The luxury cart rolled back into Surat's golden dusk, rubber tires whispering over the paved road. Jai and Vikram stepped down at the Vora Grand Hotel, its marble façade glowing like a lantern. Though Jai had gifted Vikram a lavish flat on the fifth floor of Vora Heights, the nobleman preferred the hotel's private suites when traveling with his merchant caravan—closer to the pulse of gossip and coin.
A liveried doorman bowed. "Your usual room, Singh-sahib. And Master Jai—welcome home."
They climbed the sweeping staircase to the top-floor private dining room, a teak-paneled chamber with silk drapes and a long ebony table set for two. Waiters in crisp Durable Thread kurtas served chilled mango lassi, butter chicken that steamed like incense, and saffron rice flecked with cashews. The door clicked shut. Silence fell, broken only by the clink of silver.
Vikram raised his glass. "To sixteen years, and to the boy who turned dust into dominion."
Jai smiled, Charm=80 softening the steel in his eyes. "And to the friend who opened every court door from here to Delhi."
They drank. Then Vikram leaned forward, voice low.
"Four new factories, Jai. Agra, Ahmedabad, Lucknow, Jaipur. Each on twenty thousand square feet—smaller than Surat, but mirrors of the same design. Residential rings, bazaars, packaging halls. The Ahmedabad one is finished. I had the final bricks laid last week. All that's missing is your seal."
Jai's fork paused mid-air. "Timeline?"
"Agra breaks ground in monsoon. Lucknow and Jaipur by winter. Every city already has the full Vora chain—Grand Hotel, restaurant, medicine, clothing, glassware, blacksmith. The factories will pack spices, elixirs, Durable Thread, and glassware under one roof. One seal, one standard, one brand."
Jai nodded, Wisdom=205 spinning threads. "Efficiency. A cart leaves Surat with raw saffron; arrives in Agra as sealed pouches ready for the Delhi bazaar. No middleman, no spoilage, no EIC fingers in the pot."
Vikram's eyes glinted. "And your bicycles—genius. Nobles in Agra are paying 10 rupees apiece for servants to pedal to the yamuna ghats in half the time. Children race them in palace courtyards. The British saw the design, copied the wooden frame, the rubber tires, even the coil springs. Now they're stamping 'East India Velocipede' on crude knock-offs and shipping them home."
Jai's smile turned razor-sharp. "Let them copy. Every imitation screams our name. But tension is rising. Their factors in Masulipatnam are undercutting our wholesale prices by ten percent—dumping adulterated pepper to starve our margins."
Vikram refilled their glasses. "We counter with speed and loyalty. Your factory villages breed workers who'd die before selling to the British. We flood the north with Vora-branded goods faster than their ships can sail. And when we open the Ahmedabad factory…"
He slid a brass key across the table, heavy and warm. "A gift. I built a mansion beside my own in Ahmedabad—three courtyards, marble jalis, a private stable for twenty horses. It's yours. Come tomorrow. Inspect the factory, cut the ribbon, sleep under your own roof."
Jai turned the key in his fingers. "Tomorrow, then. We ride at dawn. And tonight—" he raised his glass again—"dinner at the penthouse. My mother's mutton biryani. You haven't lived until you've tasted it."
Vikram laughed. "I'll bring the wine from my cellars. And Jai… when those four factories roar to life, the East India Company won't just feel the heat. They'll choke on the smoke."
Outside, the Tapti glimmered under the first stars. Inside, two young titans planned an empire that would outlast them both.