The Wooden Palace, Mysuru, Kingdom of Mysuru, March 6, 1874
The Sultans of Mysuru have not ruled from the Wooden Palace since they took control from the Wodeyars. Tipu Sultan ruled from Srirangapatna, and his children and grand-children had followed in his footsteps. Instead, the Wooden Palace remains in name an administrative building, and in practice a sort of ongoing party.
At any time, in those hallowed halls of rulers past, one could find the upper class drinking chai, enjoying music and poetry, or simply having a good time. Audience halls that had once hosted great kings as they heard the woes of their people became great hubs of gossip. Barracks that housed the royal guard became impromptu servants quarters. The great gardens of the Wodeyars became hotbeds for courtship and intrigue. Admirals rubbed shoulders with corporate executives, who in turn socialized with the nobility. The party ebbed, and the party flowed, and on rare occasion, when Abdul Hamid Shehzada found his purse running empty or the rich and powerful simply lost interest, it even stopped.
Pradhana Ali was occasionally invited to these fetes, and they marked the few days he would come into the office without some new injury, but you never had been. Being baseborn and of modest means had proven far more important than being second in line for the department.
But now the Sultan had selected you for a special project, and his son found that far more important than any quirk of birth. So you had netted an invite, to attend alongside Pradhana Ali and his wife, Parvaneh Nayak.
"So, my good friend, what is our story regarding my husband's unfortunate state?" asks Parvaneh Nayak.
"We says he's deathly ill. Infected injury or something, and he is not expected to live long," you say, "But you don't need to mention it unless people become suspicious. We're better off drawing no particular attention to him."
"Of course, dear," she smiles.
Parvaneh Nayak is a dignified woman in her early sixties. She is, perhaps, a few years older than her husband, but a healthier lifestyle and far fewer brutal internal injuries meant that she has aged far more gracefully. She possesses all of the organs she had been born with, something you could not say for the Pradhana even before he had been assassinated, and was a connoisseur of persian fashion, wearing a covering choli in bright reds, oranges, and silvers, complemented by an enormous amount of gold jewelry. She had a trio of her maids behind her, and two of her manservants were supporting Pradhana Ali in the walk to the Wooden Palace.
You'd been forced to clue in the Parvaneh to Ali's condition, but she was overjoyed and no more keen on being investigated for her husband's murder than you were. She'd had an excellent motivation after all, Nayak and Ali had married as young aristocrats, Ali sure that his sickly wife would soon die and leave him her massive fortune, Nayak sure that her violent husband would soon be murdered and leave her his massive fortune. Forty years of marriage, three children, and several scandals involving withheld medical care had proven both of their resilience, but their motivations were no secret and any non-natural death would, of course, beget an investigation as to if Lady Nayak had finally just had her husband murdered.
Now, I'm not saying that she did. But you must admit, you could not truly claim that she hadn't. You haven't exactly had the opportunity to clear her, after all, and she was far too thrilled about the entire thing.
Regardless of her guilt, she had been enormously helpful in reinforcing the masquerade. She had tailors, an icebox, new clothes, a bribed doctor, and a ready supply of Nar for her collection of Persian oddities. A higher concentration of Nar in Ali's veins and some more modifications to his clothing of your own design, and he was even more lively than he had been during the meeting with the Sultan.
A pair of guards nod at you as you approached the gates to the wooden palace. One stepped forwards, gesturing for you in specific to provide an invitation. The other jovially waved the others through, receiving a rough french salute from Ali, and then stopping to chat with Lady Nayak.
"And how are you Lady Nayak?" asks the guard.
"Wonderful, oh, just wonderful," says Parvaneh, "Why, well, you must promise not to tell anyone else, of course. But-" She mimes a cautious glance at her insensate husband, leans in close to the guard, and stage whispers. "My dear husband is frightfully ill! The doctors don't give him longer than a few weeks to live."
"He's been ill before," warns the guard.
"Well, Insha'allah," replies Parvaneh, "Do say salaam to Aisha and your children. It's been so long." The guard thanks her and holds out a hand, accepting a half-dozen large coins as she heads inside.
You, meanwhile, have to suffer through an exhaustive examination of your invitation and a full search for hidden weapons by the rest of the party heads in. You watch, bored, as they head through the gardens, up the stairs, and into the palace itself. Meanwhile, the guards search your shoes, check your sleeves for hidden pockets, and unwrap your turban to ensure you aren't carrying a garrotte before finally letting you pass. You debate sprinting, trying to catch up with the party so you don't find yourself isolated and alone, and decide that catching up is simply not worth the embarrassment it would entail. Instead, you walk through the gardens, past flowering bushes and idyllic pools, as you approach the grand entrance of the palace.
A man catches up with you as you take the steps. He is built like an elephant, all muscle and looming, friendly presence, and his sleeveless outfit, festooned in silver and iron jewelry, skirts the very boundaries of male modesty. He cuts an impressive figure, and with the dagger at his belt reminds you of some duelist or bodyguard from a novel, albeit the effect is rather marred by the sling and splint set about his right arm.
You pause for a moment, seeing if he was attempting to catch up with you, but he simply gives you a brisk Salaam, steps past you, and holds open the massive door with his good arm. A surprised servant stands inside, looking rather annoyed at the man currently doing his job.
You step past him, offering a friendly greeting as he lets the door swing closed behind you. A calamitous, ringing thud echoes across the entry hall as it closes and you look back, wondering how heavy the door must have been, and what sort of man this stranger must be to have opened it so casually.
"Thank you, brother," you say, "Might I ask your name?"
He smiles and offers you his bandaged right hand. "Haroun," he says simply, and though he winces as you shake his hand his grip is far stronger than yours, "Of Mangalore. I don't believe I've seen you here before?"
"This is my first appearance at the Wooden Palace, Haroun Sahib," you say, "Talib Quadri. I am here with Pradhana Ali, if you are familiar?" You are greeted with a look of mild consternation when you bring up your boss.
"Pradhana Ali is here?" he asks. You nod, and his expression turns dark before he realizes that you've noticed and wiggles his crippled right arm at you. "Ah, I apologize. He broke my arm last weekend. I am, perhaps, more sour about it than is becoming."
"It is fine," you reply, "He breaks many people's arms, and they all hate him for it." You share a laugh, his is a deep, bellowing thing that seems to shake the building, while yours is rather more modest and restrained.
"Well, Talib Sahib, you are too fine a man to be introduced to the nobility by Chikka Dervish Ali," says Haroun, "Leave your man to his carousing, and I shall show you the palace."
Some part of you recoils at this, loathe to leave maintaining the secrecy of the Pradhana's condition to his wife's devices. Another, more influential part sees an opportunity to escape the madness around your boss' corpse and is only too eager to comply. Regardless of which would win the argument, Haroun does not deign to wait for your answer and you find yourself being swept through the grand environs of the Wooden Palace in short order.
Murals, calligraphy, and artifacts line the halls. Men and women eat and drink and gossip, and from some of the balconies you can see hookah smoke waft into the distance. Music wafts from the largest halls, and cutting-edge arc-lights from America illuminate many rooms despite the fact that sunset shall not come for hours yet. For all the other wonders of the palace, it is the lights that are most impressive to you.
You're an engineer and a bureaucrat, after all. You know how much importing those from America must cost, how difficult it must be to keep the generator powered. You know how excessive it is, and how inconvenient, and you, more than most of the people here, understand the grandiose display of wealth that Abdul Hamid Shehzada is making with his hissing lights.
The crack and hiss of lights, their intense glare, tints the various introductions Haroun guides you through. You recognize Admiral Muhammad Khan from a minor incident a year ago, when he insisted that rockets could be used to propel famine-relief vessels down river in an emergency and you had to talk down Pradhana Ali from ordering a test run. But beyond him you meet some dozen of the rich and famous. Tycoons, heroes, socialites, nobles, and a surprising number of unmarried young women.
Your mother cannot hear of this. She'll get ideas, and then you'll never have peace.
You are speaking with one of these women, talking about a proposed tax on textile factories she has some personal stake in, when you finally spot Pradhana Ali and his minders once again.
He is in a nearby room, on the floor, surrounded by attendants and curious onlookers. He appears to be fighting several attendants who are trying to pick him up, but you suspect that that is actually just the attendants trying to pick him up and their assumptions and wasted energy causing him to flail about. It's, well, it's worrying but it's not your problem and it raises several questions about Nar-
Haroun practically leaps behind you and your conversation partner. It's an odd sight, him attempting to compress his six feet of muscles and glory behind your rather slight figure and a slim young woman. "Ya Allah, he's staring at me," he hisses, "We should go."
You look at Ali, whose glassy eyes are most certainly not staring at anyone, and back at Haroun, who seems to have gone rather pale with fear. "I really do not think he's noticed you," you offer gamely.
Haroun gives you a blank, terrified stare and gestures at his broken arm. "I don't want to risk that.
You sigh, defeated. "I apologize, sister," you say, "But I really do have to-"
"Of course," she replies kindly. Her brother, who had been patiently and uninterestedly watching the conversation from a nearby cushion, merely nods.
Haroun drags you along as he flees. You make it into a nearby hallway, stopping by an old painting of the now-obsolete Wodeyar dynasty. You watch Haroun catch his breath and begin to calm himself, and are about to ask him if he is alright when you hear a group of people walk up behind you.
"Mir Talib!" says a woman. You turn, faced suddenly and unexpectedly with the Shahzadi, Yasin Ali Khan, General Wadiyar, and half a dozen of Yasin's personal entourage. Each is dressed impeccably, done up with all the splendor available to the royal family, in jewelry that costs as much as your house and perfume that makes your head swim. Their sheer presence makes you feel deeply embarrassed about your modest and relatively plain clothing. "Salaam! My father has told me great things about your work," she says excitedly.
You feel yourself blushing fiercely. "Of co-As-salaamu Alaikum, Your Majesty," you say, "I am honored to hear that the Sultan speaks well of me."
"A-as it-" begins Wadiyar, but The Shahzadi does not let him finish his sentence before she interrupts.
"Of course!" she exclaims, "I'm thrilled to hear of the project. I was curious as to if you had some ideas as to what you will be making? I understand if you don't, of course, early days and all. "
"I've actually an outline in mind," you lie reflexively. Haroun gives you a worried glance but the Shahzadi is thrilled, and so you bull forwards, defining your plan as you talk.
Bullshit a response that you will define the core of your project because you want to impress a princess
[ ] It will be reminiscent of a locomotive engine!
Pros: Large, huge carrying capacity, Armored, proven design
Cons: Slow, expensive, unmaneuverable, Nar-heavy, notable crew.
Design Constraints: Hexapodal or Quadripedal, limited arm mobility
[ ] It will be reminiscent of a tower!
Pros: Tall, minimal Nar investment, excellent self defense options.
Cons: Tall, inefficient cargo space, may need wagons.
Design Constraints: Any Legs allowed, gun recoil must be carefully managed.
[ ] It will be reminiscent of a large carriage!
Pros: Light, fast, minimal necessary crew, cheaper
Cons: Low on space, few passengers, no-one's built anything like this before, will have to drag wagons, Nar-heavy
Design Constraints: Quadripedal, Tripedal, or Bipedal, no heavy artillery.
