The letter arrived at midday.
The sun hung high over Rohtak, pressing heat into the stone courtyard of the fort. Dust clung to the hooves of the Maratha rider who carried the sealed notice, his horse lathered but disciplined. The guard at the gate did not delay him long. The seal on the parchment bore the insignia of the newly appointed governor of Delhi—Antaji Mankeshwar.
Inside the audience chamber, Kalyan Singh Rathod did not rise when the letter was presented. He looked at the wax, at the careful impression of authority pressed into it, and then nodded once. The court was already assembled—Zafar Khan with his ledgers resting on a low desk, Bhairav Malik standing with arms folded, and near the pillars, silent and observing, Raghuveer.
Kalyan broke the seal.
He did not skim. He read every line, and as he read, the chamber grew still.
Delhi had fallen.
The Maratha forces had taken control. The Mughal Emperor—Alamgir II—would remain in his palace, but only as symbol. Real authority now rested with the Maratha administration. Antaji Mankeshwar had been appointed governor.
The tax, the letter stated carefully, would remain the same as before—no increase beyond what had been paid to the Mughal court. Continuity would be respected. However, cooperation was expected. Revenue would be supervised. Stability would be maintained through shared responsibility.
The language was polite.
It was also decisive.
Kalyan lowered the parchment slowly. Then, without flourish, he read it aloud to the chamber.
No one interrupted him.
When he finished, silence lingered—not stunned silence, but the silence of men who understood that something invisible had shifted.
Zafar's fingers had already begun moving, though he tried to appear composed. His thumb rubbed the edge of the ledger absentmindedly. The same tax rate, he calculated. That meant no immediate panic among landholders. But supervision implied audits. Audits meant scrutiny. Scrutiny meant that every irregular entry, every late payment, every unofficial adjustment might be exposed.
His mind ran ahead of the words.
If the Marathas were efficient, revenue would flow north with greater speed. If they were aggressive, they might demand punctuality where flexibility had once been tolerated. Caravan routes might adjust to avoid dual oversight. Grain requisitions for Maratha garrisons near Delhi could strain Rohtak's stores.
He imagined columns of numbers shifting.
Immediate cash flow.
Grain inventory versus requisition risk.
Trade route delays.
Ink smudged against his fingers as he turned a page unnecessarily, just to steady himself. In the margin of one ledger, a red line marked a seasonal delay in tribute from a village recovering from flood. Under Maratha eyes, would such a delay be permitted?
Bhairav broke the silence.
"Who do we obey now?"
His voice was not rebellious. It was direct. The kind of question a soldier asks when flags change.
Kalyan did not answer at once. He placed the parchment on the low table beside him and looked at the three men before him.
"We keep our people fed first," he said calmly.
Bhairav's jaw tightened slightly. "And if Delhi demands?"
"We will give what we have given before," Kalyan replied. "No more. No less."
Raghuveer watched Kalyan's face closely. There was no fear in it. Only calculation.
Power, Raghuveer thought, is shifting from throne to supply.
The Emperor remained in Delhi, the letter had said. Symbol intact. But symbols no longer commanded caravans or grain. Whoever counted the grain commanded the future.
Zafar cleared his throat quietly. "If the tax rate remains unchanged, compliance will not alarm the chiefs immediately. But supervision may."
Kalyan nodded. "Then we make supervision unthreatening."
Zafar's eyes flickered. "Maratha overseers at granaries?"
"Likely," Kalyan said. "Or inspectors at customs gates."
Bhairav shifted his weight. "We should increase patrols on caravan roads. If Maratha collectors move south, bandits will assume confusion."
Raghuveer spoke softly. "Or we observe first."
All three men turned toward him.
"If we increase visible patrols now," Raghuveer continued, "it signals fear. If we do nothing, we risk theft. Better to watch quietly. Count the carts. Listen to the markets."
Zafar tapped a coin plate resting near his ledger and listened to its ring. The note was clean. But he imagined one that was not.
Kalyan rose.
He walked to the open window overlooking the courtyard. The August air was heavy, humidity clinging beneath gathering clouds. Somewhere distant thunder muttered, or perhaps it was simply the shifting of carts in the market beyond the walls.
"The tax remains the same," he said at last. "That is Antaji's wisdom. He understands continuity. He asks cooperation, not submission."
Bhairav frowned faintly. "And if cooperation turns into demand?"
"Then we adjust," Kalyan replied.
He turned back to them.
"We obey survival."
The words settled into the chamber like a stone placed carefully on a map.
Zafar straightened his ledgers.
"I will audit the granaries quietly," he said. "No public announcement."
"And the cash reserves?" Kalyan asked.
"I will reconcile entries tonight."
Bhairav nodded once. "I will place men on outer roads. Not in armor. Just eyes."
Raghuveer remained silent, but his mind moved elsewhere.
He saw a child in the temple courtyard counting pebbles to learn numbers. He saw that same child one day counting coin and grain. Thrones fell with armies. Systems endured with arithmetic.
A court circular arrived later in the afternoon, bearing the formal language of the Mughal court—still stamped with the Emperor's name. It acknowledged the change in governance but reaffirmed traditional tax obligations.
Symbol.
Paper.
Ink.
The throne existed in ink now.
Zafar studied the circular carefully. "They keep the Emperor's seal," he murmured.
"For now," Kalyan said.
Outside the fort walls, the market reacted in smaller ways. A merchant leaned across his stall and whispered to another, "Same tax, they say." A woman buying grain frowned at the mention of Maratha supervision. A cart driver spat and said, "As long as coin remains coin."
Inside the council chamber, practical matters resumed.
"Prepare to receive a Maratha revenue messenger," Kalyan ordered. "Protocol as usual. Courtesy. Records ready."
Zafar nodded. "And the villages?"
"Send word to remain calm," Kalyan replied. "No change in assessment."
Bhairav glanced toward the doorway. "Some chiefs may test the situation."
"Let them," Kalyan said quietly. "Testing reveals intent."
Raghuveer stepped closer to the table.
"The shift is not in banners," he said. "It is in who ensures supply. If Delhi holds grain and silver efficiently, allegiance will follow."
Zafar exhaled softly. "If."
"Yes," Raghuveer said. "If."
Kalyan studied him.
"You believe this is temporary?"
"I believe nothing is permanent," Raghuveer answered. "But systems outlast flags."
Thunder rolled faintly beyond the horizon. Or perhaps it was simply the echo of carts crossing stone bridges.
The letter from Antaji lay between them like a drawn line across a map.
Delhi had fallen.
But Rohtak had not.
Not to sword.
Not yet to system.
Evening approached slowly. Humid air thickened. The fort's lamps were lit one by one. Zafar remained in the records room long after the others dispersed, red-ink margins and black-ink totals balancing beneath his steady hand. He tapped coin again, listening for false ring. He imagined Maratha overseers peering over his shoulder.
He did not resent it.
He feared inefficiency more than oversight.
Bhairav walked the outer walls personally at dusk. No banners changed atop Rohtak. Guards remained in place. He preferred watching shadows rather than speeches.
In his chamber, Kalyan read Antaji's letter again.
Same tax.
Cooperation.
Stability.
It was cleverly written. No threat. No humiliation.
He respected that.
But respect did not mean surrender.
He folded the parchment carefully and sealed it within a wooden case.
Outside, the market quieted. Somewhere a child laughed. Somewhere a trader argued softly about caravan routes. Somewhere, perhaps, a clerk considered adjusting a figure before the new overseers arrived.
Raghuveer stood alone beneath the courtyard arch, watching the clouds gather.
Power is shifting from throne to supply.
He felt it the way one feels wind before storm—not visible, but directional.
The first Maratha revenue messenger was expected at dawn.
And outside the walls, the market waited to see whose sword kept them fed.