The summons went out at dawn.
By midday, the audience hall of the fort in Rohtak was filled with the weight of land, pride, and calculation. Chiefs from surrounding parganas arrived in measured procession—some with modest retinues, others with armed escorts who waited outside the gate under watchful eyes.
At the far end of the hall sat Kalyan Singh Rathod, composed as ever. To his right, ledgers rested before Zafar Khan. To his left stood Bhairav Malik, arms folded, gaze steady. Slightly behind, observing without claiming space, was Raghuveer.
The matter was simple in writing.
The Marathas now held Delhi. Tribute—chauth—was to be acknowledged as continuity of revenue under new authority. The rate, for now, remained consistent with prior Mughal assessment. Cooperation was expected.
In reality, nothing was simple.
Kalyan rose.
"Delhi has changed," he began, voice calm but firm. "We adapt. The rate remains what you have long paid. No increase has been declared."
A murmur moved through the hall. That detail mattered.
"But," he continued, "the authority collecting it has shifted. Cooperation ensures stability. Resistance invites scrutiny."
One of the chiefs—a broad-shouldered Afghan-aligned zamindar from the northern edge of the district—watched without blinking. His beard was streaked with grey, but his eyes were sharp.
"The Marathas promise continuity," he said evenly. "Do they promise permanence?"
Kalyan met his gaze. "No power promises permanence."
A few men shifted.
Another chief, younger and more cautious, nodded. "If the tax remains unchanged, we comply."
Reluctant agreement. Practical survival.
But resistance did not speak loudly.
It whispered.
In the markets of Rohtak, men had begun speaking of the north. Of returning riders. Of Afghan banners that had not vanished, only withdrawn. Letters sealed discreetly had moved between estates at night—letters bearing faint references to networks closer to the Afghan sphere of influence.
No one mentioned Ahmad Shah Durrani openly in court.
But in private courtyards, the name lingered.
Zafar leaned slightly toward Kalyan. "Collection cost will rise if we press too hard."
"I know," Kalyan replied quietly.
The Afghan-aligned chief spoke again. "And if the Marathas demand more next season?"
"They have not," Kalyan answered.
"Yet."
Silence thickened.
"We are not here to predict next season," Kalyan said calmly. "We are here to ensure this one does not burn."
That phrasing landed.
One by one, several chiefs signaled reluctant assent. Tribute would be acknowledged. Payments scheduled.
Not loyalty.
Practical compliance.
But two men—both from a neighboring district beyond direct Rohtak control—remained silent.
They watched.
They did not commit.
Outside the fort, grain prices had already begun to tremble.
A small argument erupted near a stall where sacks were being weighed. A woman protested that the measure was lighter than last week. The merchant insisted transport costs had risen. A half-seer less for the same coin.
Raghuveer noticed.
So did Haridas.
Haridas stood slightly apart from the market bustle, dressed as a modest trader. Loyal, sharp-eyed, with the instinct of someone who understood both fear and opportunity.
He had been placed here for a reason.
The new grain storehouse—quietly established under coordination between Raghuveer, Zafar, and Bhairav—was nearly ready. Officially, it was a stabilizing reserve. Unofficially, it was preparation.
"Buy openly," Raghuveer had instructed. "But not greedily."
Haridas nodded.
"Let them see coin. Let them see movement. Use intermediaries for larger lots. But ensure rumor says we are preparing for scarcity."
"Won't that raise price further?" Haridas had asked.
"Yes," Raghuveer replied. "But it also prevents hoarding by others."
Controlled tension.
Now Haridas stepped forward calmly.
"I'll take ten sacks," he told the merchant. "Fair weight."
The merchant hesitated. Then agreed.
Visibility mattered.
In the fort, Zafar had begun adjusting ledgers preemptively. If grain prices rose too sharply, tax collection in coin would strain villages. Better to anticipate adjustment now than crisis later.
"Silver movement?" Kalyan asked him privately after the assembly paused.
"Stable," Zafar said. "But caravans from the north report delays."
"Bandits?"
"Or uncertainty."
Kalyan exhaled slowly.
Later that afternoon, Raghuveer requested a private audience.
Only Kalyan and Zafar remained in the chamber when he spoke.
"Revenue is not only collection," Raghuveer began quietly. "It is production."
Zafar raised an eyebrow. "We are aware."
"But not yet proactive," Raghuveer said.
He stepped toward the window overlooking the fields beyond the town walls.
"If we circulate improved water methods now, yields increase next harvest. Stepwells maintained properly. Shared village reservoirs. Redirect seasonal stream channels. Rain trenches cut before monsoon peaks."
Kalyan listened without interrupting.
"Persian wheels near deeper wells," Raghuveer continued. "Not everywhere. Select villages first. Demonstrate success."
Zafar's fingers tapped lightly against the ledger.
"You are proposing investment."
"I am proposing surplus," Raghuveer replied. "If grain increases, tax increases without raising rates."
Silence.
"Pilot village," Kalyan said finally.
Raghuveer nodded.
Zafar leaned back. "And supervision?"
"Frame it as community stability," Raghuveer answered. "Let chiefs claim credit locally. They comply more easily when pride is preserved."
Kalyan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"You see further than fields," he said.
Raghuveer did not answer.
Because further north, letters were moving.
In a dimly lit estate house two districts away, a sealed letter was opened carefully.
The handwriting was deliberate.
It spoke of instability. Of Maratha overreach. Of northern strength waiting for opportunity. It encouraged delay in tribute. Suggested patience.
It was signed with a name not yet public.
A rival faujdar.
Closer to Afghan networks than to Delhi.
He did not yet act openly.
He preferred erosion to confrontation.
Back in Rohtak, evening approached.
The chiefs who had agreed to chauth prepared to return to their lands. Some would comply immediately. Others would delay under pretext of harvest accounting.
But the two who had remained silent requested a final word before departing.
They stood in the center of the hall.
"We will not commit tribute today," one declared.
Murmurs rose instantly.
Bhairav's posture shifted almost imperceptibly.
"We answer to our district authority," the second chief added coldly. "Not to Rohtak's interpretation of Delhi."
Open refusal.
Public.
Calculated.
Kalyan did not rise in anger.
He did not threaten.
He regarded them with the same measured stillness he used for unstable ground.
"You are within your rights to consult your authority," he said evenly. "But understand this: uncertainty invites inspection. Inspection invites consequence."
The hall fell into tense silence.
One of the refusing chiefs held his gaze, then turned without bowing deeply.
They left.
The air in the chamber felt heavier after their departure.
"Test," Bhairav muttered.
"Yes," Kalyan agreed.
Zafar closed a ledger slowly. "Collection cost will rise."
Raghuveer watched the doorway where the chiefs had exited.
This was not rebellion.
Not yet.
It was alignment pressure.
Grain prices rising.
Letters circulating.
Whispers of northern return.
And tribute negotiations turning from arithmetic into declaration.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the horizon.
The storm was not here.
But it was gathering.
And somewhere beyond Rohtak, a rival mind was writing its next letter.