Sleep-deprived, I walked to my mother's chamber.
"Mother, I have done what you asked of me," I said, knocking gently.
The door opened. Inside, Mother sat with Varanth, Pranvi, Vatsal, and Jayant around a round table. Jayak lingered in the corner, his calm presence as steady as ever.
They all rose as one; smiles, bows, the chorus of "Samanta."
'Will I ever get used to this much reverence?' I wondered, slipping into the empty seat left for me. They followed suit.
"I will share my designs for the future of our janapada," I began, "but first, indulge me. There are questions that demand answers."
"Why, of course, my lord," said Vatsal smoothly. "We are here to aid you in reforming Aranyavarta."
I nodded once.
"What is the state of our populace? And how many subjects live under our banner?"
Vatsal leaned forward, voice carrying the weight of bad news.
"Samanta, the condition of our people is dire. They lack food, shelter, even the smallest comforts. Your father, Samanta Prathiraj, pacified them with spoils of war, but since his death the situation has worsened." He paused, then glanced at Mother with an apologetic bow, as if regretting his bluntness.
Mother smiled softly, forgiving.
"That was inevitable," I replied. "Spoils reignite hope. And with new hope come even greater aspirations than before."
Vatsal's eyes flickered in surprise, perhaps not expecting me to catch the nuance of his statement.
"As for numbers," he continued, recovering, "we count near five hundred thousand mouths in the janapada, seven thousand of them sworn to arms. But…" His tone darkened. "Some aharas show a steady decline."
"A decline?" My chest tightened. "Infant mortality?"
"Yes, Samanta," he said, grief shadowing his face.
I pushed aside the instinct to console him. That was not the moment for gentleness.
'So we have 1.4 percent of the population in the army. That is better than I expected.' I thought.
"And food production? How much do we lack, and why?"
Vatsal hesitated. It was Mother who answered.
"Our position is grave. Prices have doubled in the last six months. Our scribes reckon the harvest at six million maunds in a benign year. Of that, nearly a tenth rots in the floods or is eaten by rats. What remains, the crown takes its share—one million maunds. The rest we import from Tamak."
Her fingertips traced the cracks on the table. "That levy is the lifeblood of your reign. But the army devours twenty-three thousand maunds each month. Seven thousand men, and horses besides. In a good year, the levy sustains them for little more than a year. In a poor flood year…" she looked at me straight in the eye. "The levy cannot even carry them to the rains."
A murmur rolled through the table.
Pranvi leaned forward, her curls catching the lamplight, eyes bright with fury.
"And while our soldiers starve, the merchants from Tamak fatten their coffers? Their storehouses bulge with rice husks, yet they exploit our people for scraps. Raise their tax, Mother. Strip them of their surplus."
Mother's gaze turned sharp as a blade. "And invite rebellion or worse, war? No, child. To choke them is to drive them into the arms of those loyal to Indivara. A Samanta must weigh famine against revolt."
I sat rigid in my chair, knuckles white against the wood. Every figure, every maund, was not ink on a page—it was blood. Blood that would flow whether we chose the soldier or the peasant, the levy or the harvest.
"My lord, spare the people. Let the levy lighten in the flood years. Better hungry soldiers than corpses clogging the villages," said Vatsal with a worried expression.
Varanth slammed his fist on the table. "Better corpses in the villages than enemies at our gates! Without grain, your seven thousand scatter like chaff. What Samanta rules over a throne of ash?"
Their voices rose, steel clashing in words instead of swords.
I forced my breath steady. Six million maunds in good years, barely four in common floods, less than three in ruin. Each number weighed heavier than iron.
Pranvi turned to me, her voice cutting through the noise. "Brother, you must choose. Feed the army, or feed the people."
I met her gaze, then Mother's, who sat silent, her lips curved in that unreadable smile. For her, the answer was already made—grain was power, and power could not soften.
But my heart would not let me decide so coldly. My hand trembled.
In that moment, I understood. To rule was not to feed or starve, but to decide whose hunger mattered most.
'If we secure enough food, why do prices not recede? Even with Tamak's greed, such doubling in six months is inconceivable… unless someone is tightening a noose around our neck.'
I turned sharply to Vatsal. "Arrange a census at once. I want a full report on my table within a week."
The Nayaka flinched. "Forgive me, my lord, but such a task requires immense preparation and permission from every ahara. And… eight of ten aharas are now without nayakas."
At that, Pranvi smirked faintly, until Mother nudged her into stillness.
"Fret not, Vatsal," I said calmly. "By the time this sabha disperses, your worries will prove ill-founded."
Vatsal and Jayant exchanged bewildered glances. I pressed on.
"Mother, why is rice production so low? Our lands are blessed with torrents of rain during the growing season. The Granges flows through the length of Aranyavarta. By all rights, rice should thrive."
Mother inclined her head. "My lord, your question already holds the seed of its answer. The perception of blessings and curses, often dangles between the veracity of the situation, as expounded by the afflicter and the afflicted."
'Made no sense to me!'
Her words puzzled the room, but she continued, voice steady.
"The Granges bears water from the holy mountains of Vyumi. The rains, gifts of the gods, fall in abundance. Each is a blessing, yes. Yet together they curse us. The river swells in flood, fields are drowned, and farmers abandon the banks. Rice demands constant tending, but here the waters render such intricate work near impossible."
"And why not plant further inland?" I asked.
"Because Aranyavarta possesses the least arable land in the mandala. Two-thirds of it lies along the riverbank and the coast."
My heart sank. A blessing and a curse indeed.
"What of the dams? Father built two to tame the floods."
"They were wrecked in the last great flood," Mother answered, bowing her head.
I pressed harder, almost pleading. "Then the sea. We have coastline aplenty. Our fishing industry should provide some relief."
Varanth answered this time. "Our fishing fleets stagger under constant raids from the Varunad rajya. Their ships, tall as towers, imperishable to ours, descend on our waters. Even Chitrakuta's master shipwrights admit they cannot match Varunad's craft."
"Ships imperishable?" I muttered. Hollow and baroque praise by the sailors… or a truth forged of something we do not yet grasp?
I steadied myself. "What material do we use for our ships?"
Varanth frowned. "Timber, of course."
My pulse quickened. Timber—fragile, scarce. But iron, iron we have in abundance.
"Jayak," I said sharply, excitement spilling into my tone, "bring the map of our resources."
The air thickened with confusion. Jayak obeyed, spreading the parchment wide.
I scanned it, heart hammering.
'Aranyavarta, keeper of nearly half the world's iron. Our soil barren because of it. Our forests drowned by floods and thus no hardwood extraction. Our boats trampled by the Varunad fleet. Yet, we export what might save us.'
"My lord?" Jayant asked, alarmed by my silence.
"Who is the highest importer of our iron?" I asked in haste.
"That would be Varunad, sire," replied Jayant, befuddled.
"Mother, do you believe it feasible to restrict the iron trade with Varunad?"
Mother shook her head. "I'm afraid Aranyavarta risks the wrath of Varunad if it even proposes such an arrangement. For reasons unknown, they value iron more than the gold of Krusha."
My eyes widened.
'That explains it!'
I raised my head, eyes alight. "I am not certain, but I think the rajya of Varunad builds their ships with iron."
Shock rippled across the table.
"But iron is too heavy to float," Pranvi protested.
"It is," I said, forcing calm into my voice. "But with the right design, it can be made to float and endure where timber fails."
I bit back the urge to explain further. Knowledge from another life could not be risked there.
"Iron is too heavy, too unforgiving. Only the gods of Vyumi can bear your iron ships, your Grace." Vatsal said bluntly. The man had read my thoughts and laid them bare on the table.
I chuckled lightly, "Worry not, Vatsal. I shall make them dance upon the seas of Khambak."
Vatsal and the others stared in disbelief.
Instead of further explanations, I turned to Varanth. "Bring our finest craftsman and shipbuilder to the manor tomorrow. At dawn."
Varanth hesitated, stammered. "It… it shall be done, Samanta."
"M—my lord, the food..." Jayant asked hesitatingly.
'Oh I had completely forgotten about that. Unbefitting of a Samanta.'
"This janapada cannot live forever at the mercy of the Granges," I whispered, though the words rang across the chamber. "We must build canals, embankments, granaries. Let this year's levy not only feed mouths, but shape walls against flood. Better to spend a maund on stone than to lose a hundred to water."
The chamber stilled. For a moment, even the torches seemed to hold their flame.
Mother's eyes narrowed, weighing me as one weighs a blade. Then, at last, she inclined her head.
"So be it. The Samanta has spoken."