The Courtesy of Kings | ☑ Queenkiller, Kingmaker #2

34.2

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The dining chamber had been decorated for the Rama and his guests. It was a hollow pagoda of three tiers, and the Ametjas banners hung now from the open balconies circling above him: the silver and blue lotus mandala, Chei's copper wreath behind a backdrop of green, and of course the reigning capradon, dagger and rice stalks in its claws, the nine-pronged crown between its antlers.

Only Dhvani's consortial emblem was missing. Every year had Dhvani come to visit the Water Palace, yet so quickly its residents could pretend she never existed. She had been chief organiser and overseer of their annual Civil Servants Examinations—now clearly a front for what must have been her hunt for unusual and talented theurgists.

Not like your mother had been any better.

Kiet searched the crowd upon thought of his own mother's crimes, but it was no use. The hall was far too wide and crowded. Rows and rows of tables filled the space between him and all eight sides of the pagoda. The Rama's hunting guests were seated in the foremost rows, and their decidedly masculine faces blocked the view of everyone else's.

His own table was at the very centre of the room—octagonal, to mimic the pagoda itself—so everyone on all three floors of the building could watch him eat. Clearly this was why they instilled dining etiquette upon every royalborn child from the moment they knew how to chew.

The only other at the table was Persi, sat two spaces on his right. Any closer and people might think they were friends.

'Will the Rama be attending?' asked Kiet.

His brother stirred the rice wine in his hand. 'He's never missed a hunting feast, and he means to keep the tradition.'

'Good.' I suppose that means he's feeling up to it.

'I heard what you did for him today,' continued Persi. He sounded tired and looked moreso; his stubbles were untamed, his cheekbones sharper than Kiet remembered. 'The Rama is lucky to have a son of your theurgy. Though I cannot say the same of those beasts who perished in the course of your training. Let us hope for your sake that our father does not share their fate.'

Right. This is why I never speak with him unless required. It was too late, now. 'How passed the hunt for you, brother? Caught anything of note?'

'My men and I brought down a sambar and his hind.'

A gong sounded as though on cue, and an endless flow of servants entered from all four doors of the pagoda, weaving between each table to serve the trays balanced on their heads and hands.

The royal table was soon filled with colour: bright yellow tins of sun-dried mangoes, pale green platters of young papaya salad, brown bowls of deep-fried pork rinds, and of course the bubbling pots of Persi's venison red curry ...

Only once all had been served did the gong resound once more to announce the Rama's arrival, escorted by Khaisan and Andhika. The former was beaming from ear to ear, a green mantle patterned in faded arrowheads draped over his yi-sang: mark of the Champion of the Hunt.

The Rama took the cushion left of Kiet, separating him from Khaisan's triumphant sneer. Small victories, Akai had said. Kiet was glad to surrender this one to his nephew if it meant keeping Nagha out of his murderous eye.

Judhistir lowered himself slowly onto the cushion, as though the movement weighed heavily on his back. Kiet's pranopeucy must already be washing from his blood. Everyone followed suit once the Rama was seated—drinks were poured, music commenced from the balconies, and the pagoda buzzed with chatter.