That morning, after the ambush, Tan Po delivered the required post-mortem scolding as they dragged the assassins' corpses toward the river.

  "Get up, Huaizong," Tan Po grumbled. "Why did I ever take you along on this mission?"

  "You'd be in Chengdu now buying silk if I hadn't come with you," Huaizong retorted. "It was destined for me to meet her."

  "Why? Oh, why?" Tan Po looked at the heavens. "That was a most embarrassing display of subservience. She took one look at you, and you confessed undying, grovel-on-the-floor-forever love. You behaved..."

  "...like a commoner," Huaizong finished.

  "Commoners have dignity. Get up and help me throw these bodies in the river."

  After disposing of the bodies, the two took a brief, refreshing moment to bathe in the cool river before sprinting to catch up with the Madjapahits, who had taken advantage of the early start.

  They spent the day walking under a glorious sun in wonderful weather. It was the first time the royals and their party could truly relax, realizing they were safely out of the immediate reach of Durjana's relentless assassins. Huaizong continued his obsequious pandering to Raji Dewi's every whim. On her part, she completely ignored him, occasionally showing flashes of real contempt.

  Early in the evening, they reached the bustling gates of Siliguri. The town was a vibrant crossroads, with the scent of spices and damp earth heavy in the air; teahouses were everywhere. They reserved rooms at the Satyajit Inn. The common room downstairs was a lively hub where the management served dinner and a small stage was set up for entertainment. Huaizong tried valiantly to catch Raji Dewi's eye across the table, but she remained unmoved by his exaggeratedly gallant gestures.

  The strained silence finally broke when Raji Dewi decided to use Tan Po as her weapon of choice.

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  "Master Monk," she said to Tan Po, ignoring the prince entirely, "does your... companion... often fall for women who beat him unconscious? Or is this a recent affliction?"

  "It is only an affliction when the object of my affection is as beautiful as she is lethal, Princess," Huaizong answered for himself, undeterred. "A man must suffer to appreciate true artistry."

  Tan Po, seated between them with his eyes fixed on his bowl, added, "He claims he is only afflicted by lethal beauty, Princess."

  "Tell him that a true prince does not confuse a spanking with 'artistry,'" Raji Dewi replied to the monk. "It was a debt payment."

  "It was a very memorable payment," Huaizong said to the air, a dopey grin spreading across his face.

  Before the verbal sparring could continue, a local patron at the bar recognized Huaizong from his previous musical exploits in Ranjpur.

  "Hey! Aren't you the little cricket?"

  "I hate that song," Huaizong muttered, shrinking slightly in his seat.

  "C'mon! The crowd will love it!"

  The two were forced onto the stage, partly to satisfy the insistent crowd and partly to maintain their disguises as minstrels, protecting their true identities and the Madjapahits.

  And so, the pair hammed it up. Huaizong launched into the infamous song, and the crowd roared with laughter. He requested the audience answer back when he sang, "I'm a little cricket," and the entire room roared back, "Pretending I'm a dragon!" People jumped up to mimic the awkward movements of a cricket attempting the majesty of a dragon. Everyone in the room was exhausted after a few joyful rounds

  Then, Huaizong did something only he could do. In a burst of genuine inspiration, he sang a song he composed right there. It was about the dangers of love and the foolishness of pursuit—a declaration that he could never be free after loving so deeply. The crowd fell into that quiet magic moment that occurs when poetry spellbinds an audience.

  Deftly, the tone changed. He transitioned into a song in Gascari about the fierce love for the birds, the endless sky, and the wild nature that cannot be caged. Though no one understood the lyrics, the melody was haunting and the emotion universal. Huaizong was a total performer.

  On the very last refrain, a voice joined him—strong, clear, and perfectly pitched. It was Raji Dewi. It was a song from her native land, and she knew it well. Master Po, who had been providing the rhythm on the drums, slowed the tempo to a heartbreaking pace. Raji Dewi sang like a canary, and Huaizong, plucking the twelve-strings of his guitar and lending a deep, rich bass to her high notes, brought the house down. There was not a dry eye in the audience.

  Huaizong saw none of the tearful patrons or the astonished faces of the Queens. He only saw Raji Dewi smile.

  Late that evening, after most had retired, they finally became friends over shared tea.