“Are you out of your mind?” Ruban demanded, glaring at his uncle. They were alone in Subhas’s office, Simani having lured Ashwin off to the library to introduce him to her husband and ‘show him the treasures of one of the most important monuments in Ragah’. The young nobleman had followed her eagerly enough. “I can’t afford to babysit that spoilt little pipsqueak while working this case. He’s only going to get in the way and slow us down.”
“What will you have me do, Ruban?” his uncle asked, spreading his palms out before him. “We can’t allow him to wander around the city unsupervised. You think Washi is done with him? She’ll try to lure him back to that damned studio first chance she gets; and if not her, then someone else. The media is practically salivating after him right now. And he knows even more about this mess now than he did an hour ago. We can’t possibly risk him talking to anybody else. That boy has the self-control of an impulsive rabbit.”
“Well then, why don’t you just deport him back to Zaini and get this whole mess over with?”
“Deport him?” Subhas sighed, rather melodramatically, in his nephew’s opinion. “And this is why you will never make it in politics, my boy. Whatever your personal opinions of that ‘spoilt little pipsqueak’, Ashwin Kwan is a high-ranking Zainian delegate to this country, sent here on official business by his government. To top it all, he is a fucking Zainian aristocrat, however insignificant. To deport him would not only be a direct insult to his family – which in itself would be bad enough – but also an unforgiveable slight to his country. We have extensive trade links with the House of Kwan which I cannot afford to jeopardise.
“The Zainians are angry enough already about us keeping the formula secret for so many years. Not to mention, lest it has escaped your notice, dear boy, that the Zainians are the only reason we know about any of this in the first place. We can’t afford to antagonise them now and compromise one of the most important sources of intelligence we have permanently,” he took a deep breath, as if steadying himself for what was to come next. “Kwan will stay here for as long as he bloody well pleases. And we’ll just have to suck it up and make sure he doesn’t blow everything up while enjoying our hospitality.”
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After a few more seconds of glaring defiantly at his uncle, Ruban deflated, sagging back into his chair as if somebody had punched the air out of him. “I can’t believe this is actually happening to me.”
“Oh stop being such a grumbler, Ruban, it is unbecoming,” Subhas said, with an amount of cheer in his voice that struck the other man as entirely unwarranted, considering the situation. “It’s not going to be that bad. He’s a cute kid.”
Ruban still did not know how he had managed to keep himself from growling at that moment; he could distinctly remember wanting to, rather desperately. Still, it wasn’t usually a superlative idea to growl at one’s boss, even when they weren’t simultaneously one’s uncle. So he contented himself with throwing the man the dirtiest glare he could muster, before hauling himself to his feet with more aggression than was strictly necessary and making his way to the door with a mumbled goodbye.
“Ruban,” his uncle called, just as he was about to slip out of the chamber. He turned, looking questioningly at Subhas. “I mean it, my boy.” All traces of humour were gone from his voice, leaving behind a stern seriousness that inspired obeisance. “Keep an eye on that young man at all times. As long as he’s here, do not let him out of your sight for longer than necessary. He is a foreigner, and you must never forget it. He might be harmless, but not all his associates are. No information should cross the border that we don’t want to send across. Is that clear?”
Ruban dipped his head in a short, decisive nod before the door slid shut behind him and he strode out into the corridor.