The court of Rohtak had never been so quiet.
Not the disciplined quiet of order, nor the reverent quiet of ritual—but the uneasy stillness that follows bad news spreading faster than law. Men stood where they usually sat. Clerks held ledgers closed instead of open. Even the guards at the pillars shifted their weight, hands brushing spear shafts too often.
A treasury clerk stood in the center of the court.
He was sweating.
"Speak," Kalyan Singh Rathod said.
The word was not loud. It did not need to be. The clerk swallowed and bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the stone.
"Faujdar sahib," he began, voice shaking despite effort, "we… we have completed a preliminary count."
Zafar Khan's pen had already paused. Raghuveer sat a little behind, eyes lowered, listening—not to the words, but to the room.
"How many?" Kalyan asked.
The clerk hesitated. That hesitation was the loudest sound in the hall.
"A third," he said finally. "A third of the gold coins in the treasury vaults are counterfeit—and growing. Same weight. Similar shine. But false. The mark in the ear—"
"I know the mark," Kalyan snapped.
Silence fell again.
Outside the court walls, the sound of the city filtered in—muted, wrong. No bargaining calls. No metal clink. Just voices, low and cautious, as if even speech might be counterfeit.
"Bring me the reports," Kalyan said.
A second clerk stepped forward, hands trembling as he laid out parchments. Zafar finally spoke, voice level but tight.
"The markets are freezing," he said. "Merchants are refusing gold unless weighed and tested. Some refuse it entirely. Soldiers—" He glanced at Bhairav.
"They refuse pay," Bhairav said flatly. "Not openly. Quietly. They ask for delay. They say they'll take grain instead."
That earned a reaction.
A murmur rippled through the court—fear, not outrage. Grain was survival. Gold was authority.
"If soldiers don't trust pay," Bhairav continued, "they don't trust command."
Kalyan's jaw tightened. His anger showed—not as shouting, but as stillness growing heavier. Losing control of Rohtak—of the dream that would one day make it rival Delhi—felt like a blade twisting in his gut.
"How long?" he asked.
"One or two months," the treasury clerk said. "The fakes came in through tax collections—slowly, steadily. Every second coin tested now is false."
"One or two months," Kalyan repeated softly. "And a third of my treasury is poison."
Raghuveer lifted his eyes then.
"May I speak?" he asked.
The court turned. Not sharply. Curiously. This was not his domain—yet.
Kalyan looked at him for a long breath. Then nodded once.
"Gold is trust made metal," Raghuveer said. His voice carried without force. "Once doubt enters it, the doubt spreads faster than the coin."
A minister—the one whose family wealth was tied to metal trade—scoffed. "This is a crime, not philosophy."
"Seventy percent crime," Raghuveer replied calmly. "Thirty percent system failure." He spoke without anger or sadness, only the measured thought that came before action.
That drew eyes.
"The crime makes the coins," Raghuveer continued. "The system lets them move through taxes. Both must be addressed."
The metal-trade minister stepped forward, robes stiff with pride. "And how much will your wisdom cost the state? Shall we melt the treasury? Shut the markets? Announce our weakness to every foreign trader?"
Raghuveer did not answer immediately. He looked instead at the treasury clerk.
"Who tested the coins?" he asked.
"Three men," the clerk replied. "Separately. Using different measures."
"And they agree?"
"Yes."
Raghuveer nodded. Then he looked at Kalyan.
"This cannot be solved loudly," he said. "And it cannot be solved by force alone."
Bhairav's jaw tightened. Privately he wanted to arrest every suspicious merchant at once, but he truly believed subtlety was the only way—the only way that would not scare the real culprit deeper into hiding.
"Too much noise," Raghuveer continued, "and the real culprit vanishes. Too much force, and you punish symptoms while the disease spreads."
The minister laughed bitterly. "So we do nothing?"
Kalyan raised a hand, silencing the room. "No," he said sharply. "We observe. And we act with precision, not panic. Your family's metal trade will survive better if we keep our heads."
Bhairav inclined his head slightly. "Quiet observation," he said. "My men are in plain clothes. No testing. No seizures. Watching behavior."
"Behavior?" the minister scoffed again.
"A man with real gold does not fear change," Bhairav said coldly. "A man with false gold buys sweets with a crown."
That line landed.
Bhairav continued, voice low. "They try to break large coins into small ones. They overpay for trifles. They rush transactions. Fear leaks."
"And when you find them?" Kalyan asked.
"I do not touch them yet," Bhairav said. "I mark them."
Kalyan nodded slowly. That was the answer he wanted.
Outside the court, unrest grew louder. Not shouting—worse. Hesitation. Silence where trade should be.
Zafar leaned closer to Raghuveer. "Foreign merchants are leaving," he murmured. "Caravans turning back. They say Rohtak's gold smells wrong."
Kalyan closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, he stood.
"I will see the markets myself," he said. "After we seal the treasury."
The treasury doors were sealed that afternoon—extra guards posted, new iron bands hammered across the wood, wax seals bearing Kalyan's mark pressed while still hot.
Dressed plainly, flanked by one courtier, Kalyan walked through stalls where gold lay untouched. Traders held coins up to the light, frowned, handed them back. No hammer rang on anvil from blacksmiths. No jingle of coins in purses. Vendors whispered instead of calling.
Foreign merchants were visibly packing up—camels loaded, tents struck, drivers cursing the delay.
At a sweet stall, Kalyan watched a minor courtier hesitate—then pull out a gold coin for a handful of sweets.
The seller froze.
He weighed it. Bit it. Shook his head.
"No gold today," he said. "Only grain or copper."
The courtier flushed, angry and afraid at once.
Kalyan watched. Learned. Remembered.
They returned quietly.
Back at the palace, Kalyan reached for lemonade.
His wife did not hand it to him.
She stood with arms folded, eyes cold. "You embarrassed me," she said. "The trader refused my gold for painting materials. He laughed—said Rohtak's coins are no better than paper. I like to make paintings, Kalyan. Now even that is mocked."
Kalyan said nothing.
That silence was heavier than any reprimand.
By evening, Raghuveer stood beside Kalyan in the private chamber.
"This will get worse tomorrow," Raghuveer said. "Gold will stop moving."
"Yes," Kalyan replied. "What do you propose?"
Raghuveer paused. Thought. Then spoke.
"Phase One," he said. "Announce that counterfeit coins may be exchanged at the treasury for genuine ones. No punishment. No questions."
Zafar inhaled sharply. "That will drain 10–15% of reserves short-term—"
"It will reveal flow," Raghuveer said. "Where they come from. Who holds them."
"And if the culprit hides?" the minister demanded.
Raghuveer met his gaze. "Then Phase One fails. Phase Two requires trust we may no longer have."
Kalyan's eyes sharpened.
Outside, the market fell silent as dusk settled.
No clink of gold. Only the wind carrying silence.
Kalyan stared at the sealed treasury ledger.
If someone could poison a third of the treasury in one or two months through taxes, what else had they already touched?
Who benefited most from Rohtak making weak—Abdali, the Marathas, or a rival faujdar?