Chapter 1: The Falcon and the Queen’s Touch
The late afternoon sun slanted through the grand office windows, painting long golden rectangles across the marble floor. Dev’s desk was a landscape of polished teak, scattered with state papers, a forgotten cup of chai leaving a faint ring on a dispatch from their ambassador in Bamako.
“So they’re throwing stones again,” Amartya said, leaning back in a leather armchair. His legs were propped casually on a priceless Rajasthani ottoman. “At the French embassy? That’s almost a tradition at this point.”
Dev, his brow furrowed in a way that deepened the lines his forty-two years had gently bestowed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s the dam project. Or the mining concessions. Or the grain prices. Honestly, at this point, it could be a dispute over football scores.” He took a sip of his cooling tea and made a face. “The report says three wounded. Minor. But the symbolism is what Paris will react to.”
“And we react to Paris reacting,” Amartya finished, his cheerful tone belying the understanding in his eyes. He swung his feet down. “Do we send Minister Jaishankar? A private note?”
“A private note,” Dev decided, reaching for his pen. “From brother to brother. Less official. More… flexible.”
The quiet scratch of Dev’s fountain pen was the only sound for a moment. Amartya watched him, a fondness warming his chest. Bhaiya carried the weight of a billion souls like it was a sacred duty, not a burden. He made it look easy, even when his tea went cold.
A soft knock interrupted the peace. Satish, the King’s elderly private secretary, entered with a silver salver bearing a single cream envelope. “Urgent cable, Your Majesty. From the Emirati royal courier service.”
Dev took it, his expression shifting from weariness to focused curiosity. He slit the envelope with an ivory letter opener. Amartya watched his brother’s face as he read. The lines of tension around his eyes didn’t deepen, but they didn’t relax either. Something new, then. Not a crisis.An intrigue.
“Well,” Dev said, placing the heavy paper on the desk and sliding it towards Amartya. “An invitation. From Zahira.”
Amartya picked it up. The stationary was thick, textured, subtly perfumed with oud. The handwriting was a bold, decisive scrawl. His Highness, King Dev Agnihotri, Her Highness, Queen Rukmini, and Prince Amartya, are cordially invited as guests of the House of Al-Hashimi to Baghdad, for discussions of mutual interest and renewed friendship. Duration: five days. Transport and security provisions offered. We await your favorable response.
“Zahira,” Amartya mused, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Haven’t seen her since that absurd polo match in Jaipur. She nearly took my pony’s head off with a backshot.”
“She nearly took your head off,” Dev corrected, a smile finally touching his lips. “And you deserved it for gloating. This isn’t about polo.”
“It never is. ‘Discussions of mutual interest.’ Oil? Security? Or is she just bored?”
“With Zahira, it’s best to assume multiple layers. She doesn’t do whimsy. Not in her official capacity.” Dev leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Five days. A significant chunk of time. Means she wants to talk about something substantial. Or show us something.”
“Are we going?”
“Of course we’re going,” Dev said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “An invitation from Iraq isn’t just an invitation. It’s a geopolitical door being held open. We walk through. You’ll need to brush up on your Arabic.”
“Ana asif, bhaiya. My Arabic is still terrible.” Amartya’s grin turned sheepish.
“Then be charming in English. Or Hindi. Or just smile that ridiculous smile of yours. It usually works.” Dev stood, stretching his shoulders. “Let’s go tell bhabi. And for heaven’s sake, don’t mention the pony incident.”
Dinner in the private family quarters was a far cry from state banquets. The table was smaller, the silver simpler, the light warmer. The scent of biryani—Rukmini’s personal recipe, with saffron she ground herself—filled the air, mixing with the lighter notes of cilantro and lime from the accompanying raita.
Rukmini listened, her dark eyes moving between her husband and her brother-in-law as they explained the invitation. She took a delicate sip of water. “Zahira. She has a sharp mind. Sharper tongue, if I recall correctly from the Women Leaders’ Summit. I liked her.”
“She scares most people,” Amartya said, helping himself to another spoonful of the fragrant rice. “I think that’s why she does it.”
“It’s a useful tool,” Dev agreed. “So. Five days. We leave Thursday. The royal jet. They’ll provide escort fighters and security on the ground. Their palace, their protocol.”
“Five days in Baghdad,” Rukmini mused, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “What does one wear? It will be hot.But formal. Always formal.” Her gaze settled on Amartya. “You.No jeans. And I’m sending Naveen with you to manage your wardrobe. Last time you went to Berlin, you wore the same sherwani three days in a row.”
“It’s a good sherwani!”
“It’s a magnificent sherwani. Which is why it deserves to be seen only once per trip,” she said, her voice softening with amusement. “This is important, beta. Not a holiday. Your face will be seen. Our face will be seen.”
The familiar endearment, beta, never failed to settle something in him. It was a reminder of the space they had carved for him: not just a prince, but a son. He nodded, his playfulness receding into sincerity. “I know, bhabi. I’ll be good. I’ll be perfect.”
“You’re always perfect,” Dev said, the simple statement heavy with genuine affection. “That’s not the point. The point is to listen. Zahira’s nation is a key piece on a very fragile board. She’s reaching out. We need to understand why, right now.”
The conversation drifted to logistics, to the gifts they would bring (a miniature Pichhwai painting for Zahira’s private collection, a case of the finest Darjeeling second flush for her ministers), to the briefings they’d need in the morning. The comfortable rhythm of their family life absorbed the new information, planned for it, wove it into their tapestry.
Later, standing on his balcony overlooking the palace gardens, Amartya felt the cool night air on his skin. The scent of night-blooming jasmine rose from below.Baghdad. A city of ancient stories and modern tensions. Zahira’s sharp, unreadable face floated in his memory. This wasn’t a state visit born of routine. It was a summons, deliberate and pointed.
He felt the pleasant, familiar stir of anticipation. A new board, a new game. A chance to be more than just the charming prince. He turned from the balcony, the lights of the city shimmering in the distance, his mind already racing ahead to Thursday, to the desert heat, and to the unknown shape of Zahira’s ‘discussions of mutual interest.’ The stillness of the palace night was just an illusion; momentum had already begun to build, pulling them all toward a distant, waiting runway.