"In the court of power, even truth must wear silk."
The palace of Pataliputra did not whisper—it hummed. Music, footsteps, the rustle of silk, the low throb of drums from somewhere deep within the marble belly of the king's court. Vishnugupta followed a servant through corridors polished like mirrors, where frescoes of the Nanda conquests stretched from ceiling to floor.
Every painted victory looked the same: a ruler raising his arm while others bent theirs.
The servant stopped before a pair of golden doors embossed with peacocks. "His Majesty will see you now."
The doors opened without a sound.
The throne room was vast—an ocean of red sandstone pillars and polished floors. Light from high windows poured down in long, molten bands. The air carried a scent of sandalwood and honey wine.
And at the center, lounging on a raised dais beneath a canopy of gold-threaded silk, sat King Dhanananda.
He was younger than Vishnugupta expected—mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, his eyes sharp and playful. He wore no crown, only a simple diadem of gold leaves. The kind of man who didn't need to announce power; it hung around him like heat.
Around him, ministers and courtiers formed a glittering semicircle. Some whispered, some smirked. The envoy who'd brought Vishnugupta stood near the dais, his head bowed.
The king's gaze moved lazily across the hall until it landed on the young scholar. He smiled. "So. The boy who debates kings before he meets them."
Vishnugupta bowed. "Your Majesty overestimates the reach of my tongue."
"Nonsense. A rumor that survives the road from Takshashila must have more legs than a horse."
Soft laughter rippled through the court.
Dhanananda gestured to a seat below him. "Come closer. I prefer to see a man's eyes when he speaks. They tell me what his words try to hide."
Vishnugupta stepped forward, meeting the king's gaze. "Then I hope my words will spare Your Majesty the strain of guessing."
The courtiers exchanged glances—half amusement, half alarm. The king only chuckled. "Sharp indeed. Tell me, scholar, do they teach humility in Takshashila?"
"They try," Vishnugupta said evenly. "But truth is a poor student."
The laughter this time was louder. Dhanananda's grin widened. "You remind me of my ministers—they too think wit is wisdom. Tell me, what do you think of kingship?"
"Kingship," Vishnugupta said, "is the art of convincing others that obedience is pleasure."
Even the musicians paused.
The king tilted his head. "A dangerous art, then."
"For those who perform it poorly," Vishnugupta said.
Dhanananda leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes alight. "And how would you perform it?"
"With rules," said Vishnugupta, "and with fear. In that order."
The king burst out laughing. The tension broke, and conversation returned in low murmurs. He motioned for wine. "I like you, Brahmin. You speak like a sword drawn in a temple. Blasphemous—and yet somehow reverent."
"I speak as I see," Vishnugupta said.
"And what do you see here?"
Vishnugupta hesitated, then chose his words carefully. "A king surrounded by men who clap too quickly."
The laughter stopped again.
For a moment, only the rustle of banners could be heard. The ministers stiffened, glancing nervously at their ruler.
Dhanananda regarded Vishnugupta with interest, not anger. "And yet here you stand among them."
"For now," Vishnugupta said.
The king smiled slowly. "You mistake my patience for kindness, boy. It is curiosity. Tell me—why did you accept my summons?"
Vishnugupta bowed slightly. "Because refusing a king's curiosity is rarely wise."
"True," said Dhanananda. "But you could have lied. Most men do."
"Lies are easier to repeat than undo," Vishnugupta said.
Dhanananda's smile faded just a little. "You speak as if you expect to be tested."
"I expect nothing," Vishnugupta said. "Expectation clouds judgment."
"Then let us judge."
The king gestured to a scribe, who brought forth a tray with three small sealed scrolls. "Inside these are questions—one from philosophy, one from governance, one from life. Choose one."
Vishnugupta reached without hesitation, breaking the middle seal.
The king nodded for him to read it aloud.
Vishnugupta's voice carried through the hall: "What is the difference between justice and vengeance?"
He lowered the scroll. "Justice corrects what was wrong," he said. "Vengeance repeats it in another form."
The king's brow arched. "Then how does one tell the difference?"
"By who benefits," Vishnugupta said. "Justice restores balance; vengeance restores pride."
Dhanananda studied him for a long moment, then looked down at his ministers. "And which do we practice, I wonder?"
No one answered.
The king smiled thinly. "Good. At least my court has learned the first rule of wisdom: silence."
He turned back to Vishnugupta. "You speak as though you've seen injustice."
"I've seen men punished for being poor, and praised for being rich. I assume that counts."
The king laughed again. "So you judge me?"
"I observe, Majesty."
"Observation is judgment with manners," Dhanananda said. "And you have both."
He stood, the silk of his robe whispering. "You interest me, Brahmin. Takshashila teaches knowledge, but you—" He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "You smell of strategy."
Vishnugupta inclined his head. "Knowledge without strategy is vanity."
The king turned to his ministers. "See? The boy preaches like a prophet, but with the calm of a gambler. I could use both."
He looked back at Vishnugupta. "Stay in my court for a time. You'll advise my scribes on law and policy. If you bore me, you may return to your scrolls. If you impress me…" His smile returned, slow and deliberate. "…perhaps I'll find you a better throne to sit on."
"I serve only wisdom," Vishnugupta said.
The king's eyes gleamed. "Then serve it here. My court has very little of it left."
---
When the audience ended, the courtiers dispersed in a flurry of silk and murmurs. Some eyed Vishnugupta with curiosity, others with contempt. The envoy approached, his expression half-apologetic.
"You have a gift," he said quietly. "But gifts draw envy faster than gratitude."
Vishnugupta glanced back at the empty throne. "Then I will study envy as carefully as I study power."
Outside, the palace gardens glittered under torchlight, fountains whispering in the dusk. Servants led him to a guest chamber overlooking the river.
He set down his bundle and stood by the window. Across the courtyard, laughter rose from the banquet hall—the laughter of men who believed the world existed for their amusement.
Vishnugupta touched the amulet Somadeva had given him. Its carved verse caught the lamplight: Knowledge is the eye that sees in darkness.
He whispered to himself, "Then let the darkness come."
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