Chapter 6: Brocade Pouches and Broken Sieges

With Raja Pratap’s death in the North, Vikram launched the long-awaited campaign. The city buzzed like a beehive, chai stalls alive with gossip. The departure was grand—swords raised, priests chanting, crowds lining the streets. As the army set out, I stood atop the ramparts, watching with heavy heart.

In the palace, I oversaw the forging of cane armour and the training of new cavalry. Letters flew to traders, promising rewards for Marwari horses. The Royal Guards trained daily, tales of my archery spreading faster than fire in a summer field.

Vikram’s army stormed Qishapur, catching the North off guard. But soon, northern reinforcements arrived, and the old game of siege and relief began. I’d given Vikram brocade pouches, one for each stage of the campaign. At the crucial moment, he opened the first: "Amit will surely lose. The Prime Minister need not worry. Withdraw quickly to Hoshangabad."

The generals were stunned. Even Faiz, always the skeptic, read the line at the bottom: "Don’t listen to Faiz Bhai’s nonsense. Taking the Satpura route is even more certain death." Laughter broke the tension.

Vikram’s trust in me deepened. He ordered a strategic retreat, and the army withdrew in good order. Kabir, following my instructions in his own brocade pouch, also retreated, joining the main force. When the battered armies reunited at Hoshangabad, I welcomed them with a feast—laddoos, biryani, music, and hope.

That night, Vikram and I sat alone, two cups of mahua between us. I explained my ideas: the senapati-jawan system, the civil services exam. Vikram’s hands trembled as he realised the revolution in these words. He stood, bowing low, not to me but to the ideals we now shared. We clasped hands in a pact beneath the moonlight. "Within ten years, the land will surely belong to Rajputana."