Venkat pointedly eyed the line of people behind them. “I’m sorry, but I can’t really chat right now.”

“Of course, of course,” Chintu said, the epitome of arrogance. “I merely thought perhaps we might help each other out. I am searching for dreams, and you—”

Venkat gestured to an elegant registry beside the giant ledger on the desk. “You know the rules; all barter must be sanctioned by Lord Nayan. However, if you register to become a new patron . . .”

Chintu’s slit pupils widened and contracted. When he spoke, his fangs flashed, as tapered as freshly whetted daggers. “Do you realize who it is you are denying?”

Venkat had known cocky boys like this his whole life. Whether back on Prithvi or here in Nagalok, they thought all they had to do was demand what they wanted, and it would be theirs. Unlike Venkat, they had no concept of the sacrifices others made so they could enjoy the luxuries they took for granted.

Chintu had no clue that with a maximum of thirty dream runners in their stable, even with the citywide lotteries held every week, Nayan and Venkat could never hope to meet more than a fraction of the demand. Selling dreams to those with clout was a stopgap measure at best—they’d been turning away more and more buyers—and Venkat had no time for the whims of petulant princes.

“I do know,” he said blandly. “Prince Chintan of the clan of Anant Shesha. An old and respectable line, and one we would be pleased to do official commerce with.”

Chintu was still glaring, but at that, he reached for the peacock feather pen in the inkwell by the registry.

“Why trouble yourself?” asked his friend, who’d sprawled back against a bookshelf, hands in his kurta pockets. “There are other means to obtain what you want.” Grinning, he jabbed his chin toward Asha, who, by some miracle, said nothing.

Chintu paused, the quill dripping viscous gold ink the color of his irises, then dropped the pen back into the inkwell. If he noticed the shining splotch he’d made on the immaculate desktop, he ignored it. “Tell Lord Nayan I came by, would you?” he bade Venkat, looking down at him with the detachment of a stranger.

Everyone has an agenda, Nayan had told Venkat at the outset of his apprenticeship. In many ways, the obvious ones are preferable. With them, you always know where you stand.

Chintu and his friend slithered away. They were probably headed to the marketplace, in search of the seedy pop-up shops that claimed to peddle dreams sourced directly from the palace’s stock. Nayan always laughed them off. No one except for Venkat and Nayan had access to their inventory, and anyone who believed otherwise got what they paid for.