons with pretty faces and angels with scars. While Muchuk Und was busy gawking at the Twins, another Daeva paced over to where Muchuk, Asha and Savitre Lios stood.