"Power speaks loudly. Wisdom learns to whisper louder."
The palace of Pataliputra was a city within a city — its own kingdom of rumors. Servants carried more secrets than gold, priests spoke more politics than prayers, and every corridor was a river of half-truths flowing toward the throne.
Vishnugupta had begun to listen.
He no longer spoke freely in the scholars' hall. Instead, he asked questions that sounded harmless:
"How many scribes work in the treasury these days?"
"Does the king dine with his brother often?"
"Who writes the royal decrees?"
Each time, he watched how people answered, not what they said.
Some smiled too quickly. Others looked away. A few whispered later, thinking he wouldn't notice. He noticed everything.
At night, he mapped the palace on scrolls — rooms, corridors, courtyards — and next to each name, he drew lines of connection: who served whom, who flattered whom, who feared whom.
The web grew denser each day.
---
On the fifth night, Karkotaka appeared again, slipping in through the balcony like smoke.
"You've been busy," he said, glancing at the scrolls spread across the table. "I see a spider has taken up philosophy."
"Observation is preparation," Vishnugupta replied.
Karkotaka leaned on the table, scanning the map. "You've got half the court here. Not bad for a newcomer. But you're missing one name."
He pointed at a blank space beside the treasury.
"The Chief Steward?" Vishnugupta guessed.
Karkotaka shook his head. "The queen's chamberlain — a man called Sudhakar. Soft voice, softer hands, but he carries messages between the king and his brother. When he moves, someone loses a fortune."
Vishnugupta wrote the name carefully. "And what does he want?"
"The same thing everyone wants," Karkotaka said. "To be the last man standing when the music stops."
He turned serious. "But be careful. The more you listen, the more others start listening to you."
"I know," Vishnugupta said quietly. "Yesterday a minister's aide asked me how I find life at court. He smiled too long for it to be a friendly question."
Karkotaka smirked. "They're testing you. The king likes you, which makes them nervous. You're either a tool or a threat, and they haven't decided which."
"Then I'll let them wonder," Vishnugupta said.
---
The next day, the palace hummed with tension. The king's brother, Govishanaka, had returned from an inspection of the eastern provinces — and rumor said his caravan carried more treasure than tribute.
Vishnugupta watched from the marble gallery as the procession entered: gold, silks, ivory — wealth enough to feed villages for a year. The king greeted his brother warmly, but the smile didn't touch his eyes.
"Tell me," Dhanananda said, "how fares the east?"
"Prosperous," Govishanaka replied. "The farmers are generous, the collectors efficient."
"Efficient," the king repeated, voice flat. "Yes, I can see that."
Their laughter was polite, practiced.
But in that exchange — the way Govishanaka's hand rested on the chest of tribute, the way Dhanananda's fingers tapped the throne arm — Vishnugupta saw it clearly: each envied the other's control.
He noted it quietly.
That evening, as the court dispersed, a young maid brushed past him, slipping a folded scrap into his palm.
He opened it later under the lamplight.
If you value your tongue, use it less. Someone listens behind your walls.
There was no signature, only a faint scent of saffron.
---
That night, he left his chamber door open, feigning sleep.
Hours passed. Then — a faint creak. A flicker of movement in the corridor.
Vishnugupta stayed still, breathing slow. A shadow slipped inside, crossed to the desk, and rifled through his scrolls. The figure's hand paused on the map — then froze.
"I wouldn't move that," Vishnugupta said quietly.
The intruder spun.
A young man, scarcely twenty, dressed like a scribe. Fear flashed across his face, then discipline — the kind of composure taught by someone higher.
"You're quick," Vishnugupta said, rising slowly.
"I was only cleaning—"
"Of course. At midnight. With gloves."
The man's silence confirmed more than words.
Vishnugupta stepped closer, stopping within arm's reach. "Who sent you?"
The scribe swallowed. "No one. I—"
A soft hiss from the balcony interrupted him.
Karkotaka stood there, arms crossed. "Careful, young man. Lying to philosophers tends to shorten your career."
The scribe's composure broke. "The minister—Harivarman—he said the Brahmin was… collecting names. He wanted proof."
Vishnugupta nodded slowly. "Then give him this message: curiosity is dangerous when untrained."
Karkotaka smirked. "You handled that neatly."
"Fear is the fastest teacher," Vishnugupta said.
The scribe hesitated at the door. "He'll ask what I found."
"Tell him you found nothing," Vishnugupta said. "Because that's true."
When the door closed, Karkotaka chuckled softly. "So the serpent grows another head."
"Only one?" Vishnugupta replied.
---
Over the next weeks, the "whisper network" became his classroom. He listened in courtyards, during meals, outside council meetings.
He never asked direct questions anymore — instead, he spoke of ideas: taxation, reform, justice — and let others fill the silence with their fears.
Karkotaka fed him fragments: a bribe here, a dismissed servant there, a secret ledger in the temple vaults. Piece by piece, the picture sharpened.
And then, one evening, as rain drummed softly against the palace roof, Karkotaka entered with no smile.
"You've been noticed," he said.
"I was noticed when the king first spoke my name," Vishnugupta replied.
"No," said Karkotaka, "not by him. By someone else."
He placed a small clay token on the table — the royal seal of Minister Harivarman, broken in half.
"He's begun gathering scribes and guards. Quietly. Asking who might… prefer a new royal adviser."
Vishnugupta studied the token. "He moves too soon. The king still trusts me."
"For now," Karkotaka said. "But trust is like oil on water — it spreads thin fast."
Vishnugupta's gaze drifted to the map on his table, the web of ink and names that now filled it edge to edge.
He realized something then — the first truth of his future life: knowledge was not power. Control was.
And control required patience.
He turned to Karkotaka. "Then we will make the minister believe he already controls me."
Karkotaka grinned. "Ah. The serpent learns to smile before it strikes."
Vishnugupta extinguished the lamp. "Let him come closer," he said in the dark. "It's easier to strike what doesn't see you."
---