"Truth walks barefoot where lies ride in chariots."
The palace of Pataliputra was less a home than a hive. Every passage hummed with whispers; every shadow held a listener. Servants moved like smoke, ministers glided through the halls in pairs, always watching who lingered near whose door.
Vishnugupta had been there five days. He was given a scholar's chamber near the royal archives, a chamber with one lamp, one cot, and—he was sure—two ears behind the walls.
By day, he lectured to royal scribes about systems of law and taxation. By night, he wrote in silence, charting what he learned in careful shorthand: Who speaks to whom. What is never said aloud.
That morning, a message arrived sealed with red wax: His Majesty requests your presence at the noon assembly.
He bathed, dressed in clean linen, and followed the summons.
The court was already in session when he entered—the air thick with incense and flattery. Ministers recited figures of harvests, generals reported victories that sounded suspiciously rehearsed.
King Dhanananda reclined on his throne, listening half-heartedly. He noticed Vishnugupta's arrival with a faint smile. "Ah, our philosopher. Tell me, how does law feed a kingdom?"
Vishnugupta bowed. "By ensuring that those who work may eat."
"And those who don't?"
"Should eat only after asking why they don't," Vishnugupta said.
The courtiers chuckled nervously. The king's eyes glinted, amused. "Sharp as ever. Tell me, young Brahmin—do you find my court fair?"
"Fairness, Majesty, is a word that means different things depending on who is speaking."
The king laughed aloud. "I must keep you around. You make honesty sound almost pleasant."
But when Vishnugupta left the chamber, he caught the sidelong glance of Minister Harivarman—a thin man with a jeweled headdress and eyes like cold oil. The kind of man who smiled without moving his lips.
That night, as Vishnugupta returned to his quarters, he found a lamp already burning inside.
Someone was waiting.
A man stood by the window, half his face in light, the other in shadow. He wore a servant's tunic but no badge of office.
"You keep your door unlocked," the man said.
"I assumed the palace kept it unlocked for me," Vishnugupta replied calmly. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "A friend of no one. Which means I survive."
"Not an answer."
"Then call me Karkotaka," he said softly. "After the serpent who bit a king but left him wiser."
Vishnugupta's brow rose. "A strange name for a servant."
"Names are strange things here," Karkotaka said. "The king is called generous. The tax collectors are called loyal. And you—some call you dangerous."
"Do you agree?"
Karkotaka's smile deepened. "I agree that anyone who speaks truth in this court should learn to whisper it."
He moved closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "You impressed the king. That's both a blessing and a sentence. He keeps those who amuse him close—and removes those who stop amusing."
"I did not come to amuse."
"Then you'll need allies."
"Are you offering?"
"I'm offering information. Loyalty is too expensive here."
Vishnugupta studied him. "And what do you want in return?"
Karkotaka shrugged. "Survival. When the next storm comes—and it will—you'll need eyes that see where soldiers don't look."
Silence stretched between them. The only sound was the hiss of the lamp.
"Why me?" Vishnugupta asked.
Karkotaka's tone turned thoughtful. "Because you're the first man I've met who speaks to the king as though he's merely another student. Either you're very brave, or very foolish. I haven't decided which yet."
He turned to leave. "You'll find the first lesson of this palace under your pillow."
Then he slipped into the corridor like a shadow that had learned to walk.
Vishnugupta frowned, lifted the edge of his pillow, and found a folded scrap of parchment.
It read:
The king's brother watches the treasury. The treasurer watches the king. Neither trusts the other. The next tax decree will change hands tomorrow night.
---
The next evening, Vishnugupta followed the corridors that led to the treasury hall. He walked as though in thought, pausing at murals, asking guards idle questions.
From a corner balcony, he saw it—the exchange Karkotaka's note had predicted. A sealed chest, small but heavy, carried not by officials but by two temple priests.
Strange, Vishnugupta thought. Taxes didn't travel in priestly hands.
He memorized the faces, the route, the time.
Later that night, Karkotaka appeared again, as silently as before.
"You saw it," he said.
"I saw priests carrying gold."
"Not gold," Karkotaka corrected. "Records. The king's own accounts. When numbers disappear, so do men."
"Why tell me?" Vishnugupta asked.
Karkotaka leaned closer. "Because I think you came here for more than flattery. You want to understand power. Well—power isn't in the throne, Brahmin. It's in the ink that names who owns the throne."
Vishnugupta nodded slowly. "Then the man who controls those records controls Magadha."
Karkotaka's grin was like a cut. "Now you're learning."
He stepped back into the shadows. "The serpent that bites from the grass can kill a man. But the one that bites from the throne—he kills kingdoms."
When he was gone, Vishnugupta sat in silence. The lamplight flickered over the scrolls on his desk, the edges of the parchment glowing like embers.
For the first time, he understood the shape of the game he'd entered—not a contest of intellect, but of control.
The serpent was real. And it lived not in the forests or the fields—but right here, coiled around the heart of the palace, warm and smiling.
---