"Three seasons," the escort captain said, not to Rama directly, but loud enough across the fire that he clearly meant to be overheard. "Three seasons since the eastern provinces sent their full tribute. His Majesty's patience is not without limit."
They'd picked up the escort on the second day — six royal riders sent out from the capital once word of the family's acceptance reached ahead of them, formal enough in their bearing that Rama understood immediately this was no longer merely travel. This was procession, however modest, and every mile of it carried weight neither he nor Sekar had fully anticipated when they'd agreed, back in Tirtayasa, to simply go carefully.
Sekar caught the captain's comment before Rama's own ear fully parsed it, and leaned in over the evening meal with the specific, unhurried curiosity she'd perfected across seven weeks of drawing information out of people who didn't quite realize how much they were giving away.
