Eric Flint - An Oblique Approach

(And to whom would they have reported, anyway? The majordomo, like most of his ilk, was a petty tyrant. Best avoided at all costs. It was unthinkable for polluted castes such as comprised the villagers to approach the Mahaveda priests—and none but lunatics even looked at the mahamimamsa. The Rajputs ignored villagers as they would have ignored any other vermin. The Ye-tai would do likewise, unless, as often happened, they were in the mood for amusement—and woe to the man, much less the woman, who served as the object of their entertainment. Who, then? The Kushans, possibly. But the Kushans were preoccupied with their special duty, had neither the time nor the inclination to busy themselves with any other concerns. No, best to say nothing. He was just a harmless half-wit, after all, with grief enough to bear as it was.)

Him . Yes, the panther knew his name, but never used it, not even in his own mind. Why bother? He was the central fact in the panther's life. Had been for weeks now. Who needed to give a name to the center of the universe?

Him . That cursed, hated him .

Oh, yes. Cursed, often—by a man who rarely cursed. Hated, deeply—by a man who did not come to hatred easily.

But not despised, never. For the hatred was a peculiar kind of hatred, despite the raging depth of the emotion. The panther had never in his life hated a man the way he hated him . Had never hated a man so terribly, wished for his destruction with such an aching, yearning passion; and, at the same time, found no fault in the man at all.

Not even service to the Malwa, in the end. For the man had little choice in the matter. That the panther knew, with the knowledge of a great student of human affairs. History had condemned the man he hated, and his people, to vassalage. Their strength and skill in battle had recommended them to others. But they had not been strong enough, nor skilled enough, to decline the recommendation. And so, like many others before them—and others who would come after—they had bowed their stiff necks.

No, it was for no fault of the man himself that the panther hated him . He was not personally responsible, nor had he done anything himself. Rather the contrary, suspected the panther. The treasure of his soul was unharmed, either in body or in spirit, despite her long captivity. He knew, for he had seen her, from a distance. Seen her many times. Always in the company of him . Him , and his men.

She was not happy, of course. She was filled with her own hatred and despair, he knew. But he had also seen the way she looked at him . Not with friendship, no. But not with hatred, either, or with anger, or disgust, or contempt.

And the panther had also seen, from a distance, the way he looked at her. It was not easy to read his emotions. He had a face as hard as iron, as cold as a stone. But the panther understood the man.

In the end, perhaps, it was that understanding which filled the panther's heart with such a pure fury, like the very flame of God's heart. The panther hated him as he had never hated a man in his life. And knew, as well, that in another time, another place, another turn of the wheel, he would have treasured the man's soul.

And then, suddenly, he was there. Emerging from the door of the palace, into the courtyard. After him filed the men under his command. The commander's subordinates were all members of his own people. Of the same clan of that people, in fact, the panther had learned. A tightly-knit band of veteran soldiers, sworn to their leader by oath, by blood, and by blooded experience.

The panther recognized all of them. He knew every face. They were all there. The entire detachment.

The panther willed himself to absolute stillness. Perhaps—maybe. This might be the chance! Almost hopeless, true, but hope was gone in any event. Never had they allowed the princess to walk about in the courtyard. Her daily exercise was always limited to the garden perched atop the battlements of the palace. For the first time, the panther would only have to fight his way through them , on level ground.

He could not prevent the grimace. Only. With his bare hands. An assassin's hands, true. But he did not even have to examine them to know what he would see. (Although he did, of course, for the thousandth time.) The discipline, the spotless helmets and armor, the well-oiled gleam of the swords and spear blades. Worst of all, the poise and confidence. The poise and confidence that comes only from battlefields mastered and survived.

Only . But—there would be no other chance. Slowly, imperceptibly, he gathered his haunches beneath him, preparing to spring. He would wait until the princess herself emerged and was well away from the door.

He waited. And waited. Grew puzzled.

What was happening?

He and his men were now clustered in the center of the courtyard. The door to the mansion had closed behind them. There was no sign of the princess.

The panther looked back to the men in the courtyard. There seemed to be some quarrel going on. He could not make out the voices, but it was obvious from the tone that they were raised in anger. And obvious, as well, from the expression on his face. A hard man to read, he was, but the panther had come to know that face. A deep, bitter rage roiled beneath its iron surface, suppressed by a lifetime's harsh discipline.

No. Not a quarrel. They are not arguing amongst themselves. The anger is directed elsewhere. He spotted the glances directed toward the palace. Quick glares of fury.

The door to the palace opened again. The panther tensed. But, again, the princess did not appear. Only a gaggle of servants, bearing bundles. Bundles, the panther realized, containing the kits of—

His eyes flitted back to the center of the courtyard. A sudden, wild hope flared.

He said something. Barked commands. Again, the panther could not make out the words. But he knew the tone, with the knowledge of a great commander of armies.

Orders are orders. Obey. Just shut up and do it.

A moment later, he was striding off. After a moment, the other men followed, toting their kits. Out of the courtyard. Down the beautifully tiled entryway to the palace grounds. Then, turning left at the dirt track—

— leading to the barracks.

Could it be? Is it possible?

The panther hesitated for only an instant. Just long enough for a quick, appraising glance at the palace.

No. I must first learn—

The panther sped through the woods, circling around toward the location of the barracks. He moved very swiftly, but almost invisibly, with just the faintest hint of a rustle. Like the sound of the wind, some might say.

He came to a good spot, well hidden, but from which he could spy out the barracks. The barracks, where the Rajputs and the common soldiery dwelled. They were not privileged to make their quarters within the palace. Of the troops guarding the palace, only the Ye-tai enjoyed the privilege of dwelling within its fair walls. The Ye-tai alone—except, due to their special duty, him and his men. Until now.

He was already there, and his men. They stalked into the best of the barracks reserved for the common soldiery. (The Rajputs took their quarters in a special barracks at the other end of the compound. Not luxurious, those, not even the rooms set aside for officers, but considerably better than the shacks provided for the common soldiery.)

The sound of angry voices came from the barracks into which they had marched. Had stalked. Like wolves entering a den of jackals.

A stream of common soldiers began pouring out of the barracks. Hastily, even frantically. The last one to emerge on his own feet was aided along by a kick. A second or so later, two others followed through the door, hurled like so many sacks of rice. They landed in the dirt and sprawled there, unconscious, their heads bleeding from savage blows.