The carts were sealed the next morning, quietly and without any fuss.
No officials stood around watching. No one read out lists loudly. The workers simply checked the ropes, tightened the knots, and marked the seals so nothing could be tampered with on the road. Aryavardhan stood a little distance away, hands behind his back, watching more out of habit than necessity.
Everything was already done the way it should be.
That realization stayed with him longer than he expected.
The carts were parked near the eastern road, guards assigned in rotating shifts. Departure wasn't immediate. There were still a few days left, and Aryavardhan wanted those days. Problems showed themselves best when there was time to fix them without panic.
---
Life didn't slow down just because he was leaving.
In fact, it moved almost the same as before.
Each morning, Aryavardhan walked through one part of the city. One day it was the metal workshops. Another day it was paper production. Sometimes it was just the records office. He didn't announce himself or gather people around. He walked, listened, and occasionally asked a question.
In the metal yard, a batch of new plow heads was being tested. One worker struck the edge lightly against a stone slab. Not hard—just enough to see if it chipped or bent.
It didn't.
"Heat was steady this time," the furnace worker said to the group. "No rushing."
Aryavardhan nodded once and moved on.
In the paper sheds, bundles were stacked higher than before. The supervisor complained again about space, but not anxiously—more like someone pointing out an inconvenience.
Aryavardhan suggested temporary sheds near the docks. The supervisor wrote it down and didn't ask anything further.
Nothing felt unstable.
That mattered more than growth.
---
The biggest difference Aryavardhan noticed wasn't in production—it was in conversations.
Earlier, people used to ask him whether something would work.
Now they talked as if it already did.
In the records office, two clerks were discussing how to store contracts now that paper was being used everywhere.
"We should keep duplicates," one said.
"Separate rooms," the other replied. "Fire or water shouldn't take everything."
Aryavardhan listened for a moment and left without interrupting.
They were thinking ahead.
---
As the departure day came closer, talk of Taxila grew louder.
The scholars selected for the journey met often, sometimes formally, sometimes just sitting together and talking. They discussed philosophy, governance, trade, and—inevitably—Magadha.
Ashoka's name came up regularly.
"Thirty-two," one scholar said one evening. "Old enough to rule, young enough to make mistakes."
"Chanakya's been gone eleven years," another added. "But his methods still shape Magadha."
Radha Gupta's name followed soon after.
"They say he's sharp," someone said.
"Sharp isn't always wise," another replied.
Aryavardhan listened more than he spoke.
He wasn't going to Taxila to judge Ashoka or his advisors. He was going to understand how firmly Magadha stood.
---
Outside scholar circles, people spoke more freely.
In markets and along roads, opinions were blunt.
"Even Chandragupta struggled."
"Bindusara too."
"What can Ashoka really do?"
Some sounded confident. Others sounded dismissive. A few sounded worried.
Aryavardhan didn't correct anyone.
Letting people speak was often better than arguing with them.
---
One afternoon, while reviewing storage inventories, a young clerk approached him.
"Sir," he said carefully, "saltpeter supply is good right now. Should we increase storage?"
Aryavardhan thought for a moment.
"Slowly," he said. "No attention. Same storage rules."
The clerk nodded and left.
There was no urgency in it. Just preparation.
---
Five days before departure, the scholars gathered one last time.
No formal agenda. Just discussion.
They talked about how Radha Gupta planned to structure the gathering—open discussions, controlled debates, shared sessions between kingdoms.
"It's meant to calm things," one scholar said.
"And to buy time," another replied.
Aryavardhan agreed silently.
Time was what Ashoka needed most right now.
---
Someone asked Aryavardhan if he would speak often.
"If asked," he replied.
"And if challenged?"
"Then I'll answer."
No one pushed further.
---
Merchants arrived over the next two days, some wanting reassurance before he left.
"Production won't slow," Aryavardhan told them. "Schedules are fixed."
They believed him because deliveries had already proven consistent.
Trust didn't need promises anymore.
---
The night before departure, Aryavardhan walked through the storage halls alone.
Paper stacks were neat. Ink jars sealed. Metal tools packed properly. Saltpeter crates untouched and dry.
He stood there longer than he intended.
Paper was simple, but it changed how people worked. How they recorded things. How knowledge moved.
Kingdoms didn't change because of swords alone.
They changed because information lasted.
---
At dawn, the carts finally moved.
No ceremony. No speeches.
Oxen pulled steadily. Wheels creaked. Guards walked alongside.
Aryavardhan sat among writing kits and wrapped samples, watching Kalinga fade behind them.
The first day passed quietly.
That night, around a small fire, conversation came naturally.
"You're young," one scholar said, not accusingly.
Aryavardhan smiled. "Systems matter more than age."
No one disagreed.
---
By the third day, formality disappeared.
They talked openly—about mistakes, about failed ideas, about things they wished they'd learned earlier.
Respect settled in quietly.
Not because of rank.
Because results had arrived before him.
---
As the road stretched onward and Taxila lay somewhere ahead, Aryavardhan felt calm.
Not confident.
Not anxious.
Just ready to watch carefully.
The road was long.
And it was only beginning.
---