Tooth and Nail, Fur and Scale Read online

  ‘The ritual is complete,’ said the pandit. ‘I am waiting for the storm.’

  ‘Wh-what do you mean?’ The merchant seemed confused, and a trifle irritated that the pandit wasn’t speaking more plainly. ‘What storm?’

  ‘One of the side effects of the ritual is that it summons a storm after it is complete. A great storm, but short-lived.’

  The merchant listened for the wind and looked up at the squares of clear blue that showed through the skylights.

  ‘How long does that take?’ he asked.

  The pandit sighed and got up, his bony joints creaking, and looked at the gem. ‘It’s a fake,’ he said simply. ‘It’s always a fake.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean it’s fake?’ the merchant screeched, his face suddenly taking on a red hue.

  I stretched to get rid of my cramp and snuck out the way I’d come, stifling a yawn. I thought I heard thuds and crashes from the storehouse, punctuated by breathless swearing.

  The afternoon had been a bit of a waste, but then I hadn’t set much store by this line of investigation anyway. Now that the sun was low on the horizon, it was time to pursue some real leads.

  It had been so long since I last visited the royal akharas9 that I’d forgotten why I love the place so much. It isn’t the perpetual carnival that begins at the gates, rages through the massive front yard where the serpentine queues double and triple upon themselves, and follows the crowd all the way to the seated spectators. It isn’t the massive mandi10 that pops up around the akhara grounds, which sells everything from the most trivial baubles to luxury items from far-flung lands. It isn’t the million lanterns strung up all around the place, keeping the akhara complex in a perpetual twilight through the night. It isn’t even the fights, spectacular as they are.

  It is the people watching.

  The akhara attracts spectators from all over the world and beyond, and watching so many diverse men and women packed shoulder to shoulder in one place—speaking in various tongues, wearing strange and often downright ridiculous costumes, simultaneously participants and observers in this shared spectacle . . . I am a real sucker for stuff like that.

  That’s not to say it is pleasant all the time. The diversity doesn’t always inspire cheerful conviviality, and there is usually a fist fight happening in viewing distance.

  I’d spent what seemed like an eternity in the queue, narrowly avoiding the jets of flame blown by the fire-eaters on their high platforms and the kicking feet of the acrobats who swung from trapezes slung over our heads, and was almost at the ticket booth when a juggler, jostled by a giant Yavana11, dropped two of his seven balls on my head.

  ‘Watch it, will you?’ I yelled, ducking under the ticket booth’s awning as I tossed the balls back at him, and the juggler gave me a slight bow as he seamlessly reincorporated them into his act.

  The admission to the special matches set me back by more mudras than I had thought they would, and I consoled myself by fingering the other pouch hidden in my antariya, the gems from the netherworld in it. Once I found a buyer for those, money wouldn’t be a problem for a while.

  I joined the crowd squeezing through the gates that led to the shielded akharas where the special matches would be held. I noticed that everyone heading in that general direction was wearing the finest muslin and embellished silk, and that they were all draped in gold and silver and dripping emeralds, rubies, diamonds and other precious gems that I didn’t even recognize. I felt less than naked in my rough cotton clothes, which were now dirty from my time in the storehouse rafters. I’d only been to a special match once before, when I’d been hired as part of the security team for a visiting dignitary who happened to be a wrestling enthusiast. It really wasn’t something I would have been able to afford otherwise.

  The stands were full, and my head reeled as I tried to imagine the money that was made in that place every single night. The seating was numbered and reserved, yet I saw throngs of the well-heeled quarrelling for space and for a clear view of the akhara below. The fine mesh of the dome that covered the arena sparkled when it caught the light at certain angles, but was more or less transparent. You don’t need shielding in matches featuring regular mortals, where the activities of the wrestlers in the ring pose no danger to the spectators, but in bouts between specials contestants, you never know what will happen.

  I found my seat and began to look around for the familiar face I hoped to see. The crowd thrummed and hooted until the announcers ran on to the arena and began beating the massive drums that hung from their shoulders. In unison, they gave the standard welcome address, announced the names of the first contestants and then provided brief summaries of their social and physical statures, abilities and achievements.

  Then, as custom demanded, they dedicated the game to the only unbeaten fighter in the akhara across all weight classes, the man who held the record for most fights fought and won, and who had been ranked at the top in a recent popular survey—ruler of Girivraja, monarch of Magadha, King Jarasandha.

  When he was just crown prince, Jarasandha had bested all the wrestlers in his father’s capital and announced a grand reward for anyone in the land who would want to face him in the ring. The resultant matches were thronged by spectators, and had spurred the rise of the sport’s popularity, eventually propelling it to the heights that it currently enjoyed.

  Of course, the ticket prices were highest when the king was in the ring, and not just because he was the most skilled and most celebrated contestant in the games. Jarasandha’s matches inevitably ended up being fiercely violent and more than a little bloody. And, man, oh, man, did these people like bloody.

  The crowd cheered as the contestants—a half-rakshasi from the forests of Dandaka and a Kosala prince who was rumoured to have been fathered by Varuna himself—jogged into the ring. I spotted my man in the crowd just then—because he was the only one not screaming, pumping his fists, clapping his hands nor jumping around like a total maniac.

  Instead, the cherubic boy I’d been looking for sat leaning against the railing overlooking the akhara, and obsessively counted and recounted the stack of chits in his hands, only pausing to scratch his nascent beard.

  I pushed my way through the crowd, which was just settling down, and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Good tidings, Satyajit,’ I said, putting on my most disarming smile.

  His expression was already sour when he turned around, because I had interrupted his count. But then he recognized me, and his face became the mess of hate and horror I had expected. It’s such a special thrill when you realize that you’ve struck fear in someone’s heart. It’s disgustingly vain and cruel and stupid, and I hate that I feel it, but I do love feeling it.

  He cursed and tried to bolt, but I caught his wrist and pulled him close. Groaning softly, he tried to twist away and then cast about for someone whom he might call for help.

  ‘I’m here as a friend,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Calm down and listen up.’

  He couldn’t exactly create a scene. I knew he gave away half his profits in bribes just to have the guards overlook the fact that he was taking bets from the spectators, as long as he did it on the down low. They wouldn’t brook misbehaviour—not when it would mean risking the king’s wrath.

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said, still wincing. I realized I was hurting him, and loosened my grip. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The last time we met,’ I said, ‘I was interrogating you about a certain accident that one of my clients’ friends had had. Remember that?’

  Rivers of sweat ran down his face. ‘Why do you think I was trying to make a break for it?’ he bleated.

  ‘Here’s the thing, pal,’ I said, ‘you don’t know it, but I did you a big favour back then.’

  He swallowed a sizeable gob of guilt and anxiety.

  ‘That’s right. I knew that the poor man had made the mistake of winning a big sum against the house the previous night, you little runt. I also knew that he was walking to Sashw
at Park to collect his winnings from you when those thugs ambushed him on the way.’

  Satyajit was trembling now. ‘Y-you can’t prove it,’ he said. ‘You can’t prove any of this!’

  I fumbled inside my coin-pouch with my free hand and fished out a little chit of birch bark, much like the ones that the bookie was holding. I’d stored it in my safe for just such a moment.

  ‘It’s got your seal on it and his details,’ I said. ‘I know where you keep your records, and I know the king’s men can get to it before you do. All it would take is a quick verification, and you’ll be—’

  ‘No!’ he hissed in my ear. ‘The shipping guild forced me to do it! They told me they just wanted to speak to him!’

  ‘Don’t sweat it, boy,’ I said, squeezing his arm. ‘I know exactly how far your involvement went. I also know that you were the only one taking care of your dying mother back then, so I kept your name out of the whole mess.’

  He looked confused for a few seconds before I felt his pulse slow down. ‘You . . . what?’

  ‘There’s no need to feel grateful,’ I said. ‘Like I said, I did you a favour and now I’ve decided to call it in. Come on.’

  I pulled him away from the railing, down the stairs that led to the lobby, and dragged him through the exit doors. Pinning him against the outer wall of the akhara complex, I tried to sound my most intimidating. ‘I need information about any new guys trying to get in on the special matches.’

  He looked uncertain. ‘Er . . . you mean . . . investors?’ he asked.

  ‘No, numbskull. Wrestlers. Any new bruisers come to town boasting super-strength and looking for a job?’

  See, if I wanted to find a guy with super-strength in Girivraja, the akhara wasn’t a bad place to start. I was looking for aspiring wrestlers who were strong enough to stand out at the try-outs for the special matches, but who hadn’t made it through to the big leagues yet. Anyone who managed to come out on top in a tussle with my client was probably no lightweight (my stomach was still sore from where that iron forearm had caught me), and a professional athlete would be too wealthy to be going around mugging women for valuables.

  ‘I-I don’t—’

  ‘Don’t give me that nonsense, Satyajit. I know you bookies keep a record of all aspirants with potential. The sooner you can put them in your payrolls, the better, right?’

  ‘S-sure,’ he said. ‘B-but look . . . this can’t get out. The new applicants are supposed to be under a confidentiality agreement. If the king’s people find out that bookies have flouted their—’

  ‘Of all people, man,’ I said, ‘you should know that I can be discreet.’

  Looking around for eavesdroppers, he whispered, ‘There’s this pahalwan from Vidarbha who tried out a week back. He’s got a boon from a local sage that makes his skin—’

  ‘A pahalwan? You mean like a big guy with muscles?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No, no. I’m looking for someone more . . . subtle. Someone who doesn’t look the part.’

  ‘Well, there is this half-breed girl from Anga—’

  ‘Nope. Guys only. Or beings that look like guys.’

  He filtered the list in his mind and then coughed up five names that might fit my bill. Gave me the addresses too. And seemed happy when I told him I didn’t need him to put anything in writing.

  ‘Look,’ he said at the end of it. The match was over and people were starting to stream out of the venue. ‘You have to let me go now. I’ve got an appointment with my boss.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ I said, sneering at him. I was ready to let him go, but I was starting to enjoy the intimidation thing a little. Luckily, what he said next turned out to be very interesting.

  ‘Yeah . . . we’re—we’re actually in big trouble right now. This guy whom we’d paid to take the fall in next week’s Royal Rannbhoomi—he got into a street fight and got his skull cracked. Now he won’t be in the game, and we need to find a replacement as soon as—’

  ‘Slow down,’ I said, something clicking into place in my head. ‘A specials contestant got his skull cracked in a street fight? How many guys was he up against?’

  He frowned. ‘That’s what’s really strange,’ he said. ‘The last time anyone saw Bhoopala conscious, he was at Ojas Madhushala . . . the one on Vasu’s Way?’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘So he was misbehaving with a waitress there, when this one guy—a tourist by the looks of him—comes up to him and asks him to quit it.’

  My heart began racing.

  ‘Bhoopala tells him to shut up, but then the tourist asks him to take it outside to settle it man to man! He obviously didn’t know who Bhoopala was, but—’

  ‘Ojas Madhushala, you said?’

  ‘Er . . . yeah?’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Three days ago.’

  I patted him gently on the shoulder and headed towards Vasu’s Way.

  The bartender at Ojas knew me by face if not by name. Though I don’t drink, my work often takes me to madhushalas12, accompanying a client or following a lead.

  He didn’t return my smile, but gave me a tiny nod of acknowledgement. ‘You want your regular order?’ he said.

  I put a coin on the bar. ‘I’m glad you remember.’

  He shook his head and poured me a tall glass of cold milk, then poised a dark-brown pellet over the rim and raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head and took just the milk.

  Then I turned around and leaned back against the counter, taking a sip. Most of the tables were full of regulars who had probably just got off work in the cotton mills or the granaries. Four waitresses took orders, gliding between the tables and chatting amiably with the customers, but never at the cost of efficiency. Two young men cleared empty glasses and plates. Most of the customers sat in groups of three or more, but two guys sat alone—one was resting his forehead on the table and the other was happily sipping at a glass, which looked a lot like mine, with a dazed look in his eyes.

  I walked over to the second guy’s table. ‘Mind if I take a seat?’ I asked.

  He looked me up and down from under bushy brown eyebrows, then gestured at the stool across him cautiously with one bony hand.

  ‘Does it always get this crowded?’ I asked, putting my glass down.

  ‘Every single day,’ he said, raising his to the bartender, who was busy serving other customers. ‘Old Kanaka’s raking it in these days.’

  ‘Sure is,’ I said.

  ‘Best part is, he doesn’t even have to pay his waiters.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  He swept his hand in a lazy wave, indicating the whole room. ‘They’re his wife and kids, don’t you know?’

  Now that he said it, I did see the resemblance. The middle-aged waitress who looked more no-nonsense than the others had to be Kanaka’s wife. She seemed younger than her age, if she had so many adult kids.

  ‘I heard there was some sort of a quarrel here three days back,’ I said, leaning in. ‘Heard it came to blows.’

  The man frowned, looked at his glass and tapped on its rim. ‘Why d’you wanna know?’

  ‘Just curious,’ I said, trying to look nonchalant. ‘Were you here?’

  ‘Might’ve been.’ He drained his glass in a single swig and stared meaningfully at me as he put it down. ‘Depends on who’s asking.’

  I raised my hand to the bartender and caught his attention. ‘Another one of the same for the gentleman here,’ I said, pointing at my glass.

  The man grinned at me, satisfied. ‘You know it involved Bhoopala, right? The wrestler?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Man was making passes at Saudamini,’ he said, gesturing towards one of the waitresses.

  She was Kanaka’s oldest daughter, by the looks of it. Tall and curvy, with long, glossy hair that was up in a large bun studded with golden pins. She wore imitation jewellery over purple and green clothes, like her mother and sisters. The little pouch tucked into her ornate pataka, in
which the waitresses stowed their tips, was more swollen than any of the others’. I noticed that she was more reticent with the customers than the other women, probably owing to the incident in question.

  ‘Even Kanaka didn’t dare come forward to protect his daughter,’ said the man. ‘Everyone knows how strong Bhoopala is and how he tends to fly into a rage.’

  ‘Was he harassing her?’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t responding very well to his advances, and he was getting annoyed. He’d stood up and grabbed her wrist when the man in the corner spoke up.’

  ‘The man in the corner?’

  ‘He’d been coming here every day for a week. If you ask me, I think he might be sweet on Saudamini too, but he’s more subtle about it.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’

  ‘So this guy bangs on his table and asks Bhoopala to stop, which, of course, only makes him angrier. Bhoopala says some rude things about the stranger’s family, and the man gets to his feet.’

  ‘He didn’t know who Bhoopala was?’

  ‘That’s what I thought at first, but then he challenged Bhoopala to take it outside, and of course, we all went to the door to look.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘It was a good fight. Bhoopala’s an impressive wrestler, you know, but this guy! You could see he’d been trained. Not trained to fight in an akhara, mind you! He knew how to handle himself in a real brawl! He cracked Bhoopala’s head on the wall. Hah! You can still see the mark right beside the door.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Wow’s right. Of course, that was after a drawn-out tussle. Bhoopala must have done him some damage too . . . definitely broke some ribs with that famous Bhoo Punch of his.’

  ‘And what happened after?’

  ‘After?’

  ‘Where did the stranger go?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the man said. ‘Saudamini took him home, I think. He looked like he had trouble walking, and the girl volunteered to help.’

  Ah.

  The waitress called Saudamini was at the far end of the room, so I waited for her to come over to a table near us, barely listening to the man as he described the rest of the fight. I caught her attention when she was close enough, and she walked over.